I had not courage to make my friend a confident of the step I had taken;
so wild, and so romantic, did it appear, even to myself--a false pride,
a false shame, with-held me. I brooded in silence over the sentiment,
that preyed on the bosom which cherished it. Every morning dawned with
expectation, and every evening closed in disappointment. I walked
daily to the post-office, with precipitate steps and a throbbing heart,
to enquire for letters, but in vain; and returned slow, dejected,
spiritless. _Hope_, one hour, animated my bosom and flushed my cheek;
the next, pale despair shed its torpid influence through my languid
frame. Inquietude, at length, gradually gave place to despondency, and
I sunk into lassitude.
My studies no longer afforded me any pleasure. I turned over my books,
incapable of fixing my attention; took out my drawings, threw them
aside; moved, restless and dissatisfied, from seat to seat; sought, with
unconscious steps, the library, and, throwing myself on the sopha, with
folded arms, fixed my eyes on the picture of Augustus, which had lately
been replaced, and sunk into waking dreams of ideal perfection and
visionary bliss. I gazed on the lifeless features, engraven on my heart
in colours yet more true and vivid--but where was the benignant smile,
the intelligent glance, the varying expression? Where the pleasant
voice, whose accents had been melody in my ear; that had cheered me in
sadness, dispelled the vapours of distrust and melancholy, and awakened
my emulation for science and improvement? Starting from a train of
poignant and distressing emotions, I fled from an apartment once so
dear, presenting now but the ghosts of departed pleasures--fled into the
woods, and buried myself in their deepest recesses; or, shutting myself
in my chamber, avoided the sight of my friend, whose dejected
countenance but the more forcibly reminded me--
'That such things were, and were most dear.'
In this state of mind, looking one day over my papers, without any known
end in view, I accidentally opened a letter from Mr Francis (with whom I
still continued, occasionally, to correspond), which I had recently
received. I eagerly seized, and re-perused, it. My spirits were weakened;
the kindness which it expressed affected me--it touched my heart--it
excited my tears. I determined instantly to reply to it, and to
acknowledge my sense of his goodness.
My mind was overwhelmed with the pressure of its own thoughts; a gleam
of joy darted through the thick mists that pervaded it; communication
would relieve the burthen. I took up my pen; and, though I dared not
betray the fatal secret concealed, as a sacred treasure, in the bottom
of my heart, I yet gave a loose to, I endeavoured to paint, its
sensations.
After briefly sketching the events that had driven me from Morton Park
(of which I had not hitherto judged it necessary to inform him), without
hinting the name of my deliverer, or suffering myself to dwell on the
services he had rendered me, I mentioned my present temporary residence
at the house of a friend, and expressed an impatience at my solitary,
inactive, situation.
I went on--
'To what purpose should I trouble you with a thousand
wayward, contradictory, ideas and emotions, that I am,
myself, unable to disentangle--which have, perhaps, floated
in every mind, that has had leisure for reflection--which
are distinguished by no originality, and which I may express
(though not feel) without force? I sought to cultivate my
understanding, and exercise my reason, that, by adding
variety to my resources, I might increase the number of my
enjoyments: for _happiness_ is, surely, the only desirable
_end_ of existence! But when I ask myself, Whether I am
yet nearer to the end proposed?--I dare not deceive
myself--sincerity obliges me to answer in the negative. I
daily perceive the gay and the frivolous, among my sex,
amused with every passing trifle; gratified by the insipid
_routine_ of heartless, mindless, intercourse; fully
occupied, alternately, by domestic employment, or the
childish vanity of varying external ornaments, and "hanging
drapery on a smooth block." I do not affect to despise, and
I regularly practise, the necessary avocations of my sex;
neither am I superior to their vanities. The habits acquired
by early precept and example adhere tenaciously; and are
never, perhaps, entirely eradicated. But all these are
insufficient to engross, to satisfy, the active, aspiring,
mind. Hemmed in on every side by the constitutions of
society, and not less so, it may be, by my own prejudices--I
perceive, indignantly perceive, the magic circle, without
knowing how to dissolve the powerful spell. While men pursue
interest, honor, pleasure, as accords with their several
dispositions, women, who have too much delicacy, sense,
and spirit, to degrade themselves by the vilest of all
interchanges, remain insulated beings, and must be content
tamely to look on, without taking any part in the great,
though often absurd and tragical, drama of life. Hence the
eccentricities of conduct, with which women of superior
minds have been accused--the struggles, the despairing
though generous struggles, of an ardent spirit, denied a
scope for its exertions! The strong feelings, and strong
energies, which properly directed, in a field sufficiently
wide, might--ah! what might they not have aided? forced
back, and pent up, ravage and destroy the mind which gave
them birth!
'Yes, I confess, _I am unhappy_, unhappy in proportion as I
believe myself (it may be, erringly) improved. Philosophy,
it is said, should regulate the feelings, but it has added
fervor to mine! What are passions, but another name for
powers? The mind capable of receiving the most forcible
impressions is the sublimely improveable mind! Yet, into
whatever trains such minds are accidentally directed, they
are prone to enthusiasm, while the vulgar stupidly wonder at
the effects of powers, to them wholly inconceivable: the
weak and the timid, easily discouraged, are induced, by the
first failure, to relinquish their pursuits. "They make the
impossibility they fear!" But the bold and the persevering,
from repeated disappointment, derive only new ardor and
activity. "They conquer difficulties, by daring to attempt
them."
'I feel, that I am writing in a desultory manner, that I am
unable to crowd my ideas into the compass of a letter, and,
that could I do so, I should perhaps only weary you. There
are but few persons to whom I would venture to complain, few
would understand, and still fewer sympathise with me. You
are in health, they would say, in the spring of life, have
every thing supplied you without labour (so much the worse)
nature, reason, open to you their treasures! All this is,
partly, true--but, with inexpressible yearnings, my soul
pants for something more, something higher! The morning
rises upon me with sadness, and the evening closes with
disgust--Imperfection, uncertainty, is impressed on every
object, on every pursuit! I am either restless or torpid, I
seek to-day, what to-morrow, wearies and offends me.
'I entered life, flushed with hope--I have proceeded but a
few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant
prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. The few
worthy persons I have known appear, to me, to be struggling
with the same half suppressed emotions.--Whence is all this?
Why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness?
Why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict
between truth and error? Shall I look beyond the disorders
which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall I
expect, shall I demand, from the inscrutable Being to whom I
owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_
of which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like
a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has hitherto served only to
torture and betray? The animal rises up to satisfy the
cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by
care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently
wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he
rises? Assist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write
to me--reprove me--spare me not!
'EMMA.'
To this letter I quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, though
not unmingled with the reproof I called for. It afforded me but a
temporary relief, and I once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rusted
for want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid.