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Title: Female affection

Author: Basil Montagu

Release date: May 13, 2022 [eBook #68068]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: J. Bohn

Credits: Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FEMALE AFFECTION ***

  FEMALE AFFECTION.

  BY
  BASIL MONTAGU.

  LONDON:
  J. BOHN, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND.
  MDCCCXLV.




  LONDON:

  WILLIAM STEVENS, PRINTER, BELL YARD,
  TEMPLE BAR.




  TO HIS DEAR EDITH, FROM HER
  AFFECTIONATE GRANDFATHER.--B. M.




PREFACE.


There are certain properties of the female mind upon which doubt has
existed, and may, possibly, long exist.

1. Women are said to be fond of ornament--an evil against which they
were thus warned by St. Paul--“I will that women adorn themselves in
modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety, not with embroidered
hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but which becometh women
professing godliness, with good works.”

2. Women are said to be fond of gaiety:

  “Some men to business, some to pleasure take,”--

but the ruling passion of woman is not the love of business.

3. It is said that women act more from impulse than from foresight:

  “Men have many faults, women have only two,--”

of which the want of foresight is one.

4. Women, it is said, are variable:

  ----“Varium et mutabile semper
  Fœmina.”

Women are fond of intellect, of courage, of virtue; and are capable of
the most heroic acts.

Such are properties of the female mind, upon which doubt may be
entertained; but there is one property upon which doubt cannot
exist--it is the nature of woman to be affectionate.

                                                                   B. M.




FEMALE AFFECTION.




THE PLEASURES OF AFFECTION.

The pleasures of the affections are Love, Friendship, Gratitude, and
general Benevolence.

“For the pleasures of the affections,” says Lord Bacon, “we must resort
to the poets, for there affection is on her throne, there we may find
her painted forth to the life.”

Instead of referring us to the poets, he might, according to his own
admonitions, have referred us to the certain mode of discovering truth,
by observing facts around us, and particularly by observing the nature
sought, where it is most conspicuous.

In searching, for any nature, observe it, he says, where it is most
conspicuous; as, in inquiring into the nature of flame, observe the
sudden ignition and expansion of gas--these are what he calls “_glaring
instances_.”

The glaring instance of affection is _Female Affection_; there indeed
she is on her throne, there we may find her painted forth to the life.
It is the nature of woman to be affectionate.


§ I.

FEMALE AFFECTION IN GENERAL.

MUNGO PARK.

When stating the miseries to which he was exposed in Africa, Mungo Park
says, “I never, when in distress and misery, applied for relief to a
female, without finding pity,--and if she had the power, assistance.”
And he thus mentions one instance,--“I waited,” he says, “more than
two hours for an opportunity to cross that river, but one of the chief
men informed me that I must not presume to cross without the King’s
permission; he therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to
which he pointed, for the night. I found to my great mortification
that no person would admit me into his house;--I was regarded with
astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without
victuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be very
uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of
a heavy rain; and the wild beasts are so very numerous that I should
have been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting
among the branches. About sunset as I was preparing to pass the night
in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at
liberty, a woman, returning from the labours of the field, stopped
to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired
into my situation, which I briefly explained to her; whereupon, with
looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told
me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted a lamp,
spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the
night. Finding that I was hungry, she gave me a very fine fish for my
supper; and pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there
without apprehension, she called to the female part of her family,
who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to
resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ
themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by
songs; one of which was composed ex-tempore--for I was, myself, the
subject of it: it was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining
in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive; and the words,
literally translated, were these:--

“_The winds roared, and the rains fell,--the poor white man, faint and
weary, came and sat under our tree,--he has no mother to bring him
milk,--no wife to grind his corn._--Chorus--_Let us pity the white
man,--no mother has he!_” _&c._


GRIFFITH.

“On the northern side of the plain we had just entered, was a large
encampment of these people. Being in absolute want of milk, I
determined to solicit the assistance of these Turcomans. Approaching
their tents, with gradual step, and apparent indifference, I passed
several, without observing any probability of succeeding: children,
only, were to be seen near the spot where I was, and men with their
flocks, at a certain distance; advancing still farther, I saw a woman,
at the entrance of a small tent, occupied in domestic employment.
Convinced that an appeal to the feelings of the female sex, offered
with decency, by a man distressed with hunger, would not be rejected, I
held out my wooden bowl, and reversing it, made a salutation according
to the forms of the country. The kind Turcomannee covered her face
precipitately, and retired within the tent. I did not advance a step;
she saw me unassuming,--my inverted bowl still explained my wants. The
timidity of her sex, the usages of her country, and, even the fear of
danger, gave way to the benevolence of her heart: she went to the tent
again; returned speedily with a bowl of milk, and, advancing towards me
with a glance more than half averted, filled my bowl to the brim, and
vanished.”


LEDYARD.

“I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to
a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and
friendly answer. With man it has often been otherwise,--in wandering
over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden,
frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the
wide-spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet,
or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me,--and uniformly so; and to
add to this virtue, so worthy the appellation of benevolence, these
actions have been performed in so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I
drank the sweet draught,--and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a
double relish.”


PHARAOH’S DAUGHTER.

“And there went a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter
of Levi. And the woman conceived, and bare a son: and when she saw him
that he was a goodly child, she hid him three months. And when she
could not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and
daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she
laid it in the flags by the river’s brink. And his sister stood afar
off, to wit what would be done to him. And the daughter of Pharaoh came
down to the river; and her maidens walked along by the river’s side;
and when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch
it. And when she had opened it, she saw the child: and, behold, the
babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said,--This is one of the
Hebrews’ children. Then said his sister to Pharaoh’s daughter, ‘Shall I
go and call to thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the
child for thee?’ And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, ‘Go.’ And the maid
went and called the child’s mother. And Pharaoh’s daughter said unto
her, ‘Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee
thy wages.’ And the woman took the child, and nursed it.”


§ II.

DIFFERENT FORMS OF FEMALE AFFECTION.

The nature of female affection may be seen in a variety of forms,--in
Infancy, in the sweet love of Youth, of a Wife, of a Mother, of a
Daughter, of a Widow.


INFANCY.

The following is an account which I somewhere read of Nell Gwynn,
when a child:--“My first love, you must know, was a link-boy,”--“A
_what_?”--“’Tis true,” said she, “for all the frightfulness of your
_what_!--and a very good soul he was, too, poor Dick! and had the
heart of a gentleman; God knows what has become of him, but when I
last saw him he said he would humbly love me to his dying day. He used
to say that I must have been a lord’s daughter for my beauty, and
that I ought to ride in my coach; and he behaved to me as if I did.
He, poor boy, would light me and my mother home, when we had sold our
oranges, to our lodgings in Lewknor’s Lane, as if we had been ladies
of the land. He said he never felt easy for the evening ’till he had
asked me how I did, then he went gaily about his work; and if he saw
us housed at night, he slept like a prince. I shall never forget when
he came flushing and stammering, and drew out of his pocket a pair of
worsted stockings, which he brought for my naked feet. It was bitter
cold weather; and I had chilblains, which made me hobble about ’till I
cried,--and what does poor Richard do but work hard like a horse, and
buy me these worsted stockings? My mother bade him put them on; and so
he did, and his warm tears fell on my chilblains, and he said he should
be the happiest lad on earth if the stockings did me any good.”

When the Commissioners visited the Penitentiary at Lambeth, where the
prisoners are punished by solitary confinement, they found in one cell
a little girl, between eleven and twelve years of age. This child must
have spent many hours every day in the dark; was poorly clad, and
scantily fed, and her young limbs were deprived of all the joyous modes
of playful exercise, so necessary and so pleasant to that age: she
asked neither for food, nor clothes, nor light, nor liberty,--all she
wished for was “a little doll, that she might dress and nurse it.” Her
innocent and child-like request put an end to this cruel punishment for
children.

“I yesterday took my dear grand-daughter to see Westminster Abbey. She
is between seven and eight years of age, and is one of the sweetest
angels that ever existed on earth. It was a bitter cold morning: on
the tomb of Mrs. Warren, who was a mother to poor children, there is
a beautiful statue of a poor half-clothed Irish girl, with her little
naked baby in her arms;--my dear little child looked up at me, and,
through her tears, earnestly said, ‘How I _should_ like to nurse that
little baby!’”


YOUTH.

Of the influence of love upon youth and inexperience, it can scarcely
be necessary to adduce any instances. I must, however, mention one fact
which occurred during the rebellion in ’45.

“When I was a young boy, I had delicate health, and was somewhat of a
pensive and contemplative turn of mind: it was my delight in the long
summer evenings, to slip away from my companions, that I might walk in
the shade of a venerable wood, my favourite haunt, and listen to the
cawing of the old rooks, who seemed as fond of this retreat as I was.

“One evening I sat later than usual, though the distant sound of the
cathedral clock had more than once warned me to my home. There was a
stillness in all nature that I was unwilling to disturb by the least
motion. From this reverie I was suddenly startled by the sight of a
tall slender female who was standing by me, looking sorrowfully and
steadily in my face. She was dressed in white, from head to foot, in a
fashion I had never seen before; her garments were unusually long and
flowing, and rustled as she glided through the low shrubs near me as if
they were made of the richest silk. My heart beat as if I was dying,
and I knew not that I could have stirred from the spot; but she seemed
so very mild and beautiful, I did not attempt it. Her pale brown hair
was braided round her head, but there were some locks that strayed upon
her neck; altogether she looked like a lovely picture, but not like
a living woman. I closed my eyes forcibly with my hands, and when I
looked again she had vanished.

“I cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak of this
beautiful appearance, nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and
fear, I went again and again to the same spot that I might see her.
She always came, and often in the storm and plashing rain, that never
seemed to touch or to annoy her, looked sweetly at me, and silently
passed on; and though she was so near to me, that once the wind lifted
those light straying locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet I
never could move or speak to her. I fell ill; and when I recovered, my
mother closely questioned me of the tall lady, of whom, in the height
of my fever, I had so often spoken.

“I cannot tell you what a weight was taken off my spirits when I learnt
that this was no apparition, but a most lovely woman; not young, though
she had kept her young looks,--for the grief which had broken her heart
seemed to have spared her beauty.

“When the rebel troops were retreating after their total defeat, a
young officer, in that very wood I was so fond of, unable any longer to
endure the anguish of his wounds, sunk from his horse, and laid himself
down to die. He was found there by the daughter of Sir Henry Robinson,
and conveyed by a trusty domestic to her father’s mansion. Sir Henry
was a loyalist; but the officer’s desperate condition excited his
compassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a brave man could not
misunderstand. Sir Henry’s daughter with many tears pleaded for him,
and promised that he should be carefully and secretly attended. And
well she kept that promise,--for she waited upon him (her mother being
long dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched for the first opening
of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked brightly and gratefully
upon his young nurse. You may fancy, better than I can tell you, as
he slowly recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and
low-voiced singing, and gentle playing on the lute; and how many fresh
flowers were brought to one whose wounded limbs would not bear him
to gather them for himself; and how calmly the days glided on in the
blessedness of returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully
enjoined him. I will pass by this, to speak of one day, which, brighter
and pleasanter than others, did not seem more bright or more lovely
than the looks of the young maiden, as she gaily spoke of ‘a little
festival, which (though it must bear an unworthier name) she meant
really to give, in honour of her guest’s recovery;’--‘and it is time,
lady,’ said he, ‘for that guest, so tended and so honoured, to tell you
his whole story, and speak to you of one who will help him to thank
you--may I ask you, fair lady, to write a little note for me, which,
even in these times of danger I may find some means to forward?’ To his
mother, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps and a lighter heart
she seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade him dictate: but,
when he said ‘_My Dear Wife_,’ and lifted up his eyes to be asked for
more, he saw before him a pale statue, that gave him one look of utter
despair, and fell (for he had no power to help her) heavily at his
feet. Those eyes never truly reflected the pure soul again, or answered
by answering looks the fond inquiries of her poor old father. She lived
to be as I saw her,--sweet, and gentle, and delicate always, but reason
returned no more. She visited, ’till the day of her death, the spot
where she first saw that young soldier, and dressed herself in the very
clothes he said so well became her.”


THE WOMAN IN WHITE.

“In walking through a street in London, I saw a crowd of men women and
children hooting and laughing at a woman, who, looking neither to the
right-hand nor to the left, passed through the midst of them in perfect
silence; upon approaching her, I saw that all this derision was caused
by her dress, which, equally unsuited to the weather and her apparent
rank in life, was from head to foot entirely _white_,--her bonnet, her
shawl, her very shoes were _white_; and though all that she wore seemed
of the coarsest materials, her dress was perfectly clean. As I walked
past her, I looked stedfastly in her face. She was thin and pale, of a
pleasing countenance, and totally unmoved by the clamour around her. I
have since learnt her story:--The young man to whom she was betrothed
died on the bridal-day, when she and her companions were dressed to go
to church: she lost her senses,--and has ever since, to use her own
words, been ‘expecting her bridegroom.’ Neither insult or privation of
any kind can induce her to change the colour of her dress; she is alike
insensible of her bereavement by death, or of the lapse of time,--‘she
is dressed for the bridal, and the bridegroom is at hand.’”

Such is the nature of Woman’s Love--continuing in imagination, when
reality is no more:

          “As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,
  Who dressed her in her buried lover’s clothes,
  And o’er the smooth spring in the mountain’s cleft
  Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune
  He used to play, and listened to the shadow
  Herself had made.”--COLERIDGE.

Such is the tenderness, such the intensity of the love of innocence. It
has for ever existed, and will for ever exist,--from Eve, on the first
day of her creation, to the many whose hearts at this moment beat with
affection and love:

  “All thoughts, all passions, all desires,
  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  All are but ministers of Love,
  And feed his sacred flame.”


WIFE.

Let us now consider affection where it appears in one of its sweetest
forms,--in the love of a wife,--love, in the strength of which, hoping
all things, she does not hesitate to quit her father and her mother
and all dear to her to share the joys and sorrows of her husband. In
prosperity she delights in his happiness, in sickness she watches over
him, feeling more grief than she shows.

A young soldier, thus speaks of the affection of his wife:--

  “For five campaigns
    Did my sweet Lucy know
  Each hardship and each toil
    We soldiers undergo.
  Nor ever did she murmur,
    Or at her fate repine,
  She thought not of her sorrow,
    But how to lessen mine:
  In hunger, or hard marching,
    Whate’er the ill might be,
  In her I found a friend,
    Who ne’er deserted me:
  And in my tent when wounded,
    And when I sickening lay,
  Oft from my brow with trembling hand,
    She wiped the damps away.
  And when this heart, my Lucy,
  Shall cease to beat for thee,
    Oh! cold, clay cold,
  Full sure this heart must be.”


THE ROBBER.

“A friend of mine who had long struggled with a dangerous fever,
approached that crisis on which his life depended, when sleep,
uninterrupted sleep might ensure his recovery;--his wife, scarcely
daring to breathe, sat by him; her servants, worn out by watching,
had all left her; it was past midnight,--the room door was open for
air; she heard in the silence of the night a window thrown open below
stairs, and soon after footsteps approaching; in a short time, a man
came into the room--his face was covered with a black crape: she
instantly saw her husband’s danger; she pointed to him, and, pressing
her finger upon her lip to implore silence, held out to the robber her
purse and her keys: to her great surprise he took neither; he drew
back, and left the room,--whether he was alarmed, or struck by this
courage of affection cannot now be known; but, without robbing a house
sanctified by such strength of love--he departed.”


SENECA.

How well did the artist to whom we are indebted for the celebrated
picture of the Death of Seneca, understand this deep feeling of
female affection! It may be said of Seneca, as he said of a friend,
“I have applied myself to liberal studies, though both the poverty
of my condition, and my own reason might rather have put me upon the
making of my fortune. I have given proof, that all minds are capable
of goodness; and I have illustrated the obscurity of my family by the
eminency of my virtue. I have preserved my faith in all extremities,
and I have ventured my life for it. I have never spoken one word
contrary to my conscience, and I have been more solicitous for my
friend, than for myself. I never made any base submissions to any man;
and I have never done any thing unworthy of a resolute, and of an
honest man. My mind is raised so much above all dangers, that I have
mastered all hazards; and I bless myself in the providence which gave
me that experiment of my virtue: for it was not fit, methought, that so
great a glory should come cheap. Nay, I did not so much as deliberate,
whether good faith should suffer for me, or I for it. I stood my
ground, without laying violent hands upon myself, to escape the rage of
the powerful; though under Caligula I saw cruelties, to such a degree,
that to be killed outright was accounted a mercy, and yet I persisted
in my honesty, to show, that I was ready to do more than die for it. My
mind was never corrupted with gifts; and when the humour of avarice
was at the height, I never laid my hand upon any unlawful gain. I
have been temperate in my diet; modest in my discourse; courteous and
affable to my inferiors; and have ever paid a respect and reverence to
my betters.”

Such was the man whom the tyrant murdered. He is represented by
the artist, bleeding to death, the punishment to which he was
condemned,--his wife stands by and supports him to his last moment;
such is the affection of a wife.


DAUGHTER.

To understand the depth of female affection, as it is manifested in
a daughter’s love, it is necessary rightly to understand a law of
affection to which as much consideration seems not often to be given as
its importance demands.

It is a law, which has been a frequent subject of meditation by
observers of the human mind--the law is, that it is the _nature of
affection to descend, seldom to ascend_.

A few extracts from different authors will explain this law:--

_Du Moulin_, in his excellent little volume upon _Peace and Content_,
says, “Of children expect no good, but the satisfaction to have
done them good, and to see them do well for themselves. For in this
relation, the nature of beneficence is to _descend_, seldom to
_remount_.”

So Bishop Taylor, in his _Life of Christ_, when speaking of mothers who
do not nurse their own children, says, “And if love _descends_ more
strongly than it _ascends_, and commonly falls from the parents upon
the children in cataracts, and returns back again up to the parents but
in small dews,--if the child’s affection keeps the same proportions
towards such unkind mothers, it will be as little as atoms in the sun,
and never expresses itself but when the mother needs it not,--that is,
in the sunshine of a clear fortune.”

So Fuller says, in his chapter on Moderation, the silken string that
runs through the pearl chain of all the virtues, “yea as love, doth
_descend_, and men doat most on their grand-children.”

The same sentiment, with the reason in which the truth originates, has
been noticed by our poets.

The sweet poet, Barry Cornwall, says,--

  “The love of parents, hath a deep still source,
  And falleth like a flood upon their child.
  Sometimes the child is grateful, then his love
  Comes like the spray returning.”

In Thomson’s “Spring,” the same sentiment, containing the reason of
this provision of nature, is beautifully explained. Having described
the bird’s nest, and the mother stealing from the barn a straw, ’till
“_soft and warm the habitation grew_,” and having described the little
birds in their nest,--

  “Oh what passions then,
  What melting sentiments of kindly care
  Do the new parents’ seize; away they fly
  Affectionate, and undesiring bear
  The most delicious morsel to their young,
  Which equally distributed, again
  The search begins.”

And when the little birds are able to fly, the poet thus proceeds,--

  “But now the feather’d youth their former bounds
  Ardent, disdain, and weighing oft their wings
  Demand the free possession of the sky:
  This one glad office more, and then dissolves
  Parental love at once, now needless grown,--
  Unlavish wisdom never works in vain.”

He has expressed the same sentiment in his description of the eagle,--

  “High from the summit of a craggy cliff
  Hung o’er the deep,
  The royal eagle draws his vigorous young
  Strong-pounced, and ardent with paternal fire;
  Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own
  He drives them from his fort, the tow’ring seat
  For ages, of his empire: which in peace
  Unstained he holds, while many a league to sea,
  He wings his course and preys in distant isles.”

Such is the nature of affection in general; but in a daughter it is so
powerful, that it never quits her.

According to the old adage--

  “My son is my son, ’till he gets him a wife;
  My daughter’s my daughter, the whole of her life.”

The pious excellent Sir Thomas More, Chancellor of England, convinced
of the unlawfulness of the King’s marriage, resigned the Great Seal,
and resolved to pass the remainder of his life amidst the charities of
home and the consolations of religion.--Erasmus, speaking of his friend
says, “there is not any man living so affectionate to his children; you
would say there was in that place Plato’s academy,--I should rather
call his house a school or university of Christian religion, for their
special care is piety and virtue.” Upon his refusal to take the oath of
supremacy, he was tried for high treason and condemned to be hanged,
drawn, and quartered, and his head to be stuck on a pole on London
bridge. He was executed July 5th, 1535. His body was begged by his
daughter Margaret, and deposited in the church of Chelsea; where a
monument, with an inscription written by himself had been erected some
time before. She found means also to procure his head, after it had
remained upon London bridge fourteen days: this she carefully preserved
in a leaden chest, till she conveyed it to Canterbury, and placed it
under a chapel adjoining to St. Dunstan’s church in that city; where,
after having survived her father sixteen years, she according to her
desire was buried in the same vault with her father’s head in her arms.


MOTHER.

Of the love of a mother it is scarcely possible to give any adequate
description. All that can be said of Charity, is most true if it be
said of a mother’s love, which hopeth, believeth, endureth all things.
As the spirit of God brooded over the creation, while it was yet
in the womb of the morning,--with such heavenly love does the pure
spirit of the mother, cherish her infant yet unborn. With silent and
thankful tears, she hears the first sound of its little voice, and
straightway forgets all her pain and travail! When she looks upon
it, no matter how homely in the eyes of another, she thinks that the
world contains nothing fairer. Who can number her prayers for her
infant, or her fond anticipations of his future advancement?--she
remembers that the greatest men have once been helpless children, and
trusts that her little helpless child will one day be a great man;
she treasures his first words in her heart, and in all his little
sayings discovers seeds of wisdom and goodness; and if after all, she
is doomed to find him deformed in limb, or weak in intellect, she
dwells upon the sweetness of his disposition, and the strength of his
affections, and clings to him with a warmer love, because others think
him crippled and unsightly. If her child grows up, in the fear and
nurture of God, and is deserving of her love, life has no joy like
her joy; and should all her care prove fruitless, and the misguided
youth make her heart sad, and steep her bread in tears, though all
desert him she clings to him to the last: in poverty, in sickness, in
the punishment of his crimes--she, is there: the fond mother in the
loathsome convict-ship,--in the cell of the condemned,--at the foot of
the scaffold! All, all, have deserted him,--save He who died for him,
and she who gave him birth.

Such is the nature, such the constancy of a mother’s love. It begins
before birth, and continues after death:

          “There are spun
  Around the heart such tender ties,
  That our own children, to our eyes,
  Are dearer than the sun.”

There are four forms in which this love is peculiarly conspicuous:
when,

  1st The child is criminal;
  2nd The child is sick;
  3rd The child is dying;
  4th The child is dead.

This tenderness of a mother’s love when the child is criminal, is
beautifully described by Hogarth, in his picture of “Industry and
Idleness,” in that aged woman, who is clinging with the fondness of
hope not quite extinguished, to her brutal vice-hardened son, whom she
is accompanying to the ship, which is to bear him away from his native
soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy,--in whose shocking face
every trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, and a brute
beast to be left instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her who
watched over it in its cradle before it was so sadly altered; and feels
it must belong to her while a pulse, by the vindictive laws of his
country, shall be suffered to beat in it.

There is a melancholy instance in the love of a mother for her child,
in the Old Bailey Sessions Papers, for the year 1732, in the trial
of John Waller. It is scarcely possible to conceive a more abandoned
miscreant than Waller. He was at last detected and sentenced to the
pillory; the mob seized him and beat him to death. His dead body was
put into a coach and carried to Newgate. The prisoners refused to
receive it; his mother who was in waiting, regardless of the infuriated
mob, went into the coach, and placing his head in her lap, took away
the dead body of her child.

At this very instant how many mothers are anxiously watching their sick
children--unmindful of their own fatigue, or food, or rest!

In a storm in the Yarmouth Roads a vessel was wrecked, a young woman
was seen clinging to a mast,--she was seen raising her child above
the highest wave, in a wild and vain attempt to save it. On the next
morning she was drifting to the shore,

              “And like a common weed
  The sea-swell took her hair.”

A fire destroyed a house, in which several lives were lost, among which
a woman and her infant perished. On digging out the ruins, the mother
was found burnt to death, but on her knees, holding her infant in a
pail of water.

A few days since when walking to my chambers, I saw a hearse moving
slowly before me. It stopped at the door of a respectable house; all
the windows were closed. A coffin, covered with blue cloth, apparently
of a child about fourteen was raised into the hearse. I happened to
look up; I saw one of the shutters slightly opened, and a female
looking anxiously. The hearse moved on. As the procession turned the
corner of the street, I had the curiosity, not an idle curiosity, to
look back; I saw the same female; she had partly opened the window.

“The King took the two sons of Rizpath, and the five sons of Michael
whom she brought up, and he delivered them into the hands of the
Gibeonites, and they hanged them on the hill before the Lord, and they
fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of harvest,
in the first days in the beginning of barley harvest.

“And Rizpath took sackcloth and spread it for herself upon the rock,
from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of
heaven,--and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by
day, nor the beasts of the field by night. Nor did she cease to watch
them, until David, touched by this depth of affection, gave them
burial with the bones of their forefathers.”

So too we see in every picture of the Crucifixion, the mother standing
with patience and resignation at the foot of the cross:

  “She when Apostles shrank could danger brave,
  Last at his Cross, and earliest at his Grave.”


OLD MAIDS.

Such is the influence of female affection upon youth: but to youth
it is not confined. It exists at all times of life wherever woman
exists. It has been my good fortune to share the friendship of many
of a very interesting class of persons, I mean _old maids_. They have
their faults, who has not? But I know well, that most of them abound
with kindness; which may be seen even by the animals by which they are
surrounded, and by their many misdirected enthusiasms.

“The inclination to goodness,” says Lord Bacon, “is imprinted deeply
in our nature, insomuch that if it issue not towards men, it will take
unto other living creatures.”

Harriet Aspin was the youngest of four sisters, who in their childhood
had all a prospect of passing through life with every advantage that
beauty and fortune can bestow. But destiny ordained it otherwise. The
extravagance of their father abridged the portion of each, and the
little Harriet had the additional affliction of personal calamities.
From a fall which her nurse occasioned, and concealed, she contracted a
great degree of deformity; and the injuries that her frame had received
from accident, were completed in what her countenance suffered from
that cruel distemper, by which beauty was so frequently destroyed,
before the happy introduction of innoculation. Her countenance and
person were wretchedly disfigured; but her mind still possessed the
most valuable of mental powers, and her heart was embellished by every
generous affection. Her friends were many: but she had passed her
fortieth year without once hearing the addresses of a single lover;
yet the fancied whisper of this enchanting passion often vibrated
in her ear; for, with a solid and brilliant understanding, she was
deeply tinctured with this credulous foible. As she advanced towards
fifty, finding her income very narrow, and her situation unpleasant,
she took shelter in the family of her favourite sister, married to a
good-natured man of easy fortune, who, though he had several children,
very readily allowed his wife to afford an asylum, and administer all
the comforts in her power to this unfortunate relation.

The good deeds of benevolence rarely pass unrewarded. The obliging
temper of Harriet, united to infinite wit and vivacity, contributed to
restore the declining health of her sister, and enlivened the house,
into which she was so kindly admitted. She endeared herself to every
branch of it; but her second nephew, whose name is Edward, became her
principal favourite, and returned her partiality with more esteem and
affection than nephews are used to feel for an old maiden aunt. Indeed,
there was a striking similarity in their characters, for they both
possessed a very uncommon portion of wit, with extreme generosity and
good-nature. Harriet had the most perfect penetration into the foibles
of every character but her own, and had the art of treating them with
such tender and salutary mirth, that she preserved her nephew from
a thousand follies, into which the giddiness of his passions would
otherwise have betrayed him; and, when he was really fallen into some
juvenile scrape, she never failed to assist him, both with secret
advice, and the private aid of such little sums of money as she always
contrived to save from her slender income, for the most generous of
purposes.

It was almost impossible not to love a maiden aunt of so engaging a
character; and Edward, whose affections were naturally ardent, loved
her, indeed, most sincerely; but his penetration discovered her foible,
and the vivacity of his spirit often tempted him to sport with it.
Hitherto, however, he had done so in the most harmless manner; but a
circumstance arose, which fully proved the danger of this ordinary
diversion. Edward, being a younger brother, was designed for the
profession of physic. He had studied at Edinburgh; and, returning from
thence to London, had brought with him a medical friend, who was a
native of Savoy, and was preparing to settle as a physician at Turin.
In the gaiety of his heart, Edward informed his aunt Harriet, that
he had provided her with a husband; and he enlarged on the excellent
qualities of his friend. The Savoyard was extremely polite, and, either
attracted by the pleasantry of her conversation, or touched with
medical pity for the striking infelicity of her distorted frame, he had
paid particular attention to Miss Aspin; for, being yet under fifty,
she had not assumed the title of “Mrs.” This particular attention was
fully sufficient to convince the credulous Harriet, that her nephew
was serious; but she was unluckily confirmed in that illusion, by his
saying to her one evening, “Well, my dear aunt, my friend is to leave
England on Monday; consider, on your pillow, whether you will pass the
Alps, to settle with him for life, and let me know your decision before
the week expires.” The sportive Edward was very far from supposing,
that these idle words could be productive of any fatal event; for
the health of his aunt was such, that he considered his proposal of
crossing the Alps full as extravagant as if he had proposed to her to
settle in the moon: but let youth and vigour remember, that they seldom
can form a just estimate of the wishes, the thoughts, and feelings of
infirmity!--Poor Harriet had no sooner retired to her chamber, than
she entered into a profound debate with a favourite maid, who used to
sleep in her room, concerning the dangers of crossing the Alps, and
the state of her health. In this debate both her heart and her fancy
played the part of very able advocates, and defended a weak cause
by an astonishing variety of arguments in its favour. They utterly
overpowered her judgment; but they could not bias the sounder sentence
of Molly, who was seated on the bench on this occasion. This honest
girl, who happened to have a real lover in England, had many motives
to dissuade her mistress from an extravagant project of settling in
a foreign country; and she uttered as many reasons to poor Harriet
against the passage of the Alps, as were urged to the son of Amilcar
by his Carthaginian friends, when he first talked of traversing those
tremendous mountains. The debate was very warm on both sides, and
supported through the greatest part of the night. The spirited Harriet
was horribly fatigued by the discourse, but utterly unconvinced by the
forcible arguments of her opponent. She even believed that the journey
would prove a remedy for her asthmatic complaints; her desire of a
matrimonial establishment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of
Hannibal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day she had
positively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Savoyard.
The peace of mind, which this decision produced, afforded her a short
slumber; but on waking, she was very far from being refreshed, and
found that her unhappy frame had suffered so much from the agitation
of her spirit, and the want of her usual sleep, that she was unable
to appear at breakfast. This, however, was a circumstance too common
to alarm the family; for though her cheerfulness never forsook her,
yet her little portion of strength was frequently exhausted, and her
breath often seemed on the very point of departing from her diminutive
body. Towards noon, her sister entered her chamber, to make a kind
enquiry concerning her health. It was a warm day in spring; yet
Harriet, who was extremely chilly, had seated herself in a little low
chair, by the side of a large fire. Her feet were strangely twisted
together; and, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee, she
supported her head on her right hand. To the affectionate questions of
her sister she made no reply; but, starting from her reverie, walked
with apparent difficulty across the chamber, and, saying, with a
feeble and broken voice, “I can never pass the Alps,” sunk down on the
side of her bed,--and with one deep sigh, but without any convulsive
struggle, expired. Whether the much-injured and defective organs of
her life were completely worn out by time, or whether the conflict
of different affections, which had harassed her spirit through the
night, really shortened her existence, the all-seeing author of it
can alone determine. It is certain, however, that her death, and the
peculiar circumstances attending it, produced among her relations the
most poignant affliction. As she died without one convulsive motion,
her sister could hardly believe her to be dead; and as this good lady
had not attended to the levities of her son Edward, she could not
comprehend the last words of Harriet, till her faithful servant gave a
full and honest account of the nightly conversation which had passed
between herself and her departed mistress. As her nephew, Edward, was
my intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this singular little
being, I hastened to him the first moment that I heard she was no more.
I found him under the strongest impression of recent grief, and in the
midst of that self-accusation so natural to a generous spirit upon such
an occasion. I endeavoured to comfort him, by observing, that death,
which ought, perhaps, never to be considered as an evil, might surely
be esteemed a blessing to a person, whose unfortunate infirmities
of body must undoubtedly have been a source of incessant suffering.
“Alas! my dear friend,” he replied, “both my heart and my understanding
refuse to subscribe to the ideas, by which you so kindly try to console
me. I allow, indeed, that her frame was unhappy, and her health most
delicate; but who had a keener relish of all the genuine pleasures
which belong to a lively and a cultivated mind, and still more, of all
those higher delights, which are at once the test and the reward of a
benevolent heart? It is true, she had her foibles; but what right had I
to sport with them?--to me they ought to have been particularly sacred;
for she never looked upon mine, but with the most generous indulgence.”
“Poor Harriet!” he would frequently exclaim,--“Poor aunt Harriet!”
I have basely abridged thy very weak, but not unjoyous existence,
by the most unthinking barbarity. I will, however, be tender to thy
memory; and I wish that I could warn the world against the dangerous
cruelty of jesting with the credulity of every being who may resemble
thee.--_Hayley._


THE WIDOW.

(FROM A VERY OLD TRANSLATION OF BOCCACCIO’S FALCON.)

Among the multiplicity of his queint discourses I remember he told
us, that sometime there lived in Florence a young gentleman named
Frederigo, sonne to Signior Phillippo Alberigo, who was held and
reputed both for armes and all other actions beseeming a gentleman,
hardly to have his equal through all Tuscany.

This Frederigo (as it is no rare matter in yong gentlemen) became
enamored of a gentlewoman, named Madam Giana, who was esteemed (in
her time) to be the fairest and most gracious lady in all Florence.
In which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many
sumptuous feasts and banquets, joustes, tilties, tournaments, and all
other noble actions of armes, beside sending her infinite rich and
costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lauish
expence. Notwithstanding, she being no lesse honest then faire, made no
reckoning of whatsoeuer he did for her sake, or the least respect of
his owne person. So that Frederigo spending thus daily more then his
meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies anyway redounding
to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in
such sort, that he became so poore, as he had nothing left him, but
a small poore farme to liue vpon, the silly reuenewes wherof were
so meane as scarcely allowed him meat and drink, yet he had a faire
hawke or faulcon hardly anywhere to be fellowed, so expeditious and
sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty no way quailing his
loue to the lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon: he saw
the city life could no longer containe him, where he most coueted to
abide, and therefore betook himselfe to his poore countrey farme to let
his faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his
penurious estate without suite or meanes making to one for helpe or
relief in any such necessity.

While thus he continued in this extremity it came to passe, that the
husband of Madam Giana fell sicke, and his debility of body being
such, as little or no hope of life remained, he made his last will
and testament, ordaining thereby that his sonne (already grown to
indifferent stature) should be heire to all his lands and riches
wherein he abounded very greatly. Next vnto him, if he chanced to die
without a lawful heire, he substituted his wife whom most dearely he
affected; and so departed out of this life. Madam Giana being thus left
a widow, as commonly it is the custome of our city dames, during the
summer season, she went to a house of her owne in the countrey which
was somewhat neare to poore Frederigo’s farme, and where he liued in
such an honest kind of contented pouerty.

Hereupon the young gentleman, her sonne, taking great delight in hounds
and hawkes, grew into familiarity with poor Frederigo, and hauing seene
many faire flights of his faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily,
that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne: yet durst not moue
the motion for her, because he saw how choycely Frederigo esteemed her.
Within a short while after, the young gentleman became very sicke,
whereat his mother greued exceedingly (as having no more but he, and
therefore loved him the more entirely) neuer parting from him either
night or day, comforting him so kindly as she could, and demanding if
he had a desire to anything, willing him to reueale it and assuring him
withall that (if it were within compasse of possibility) he should haue
it. The youth hearing how many times she had made him these offers,
and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus
spake:--

“Mother (quoth he) if you can do so much for me, as that I may haue
Frederigo’s faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse will soone
cease.” The lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to
herselfe, and began to consider what she might best doe to compasse
her sonne’s desire, for well she knew how long a time Frederigo had
most louingly kept it, not suffering it euer to be out of his sight.
Moreouer, shee remembered how earnest in affection he had bene to her,
neuer thinking himselfe happy but onely when he was in her company,
wherefore shee entred into this private consultation with her owne
thoughts: “Shall I send, or goe myself in person, to request the
faulcon of him, it being the best that euer flew? It is his onely
jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to
liue in this world. How farre then voyde of vnderstanding shall I shew
myselfe, to rob a gentleman of his sole felicity hauing no other joy
or comfort left him?” These and the like considerations wheeled about
her troubled braine, onely in tender care and loue for her sonne,
perswading herselfe assuredly that the faulcon were her owne, if
she would but request it, yet, not knowing whereon it were best to
resolue, shee returned no answer to her sonne, but sat still in her
silent meditations. At the length, loue to the youth, so prevailed
with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it
what could) shee would not send for it; but go herselfe in person to
request it, and then returne home againe with it: whereupon thus she
spake,--“Sonne, comfort thyselfe, and let languishing thoughts no
longer offend thee, for here I promise thee that the first thing I doe
to-morrow morning, shall bee my iourney for the faulcon, and assure
thyselfe that I will bring it with me.” Whereat the youth was so joyed,
that he imagined his sicknesse began instantly a little to leaue him
and promised himself speedy recouery.

Somewhat early the next morning, the lady, in care of her sicke son’s
health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another gentlewoman
with her, onely as a morning recreation, shee walked to Frederigo’s
poore country farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to
see her. At the time of her arriuall there, he was (by chance) in a
silly garden, on the backe of the house, because (as yet) it was no
convenient time for flight: but when he heard Madam Giana was come
thither and desired to haue some conference with him; as one almost
confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted
her with most humble reuerence. She in all modest and gracious manner
requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him: “Signior
Frederigo, your own best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither to
recompence some part of your passed trauailes, which heretofore you
pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more, then did
well become you to offer, or myselfe to accept. And such is the nature
of my recompence, that I make myselfe your guest, and mean this day
to dine with you, as also this gentlewoman, making no doubt of our
welcome.” Whereto with lowly reverence, thus he replyed: “Madam, I doe
not remembre that euer I sustained any losse or hindrance by you, but
rather much good, as if I was worth any thing it proceeded from your
great deseruings, and by the service in which I did stand engaged to
you. But my present happinesse can no way be equalled,--deriued from
your super-abounding gracious fauour, and more than common course of
kindnesse, vouchsafing of your owne liberall nature,--to come and
visit so poore a servant. Oh, that I had as much to spend againe, as
heretofore riotously I have runne thorow: what a welcome would your
poore host bestow vpon you, for gracing this homely house with your
divine presence!” With these words he conducted her into his house,
and then into his simple garden, where, hauing no convenient company
for her, he said,--“Madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it
affordeth none fit for your conversation; this poore woman, wife to an
honest husbandman, will attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall
make ready dinner.”

Poore Frederigo, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe
great,--remembering his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof
would now hauve stood him in some stead; yet he had a heart as free
and forward as euer, not a iotte dejected in his minde, though vtterly
overthrowne by fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he
had nothing wherewith to honour his lady! Up and downe he runnes, one
while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous fate,
like a man enraged or bereft of his senses; for he had not one penny
of mony, neither pawne or pledge wherewith to procure any. The time
hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his
honourable respect of the lady. To begge of any his nature denied it;
and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie
as himselfe.

At last, looking round about, and seeing his faulcone on her perch,
which he felt to be very plumpe and fat; Being voyde of all other
helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a fowle meete for so
noble a lady to feede on, without any further demurring or delay he
pluckt off her neck, and caused the poor woman presently to pull her
feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in a short
time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe couered the table, set bread
and salt on,--and laid the napkins, whereof he had but a few left him.
Going then with chearfull lookes into the garden, telling the lady
that dinner was ready, and nothing was wanted but her presence; shee,
and the gentlewoman went in, and being seted at the table, not knowing
what they fed on, the faulcon was all their foode: and Frederigo not a
little ioyfull that his credit was so well saued. When they were risen
from the table and had spent some small time in familiar conference,
the lady thought it fit to acquaint him with the reason of her comming
thither; and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began:

“Frederigo, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me (as
also my many modest and chaste denials) which (perhaps) you thought
to sauour of a harsh, cruell, and vn-womanly nature, I make no doubt
but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you vnderstand the
occasion which expressely mooued me to come hither. But if you were
possessed of children, or euer had any, whereby you might comprehend
what love in nature is due vnto them: then I durst assure my selfe that
you would partly hold me excused.

“Now in regard, that you neuer had any, and myselfe (for my part) haue
but onely one, I stand not exempt from those lawes which are common to
other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those lawes,
contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to
maintaine, I am to request a gift of you, which I am certaine that
you doe make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can doe
no lesse. For fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she
hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or
delight, but only that poore one, which is your faire faulcone. Of
which bird, my sonne is become so strangely desirous, as if I doe not
bring it to him at my comming home, I feare so much the extreamity of
his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon but the losse of life.
Wherefore, I beseech you, not in regard to the love you have borne me,
for therby you stande no way obliged, but in your owne true gentle
nature (the which hath always declared itselfe ready in you, to do more
kinde offices generally than any other gentleman that I know), you will
be pleased to giue her me, or at least, let me buy her of you. Which if
you doe, I shall freely confesse that onely by your means my sonne’s
life is saued, and we both shall for ever remaine engaged to you.”

When Frederigo had heard the ladies request, which was now quite out
of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner, he
stood like a man dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amain downe
his cheekes, and he not able to vtter one word. Which she perceiving
began to conjecture immediately, that these tears and passions
proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with
his faulcone then any other kinde of manner, which made her ready to
say that she would not haue it. Neuerthelesss she did not speake but
rather tarried to attend his answer; which, after some small respite
and pause, he returned in this manner:

“Madam, since the houre when first my affection became soly deuoted
to your seruice, fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to me in many
occasions, as iustly, and in good reason I may complaine of her:
yet all seemed light and easie to be indured in comparison of her
present malicious contradiction, to my vtter ouerthrow, and perpetual
mollestation. Considering that you are come hither to my poore house,
which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe
to looke on; and now you haue requested a small matter of me wherein
she hath also crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled me in
bestowing so mean a gift, as your selfe will confesse when it shall be
related to you in a few words.

“So soone as I heard that it was your pleasure to dine with me, hauing
regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due vnto
you, I thought it a part of my bounden duty to entertaine you with
such exquisite viands as my poore power could any way compasse, and
farre beyond respect or welcome to other common and ordinary persons.
Whereupon remembering my faulcone, which now you aske for, and her
goodnesse excelling all other of her kinde, I supposed that she would
make a dainty dish for your dyet; and, hauing drest her so well as I
could deuise to do, you haue fed heartily on her, and I am proud that I
haue so well bestowne her. But perceiuing now that you would haue her
for your sicke sonne, it is no mean affliction to me that I am disabled
of yeelding you contentment which all my lifetime I haue desired to
doe.”

To approve his words, the feathers, feete and beake were brought in;
and when she saw this, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a
faulcone, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoeuer. Yet she
commended his height of spirit which poverty had no power to abase.
Lastly, her hopes being frustrate, for enjoying the faulcone, and
fearing besides the health of her sonne, she thanked Frederigo for his
honorable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. Shortly
after, her sonne, either greeuing that he could not hauve the faulcone,
or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to die, leauing his mother a
most woeful lady.

After so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with
sorrow and mourning, her brethren made many motions to her to joyne
herself in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich and
as yet but yong in years. Now, although she was well contented neuer
to be married any more, yet, being continually importuned by them, and
remembring the honourable honesty of _Frederigo_,--his last poore, yet
magnificent dinner, in killing his faulcone for her sake,--she saide to
her brethren: “This kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as
willingly I would neuer leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my
second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will neuer accept of
any other husband but onely Frederigo di Alberino.”


CONCLUSION.

Such are facts, from which the nature and strength and delicacy of
affection may be seen.

Dear, dear Woman!--Let me,--indebted as I am to your tenderness and
love for every blessing of my life,--let me say, in the words of the
sweet Northern poet:

  “Long since, this world’s thorny ways
  Had numbered out my weary days,
  Had it not been for you.”


William Stevens, Printer, Bell Yard, Temple Bar.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is
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