allowance, of what is called pin-money;--my quarter having been due for
some time, I thought I might as well have it in my own possession,--not
that I am poor, for I assure you, on the contrary, I have generally a
quarter in hand, though I am not in debt. I sent Win to Harris's the
steward, for my stipend. She returned, with his duty to me, acquainting
me, it was not in his power at present to honour my note, not having any
cash in hand. Surprized at his inability of furnishing a hundred and
fifty pounds, I desired to speak with him; when he gave me so melancholy
a detail of his master's circumstances, as makes me dread the
consequences. He is surrounded with Jew-brokers; for, in this Christian
land, Jews are the money-negotiators; and such wretches as you would
tremble to behold are admitted into the private recesses of the Great,
and caressed as their better-angels. These infernal agents procure them
money; for which they pay fifty, a hundred, and sometimes two hundred
_per Cent_. Am I wrong in styling them _infernal_? Do they not make the
silly people who trust in them pay very dear for the means of
accomplishing their own destruction? Like those miserable beings they
used to call _Witches_, who were said to sell their souls to the Devil
for everlasting, to have the power of doing temporary mischief upon
earth.
_These_ now form the bosom-associates of my husband. Ah! wonder not the
image of thy sister is banished thence! rather rejoice with me, that he
pays that reverence to virtue and decency as to distinguish me from that
dreadful herd of which his chief companions are composed.
I go very little from home--In truth, I have no creature to go with.--I
avoid Lord Biddulph, because I hate him; and (dare I whisper it to my
Louisa?) I estrange myself from the Baron, lest I should be too partial
to the numerous good qualities I cannot but see, and yet which it would
be dangerous to contemplate too often. Oh, Louisa! why are there not
many such men? His merit would not so forcibly strike me, if I could
find any one in the circle of my acquaintance who could come in
competition with him; for, be assured, it is not the tincture of the
skin which I admire; not because _fairest_, but _best_. But where shall
a married-woman find excuse to seek for, and admire, merit in any other
than her husband? I will banish this too, too amiable man from my
thoughts. As my Sylph says, such men (under the circumstances I am in)
are infinitely more dangerous than a Biddulph. Yet, can one fall by the
hand of virtue?--Alas! this is deceitful sophistry. If I give myself up
to temptation, how dare I flatter myself I shall _be delivered from
evil_?
Could two men be more opposite than what Sir William appeared at
Woodley-vale, and what he now is?--for too surely, _that_ was
appearance--_this_ reality. Think of him then sitting in your library,
reading by turns with my dear father some instructive and amusing
author, while _we_ listened to their joint comments; what lively sallies
we discovered in him; and how we all united in approving the natural
flow of good spirits, chastened as we thought with the principles of
virtue! See him now--But my pen refuses to draw the pain-inspiring
portrait. Alas! it would but be a copy of what I have so repeatedly
traced in my frequent letters; a copy from which we should turn with
disgust, bordering on contempt. This we should do, were the character
unknown or indifferent to us. But how must that woman feel--who sees in
the picture the well-known features of a man, whom she is bound by her
vows to love, honour, and obey? Your tenderness, my sister, will teach
you to pity so unhappy a wretch. I will not, however, tax that
tenderness too much. I will not dwell on the melancholy theme.
But I lose sight of my purpose, in thus contrasting Sir William _to
himself_; I meant to infer, from the total change which seems to have
taken place in him, that other men may be the same, could the same
opportunity of developing their characters present itself. Thus, though
the Baron wears this semblance of an angel--yet it may be assumed. What
will not men do to carry a favourite point? He saw the open and avowed
principles of libertinism in Lord Biddulph disgusted me from the first.
He, therefore, may conceal the same invidious intention under the
seducing form of every virtue. The simile of the robber and the beggar,
in the Sylph's first letter, occurs to my recollection. Yet, perhaps, I
am injuring the Baron by my suspicion. He may have had virtue enough to
suppress those feelings in my favour, which my situation should
certainly destroy in a virtuous breast.--Nay, I believe, I may make
myself wholly easy on that head. He has, for some time, paid great
attention to Miss Finch, who, I find, has totally broke with Colonel
Montague. Certainly, if we should pay any deference to appearance, she
will make a much better election by chusing Baron Ton-hausen, than the
Colonel. She has lately--Miss Finch, I should say--has lately spent more
time with me than any other lady--for my two first companions I have
taken an opportunity of civilly dropping. I took care to be from home
whenever they called by _accident_--and always to have some _prior_
engagement when they proposed meeting by _design_.
Miss Finch is by much the least reprehensible character I have met
with.--But, as Lady Besford once said, one can form no opinion of what a
woman is while she is single. _She_ must keep within the rules of
decorum. The single state is not a state of freedom. Only the married
ladies have that privilege. But, as far as one can judge, there is no
danger in the acquaintance of Miss Finch. I own, I like her, for having
refused Colonel Montague, and yet, (Oh! human nature!) on looking over
what I have written, I have expressed myself disrespectfully, on the
supposition that she saw Ton-hausen with the same eyes as a certain
foolish creature that shall be nameless.
LETTER XXV.
Enclosed in the foregoing.
TO Lady STANLEY.
The satisfaction of a benevolent heart will ever be its own recompense;
but not its _only_ reward, as you have sweetly assured me, by the
advertisement that blessed my eyes last night. I beheld, with pleasure,
that my admonitions have not lost their intended effect. I should have
been most cruelly disappointed, and have given up my knowledge of the
human heart as imperfect, had I found you incorrigible to my advice. But
I have heretofore told you, I was thoroughly acquainted with the
excellencies of your mind. Your renunciation of your favourite game, and
cards in general, give every reason to justify my sentiments of you. I
have formed the most exalted idea of you.--And you alone can destroy the
altar I have raised to your divinity. All the incense I dare hope to
receive from you, is a just and implicit observance of my dictates,
while _they_ are influenced by virtue, of which none but you can
properly judge, since to none but yourself they are addressed. Doubts, I
am convinced, may arise in your mind concerning this invisible agency.
As far as is necessary, I will satisfy those doubts. But to be for ever
concealed from your knowledge as to identity, your own good sense will
see too clearly the necessity of, to need any illustration from my pen.
If I admired you before--how much has that admiration encreased from the
chearful acquiescence you have paid to my injunctions! Go on, then, my
beloved charge! Pursue the road of _virtue_; and be assured, however
rugged the path, and tedious the way, you will, one day, arrive at the
goal, and find _her_ "in her own form--how lovely!" I had almost said, as
lovely as yourself.
Perhaps, you will think this last expression too warm, and favouring
more of the man--than the Rosicrusian philosopher.--But be not alarmed.
By the most rigid observance of virtue it is we attain this superiority
over the rest of mankind; and only by this course can we maintain it--we
are not, however, divested of our sensibilities; nay, I believe, as they
have not been vitiated by contamination, they are more _tremblingly
alive_ than other mortals usually are. In the human character, I could
be of no use to you; in the Sylphiad, of the utmost. Look on me, then,
only in the light of a preternatural being--and if my sentiments should
sometimes flow in a more earthly stile--yet, take my word as a Sylph,
they shall never be such as shall corrupt your heart. To guard it from
the corruptions of mortals, is my sole view in the lectures I have
given, or shall from time to time give you.
I saw and admired the laudable motive which induced you to give up part
of your settlement. Would to heaven, for your sake, it had been attended
with the happy consequences you flattered yourself with seeing. Alas!
all the produce of that is squandered after the rest. Beware how you are
prevailed on to resign any more; for, I question not, you will have
application made you very soon for the remainder, or at least part of
it: but take this advice of your true and disinterested friend. The time
may come, and from the unhappy propensities of Sir William, I must fear
it will not be long ere it does come, when both he and you may have no
other resource than what your jointure affords you. By this ill-placed
benevolence you will deprive yourself of the means of supporting him,
when all other means will have totally failed. Let this be your plea to
resist his importunities.
When you shall be disposed to make me the repository of your
confidential thoughts, you may direct to A.B. at Anderton's
coffee-house. I rely on your prudence, to take no measures to discover
me. May you be as happy as you deserve, or, in one word, as I wish you!
Your careful
SYLPH.
LETTER XXVI.
To THE SYLPH.
It is happy for me, if my actions have stood so much in my favour, as to
make any return for the obligations, which I feel I want words to
express. Alas! what would have become of me without the friendly, the
paternal admonitions of my kind Sylph! Spare me not, tell me all my
faults--for, notwithstanding your partiality, I find them numerous. I
feel the necessity of having those admonitions often inforced; and am
apprehensive I shall grow troublesome to you.
Will, then, my friend allow me to have recourse to him on any important
occasion--or what may appear so to me? Surely an implicit observance of
his precepts will be the least return I can make for his disinterested
interposition in my favour--and thus, as it were, stepping in between me
and ruin. Believe me, my heart overflows with a grateful sense of these
unmerited benefits--and feels the strongest resolution to persevere in
the paths of rectitude so kindly pointed out to me by the hand of
Heaven.
I experience a sincere affliction, that the renunciation of part of my
future subsistence should not have had the desired effect; but _none_
that I have parted with it. My husband is young, and blest with a most
excellent constitution, which even _his_ irregularities have not
injured. I am young likewise, but of a more delicate frame, which the
repeated hurries I have for many months past lived in (joined to a
variety of other causes, from anxieties and inquietude of mind) have not
a little impaired; so that I have not a remote idea of living to want
what I have already bestowed, or may hereafter resign, for the benefit
of my husband's creditors. Yet in this, as well as every thing else, I
will submit to your more enlightened judgment--and abide most chearfully
by your decision.
Would to Heaven Sir William would listen to such an adviser! He yet
might retrieve his affairs. We yet might be happy. But, alas! he will
not suffer his reason to have any sway over his actions. He hurries on
to ruin with hasty strides--nor ever casts one look behind.
* * * * *
The perturbation these sad reflections create in my bosom will apologize
to my worthy guide for the abruptness of this conclusion, as well as the
incorrectness of the whole. May Heaven reward you! prays your ever
grateful,
JULIA STANLEY.
VOLUME II
LETTER XXVII.
To Miss GRENVILLE.
I feel easier in my mind, my dearest Louisa, since I have established a
sort of correspondence with the Sylph. I can now, when any intricate
circumstance arises, which your distance may disable you from being
serviceable in, have an almost immediate assistance in, or at least the
concurrence of--my Sylph, my guardian angel!
In a letter I received from him the other day, he told me, "a time might
come when he should lose his influence over me; however remote the
period, as there was a possibility of his living to see it, the _idea_
filled his mind with sorrow. The only method his skill could divine, of
still possessing the privilege of superintending my concerns, would be
to have some pledge from me. He flattered himself I should not scruple
to indulge this only weakness of _humanity_ he discovered, since I might
rest assured he had it neither in his will or inclination to make an ill
use of my condescension." The rest of the letter contained advice as
usual. I only made this extract to tell you my determination on this
head. I think to send a little locket with my hair in it. The _design_ I
have formed in my own mind, and, when it is compleated, will describe it
to you.
* * * * *
I have seriously reflected on what I had written to you in my last
concerning Miss Finch and (let me not practice disingenuity to my
beloved sister) the Baron Ton-hausen. Miss Finch called on me yesterday
morning--she brought her work. "I am come," said she, "to spend some
hours with you." "I wish," returned I, "you would enlarge your plan, and
make it the whole day."
"With all my heart," she replied, "if you are to be alone; for I wish to
have a good deal of chat with you; and hope we shall have no male
impertinents break-in upon our little female _tête-à-tête_." I knew Sir
William was out for the day, and gave orders I should not be at home to
any one.
As soon as we were quite by ourselves, "Lord!" said she, "I was
monstrously flurried coming hither, for I met Montague in the Park, and
could hardly get clear of him--I was fearful he would follow me here."
As she first mentioned him, I thought it gave me a kind of right to ask
her some questions concerning that gentleman, and the occasion of her
rupture with him. She answered me very candidly--"To tell you the truth,
my dear Lady Stanley, it is but lately I had much idea that it was
necessary to love one's husband, in order to be happy in marriage." "You
astonish me," I cried. "Nay, but hear me. Reflect how we young women,
who are born in the air of the court, are bred. Our heads filled with
nothing but pleasure--let the means of procuring it be, almost, what you
will. We marry--but without any notion of its being an union for
life--only a few years; and then we make a second choice. But I have
lately thought otherwise; and in consequence of these my more serious
reflections, am convinced Colonel Montague and I might make a
fashionable couple, but never a happy one. I used to laugh at his
gaieties, and foolishly thought myself flattered by the attentions of a
man whom half my sex had found dangerous; but I never loved him; that I
am now more convinced of than ever: and as to reforming his morals--oh!
it would not be worth the pains, if the thing was possible.
"Let the women be ever so exemplary, their conduct will have no
influence over these professed rakes; these rakes upon principle, as
that iniquitous Lord Chesterfield has taught our youth to be. Only look
at yourself, I do not mean to flatter you; what effect has your
mildness, your thousand and ten thousand good qualities, for I will not
pretend to enumerate them, had over the mind of your husband? None. On
my conscience, I believe it has only made him worse; because he knew he
never should be censured by such a pattern of meekness. And what chance
should such an one as I have with one of these _modern_ husbands? I fear
me, I should become a _modern_ wife. I think I am not vainglorious, when
I say I have not a bad heart, and am ambitious of emulating a good
example. On these considerations alone, I resolved to give the Colonel
his dismission. He pretended to be much hurt by my determination; but I
really believe the loss of my fortune is his greatest disappointment, as
I find he has two, if not more, mistresses to console him."
"It would hardly be fair," said I, "after your candid declaration, to
call any part in question, or else I should be tempted to ask you, if
you had really no other motive for your rejection of the Colonel's
suit?"
"You scrutinize pretty closely," returned Miss Finch, blushing; "but I
will make no concealments; I have a man in my eye, with whom, I think,
the longer the union lasted, the happier I, at least, should be."
"Do I know the happy man?"
"Indeed you do; and one of some consequence too."
"It cannot be Lord Biddulph?"
"Lord Biddulph!--No, indeed!--not Lord Biddulph, I assure your Ladyship;
though _he_ has a title, but not an English one."
To you, my dear Louisa, I use no reserve. I felt a sickishness and chill
all over me; but recovering instantly, or rather, I fear, desirous of
appearing unaffected by what she said, I immediately rejoined--"So then,
I may wish the _Baron_ joy of his conquest." A faint smile, which barely
concealed my anguish, accompanied my speech.
"Why should I be ashamed of saying I think the Baron the most amiable
man in the world? though it is but lately I have allowed his superior
merit the preference; indeed, I did not know so much of him as within
these few weeks I have had opportunity."
"He is certainly very amiable," said I. "But don't you think it very
close?" (I felt ill.) "I believe I must open the window for a little
air. Pursue your panegyric, my dear Miss Finch. I was rather overcome by
the warmth of the day; I am better now--pray proceed."
"Well then, it is not because he is handsome that I give him this
preference; for I do not know whether Montague has not a finer person.
observe, I make this a doubt, for I think those marks of the small-pox
give an additional expression to his features. What say you?"
"I am no competent judge;" I answered, "but, in my opinion, those who do
most justice to Baron Ton-hausen, will forget, or overlook, the graces
of his person, in the contemplation of the more estimable, because more
permanent, beauties of his mind."
"What an elegant panegyrist you are! in three words you have comprized
his eulogium, which I should have spent hours about, and not so
compleated at last. But the opportunity I hinted at having had of late,
of discovering more of the Baron's character, is this: I was one day
walking in the Park with some ladies; the Baron joined us; a
well-looking old man, but meanly dressed, met us; he fixed his eyes on
Ton-hausen; he started, then, clasping his hands together, exclaimed
with eagerness, 'It is, it must be he! O, Sir! O, thou best of men!' 'My
good friend,' said the Baron, while his face was crimsoned over, 'my
good friend, I am glad to see you in health; but be more moderate.' I
never before thought him handsome; but such a look of benevolence
accompanied his soft accents, that I fancied him something more than
mortal. 'Pardon my too lively expressions,' the old man answered, 'but
gratitude--oh for such benefits! you, Sir, may, and have a right to
command my lips; but my eyes--my eyes will bear testimony.' His voice
was now almost choaked with sobs, and the tears flowed plentifully. I
was extremely moved at this scene, and had likewise a little female
curiosity excited to develope this mystery. I saw the Baron wished to
conceal his own and the old man's emotions, so walked a little aside
with him. I took that opportunity of whispering my servant to find out,
if possible, where this man came from, and discover the state of this
adventure. The ladies and myself naturally were chatting on this
subject, when the Baron rejoined our party. 'Poor fellow', said he, 'he
is so full of gratitude for my having rendered a slight piece of service
to his family, and fancies he owes every blessing in life to me, for
having placed two or three of his children out in the world.' We were
unanimous in praising the generosity of the Baron, and were making some
hard reflections on the infrequency of such examples among the affluent,
when Montague came up; he begged to know on whom we were so severe; I
told him in three words--and pointed to the object of the Baron's
bounty. He looked a little chagrined, which I attributed to my
commendations of this late instance of worth, as, I believe, I expressed
myself with that generous warmth which a benevolent action excites in a
breast capable of feeling, and wishing to emulate, such patterns. After
my return home, my servant told me he had followed the old man to his
lodgings, which were in an obscure part of the town, where he saw him
received by a woman nearly his own age, a beautiful girl of eighteen,
and two little boys. James, who is really an _adroit_ fellow, farther
said, that, by way of introduction, he told them to whom he was servant;
that his lady was attached to their interest from something the Baron
had mentioned concerning them, and had, in earnest of her future
intentions, sent them a half-guinea. At the name of the Baron, the old
folks lifted up their hands and blessed him; the girl blushed, and cast
down her eyes; and, said James, 'I thought, my lady, she seemed to pray
for him with greater fervour than the rest.' 'He is the noblest of men!'
echoed the old pair. 'He is indeed!' sighed the young girl. 'My heart,
my lady, ran over at my eyes to see the thankfulness of these poor
people. They begged me to make their grateful acknowledgments to your
ladyship for your bounty, and hoped the worthy Baron would convince you
it was not thrown away on base or forgetful folks.' James was not
farther inquisitive about their affairs, judging, very properly, that I
should chuse to make some inquiries myself.