one beautiful, serene, summer evening, after rambling in a grove of laurels, till the lamp of night arose to illumine the objects around me, i seated myself on the bank of a meandering river; a weeping willow spread over me its branches, which bent so humbly as to sweep the stream. an antique tower, partly in ruins, mantled in ivy, and surrounded with yew and cypress, was the only building to be seen.
i had been reading a melancholy tale, which in strong colours impressed itself on my memory, and led me to reflect on the strange pleasure we sometimes feel in perusing the most tragical adventures. what, said i to myself, can occasion it? can the human heart feel any delight in the misfortunes of others?—forbid it heaven!
my eyes were fixed on the surface of the water; the soft beams of luna sported on the curling waves, and all nature seemed hushed to repose; when a gentle slumber stole upon my senses, and methought a being of angelic form seated herself before me.
a mantle of the palest sapphire hung over her shoulders to the ground, her flaxen hair fell in waving curls on her lovely neck, and a white veil, almost transparent, shaded her face. as she lifted it up, she sighed, and continued for some moments silent. never did i behold a countenance so delicate; and, notwithstanding a smile sported on her coral lips, her lovely blue eyes were surcharged with tears, and resembled violets dropping with dew. below her veil she wore a wreath of amarinths and jessamines. "wonder not," said she, in accents soft as the breath of zephyrs, "that a state of woe can please. i am called sensibility, and have been from my infancy your constant companion. my sire was humanity, and my mother sympathy, the daughter of tenderness. i was born in a cavern, overshadowed with myrtles and orange-trees, at the foot of parnassus, and consigned to the care of melpomene, who fed me with honey from hybla, and lulled me to rest with plaintive songs and melancholy music.
"down on one side of the cavern ran a stream from helicon, and in the trees around it the doves and nightingales built their nests. i make it my sole care to augment the felicity of some favoured mortals, who nevertheless repine at my influence, and would gladly be under the dominion of apathy.
"alas, how inconsiderate! if the rose has thorns, has it not also a balsamic tincture and ambrosial sweetness? if the woodbine droops, laden with the dew drops of the morning, when the sun has exhaled them, will it not be refreshed, and yield richer fragrance? so, if a heart be touched with a story of distress, it will at the same time experience a delightful sensation; and, if the tears sometimes flow, say, can you call it weakness? can you wish to be divested of this genuine test of tenderness, and desire the departure of sensibility? were i totally to forsake you, man would become a senseless being, and presently imbibe the ferocity of the savage inhabitants of the forest."
"ah no, fair nymph!" said i, "still deign to be my attendant; teach me to sigh with the unhappy, and with the happy to rejoice. i am now sensible, that the pleasures which arise from legends of sorrow, owe their origin to this certain knowledge, that our hearts are not callous to the finer feelings, but that we have some112 generous joys, and some generous cares beyond ourselves."
scarcely had i pronounced these words, when the loud tolling of the village bell broke the fetters in which morpheus had bound me, and dispelled the airy illusion.