A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London--Mrs Harley, with
a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--The
superscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was from
Augustus, and addressed to Emma--I ran, with it, into my chamber, locked
myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its
contents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--I reperused it again
and again.
'I had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had
made the human heart his study, who could not be affected
by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the
passions--of the false and flattering medium through which
they presented objects to our view. He had answered my
letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts
to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he
knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not
necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better
be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written,
but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please
himself any better.--He was highly flattered by the
favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful
proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship,
&c. &c.'
This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied,
disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope--and, yet, had no _distinct_
ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meaning into a hundred
forms--I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she
seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to
enquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided
both in my principles, and in those of her son: I was wounded by what,
entangled in prejudice, I conceived to be a necessity for this reserve.
Again I addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other
impressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous
ascendency.
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
'I, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of
thought, that I foresee I am about to trespass on your time
and patience--yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human
heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to
trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments
of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind--a mind formed by
solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of
character.
'If to have been more guarded and reserved would have been
more discreet, I have already forfeited all claim to this
discretion--to affect it now, would be vain, and, by
pursuing a middle course, I should resign the only advantage
I may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of
expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom.
'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the
result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, _and is
not what I would recommend to general imitation_--To say
nothing of the hazards it might involve, I am aware,
generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove,
that certain customs, of which I, yet, think there is reason
to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature--I am led
to speak thus, because I am not willing to spare myself, but
would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to
hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate
consideration.
'Of what then, you may ask, do I complain?--Not of the laws
of nature! But when mind has given dignity to natural
affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have
combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall I say) to
sanctity them--Is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor
and severity, that such minds must either passively submit
to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the
endearing sympathies of life? Nature has formed woman
peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "The voice
of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial
precepts." To feel these affections in a supreme degree,
a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy
and reflection, is necessary--for it is intellect and
imagination only, that can give energy and interest to--
"The thousand soft sensations--
Which vulgar souls want faculties to taste,
Who take their good and evil in the gross."
'I wish we were in the vehicular state, and that you
understood the sentient language;[7] you might then
comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too
delicate for _words_. But I do you injustice.
[Footnote 7: See Light of Nature pursued. An entertaining
philosophical work.]
'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where
the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial--where
the _end_, sought to be attained, is--
"Something, than beauty dearer,"
'You may, perhaps, agree with me, that it is almost
indifferent on which side the sentiment originates. Yet, I
confess, my frankness has involved me in many after thoughts
and inquietudes; inquietudes, which all my reasoning is, at
times, insufficient to allay. The shame of being singular,
it has been justly observed,[8] requires strong principles,
and much native firmness of temper, to surmount.--Those who
deviate from the beaten track must expect to be entangled in
the thicket, and wounded by many a thorn--my wandering feet
have already been deeply pierced.
[Footnote 8: Aikin's Letters.]
'I should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the
solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately
rend my heart! I feel, that I have "put to sea upon a
shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for
safety." I dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken
your tenderness, I may have forfeited your respect; the
next, that I have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober
light of reason. In retirement, numberless contradictory
emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:--in company, I start
and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but
myself could trace any application. The end of doubt is the
beginning of repose. Say, then, to me, that it is a
principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem
lightly what may be attained without difficulty.--Tell me to
make distinctions between love and friendship, of which I
have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.--Say, that the
former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces,
to which I have little pretension, and that it is vain to
pretend, that--
"Truth and good are one,
And beauty dwells with them."
'Tell me, that I have indulged too long the wild and
extravagant chimeras of a romantic imagination. Let us walk
together into the palace of Truth, where (it is fancifully
related by an ingenious writer,[9] that) every one was
compelled by an irresistible, controuling, power, to reveal
his inmost sentiments! All this I will bear, and will still
respect your integrity, and confide in your principles; but
I can no longer sustain a suspense that preys upon my
spirits. It is not the Book of Fate--it is your mind, only,
I desire to read. A sickly apprehension overspreads my
heart--I pause here, unable to proceed.'
'EMMA.'
[Footnote 9: Madame de Genlis's Tales of the Castle.]