The history of Amelia Stanford, writ­ten by herself.

IT may probably be asked, by the gay witling, who skims over the [Page 59] surface of things—who speculates on life, without enquiring seriously into its nature or design—why mankind are so prone to dwell on the shades of a picture—why, in a retrospect of life, the mind pauses on scenes that impart no gaiety to the fancy, and awake no rapture in the heart? the answer is obvious: it is the law of our nature. The wisdom of heav­en has thought proper, so to con­stitute the hearts of many, as to render them most happy in the indulgence of that philosophic melancholy—that ten­der pensiveness, which enobles the soul, while it depresses the spirits, and gives, beyond any circumstance on earth, a foretaste of those joys in heaven, "which the eye hath not seen—nor the car heard—neither has it entered into the heart of man to conceive." Influenced by this motive, it is, that I often wander back to past periods, that I recall, in imagination, scenes which were [...]nce painful in the extreme, and dwell upon them till my heart distends almost to bursting, and is only relieved by a torrent of deli­cious tears. Daily experience proves [Page 60] to me the truth of Moore's position, that—

From the frequent endurance of this "sadness," produced by the recollec­tion of past events, in moments of re­tirement and dejection—and finding the remark of the wilest of men, jus­tified by my own experience, "that by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better," I have come to the [...], of committing the substance of my [...] to writing. To some of those dear off [...], who bear my likeness and my name, per­haps the written memorial, of what they have often heard, may not be un­acceptable. Perhaps some friends across the Atlantic, may be interested in this literary bequest. And when they compare the once cheerful Amelia Seymour, with the unfortunate Ame­lia Stanford, they will commiserate the devoted girl, will sympathize in her misfortunes, and be grateful on heav­en for an exemption from similar ca­lamities.

[Page 61] My father whose name was William Seymour, lived in the town of Bristol, in England, and followed mer­chandise. In the early part of my life, he had been successful in business, and had prudently deposited a compe­tency in the funds, in case of acci­dents (to which trade is proverbially exposed.) He married early, and had several children, all of whom he lost young, expect an elder sister and my­self. While my father was in the full career of success, my sister married a gentleman of fortune, family, ed­ucation and benevolence. He lived on his income at no great distance from my father's, on a small but highly cul­tivated estate.

When the moment arrived in which my sister was to part with the home where she had been reared, and from the dear connections who had hither to gladdened her existence—her heart sunk—her resolution vanished—she in­sisted on my attending her—and mak­ing one of her family, until she could, [...] degree, lose the remembrance of home. I was young, but fifteen years of age,—and was pleased with [Page 62] the scene for its novelty. I accord­ingly took my leave of home to stay a few weeks with my sister. Three months I passed with her in uninter­rupted happiness. Time then had the doves wings, we received the highest attentions the neighbours could pay us, and, possessed as we truly were of "health, peace and competence" the poet's definition of happiness: in read­ing, conversation, visits and work, we enjoyed life as highly as mortals could do.

But the tide was now to ebb, the scene was to undergo a change,—a change which first brought me to an acquaintance with sorrow and misfor­tune. I was suddenly sent for home, my mother was said to be dangerously ill—she had taken a violent cold which brought on a pleurisy,—a high fever accompanied it—she became delirious, and her life was despaired of by the physicians. We arrived in time to be­hold her a living mother. About the time we reached my father's house her disorder seemed to take a favorable turn—She became herself, she recog­nised her children—and possessed her [Page 63] reason enough to give us her dying blessing and parting advice. "I feel, said she, my children, taking us in her arms, as she sat up in her bed, and em­bracing us most tenderly, I feel the powers of nature failing,—my nerves are weakened, my heart has that aw­ful fluttering which assures me of ap­proaching death." Our sobs here in­terrupted her address, but resuming the subject with a tremulous voice and an aspect in which heaven itself was seated, she continued, "the cold hand of death is already laid upon me—I feel an icy torpor creeping through my veins: let me tell my daughters all my heart ere it be forever too late.—To the goodness of God and the care of his divine providence I then recom­mend you both—the God who has pro­tected and guided the parent from in­fancy to mature age, will not forget the offspring. Trust in him my child­ren; and he will never betray your trust. Resort to him for [...] and comfort in moments of distress, and he will not refuse his assistance. He has promised to be a father to the orphan, and his promise is infallible. Commit [Page 64] yourselves to him and he will amply supply the loss of that mother, whom I trust, he will in a few short moments receive to himself.

"The period that hath been allotted me in [...] has not been very long. I have not yet reached my fortieth year. I trust, however, I have lived to some good purpose; I have through life con­sidered the love and service of the Su­preme Being as the first object to be de­sired and armed at—and next to this, the happiness of my fellow creatures. In these principles, I hope my dear children will follow the example of an affectionate parent, and believe her (who has no interest to disguise the truth) that through life, you will find the love and service of your Mak­er the most delightful employment you can be engaged in, and the surest road to solid happiness. In your intercourse with the world, you will find the plea­sures of sense the great objects of de­sire and of praise—the serious and use­ful qualities of the heart, so warmly recommended by our Saviour, the topics of ridicule and too often of con­tempt. But aim at acquiring an opin­ion [Page 65] of your own, formed on the word of inspiration, and the most judicious moral writers. This will be an an­chor to keep your barks steady and firm, amidst the storms of controver­sy, and the currents of popular opin­ion.

"Be kind and charitable to all with whom you are in any wise con­nected—endeavor to consider their in­terest and happiness as your own.—Never lose sight of our Saviour's gol­den rule, "of doing to others as you would that they also in like circum­stances, should do unto you;" forgive their [...] and their errors—there is a noble and sweet satisfaction in for­giving which elevated and refined souls only know. Never was there a more untrue maxim, than that "re­venge is sweet:" to little and malev­olent minds it may be so—it may seem so in the first gust of passion—but when anger has subsided and the mind reflects on the past, nothing is more painful to a good heart than to remember, that is has been the cause of an injury to another which it cannot repair.

[Page 66] "And believe me, my children, when you come to the situation in which you behold your mother now, the only parts of your life to which you will look back with pleasure, will be those in which you have relieved misery, and conferred happiness by do­ing good:—and rest satisfied—but I feel a deadly sickness, my God support me in this last trial." Here a faintness seized her—she fell back, and—a gen­eral shriek of horror pervaded the chamber—she opened her eyes,—they soon closed again—and with one deep groan her spirit returned to him who gave it.

The impressions made on the mind of us all, by such an event, may be pourtrayed by fancy but never by lan­guage. My father who was a man of warm feelings, and a most affectionate disposition was in a degree frantic. He was still through the day: now and then he would break out into violent fits of weeping, which would subside again and leave him composed and me­lancholly: but at night he had no soon­er closed his eyes than he became wild and flighty. We were obliged to keep [Page 67] a light in his room and to have a serv­ant with him all night. He needed consolation but who could impart it?—we were all so depressed by the sud­den misfortune, that neither could give comfort to the other.

For my own part, I felt myself so overwhelmed by the stroke, that my heart literally died within me. I felt for my own situation, but if possible I suffered more for my father's—I con­sidered myself, indeed, as deprived of my best friend and instructress, I fore­saw the loss I should sustain in the want of her advice and guidance: and I shuddered at the snares and dif­ficulties I might be exposed to in ear­ly life, thus destitute of her patronage, and society—but what were these, compared to my fathers feelings! to have the nearest friend of his bosom thus torn away—the friend he had early and long loved as himself—thus wrested from his arms forever—was a state of forlorn wretchedness from which human nature recoils and which he was not calculated to endure. In­deed, such was the effect this had on him, that he closed his accounts— [Page 68] withdrew from business, and purcha­sed a small country seat not far from his son-in-law's, to which he immedi­ately retired.

On his first retreat his spirits utterly abandoned him—he lost the vivacity which once distinguished him, became fond of solitary walks, and was much alone in his chamber. Depressed as I was myself, I found it necessary to make exertions to draw him into con­versation, and to prevent his mind from [...]ring over subjects that were too melancholy and dejecting.

My sister and my brother in law of­ten visited us—and by their conversation and tenderness relieved my fath­er's mind greatly of its depressive gloom—Time however, did more for him than our exertions: the traits of grief faded from his heart gradually—till within the compass of a year, he be­gan at times to resume something of his former gaiety, and sprightliness yet shortly after a turn of gaiety he would [...] into dejection. He was never sprightly without being after­wards proportionally grave. He now began however, to find him­self able to [Page 69] converse of my departed mother,—to recall her memory—to praise her vir­tues—and to recommend them to my imitation. Indeed this was less ne­cessary than he imagined; they had deeply impressed my mind, though I knew it not till she was gone.

I was not the only person however, with whom he conversed of his la­mented wife. There was a neighbor­ing widow lady who lived about half a mile from us, to whom he used often to unfold his heart and to disclose its sorrows—the heard him with attention, assented to the praises he bestowed on his lost consort—admired his affection and sympathised in his distress. At first he used to resort there but seld­om: her society however, I found be­came every day more necessary to him,—little did I at first imagine what would be the result of these visits:—but when he began to request me to visit her with him, I conjectured that his views extended further than ordi­nary, friendship. Yet this idea was not an obvious one: for although the lady was apparently a discreet, amiable ma­nageing woman, yet the disparity be­tween [Page 70] their ages, she being the older by several years, her singular want of beauty, her having two or three child­ren, and being rather in low circum­stances, would have led any one to be­lieve she never could be my father's choice:—but heaven thought other­wise—my father had fixed his heart upon the matter: and reason was to have the nothing to say on the subject.—He accordingly one day as we sat to­gether at breakfast, in a very pensive mood, opened the plan and asked my opinion of the matter.

Apprized as I was in my own mind of his intention. I felt myself sud­denly and extremely affected by the disclosure. I was obliged to rise and leave the room, a gush of tears suc­ceeded, and relieved my heart; as soon as I had recovered myself, I returned and pursuing the subject re­quested he would pardon this invol­untary piece of weakness—that I per­fectly accorded with him in sentiment—"whatever, said I, will promote my dear father's happiness, I shall al­ways readily acquiesce in. One pa­rent is all I have now on earth, and [Page 71] should I not wish to see him happy▪ kind and affectionate as he has ever been to me, what an ingrate should I be, in the smallest measure to obstruct his wishes. No, my dear papa, tho' my tears would seem to express dis­satisfaction at your plan, that senti­ment is the farthest from my heart. If mrs. L—be your choice, I will make her as dutiful a daughter as I trust I have been to you"—

At these words, my father could re­strain himself no longer—he took me to his arms—he pre [...]s'd me to his bo­som—called me his dear affectionate little girl—we both wept profusely—till our utterance was stopp'd and we were both obliged to part, to conceal our mutual weakness. In a word, before many weeks had elapsed, my father again became a husband, and brought home his lady and her train, and was again, in possession (to all ap­pearance) of as much happiness as his heart could contain—but widely differ­ent was the situation of his daughter. Of little consequence in the family—slighted by my mother in law when­ever my father was absent, and treat­ed [Page 72] rudely by her children—I confined myself much to my books and devotions—but would a [...] any time have cheer­fully exchanged situations with the in­dependent sempstress or mil [...]ner, whose daily bread was earned by the labor of their own hands.

I will now go back a few years, to trace a series of events that interested my heart, and became the innocent cause of all my subsequent misfor­tunes. Some time before the mar­riage of my sister, [...] bec [...]me accident­ally acquainted with a [...] Stanford, who lived a few doors from my fa­ther's house. Our disposition and taste being in a great degree similar, our frequent opportunities of seeing each other rendered [...] in a short time romantically intimate: a day could not pass but we must see each other: our hearts were laid ba [...]e to each oth­er. Whatever little attention or ad­miration either received, was made known to the confidant [...]—our billets doux were all preserved, and mutu­ally communicated; in short it would have seem'd like treason to friendship and tenderness in either to have con­cealed [Page 73] any thought or weakness of the heart from her friend. Among other testimonies of miss Stanford's affection for me was the communication of the letters of a favorite brother. Their elegance were such as pleased my fan­cy—and their warmth of expression such as touched my heart. My friend often gave me a description of her brother—repeating many little acts of his fraternal goodness—and in the e­vent raised my curiosity highly to see him—I envied her those affectionate, and unmerited attentions she received. I tho't nothing could be more agreeable than to possess the whole heart of such a brother, and lamented that providence had denied me one from whose society and correspondence I might derive the same benefits and pleasures, that Julia Stanford did from those of her broth­er Charles. While th [...] young man was every day rising in my opinion, and my anxiety to see him encreasing—little did I imagine that Julia was en­deavoring to transfuse into his bosom all the warmth of friendship for me, which she herself entertained.

[Page 74] After many weeks of tedious ex­pectation, the vacancy at length came, when the students of the university were permitted to return to their res­pective homes, to see their friends, and to procure whatever articles were necessary for use or convenience at the ensuing session. Charles Stanford, at the time assigned returned to his home. Julia his sister had been impatiently looking out for him in the morning, but being disappointed in the pros­pects, she had requested me to pass the afternoon and evening with her as an object on which to rest her heart and rel [...]x her spirits. I must own that aware of her expectations, I took more pains in the decoration of my person this evening than usual; and wish'd secretly (though I durst not avow the sentiment of my own heart) that my pains might not be lost.

When I went to mr. Stanford's I found Julia pensive and alone. Her father was from home, and her moth­er up stairs: she had all things pre­pared for tea, and was sickening with impatience at the delay of her broth­er. [Page 75] My presence was an instant re­lief to her. We sat down and began to chat seriously together: but were suddenly interrupted by a chaise s [...]op­ping at the door. Instantly a young man's voice was heard in the entry: Julia in a moment recogniz'd it to be her brother's: she flew to receive him: they met at the parlour door as she opened it—their [...] seem'd to be unbounded. When the first trans­ports of affection were over, and re­collection had returned, she presented mr. Stanford to me as her "dear brother" and mentioned my name to him. We gaz'd on each other with a little confusion; and often as our eyes met each other's in the course of the evening, a transient blush seem'd to overspread he face of the youth. We were able however to exchange a few words: but finding that I laid a kind of restraint on the feelings of the brother and sister, I took an early leave of Julia, not, however, with her ready acquiescence, nor without a positive promise to come and spend the next day with her.

[Page 76] I was as good as my word; but I was in pain le [...]t I had assented too easily—lest mr. Stanford should think my visit in part on his account, though I was not dissatisfied to find the young man waiting to attend me to his sis­ter's the next morning when I came from my dressing room into the par­lour. We this day became more so­ciable; and I [...]und that the repre­sentation give [...] by his sister, was not beyond the truth. We pass'd our time, from this period till his return to the university, very pleasantly: we saw each other every day. Many de­lightful rambles we took round the town—and to places of public resort—and I felt happy in finding our satis­faction with each other daily increase.

As the day approached, on which Charles Stanford was to take his leave of Bristol for some months: and to repair to Oxford, I could observe he began to grow thoughtful and silent: he lost much of the cheerfulness he possessed on his first return from col­lege, and devoted himself much to grave company. Just before he left home, he came to take leave of me, [Page 77] and as he said "to offer me his best wishes for my health and happiness." He seem'd much embarrass'd with the task, and kne [...] not how to proceed. When he rose to make his adieu, he could say nothing—his eyes were downcast as well as mine, once or twice we each had resolution to raise them—but on meeting both were con­fused and embarrassed. Thus we stood for nearly five minutes. At length, taking my hand, he raised it with some difficulty to his lips—and at the same time left in the hand he thus took, a beautiful locket set round with pearl; on the one side of which, were the two letters C. S. worked I suppose with his own hair, on the other a youth approaching an altar, on which was written "sacred to friendship"—with a heart in his hand as an offering, and on the small sold of paper in which this present was wrapped, the following words were written—

Some time after Charles had gone, and the flutter of my spirits had sub­sided, and when I was capable of re­flexion, I began to ponder on these strange appearances—I was painfully dubious whether I acted properly or not in keeping this present—I more than once was on the point of sending it to his sister: but as this would have wounded the feelings of my Julia, and distressed Charles—and as it was intended only as a token of "friend­ship" I concluded I might retain it.—Often after his departure did I resort to the drawer in which I had lock'd his gift, and many were the soft feel­ings it occasioned to my heart.

After his return to the university, he wrote to his sister more frequently than ever. In every letter he either made some enquiries concerning miss Seymour, or sent some expression of friendship and recollection—I was pleased at heart with his attention—but never discovered it farther than to [Page 79] return him my compliments. With these at first he seemed satisfied—but with one act of attention, the wish for another arose, till at length he commissioned Julia, if possible, to gain my permission for him to write to me occasionally. This, however, I then refused.

During his stay this session at col­lege, it was that my sister was marri­ed and that I had left home to reside with her. When on close of his col­legiate course, he returned to B [...]tol, and hoped to tread again the path he had pursued a few months before, his disappointment was great, to fine our family in part eloped and beyond the limits of frequent attentions. Julia, however, had promised me a visit at my brother-in-law's, and as soon as Charles had returned, she availed her­self of his protection and company, and with him in a post chaise perform­ed her promise. They passed a few days with us delightfully: our even­ing rambles—our literary amusements through the day, the beauties of na­ture, and the charms of vocal and in­strumental music, often gave a [Page 80] brightness to our spirits—and a rap­ture to our bosoms, that language could never paint.

Time, however, rolled away rapid­ly—our friends left us—uncertain when we would meet again. We met, however, much sooner, and on a more melancholy occasion, than fan­cy had conjectured—but a few weeks after this the sudden illness of our mother called us home—called us to a scene of the deepest woe I had ever witnessed. During all our affliction, on this event, however, the attention and sympathy of Julia Stanford and her brother, were a great source of relief and comfort.

They called every day to enquire af­ter our health, and shewed a great degree of tenderness which engaged my warmest gratitude. When my father [...] retired into the country, after his severe loss, my mind soften­ed by affliction, and left vacant by sol­itude, was prepared to embrace any object which offered it relief. Charles Stanford continued his visits to my fa­ther's as often as the distance, to which we had removed from Bristol, [Page 81] would permit: nor will it be a mat­ter of wonder, that I was happy to see him—left alone almost continually, after my father's visits to our widow-neighbour commenced, and with a heart alive to all the feelings of friend­ship, and preference, was it surpri­sing that I should, from gratitude, pass to esteem and tenderness for a young man of Mr. Stanford's charac­ter and disposition? for though young, he was discreet, and though he had mingled with the world, his manner's were free from levity and vice. He was grave tender and polite—he loved virtue and practised it. In point of address he was agreeable—his person was good, and his face expressed well the feelings of his heart. Of such qualities was mr. Stanford possess'd, when our acquaintance commenced—with these he made a tender of his heart and hand to the [...] par­tial Amelia, at a time [...] could make but a feeble resistance. While I live, I shall never forget [...] circum­stances under which he [...] to me his sentiments—nor the [...] then excited in my bosom.

[Page 82] It was on one of those fine evenings of autumn, when [...] the warmth of the day, the cool of eve becomes grateful to the sense—the sun was just sinking beneath the horrizon; and all was till and impress'd on the mind the sweetest pensiveness. The moon, now almost full, was just rising into view—the clouds of heaven were ro­mantically diversified—and a soft sweet breeze [...] the cheek of na­ture, and conveyed the most pleasing sensations to the bosom—under these circumstances, mr. Stanford requested me [...] ramble with him in the garden—we strolled down the main walk▪ at the end of which was a sum­mer house delightfully encompassed by [...] and honey suckle—here, after one or two turns through the garden, we rested ourselves. Taking my hand [...] the most expressive and tende [...] [...] he seated me on one of the [...] which you descend from the summer house into an exten­sive [...]—he himself occupied the step beneath that he had assigned to me—before [...] lay a beautiful stream of wa­ter, on which the moonbeams played [Page 83] —around us the varied colours of the wood [...] just smitten by the frost, reflect­ed on the eye by the soft beams of retiring day, blending with the softer rays of Cynthia, filled the heart with the most serene and elevated feelings. Mr. Stanford a while beheld this scene in silence: he then gave a deep sigh—and looking most tenderly in my face "alas" said he, "that happi­ness should be so temporary and uncer­tain"—"wherefore this reflexion, Charles," said!—"is your happiness exposed to danger?"—"Indeed," re­turned he, "it is—it hangs on a slen­der brittle thread. My peace of mind is suspended the good opinion of an individual—who can bid me be chear­ful and of use to myself and others—or can by a word rob my heart of all it deems valuable in life." "Ave [...]"—said I, looking down (for I began from his looks and the [...] voice to suspect the drift of his con­versation) "and surely no one would intentionally impair your happiness."—"No!" said he, his eye brighten­ing as he spoke. "No, surely," re­plied I—"there can be none [...]o sa­vage [Page 84] as to give pain to others unless to avoid it [...]" "If [...]en the destroy o [...] my life were in the power of the [...] miss Seymour,"— [...] he— [...] the same time pressing my hand which he still held, most tenderly to his lip—"would she sport with [...] it?" "That can­not be," replied I withdrawing my hand from i [...]—"your happiness, mr. Stanford is not in my power"—"will miss Seymour believe me," he return­ed with an earnestness of look and of [...]—"when I assure her that it is— [...] my esteem—my friendship—my heart [...]he has long possessed? but I feared to un [...]old to her this truth.—My life is of no value to me without her approbation—Oh commiserate the sorrows of a bosom, which is oc­cupied by [...] alone." I was too much affected and embarrassed, to sup­port [...] scene any longer. I hastily arose and [...] towards the house. He [...] my side—my heart was too [...]ull [...] reply—his [...] so. This prevented [...] continuation of his senti­ments. When I reached the house. I was obliged abruptly to leave him—re­tiring [Page 85] a few minutes to my chamber. I gave full vent to the feelings of my heart, and presently returned to him quite composed. I found him walk­ing the room with [...] in his hand and the tear still [...] in his eye. I seated myself on the [...] to which he immediately approached with a look of anxiety and sorrow, and seated himself by my side. He deli­cately enquired whether or not he might continue what he had introdu­ced: I could not return him an an­swer—he then ask'd what construction he should put on my silence—"what you please, sir"—was all I could ut­ter—he press'd my hand again to his lips, with great ardour. Our further intercourse at present was stopped by the sound of my father's [...]oot on the piazz [...]—his entrance gave a little blush to our cheeks: indeed I felt as if I had committed some offence which merited disapprobation and punish­ment. Mr. Stanford's looks express­ed the same feeling—his tongue was mute. Scusible of the irksomeness of his situation, he presently after took his leave of us, and departed. All [Page 86] the ensuing night was I kept awake in revolving the scene that had taken place. Sometimes I was satisfied, and again out of temper with what had passed. On the whole, however, I was of opinion, that of all the youth I had ever been acquainted with, Charles Stanford was the one [...]st to my ta [...]—that his character, his talents, family and prospects in life were such as accorded with my tem­per, and such as promised to render me as happy as the changing state of humanity admits.

On his next visit, he found me in the garden alone with my work and my book. He approached with his usual delicacy and diffidence: we talk­ed sometime on general topics, ti [...] the palpitations occasioned by such a meet­ing, had subsided—when he again in­troduced the subject, which, he said, "lay nearest his heart"—I now found myself more capable of expressing my sentiments than before—I told him that on a matter of such delicacy and importance as the present, I had ever conceived a gentleman was entitled to a speedy and candid explanation; that [Page 87] he must have observed, from my man­ner, that I had shewed him a prefer­ence, above an ordinary acquaintance—that in candour now I would ac­knowledge his merits had gained my esteem—but more than this! dare not say at present—that my father had a negative on my choice of a friend for life—and that his approbation must be obtained, before any further step could be taken.

Mr. Stanford understood me—his eye, his voice and his manner express­ed his satisfaction—he said he would take the earliest opportunity of ob­taining a parent's consent to his atten­tions, in which if he were successful, he would indeed, be one of the most happy men in existence.

M. Stanford accordingly embraced the earliest opportunity of disclosing his wishes to my father. His embarrass­ment, I doubt not, made him less elo­quent in his own, than he could have been in the cause of a friend. My father also, as I discovered after­wards, was not a little disconcerted—he was taken by surprise, and knew not what answer to make. To prevent [Page 88] any future misunderstanding, he postponed giving a definitive answer—signifying, [...] ever, a general [...] of [...] Stanford's character—but [...] to make an enqui­ry into my friend's present situation, and future prospects. In these par­ticulars he was soon satisfied. He found mr. Stanford, both before and since his return from Oxford, had been in a counting house; that his father design'd setting him up [...]n trade, under the patronage of a rich uncle, who was concerned in the East-India [...]; that with the money himself could advance, and the advantages the uncle could put into [...] son's hands, he might make a voyage to Bengal, and by residing there for a few years, might return with a complete inde­pendency. This was the plan at first [...]: and this was the plan our parents, after consulting together, a­greed to adhere to. They believed that what they could both spare would be hardly sufficient to support us in the same [...] in which we had been accustomed to live [...] and [...]aving form­ed this opinion, they would no [...] de­part [Page 89] from this first scheme. But in our apprehension, how absurdly did they appear to reason and resolve [...]? We would have most cheerfully denied ourselves many of the little superflui­ties to which we had been accustomed—We sighed not for opulence or dis­tinction; a bare competency, and a retirement from gay & fashionable life, was our mutual choice. Our hearts found their happiness in their [...] society, and could surrender any thing that clashed with a speedy union.—Mr. Stanford, when he was informed of the scheme proposed by our pa­rents, immediately avowed his disap­probation of it—warmly, yet respect­fully stated his reasons—urged the pain he should experience in parting with the single object that a [...]ched him to life [...] a reason—and declared his preference of living in obscurity and indigence, rather than hazard his life, and be necessarily absent from all his friends for a number of years.

These reasons, proceeding from the warmth of the heart, had little influ­ence on the minds of our parents, who called our attachment nothing but [Page 90] a wild and foolish liking, that would soon be over, and leave us independence and in want if we were now suffered to be united. They therefore insisted on Mr. Stanfords setting off for India, by the first vessel that sailed for that quarter; and told him that when he had accumulated a for [...]une [...], he might return and expect the hand of Amelia Seymour, with her parents approbation.—This determination was a sad bar to all our affectionate wishes—it was discordant with our o­pinions and our feelings. After can­vassing the subject for several days, and devising means of support in case we were abandoned by our parents, we at length came to a conclusion, and resolved, whatever might be the con­sequence, to be united in hand as in heart—to live in a retired way—to be frugal and industrious—and to trust in God for welfare and happiness. A res­olution of this kind, we were sensible would expose us to the derision of the worldly-wise; but we were not to be frightened by a shadow, from the posses­sion of a reality. Nature had given us firmness enough to resist the influence [Page 91] of a sneer—and we had learned from observation and experience, that what the mass of the world denominate happiness, is but misery in disguise. In truth, the greater part of mankind, are a set of shallow dupes. They have not discernment to distinguish between the semblance and the essence of hap­piness—they make it consist in sensual gratifications, and keen pleasures, which ever cloy by frequent enjoy­ment, and mostly leave a poison be­hind. True happiness is seated only in the mind: without peace of con­science and sound intellects, it is im­possible to enjoy real and permanent satisfaction: and with a due observ­ance of those duties we owe to our Maker, our neighbours and ourselves—altho property be denied, happiness may be attained—happiness of the most exalted, pure, and substantial kind.

Impressed with these considerations we prepared for the private solemnization of our naptials, as well as our circumstances would permit. I prepared all my clothes, on various pretences. I persuaded my father to advance some small sums of mon­ey, [Page 92] which were expended on articles that I thought would be most useful to me. Mr. Stanford had been les [...] a sum of two hundred fifty pounds by a remote relation: this he could command at any time, and this we believed would be sufficient to support us comfortably for a while, in case we should lose the patronage of our parents.

Thus circumstanced, I bribed one of the domestics to carry my trunk to a neighboring tavern, and while my father and mother were out visiting one evening, Mr. Stanford, agreeably to appointment, came to our house, and bore off his willing captive. I had scarcely left my home, be­fore my heart sunk, and my conscience reproved me for the step I had taken—I had abandoned a roof that had long kind­ly sheltered me—I had thrown myself from the protection of a parent who had [...] crossed my wishes—and had put my ho [...]or and happiness into the power of a young man, where principles might be at variance with his past conduct, and who might, for all I could know, possess a disposition that would thwart every hope of my soul. But my trust was in heaven. What I did, could only be justified by the supreme law, which [...] Creator has im­planted in every human breast, of pursu­ing its own happiness by every lawful [Page 93] mean. I conceived that I felt the hand [...] parental tyranny, not exercised in the way of advice or remembrance, but in the way of a law with a sanction. That our parents had a right to impose a com­mand, under the penalty of displeasure, or of withholding property, we did not dispute; but in our apprehension, a slen­der livelihood, gained by labor and fru­gality, was preferable to a long and tedi­ous separation, and the hazard of life.

In a word, we were joined in the bands of matrimony, and hastened to each oth­er's affectionate embrace with an ardor proportioned to the risk we had run.

The day after the event took place, Mr. Stanford wrote to his parents and to mine informing them of what had taken place, and apologizing for the abruptness of the [...], from the strength of mutual attach­ment, and the fear of being [...] from each other, by an immense distance, and an unknown length of [...]me.

How difficult a matter it is, for the a­ged to recal the feelings of youth! How rare to meet with persons advanced in years, who can enter into the feelings and views of the young, and make just allowances for the rashness of inexperi­ence! When this information reached our parents, all with one voice seemed to condemn our conduct; they reprobated [Page 94] our disobedience in harsh terms—and by the bearer of Mr. Stanford's letter, assu­red us, it was their determination to give us no manner of assistance; but, as we had provoked our own fate with open eyes, to it they resigned us.

This answer, though severe and pain­ful, was less so than it would otherwise have been, from our preparation for it. All we had now to do, was to adopt some plan, that would rescue us from the hor­rors of poverty, and enable us to cultivate and constantly enjoy that interchange of affectionate endearments, for which we had renounced almost every thing beside. The wide world was before us—its paths were many and various—it was ours to choose one.

The best one we could adopt at present, was to set off immediately for London, and if we could soften the heart of Mr. Stanford's uncle, to engage his patronage, and thus to ensure a provision for necessa­ry expenses. We accordingly took our passage in a stage coach, and quickly reached the metropolis of England. As soon as Mr. Stanford could put himself in proper attire, he waited on his uncle, who received him graciously, and enqui­red very kindly about his friends and the family. As yet Mr. Plunket (who was a maternal uncle) had heard nothing of [Page 95] the step Mr. Stanford had taken, and therefore chearfully promised all the as­sistance that was in his power, whatever line of business might be fixed on: but the following day, when Mr. Stanford called to settle some way in which to em­ploy his talents and attention, his uncle's behaviour was totally changed.

He had received a letter from his brother in law, in which mr. Stanford's conduct was highly censured, and a posi­tive request made not to supply Mr. Stan­ford with money or any assistance. This was communicated to my best friend, as well as his uncle's resolution to comply with the request. Mr. Stanford could not hear this—his heart filled—he abrupt­ly left the room—and returned to his lodg­ings. He had no [...] entered the chamber, where I had [...]een s [...]ing all a­lone during his absence, than I perceived his heart was heavy, and his spirits de­jected. He walked the room with a sorrow­ful [...] and hurried step, several times—I asked him some questions which he but half answered. On this I [...], gave him my hand, and [...] him to con­fide in me fully and to tell me all his care. He pressed my hand, and seating me on a sofa which was in the room, pla­ced himself by my side, and resting his head on my neck, unburdened and re­lieved [Page 96] his heart by giving vent to his sor­row for a few moments. After this, he found himself able to communicate the grounds of his distress. The weight of a father's displeasure he had prepared himself to endure, but to find that dis­pleasure pursuing him so far as to prevent him from receiving any aid from an uncle, was beyond what he had suspected. I suggested every consolatory argument I could devise, for composing his mind.—I assured him that very little of the world's goods wold content me, while I retained his affection and society—and that instead of spending time in unavailing complaints, we had both best put our shoulders to the wheel, and endeavor to procure subsist­ence. Accordingly, the next day, mr. Stanford went in quest of cheap and pleas­ant lodging, and of employment. He was fortunate in providing the first, with an amiable, pious widow lady—who was at once an instructive and agreeable com­panion; the second he procured with an eminent printer, who was just th [...]n in want of a man of literature to superin­tend and correct the press; one who could compose with neatness, and correct with accuracy, and who would attend to his business with punctuality and faithful­ness.

[Page 97] For this situation mr. Stanford was well qualified by nature and education—and uniting to talents great assiduity and integrity, he soon gained the confidence and friendship of his employer; to his compensation were often added liberal do­nations, such as enabled us to support our present stile of life with comfort and ease. Nay, finding our family likely to increase, we contrived ways to lay up a small capi­tal as a provision for a rainy day—this we knew would be constantly accumulating, and would one day be a help to the sweet little pledge of love, which indulgent heaven presented us, ten months after our union.

On the birth of my lovely boy, new concerns occupied my [...]nd, and new pleasures opened on my heart, that led me to forget the hardships of a separation from the parents that gave me being—Mr. Stanford's attention to me seemed to [...] on this event. He devised pretexts for visiting home, and found ways of accomplishing more of his busi­ness at our own little retreat—in short, we both now seemed perfectly reconciled to our lot—we pardoned, and began to re­member no more the severities we had felt. In our devotions, in books, our own conversation, domestic endearments, and the society of a few friends, who occa­sionally [Page 98] visited [...]s, we possessed as many of the enjoyments of life, as others who moved in a higher circle, and who plum­ed themselves on their birth and fortune.

And here let me add my testimony, to that of many of the wisest and best of mankind, in favor of a state of mediocri­ty, when connected with constant em­ployment, with peace and affection at home. Poverty is less dreadful, I [...] believe, at hand than at a distance.—While afar, it i [...] seen thro▪ a mist—and bulks largely on the view: when i [...] ap­proaches nigh, it often lays aside its ter­rors, and if it be not the [...] of sloth or crime, it is often so tempered by the sympathy of the good, and by internal consolations, that it is by no means diffi­cult of endurance.

In this situation we continued upwards of two years, in which period providence was pleased to give us two charming girls at a birth, in addition to our dear first­born. To provide for these was our pleasing employ, and to look forward to their future improvement and happy set­tlement in life, afforded ample room for fancy and hope: but ah! how dark and mysterious are the ways of providence! how sudden and distressing many of the vicissitudes of life! one unlooked for mel­ancholy event, put a period to this state [Page 99] of contentment I enjoyed, robbed me of my highest temporal happiness, and b [...]o't me to the very brink of the grave.

It happened one day, that mr. Stan­ford was called to go a few miles from the city, to receive a sum of money that was due to the person whom he served. He hired a horse in the morning, and promised to be back ear­ly in the afternoon—he was detained sometime longer than he expected—it was late in the afternoon before he set off—on his return home, as he ap­proached the city, he was stopped by two ruffians, who demanded his mon­ey.—He did not choose tamely to sub­mit to their demands, but with his whip attempted resistance.—The vil­lains, armed with bludgeons, attack­ed him with violence—knocked him down—stript him of his money and a great part of his clothes—and left him for dead in the highway. Some benevolent travellers, who happened shortly after to be coming towards London, had him taken up and con­veyed to the next public house—re­storatives were applied; and through the influence of medical aid, he was [Page 100] soon possessed of his senses, so far as to relate his name, place of abode, busi­ness and misfortune—he requested to be conveyed home as soon as possible, and his requect was kindly complied with. He was brought to his home; but oh, my God! in how different circumstan­ces from those in which he had left me in the morning—from those in which I expected to meet him—I execrated myself for consenting to his leaving me—I murmured at my lot, and in the agony of my soul (I tremble at the remembrance) aspersed the good­ness, the justice of my maker—I was frantic, I believe, for a considerable time after he was restored to my arms: all the afternoon previous to the misfortune, I had felt an unusual anxiety—but I thought it arose from the timidity of my nature—little did I imagine, that in the place of a heal­thy and cheerful, I should receive a bleeding husband—All night did I sit by him, attend his wants, and en­deavor to alleviate his pains—when the surgeon dressed his wounds in the evening, he found his skull was frac­tured by the blows he had received— [Page 101] He recommended a consultation—it was called—and trepanning was ad­vised and resolved on—I objected, but was obliged to submit; the operation was performed—but is was of little a­vail—a high fever ensued, and his reason forsook him—He talked inces­santly of his dear Amelia—of his dar­ling babes—and the cruelty of th [...] ruffians—Day and night did I watch and weep over him—His incoherencies alarmed—and his many proofs of a strong, though bewildered affection, melted and oppressed my heart—free­ly would I have surrendered mine to have restored his health—but it was beyond the reach even of medical skill—I was flattered by friends and phy­sicians with the hope, that his disorder would take a favorable turn—and it did—the fever abated—he became clear and rational, but oh, for how short a space! he called me to the bed­side, and desired to see his children; they were brought: He looked at them with a peculiar softness; it seem­ed to be a look of parting tenderness, a [...] the last glances of parental solici­tude: my agony and my fears encreas­ed. [Page 102] I kneeled down by his bed-side, and taking his hand which began to feel cold, and was covered with a chill perspiration, "my dearest Charles," said I, "what is the matter?"—"Be not alarmed, my love," said he: "but I must leave you very soon"—"O my God, my God!" cried I; it was all I could say—my sight, my senses left me—I swooned away; all that I can recollect of myself afterwards, is, that when I came to my senses I found I had been conveyed to another cham­ber; that several friends stood around me in tears: with my first returning breath I enquired about my dear Charles, they replied, that they ho­ped a change had taken place for the better; that I had best try and com­pose myself. I insisted on being con­veyed back to my husband; but while we were conversing on the matter, a child came hastily into the room, and cried cut, "Mr. Stanford is dead." These words reached my heart like a shock of lightning, and with the light­ning's power: had it finished my be­ing, how grateful should I have been (i [...] gratitude be known in the regions [Page 103] of silence). Again my reason left me, and many days elapsed before it re­turned. I still possess a faint recollec­tion of some of the wild rambles of imagination I experienced at this time, how much my heart and mind were fastened to the image of my dear deceased Charles. In this situation I was, as I have since been informed, when Mr. Plunket came to see me; he had attended the funeral of his nephew, and compassionating my con­dition, directed me to be conveyed with my [...]bes to his own house. He wrote, to my father giving a state of facts, but will it be credited when I say, that a father's heart had been so alienated by [...]is present wife, from his suffering child, that he contented himself with writing to Mr. Plunket, and lamenting my situation, but with­out any offer of assistance, or even coming to see me? The parents of my poor Charles were more compas­sionate. They could not endure to visit the fathe [...]'s offence on his inno­cent offspring: They took my two lit­tle girls hom [...] ▪ with them: my boy they left with Mr. Plunket, but in­sisted, [Page 104] as soon as my situation would admit, on receiving us in their own house.

My Julia who had supported a con­stant though forbidden correspond­ence with her brother and myself, came with her father, and remained some time to attend me. Her affec­tion and tenderness were of infinite service: by means of it, and a strict observance of my physician's direction, I was in a few weeks, restored again to myself: but from my delirium, to how dreadful a reality did I awake!—deprived of the excellent and be­loved partner of my soul, on whom all my affection and hopes of happiness had rested, I found myself a solitary widow, with the charge of three poor little orphans on my hands—I looked around for some object of comfort, on which to lean: but all had deserted me. I was in the barren desert, thirs­ty, yet without water. I was a pil­grim, cast on a strange coast, with scarcely one sympathetic friend, that could minister to my wants; all hopes and pursuits seemed to have come to a fatal, a final period. I felt as if I [Page 105] had nothing worth living for, save my destitute babes, and often notwith­standing this tie, has my forlorn heart most ardently prayed to the supreme Being to reunite me to the departed object of my love—oh! with what extacy would I have laid down my life, and on the [...] wings of an ardent and sublime affection, have ascended to the only one I ever loved supreme­ly. But it was the will of heaven, that I should continue here longer, to drink still deeper of the cup of woe, and to feel the weight of accumulated distress—I n [...]w endured existence for the sake of the dear descendants of my Charles, and had it not been for them, I felt no [...]e strong enough to bind me to the world.

My situation altogether was, how­ever, as comfortable now as I had rea­son to expect. From the attention of Mr. Plunket, I drew great relief, and from the frequent communications I received from my beloved Julia, I felt the sincerest pleasure. In some of her letters she h [...]ld out an idea of paying [...] a visit—this supported my mind, for some time, and the good girl at [Page 106] length performed her promise. She was attended by a young American gentleman, who had resided a consid­erable time [...]n her neighbourhood.—He had paid her great and uninter­rupted attentions for many months—and common report whispered, that ere long they would be united for life. Deeply interested at I was for the happiness of my friend, I took the earliest opportunity of learning the true ground of the report. Julia, with her usual candour, immediately solved my doubts. She told me Mr. Dalton had indeed been particularly attentive to her for a series of time: that he had avowed his passion—and gained her affection; that she had hes­itated a whole in consenting to be his, as a necessary consequence of this, would be her removal to America—that this was the only objection with her parents; but they had been pre­vailed on to give up this point—and consent to a union, even on the terms of her relinquishing her native coun­try forever.

The bursting sigh, and the rising tear, showed how tenderly this circum­stance [Page 107] affected her; but her heart was Mr. Dalton's—and what difficulties can [...] [...]oy a purpose, suggested by true female affection? She said she was aware of the distress she should feel in parting forever from those friends, with whom she had hitherto spent her life—and from whose ten­derness all her past comforts had been drawn—that it was a solemn parting, when relatives were separated without a hope of meeting, till they met be­yond the grave. However, that she considered this sacrifice due to a man of merit, and to the affections of her heart: that she complied with what she deemed the voice of Providence, and was encouraged to expect happi­ness, when in the path of virtue: but she intreated, that, while she left all her own family behind. I might not be of the number—she urged me af­fectionately to blend my fate, and the fate of my little ones with hers—to leave a country, where I had few ties to bind me, and to become an adven­turer with her beyond the atlantic; that she would be married privately in a very short time; but she insisted [Page 108] on my being present at the ceremony; and as soon after a [...] possible, she ex­pected to take her passage in a vessel bound to America.

The proposition of leaving my friends and my country, I must own, at first startled me much: and in the apprehension of the moment, I sug­gested that I did not think I could com­ply with her benevolent request; but at her solicitation, I agreed to consider the matter seriously. But as to being present at her marriage, I told her whatever pleasure I might once have taken in a circumstance of that kind, at present it would recal too ma­ny painful scenes of memory, and at once give me distress, and ren­der me a damp to [...] enjoyment of others. A few days after this, when my friend had returned to her father's, I pondered seriously on the prospect [...]he had opened to my view. On the one hand, I pictured to myself the pain of parting forever from many [...] I loved, al­though some [...]d treated me unkind­ly—the dangers of the ocean—the uncertainty of my fate when I reach­ed [Page 109] the other side of the ocean—and the forlorn situation, in which I should be left, if my Julia were to die. On the other hand. I recollected the cru­elty I had experienced from some of my nearest relations; that my own father had abandoned me; that e­ven were he to receive me beneath his roof—there I could take no comfort, with a rough unkind step­mother; that dependence was there­fore my lot, and that I could endure this state with no one so well as with my sister and friend.

My health was declining—my spir­its were gone—and I was induced to believe, that a voyage across the ocean would restore both. At any rate, I thought a change of place could not subtract from my happiness, for that was gone too effectually ever to return, in a place which daily obtruded on my mind recollections of past enjoyments, which death had snatched away and buried with my Charles. On these grounds I concluded, that if urged a­gain by Julia, and by her future com­panion, I should consent to attend them. A few days after this, my [Page 110] dear friend's marriage was announced to me by a letter from herself, and one from Mr. Dalton, in which argument and intreaty were used to persuade me into a compliance with their request. I did not keep them long in suspence—but signified my acquiescence as ear­ly as I could, in their benevolent plan. Shortly after the adoption of this res­olution, I communicated it to Mr. Plunket, with whom I still was—and to my father. The first remonstrated against the plan—but in such a way as led me to believe, that the kind­ness he had hitherto shewn me, was rather from a compassion, that every mind of ordinary sensibility must experience—than from a pe­culiar affection for myself; and that if I could be decently provided for, without giving the world occasion to reflect on him, as a man of inhumani­ty, he would feel no great regret in parting with me.

To my father I communicated my purpose, by the following short let­ter—

This letter I gave to a special mes­senger, with an injunction to deliver it to my father himself—and to wait [Page 112] an answer, if any should be offered. On his return which was immediate, he told me, that on hearing from whom he came—and perusing the contents of the letter, my father rais­ed his eyes and hands to heaven, and breaking forth into a torrent of grief—he said, "he had wronged his poor daughter—his dear Amelia—and while there was yet room for repent­ance and amendment, he would fly to her, and give her that relief which was yet in his power," I must own I was much affected at this information—I could see the violence of my fa­ther's returning affection, I thought I could observe the sorrow that would fill his heart at the idea of having for­ever exiled from her home and her country, a child [...]e reared and lov­ed—and who had never designedly offended him in her life.—My res­olution [...]aultered—but it was stag­gered more, when presently after, as I sat in my chamber, I was asked if I could bear to see my father and sister. In a tremulous tone, I hastily answered, yes: but I was too weak for the interview—my breath grew [Page 113] short—I felt a violent throbbing at my heart: a little time however recover­ed me in a degree—but when I heard my father's well known voice, below stairs, enquiring, "in which room he should find his daughter Amelia," and when I heard his and my sister's foot ascending the stairs, all my senses left me—and I swooned in the arms of the maid who attended me. The first ob­jects that struck me when I recovered my faculties, were my father bending over me with a look of piteous ten­derness—my sister kneeling by my side, bathed in tears, with my little son in her arms, and the domestics around using restoratives for my recovery—I extended my arms to my father and sister alternately, and from each re­ceived an embrace of the tenderest af­fection. When we were able to con­verse, we talked over many events, till finally, we glanced on the one that had produced the present meeting—they [...] I was not serious in the scheme of leaving Britain for Amer­ica. I assured them that I was—and that nothing now I believed could alter my determination. They intreated [Page 114] me not to think of such a thing—they argued—they pleaded with me—they wept:—during three days they stayed with us, the subject was often renew­ed—my father offered all [...]e could do for my assistance, and that of my chil­dren. But I had now made up my mind: I was not to be diverted from my purpose: they had influence e­nough over me, however, to prevail on me to leave one of my girls to be edu­cated by my sister, who as yet had none.

Things being thus arranged, I began to prepare industriously for my voyage. Every convenience my father could furnish me with was provided, and the day set for our departure. On the one previous to this, my father and sister come down, and remained with us. We passed it in gloom and sor­row—after a night of weeping, the morning of embarkation arrived—with streaming eyes and bleeding hearts, we took our last farewell of each oth­er—we were soon under way—and on the broad tempestuous ocean. No material occurrence happened till we reached America.

[Page 115] As soon as we had landed and made enquiry into the state of things, Mr. Dalton found that it was not a time to enter largely into trade—the peace between England and America had been concluded for some time, and a vast inundation of goods was pouring into the United States from every quarter; he therefore wisely resolved to retire from business, and fix himself in one of the small towns of Connect­icut, near which his father lived on a large and productive farm. Accord­ingly here we removed—and here we now live—we have an intelligent and genteel society in the town—we are punctual in our devotions in the fami­ly and at church—the manners of the people are congenial with our own—and although we subsist on little, we live very comfortably:—for my own part, I have little to expect from this world—affliction has led me to regard religion as the supreme and only source of happiness in life. In my devotions to God—in the education of my children—and in little charities to my neighbours, I find my chief hap­piness and employment. I pass a pro­portion [Page 116] of every day in reading, or in writing to absent friends, from whom, in return, I hear frequently.

Thus passes time—thus am I has­tening to that "undiscovered coun­try from whose bourne no traveller re­turns." Soon shall I reach the end of my pilgrimage—soon shall this spirit meet and mingle with the spirit of my dear departed Charles—we shall meet—O rapturous thought! and never be parted more—we shall to­gether bask in the effulgence of deity—we shall live in the tenderest amity throughout the long, long ages of an endless hereafter.