Chapter XXXVII: Letter XXXVI: Harrington to Worthy

_Boston._

I HAVE just left _Harriot_—but how have I left her? In tears. I wish I had not gone. Mrs. _Francis_ had intrusted _Harriot_ with some trifling commission—It was not done—she had not had time to perform it. _Harriot_ was reprimanded—Yes! by Heaven—this Mrs. _Francis_ had the insolence to reprimand _Harriot_ in my presence—I was mortified—I walked to the window—my heart was on fire—my blood boiled in my veins—it is impossible to form an idea of the disorder of my nerves—_Harriot’s_ were equally agitated—Mrs. _Francis_ saw our confusion and retired—she left me so completely out of temper that I was forced to follow her example. I kissed away the tear from the cheek of _Harriot_ and withdrew to my chamber.

HERE let me forget what has passed—my irritability will not permit me—my feelings are too easily set in motion to enjoy long quietness—my nerves are delicately strung; they are now out of tune, and it is a hard matter to harmonize them.

I FEEL _that I have a soul_—and every man of sensibility feels it within himself. I will relate a circumstance I met with in my late travels through _Southcarolina_—I was always susceptible of _touches of nature_.

I HAD often remarked a female slave pass by my window to a spring to fetch water. She had something in her air superior to those of her situation—a fire that the damps of slavery had not extinguished.

AS I was one day walking behind her, the wind blew her tattered handkerchief from her neck and exposed it to my sight. I asked her the cause of the scar on her shoulder. She answered composedly, and with an earnestness that proved she was not ashamed to declare it—“It is the mark of the whip,” said she, and went on with the history of it, without my desiring her to proceed—“My boy, of about ten years old, was unlucky enough to break a glass tumbler—this crime was immediately looked into—I trembled for the fate of my child, and was thought to be guilty. I did not deny the charge, and was tied up. My former good character availed nothing. Under every affliction, we may receive consolation; and during the smart of the whip, I rejoiced—because I shielded with my body the lash from my child; and I rendered thanks to the Best of Beings that I was allowed to suffer for him.”

“HEROICALLY spoken!” said I, “may He whom you call the Best of Beings continue you in the same sentiments—may thy soul be ever disposed to SYMPATHIZE with thy children, and with thy brethren and sisters in calamity—then shalt thou feel every circumstance of thy life afford the satisfaction; and repining and melancholy shall fly from thy bosom—all thy labours will become easy—all thy burdens light, and the yoke of slavery will never gall thy neck.”

I WAS sensibly relieved as I pronounced these words, and I felt my heart glow with feelings of exquisite delight, as I anticipated the happy time when the sighs of the slave shall no longer expire in the air of freedom. What delightful sensations are those in which the heart is interested! In which it stoops to enter into the little concerns of the most remote ramification of Nature! Let the vain, the giddy, and the proud pass on without deigning to notice them—let them cheat themselves of happiness—these are circumstances which are important only to a sentimental traveller.

HAIL _sensibility_! Sweetener of the joys of life! Heaven has implanted thee in the breasts of his children—to soothe the sorrows of the afflicted—to mitigate the wounds of the stranger who falleth in our way. _Thou_ regardest with an eye of pity, those whom _wealth_ and _ambition_ treat in terms of reproach. Away, ye seekers of power—ye boasters of wealth—ye are the _Levite_ and the _Pharisee_, who restrain the hand of charity from the indigent, and turn with indignation from the way-worn son of misery:—But _Sensibility_ is the good _Samaritan_, who taketh him by the hand, and consoleth him, and poureth wine and oil into his wounds. Thou art a pleasant companion—a grateful friend—and a _neighbour_ to those who are destitute of shelter.—

FROM thee! Author of Nature! from thee, thou inexhaustible spring of love supreme, floweth this tide of affection and _sympathy_—thou whose tender care extendeth to the least of thy creatures—and whose eye is not inattentive even though a sparrow fall to the ground.