much I was affected with this little narrative. I left the good folks
with my heart filled with resentment against Montague, and complacency
towards Ton-hausen. You will believe I did not hesitate long about the
dismission of the former; and my frequent conversations on this head
with the latter has made him a very favourable interest in my bosom. Not
that I have the vanity to think he possesses any predilection in my
favour; but, till I see a man I like as well as him, I will not receive
the addresses of any one."
We joined in our commendation of the generous Baron. The manner in which
he disclaimed all praise, Miss Finch said, served only to render him
still more praise-worthy. He begged her to keep this little affair a
secret, and particularly from me. I asked Miss Finch, why he should make
that request? "I know not indeed," she answered, "except that, knowing I
was more intimate with you than any one beside, he might mention your
name by way of enforcing the restriction." Soon after this, Miss Finch
took leave.
Oh, Louisa! dare I, even to your indulgent bosom, confide my secret
thoughts? How did I lament not being in the Park the day of this
adventure. _I_ might then have been the envied _confidante_ of the
amiable Ton-hausen. They have had frequent conversations in consequence.
The softness which the melancholy detail gave to Miss Finch's looks and
expressions, have deeply impressed the mind of the Baron. Should I have
shewn less sensibility? I have, indeed, rather sought to conceal the
tenderness of my soul. I have been constrained to do so. Miss Finch has
given her's full scope, and has riveted the chain which her beauty and
accomplishments first forged. But what am I doing? Oh! my sister, chide
me for thus giving loose to such expressions. How much am I to blame!
How infinitely more prudent is the Baron! He begged that _I_, of all
persons, should not know his generosity. Heavens! what an idea does that
give birth to! He has seen--Oh! Louisa, what will become of me, if he
should have discovered the struggles of my soul? If he should have
searched into the recesses of my heart, and developed the thin veil I
spread over the feelings I have laboured incessantly to overcome! He
then, perhaps, wished to conceal his excellencies from me, lest I should
be too partial to them. I ought then to copy his discretion. I will do
so; Yes, Louisa, I will drive his image from my bosom! I ought--I know
it would be my interest to wish him married to Miss Finch, or any one
that would make him happy. I am culpable in harbouring the remotest
desire of his preserving his attachment to me. He has had virtue enough.
to conquer so _improper_ an attachment; and, if improper in him, how
infinitely more so in me! But I will dwell no longer on this forbidden
subject; let me set bounds to my pen, as an earnest that I most truly
mean to do so to my thoughts.
Think what an enormous packet I shall send you. Preserve your affection
for me, my dearest sister; and, trust to my asseverations, you shall
have no cause to blush for
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER XXVIII.
TO Miss GRENVILLE.
This morning I dispatched to Anderton's Coffee-house the most elegant
locket in hair that you ever saw. May I be permitted to say thus much,
when the design was all my own? Yet, why not give myself praise when I
can? The locket is in the form and size of that bracelet I sent you; the
device, an altar, on which is inscribed these words, _To Gratitude_, an
elegant figure of a woman making an offering on her knees, and a winged
cherub bearing the incense to heaven. A narrow plait of hair, about the
breadth of penny ribbon, is fastened on each side the locket, near the
top, by three diamonds, and united with a bow of diamonds, by which it
may hang to a ribbon. I assure you, it is exceedingly pretty. I hope the
Sylph will approve of it. I forget to tell you, as the hair was taken
from my head by your dear hand before I married, I took the fancy of
putting the initials J. G. instead of J. S. It was a whim that seized
me, because the hair did never belong to J.S.
Adieu!
JULIA.
LETTER XXIX.
From the SYLPH to Lady STANLEY.
Will my amiable charge be ever thus encreasing my veneration, my almost
adoration of her perfections? Yes, Julia; still pursue these methods,
and my whole life will be too confined a period to render you my
acknowledgments. Its best services have, and ever shall be, devoted to
your advantage. I have no other business, and, I am sure, no other
pleasure, in this world, than to watch over your interest; and, if I
should at any time be so fortunate as to have procured you the smallest
share of felicity, or saved you from the minutest inquietude, I shall
feel myself amply repaid; repaid! Where have I learnt so cold an
expression? from the earth-born sons of clay? I shall feel a bliss
beyond the sensation of a mortal!
None but a mind delicate as your own can form an idea of the sentimental
joy I experienced on seeing the letters J.G. on the most elegant of
devices, an emblem of the lovely giver! There was a purity, a chasteness
of thought, in the design, which can only be conceived; all expression
would be faint; even my Julia can hardly define it. Wonder not at my
boundless partiality to you. You know not, you see not, yourself, as I
_know_ and _see_ you. I pierce through the recesses of your soul; each
fold expands itself to my eye; the struggles of your mind are open to my
view; I see how nobly your virtue towers over the involuntary tribute
you pay to concealed merit. But be not uneasy. Feel not humiliated, that
the secret of your mind is discovered to me. Heaven sees our thoughts,
and reads our hearts; we know it; but feel no restraint therefrom.
Consider me as Heaven's agent, and be not dismayed at the idea of
having a window in your breast, when only the sincerest, the most
disinterested of your friends, is allowed the privilege of looking
through it. Adieu! May the blest above (thy only superiors), guard you
from ill! So prays your
SYLPH.
LETTER XXX.
To the SYLPH.
Though encouraged by the commendations of my Sylph, I tremble when you
tell me the most retired secrets of my soul are open to your view. You
say you have seen its struggles. Oh! that you alone have seen them!
Could I be assured, that one _other_ is yet a stranger to those
struggles, I should feel no more humiliated (though that word is not
sufficiently strong to express my meaning), than I do in my confessions
to Heaven; because I am taught to believe, that our thoughts are
involuntary, and that we are not answerable for them, unless they tend
to excite us to evil actions. Mine, thank God! have done me no other
mischief, than robbing me of that _repose_, which, perhaps, had I been
blest with insensibility, might have been my portion. But a very large
share of insensibility must have been dealt out to me, to have guarded
me from my sense of merit in one person, and my feeling no affliction at
the want of it in another, that _other_ too, with whose fate mine is
unavoidably connected. I must do myself that justice to say, my heart
would have remained fixed with my hand, had my husband remained the
same. Had _he_ known no change, my affections would have centered in
him; that is, I should have passed through life a duteous and observant
partner of his cares and pleasures. When I married, I had never loved
any but my own relations; indeed I had seen no _one_ to love. The
language, and its emotions, were equally strangers to my ears or heart.
Sir William Stanley was the first man who used the one, and
consequently, in a bosom so young and inexperienced as mine, created the
other. He told me, he loved. I blushed, and felt confused; unhappily, I
construed these indications of self-love into an attachment for him.
Although this bore but a small relation to love, yet, in a breast where
virtue and a natural tenderness resided, it would have been sufficient
to have guarded my heart from receiving any other impression. He did so,
till repeated slights and irregularities on one hand, and on the other
all the virtues and graces that can adorn and beautify the mind, raised
a conflict in my bosom, that has destroyed my peace, and hurt my
constitution. I have a beloved sister, who deserves all the affection I
bear her; from her I have concealed nothing. She has read every secret
of my heart; for, when I wrote to her, reserve was banished from my pen.
This unfortunate predilection, which, believe me, I have from the first
combated with all my force, has given my Louisa, who has the tenderest
soul, the utmost uneasiness. I have very lately assured her, my resolves
to conquer this fatal attachment are fixed and permanent. I doubt (and
she thinks perhaps) I have too often indulged myself in dwelling upon
the dangerous subject in my frequent letters. I have given my word I
will mention him no more. Oh! my Sylph! how has he risen in my esteem
from a recent story I have heard of him! How hard is my fate (you can
read my thoughts, so that to endeavour to soften the expression would be
needless), that I am constrained to obey the man I can neither love nor
honour! and, alas! love the man, who is not, nor can be, any thing to
me.
I have vowed to my sister, myself, and now to you, that, however hardly
treated, yet virtue and rectitude shall be my guide. I arrogate no great
merit to myself in still preserving myself untainted in this vortex of
folly and vice. No one falls all at once; and I have no temptation to do
so. The man I esteem above all others is superior to all others. His
manners refined, generous, virtuous, humane; oh! when shall I fill the
catalogue of his excellent qualities? He pays a deference to me, at
least used to do, because I was not tinctured with the licentious
fashion of the times; he would lose that esteem for me, were I to act
without decency and discretion; and I hope I know enough of my heart, to
say, I should no longer feel an attachment for him, did he countenance
vice. Alas! what is to be inferred from this, but that I shall carry
this fatal preference with me to the grave! Let me, however, descend to
_it_, without bringing disgrace on myself, sorrow on my beloved
relations, and repentance on my Sylph, for having thrown away his
counsels on an ingrate; and I will peacefully retire from a world for
whose pleasures I have very little taste. Adieu.
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER XXXI.
TO Lady STANLEY.
My dearest Sister,
It is with infinite pleasure I receive your promise, of no longer
indulging your pen with a subject which has too much engaged your
thoughts of late; a pleasure, heightened by the assurance, that your
silence in future shall be an earnest of banishing an image from your
idea, which I cannot but own, from the picture you have drawn, is very
amiable, and, for that reason, very dangerous. I will, my Julia, emulate
your example; this shall be the last letter that treats on this
to-be-forbidden theme. Permit me, therefore, to make some comment on
your long letter. Sure never two people were more strongly contrasted
than the Baron and the Colonel. The one seems the kindly sun, cherishing
the tender herbage of the field; the other, the blasting mildew,
breathing its pestiferous venom over every beautiful plant and flower.
However, do you, my love, only regard them as virtue and vice
personified; look on them as patterns and examples; view them in no
other light; for in _no other_ can they be of any advantage to you. You
are extremely reprehensible (I hope, and believe, I shall never have
occasion to use such harsh language again) in your strictures on the
supposed change in the Baron's sentiments. You absolutely seem to
regret, if not express anger, that _he_ has had virtue sufficient to
resist the violence of an improper attachment. The efforts he has made,
and my partiality for you supposes them not to have been easily made,
ought to convince you, the conquest over ourselves is possible, though
oftentimes difficult. It is, I believe, (and I may say I am certain from
my own experience) a very mistaken notion, that we nourish our
afflictions, by keeping them to ourselves. I said, I know so
experimentally. While I indulged myself, and your tenderness induced you
to do the same, in lamenting in the most pathetic language the perfidy
of Mr. Montgomery and Emily Wingrove, I increased the wounds which that
_perfidy_ occasioned; but, when I took the resolution of never
mentioning their names, or ever suffering myself to dwell on former
scenes, burning every letter I had received from either; though these
efforts cost me floods of tears, and many sleepless nights, yet, in
time, my reflections lost much of their poignancy; and I chiefly
attribute it to my steady adherence to my laudable resolution. He
deserved not my tenderness, even if only because he was married to
another. This is the first time I have suffered my pen to write his name
since that determination; nor does he now ever mix with my thoughts
unless by chance, and then quite as an indifferent person. I have
recalled his idea for no other reason, than to convince you, that,
although painful, yet self-conquest is attainable. You will not think I
am endued with less sensibility than you are; and I had long been
authorized to indulge my attachment to this ingrate, and had long been
cruelly deceived into a belief, that his regard was equal to mine;
while, from the first, _you_ could have no _hope_ to lead you on by
flowery footsteps to the confines of _disappointment_ and _despair_; for
to those goals does that fallacious phantom too frequently lead. You
envy Miss Finch the distinction which accident induced the Baron to pay
her, by making her his _confidante_. Had you been on the spot, it is
possible you might have shared his confidence; but, believe me, I am
thankful to Heaven, that chance threw you not in his way; with your
natural tenderness, and your unhappy predilection, I tremble for what
might have been the consequence of frequent conversations, in which pity
and compassion bore so large a share, as perhaps might have superseded
every other consideration. I wish from my soul, and hope my Julia will
soon join my wish, that the Baron may be in earnest in his attention to
Miss Finch. I wish to have him married, that his engagements may
increase, and prevent your seeing him so often, as you now do, for
undoubtedly your difficulty will be greater; but consider, my dear
Julia, your triumph will be _greater_ likewise. It is sometimes harder
to turn one's eyes from a pleasing object than one's thoughts; yet there
is nothing which may not be achieved by resolution and perseverance;
both of which, I question not, my beloved will exert, if it be but to
lighten the oppressed mind of her faithful
LOUISA GRENVILLE.
LETTER XXXII.
To the SYLPH.
Will my kind guardian candidly inform me if he thinks I may comply with
the desire of Sir William, in going next Thursday to the masquerade at
the Pantheon? Without your previous advice, I would not willingly
consent. Is it a diversion of which I may participate without danger?
Though I doubt there is hardly decency enough left in this part of the
world, that _vice_ need wear a mask; yet do not people give a greater
scope to their licentious inclinations while under that veil? However,
if you think I may venture with safety, I will indulge my husband, who
seems to have set his mind on my accompanying his party thither. Miss
Finch has promised to go if I go; and, as she has been often to those
motley meetings, assures me she will take care of me. Sir William does
not know of my application to that lady; but I did so, merely to gain
time to inform you, that I might have your sanction (or be justified by
your advising the contrary), either to accept or reject the invitation.
I am ever your obliged,
J.S.
LETTER XXXIII.
From the SYLPH.
When the face is masked, the mind is uncovered. From the conduct and
language of those who frequent masquerades, we may judge of the
principles of their souls. A modest woman will blush in the dark; and a
man of honour would scorn to use expressions while behind a vizor, which
he would not openly avow in the face of day. A masquerade is then the
criterion, by which you should form your opinion of people; and, as I
believe I have before observed to my Julia, that female companions are
either the safest or most dangerous of any, you may make this trial,
whether Miss F. is, or is not, one in whom you may confide. When I say
_confide_, I would not be understood that you should place an unlimited
confidence in her; there is no occasion to lay our hearts bare to the
inspection of all our intimates; we should lessen the compliment we mean
to pay to our particular friends, by destroying that distinguishing
mark. But you want a female companion. Indeed, for your sake, I should
wish you one older than Miss F. and a married woman; yet, unless she was
very prudent, _you_ had better be the _leader_ than the _led_;
therefore, upon the whole, perhaps it is as well as it is.
I shall never enough admire your amiable condescension, in asking (in a
manner) my permission to go to the Pantheon. And at the same time I feel
the delicacy of your situation, and the effect it must have on a woman
of your exquisite sensibility, to be constrained to appeal to another in
an article wherein her husband ought to be the properest guide.
Unhappily for you, Sir William will find so many engagements, that the
protection of his wife must be left either to her own discretion, or to
strangers. But your Sylph, my Julia, will never desert you. You request
my leave to go thither. I freely grant that, and even more than you
desire. I will meet my charge among the motley groupe. I do not demand a
description of your dress; for, oh! what disguise can conceal you from
him whose heart only vibrates in union with yours? I will not inform you
how I shall be habited that night, as I have not a doubt but that I
shall soon be discovered by you, though I shall be invisible to all
beside. Only you will see me; and I, of course, shall only see _you_;
you, who are all and every thing in this world to your faithful
attendant
SYLPH.
LETTER XXXIV.
To the SYLPH.
Will you ever thus be adding to my weight of obligation! Yes! my Sylph!
be still thus kind, thus indulgent; and be assured your benevolence
shall be repaid by my steady adherence to your virtuous counsel. Adieu!
Thursday is eagerly wished for by your's,
J.S.
LETTER XXXV.
TO Miss GRENVILLE.
Enclosed my Louisa will find some letters which have passed between the
Sylph and your Julia. I have sent them, to inform you of my being
present at a masquerade, in compliance with the taste of Sir William,
who was very desirous of my exhibiting myself there. As he has of late
never intimated an inclination to have me in any of his parties till
this whim seized him, I thought it would not become me to refuse my
consent. You will find, however, I was not so dutiful a wife as to pay
an implicit obedience to his mandate, without taking the concurrence of
my guardian angel on the subject. My dear, you must be first
circumstanced as I am (which Heaven forbid!), before you can form an
idea of the satisfaction I felt on the assurances of my Sylph's being
present. No words can convey it to you. It seemed as if I was going to
enjoy the ultimate wish of my heart. As to my dress, I told Sir William
I would leave the choice of it to him, not doubting, in matters of
elegant taste, he would be far superior to me. I made him this
compliment, as I have been long convinced he has no other pleasure in
possessing me, than what is excited by the admiration which other people
bestow on me. Nay, he has said, unless he heard every body say his wife
was one of the handsomest women at court, he would never suffer her to
appear there, or any where else.
That I might do credit to his taste, I was to be most superbly
brilliant; and Sir William desired to see my jewels. He objected to
their manner of being set, though they were quite new-done when he
married. But now these were detestable, horridly _outré_, and so
barbarously antique, that I could only appear as Rembrandt's Wife, or
some such relic of ancient history. As I had promised to be guided by
him, I acquiesced in what I thought a very unnecessary expense; but was
much laughed at, when I expressed my amazement at the jeweller's saying
the setting would come to about two hundred pounds. This is well worth
while for an evening's amusement, for they are now in such whimsical
forms, that they will be scarce fit for any other purpose. And oh! my
Louisa! do you not think I was cut to the soul when I had this painful
reflection to make, that many honest and industrious tradesmen are every
day dunning for their lawful demands, while we are thus throwing away
hundreds after hundreds, without affording the least heartfelt
satisfaction?