You know that is a piece of ceremony I would chuse to dispense with; as
it always carries a tacit reproach under an appearance of tender
solicitude." I fancied I saw in his countenance a consciousness that he
deserved reproach, and a determination to begin first to find fault. I
was vexed, and answered, "You might have waited for the reproach at
least, before you pre-judged my conduct. Nor can you have any
apprehensions that I should make such, having never taken that liberty.
Neither do you do me justice in supposing me capable of the meanness you
insinuate, on finding me up at this late hour. That circumstance is
owing to an accident, by which I might have been a great sufferer; and
which, though you so unkindly accuse me of being improperly prying and
curious, I will, if you permit me, relate to you, in order to justify
myself." He certainly expected I should ask some questions which would
be disagreeable to him; and therefore, finding me totally silent on that
head, his features became more relaxed; he enquired, with some
tenderness, what alarming accident I hinted at. I informed him of every
circumstance.--My account put him into good humour; and we laughed over
the droll scene very heartily. Observing, however, I was quite _en
dishabille_, "My dear girl," cried he, throwing his arm round me, "I
doubt you will catch cold, notwithstanding you so lately represented a
burning-mountain. Come," continued he, "will you go to bed?" While he
spoke, he pressed me to his bosom; and expressed in his voice and manner
more warmth of affection than he had discovered since I forsook the
mountains. He kissed me several times with rapture; and his eyes dwelt
on me with an ardor I have long been unused to behold. The adventure at
the opera returned to my imagination. These caresses, thought I, have
been bestowed on one, whose prostituted charms are more admired than
mine. I sighed--"Why do you sigh, Julia?" asked my husband. "I know
not," I answered. "I ought not to sigh in the very moment I am receiving
proofs of your affection. But I have not lately received such proofs,
and therefore perhaps I sighed."
"You are a foolish girl, Julia, yet a good one too"--cried he, kissing
me again: "Foolish, to fancy I do not love you; and a good girl, not to
ask impertinent questions. That is, your tongue is silent, but you have
wicked eyes, Julia, that seek to look into my inmost thoughts."--"Then I
will shut them," said I, affecting to laugh--but added, in a more
serious tone--"I will see no further than you would wish me; to please
you, I will _be blind, insensible and blind_."
"But, as you are not deaf, I will tell you what you well know--that I
was at the opera--and with a lady too.--Do not, however, be jealous, my
dear: the woman I was with was perfectly indifferent to me. I met her by
accident--but I had a mind to see what effect such a piece of flirtation
would have on you. I am not displeased with your behaviour; nor would I
have you so with mine."
"I will in all my best obey you," said I.--"Then go to bed," said
he--"_To bed, my love, and I will follow thee_."
You will not scruple to pronounce this a reasonable long letter, my dear
Louisa, for a modern fine lady.--Ah! shield me from that character!
Would to heaven Sir William was no more of the modern fine gentleman in
his heart! I could be happy with him.--Yes, Louisa--was I indeed the
object of his affections, not merely so of his passions, which, I fear,
I am, I could indeed be happy with him. My person still invites his
caresses--but for the softer sentiments of the soul--that ineffable
tenderness which depends not on the tincture of the skin--of that, alas!
he has no idea. A voluptuary in love, he professes not that delicacy
which refines all its joys. His is all passion; sentiment is left out of
the catalogue. Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER XIV.
TO THE SAME.
I hope, my dearest Louisa will not be too much alarmed at a whole
fortnight's silence. Ah! Louisa, the event which occasioned it may be
productive of very fatal consequences to me--yet I will not despair. No,
I will trust in a good God, and the virtuous education I have had. They
will arm me to subdue inclinations, irreversible fate has rendered
improper. But to the point.
Two or three nights after I wrote my last, I went to the play.--Lady
Anne, Colonel Montague, and a Miss Finch, were the party. Unhappily, the
after-piece represented was one obtruded on the public by an author
obnoxious to some of them; and there were two parties formed, one to
condemn, the other to support. Wholly unacquainted with a thing of this
kind, I soon began to be alarmed at the clamour which rang from every
part of the house. The glass chandeliers first fell a victim to a
hot-headed wretch in the pit; and part of the shattered fragments was
thrown into my lap. My fears increased to the highest degree--No one
seemed to interest themselves about me. Colonel Montague being an
admirer of Miss Finch, his attention was paid to her. The ladies were
ordered out of the house. I was ready enough to obey the summons, and
was rushing out, when my passage was stopped by a concourse of people in
the lobby. The women screaming--men swearing--altogether--I thought I
should die with terror. "Oh! let me come out, let me come out!" I cried,
with uplifted hands.--No one regarded me. And I might have stood
screaming in concert with the rest till this time, had not the Baron
most seasonably come to my assistance. He broke through the croud with
incredible force, and flew to me. "Dearest Lady Stanley," cried he,
"recover your spirits--you are in no danger. I will guard you to your
carriage." Others were equally anxious about their company, and every
one striving to get out first increased the difficulty. Many ladies
fainted in the passages, which, being close, became almost suffocating.
Every moment our difficulties and my fears increased. I became almost
insensible. The Baron most kindly supported me with one arm--and with
the other strove to make way. The men even pushed with rudeness by me.
Ton-hausen expostulated and raved by turns: at length he drew his sword,
which terrified me to such a degree, that I was sinking to the
earth--and really gave myself up totally to despair. The efforts he made
at last gained us a passage to the great door--and, without waiting to
ask any questions, he put me into a coach that happened to be near: as
to my carriage, it was not to be found--or probably some others had used
the same freedom with that we had now with one unknown to us.
As soon as we were seated, Ton-hausen expressed his joy in the strongest
terms, that we had so happily escaped any danger. I was so weak, that he
thought it necessary to support me in his arms; and though I had no
cause to complain of any freedom in his manner, yet the warmth of his
expression, joined to my foregoing fright, had such an effect on me,
that, though I did not wholly lose my senses, I thought I was dying--I
never fainted in my life before; to my ignorance, then, must be imputed
my fears and foolish behaviour in consequence. "Oh! carry me somewhere,"
cried I, gasping; "do not let me die here! for God's sake, do not let me
die in the coach!"
"My angel," said the Baron, "do not give way to such imaginary terrors.
I will let down the glasses--you will be better presently." But finding
my head, which I could no longer support, drop on his shoulder, and a
cold damp bedew my face, he gave a loose to his tenderness, which viewed
itself in his attention to my welfare. He pressed me almost frantic to
his bosom, called on me in the most endearing terms. He thought me
insensible. He knew not I could hear the effusions of his heart. Oh!
Louisa, he could have no idea how they sunk in mine. Among the rest,
these broken sentences were distinct, "Oh! my God! what will become of
me! Dearest, most loved of women, how is my heart distracted! And shall
I lose thee thus? Oh! how shall I support thy loss! Too late found--ever
beloved of my soul! Thy Henry will die with thee!" Picture to yourself,
my Louisa, what were my sensations at this time. I have no words to
express them--or, if I could, they would be unfit for me to express. The
sensations themselves ought not to have found a passage in my bosom. I
will drive them away, Louisa, I will not give them harbour. I no longer
knew what was become of me: I became dead to all appearance. The Baron,
in a state of distraction, called to the coachman, to stop any where,
where I could receive assistance. Fortunately we were near a chemist's.
Ton-hausen carried me in his arms to a back room--and, by the
application of drops, &c. I was restored to life. I found the Baron
kneeling at my feet, and supporting me. It was a long time before he
could make me sensible where I was. My situation in a strange place, and
the singularity of our appearance, affected me extremely--I burst into
tears, and entreated the Baron to get me a chair to convey me home. "A
chair! Lady Stanley; will not you then permit me to attend you home?
Would you place yourself under the protection of two strangers, rather
than allow me that honour?"
"Ah! excuse me, Baron," I answered, "I hardly know what I said. Do as
you please, only let me go home." And yet, Louisa, I felt a dread on
going into the same carriage with him. I thought myself extremely absurd
and foolish; yet I could not get the better of my apprehensions. How
vain they were! Never could any man behave with more delicate attention,
or more void of that kind of behaviour which might have justified my
fears. His despair had prompted the discovery of his sentiments. He
thought me incapable of hearing the secret of his soul; and it was
absurd to a degree for me, by an unnecessary circumspection, to let him
see I had unhappily been a participater of his secret. There was,
however, an aukward consciousness in my conduct towards him, I could not
divest myself of. I wished to be at home. I even expressed my impatience
to be alone. He sighed, but made no remonstrances against my childish
behaviour, though his pensive manner made it obvious he saw and felt it.
Thank God! at last we got home. "It would be rude," said he, "after your
ladyship has so frequently expressed your wish to be alone, to obtrude
my company a moment longer than absolutely necessary; but, if you will
allow me to remain in your drawing-room till I hear you are a little
recovered, I shall esteem it a favour."
"I have not a doubt of being much better," I returned, "when I have had
a little rest. I am extremely indebted to you for the care you have
taken. I must repay it, by desiring you to have some consideration for
yourself: rest will be salutary for both; and I hope to return you a
message in the morning, that I am not at all the worse for this
disagreeable adventure. Adieu, Baron, take my advice." He bowed, and
cast on me such a look--He seemed to correct himself.--Oh! that look!
what was not expressed in it! Away, away, all such remembrances.
The consequences, however, were not to end here. I soon found other
circumstances which I had not thought on. In short my dear Louisa, I
must now discover to you a secret, which I had determined to keep some
time longer at least. Not even Sir William knew of it. I intended to
have surprized you all; but this vile play-house affair put an end to my
hopes, and very near to my life. For two days, my situation was very
critical. As soon as the danger was over, I recovered apace. The Baron
was at my door several times in the day, to enquire after me. And Win
said, who once saw him, that he betrayed more anxiety than any one
beside.
Yesterday was the first of my seeing any company. The Baron's name was
the first announced. The sound threw me into a perturbation I laboured
to conceal. Sir William presented him to me. I received his compliment
with an aukward confusion. My embarrassment was imputed, by my husband,
to the simple bashfulness of a country rustic--a bashfulness he
generally renders more insupportable by the ridiculous light he chuses
to make me appear in, rather than encouraging in me a better opinion of
myself, which, sometimes, he does me the honour of saying, I ought to
entertain. The Baron had taken my hand in the most respectful manner. I
suffered him to lift it to his lips. "Is it thus," said Sir William,
"you thank your deliverer? Had I been in your place, Julia, I should
have received my champion with open arms--at least have allowed him a
salute. But the Baron is a modest young man. Come, I will set you the
example."--Saying which, he caught me in his arms, and kissed me. I was
extremely chagrined, and felt my cheeks glow, not only with shame, but
anger. "You are too violent, Sir William," said I very gravely. "You
have excessively disconcerted me." "I will allow," said he, "I might
have been too eager: now you shall experience the difference between the
extatic ardor of an adoring husband, and the cool complacency of a
friend. Nay, nay," continued he, seeing a dissenting look, "you must
reward the Baron, or I shall think you either very prudish, or angry
with me." Was there ever such inconsiderate behaviour? Ton-hausen seemed
fearful of offending--yet not willing to lose so fair an opportunity.
Oh! Louisa, as Sir William said, I _did_ experience a difference. But
Sir William is no adoring husband. The Baron's lips trembled as they
touched mine; and I felt an emotion, to which I was hitherto a stranger.
I was doomed, however, to receive still more shocks. On the Baron's
saying he was happy to see me so well recovered after my fright, and
hoped I had found no disagreeable consequence--"No disagreeable
consequence!" repeated Sir William, with the most unfeeling air; "Is the
loss of a son and heir then nothing? It may be repaired," he continued,
laughing, "to be sure; but I am extremely disappointed." Are you not
enraged with your brother-in-law, Louisa? How indelicate! I really could
no longer support these mortifications, though I knew I should mortally
offend him; I could not help leaving the room in tears; nor would I
return to it, till summoned by the arrival of other company. I did not
recover my spirits the whole evening.
Good God! how different do men appear sometimes from themselves! I often
am induced to ask myself, whether I really gave my hand to the man I now
see in my husband. Ah! how is he changed! I reflect for hours together
on the unaccountableness of his conduct. How he is carried away by the
giddy multitude. He is swayed by every passion, and the last is the
ruling one--
"Is every thing by starts, and nothing long."
A time may come, when he may see his folly; I hope, before it be too
late to repair it. Why should such a man marry? Or why did fate lead him
to our innocent retreat? Oh! why did I foolishly mistake a rambling
disposition, and a transient liking, for a permanent attachment? But why
do I run on thus? Dear Louisa, you will think me far gone in a phrenzy.
But, believe me, I will ever deserve your tender affection.
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER XV.
TO Lady STANLEY.
Good heavens! what a variety of emotions has your last letter excited in
my breast! Surely, my Julia did not give it a second perusal! I can make
allowance for the expressions of gratitude which you (in a manner
lavish, not) bestow on the Baron. But oh! beware, my beloved sister,
that your gratitude becomes not too warm; that sentiment, so laudable
when properly placed, should it be an introduction to what my fears and
tenderness apprehend, would change to the most impious.--You already
perceive a visible difference between him and your husband--I assert, no
woman ought to make a comparison,--'tis dangerous, 'tis fatal. Sir
William was the man of your choice;--it is true you were young; but
still you ought to respect your choice as sacred.--You are still young;
and although you may have seen more of the world, I doubt your
sentiments are little mended by your experience. The knowledge of the
world--at least so it appears to me--is of no further use than to bring
one acquainted with vice, and to be less shocked at the idea of it. Is
this then a knowledge to which we should wish to attain?--Ah! believe
me, it had been better for you to have blushed unseen, and lost your
sweetness in the desart air, than to have, in _the busy haunts of men_,
hazarded the privation of _that peace which goodness bosoms ever_. Think
what I suffer; and, constrained to treasure up my anxious fears in my
own bosom, I have no one to whom I can vent my griefs: and indeed to
whom could I impart the terrors which fill my soul, when I reflect on
the dangers by which my sister, the darling of my affections, is
surrounded? Oh, Julia! you know how fatally I have experienced the
interest a beloved object has in the breast of a tender woman; how ought
we then to guard against the admission of a passion destructive to our
repose, even in its most innocent and harmless state, while we are
single!--But how much more should _you_ keep a strict watch over every
outlet of the heart, lest it should fall a prey to the insidious
enemy;--you respect his silence;--you pity his sufferings.--Reprobate
respect!--abjure pity!--they are both in your circumstances dangerous;
and a well-experienced writer has observed, more women have been ruined
by pity, than have fallen a sacrifice to appetite and passion. Pity is a
kindred virtue, and from the innocence and complacency of her
appearance, we suspect no ill; but dangers inexplicable lurk beneath the
tear that trembles in her eye; and, without even knowing that we do so,
we make a fatal transfer to our utter and inevitable disadvantage. From
having the power of bestowing compassion, we become objects of it from
others, though too frequently, instead of receiving it, we find
ourselves loaded with the censure of the world. We look into our own
bosoms for consolation: alas! it is flown with our innocence; and in its
room we feel the sharpest stings of self-reproof. My Julia, my tears
obliterate each mournful passage of my pen.
LOUISA GRENVILLE.
LETTER XVI.
TO Miss GRENVILLE.
Enough, my dearest sister, enough have you suffered through your
unremitted tenderness to your Julia;--yet believe her, while she vows to
the dear bosom of friendship, no action of her's shall call a blush on
your cheek. Good God! what a wretch should I be, if I could abuse such
sisterly love! if, after such friendly admonitions, enforced with so
much moving eloquence, your Julia should degenerate from her birth, and
forget those lessons of virtue early inculcated by the best of fathers!
If, after all these, she should suffer herself to be immersed in the
vortex of folly and vice, what would she not deserve! Oh! rest assured,
my dearest dear Louisa, be satisfied, your sister cannot be so
vile,--remember the same blood flows through our veins; one parent stock
we sprang from; nurtured by one hand; listening at the same time to the
same voice of reason; learning the same pious lesson--why then these
apprehensions of my degeneracy? Trust me, Louisa, I will not deceive
you; and God grant I may never deceive myself! The wisest of men has
said, "the heart of man is deceitful above all things." I however will
strictly examine mine; I will search into it narrowly; at present the
search is not painful; I have nothing to reproach myself with; I have, I
hope, discharged my filial and fraternal duties; my matrimonial ones are
inviolate: I have studied the temper of Sir William, in hopes I should
discover a rule for my actions; but how can I form a system from one so
variable as he is? Would to heaven he was more uniform! or that he would
suffer himself to be guided by his own understanding, and not by the
whim or caprice of others so much inferior to himself! All this I have
repeated frequently to you, together with my wish to leave London, and
the objects with which I am daily surrounded.--Does such a wish look as
if I was improperly attached to the world, or any particular person in
it? You are too severe, my love, but when I reflect that your rigidity
proceeds from your unrivaled attachment, I kiss the rod of my
chastisement;--I long to fold my dear lecturer in my arms, and convince
her, that one, whose heart is filled with the affection that glows in
mine, can find no room for any sentiment incompatible with virtue, of
which she is the express image. Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER XVII.
To Miss GRENVILLE.
If thy Julia falls, my beloved sister, how great will be her
condemnation! With such supports, and I hope I may add with an inward
rectitude of mind, I think she can never deviate from the right path.
You see, my Louisa, that not you alone are interested in my well-doing.
I have a secret, nay I may say, celestial friend and monitor,--a friend
it certainly is, though unknown;--all who give good counsel must be my
true and sincere friends. From whom I have received it, I know not; but
it shall be my study to merit the favour of this earthly or heavenly
conductor through the intricate mazes of life. I will no longer keep you
in ignorance of my meaning, but without delay will copy for you a letter
I received this morning; the original I have too much veneration for to
part with, even to you, who are dearer to me than almost all the world
beside.----
THE LETTER.
"I cannot help anticipating the surprize your ladyship will be under,
from receiving a letter from an unknown hand; nor will the signature
contribute to develop the cloud behind which I chuse to conceal myself.
My motives, I hope, will extenuate the boldness of my task; and I rely
likewise on the amiable qualities you so eminently possess, to pardon
the temerity of any one who shall presume to criticise the conduct of
one of the most lovely of God's works.
I feel for you as a man, a friend, or, to sum up all, a guardian angel.
I see you on the brink of a steep precipice. I shudder at the danger
which you are not sensible of. You will wonder at my motive, and the
interest I take in your concerns.--It is from my knowledge of the
goodness of your heart: were you less amiable than you are, you would be
below my solicitude; I might be charmed with you as a woman, but I
should not venerate you;--nay, should possibly--enchanted as every one
must be with your personal attractions, join with those who seek to
seduce you to their own purposes. The sentiments I profess for you are
such as a tender father would feel--such as your own excellent father
cherishes; but they are accompanied by a warmth which can only be
equalled by their purity; such sentiments shall I ever experience while
you continue to deserve them, and every service in my power shall be
exerted in your favour. I have long wished for an opportunity of
expressing to you the tender care I take in your conduct through life. I
now so sensibly feel the necessity of apprizing you of the dangers which
surround you, that I wave all forms, and thus abruptly introduce myself
to your acquaintance--unknown, indeed, to you, but knowing you well,
reading your thoughts, and seeing the secret motives of all your
actions. Yes, Julia, I have watched you through life. Nay, start not, I
have never seen any action of your's but what had virtue for its
guide.--But to remain pure and uncontaminated in this vortex of vice,
requires the utmost strength and exertion of virtue. To avoid vice, it
is necessary to know its colour and complexion; and in this age, how
many various shapes it assumes! my task shall be to point them out to
you, to shew you the traps, the snares, and pitfalls, which the unwary
too frequently sink into;--to lead you by the hand through those
intricate paths beset with quicksands and numberless dangers;--to direct
your eyes to such objects as you may with safety contemplate, and induce
you to shut them for ever against such as may by their dire fascination
intice you to evil;--to conduct you to those endless joys hereafter,
which are to be the reward of the virtuous; and to have myself the
ineffable delight of partaking them with you, where no rival shall
interrupt my felicity.
I am a Rosicrusian by principle; I need hardly tell you, they are a sect
of philosophers, who by a life of virtue and self-denial have obtained
an heavenly intercourse with aërial beings;--as my internal knowledge of
you (to use the expression) is in consequence of my connexion with the
Sylphiad tribe, I have assumed the title of my familiar counsellor.
This, however, is but as a preface to what I mean to say to you;--I have
hinted, I knew you well;--when I thus expressed myself, it should be
understood, I spoke in the person of the Sylph, which I shall
occasionally do, as it will be writing with more perspicuity in the
first instance; and, as he is employed by me, I may, without the
appearance of robbery, safely appropriate to myself the knowledge he
gains.