Mary | Page 5

bear away all reflection.
In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her
mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind.

CHAP. IV.
Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them
were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually
rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides
the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river.
Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them
the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy
of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the
brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This
castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had
the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there.
When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal

to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea,
observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free
itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful,
she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful
tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced
in existence, and darted into futurity.
One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin
layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted
shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the
summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of
rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple
of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot
sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange
feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she
read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who
supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these
little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish
gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her
heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had
relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet
tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a
sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they
were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had
not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which
look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving
more light to the beholders than they receive themselves.
Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried
her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted
them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that
many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less
interested observer.

In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and
the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part
of her mind.
Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her
Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were
mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to
contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think
of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep.
These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions
began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those
which the soil would have a tendency to nurse.
Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination
has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and
she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity.
Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, conversing
with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her
own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her
various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth,
which afterwards more fully unfolded itself.
She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and
that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the
delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the
influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction,
and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled
force. Often did