THE POWER OF SYMPATHY: or, the Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth.

Editor’s Introduction.

AN 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 according to its historical and hence its intrinsic 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.

xThe 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 something 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 Apthorp wrote over the pseudonym of “Philenia.” Her longer poems, epics, are “Ouabi, or The Virtue of Nature: an Indian Tale in Four Cantos,” and “Beacon Hill,” in which is told the story of the American Revolution. This last is said to have moved Robert Treat Paine to designate her as the “American Sappho.”

In 1788, while Mr. and Mrs. Morton were occupying 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, xidoubtless gave “Philenia” the impetus and raison d’être for the “Power of Sympathy,” published anonymously the following year.

Although evidently written with the purest motive, 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 exception 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 suppose. 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 delusive and, for them, hypocritical motto; “No taxation without representation”, or who had gained or lost all through the late fratricidal struggle, were thriving wonderfully on “spread eagle” patriotism stimulated by “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia”—which, today, unfortunately bandage the eyes of America’s native civilization—and entertained xiia cordial hatred of England and all things English. Later they were to sympathize with Mirabeau, 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 becoming Tory solely because personal interest demanded that it should become rebel. Its members were English in taste and manner, in their hearts they were Royalists. They called themselves Federalists. 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 ceremony—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 independence, 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 century, xiiia literary revolution was in progress in England: 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 “Sentimental 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 literary atmosphere the “Power of Sympathy” was xivwritten, 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 “Joseph Andrews.” In this form 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 opportunity 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 xvvivid, natural expression, where the economy of attention is second only to striking portrayal, where elegance, simplicity, directness are ever present but never obtrusive, there is reason enough for our remark. 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 expression of life of a people and an era that are by no means lacking in interest and importance; and to the littérateur, it is not an unworthy example of more than ordinary literary art.

PREFACE

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: Futility 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.

xviiiOF 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.

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, before he had resolved upon the project. But you call me, with some degree of truth, a strange medley of contradiction—the moralist and the amoroso—the sentiment and the sensibility—are interwoven in my constitution, 2so that nature and grace are at continual fisticuffs—To the point:—

I PURSUED my determination of discovering the dwelling 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 mien is elegant—her disposition 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:—

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, Jack, I have not the vanity to think this distress altogether upon my account)—Time may therefore disclose wonders, and perhaps more to your advantage than you imagine—do not despair 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 information to the soul of sensibility than can be contained in myriads of volumes!

HAIL gentle God of Love! While thou 4rivetest the chains of thy slaves, how dost thou make them leap for joy, as with delicious triumph. 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 of Love! Encircled as thou art with darts, torments, and ensigns of cruelty, still do we hail thee. How dost thou smooth over the roughness and asperities of present pain, with what thou seest in reversion! Thou banishest the Stygian glooms of disquiet and suspense, by the hope of approaching Elysium—Blessed infatuation!

I DESIRE you will not hesitate to pronounce an amen to my Hymn to Love, as an unequivocal evidence of your wish for my success.

LETTER II.

Worthy to Harrington.

“WISH you success”—In what? Who is this lady of whom you have been talking at such an inconsistent rate? But before you have leisure to reply to these inquiries you may have forgotten there is such a person, as she whom you call Harriot—I have seen many juvenile heroes, during my pilgrimage 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 6brain 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. Instead of weighing matters maturely, and stating the evidence fairly on both sides, in order to form a right judgement, every circumstance not perfectly coincident with your particular bias, comes not under consideration, because it does not flatter your vanity. “Ponder

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.

DO you mean to insinuate that your declaration of love hath attracted the affection of the pensive Harriot? If this should be the case, I wish you would tell me what you design to do with her.

LETTER III.

Harrington to Worthy.

I CANNOT but laugh at your dull sermons, and yet I find something in them altogether displeasing; for this reason I permit you to prate on. “Weigh matters maturely!” Ha! ha! why art thou not arrayed in canonicals? “What do I design to do with her?” 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 8you 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 dependent 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 immaculate 9footsteps—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 solecism—She might as well be immured in a nunnery. Now, Jack, I will shew you my benevolent scheme; it is to take this beautiful 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 remove 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 goodness of heart? But I know the purport of your answer—So pray thee keep thy comments to thyself, and be sparing of your compliments on this part of my conduct—for I do 10not love flattery. A month has elapsed since my arrival in town. What will the revolution of another moon bring forth?

LETTER IV.

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 certainly 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 partiality in his favor would exceed mine.

I NEVER saw my poor swain so seemingly 12disconcerted and abashed as he was a few days ago—he appeared to have something very particular to communicate, but his tongue faultered—ought not one to help out a modest youth in such cases?

LETTER V.

Miss Myra Harrington to Mrs. Holmes.

ARE the rural pleasures of Belleview, 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 sentimentalist 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 14myself the honour to wait upon you here?—I 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 tendency 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? The time of my liberty steals away, for you know I was to have three or four months of 15liberty before I gave myself up to his authority, and relinquished all my right and title to the name of

LETTER VI.

Harrington to Worthy.

ABASHED—confounded—defeated—I waited upon my beloved with my head well furnished with ready made arguments, to prevail 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. Francis.” I enlarged on the violence of my passion—expatiated most 17metaphysically on our future happiness; and concluded by largely answering objections. “Shall we not,” continued I, “obey the dictates 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 Harriot?—Not a syllable of it. It was impossible—my heart had the courage to dictate, but my rebellious tongue refused to utter a word—it faultered—stammered—hesitated.

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? 18And 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 influences 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 eloquence—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 contemplate its power with indifference—Wisdom 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 19me to despise—and if it be beauty that subdues 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.

LETTER VII.

Mrs. Holmes to Miss Harrington.