MEMOIRS OF
EMMA COURTNEY
MARY HAYS
CONTENTS
Preface xvii
Volume I 1
Chapter I 6
Chapter II 8
Chapter III 11
Chapter IV 14
Chapter V 16
Chapter VI 18
Chapter VII 20
Chapter VIII 24
Chapter IX 26
Chapter X 28
Chapter XI 31
Chapter XII 33
Chapter XIII 37
Chapter XIV 41
Chapter XV 46
Chapter XVI 52
Chapter XVII 55
Chapter XVIII 59
Chapter XIX 62
Chapter XX 65
Chapter XXI 68
Chapter XXII 71
Chapter XXIII 73
Chapter XXIV 76
Chapter XXV 79
Chapter XXVI 84
Chapter XXVII 88
Chapter XXVIII 92
Volume II 95
Chapter I 98
Chapter II 102
Chapter III 105
Chapter IV 109
Chapter V 112
Chapter VI 118
Chapter VII 121
Chapter VIII 129
Chapter IX 133
Chapter X 137
Chapter XI 141
Chapter XII 144
Chapter XIII 151
Chapter XIV 154
Chapter XV 157
Chapter XVI 162
Chapter XVII 164
Chapter XVIII 167
Chapter XIX 171
Chapter XX 173
Chapter XXI 176
Chapter XXII 181
Chapter XXIII 184
Chapter XXIV 187
Chapter XXV 190
Chapter XXVI 192
Chapter XXVII 196
PREFACE
The most interesting, and the most useful, fictions, are, perhaps, such,
as delineating the progress, and tracing the consequences, of one
strong, indulged, passion, or prejudice, afford materials, by which the
philosopher may calculate the powers of the human mind, and learn the
springs which set it in motion--'Understanding, and talents,' says
Helvetius, 'being nothing more, in men, than the produce of their
desires, and particular situations.' Of the passion of terror Mrs
Radcliffe has made admirable use in her ingenious romances.--In the
novel of Caleb Williams, curiosity in the hero, and the love of
reputation in the soul-moving character of Falkland, fostered into
ruling passions, are drawn with a masterly hand.
For the subject of these Memoirs, a more universal sentiment is chosen--a
sentiment hackneyed in this species of composition, consequently more
difficult to treat with any degree of originality;--yet, to accomplish
this, has been the aim of the author; with what success, the public
will, probably, determine.
Every writer who advances principles, whether true or false, that have a
tendency to set the mind in motion, does good. Innumerable mistakes have
been made, both moral and philosophical:--while covered with a sacred and
mysterious veil, how are they to be detected? From various combinations
and multiplied experiments, truth, only, can result. Free thinking, and
free speaking, are the virtue and the characteristics of a rational
being:--there can be no argument which mitigates against them in
one instance, but what equally mitigates against them in all; every
principle must be doubted, before it will be examined and proved.
It has commonly been the business of fiction to pourtray characters, not
as they really exist, but, as, we are told, they ought to be--a sort of
_ideal perfection_, in which nature and passion are melted away, and
jarring attributes wonderfully combined.
In delineating the character of Emma Courtney, I had not in view these
fantastic models: I meant to represent her, as a human being, loving
virtue while enslaved by passion, liable to the mistakes and weaknesses
of our fragile nature.--Let those readers, who feel inclined to judge
with severity the extravagance and eccentricity of her conduct, look
into their own hearts; and should they there find no record, traced by
an accusing spirit, to soften the asperity of their censures--yet, let
them bear in mind, that the errors of my heroine were the offspring
of sensibility; and that the result of her hazardous experiment is
calculated to operate as a _warning_, rather than as an example.--The
philosopher--who is not ignorant, that light and shade are more
powerfully contrasted in minds rising above the common level; that,
as rank weeks take strong root in a fertile soil, vigorous powers not
unfrequently produce fatal mistakes and pernicious exertions; that
character is the produce of a lively and constant affection--may,
possibly, discover in these Memoirs traces of reflection, and of
some attention to the phænomena of the human mind.
Whether the incidents, or the characters, are copied from life, is of
little importance--The only question is, if the _circumstances_, and
situations, are altogether improbable? If not--whether the consequences
_might_ not have followed from the circumstances?--This is a grand
question, applicable to all the purposes of education, morals, and
legislation--_and on this I rest my moral_--'Do men gather figs of
thorns, or grapes of thistles?' asked a moralist and a reformer.
Every _possible_ incident, in works of this nature, might, perhaps, be
rendered _probable_, were a sufficient regard paid to the more minute,
delicate, and connecting links of the chain. Under this impression, I
chose, as the least arduous, a simple story--and, even in that, the
fear of repetition, of prolixity, added, it may be, to a portion of
indolence, made me, in some parts, neglectful of this rule:--yet, in
tracing the character of my heroine from her birth, I had it in view.
For the conduct of my hero, I consider myself less responsible--it was
not _his_ memoirs that I professed to write.
I am not sanguine respecting the success of this little publication. It
is truly observed, by the writer of a late popular novel[1]--'That an
author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every
body is privileged to attack; for, though all are not able to write
books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition
carries with it its own punishment--contempt and ridicule:--a good one
excites envy, and (frequently) entails upon its author a thousand
mortifications.'
[Footnote 21: The Monk.]
To the feeling and the thinking few, this production of an active
mind, in a season of impression, rather than of leisure, is presented.
_Memoirs of Emma Courtney_
VOLUME 1
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY
Rash young man!--why do you tear from my heart the affecting narrative,
which I had hoped no cruel necessity would ever have forced me to
review?--Why do you oblige me to recall the bitterness of my past life,
and to renew images, the remembrance of which, even at this distant
period, harrows up my soul with inconceivable misery?--But your happiness
is at stake, and every selfish consideration vanishes.--Dear and sacred
deposit of an adored and lost friend!--for whose sake I have consented
to hold down, with struggling, suffocating reluctance, the loathed
and bitter portion of existence;--shall I expose your ardent mind to
the incessant conflict between truth and error--shall I practise the
disingenuousness, by which my peace has been blasted--shall I suffer
you to run the wild career of passion--shall I keep back the recital,
written upon my own mind in characters of blood, which may preserve the
child of my affections from destruction?
Ah! why have you deceived me?--Has a six months' absence obliterated from
your remembrance the precept I so earnestly and incessantly laboured to
inculcate--the value and importance of unequivocal sincerity? A precept,
which I now take shame to myself for not having more implicitly observed!
Had I supposed your affection for Joanna more than a boyish partiality;
had I not believed that a few months' absence would entirely erase it
from your remembrance; had I not been assured that her heart was devoted
to another object, a circumstance of which she had herself frankly
informed you; I should not now have distrusted your fortitude, when
obliged to wound your feelings with the intelligence--that the woman,
whom you have so wildly persecuted, was, yesterday, united to another.
TO THE SAME
I resume my pen. Your letter, which Joanna a few days since put into my
hands, has cost me--Ah! my Augustus, my friend, my son--what has it not
cost me, and what impressions has it not renewed? I perceive the vigour
of your mind with terror and exultation. But you are mistaken! Were it
not for the insuperable barrier that separates you, for ever, from your
hopes, perseverance itself, however active, however incessant, may fail
in attaining its object. Your ardent reasoning, my interesting and
philosophic young friend, though not unconsequential, is a finely
proportioned structure, resting on an airy foundation. The science of
morals is not incapable of demonstration, but we want a more extensive
knowledge of particular facts, on which, in any given circumstance,
firmly to establish our data.--Yet, be not discouraged; exercise your
understanding, think freely, investigate every opinion, disdain the rust
of antiquity, raise systems, invent hypotheses, and, by the absurdities
they involve, seize on the clue of truth. Rouse the nobler energies of
your mind; be not the slave of your passions, neither dream of eradicating
them. Sensation generates interest, interest passion, passion forces
attention, attention supplies the powers, and affords the means of
attaining its end: in proportion to the degree of interest, will be that
of attention and power. Thus are talents produced. Every man is born
with sensation, with the aptitude of receiving impressions; the force of
those impressions depends on a thousand circumstances, over which he
has little power; these circumstances form the mind, and determine the
future character. We are all the creatures of education; but in that
education, what we call chance, or accident, has so great a share, that
the wisest preceptor, after all his cares, has reason to tremble: one
strong affection, one ardent incitement, will turn, in an instant, the
whole current of our thoughts, and introduce a new train of ideas and
associations.
You may perceive that I admit the general truths of your reasoning;
but I would warn you to be careful in their particular application; a
long train of patient and laborious experiments must precede our
deductions and conclusions. The science of mind is not less demonstrative,
and far more important, than the science of Newton; but we must proceed
on similar principles. The term _metaphysics_ has been, perhaps, justly
defined--the first _principles of arts and sciences_.[2] Every discovery
of genius, resulting from a fortunate combination of circumstances, may
be resolved into simple facts; but in this investigation we must be
patient, attentive, indefatigable; we must be content to arrive at truth
through many painful mistakes and consequent sufferings.--Such appears
to be the constitution of man!
[Footnote 2: Helvetius.]
To shorten and meliorate your way, I have determined to sacrifice every
inferior consideration. I have studied your character: I perceive, with
joy, that its errors are the ardent excesses of a generous mind. I loved
your father with a fatal and unutterable tenderness: time has softened
the remembrance of his faults.--Our noblest qualities, without incessant
watchfulness, are liable insensibly to shade into vices--but his virtues
and _misfortunes_, in which my own were so intimately blended, are
indelibly engraven on my heart.
A mystery has hitherto hung over your birth. The victim of my own ardent
passions, and the errors of one whose memory will ever be dear to me, I
prepare to withdraw the veil--a veil, spread by an importunate, but, I
fear, a mistaken tenderness. Learn, then, from the incidents of my life,
entangled with those of his to whom you owe your existence, a more
striking and affecting lesson than abstract philosophy can ever afford.
CHAPTER I
The events of my life have been few, and have in them nothing very
uncommon, but the effects which they have produced on my mind; yet, that
mind they have helped to form, and this in the eye of philosophy, or
affection, may render them not wholly uninteresting. While I trace them,
they convince me of the irresistible power of circumstances, modifying
and controuling our characters, and introducing, mechanically, those
associations and habits which make us what we are; for without outward
impressions we should be nothing.
I know not how far to go back, nor where to begin; for in many cases,
it may be in all, a foundation is laid for the operations of our minds,
years--nay, ages--previous to our birth. I wish to be brief, yet to omit
no one connecting link in the chain of causes, however minute, that I
conceive had any important consequences in the formation of my mind, or
that may, probably, be useful to your's.
My father was a man of some talents, and of a superior rank in life, but
dissipated, extravagant, and profligate. My mother, the daughter of a
rich trader, and the sole heiress of his fortunes, allured by the
specious address and fashionable manners of my father, sacrificed to
empty shew the prospect of rational and dignified happiness. My father
courted her hand to make himself master of her ample possessions:
dazzled by vanity, and misled by self-love, she married him;--found,
when too late, her error; bitterly repented, and died in child bed the
twelfth month of her marriage, after having given birth to a daughter,
and commended it, with her dying breath, to the care of a sister (the
daughter of her mother by a former marriage), an amiable, sensible, and
worthy woman, who had, a few days before, lost a lovely and promising
infant at the breast, and received the little Emma as a gift from
heaven, to supply its place.
My father, plunged in expence and debauchery, was little moved by these
domestic distresses. He held the infant a moment in his arms, kissed it,
and willingly consigned it to the guardianship of its maternal aunt.
It will here be necessary to give a sketch of the character, situation,
and family, of this excellent woman; each of which had an important
share in forming the mind of her charge to those dispositions, and
feelings, which irresistibly led to the subsequent events.