CHAPTER XXVIII

Week after week, month after month, passed away in the anguish of

vain expectation: my letter was not answered, and I again sunk into

despondency.--Winter drew near. I shuddered at the approach of this

dreary and desolate season, when I was roused by the receipt of a letter

from one of the daughters of the maternal aunt, under whose care I had

spent the happy, thoughtless, days of childhood. My cousin informed me--

'That she had married an officer in the East India service;

that soon after their union he was ordered abroad, and

stationed in Bengal for three years, during which period she

was to remain in a commodious and pleasant house, situated

in the vicinity of the metropolis. She had been informed of

my removal from Morton Park, and had no doubt but I should

be able to give a satisfactory account of the occasion of

that removal. She purposed, during the absence of her husband,

to let out a part of her house; and should I not be fixed

in my present residence, would be happy to accommodate me

with an apartment, on terms that should be rather dictated

by friendship than interest. She also hinted, that a

neighbouring lady, of respectable character, would be glad to

avail herself of the occasional assistance of an accomplished

woman in the education of her daughters; that she had

mentioned me to her in advantageous terms, conceiving that I

should have no objection, by such a means, to exercise my

talents, to render myself useful, and to augment my small

income.'

This intelligence filled me with delight: the idea of change, of

exertion, of new scenes--shall I add, _of breathing the same air with

Augustus_, rushed tumultuously through my imagination. Flying eagerly to

my friend, to impart these tidings, I was not aware of the ungrateful

and inconsiderate appearance which these exultations must give me in her

eyes, till I perceived the starting tear.--It touched, it electrified,

my heart; and, throwing myself into her arms, I caught the soft

contagion, and wept aloud.

'Go, Emma--my daughter,' said this excellent woman; 'I banish the

selfish regret that would prompt me to detain you. I perceive this

solitude is destructive to thy ardent mind. Go, vary your impressions,

and expand your sensations; gladden me only from time to time with an

account of your progress and welfare.'

I had but little preparation to make. I canvassed over, with my friend,

a thousand plans, and formed as many expectations and conjectures; but

they all secretly tended to one point, and concentrated in one object. I

gave my cousin notice that I should be with her in a few days--settled

a future correspondence with my friend--embraced her, at parting, with

unfeigned, and tender, sorrow--and, placing myself in a stage-coach,

that passed daily through the village, took the road, once more, with

a fluttering heart, to London. We travelled all night--it was cold and

dreary--but my fancy was busied with various images, and my bosom

throbbing with lively, though indistinct sensations.

The next day, at noon, I arrived, without accident, at the residence of

my relation, Mrs Denbeigh. She received me with unaffected cordiality:

our former amity was renewed; we spent the evening together, recalling

past scenes; and, on retiring, I was shewn into a neat chamber, which

had been prepared for me, with a light closet adjoining. The next day,

I was introduced to the lady, mentioned to me by my kind hostess, and

agreed to devote three mornings in the week to the instruction of the

young ladies (her daughters), in various branches of education.

_Memoirs of Emma Courtney_

VOLUME II

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY

'My friend, my son, it is for your benefit, that I have

determined on reviewing the sentiments, and the incidents,

of my past life. Cold declamation can avail but little

towards the reformation of our errors. It is by tracing, by

developing, the passions in the minds of others; tracing

them, from the seeds by which they have been generated,

through all their extended consequences, that we learn, the

more effectually, to regulate and to subdue our own.

'I repeat, it will cost me some pain to be ingenuous in the

recital which I have pledged myself to give you; even in the

moment when I resume my pen, prejudice continues to struggle

with principle, and I feel an inclination to retract. While

unfolding a series of error and mortification, I tremble,

lest, in warning you to shun the rocks and quicksands amidst

which my little bark has foundered, I should forfeit your

respect and esteem, the pride, and the comfort, of my

declining years. But you are deeply interested in my

narrative, you tell me, and you entreat me to proceed.'

CHAPTER I

Change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and the

conscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to my

spirits. My first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mind

of my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts and

occupations.

She had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son.

I enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) of

the change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it,

complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter.

--'If,' said I, 'from having observed the social and

sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, I

suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing

idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender,

so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been

unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed

kindred:--if I fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty,

truth--the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling

with the glow of affection, the features softened, the

accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the

eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more

dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if I

over-rated my own merit, and my own powers--surely my

mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! You should not,

indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the

conviction through a series of deductions so full of

mortification and anguish. You are too well acquainted with

the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can

equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour--the

agonizing images which _suspense_ forces upon the tender

and sensible heart! You should have written, in pity to the

situation of my mind. I would have thanked you for being

ingenuous, even though, like Hamlet, you had _spoke

daggers_. I expected it, from your character, and I had a

claim to your sincerity.

'But it is past!--the vision is dissolved! The barbed arrow

is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of

hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! But why am I to

lose your friendship? My heart tells me, I have not deserved

this! Do not suspect, that I have so little justice, or so

little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the

enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections.

I am unhappy, I confess; the principal charm of my life is

fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are

faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart,

perhaps too tender, preys on itself.

'I suspect I had formed some vain and extravagant

expectations. I could have loved you, had you permitted it,

with no mean, nor common attachment.--My words, my looks, my

actions, betrayed me, ere I suffered my feelings to dictate

to my pen. Would to God, I had buried this fatal secret in

the bottom of my soul! But repentance is, now, too late. Yet

the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself--and to whom

can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to

him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels

himself, however involuntarily, the cause? The world might

think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my

misfortune seldom to think with the world, and I ought,

perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which

this singularity has exposed me.

'I know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to

relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should

I? I now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt,

and this, I think, I should regain by one hour's frank

conversation with you; I would compose myself, listen to

you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. After such an

interview, my mind--no longer harrassed by vague suspicion,

by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes--should

struggle to subdue itself--at least, I would not permit it

to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. I am

exhausted by perturbation. I ask only certainty and rest.

'EMMA.'

A few days after I had written the preceding letter, Mr Harley called on

me. Mrs Denbeigh was with me on his entrance; I would have given worlds

to have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to my

relation. Overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, I was unable for some

time to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, and

congratulations on my amended prospects. My confusion and embarrassment

were but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived to

engage my hostess in discourse, that I might have time to rally my

spirits. By degrees, I commanded myself sufficiently to join in the

conversation--I spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively sense

I felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her.

Animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of Augustus, I

became more assured: we retraced the amusements and studies of H----shire,

and two hours passed delightfully and insensibly away, when Mrs Denbeigh

was called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her letters

and intelligence from the India House. Mr Harley, rising at the same

time from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a few

moments as if irresolute.

'You leave me,' said I, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave me

still in suspense?'

'Could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on the

receipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelings

were not enviable--Your affecting expostulation, added to other

circumstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthen

more than they were able to sustain.'

He resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on which

he held his fortune,--'I am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' added

he,--'I knew not how--_I could not answer your letter_. What shall

I say?--I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons

--_obligations_--Who can look back on every action of his past life

with approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed,

perplexed--_Insuperable obstacles_ forbid what otherwise'--

'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my own

weakness and vanity--I feel, that I have been rushing headlong into

the misery which you kindly sought to spare me--I am sensible of your

delicacy--of your humanity!--And is it with the full impression of

your virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounce

you--renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my

own panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of my

self-love--and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just--yet,

the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand little

of--I have violated common forms--seeking your tenderness, I have

perhaps forfeited your esteem!'

'Far, _very far_, from it--I would, but cannot, say more.'

'Must we, then, separate for ever--will you no longer assist me in the

pursuit of knowledge and truth--will you no more point out to me the

books I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the

principles they contain--Must all your lessons be at an end--all my

studies be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall I

regain my strength of mind--to what _end_ shall I seek to improve

myself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him--'

A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands,

I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken.

I heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh as

speaking to her servant--covered with shame and grief, I dared not in

this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door,

hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections tortured

my mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment.

I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fortitude, and that

perhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under this

impression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent

aspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflicts

affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my

spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered

imagination, I grew disgusted with life.

CHAPTER II

I began, at length, to think, that I had been too precipitate, and

too severe to myself.--Why was I to sacrifice a friend, from whose

conversation I had derived improvement and pleasure? I repeated this

question to myself, again and again; and I blushed and repented. But

I deceived myself. I had too frequently acted with precipitation, I

determined, now, to be more prudent--I waited three months, fortified

my mind with many reflections, and resumed my pen--

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'Near three months have elapsed, since I last addressed you.

I remind you of this, not merely to suppress, as it arises,

any apprehension which you may entertain of further

embarrassment or importunity: for I can no longer afflict

myself with the idea, that my peace, or welfare, are

indifferent to you, but will rather adopt the sentiment of

Plato--who on being informed, that one of his disciples,

whom he had more particularly distinguished, had spoken ill

of him, replied, to the slanderer--"I do not believe you,

for it is impossible that I should not be esteemed by one

whom I so sincerely regard."

'My motive, for calling to your remembrance the date of my

last, is, that you should consider what I am now about to

say, as the result of calmer reflection, the decision of

judgment after having allowed the passions leisure to

subside. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to premise, that I am

not urged on by pride, from an obscure consciousness of

having been betrayed into indiscretion, to endeavour to

explain away, or to extenuate, any part of my former

expressions or conduct. To a mind like yours, such an

attempt would be impertinent; from one like mine, I hope,

superfluous. I am not ashamed of being a human being, nor

blush to own myself liable to "the shakes and agues of his

fragile nature." I have ever spoken, and acted, from the

genuine dictates of a mind swayed, at the time, by its own

views and propensities, nor have I hesitated, as those

views and propensities have changed, to avow my further

convictions--"Let not the coldly wise exult, that their

heads were never led astray by their hearts." I have all

along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal

language of sincerity.

'However _romantic_ (a vague term applied to every thing we

do not understand, or are unwilling to intimate) my views

and sentiments might appear to many, I dread not, from you,

this frigid censure. "The ideas, the associations, the

circumstances of each man are properly his own, and it is a

pernicious system, that would lead us to require all men,

however different their circumstances, to act in many of the

common affairs of life, by a precise, general rule."[10]

The genuine effusions of the heart and mind are easily

distinguished, by the penetrating eye, from the vain

ostentation of sentiment, lip deep, which, causing no

emotion, communicates none--Oh! how unlike the energetic

sympathies of truth and feeling--darting from mind to mind,

enlightening, warming, with electrical rapidity!

[Footnote 10: Godwin's Political Justice.]

'My ideas have undergone, in the last three months, many

fluctuations. My _affection_ for you (why should I seek

for vague, inexpressive phrases?) has not ceased, has not

diminished, but it has, in some measure, changed its nature.

It was originally generated by the report, and cemented by

the knowledge, of your virtues and talents; and to virtue

and talents my mind had ever paid unfeigned, enthusiastic,

homage! It is somewhere said by Rousseau--"That there may

exist such a suitability of moral, mental, and personal,

qualifications, as should point out the propriety of an

union between a prince and the daughter of an executioner."

Vain girl that I was! I flattered myself that between us

this sympathy really existed. I dwelt on the union between

mind and mind--sentiments of nature gently insinuated

themselves--my sensibility grew more tender, more

affecting--and my imagination, ever lively, traced the

glowing picture, and dipped the pencil in rainbow tints!

Possessing one of those determined spirits, that is not

easily induced to relinquish its purposes--while I conceived

that I had only your pride, or your insensibility, to

combat, I wildly determined to persevere.--A further

recapitulation would, perhaps, be unnecessary:--my

situation, alas! is now changed.

'Having then examined my heart, attentively and

deliberately, I suspect that I have been unjust to

myself, in supposing it incapable of a disinterested

attachment.--Why am I to deprive you of a faithful friend,

and myself of all the benefits I may yet derive from your

conversation and kind offices? I ask, why? And I should,

indeed, have cause to blush, if, after having had time for

reflection, I could really think this necessary. Shall I,

then, sign the unjust decree, that women are incapable of

energy and fortitude? Have I exercised my understanding,

without ever intending to apply my principles to practice?

Do I mean always to deplore the prejudices which have,

systematically, weakened the female character, without

making any effort to rise above them? Is the example

you have given me, of a steady adherence to honour and

principle, to be merely respected, without exciting in my

bosom any emulation? Dare I to answer these questions in the

affirmative, and still ask your esteem--the esteem of the

wise and good?--I dare not! No longer weakened by alternate

hopes and fears, like the reed yielding to every breeze, I

believe myself capable of acting upon firmer principles;

and I request, with confidence, the restoration of your

friendship! Should I afterwards find, that I have over-rated

my own strength, I will frankly tell you so, and expect

from your humanity those allowances, which are but a poor

substitute for respect.

'Believe, then, my views and motives to be simply such as I

state them; at least, such, after severely scrutinizing my

heart, they appear to myself; and reply to me with similar

ingenuousness. My expectations are very moderate: answer me

with simplicity--my very soul sickens at evasion! You have

undoubtedly, a right to judge and to determine for yourself;

but it will be but just to state to me the reasons for, and

the result of, that judgment; in which case, if I cannot

obviate those reasons, I shall be bound, however reluctantly,

to acquiesce in them. Be assured, I will never complain of

any consequences which may ensue, even, from the utterance

of all truth.

'EMMA.'

CHAPTER III

This letter was succeeded by a renewal of our intercourse and studies.

Mrs Denbeigh, my kind hostess, was usually of our parties. We read

together, or conversed only on general topics, or upon subjects of

literature. I was introduced by Mr Harley to several respectable

families, friends of his own and of his mother's. I made many indirect

enquiries of our common acquaintance, with a view to discover the

supposed object of my friend's attachment, but without success. All that

he had, himself, said, respecting such an engagement, had been so vague,

that I began to doubt of the reality of its existence.--When, in any

subsequent letters (for we continued occasionally to correspond) I

ventured to allude to the subject, I was warned 'not to confound my own

conceptions with real existences.' When he spoke of a susceptibility

to the tender affections, it was always in the past time,--'I _have_

felt,'--'I _have_ been--'Once he wrote--'His situation had been rendered

difficult, by a combination of _peculiar circumstances_; circumstances,

with which but few persons were acquainted.' Sometimes he would affect

to reflect upon his past conduct, and warn me against appreciating him

too highly. In fine, he was a perfect enigma, and every thing which he

said or wrote tended to increase the mystery.

A restless, an insatiable, curiosity, devoured me, heightened by

feelings that every hour became more imperious, more uncontroulable.

I proposed to myself, in the gratification of this curiosity, a

satisfaction that should compensate for all the injuries I might suffer

in the career. This inquietude prevented my mind from resting; and, by

leaving room for conjecture, left room for the illusions of fancy, and

of hope. Had I never expressed this, he might have affected ignorance of

my sensations; he might have pleaded guiltless, when, in the agony of

my soul, I accused him of having sacrificed my peace to his

disingenuousness--but vain were all my expostulations!

'If,' said I, 'I have sought, too earnestly, to learn the state of your

affections, it has been with a view to the more effectually disciplining

of my own--of stifling every _ignis fatuus_ of false hope, that making,

even, impossibilities possible, will still, at times, continue to mislead

me. Objects seen through obscurity, imperfectly discerned, allow to the

fancy but too free a scope; the mind grows debilitated, by brooding over

its apprehensions; and those apprehensions, whether real or imaginary,

are carried with accumulated pain to the heart. I have said, on this

subject, you have a right to be free; but I am, now, doubtful of this

right: the health of my mind being involved in the question, has

rendered it a question of _utility_--and on what other basis can morals

rest?'

I frequently reiterated these reasonings, always with encreased fervor

and earnestness: represented--'that every step I took in advance would

be miles in return--every minute that the blow was suspended, prepared

it to descend with accumulated force.' I required no particulars, but

merely requested to be assured of _a present, existing, engagement_. I

continued, from time to time, to urge this subject.

'Much,' said I, 'as I esteem you, and deeply as a thousand

associations have fixed your idea in my heart--in true

candour of soul, I, yet, feel myself your superior.--I

recollect a sentiment of Richardson's Clarissa that always

pleased me, and that may afford a test, by which each of us

may judge of the integrity of our own minds--"I should be

glad that you, and all the world, knew my heart; let my

enemies sit in judgment upon my actions; fairly scanned,

I fear not the result. Let them ask me my most secret

thoughts; and, whether they make for me, or against me, I

will reveal them."

'This is the principle, my friend, upon which I have acted

towards you. I have said many things, I doubt not, which

make against me; but I trusted them to one, who told me,

that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only

in compliance with the prejudices of others, if I have taken

any pains to conceal all I have thought and felt on this,

or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. Had I

not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient

strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how

often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should I have accused

you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a

hopeless maze of conjecture--by leaving me a prey to the

constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something,

which I should not have had the fortitude to support with

dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still

contributes to harrass, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind

from bearing its disclosure.

'I know you might reply--and more than nine-tenths of the

world would justify you in this reply--"That you had already

said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have

been so to any other human being;--that you had not sought

the confidence I boast of having reposed in you;--and

that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has

occasioned you only perplexity. If my own destiny was not

equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what

right had I to enquire after circumstances, in which,

however affecting, I could have no real concern."

'You may think all this, perhaps--I will not spare

myself--and it may be reasonable. _But could you say

it_--and have you, indeed, studied the human heart--_have

you, indeed, ever felt the affections?_--Whatever may be the

event--and it is in the mind of powers only that passions

are likely to become fatal--and however irreproachable every

other part of your conduct may have been, I shall, _here_,

always say, you were culpable!'

I changed my style.

'I know not,' said I, 'the nature of those stern duties,

which oblige you to with-hold from me your tenderness;

neither do I any longer enquire. I dread, only, lest I

should acquire this knowledge when I am the least able to

support it. Ignorant, then, of any reasons which should

prevent me from giving up my heart to an attachment, now

become interwoven with my existence, I yield myself up to

these sweet and affecting emotions, so necessary to my

disposition--to which apathy is abhorrent. "The affections

(truly says Sterne) must be exercised on something; for, not

to love, is to be miserable. Were I in a desart, I would

find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. If I

could do no better, I would fasten them upon some sweet

myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself

to--I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for

their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear

they were the loveliest trees throughout the desart. If

their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn; and,

when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them."

'An attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth,

must be both safe and salutary. My mind has not sufficient

strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. I have ever

found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections.

I will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; I

will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in

your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest

myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with

all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and

satisfaction.--Is your heart so differently constituted from

every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and

sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions?

Why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means

afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its

peace to your keeping.

'EMMA.'

We met the next day at the house of a common friend. My accents,

involuntarily, were softened, my attentions pointed.--Manifestly

agitated, embarrassed, even distressed, Augustus quitted the company

at an early hour.

It would be endless to enumerate all the little incidents that occurred;

which, however trifling they might appear in the recital, continued to

operate in one direction. Many letters passed to the same purport. My

curiosity was a consuming passion; but this inflexible, impenetrable,

man, was still silent, or alternately evaded, and resented, my

enquiries. We continued, occasionally, to meet, but generally in

company.

CHAPTER IV

During the ensuing summer, Mr Harley proposed making a visit to his

mother, and, calling to take his leave of me, on the evening preceding

his journey, accidentally found me alone.--We entered into conversation

on various subjects: twilight stole upon us unperceived. The obscure

light inspired me with courage: I ventured to resume a subject, so often

discussed; I complained, gently, of his reserve.

'Could I suppose,' he asked, 'that he had been without _his share_ of

suffering?'

I replied something, I scarce know what, adverting to his stronger mind.

'Strength!' said he, turning from me with emotion, 'rather say,

weakness!'

I reiterated the important, the so often proposed, enquiry--'Had he, or

had he not, a _present, existing, engagement_?'

He endeavoured to evade my question--I repeated it--He answered, with

a degree of impatience, '_I cannot tell you_; if I could, do you think

I would have been silent so long?'--as once, before, he spoke of the

circumstances of his past life, as being of '_a singular, a peculiar,

nature_.'

At our separation, I asked, if he would write to me during his absence.

'Certainly, he would.' The next morning, having some little commissions

to execute for Mrs Harley, I sent them, accompanied by a few lines, to

her son.

'Why is it,' said I, 'that our sagacity, and penetration, frequently

desert us on the most interesting occasions? I can read any mind with

greater facility than I can read your's; and, yet, what other have I

so attentively studied? This is a problem I know not how to solve. One

conclusion will force itself upon me--if a mistaken one, whom have you

to blame?--That an _honourable_, suitable, engagement, could have given

no occasion for mystery.' I added, 'I should depend on hearing from him,

according to his promise.'

Week after week, month after month, wore away, and no letter arrived.

Perturbation was succeeded by anxiety and apprehension; but hearing,

through my maternal friend, Mrs Harley, of the welfare of this object

of our too tender cares, my solicitude subsided into despondency. The

pressure of one corroding train of ideas preyed, like a canker-worm,

upon my heart, and destroyed all its tranquillity.

In the beginning of the winter, this mysterious, inexplicable, being,

again returned to town. I had undertaken a little business, to serve

him, during his absence--I transmitted to him an account of my

proceedings; subjoining a gentle reproach for his unkind silence.

'You promised you would write to me,' said I, 'during your residence

in ----shire. I therefore depended upon hearing from you; and, yet, I

was disappointed. You should not, indeed you should not, make these

experiments upon my mind. My sensibility, originally acute, from having

been too much exercised, has become nearly morbid, and has almost

unfitted me for an inhabitant of this world. I am willing to believe,

that your conduct towards me has originated in good motives, nevertheless,

you have made some sad mistakes--you have _deeply_, though undesignedly,

wounded me: I have been harrassed, distressed, mortified. You know not,

neither will I attempt to describe, all I have suffered! language would

be inadequate to paint the struggles of a delicate, susceptible, mind,

in some peculiar and interesting situations.

'You may suspect me of wanting resolution, but strong, persevering

affections, are no mark of a weak mind. To have been the wife of a man

of virtue and talents was my dearest ambition, and would have been my

glory: I judged myself worthy of the confidence and affection of such a

man--I felt, that I could have united in his pursuits, and shared his

principles--aided the virtuous energies of his mind, and assured his

domestic comforts. I earnestly sought to inspire you with tenderness,

from the conviction, that I could contribute to your happiness, and to

the worth of your character. And if, from innumerable associations, I

at length loved your person, it was the magnanimity of your conduct, it

was your virtues, that first excited my admiration and esteem. But you

have rejected an attachment originating in the highest, the purest,

principles--you have thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility,

and you leave me in doubt, whether you have not sacrificed that heart

to prejudice. Yet, contemned affection has excited in my mind no

resentment; true tenderness is made up of gentle and amiable emotions;

nothing hostile, nothing severe, can mix with it: it may gradually

subside, but it will continue to soften the mind it has once subdued.

'I see much to respect in your conduct, and though, it is probable, some

parts of it may have originated in mistaken principles, I trust, that

their source was pure! I, also, have made many mistakes--have been

guilty of many extravagances. Yet, distrust the morality, that sternly

commands you to pierce the bosom that most reveres you, and then to call

it virtue--_Yes! distrust and suspect its origin!_' I concluded with

expressing a wish to see him--'_merely as a friend_'--requesting a line

in reply.

He wrote not, but came, unexpectedly came, the next evening. I expressed,

in lively terms, the pleasure I felt in seeing him. We conversed on

various subjects, he spoke affectionately of his mother, and of the

tender interest she had expressed for my welfare. He enquired after my

pursuits and acquirements during his absence, commending the progress I

had made. Just before he quitted me, he adverted to the reproach I had

made him, for not having written to me, according to his engagement.

'Recollect,' said he, 'in the last letter I received from you, before I

left London, you hinted some suspicions--' I looked at him, 'and what,'

added he, 'could I reply?'

I was disconcerted, I changed colour, and had no power to pursue the

subject.

CHAPTER V

From this period, he continued to visit me (I confess at my solicitation)

more frequently. We occasionally resumed our scientific pursuits, read

together, or entered into discussion on various topics. At length he

grew captious, disputatious, gloomy, and imperious--the more I studied

to please him, the less I succeeded. He disapproved my conduct, my

opinions, my sentiments; my frankness offended him. This change

considerably affected me. In company, his manners were studiously cold

and distant; in private capricious, yet reserved and guarded. He seemed

to overlook all my efforts to please, and, with a severe and penetrating

eye, to search only for my errors--errors, into which I was but too

easily betrayed, by the painful, and delicate, situation, in which I had

placed myself.

We, one day, accompanied Mrs Denbeigh on a visit of congratulation to

her brother (eldest son of my deceased uncle Mr Melmoth), who had, when

a youth, been placed by his father in a commercial house in the West

Indies, and who had just returned to his native country with an ample

fortune. His sister and myself anticipated the pleasure of renewing our

early, fraternal, affection and intimacy, while I felt a secret pride in

introducing to his acquaintance a man so accomplished and respectable as

Mr Harley. We were little aware of the changes which time and different

situations produce on the character, and, with hearts and minds full of

the frank, lively, affectionate, youth, from whom we had parted, seven

years since, with mutual tears and embraces, shrunk spontaneously,

on our arrival at Mr Melmoth's elegant house in Bedford square, from

the cold salutation, of the haughty, opulent, purse-proud, Planter,

surrounded by ostentatious luxuries, and evidently valuing himself upon

the consequence which he imagined they must give him in our eyes.

Mr Harley received the formal compliments of this favourite of fortune

with the easy politeness which distinguishes the gentleman and the man

of letters, and the dignified composure which the consciousness of worth

and talents seldom fails to inspire. Mr Melmoth, by his awkward and

embarrassed manner, tacitly acknowledged the impotence of wealth and

the real superiority of his guest. We were introduced by our stately

relation to his wife, the lady of the mansion, a young woman whom he had

accidentally met with in a party of pleasure at Jamaica, whither she had

attended a family in the humble office of companion or chief attendant

to the lady. Fascinated by her beauty and lively manner, our trader had

overlooked an empty mind, a low education, and a doubtful character,

and, after a very few interviews, tendered to her acceptance his hand

and fortune; which, though not without some affectation of doubt and

delay, were in a short time joyfully accepted.

A gentleman joined our party in the dining-room, whom the servant

announced by the name of Pemberton, in whom I presently recognized,

notwithstanding some years had elapsed since our former meeting, the man

of fashon and gallantry who had been the antagonist of Mr Francis, at

the table of my father. He had lately (we were informed by our host)

been to Jamaica, to take possession of an estate bequeathed to him, and

had returned to England in the same vessel with Mr and Mrs Melmoth.

After an elegant dinner of several courses had been served up and

removed for the desert, a desultory conversation took place.

Mr Pemberton, it appeared, held a commission in the militia, and

earnestly solicited Mrs Melmoth, on whom he lavished a profusion of

compliments, to grace their encampment, which was to be stationed in the

ensuing season near one of the fashionable watering places, with her

presence.

This request the lady readily promised to comply with, expressing, in

tones of affected softness, her admiration of military men, and of the

'Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!'

'Do you not think, Miss Courtney,' said she, turning to me, 'that

soldiers are the most agreeable and charming men in the world?'

'Indeed I do not, Madam; their trade is _murder_, and their trappings,

in my eyes, appear but as the gaudy pomp of sacrifice.'

'_Murder_, indeed! What a harsh word--I declare you are a shocking

creature--There have always been wars in the world, and there always

must be: but surely you would not confound the brave fellows, who

fight to protect their King and Country, and _the ladies_, with common

ruffians and housebreakers!'

'All the difference between them is, that the one, rendered desperate

by passion, poverty, or injustice, endeavours by _wrong_ means to do

himself _right_, and through this terrible and pitiable mistake destroys

the life or the property of a fellow being--The others, wantonly and in

cold blood, cut down millions of their species, ravage whole towns and

cities, and carry devastation through a country.'

'What _odd notions_! Dear, Mr Pemberton, did you ever hear a lady talk

so strangely?'

Thus called upon, Mr Pemberton thought it incumbent upon him to

interfere--'_Courtney_, I think, Madam, your name is! The daughter of an

old friend of mine, if I am not mistaken, and who, I remember, was, when

a very young lady, a great admirer of _Roman virtues_.'

'Not of _Roman virtues_, I believe, Sir; they had in them too much of

the destructive spirit which Mrs Melmoth thinks so admirable.'

'Indeed, I said nothing about _Roman virtues_, nor do I trouble myself

with such subjects--I merely admired the soldiers because they are so

brave and so polite; besides, the military dress is so elegant and

becoming--Dear, Mr Pemberton, how charmingly you must look in your

regimentals!'

Mr Pemberton, bowing in return to the compliment, made an animated

eulogium on the taste and beauty of the speaker.

'Pray, Sir,' resumed she, addressing herself to Mr Harley, whose

inattention seemed to pique her, and whose notice she was determined to

attract, 'are you of Miss Courtney's opinion--do you think it right to

call soldiers _murderers_?'

'Upon my word, Madam,' with an air of irony, 'you must excuse me from

entering into such _nice distinctions_--when _ladies_ differ, who shall

presume to decide?'

Mr Melmoth interposed, by wishing, 'that they had some thousands

more of these _murderers_ in the West Indies, to keep the slaves in

subordination, who, since absurd notions of liberty had been put into

their heads, were grown very troublesome and refractory, and, in a short

time, he supposed, would become as insolent as the English servants.'

'Would you believe it, Mrs Denbeigh,' said the Planter's lady,

addressing the sister of her husband, 'Mr Melmoth and I have been in

England but a month, and have been obliged three times to change our

whole suit of servants?'

'This is a land of freedom, my dear sister; servants, here, will not

submit to be treated like the slaves of Jamaica.'

'Well, I am sure it is very provoking to have one's will disputed by

such low, ignorant, creatures. How should they know what is right? It

is enough for them to obey the orders of their superiors.'

'But suppose,' replied Mrs Denbeigh, 'they should happen to think their

superiors unreasonable!'

'_Think!_ sister,' said the lordly Mr Melmoth, with an exulting laugh,

'what have _servants_, or _women_, to do with _thinking_?'

'Nay, now,' interrupted Mr Pemberton, 'you are too severe upon the

ladies--how would the elegant and tasteful arrangement of Mrs Melmoth's

ornaments have been produced without thinking?'

'Oh, you flatterer!' said the lady. 'Let them think only about their

dress, and I have no objection, but don't let them plague us with

_sermonizing_.'

'Mrs Melmoth,' said I, coolly, 'does not often, I dare say, offend

_in this way_. That some of the gentlemen, present, should object to a

woman's exercising her discriminating powers, is not wonderful, since

it might operate greatly to their disadvantage.'

'A blow on the right cheek, from so fair a hand,' replied Mr Pemberton,

affectedly bending his body, 'would almost induce one to adopt the

christian maxim, and turn the left, also. What say you, Mr Harley?'

'Mr Harley, I believe, Sir, does not feel himself included in the

reflection.'

'He is a happy man then.'

'No, Sir, merely a _rational one_!'

'You are pleased to be severe; of all things I dread a female wit.'

'It is an instinctive feeling of self-preservation--nature provides weak

animals with timidity as a guard.'

Mr Pemberton reddened, and, affecting a careless air, hummed a tune. Mr

Melmoth again reverted to the subject of English servants, which gave

rise to a discussion on the Slave Trade. Mr Harley pleaded the cause of

freedom and humanity with a bold and manly eloquence, expatiating warmly

on the iniquity as well as impolicy of so accursed a traffic. Melmoth

was awed into silence. Mr Pemberton advanced some trite arguments in

opposition, respecting the temporary mischiefs which might ensue, in case

of an abolition, to the planters, landholders, traders, &c. Augustus

explained, by contending only for the gradual emancipation, after their

minds had been previously prepared, of the oppressed Africans. The

conversation grew interesting. Pemberton was not devoid of talents when

he laid aside his affectation; the subject was examined both in a moral

and a political point of view. I listened with delight, while Augustus

exposed and confuted the specious reasoning and sophistry of his

antagonist: exulting in the triumph of truth and justice, I secretly

gloried--'with more than selfish vanity'--in the virtues and abilities

of my friend. Though driven from all his resources, Mr Pemberton was too

much the courtier to be easily disconcerted, but complimenting his

adversary on his eloquence, declared he should be happy to hear of his

having a seat in Parliament.

Mrs Melmoth, who had yawned and betrayed various symptoms of weariness

during the discussion, now proposed the adjournment of the ladies into

the drawing-room, whither I was compelled, by a barbarous and odious

custom, reluctantly to follow, and to submit to be entertained with a

torrent of folly and impertinence.

'I was ill-natured,' she told me.--'How could I be so severe upon the

_charming_ and _elegant_ Mr Pemberton?'

It was in vain I laboured to convince her, that to be treated like

ideots was no real compliment, and that the men who condescend to

flatter our foibles, despised the weak beings they helped to form.

My remonstrances were as fatiguing, and as little to be comprehended

by this _fine lady_, as the arguments respecting the Slave Trade:--she

sought refuge from them in interrogating Mrs Denbeigh respecting the

last new fashions, and in consulting her taste on the important

question--whether blue or violet colour was the most becoming to a

brunette complexion? The gentlemen joined us, to our great relief, at

the tea-table:--other company dropped in, and the evening was beguiled

with cards and the chess-board;--at the latter Mr Melmoth and Mr Harley

were antagonists;--the former was no match for Augustus. I amused myself

by observing their moves, and overlooking the game.

During our return from this visit, some conversation occurred between Mr

Harley, my cousin, and myself, respecting the company we had quitted. I

expressed my disappointment, disgust, and contempt, in terms, it may be,

a little too strong.

'I was _fastidious_,' Augustus told me, 'I wanted a world made on

purpose for me, and beings formed after one model. It was both amusing,

and instructive, to contemplate varieties of character. I was a romantic

enthusiast--and should endeavour to become more like an inhabitant of

the world.'

Piqued at these remarks, and at the tone and manner in which they were

uttered, I felt my temper rising, and replied with warmth; but it was

the glow of a moment; for, to say truth, vexation and disappointment,

rather than reason, had broken and subdued my spirit. Mrs Denbeigh,

perceiving I was pained, kindly endeavoured to give a turn to the

conversation; yet she could not help expressing her regret, on observing

the folly, levity, and extravagance, of the woman whom her brother had

chosen for a wife.

'No doubt,' said Augustus, a little peevishly, 'he is fond of her--she

is a fine woman--there is no accounting for the _caprices_ of the

affections.'

I sighed, and my eyes filled with tears--'Is, then, affection so

_capricious_ a sentiment--is it possible to love what we despise?'

'I cannot tell,' retorted Mr Harley, with quickness. 'Triflers can give

no _serious_ occasion for uneasiness:--the humours of superior women are

sometimes still less tolerable.'

'Ah! how unjust. If gentleness be not _the perfection of reason_, it is

a quality which I have never, yet, properly understood.'

He made no reply, but sunk into silence, reserve, and reverie. On our

arrival at my apartments, I ventured (my cousin having left us) to

expostulate with him on his unkind behaviour; but was answered with

severity. Some retrospection ensued, which gradually led to the subject

ever present to my thoughts.--Again I expressed a solicitude to be

informed of the real state of his heart, of the nature of those

mysterious obstacles, to which, when clearly ascertained, I was ready

to submit.--'Had he, or had he not, an attachment, that looked to, as

its _end_, a serious and legal engagement?' He appeared ruffled and

discomposed.--'I ought not to be so urgent--he had already sufficiently

explained himself.' He then repeated to me some particulars, apparently

adverse to such a supposition--asking me, in his turn, 'If these

circumstances bespoke his having any such event in view?'

CHAPTER VI

For some time after this he absented himself from me; and, when he

returned, his manners were still more unequal; even his sentiments, and

principles, at times, appeared to me equivocal, and his character seemed

wholly changed. I tried, in vain, to accommodate myself to a disposition

so various. My affection, my sensibility, my fear of offending--a

thousand conflicting, torturing, emotions, threw a constraint over my

behaviour.--My situation became absolutely intolerable--time was murdered,

activity vain, virtue inefficient: yet, a secret hope inspired me, that

_indifference_ could not have produced the irritations, the inequalities,

that thus harrassed me. I thought, I observed a conflict in his mind;

his fits of absence, and reflection, were unusual, deep, and frequent:

I watched them with anxiety, with terror, with breathless expectation.

My health became affected, and my mind disordered. I perceived that it

was impossible to proceed, in the manner we had hitherto done, much

longer--I felt that it would, inevitably, destroy me.

I reflected, meditated, reasoned, with myself--'That one channel, into

which my thoughts were incessantly impelled, was destructive of all

order, of all connection.' New projects occurred to me, which I had

never before ventured to encourage--I revolved them in my mind, examined

them in every point of view, weighed their advantages and disadvantages,

in a moral, in a prudential, scale.--Threatening evils appeared on all

sides--I endeavoured, at once, to free my mind from prejudice, and from

passion; and, in the critical and _singular_ circumstances in which I

had placed myself, coolly to survey the several arguments of the case,

and nicely to calculate their force and importance.

'If, as we are taught to believe, the benevolent Author of nature be,

indeed, benevolent,' said I, to myself, 'he surely must have intended

the _happiness_ of his creatures. Our morality cannot extend to him, but

must consist in the knowledge, and practice, of those duties which we

owe to ourselves and to each other.--Individual happiness constitutes

the general good:--_happiness_ is the only true _end_ of existence;

--all notions of morals, founded on any other principle, involve in

themselves a contradiction, and must be erroneous. Man does right,

when pursuing interest and pleasure--it argues no depravity--this is

the fable of superstition: he ought to only be careful, that, in seeking

his own good, he does not render it incompatible with the good of

others--that he does not consider himself as standing alone in the

universe. The infraction of established _rules_ may, it is possible, in

some cases, be productive of mischief; yet, it is difficult to state any

_rule_ so precise and determinate, as to be alike applicable to every

situation: what, in one instance, might be a _vice_, in another may

possibly become a _virtue_:--a thousand imperceptible, evanescent,

shadings, modify every thought, every motive, every action, of our

lives--no one can estimate the sensations of, can form an exact

judgment for, another.

'I have sometimes suspected, that all mankind are pursuing phantoms,

however dignified by different appellations.--The healing operations of

time, had I patience to wait the experiment, might, perhaps, recover my

mind from its present distempered state; but, in the meanwhile, the bloom

of youth is fading, and the vigour of life running to waste.--Should I,

at length, awake from a delusive vision, it would be only to find myself

a comfortless, solitary, shivering, wanderer, in the dreary wilderness

of human society. I feel in myself the capacities for increasing the

happiness, and the improvement, of a few individuals--and this circle,

spreading wider and wider, would operate towards the grand end of

life--_general utility_.'

Again I repeated to myself--'Ascetic virtues are equally barbarous as

vain:--the only just morals, are those which have a tendency to increase

the bulk of enjoyment. My plan tends to this. The good which I seek

does not appear to me to involve injury to any one--it is of a nature,

adapted to the disposition of my mind, for which every event of my life,

the education both of design and accident, have fitted me. If I am now

put out, I may, perhaps, do mischief:--the placid stream, forced from

its channel, lays waste the meadow. I seem to stand as upon a wide

plain, bounded on all sides by the horizon:--among the objects which I

perceive within these limits, some are so lofty, my eyes ache to look

up to them; others so low, I disdain to stoop for them. _One_, only,

seems fitted to my powers, and to my wishes--_one, alone_, engages my

attention! Is not its possession worthy an arduous effort: _Perseverance_

can turn the course of rivers, and level mountains! Shall I, then,

relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of success?

'The mind must have an object:--should I desist from my present pursuit,

after all it has cost me, for what can I change it? I feel, that I am

neither a philosopher, nor a heroine--but a _woman, to whom education

has given a sexual character_. It is true, I have risen superior to the

generality of my _oppressed sex_; yet, I have neither the talents for a

legislator, nor for a reformer, of the world. I have still many female

foibles, and shrinking delicacies, that unfit me for rising to arduous

heights. Ambition cannot stimulate me, and to accumulate wealth, I am

still less fitted. Should I, then, do violence to my heart, and compel

it to resign its hopes and expectations, what can preserve me from

sinking into, the most abhorred of all states, _languor and inanity_?

--Alas! that tender and faithful heart refuses to change its object--it

can never love another. Like Rousseau's Julia, my strong individual

attachment has annihilated every man in the creation:--him I love

appears, in my eyes, something more--every other, something less.

'I have laboured to improve myself, that I might be worthy of the

situation I have chosen. I would unite myself to a man of worth--I would

have our mingled virtues and talents perpetuated in our offspring--I

would experience those sweet sensations, of which nature has formed my

heart so exquisitely susceptible. My ardent sensibilities incite me to

love--to seek to inspire sympathy--to be beloved! My heart obstinately

refuses to renounce the man, to whose mind my own seems akin! From the

centre of private affections, it will at length embrace--like spreading

circles on the peaceful bosom of the smooth and expanded lake--the whole

sensitive and rational creation. Is it virtue, then, to combat, or to

yield to, my passions?'

I considered, and reconsidered, these reasonings, so specious, so

flattering, to which passion lent its force. One moment, my mind seemed

firmly made up on the part I had to act;--I persuaded myself, that I had

gone too far to recede, and that there remained for me no alternative:--the

next instant, I shrunk, gasping, from my own resolves, and shuddered at

the important consequences which they involved. Amidst a variety of

perturbations, of conflicting emotions, I, at length, once more, took up

my pen.

CHAPTER VII

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I blush, when I reflect what a weak, wavering, inconsistent

being, I must lately have appeared to you. I write to you on

important subjects--I forbid you to answer me on paper; and,

when you seem inclined to put that period to the present,

painful, high-wrought, and trying, state of my feelings,

which is now become so necessary, I appear neither to hear,

nor to comprehend you. I fly from the subject, and thicken

the cloud of mystery, of which I have so often, and, I still

think, so justly complained.--These are some of the effects

of the contradictory systems, that have so long bewildered

our principles and conduct. A combination of causes, added

to the conflict between a thousand delicate and nameless

emotions, have lately conspired to confuse, to weaken,

my spirits. You can conceive, that these acute, mental,

sensations, must have had a temporary effect on the state

of my health. To say truth (and, had I not said it, my

countenance would have betrayed me), I have not, for some

time past, been so thoroughly disordered.

'Once more, I have determined to rally my strength; for I

feel, that a much longer continuance in the situation,

in which my mind has been lately involved, would be

insupportable:--and I call upon you, _now_, with a

resolution to summon all my fortitude to bear the result,

for the _written_ state of your mind, on the topic become so

important to my future welfare and usefulness.

'You may suppose, that a mind like mine must have,

repeatedly, set itself to examine, on every side, all that

could possibly have a relation to a subject affecting it so

materially. You have hinted at _mysterious_ obstacles to the

wish, in which every faculty of my soul has been so long

absorbed--the wish of forming with you, a connection,

nearer, _and more tender_, than that of friendship. This

mystery, by leaving room for conjecture (and how frequently

have I warned you of this!), left room for the illusions of

imagination, and of hope--left room for the suspicion, that

you might, possibly, be sacrificing _your own feelings_ as

well as mine, to a mistaken principle. Is it possible that

you were not aware of this--you, who are not unacquainted

with the nature of the mind! Still less were you ignorant

of the nature of my mind--which I had so explicitly, so

unreservedly, laid open! I had a double claim upon your

confidence--a confidence, that I was utterly incapable of

abusing, or betraying--a confidence, which must have stopped

my mind in its career--which would have saved me the bitter,

agonizing, pangs I have sustained. Mine were not common

feelings--it is _obscurity_ and _mystery_ which has wrought

them up to frenzy--_truth_ and _certainty_ would, long ere

this, have caused them temporarily to subside into their

accustomed channels. You understand little of the human

heart, if you cannot conceive this--"Where the imagination

is vivid, the feelings strong, the views and desires not

bounded by common rules;--in such minds, passions, if not

subdued, become ungovernable and fatal: where there is much

warmth, much enthusiasm, there is much danger.--My mind is

no less ardent than yours, though education and habit may

have given it a different turn--it glows with equal zeal to

attain its end."[11] Yes, I must continue to repeat, there

has been in your conduct _one grand mistake_; and the train

of consequences which may, yet, ensue, are uncertain, and

threatening.--But, I mean no reproach--we are all liable to

errors; and my own, I feel, are many, and various. But to

return--

[Footnote 11: Holcraft's Anna St Ives.]

'You may suppose I have revolved, in my thoughts, every

possible difficulty on the subject alluded to; balancing

their degrees of probability and force:--and, I will frankly

confess, such is the sanguine ardour of my temper, that I

can conceive but one obstacle, that would be _absolutely

invincible_; which is, supposing that you have already

contracted a _legal, irrecoverable_, engagement. Yet, this I

do not suppose. I will arrange, under five heads, (on all

occasions, I love to class and methodize) every other

possible species of objection, and subjoin all the

reasonings which have occurred to me on the subjects.

'And, first, I will imagine, as the most serious and

threatening difficulty, that you love another. I would,

then, ask--Is she capable of estimating your worth--does she

love you--has she the magnanimity to tell you so--would she

sacrifice to that affection every meaner consideration--has

she the merit to secure, as well as accomplishments to

attract, your regard?--You are too well acquainted with the

human heart, not to be aware, that what is commonly called

love is of a fleeting nature, kept alive only by hopes and

fears, if the qualities upon which it is founded afford no

basis for its subsiding into tender confidence, and rational

esteem. Beauty may inspire a transient desire, vivacity

amuse, for a time, by its sportive graces; but the first

will quickly fade and grow familiar--the last degenerate

into impertinence and insipidity. Interrogate your own

heart--Would you not, when the ardour of the passions, and

the fervor of the imagination, subsided, wish to find the

sensible, intelligent, friend, take place of the engaging

mistress?--Would you not expect the economical manager of

your affairs, the rational and judicious mother to your

offspring, the faithful sharer of your cares, the firm

friend to your interest, the tender consoler of your

sorrows, the companion in whom you could wholly confide, the

discerning participator of your nobler pursuits, the friend

of your virtues, your talents, your reputation--who could

understand you, who was formed to pass the ordeal of honour,

virtue, friendship?--Ask yourself these questions--ask them

closely, without sophistry, and without evasion. You are

not, now, an infatuated boy! Supposing, then, that you are,

at present, entangled in an engagement which answers not

this description--Is it virtue to fulfil, or to renounce,

it? Contrast it with my affection, with its probable

consequences, and weigh our different claims! _Would you

have been the selected choice, of this woman, from all

mankind_--would no other be capable of making her equally

happy--would nothing compensate to her for your loss--are

you the only object that she beholds in creation--might not

another engagement suit her equally well, or better--is her

whole soul absorbed but by one sentiment, that of fervent

love for you--is her future usefulness, as well as peace, at

stake--does she understand your high qualities better than

myself--will she emulate them more?--Does the engagement

promise a favourable issue, or does it threaten to wear

away the best period of life in protracted and uncertain

feeling--_the most pernicious, and destructive, of all state

of mind?_ Remember, also, that the summer of life will

quickly fade; and that he who has reached the summit of the

hill, has no time to lose--if he seize not the present

moment, age is approaching, and life melting fast away.--I

quit this, to state my second hypothesis--

'That you esteem and respect me, but that your heart has

hitherto refused the sympathies I have sought to awaken

in it. If this be the case, it remains to search for the

reason; and, I own, I am at a loss to find it, either in

moral, or physical, causes. Our principles are in unison,

our tastes and habits not dissimilar, our knowledge of, and

confidence in, each other's virtues is reciprocal, tried,

and established--our ages, personal accomplishments, and

mental acquirements do not materially differ. From such an

union, I conceive, mutual advantages would result. I have

found myself distinguished, esteemed, beloved by, others,

where I have not sought for this distinction. How, then, can

I believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so

many strong efforts, and reiterated impressions, can have

produced no effect upon yours? Is your heart constituted

differently from every other human heart?--I have lately

observed an inequality in your behaviour, that has whispered

something flattering to my heart. Examine yourself--Have you

felt no peculiar interest in what concerns me--would the

idea of our separation affect you with no more than a slight

and common emotion?--One more question propose to yourself,

as a test--Could you see me form a new, and more fortunate,

attachment, with indifference? If you cannot, without

hesitation, answer these questions, I have still a powerful

pleader in your bosom, though unconscious of it yourself,

that will, ultimately, prevail. If I have, yet, failed of

producing an unequivocal effect, it must arise from having

mistaken the _means_ proper to produce the desired _end_.

My own sensibility, and my imperfect knowledge of your

character may, here, have combined to mislead me. The first,

by its suffocating and depressing powers, clouding my

vivacity, incapacitating me from appearing to you with

my natural advantages--these effects would diminish as

assurance took the place of doubt. The last, every day would

contribute to correct. Permit me, then, _to hope for_, as

well as to seek your affections, and if I do not, at length,

gain and secure them, it will be a phenomenon in the history

of mind!

'But to proceed to my third supposition--The peculiar,

pecuniary, embarrassments of your situation--Good God!

did this barbarous, insidious, relation, allow himself

to consider the pernicious consequences of his absurd

bequest?--threatening to undermine every manly principle, to

blast every social virtue? Oh! that I had the eloquence to

rouse you from this tame and unworthy acquiescence--to

stimulate you to exercise your talents, to trust to the

independent energies of your mind, to exert yourself to

procure the honest rewards of virtuous industry. In

proportion as we lean for support on foreign aid, we lose

the dignity of our nature, and palsey those powers which

constitute that nature's worth. Yet, I will allow, from my

knowledge of your habits and associations, this obstacle its

full force. But there remains one method of obviating, even

this! I will frankly confess, that could I hope to gain

the interest in your heart, which I have so long and

so earnestly sought--my confidence in your honour and

integrity, my tenderness for you, added to the wish of

contributing to your happiness, would effect, what no lesser

considerations could have effected--would triumph, not over

my principles, (_for the individuality of an affection

constitutes its chastity_) but over my prudence. I repeat, I

am willing to sacrifice every inferior consideration--retain

your legacy, so capriciously bequeathed--retain your present

situation, and I will retain mine. This proposition, though

not a violation of modesty, certainly involves in it very

serious hazards--_It is, wholly, the triumph of affection!_

You cannot suppose, that a transient engagement would

satisfy a mind like mine; I should require a reciprocal

faith plighted and returned--an after separation, otherwise

than by mutual consent, would be my destruction--I should

not survive your desertion. My existence, then, would be in

your hands. Yet, having once confided, your affection should

be my recompence--my sacrifice should be a cheerful and a

voluntary one; I would determine not to harrass you with

doubts nor jealousies, I would neither reflect upon the

past, nor distrust the future: I would rest upon you, I

would confide in you fearlessly and entirely! but, though I

would not enquire after the past, my delicacy would require

the assurance of your present, undivided, affection.

'The fourth idea that has occurred to me, is the probability

of your having formed a plan of seeking some agreeable woman

of fortune, who should be willing to reward a man of merit

for the injustice of society. Whether you may already have

experienced some disappointments of this nature, I will not

pretend to determine. I can conceive, that, by many women,

a coxcomb might be preferred to you--however this may be,

the plan is not unattended with risque, nor with some

possible degrading circumstances--and you may succeed, and

yet be miserable: happiness depends not upon the abundance

of our possessions.

'The last case which I shall state, and on which I shall

lay little comparative stress, is the possibility of an

engagement of a very inferior nature--a mere affair of the

senses. The arguments which might here be adduced are too

obvious to be repeated. Besides, I think highly of your

refinement and delicacy--Having therefore just hinted, I

leave it with you.

'And now to conclude--After considering all I have urged,

you may, perhaps, reply--That the subject is too nice and

too subtle for reasoning, and that the heart is not to

be compelled. These, I think, are mistakes. There is no

subject, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws

of investigation and reasoning. What is it that we

desire--_pleasure_--_happiness_? I allow, pleasure is the

supreme good: but it may be analyzed--it must have a stable

foundation--to this analysis I now call you! This is

the critical moment, upon which hangs a long chain of

events--This moment may decide your future destiny and

mine--it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! My spirit

is pervaded with these important ideas--my heart flutters--I

breathe with difficulty--_My friend_--_I would give myself

to you_--the gift is not worthless. Pause a moment, ere you

rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable,

so worthy of you! The heart may be compelled--compelled

by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred,

indissoluble ties, mind to mind! Do not prepare for yourself

future remorse--when lost, you may recollect my worth, and

my affection, and remember them with regret--Yet mistake me

not, I have no intention to intimidate--I think it my duty

to live, while I may possibly be useful to others, however

bitter and oppressive may be that existence. I will live

_for duty_, though peace and enjoyment should be for ever

fled. You may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my

strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. And,

if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my

tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would

prevent me from adding, to the anxieties I have already

given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion,

however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow

creature.

'While I await your answer, I summon to my heart all its

remaining strength and spirits. Say to me, in clear and

decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affection

_are absolutely, and altogether, insuperable_--Or that

there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and

patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. In

this case, I will not disturb the future operations of your

mind, assuring myself, that you will continue my suspence no

longer than is proper and requisite--or frankly accept, and

return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer

than life itself!

'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the

paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny.

Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has

acquired additional force--since it must, at length,

descend, it would be weakness still to desire its

protraction--We have, already, refined too much--_I promise

to live--more, alas! I cannot promise_.

'_Farewel!_ dearest and most beloved of men--whatever may be

my fate--_be happiness yours!_ Once more, my lingering,

foreboding heart, repeats _farewel!_

'EMMA.'

It would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval in

which I waited a reply to this letter--I struggled to repress hope, and

to prepare my mind for the dissolution of a thousand air-built fabrics.

The day wore tediously away in strong emotion, and strong exertion. On

the subsequent morning, I sat, waiting the return of my messenger,

in a state of mind, difficult even to be conceived--I heard him

enter--breathless, I flew to meet him--I held out my hand--I could not

speak.

'Mr Harley desired me to tell you, _he had not had time to write_.'

Gracious God! I shudder, even now, to recall the convulsive sensation! I

sunk into a chair--I sat for some time motionless, every faculty seemed

suspended. At length, returning to recollection, I wrote a short

incoherent note, entreating--

'To be spared another day, another night, like the preceding--I asked

only _one single line_! In the morning I had made up my mind to

fortitude--it was now sinking--another day, I could not answer for the

consequences.'

Again an interval of suspense--again my messenger returned with

a verbal reply--'_He would write to-morrow._' Unconsciously, I

exclaimed--'_Barbarous, unfeeling, unpitying, man!_' A burst of tears

relieved--no--_it did not relieve me_. The day passed--I know not

how--I dare not recollect.

The next morning, I arose, somewhat refreshed; my exhausted strength and

spirits had procured me a few hours of profound slumber. A degree of

resentment gave a temporary firmness to my nerves. 'What happiness (I

repeated to myself) could I have expected with a man, thus regardless of

my feelings?' I composed my spirits--_hope was at an end_--into a sort

of sullen resignation to my fate--a half stupor!

At noon the letter arrived, coldly, confusedly written; methought there

appeared even a degree of irritation in it.

'_Another, a prior attachment_--His behaviour had been such, as

necessarily resulted from such an engagement--unavoidable circumstances

had prevented an earlier reply.' My swollen heart--but it is enough--'He

blamed my impatience--he would, in future, perhaps, when my mind had

attained more composure, make some remarks on my letter.'

CHAPTER VIII

To write had always afforded a temporary relief to my spirits--The next

day I resumed my pen.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'If, after reflecting upon, and comparing, many parts of

your past conduct, you can acquit yourself, at the sacred

bar of humanity--it is well! How often have I called

for--urged, with all the energy of truth and feeling--but in

vain--such a letter as you have at length written--and,

_even now_, though somewhat late, I thank you for it. Yet,

what could have been easier, than to repeat so plain and so

simple a tale? The vague hints, you had before given, I had

repeatedly declared to be insufficient. Remember, all my

earnestness, and all my simplicity, and _learn the value of

sincerity_! "Oh! with what difficulty is an active mind,

once forced into any particular train, persuaded to desert

it as hopeless!"[12]

[Footnote 12: Godwin's Caleb Williams.]

'This recital, then, was not to be confirmed, till the whole

moral conformation of my mind was affected--till the barbed

arrow had fixed, and rankled in, and poisoned, with its

envenomed point, every vein, every fibre, of my heart. This,

I confess, is now the case--Reason and self-respect sustain

me--but the wound you have inflicted _is indelible_--it will

continue to be the corroding canker at the root of my peace.

My youth has been worn in anguish--and the summer of life

will probably be overshadowed by a still thicker and darker

cloud. But I mean not to reproach you--it is not given me to

contribute to your happiness--the dearest and most ardent

wish of my soul--I would not then inflict unnecessary

pain--yet, I would fix upon your mind, the value of

_unequivocal sincerity_.

'Had the happiness of any human being, the meanest, the

vilest, depended as much upon me, as mine has done on you, I

would have sacrificed, for their relief, the dearest secret

of my heart--the secret, even upon which my very existence

had depended. It is true, you did not directly deceive

me--but is that enough for the delicacy of humanity? May the

past be an affecting lesson to us both--it is written upon

my mind in characters of blood. I feel, and acknowledge, my

own errors, in yielding to the illusion of vague, visionary,

expectation; but my faults have originated in a generous

source--they have been the wild, ardent, fervent, excesses,

of a vigorous and an exalted mind!

'I checked my tears, as they flowed, and they are already

dried--uncalled, unwished, for--why do they, thus, struggle

to force their way? my mind has, I hope, too much energy,

utterly to sink--I know what it is to suffer, and to combat

with, if not to subdue, my feelings--and _certainty_,

itself, is some relief. I am, also, supported by the

retrospect of my conduct; with all its mistakes, and all its

extravagances, it has been that of a virtuous, ingenuous,

uncorrupted, mind. You have contemned a heart of no common

value, you have sported with its exquisite sensibilities--but

it will, still, know how to separate your virtues from

your errors.

'You reprove, perhaps justly, my impatience--I can only say,

that circumstanced as you were, I should have stolen an hour

from rest, from company, from business, however, important,

to have relieved and soothed a fellow-creature in a

situation, so full of pain and peril. Every thought, during

a day scarcely to be recollected without agony, _was a

two-edged sword_--but some hours of profound and refreshing

slumber recruited my exhausted spirits, and enabled me,

yesterday, to receive my fate, with a fortitude but little

hoped for.

'You would oblige me exceedingly by the remarks you allow me

to hope for, on my letter of the ----th. You know, I will

not shrink from reproof--that letter afforded you the last

proof of my affection, and I repent not of it. I loved you,

first, for what, I conceived, high qualities of mind--from

nature and association, my tenderness became personal--till

at length, I loved you, not only rationally and

tenderly--_but passionately_--it became a pervading and a

devouring fire! And, yet, I do not blush--my affection

was modest, if intemperate, _for it was individual_--it

annihilated in my eyes every other man in the creation. I

regret these natural sensations and affections, their

forcible suppression injures the mind--it converts the mild

current of gentle, and genial sympathies, into a destructive

torrent. This, I have the courage to avow it, has been one

of the miserable mistakes in morals, and, like all other

partial remedies, has increased the evil, it was intended

to correct. From monastic institutions and principles have

flowed, as from a polluted source, streams, that have

at once spread through society a mingled contagion of

dissoluteness and hypocrisy.

'You have suddenly arrested my affections in their full

career--in all their glowing effervescence--you have taken

"The rose

From the fair forehead of an innocent love,

And placed a blister there."

'And, yet, I survive the shock, and determine to live, not

for future enjoyment--that is now, for ever, past--_but for

future usefulness_--Is not this virtue?

'I am sorry your attachment has been and I fear is likely

to be, protracted--I know, too well, the misery of

these situations, and I should, now, feel a melancholy

satisfaction in hearing of its completion--In that

completion, may you experience no disappointment! I do not

wish you to be beloved, as I have loved you; this, perhaps,

is unnecessary; such an affection, infallibly, enslaves the

heart that cherishes it; and slavery is the tomb of virtue

and of peace.

'I believe it would not be proper for us to meet again--at

least at present--should I hear of sickness, or calamity,

befalling you, I shall, I suspect, be impelled, by an

irresistible impulse to seek you--but I will no more

interrupt your repose--Though you have contemned my

affection, my friendship will still follow you.

'If you really _love_, I think you ought to make some

sacrifices, and not render yourself, and the happy

object of your tenderness, the victims of factitious

notions.--Remember--youth and life will quickly

fade. Relinquish, call upon her to relinquish, her

prejudices--should she refuse, she is unworthy of you, and

you will regret, too late, the tender, faithful, ingenuous

heart, that you have pierced through and through--_that

you have almost broken_! Should she make you happy, I will

esteem, though I may never have an opportunity of thanking,

her--Were she informed of my conduct, she might rejoice in

the trial of your affection--though I should not.

'The spirits, that had crouded round my heart, are already

subsiding--a flood of softness, a tide of overwhelming

affection, gushes upon it--and I feel sinking into helpless,

infantine, distress! Hasten to me your promised remarks--they

will rouse, they will strengthen, me--_Truth_ I will never

call indelicate or inhuman--it is only the virtuous mind

can dare to practise, to challenge, it:--simplicity is true

refinement.

'Let us reap from the past all the good we can--a close, and

searching, knowledge of the secret springs and foldings of

our hearts. Methinks, I could wish you justified, _even at

my own expence_.--I ask, unshrinkingly, a frank return.

'A heart-rending sigh accompanies my _farewel_--the last

struggles of expiring nature will be far less painful--but

my philosophy, now, _sternly_ calls upon me to put its

precepts in practice--trembling--shuddering--I obey!

'_Farewel!_

'EMMA.'

Perhaps it cost me some effort to make the preceding letter so

moderate--yet, every victory gained over ourselves is attended with

advantages. But this apparent calm was the lethargy of despair--it was

succeeded by severer conflicts, by keener anguish. A week passed, and

near a second--I received no answer.

CHAPTER IX

A letter from the country made it necessary for me, again, to address Mr

Harley, to make some enquiries which respected business of his mother's.

It may be, that I felt a mixture of other motives;--it is certain, that

when I wrote, I spoke of more than business.

'I had hoped,' I told him, 'ere this, to have received the

promised letter--Yet, I do not take up my pen,' said I,

'either to complain of, or to importune, you. If I have

already expressed myself with bitterness, let the harrassed

state of my mind be my excuse. My own conduct has been too

erroneous, too eccentric, to enable me to judge impartially

of your's. Forgive me, if by placing you in an embarrassing

situation, I have exposed you to consequent mistake or

uneasiness. I feel, that whatever errors we may either of

us have committed, _originated only with myself_, and I am

content to suffer all the consequences. It is true, had you

reposed in me an early, generous, confidence, much misery

would have been avoided--I had not been wounded

"There, where the human heart most exquisitely

feels!"

'You had been still my friend, and I had been comparatively

happy. Every passion is, in a great measure, the growth of

indulgence: all our desires are, in their commencement,

easily suppressed, when there appears no probability of

attaining their object; but when strengthened, by time and

reflection, into habit, in endeavouring to eradicate them,

we tear away part of the mind. In my attachments there is a

kind of savage tenacity--they are of an elastic nature,

and, being forced back, return with additional violence.

'My affection for you has not been, altogether, irrational

or selfish. While I felt that I loved you, as no other

woman, I was convinced, would love you--I conceived, could I

once engage your heart, I could satisfy, and even, purify

it. While I loved your virtues, I thought I saw, and I

lamented, the foibles which sullied them. I suspected you,

perhaps erroneously, of pride, ambition, the love of

distinction; yet your ambition could not, I thought, be of

an ignoble nature--I feared that the gratifications you

sought, if, indeed, attainable, were factitious--I even

fancied I perceived you, against your better judgment,

labouring to seduce yourself!' "He is under a delusion,"

said I, to myself;--"reason may be stunned, or blinded, for

awhile; but it will revive in the heart, and do its office,

when sophistry will be of no avail." I saw you struggling

with vexations, that I was assured might be meliorated by

tender confidence--I longed to pour its balms into your

bosom. My sensibility disquieted you, and myself, only

_because it was constrained_. I thought I perceived a

conflict in your mind--I watched its progress with attention

and solicitude. A thousand times has my fluttering heart

yearned to break the cruel chains that fettered it, and to

chase the cloud, which stole over your brow, by the tender,

yet chaste, caresses and endearments of ineffable affection!

My feelings became too highly wrought, and altogether

insupportable. Sympathy for your situation, zeal for your

virtues, love for your mind, tenderness for your person--a

complication of generous, affecting, exquisite, emotions,

impelled me to make one great effort.--"[13] The world might

call my plans absurd, my views romantic, my pretensions

extravagant--Was I, or was I not, guilty of any crime, when,

in the very acme of the passions, I so totally disregarded

the customs of the world?" Ah! what were my sensations--what

did I not suffer, in the interval?--and you prolonged that

cruel interval--and still you suffer me to doubt, whether,

at the moment in my life when I was actuated by the highest,

the most fervent, the most magnanimous, principles--whether,

at that moment, when I most deserved your respect, I did not

for ever forfeit it.

[Footnote 13: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]

'I seek not to extenuate any part of my conduct--I confess

that it has been wild, extravagant, romantic--I confess,

that, even for your errors, I am justly blameable--and yet

I am unable to bear, because I feel they would be unjust,

your hatred and contempt. I cherish no resentment--my spirit

is subdued and broken--your unkindness sinks into my soul.

'EMMA.'

Another fortnight wore away in fruitless expectation--the morning

rose, the evening closed, upon me, in sadness. I could not, yet, think

the mystery developed: on a concentrated view of the circumstances,

they appeared to me contradictory, and irreconcileable. A solitary

enthusiast, a child in the drama of the world, I had yet to learn, that

those who have courage to act upon advanced principles, must be content

to suffer moral martyrdom.[14] In subduing our own prejudices, we have

done little, while assailed on every side by the prejudices of others.

My own heart acquitted me; but I dreaded that distortion of mind, that

should wrest guilt out of the most sublime of its emanations.

[Footnote 14: This sentiment may be just in some particular

cases, but it is by no means of general application, and

must be understood with great limitations.]

I ruminated in gloomy silence, on my forlorn, and hopeless, situation.

'If there be not a future state of being,' said I to myself, 'what is

this!--Tortured in every stage of it, "Man cometh forth like a flower,

and is cut down--he fleeth, as a shadow, and continueth not!"--I looked

backward on my past life, and my heart sickened--its confidence in

humanity was shaken--I looked forward, and all was cheerless. I had

certainly committed many errors!--Who has not--who, with a fancy as

lively, feelings as acute, and a character as sanguine, as mine? "What,

in fact," says a philosophic writer,[15] "is character?--the production

of a lively and constant affection, and consequently, of a strong

passion:"--eradicate that passion, that ferment, that leaven, that

exuberance, which raises and makes the mind what it is, and what

remains? Yet, let us beware how we wantonly expend this divine, this

invigorating, power. Every grand error, in a mind of energy, in its

operations and consequences, carries us years forward--_precious years,

never to be recalled_!' I could find no substitute for the sentiments

I regretted--for that sentiment formed my character; and, but for the

obstacles which gave it force, though I might have suffered less

misery, I should, I suspect, have gained less improvement; still

adversity _is a real evil_; and I foreboded that this improvement had

been purchased too dear.

[Footnote 15: Helvetius.]

CHAPTER X

Weeks elapsed ere the promised letter arrived--a letter still colder,

and more severe, than the former. I wept over it, bitter tears!

It accused me 'of adding to the vexations of a situation, before

sufficiency oppressive.'--Alas! had I known the nature of those

vexations, could I have merited such a reproof? The Augustus, I had so

long and so tenderly loved, no longer seemed to exist. Some one had,

surely, usurped his signature, and imitated those characters, I had been

accustomed to trace with delight. He tore himself from me, _nor would

he deign to soften the pang of separation_. Anguish overwhelmed me--my

heart was pierced. Reclining my head on my folded arms, I yielded myself

up to silent grief. Alone, sad, desolate, no one heeded my sorrows--no

eye pitied me--no friendly voice cheered my wounded spirit! The social

propensities of a mind forbidden to expand itself, forced back, preyed

incessantly upon that mind, secretly consuming its powers.

I was one day roused from these melancholy reflections by the entrance

of my cousin, Mrs Denbeigh. She held in her hand a letter, from my only

remaining friend, Mrs Harley. I snatched it hastily; my heart, lacerated

by the seeming unkindness of him in whom it had confided, yearned to

imbibe the consolation, which the gentle tenderness of this dear,

maternal, friend, had never failed to administer. The first paragraph

informed me--

'That she had, a few days since, received a letter from the

person to whom the legacy of her son devolved, should he

fail in observing the prescribed conditions of the testator:

that this letter gave her notice, that those conditions had

already been infringed, Mr Harley having contracted a

marriage, three years before, with a foreigner, with whom

he had become acquainted during his travels; that this

marriage had been kept a secret, and, but very lately, by an

accidental concurrence of circumstances, revealed to the

person most concerned in the detection. Undoubted proofs of

the truth of this information could be produced; it would

therefore be most prudent in her son to resign his claims,

without putting himself, and the legal heir, to unnecessary

expence and litigation. Ignorant of the residence of Mr

Harley, the writer troubled his mother to convey to him

these particulars.'

The paper dropped from my hand, the colour forsook my lips and

cheeks;--yet I neither wept, nor fainted. Mrs Denbeigh took my

hands--they were frozen--the blood seemed congealed in my veins--and I

sat motionless--my faculties suspended, stunned, locked up! My friend

spake to me--embraced, shed tears over, me--but she could not excite

mine;--my mind was pervaded by a sense of confused misery. I remained

many days in this situation--it was a state, of which I have but a

feeble remembrance; and I, at length, awoke from it, as from a

troublesome dream.

With returning reason, the tide of recollection also returned. Oh!

how complicated appeared to me the guilt of Augustus! Ignorant of his

situation, I had been unconsciously, and perseveringly, exerting myself

to seduce the affections of a _husband_ from his _wife_. He had made

me almost criminal in my own eyes--he had risqued, at once, by a

disingenuous and cruel reserve, the virtue and the happiness of three

beings. What is virtue, but a calculation of _the consequences of our

actions_? Did we allow ourselves to reason on this principle, to reflect

on its truth and importance, we should be compelled to shudder at many

parts of our conduct, which, _taken unconnectedly_, we have habituated

ourselves to consider as almost indifferent. Virtue can exist only in a

mind capable of taking comprehensive views. How criminal, then, is

ignorance!

During this sickness of the soul, Mr Francis, who had occasionally

visited me since my residence in town, called, repeatedly, to enquire

after my welfare; expressing a friendly concern for my indisposition. I

saw him not--I was incapable of seeing any one--but, informed by my kind

hostess of his humane attentions, soothed by the idea of having yet

a friend who seemed to interest himself in my concerns, I once more

had recourse to my pen (Mrs Denbeigh having officiously placed the

implements of writing in my way), and addressed him in the wild and

incoherent language of despair.

TO MR FRANCIS.

'You once told me, that I was incapable of heroism; and you

were right--yet, I am called to great exertions! a blow that

has been suspended over my head, days, weeks, months, years,

has at length fallen--still I live! My tears flow--I

struggle, in vain, to suppress them, but they are not tears

of blood!--My heart, though pierced through and through, is

not broken!

'My friend, come and teach me how to acquire fortitude--I

am wearied with misery--All nature is to me a blank--an

envenomed shaft rankles in my bosom--philosophy will not

heal the festering wound--_I am exquisitely wretched!_

'Do not chide me till I get more strength--I speak to you of

my sorrows, for your kindness, while I was yet a stranger to

you, inspired me with confidence, and my desolate heart

looks round for support.

'I am indebted to you--how shall I repay your goodness? Do

you, indeed, interest yourself in my fate? Call upon me,

then, for the few incidents of my life--I will relate them

simply, and without disguise. There is nothing uncommon in

them, but the effect which they have produced upon my

mind--yet, that mind they formed.

'After all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! Why

cannot I sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? But

something whispers, "_this would be wrong_."--How shall

I tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted,

associations?--And must I live--_live for what?_ God only

knows! Yet, how am I sure that there is a God--is he

wise--is he powerful--is he benevolent? If he be, can

he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble,

impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their

choice--impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through

mistake, into calamity?--Ah! my friend, who will condemn the

poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a

thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek

an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and

his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and

accelerate the hour of repose.[16] Who would be born if they

could help it? You would perhaps--_you may do good_--But on

me, the sun shines only to mock my woes--Oh! that I had

never seen the light.

[Footnote 16: This is the reasoning of a mind distorted by

passion. Even in the moment of disappointment, our heroine

judged better. See page 38.]

'Torn by conflicting passions--wasted in anguish--life is

melting fast away--A burthen to myself, a grief to those

who love me, and worthless to every one. Weakened by long

suspence--preyed upon, by a combination of imperious

feelings--I fear, I greatly fear, the _irrecoverable blow

is struck_! But I blame no one--I have been entangled in

error--_who is faultless?_

'While pouring itself out on paper, my tortured mind has

experienced a momentary relief: If your heart be inaccessible

to tender sympathies, I have only been adding one more to my

numberless mistakes!

'EMMA.'

Mr Francis visited me, and evinced for my situation the most humane and

delicate consideration. He reminded me of the offer I had made him, and

requested the performance of my engagement. In compliance with this

request, and to beguile my melancholy thoughts, I drew up a sketch of

the events of my past life, and unfolded a history of the sentiments of

my mind (from which I have extracted the preceding materials) reserving

only any circumstance which might lead to a detection of the name and

family of the man with whom they were so intimately blended.

CHAPTER XI

After having perused my manuscript, Mr Francis returned it, at my

desire, accompanied by the following letter.

TO EMMA COURTNEY.

'Your narrative leaves me full of admiration for your

qualities, and compassion for your insanity.

'I entreat however your attention to the following passage,

extracted from your papers. "After considering all I have

urged, you may perhaps reply, that the subject is too nice,

and too subtle, for reasoning, and that the heart is not

to be compelled. This, I think, is a mistake. There is no

topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of

investigation and reasoning. What is it we desire? pleasure,

happiness. What! the pleasure of an instant, only; or that

which is more solid and permanent? I allow, pleasure is the

supreme good! but it may be analysed. To this analysis I now

call you."

'Could I, if I had studied for years, invent a comment on

your story, more salutary to your sorrows, more immoveable

in its foundation, more clearly expressed, or more

irresistibly convincing to every rational mind?

'How few real, substantial, misfortunes there are in the

world! how few calamities, the sting of which does not

depend upon our cherishing the viper in our bosom, and

applying the aspic to our veins! The general pursuit of all

men, we are frequently told, is happiness. I have often been

tempted to think, on the contrary, that the general pursuit

is misery. It is true, men do not recognize it by its

genuine appellation; they content themselves with the

pitiful expedient of assigning it a new denomination. But,

if their professed purpose were misery, could they be more

skilful and ingenious in the pursuit?

'Look through your whole life. To speak from your own

description, was there ever a life, in its present period,

less chequered with substantial _bona fide_ misfortune? The

whole force of every thing which looks like a misfortune

was assiduously, unintermittedly, provided by yourself. You

nursed in yourself a passion, which, taken in the degree

in which you experienced it, is the unnatural and odious

invention of a distempered civilization, and which in

almost all instances generates an immense overbalance of

excruciating misery. Your conduct will scarcely admit of any

other denomination than moon-struck madness, hunting after

torture. You addressed a man impenetrable as a rock, and

the smallest glimpse of sober reflection, and common sense,

would have taught you instantly to have given up the

pursuit.

'I know you will tell me, and you will tell yourself, a

great deal about constitution, early association, and the

indissoluble chain of habits and sentiments. But I answer

with small fear of being erroneous, "It is a mistake to

suppose, that the heart is not to be compelled. There is no

topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of

investigation and reasoning. Pleasure, happiness, is the

supreme good; and happiness is susceptible of being

analysed." I grant, that the state of a human mind cannot be

changed at once; but, had you worshipped at the altar of

reason but half as assiduously as you have sacrificed at

the shrine of illusion, your present happiness would have

been as enviable, as your present distress is worthy of

compassion. If men would but take the trouble to ask

themselves, once every day, Why should I be miserable? how

many, to whom life is a burthen, would become chearful and

contented.

'Make a catalogue of all the real evils of human life;

bodily pain, compulsory solitude, severe corporal labour,

in a word, all those causes which deprive us of health, or

the means of spending our time in animated, various, and

rational pursuits. Aye, these are real evils! But I should

be ashamed of putting disappointed love into my enumeration.

Evils of this sort are the brood of folly begotten upon

fastidious indolence. They shrink into non-entity, when

touched by the wand of truth.

'The first lesson of enlightened reason, the great fountain

of heroism and virtue, the principle by which alone man can

become what man is capable of being, is _independence_. May

every power that is favourable to integrity, to honour,

defend me from leaning upon another for support! I will use

the word, I will use my fellow men, but I will not abuse

these invaluable benefits of the system of nature. I will

not be weak and criminal enough, to make my peace depend

upon the precarious thread of another's life or another's

pleasure. I will judge for myself; I will draw my support

from myself--the support of my existence and the support

of my happiness. The system of nature has perhaps made me

dependent for the means of existence and happiness upon my

fellow men taken collectively; but nothing but my own

folly can make me dependent upon individuals. Will these

principles prevent me from admiring, esteeming, and loving

such as are worthy to excite these emotions? Can I not have

a mind to understand, and a heart to feel excellence,

without first parting with the fairest attribute of my

nature?

'You boast of your sincerity and frankness. You have

doubtless some reason for your boast--Yet all your

misfortunes seem to have arisen from concealment. You

brooded over your emotions, and considered them as a sacred

deposit--You have written to me, I have seen you frequently,

during the whole of this transaction, without ever having

received the slightest hint of it, yet, if I be a fit

counsellor now, I was a fit counsellor then; your folly was

so gross, that, if it had been exposed to the light of day,

it could not have subsisted for a moment. Even now you

suppress the name of your hero: yet, unless I know how much

of a hero and a model of excellence he would appear in my

eyes, I can be but a very imperfect judge of the affair.

'---- FRANCIS.'

CHAPTER XII

To the remonstrance of my friend, which roused me from the languor into

which I was sinking, I immediately replied--

TO MR FRANCIS.

'You retort upon me my own arguments, and you have cause. I

felt a ray of conviction dart upon my mind, even, while I

wrote them. But what then?--"I seemed to be in a state, in

which reason had no power; I felt as if I could coolly

survey the several arguments of the case--perceive, that

they had prudence, truth, and common sense on their

side--And then answer--I am under the guidance of a director

more energetic than you!"[17] I am affected by your

kindness--I am affected by your letter. I could weep over

it, bitter tears of conviction and remorse. But argue with

the wretch infected with the plague--will it stop the tide

of blood, that is rapidly carrying its contagion to the

heart? I blush! I shed burning tears! But I am still

desolate and wretched! And how am I to stop it? The force

which you impute to my reasoning was the powerful frenzy of

a high delirium.

[Footnote 17: Godwin's Caleb Williams.]

'What does it signify whether, abstractedly considered, a

misfortune be worthy of the names real and substantial, if

the consequences produced are the same? That which embitters

all my life, that which stops the genial current of health

and peace is, whatever be its nature, a real calamity to me.

There is no end to this reasoning--what individual can limit

the desires of another? The necessaries of the civilized man

are whimsical superfluities in the eye of the savage. Are

we, or are we not (as you have taught me) the creatures of

sensation and circumstance?

'I agree with you--and the more I look into society, the

deeper I feel the soul-sickening conviction--"The general

pursuit is misery"--necessarily--excruciating misery, from

the source to which you justly ascribe it--"_The unnatural

and odious inventions of a distempered civilization._" I am

content, you may perceive, to recognize things by their

genuine appellation. I am, at least, a reasoning maniac:

perhaps the most dangerous species of insanity. But while

the source continues troubled, why expect the streams to run

pure?

'You know I will tell you--"about the indissoluble chains of

association and habit:" and you attack me again with my own

weapons! Alas! while I confess their impotence, with what

consistency do I accuse the flinty, impenetrable, heart, I

so earnestly sought, in vain, to move? What materials does

this stubborn mechanism of the mind offer to the wise and

benevolent legislator!

'Had I, you tell me, "worshipped at the altar of reason, but

half as assiduously as I have sacrificed at the shrine of

illusion, my happiness might have been enviable." But do

you not perceive, that my reason was the auxiliary of my

passion, or rather my passion the generative principle of my

reason? Had not these contradictions, these oppositions,

roused the energy of my mind, I might have domesticated,

tamely, in the lap of indolence and apathy.

'I do ask myself, every day--"Why should I be miserable?"--and

I answer, "Because the strong, predominant, sentiment of my

soul, close twisted with all its cherished associations, has

been rudely torn away, and the blood flows from the lacerated

wound. You would be ashamed of placing disappointed love in

your enumeration of evils! Gray was not ashamed of this--

'And pining love shall waste their youth,

And jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart!'

* * * * *

'These shall the stings of falsehood try,

And hard unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow.'"

'Is it possible that you can be insensible of all the mighty

mischiefs which have been caused by this passion--of the

great events and changes of society, to which it has

operated as a powerful, though secret, spring? That Jupiter

shrouded his glories beneath a mortal form; that he

descended yet lower, and crawled as a reptile--that Hercules

took the distaff, and Sampson was shorn of his strength, are

in their spirit, no fables. Yet, these were the legends of

ages less degenerate than this, and states of society less

corrupt. Ask your own heart--whether some of its most

exquisite sensations have not arisen from sources, which, to

nine-tenths of the world, would be equally inconceivable:

Mine, I believe, is a _solitary madness in the eighteenth

century: it is not on the altars of love, but of gold, that

men, now, come to pay their offerings_.