Nov. 30th, --

Your truly philosophical letter, my infinitely various Gabrielle,

infused a portion of its charming spirit into my soul. My mind was

fortified and elevated by your eloquence. Who could think that a woman

of such a lively genius could be so profound? and who could expect from

a woman, who has passed her life in the world, such original and deep

reflections? You see you were mistaken when you thought that you had no

genius for philosophic subjects.

After all that has been said by metaphysicians about the existence and

seat of the moral sense, I think I can solve every difficulty by a new

theory. You know some philosophers suppose the moral sense to be

intuitive and inherent in man: others who deny the doctrine of innate

ideas, treat this notion of innate sentiments as equally absurd. There

they certainly are wrong, for sentiments are widely different from

ideas, and I have that within me which convinces my understanding that

sentiments must be innate, and proportioned to the delicacy of our

sensibility; no person of common sense or feeling can doubt this. But

there are other points which I own puzzled me till yesterday: some

metaphysicians would seat the moral sense inherently in the heart,

others would place it intuitively in the brain, all would confine it to

the soul; now in my opinion it resides primarily and principally in the

nerves, and varies with their variations. Hence the difficulty of making

the moral sense a universal guide of action, since it not only differs

in many individuals, but in the same persons, at different periods of

their existence, or (as I have often experienced) at different hours of

the day. All this must depend upon the mobility of the nervous system;

upon this may _hinge_ the great difficulties which have puzzled

metaphysicians respecting consciousness, identity, &c. If they had

attended less to the nature of the soul, and more to the system of the

nerves, they would have avoided innumerable errors, and probably would

have made incalculably important discoveries. Nothing is wanting but

some great German genius to bring this idea of a moral sense in the

nerves into fashion. Indeed, if our friend Mad. *** would mention it in

the notes to her new novel, it would introduce it in the most

satisfactory manner possible to all the fashionable world abroad; and we

take our notions in this country implicitly from the Continent. As for

you, my dear Gabrielle, I know you cut the gordian knot at once, by

referring, with your favourite moralist, every principle of human nature

to self-love. This does not quite accord with my ideas; there is

something harsh in it, that is repugnant to my sensibility; but you have

a stronger mind than I have, and perhaps your theory is right.

"You tell me I contradict myself continually," says the acute and witty

Duke de la Rochefoucault: "No, but the human heart, of which I treat, is

in perpetual contradiction to itself." Permit me to avail myself of this

answer, dear Gabrielle, if you should accuse me of contradicting in this

Letter all that I said to you in my last. A few hours after I had

despatched it the state of my nerves changed; I saw things of course in

a new light, and repented having exposed myself to your raillery by

writing in such a Magdalen strain. My nerves were more in fault than I.

When one's mind or one's nerves grow weak, the early associations and

old prejudices of the nursery recur, and tyrannize over one's reason:

from this evil your liberal education and enviable temperament have

preserved you; but have charity for my feminine weakness of frame, which

too often counteracts the masculine strength of my soul. Now that I have

deprecated your ridicule for my last nervous nonsense, I will go on in

a more rational manner. However my better judgment might have been

clouded for a moment, I have recovered strength of mind enough to see

that I am in no way to blame for anything that has happened. If a man is

amiable, and if I have taste and sensibility, I must see and feel it.

"To love," as I remember your friend G****** once finely observed to

you, "to love is a crime only in the eyes of demons, or of priests, who

resemble demons." This is a general proposition, to which none but the

prejudiced can refuse their assent: and what is true in general must be

true in particular. The _accident_, I use the term philosophically, not

popularly, the accident of a man's being married, or, in other words,

having entered imprudently into a barbarous and absurd civil contract,

cannot alter the nature of things. The essence of truth cannot be

affected by the variation of external circumstances. Now the proper

application of metaphysics frees the mind from vulgar prejudices, and

dissipates the baby terrors of an ill-educated conscience. To fall in

love with a married man, and the husband of your intimate friend! How

dreadful the sounds to some ears! even mine were startled at first, till

I called reason to my assistance. Then I had another difficulty to

combat--to own, and own unasked, a passion to the object of it, would

shock the false delicacy of those who are governed by common forms, and

who are slaves to vulgar prejudices: but a little philosophy liberates

our sex from the tyranny of custom, teaches us to disdain hypocrisy, and

to glory in the simplicity of truth.

Josephine had been perfuming my hair, and I was sitting reading at my

toilette; the door of my dressing-room happened to be half open; L----

was crossing the gallery, and as he passed I suppose his eye was caught

by my hair, or perhaps he paused a moment, I am not certain how it

was--my eyes were on my book.

"Ah! vous avez raison, monsieur, c'est la plus belle chevelure! Mais

entrez donc, monsieur," cried Josephine, whom I can never teach to

comprehend or respect English customs, "Eh! entrez, entrez, monsieur;

madame est a sa toilette."

As I looked up I could not forbear smiling at the extreme ease and

decision of Josephine's manner, and the excessive doubt and anxiety in

the gentleman's appearance. My smile, which, Heaven knows, meant no

encouragement, decided him; timidity instantly gave way to joy; he

entered. What was to be done? I could not turn him out again; I was not

answerable for any foolish conclusions he might draw from what he ought

in politeness to have considered as a thing of course. All I could do

was to blame Josephine for being a French woman. To defend her, and

flatter me, was the gentleman's part; and, for an Englishman, he really

acquitted himself with tolerable grace. Josephine at least was pleased,

and she found such a perpetual employment for monsieur, and his advice

was so necessary, that there was no chance of his departure: so we

talked of French _toilettes_, &c. &c., in French for Josephine's

edification: L---- paid me some compliments upon the recovery of my

looks after my illness--I thought I looked terribly languid--but he

assured me that this languor, in his eyes, was an additional grace; I

could not understand this: he fancied that must be because he did not

express himself well in French; he explained himself more clearly in

English, which Josephine, you know, does not understand, so that she was

now forced to be silent, and I was compelled to take my share in the

conversation. L---- made me comprehend that languor indicating

sensibility of heart was to him the most touching of female charms; I

sighed, and took up the book I had been reading; it was the new novel

which you sent me, dear Gabrielle; I talked of it, in hopes of changing

the course of the conversation; alas! this led to one far more

dangerous: he looked at the passage I had been reading. This brought us

back to sensibility again--to sentiments and descriptions so terribly

apposite! we found such a similarity in our tastes! Yet L---- spoke only

in general, and he preserved a command over himself, which provoked me,

though I knew it to be coquetry; I saw the struggle in his mind, and was

determined to force him to be candid, and to enjoy my triumph. With

these views I went farther than I had intended. The charm of sensibility

he had told me was to him irresistible. Alas! I let him perceive all the

weakness of my heart.--Sensibility is the worst timekeeper in the world.

We were neither of us aware of its progressive motion. The Swiss--my

evil genius--the Swiss knocked at the door to let me know dinner was

served. Dinner! on what vulgar incidents the happiness of life depends!

Dinner came between the discovery of my sentiments and that declaration

of passion which I now must hear--or die.

"Le diner! mon Dieu!" cried Josephine. "Mais--finissons donc--la

toilette de madame."

I heard the impertinent Swiss at the other end of the gallery at his

master's door, wondering in broken English where his master could be,

and conjecturing forty absurdities about his boots, and his being out

riding, &c. &c. To sally forth in conscious innocence upon the enemy's

spies, and to terminate the adventure as it was begun, _a la Francoise_,

was my resolution. L---- and Josephine understood me perfectly.

"Eh! Monsieur de Vaud," said Josephine to the Swiss, whom we met on the

landing-place of the stairs, "madame n'est elle pas coeffee a ravir

aujourd'hui? C'est que monsieur vient d'assister a la toilette de

madame." The Swiss bowed, and said nothing. The bow was to his master,

not to me, and it was a bow of duty, not of inclination. I never saw a

man look so like a machine; he did not even raise his eyes upon me or my

_coeffure_ as we passed.

Bah! cried Josephine, with an inexpressible accent of mingled

indignation and contempt. She ran downstairs, leaving the Swiss to his

stupidity. I was more afraid of his penetration. But I entered the

dining-room as if nothing extraordinary had happened; and after all, you

know, my dear Gabrielle, nothing extraordinary had befallen us. A

gentleman had assisted at a lady's toilette. Nothing more simple,

nothing more proper in the meridian of Paris; and does propriety change

with meridians? There was company at dinner, and the conversation was

general and uninteresting; L---- endeavoured to support his part with

vivacity; but he had fits of absence and silence, which might have

alarmed Leonora, if she had any suspicion. But she is now perfectly

secure, and absolutely blind: therefore you see there can be no danger

for her happiness in my remaining where I am. For no earthly

consideration would I disturb her peace of mind; there is no sacrifice I

would hesitate for a moment to make to friendship or virtue, but I

cannot surely be called upon to _plant a dagger in my own heart_, to

destroy, for ever to destroy my own felicity without advantage to my

friend. My attachment to L----, as you say, is involuntary, and my love

as pure as it is fervent. I have reason to believe that his sentiments

are the same for me; but of this I am not yet certain. There is the

danger, and the only real danger for Leonora's happiness; for whilst

this uncertainty and his consequent fits of absence and imprudence last,

there is hazard every moment of her being alarmed. But when L---- once

decides, everything arranges itself, you know, Gabrielle, and prudence

becomes a duty to ourselves and to Leonora. No word, or look, or

coquetry could then escape us; we should be unpardonable if we did not

conduct ourselves with the most scrupulous delicacy and attention to her

feelings. I am amazed that L----, who has really a good understanding,

does not make these reflections, and is not determined by this

calculation. For his, for my own, but most for Leonora's sake, I wish

that this cruel suspense were at an end. Adieu, dear and amiable

Gabrielle.--These things are managed better in France.

Olivia.

Letter xl.

_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._

L---- Castle.

Dear Margaret,

I arrived here late yesterday evening in high spirits, and high hopes of

surprising and delighting all the world by my unexpected appearance; but

my pride was checked, and my tone changed the moment I saw Leonora.

Never was any human being so altered in her looks in so short a time. I

had just, and but just presence of mind enough not to say so. I am

astonished that it does not strike Mr L----. As soon as she left the

room, I asked him if Lady Leonora had been ill? No; perfectly well!

perfectly well!--Did not he perceive that she looked extremely ill? No;

she might be paler than usual: that was all that Mr L---- had observed.

Lady Olivia, after a pause, added, that Leonora certainly had not

appeared well lately, but this was nothing extraordinary in her

_situation_. _Situation!_ nonsense! Lady Olivia went on with sentimental

hypocrisy of look and tone, saying fine things, to which I paid little

attention. Virtue in words, and vice in actions! thought I. People of

certain pretensions in the court of sentiment think that they can pass

false virtues upon the world for real, as some ladies, entitled by their

rank to wear jewels, appear in false stones, believing that it will be

taken for granted they would wear nothing but diamonds. Not one eye in a

hundred detects the difference at first, but in time the hundredth eye

comes, and then they must for ever hide their diminished rays. Beware!

Lady Olivia, beware!

Leonora is ill, or unhappy, or both; but she will not allow that she is

either. On one subject she is impenetrable: a hundred, a thousand

different ways within these four-and-twenty hours have I led to it, with

all the ingenuity and all the delicacy of which I am mistress; but all

to no purpose. Neither by provocation, persuasion, laughing, teasing,

questioning, cross, or round about, pushing, squeezing, encompassing,

taking for granted, wondering, or blundering, could I gain my point.

Every look guarded--every syllable measured--yet unequivocal--

"She said no more than just the thing she ought."

Because I could find no fault I was half angry. I respect the motive of

this reserve; but towards me it is misplaced, and ill-judged, and it

must not exist. I have often declared that I would never condescend to

play the part of a confidante to any princess or heroine upon earth. But

Leonora is neither princess nor heroine, and I would be her confidante,

but she will not let me. Now I am punished for my pride. If she would

only trust me, if she would only tell me what has passed since I went,

and all that now weighs upon her mind, I could certainly be of some use.

I could and would say everything that she might scruple to hint to Lady

Olivia, and I will answer for it I would make her raise the siege. But I

cannot believe Mr L---- to be such a madman as to think of attaching

himself seriously to a woman like Olivia, when he has such a wife as

Leonora. That he was amusing himself with Olivia I saw, or thought I

saw, some time ago, and I rather wondered that Leonora was uneasy: for

all husbands will flirt, and all wives must bear it, thought I. When

such a coquette as this fell in his way, and made advances, he would

have been more than man if he had receded. Of course, I thought, he must

despise and laugh at her all the time he was flattering and gallanting

her ladyship. This would have been fair play, and comic; but the comedy

should have ended by this time. I am now really afraid it will turn into

a tragedy. I, even I! am alarmed. I must prevail upon Leonora to speak

to me without reserve. I see her suffer, and I must share her grief.

Have not I always done so from the time we were children? and now, when

she most wants a friend, am not I worthy to share her confidence? Can

she mistake friendship for impertinent curiosity? Does not she know that

I would not be burthened with the secrets of anybody whom I did not

love? If she thinks otherwise, she does me injustice, and I will tell

her so before I sleep. She does not know how well I love her.

* * * * *

My dear Margaret, Leonora and I have had a quarrel--the first serious

quarrel we ever had in our lives; and the end of it is, that she is an

angel, and I am a fool. Just as I laid down my pen after writing to you,

though it was long past midnight, I marched into Leonora's apartment,

resolved to surprise or to force her confidence. I found her awake, as I

expected, and up and dressed, as I did not expect, sitting in her

dressing-room, her head leaning upon her hand. I knew what she was

thinking of; she had a heap of Mr L----'s old letters beside her. She

denied that she was in tears, and I will not swear to the tears, but I

think I saw signs of them notwithstanding. I spoke out;--but in

vain--all in vain. At last I flew into a passion, and reproached her

bitterly. She answered me with that air of dignified tenderness which is

peculiar to her--"If you believe me to be unhappy, my dear Helen, is

this a time to reproach me unjustly?" I was brought to reason and to

tears, and after asking pardon, like a foolish naughty child, was kissed

and forgiven, upon a promise never to do so any more; a promise, which I

hope Heaven will grant me grace and strength of mind enough to keep. I

was certainly wrong to attempt to force her secret from her. Leonora's

confidence is always given, never yielded; and in her, openness is a

virtue, not a weakness. But I wish she would not contrive to be always

in the right. In all our quarrels, in all the variations of my humour, I

am obliged to end by doing homage to her reason, as the Chinese

mariners, in every change of weather, burn incense before the needle.

Your affectionate

Helen C----.

Letter xli.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

L---- Castle, Friday.

My dear General,

I hoped that you would have favoured us with a passing visit in your way

from town, but I know you will tell me that friendship must not

interfere with the interests of the service. I have reason to curse

those interests; they are for ever at variance with mine. I had a

particular desire to speak to you upon a subject, on which it is not

agreeable to me to write. Lady Leonora also wished extremely and

disinterestedly for your company. She does not know how much she is

obliged to you. The laconic advice you gave me some time ago influenced

my conduct longer than counsel which is in opposition to our passions

usually does, and it has haunted my imagination perpetually:--"My dear

L----, do not end by being the dupe of a _Frenchified_ coquette."

My dear friend, of that there is no danger. No man upon earth despises

or detests coquettes more than I do, be they French or English. I think,

however, that a foreign-born, or foreign-bred coquette, has more of the

ease of _practice_, and less of the awkwardness of conscience, than a

home-bred flirt, and is in reality less blamable, for she breaks no

restraints of custom or education; she does only what she has seen her

mother do before her, and what is authorized by the example of most of

the fashionable ladies of her acquaintance. But let us put flirts and

coquettes quite out of the question. My dear general, you know that I am

used to women, and take it upon my word, that the lady to whom I allude

is more tender and passionate than vain. Every woman has, or has had, a

tincture of vanity; but there are a few, and those are to me the most

amiable of the sex, who

"Feel every vanity in fondness lost."

You know that I am delicate, even fastidious, in my taste for female

manners. Nothing can in my opinion make amends for any offence against

propriety, except it be sensibility--genuine, generous sensibility. This

can, in my mind, cover a multitude of faults. There is so much of

selfishness, of hypocrisy, of coldness, in what is usually called female

virtue, that I often turn with distaste from those to whom I am

compelled to do homage for the sake of the general good of society. I am

not _charlatan_ enough to pretend upon all occasions to prefer the

public advantage to my own. I confess, that let a woman be ever so fair,

or good, or wise--

"Be she with that goodness blest

Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?"

And I will further acknowledge, that I am not easily satisfied with the

manner in which a woman is kind to me: if it be duty-work kindness, I

would not give thanks for it: it is done for her reputation, not for me,

and let the world thank her. To _the best of wives_ I should make the

worst of husbands. No--I should, I hope, pay her in her own coin, with

all due observances, attentions, and respect, but without one grain of

love. Love is only to be had for love; and without it, nothing a woman

can give appears to me worth having. I do not desire to be loved well

enough to satisfy fathers and mothers, and uncles and aunts; well enough

to decide a woman to marry me rather than disoblige her friends, or run

the chance of having _many a worse offer_, and living perhaps to be an

old maid. I do not desire to be loved well enough to keep a woman true

and faithful to me "_till death us do part_:" in short, I do not desire

to be loved well enough for a husband; I desire to be loved sufficiently

for a lover; not only above all other persons, but above all other

things, all other considerations--to be the first and last object in

the heart of the woman to whom I am attached: I wish to feel that I

sustain and fill the whole of her heart. I must be certain that I am

everything to her, as she is everything to me; that there is no

imaginable situation in which she would not live with me, in which she

would not be happy to live with me; no possible sacrifice that she would

not make for me; or rather, that nothing she could do should appear a

sacrifice. Are these exorbitant expectations? I am capable of all this,

and more, for a woman I love; and it is my pride or my misfortune to be

able to love upon no other terms. Such proofs of attachment it may be

difficult to obtain, and even to give; more difficult, I am sensible,

for a wife than for a mistress. A young lady who is married _secundum

artem_, with licence and consent of friends, can give no extraordinary

instances of affection. I should not consider it as an indisputable

proof of love, that she does me the honour to give me her hand in a

church, or that she condescends to bespeak my liveries, or to be handed

into her own coach with all the blushing honours of a bride; all the

paraphernalia of a wife secured, all the prudent and necessary provision

made both for matrimonial love and hatred, dower, pin-money, and

separate maintenance on the one hand, and on the other, lands,

tenements, and hereditaments for the future son and heir, and sums

without end for younger children to the tenth and twentieth possibility,

_as the case may be, nothing herein contained to the contrary in anywise

notwithstanding_. Such a jargon Cupid does not understand. A woman may

love this most convenient personage, her lawful husband; but I should

think it difficult for the delicacy of female passion to survive the

cool preparations for hymeneal felicity. At all events, you will allow

the lady makes no sacrifice, she shows no great generosity, and she

may, or she may not, be touched at the altar by the divine flame. My

good general, when you are a husband you will feel these things as I do;

till then, it is very easy to talk as you do, and to admire other men's

wives, and to wish Heaven had blessed you with such a treasure. For my

part, the single idea, that a woman thinks it her duty to be fond of me,

would deprive me of all pleasure in her love. No man can be more

sensible than I am of the amiable and estimable qualities of Lady

Leonora L----; I should be a brute and a liar if I hesitated to give the

fullest testimony in her praise; but such is the infirmity of my nature,

that I could pardon some faults more easily than I could like some

virtues. The virtues which leave me in doubt of a woman's love I can

esteem, but that is all. Lady Leonora is calm, serene, perfectly

sweet-tempered, without jealousy and without suspicion; in one word,

without love. If she loved me, she never could have been the wife she

has been for some months past. You will laugh at my being angry with a

wife for not being jealous. But so it is. Certain defects of temper I

could bear, if I considered them as symptoms of strong affection. When I

for a moment believed that Leonora suffered, when I attributed her

fainting at our fete champetre to jealousy, I was so much alarmed and

touched, that I absolutely forgot her rival. I did more; to prevent her

feeling uneasiness, to destroy the suspicions which I imagined had been

awakened in her mind, I hesitated not to sacrifice all the pleasure and

all the vanity which a man of my age might reasonably be supposed to

feel in the prospect of a new and not inglorious conquest; I left home

immediately, and went to meet you, my dear friend, on your return from

abroad. This visit I do not set down to your account, but to that of

honour--foolish, unnecessary honour. You half-persuaded me, that your

hearsay Parisian evidence was more to be trusted than my own judgment,

and I returned home with the resolution not to be the dupe of a

coquette. Leonora's reception of me was delightful; I never saw her in

such spirits, or so amiable. But I could not help wishing to ascertain

whether I had attributed her fainting to the real cause. This proof I

tempted to my cost. Instead of showing any tender alarm at the renewal

of my obvious attentions to her rival, she was perfectly calm and

collected, went on with her usual occupations, fulfilled all her duties,

never reproached me by word or look, never for one moment betrayed

impatience, ill-humour, suspicion, or jealousy; in short, I found that I

had been fool enough to attribute to excess of affection an accident

which proceeded merely from the situation of her health. If anxiety of

mind had been the cause of her fainting at the fete champetre, she would

since have felt and shown agitation on a thousand occasions, where she

has been perfectly tranquil. Her friend Mrs C----, who returned here a

few days ago, seems to imagine that Leonora looks ill; but I shall not

again be led to mistake bodily indisposition for mental suffering.

Leonora's conduct argues great insensibility of soul, or great command;

great insensibility, I think: for I cannot imagine such command of

temper possible to any but a woman who feels indifference for the

offender. Yet, even now that I have steeled myself with this conviction,

I am scarcely bold enough to hazard the chance of giving her pain.

Absurd weakness! It has been clearly proved to my understanding, that my

irresolution, my scruples of conscience, my combats between love and

esteem, are more likely to betray the real state of my mind than any

decision that I could make. I decide, then--I determine to be happy

with a woman who has a soul capable of feeling, not merely what is

called conjugal affection, but the passion of love; who is capable of

sacrificing everything to love; who has given me proofs of candour and

greatness of mind, which I value far above all her wit, grace, and

beauty. My dear general, I know all that you can tell, all that you can

hint concerning her history abroad. I know it from her own lips. It was

told to me in a manner that made her my admiration. It was told to me as

a preservative against the danger of loving her. It was told to me with

the generous design of protecting Leonora's happiness; and all this at

the moment when I was beloved, tenderly beloved. She is above

dissimulation: she scorns the arts, the fears of her sex. She knows you

are her enemy, and yet she esteems you; she urged me to speak to you

with the utmost openness: "Let me never," said she, "be the cause of

your feeling less confidence or less affection for the best of friends."

R*** is sacrificed to me; that R***, with whose cursed name you

tormented me. My dear friend, she will force your admiration, as she has

won my love.

Yours sincerely,

F. L----.

Letter xlij.

_Mrs C---- to Miss B._

L---- Castle.

As I am not trusted with the secret, I may, my dear Margaret, use my own

eyes and ears as I please to find it out; and I know Leonora's

countenance so well, that I see everything that passes in her mind just

as clearly as if she had told it to me in words.

It grieves me more than I can express, to see her suffering as she

does. I am now convinced that she has reason to be unhappy; and, what is

worse, I do not see what course she can follow to recover her happiness.

All her forbearance, all her patience, all her sweet temper, I perceive,

are useless, or worse than useless, injurious to her in her strange

husband's opinion. I never liked him thoroughly, and now I detest him.

He thinks her cold, insensible! She insensible!--Brute! Idiot.

Everything that she says or does displeases him. The merest trifles

excite the most cruel suspicions. He totally misunderstands her

character, and sees everything about her in a false light. In short, he

is under the dominion of an artful fiend, who works as she pleases upon

his passions--upon his pride, which is his ruling passion.

This evening Lady Olivia began confessing that she had too much

sensibility, that she was of an excessively susceptible temper, and that

she should be terribly jealous of the affections of any person she

loved. She did not know how love _could_ exist without jealousy. Mr

L---- was present, and listening eagerly. Leonora's lips were silent;

not so her countenance. I was in hopes Mr L---- would have remarked its

beautiful touching expression; but his eyes were fixed upon Olivia. I

could have . . . but let me go on. Lady Olivia had the malice suddenly

to appeal to Leonora, and asked, whether she was never jealous of her

husband? Leonora, astonished by her assurance, paused for an instant,

and then replied, "It would be difficult to convince me that I had any

reason to be jealous of Mr L----, I esteem him so much."--"I wish to

Heaven!" exclaimed Lady Olivia, her eyes turned upwards with a fine St

Cecilia expression, whilst Mr L----'s attention was fixed upon her,

"would to Heaven I was blessed with such a _reasonable_ temper!"--"When

you are wishing to Heaven, Lady Olivia," said I, "had not you better ask

for _all you want_ at once; not only such a reasonable temper, but such

a feeling heart?"

Some of the company smiled. Lady Olivia, practised as she is, looked

disconcerted; Mr L---- grave and impenetrable; Leonora, blushing, turned

away to the pianoforte. Mr L---- remained talking with Lady Olivia, and

he neither saw nor heard her. If Leonora had sung like an angel, it

would have made no impression. She turned over the leaves of her music

quickly, to a lively air, and played it immediately, to prevent my

perceiving how much she felt. Poor Leonora! you are but a bad

dissembler, and it is in vain to try to conceal yourself from me.

I was so sorry for her, and so incensed with Olivia this night, that I

could not restrain myself, and I made matters worse. At supper I came

almost to open war with her ladyship. I cannot remember exactly what I

said, but I know that I threw out the most severe inuendoes which

politeness could permit: and what _was_ the consequence? Mr L---- pitied

Olivia and hated me; Leonora was in misery the whole time; and her

husband probably thought that she was the instigator, though she was

perfectly innocent. My dear Margaret, where will all this end? and how

much more mischief shall I do with the best intentions possible?

Yours affectionately,

Helen C----.

Letter xliij.

_General B---- to Mr L----._

Your letter has travelled after me God knows where, my dear L----, and

has caught me at last with my foot in the stirrup. I have just had time

to look it over. I find, in short, that you are in love. I give you joy!

But be in love like a madman, not like a fool. Call a demirep an angel,

and welcome; but remember that such angels are to be had any day in the

year; and such a wife as yours is not to be had for the mines of

Golconda. Coin your heart, and drop your blood for it, and you will

never be loved by any other woman so well as you are by Lady Leonora

L----.

As to your jealous hypochondriacism, more of that when I have more

leisure. In the meantime I wish it well cured.

I am, my dear friend,

Yours truly,

J. B.

Letter xliv.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

L---- Castle.

I triumph! dear Gabrielle, give me joy! Never was triumph more complete.

L---- loves me! That I knew long ago; but I have at last forced from his

proud heart the avowal of his passion. Love and Olivia are victorious

over scruples, prejudice, pride, and superstition!

Leonora feels not--sees not: she requires, she excites no pity. Long may

her delusion last! But even were it this moment to dissipate, what cause

have I for remorse? "Who is most to blame, he who ceases to love, or she

who ceases to please?" Leonora perhaps thinks that she loves her

husband; and no doubt she does so in a conjugal sort of a way: he _has_

loved his wife; but be it mine to prove that his heart is suited to far

other raptures; and if Olivia be called upon for sacrifices, _Olivia_

can make them.

"Let wealth, let honour wait the wedded dame,

August her deed, and sacred be her fame;

Before true passion all those views remove,

Fame, wealth, and honour, what are you to love?"

These lines, though quoted perpetually by the tender and passionate, can

never become stale and vulgar; they will always recur in certain

situations to persons of delicate sensibility, for they at once express

all that can be said, and justify all that can be felt. My amiable

Gabrielle, adieu. Pardon me if to-day I have no soul even for

friendship. This day is all for love.

Olivia.

Letter xlv.

_General B---- to Mr L----._

What the devil would you have of your wife, my dear L----? You would be

loved above all earthly considerations; honour, duty, virtue and

religion inclusive, would you? and you would have a wife with her head

in the clouds, would you? I wish you were married to one of the

all-for-love heroines, who would treat you with bowl and dagger every

day of your life. In your opinion sensibility covers a multitude of

faults--you would have said _sins_: so it had need, for it produces a

multitude. Pray what brings hundreds and thousands of women to the

Piazzas of Covent Garden but sensibility? What does the colonel's, and

the captain's, and the ensign's mistress talk of but _sensibility_? And

are you, my dear friend, to be duped by this hackneyed word? And should

you really think it an indisputable proof of a lady's love, that she

would jump out of a two pair of stairs window into your arms? Now I

should think myself sure of such a woman's love only just whilst I held

her, and scarcely then; for I, who in my own way am jealous as well as

yourself, should in this case be jealous of wickedness, and should

strongly suspect that she would love the first devil that she saw better

than me.

You are always raving about sacrifices. Your Cupid must be a very

vindictive little god. Mine is a good-humoured, rosy little fellow, who

desires no better than to see me laugh and be happy. But to every man

his own Cupid. If you cannot believe in love without sacrifices, you

must have them, to be sure. And now, in sober sadness, what do you think

your heroine would sacrifice for you? Her reputation? that, pardon me,

is out of her power. Her virtue? I have no doubt she would. But before I

can estimate the value of this sacrifice, I must know whether she makes

it to you or to her pleasure. Would she give up in any instance her

pleasure for your happiness? This is not an easy matter to ascertain

with respect to a mistress: but your wife has put it beyond a doubt,

that she prefers your happiness not only to her pleasure, but to her

pride, and to everything that the sex usually prefer to a husband. You

have been wounded by a poisoned arrow; but you have a faithful wife who

can extract the poison. Lady Leonora's affection is not a mere fit of

goodness and generosity, such as I have seen in many women, but it is a

steadiness of attachment in the hour of trial, which I have seen in few.

For several months past you have, by your own account, put her temper

and her love to the most severe tests, yet she has never failed for one

moment, never reproached you by word or look.--But may be she has no

feeling.--No feeling! you can have none, if you say so: no penetration,

if you think so. Would not you think me a tyrant if I put a poor fellow

on the picket, and told you, when he bore it without a groan, that it

was because he could not feel? You do worse, you torture the soul of the

woman who loves you; she endures, she is calm, she smiles upon you even

in agony; and you tell me she cannot feel! she cannot feel like an

Olivia! No; and so much the better for her husband, for she will then

have only feeling enough for him, she will not extend her charity to all

his sex. But Olivia has such candour and magnanimity, that I must admire

her! I humbly thank her for offering to make me her confidant, for

offering to tell me what I know already, and what she is certain that I

know. These were good moves, but I understand the game as well as her

ladyship does. As to her making a friend of me; if she means an enemy to

Lady Leonora L----, I would sooner see her--in heaven: but if she would

do me the favour to think no more of your heart, which is too good for

her, and to accept of my--my--what shall I say?--my devoirs, I am at her

command. She shall drive my curricle, &c. &c. She would suit me vastly

well for a month or two, and by that time poor R*** would make his

appearance, or somebody in his stead: at the worst, I should have a

chance of some blessed metaphysical quirk, which would prove that

inconstancy was a virtue, or that a new love is better than an old one.

When it came to that, I should make my best bow, put on my most

disconsolate face, and retire.

You will read all this in a very different spirit from that in which it

is written. If you are angry--no matter: I am cool. I tell you

beforehand that I will not fight you for anything I have said in this

letter, or that I ever may say about your Olivia. Therefore, my dear

L----, save yourself the trouble of challenging me. I thank God I have

reputation enough to be able to dispense with the glory of blowing out

your brains.

Yours truly,

J. B.

Letter xlvi.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

We have been very gay here the last few days: the gallant and

accomplished Prince ---- has been here. H****, the witty H****, who is

his favourite companion, introduced him; and he seems so much charmed

with the old castle, its towers and battlements, and with its

_cynosure_, that I know not when he will be able to prevail upon himself

to depart. To-morrow, he says; but so he has said these ten days: he

cannot resist the entreaties of his kind host and hostess to stay

another day. The soft accent of the beautiful Leonora will certainly

detain him _one day more_, and her gracious smile will bereave him of

rest for months to come. He has evidently fallen desperately in love

with her. Now we shall see virtue in danger.

I have always been of opinion with St Evremond and Ninon de l'Enclos,

that no female virtue can stand every species of test; fortunately it is

not always exposed to trial. Reputation may be preserved by certain

persons in certain situations, upon very easy terms. Leonora, for

instance, is armed so strong in character, that no common mortal will

venture to attack her. It would be presumption little short of high

treason to imagine the fall of the Lady Leonora L----, the daughter of

the Duchess of ***, who, with a long line of immaculate baronesses in

their own right, each in her armour of stiff stays, stands frowning

defiance upon the adventurous knights. More alarming still to the modern

seducer appears a judge in his long wig, and a jury with their long

faces, ready to bring in their verdict, and to award damages

proportionate to the rank and fortune of the parties. Then the former

reputation of the lady is talked of, and the irreparable injury

sustained by the disconsolate husband from the loss of the solace and

affection of this paragon of wives. And it is proved that she lived in

the most perfect harmony with him till the vile seducer appeared; who,

in aggravation of damages, was a confidential friend of the husband's,

&c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

Brave, indeed, and desperately in love must be the man, who could dare

all these to deserve the fair. But princes are, it is said, naturally

brave, and ambitious of conquering difficulties.

I have insinuated these reflections in a general way to L----, who

applies them so as to plague himself sufficiently. Heaven is my witness,

that I mean no injury to Lady Leonora; yet I fear that there are

moments, when my respect for her superiority, joined to the

consciousness of my own weakness, overpowers me, and I almost envy her

the right she retains to the esteem of the man I love. This is a

blamable weakness--I know it--I reproach myself bitterly; but all I can

do is to confess it candidly. L---- sees my conflicts, and knows how to

value the sensibility of my fond heart. Adieu, my Gabrielle. When shall

I be happy? since even love has its torments, and I am thus doomed to be

ever a victim to the tenderness of my soul.

Olivia.

Letter xlvij.

_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._

I do not know whether I pity, love, or admire Leonora most. Just when

her mind was deeply wounded by her husband's neglect, and when her

jealousy was worked to the highest pitch by his passion for her

dangerous rival, the Prince ---- arrives here, and struck by Leonora's

charms of mind and person, falls passionately in love with her. Probably

his highness's friend H---- had given him a hint of the existing

circumstances, and he thought a more propitious moment could scarcely be

found for making an impression upon a female mind. He judged of Leonora

by other women. And I, like a simpleton, judged of her by myself. With

shame I confess to you, my dear Margaret, that notwithstanding all my

past experience, I did expect that she would have done as I am afraid I

should have done in her situation. I think that I could not have

resisted the temptation of coquetting a little--a very little--just to

revive the passion of the man whom I really loved. This expedient

succeeds so often with that wise sex, who never rightly know the value

of a heart, except when they have just won it, or at the moment when

they are on the point of losing it. In Leonora's place and in such an

emergency, I should certainly have employed that frightful monster

jealousy to waken sleeping love; since he, and only he, can do it

expeditiously and effectually. This I have hinted to Leonora, talking

always _in generals_; for, since my total overthrow, I have never dared

to come to particulars: but by putting cases and _confessing myself_, I

contrived to make my thoughts understood. I then boasted of the extreme

facility of the means I would adopt to recover a heart. Leonora answered

in the words of a celebrated great man:--"C'est facile de se servir de

pareils moyens; c'est difficile de s'y resoudre."

"But if no other means would succeed," said I, "would not you sacrifice

your pride to your love?"

"My pride, willingly; but not my sense of what is right," said she, with

an indescribable mixture of tenderness and firmness in her manner.

"Can a little coquetry in a good cause be such a heinous offence?"

persisted I. I knew that I was wrong all the time; but I delighted in

seeing how right she was.

No--she would not allow her mind to be cheated by female sophistry; nor

yet by the male casuistry of, "The end sanctifies the means."

"If you had the misfortune to lose the affections of the man you love,

and if you were quite certain of regaining them by following my recipe?"

said I.

Never shall I forget the look with which Leonora left me, and the accent

with which she said, "My dear Helen, if it were ever to be my misfortune

to lose my husband's love, I would not, even if I were certain of

success, attempt to regain it by any unworthy arts. How could I wish to

regain his love at the hazard of losing his esteem, and the certainty of

forfeiting my own!"

I said no more--I had nothing more to say: I saw that I had given pain,

and I have never touched upon the subject since. But her practice is

even beyond her theory. Never, by deed, or look, or word, or thought

(for I see all her thoughts in her eloquent countenance), has she

swerved from her principles. No prudery--no coquetry--no

mock-humility--no triumph. Never for an instant did she, by a proud air,

say to her husband--See what others think of me! Never did a resentful

look say to him--Inconstant!--revenge is in my power! Never even did a

reproachful sigh express--I am injured, yet I do not retaliate.

Mr L---- is blind; he is infatuated; he is absolutely bereaved of

judgment by a perfidious, ungrateful, and cruel wretch. Let me vent my

indignation to you, dear Margaret, or it will explode, perhaps, when it

may do Leonora mischief.

Yours affectionately,

Helen C----.

Letter xlviij.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

L---- Castle.

This Lady Leonora, in her simplicity, never dreamed of love till the

prince's passion was too visible and audible to be misunderstood: and

then she changed her tone, and checked her simplicity, and was so

reserved, and so dignified, and so _proper_, it was quite edifying,

especially to a poor sinner of a coquette like me; nothing _piquante_;

nothing _agacante_; nothing _demi-voilee_; no retiring to be pursued;

not a single manoeuvre of coquetry did she practise. This convinces me

that she cares not in the least for her husband; because, if she really

loved him, and wished to reclaim his heart, what so natural or so simple

as to excite his jealousy, and thus revive his love? After neglecting

this golden opportunity, she can never convince me that she is really

anxious about her husband's heart. This I hinted to L----, and his own

susceptibility had hinted it to him efficaciously before I spoke.

Though Leonora has been so correct hitherto, and so cold to the prince

in her husband's presence, I have my suspicions, that if in his absence

proper means were taken, if her pride were roused by apt suggestions, if

it were delicately pointed out to her that she is shamefully neglected,

that she is a cipher in her own house, that her husband presumes too

much upon her sweetness of temper, that his inconstancy is wondered at

by all who have eyes, and that a little retaliation might become her

ladyship, I would not answer for her forbearance, that is to say, if all

this were done by a dexterous man, a lover, and a prince! I shall take

care my opinions shall be known; for I cannot endure to have the esteem

of the man I love monopolized. Exposed to temptation as I have been, and

with as ardent affections, Leonora, or I am much mistaken, would not

have been more estimable. Adieu, my dearest Gabrielle. Nous verrons!

nous verrons!

Olivia.

* * * * *

Sunday evening.

P.S.--I open my letter to tell you that the prince is actually gone.

Doubtless he will return at a more auspicious moment.

Lady M---- and all the troop of friends are to depart on Monday; all but

_the_ bosom friend, _l'amie intime_, that insupportable Helen, who is

ever at daggers-drawing with me. So much the better! L---- sees her

cabals with his wife; she is a partisan without the art to be so to any

purpose, and her manoeuvres tend only to increase his partiality for his

Olivia.

Letter xlix.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

L---- Castle.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * In short, Leonora has discovered all that she

might have seen months ago between her husband and me. What will be the

consequence? I long, yet almost fear, to meet her again. She is now in

her own apartment, writing, I presume, to her mother for advice.

Letter l.

_Leonora to Olivia._

[Left on Lady Olivia's dressing-table.]

O you, whom no kindness can touch, whom no honour can bind, whom no

faith can hold, enjoy the torments you have inflicted on me! enjoy the

triumph of having betrayed a confiding friend! Friend no more--affect,

presume no longer to call me friend! I am under no necessity to

dissemble, and dissimulation is foreign to my habits, and abhorrent to

my nature! I know you to be my enemy, and I say so--my most cruel enemy;

one who could, without reluctance or temptation, rob me of all I hold

most dear. Yes, without temptation; for you do not love my husband,

Olivia. On this point I cannot be mistaken; I know too well what it is

to love him. Had you been struck by his great or good and amiable

qualities, charmed by his engaging manners, or seduced by the violence

of his passion; and had I seen you honourably endeavour to repress that

passion; had I seen in you the slightest disposition to sacrifice your

pleasure or your vanity to friendship or to duty, I think I could have

forgiven, I am sure I should have pitied you. But you felt no pity for

me, no shame for yourself; you made no attempt to avoid, you invited

the danger. Mr L---- was not the deceiver, but the deceived. By every

art and every charm in your power--and you have many--you won upon his

senses and worked upon his imagination; you saw, and made it your pride

to conquer the scruples of that affection he once felt for his wife, and

that wife was your friend. By passing bounds, which he could not

conceive that any woman could pass, except in the delirium of passion,

you made him believe that your love for him exceeds all that I feel. How

he will find himself deceived! If you had loved him as I do, you could

not so easily have forfeited all claim to his esteem. Had you loved him

so much, you would have loved honour more.

It is possible that Mr L---- may taste some pleasure with you whilst his

delusion lasts, whilst his imagination paints you, as mine once did, in

false colours, possessed of generous virtues, and the victim of

excessive sensibility: but when he sees you such as you are, he will

recoil from you with aversion, he will reject you with contempt.

Knowing my opinion of you, Lady Olivia, you will not choose to remain in

this house; nor can I desire for my guest one whom I can no longer, in

private or in public, make my companion. Adieu.

Leonora L----.

Letter li.

_Olivia to Mr L----._

L---- Castle, Midnight.

Farewell for ever!--it must be so--Farewell for ever! Would to Heaven I

had summoned courage sooner to pronounce these fatal, necessary,

irrevocable words: then had I parted from you without remorse, without

the obloquy to which I am now exposed. Oh, my dearest L----! Mine, do I

still dare to call you? Yes, mine for the last time, I must call you,

mine I must fancy you, though for the impious thought the Furies

themselves were to haunt me to madness. My dearest L----, never more

must we meet in this world! Think not that my weak voice alone forbids

it: no, a stronger voice than mine is heard--an injured wife reclaims

you. What a letter have I just received . . .!--from . . . Leonora! She

tells me that she no longer desires for her guest one whom she cannot,

in public or private, make her companion--O Leonora, it was sufficient

to banish me from your heart! She tells me not only that I have for ever

forfeited her confidence, her esteem, her affection; but that I shall

soon be your aversion and contempt. O cruel, cruel words! But I

submit--I have deserved it all--I have robbed her of a heart above all

price. Leonora, why did you not reproach me more bitterly? I desire, I

implore to be crushed, to be annihilated by your vengeance! Most

admirable, most virtuous, most estimable of women, best of wives, I have

with sacrilegious love profaned a soul consecrated to you and conjugal

virtue. I acknowledge my crime; trample upon me as you will, I am

humbled in the dust. More than all your bitterest reproaches do I feel

the remorse of having for a moment interrupted such serenity of

happiness.

Oh, why did you persuade me, L----, and why did I believe that Leonora

was calm and free from all suspicion? How could I believe that any

woman whom you had ever loved, could remain blind to your inconstancy,

or feel secure indifference? Happy woman! in you to love is not a crime;

you may glory in your passion, whilst I must hide mine from every human

eye, drop in shameful secrecy the burning tear, stifle the struggling

sigh, blush at the conflicts of virtue and sensibility, and carry shame

and remorse with me to the grave. Happy Leonora! happy even when most

injured, you have a right to complain to him you love;--he is yours--you

are his wife--his esteem, his affection are yours. On Olivia he has

bestowed but a transient thought, and eternal ignominy must be her

portion. So let it be--so I wish it to be. Would to Heaven I may thus

atone for the past, and secure your future felicity. Fly to her, my

dearest L----, I conjure you! throw yourself at her feet, entreat,

implore, obtain her forgiveness. She cannot refuse it to your tears, to

your caresses. To withstand them she must be more or less than woman.

No, she cannot resist your voice when it speaks words of peace and love;

she will press you with transport to her heart, and Olivia, poor Olivia,

will be for ever forgotten; yet she will rejoice in your felicity;

absolved perhaps in the eye of Heaven, though banished from your

society, she will die content.

Full well am I aware of the consequences of quitting thus precipitately

the house of Lady Leonora L----; but nothing that concerns myself alone

can for a moment make me hesitate to do that which the sentiment of

virtue dictates, and which is yet more strongly urged by regard for the

happiness of one, who once allowed me to call her friend. I know my

reputation is irrecoverably sacrificed; but it is to one for whom I

would lay down my life. Can a woman who feels as I do deem any earthly

good a sacrifice for him she loves? Dear L----, adieu for ever!

Olivia.

Letter lij.

_Leonora to the Duchess of ----._

Dearest Mother,

It is all over--my husband is gone--gone perhaps for ever--all is in

vain--all is lost!

Without saying more to you than I ought, I may tell you, that in

consequence of an indignant letter which I wrote last night to Lady

Olivia, she left my house this morning early, before any of the family

were up. Mr L---- heard of her departure before I did. He has, I will

not say followed her, for of that I am not certain; but he has quitted

home, and without giving me one kind look at parting, without even

noticing a letter which I left last night upon his table. At what slight

things we catch to save us from despair! How obstinate, how vain is

hope! I fondly hoped, even to the last moment, that this letter, this

foolish letter, would work a sudden change in my husband's heart, would

operate miracles, would restore me to happiness. I fancied, absurdly

fancied, that laying open my whole soul to him would have an effect upon

his mind. Alas! has not my whole soul been always open to him? Could

this letter tell him anything but what he knows already or what he will

never know--how well I love him! I was weak to expect so much from it;

yet as it expressed without complaint the anguish of disappointed

affection, it deserved at least some acknowledgment. Could not he have

said, "My dear Leonora, I thank you for your letter"?--or more coldly

still--"Leonora, I have received your letter"? Even that would have been

some relief to me: but now all is despair. I saw him just when he was

going away, but for a moment; till the last instant he was not to be

seen; then, in spite of all his command of countenance, I discerned

strong marks of agitation; but towards me an air of resentment, more

than any disposition to kinder thoughts. I fancy that he scarcely knew

what he said, nor, I am sure, did I. He talked, I remember, of having

immediate business in town, and I endeavoured to believe him. Contrary

to his usual composed manner, he was in such haste to be gone, that I

was obliged to send his watch and purse after him, which he had left on

his dressing-table. How melancholy his room looked to me! His clothes

just as he had left them--a rose which Lady Olivia gave him yesterday

was in water on his table. My letter was not there; so he has it,

probably unread. He will read it some time or other, perhaps--and some

time or other, perhaps, when I am dead and gone, he will believe I loved

him. Could he have known what I felt at the moment when he turned from

me, he would have pitied me; for his nature, his character, cannot be

quite altered in a few months, though he has ceased to love Leonora.

From the window of his own room I watched for the last glimpse of

him--heard him call to the postilions, and bid them "drive

fast--faster." This was the last sound I heard of his voice. When shall

I hear that voice again? I think that I shall certainly hear from him

the day after to-morrow--and I wish to-day and to-morrow were gone.

I am afraid that you will think me very weak; but, my dear mother, I

have no motive for fortitude now; and perhaps it might have been better

for me, if I had not exerted so much. I begin to fear that all my

fortitude is mistaken for indifference. Something Mr L---- said the

other day about sensibility and sacrifices gave me this idea.

Sensibility!--It has been my hard task for some months past to repress

mine, that it might not give pain or disgust. I have done all that my

reason and my dearest mother counselled; surely I cannot have done

wrong. How apt we are to mistake the opinion or the taste of the man we

love for the rule of right! Sacrifices! What sacrifices can I make?--All

that I have, is it not his?--My whole heart, is it not his?--Myself, all

that I am, all that I _can_ be? Have I not left with him of late,

without recalling to his mind the idea that I suffer by his neglect?

Have I not lived his heart at liberty, and can I make a greater

sacrifice? I really do not understand what he means by sacrifices. A

woman who loves her husband is part of him; whatever she does for him is

for herself. I wish he would explain to me what he can mean by

sacrifices--but when will he ever again explain his thoughts and

feelings to me?

My dearest mother, it has been a relief to my mind to write all this to

you; if there is no sense in it, you will forgive and encourage me by

your affection and strength of mind, which, in all situations, have such

power to soothe and support your daughter.

The Prince ----, who spent a fortnight here, paid me particular

attention.

The prince talked of soon paying us another visit. If he should, I will

not receive him in Mr L----'s absence. This may seem like vanity or

prudery; but no matter what it appears, if it is right.

Well might you, my best friend, bid me beware of forming an intimacy

with an unprincipled woman. I have suffered severely for neglecting your

counsels; how much I have still to endure is yet to be tried: but I can

never be entirely miserable whilst I possess, and whilst I hope that I

deserve, the affection of such a mother.

Leonora L----.

Letter liij.

_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._

If my approbation and affection can sustain you in this trying

situation, your fortitude will not forsake you, my beloved daughter.

Great minds rise in adversity; they are always equal to the trial, and

superior to injustice: betrayed and deserted, they feel their own force,

and they rely upon themselves. Be yourself, my Leonora! Persevere as you

have begun, and, trust me, you will be happy. I abide by my first

opinion, I repeat my prophecy--your husband's esteem, affection, love,

will be permanently yours. Change of circumstances, however alarming,

cannot shake the fixed judgment of my understanding. Character, as you

justly observe, cannot utterly change in a few months. Your husband is

deceived, he is now as one in the delirium of a fever: he will recover

his senses, and see Lady Olivia and you such as you are.

You do not explain, and I take it for granted you have good reasons for

not explaining to me more fully, the immediate cause of your letter to

Lady Olivia. I am sorry that any cause should have thrown her upon the

protection of Mr L----; for a man of honour and generosity feels himself

bound to treat with tenderness a woman who appears to sacrifice

everything for his sake. Consider this in another point of view, and it

will afford you subject of consolation; for it is always a consolation

to good minds to think those whom they love less to blame than they

appear to be. You will be more calm and patient when you reflect that

your husband's absence may be prolonged by a mistaken sense of honour.

From the nature of his connexion with Lady Olivia it cannot last long.

Had she saved appearances, and engaged him in a sentimental affair, it

might have been far more dangerous to your happiness.

I entirely approve of your conduct with respect to the prince: it is

worthy of my child, and just what I should have expected from her. The

artifices of coquettes, and all the _art_ of love is beneath her; she

has far other powers and resources, and need not strive to maintain her

dignity by vengeance. I admire your magnanimity, and I still more admire

your good sense; for high spirit is more common in our sex than good

sense. Few know how and when they should sacrifice small considerations

to great ones. You say that you will not receive the prince in your

husband's absence, though this may be attributed to prudery or vanity,

&c. &c. You are quite right. How many silly women sacrifice the

happiness of their lives to the idea of what women or men, as silly as

themselves, will say or think of their motives. How many absurd heroines

of romance, and of those who imitate them in real life, do we see, who

can never act with common sense or presence of mind: if a man's carriage

breaks down, or his horse is tired at the end of their avenues, or for

some such ridiculous reason, they must do the very reverse of all they

know to be prudent. Perpetually exposed, by a fatal concurrence of

circumstances, to excite the jealousy of their lovers and husbands, they

create the necessity to which they fall a victim. I rejoice that I

cannot feel any apprehension of my daughter's conducting herself like

one of these novel-bred ladies.

I am sorry, my dear, that Lady M---- and your friends have left you:

yet even in this there may be good. Your affairs will be made less

public, and you will be less the subject of impertinent curiosity. I

advise you, however, to mix as much as usual with your neighbours in the

country: your presence, and the dignity of your manners, will impose

silence upon idle tongues. No wife of real spirit solicits the world for

compassion: she who does not court popularity ensures respect.

Adieu, my dearest child: the time will come when your husband will feel

the full merit of your fortitude; when he will know how to distinguish

between true and false sensibility; between the love of an Olivia and of

a Leonora.

Letter liv.

_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._

Jan. 26.

My dear Margaret,

I shall never forgive myself. I fear I have done Leonora irreparable

injury; and, dear magnanimous sufferer, she has never reproached me! In

a fit of indignation and imprudent zeal I made a discovery, which has

produced a total breach between Leonora and Lady Olivia, and in

consequence of this Mr L---- has gone off with her ladyship * * * * * *

* * * * * * We have heard nothing from Mr L---- since his departure, and

Leonora is more unhappy than ever, and my imprudence is the cause of

this. Yet she continues to love me. She is an angel! I have promised her

not to mention her affairs in future even in any of my letters to you,

dear Margaret. Pray quiet any reports you may hear, and stop idle

tongues.

Yours affectionately,

Helen C----.

Letter lv.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

Richmond.

My dear Friend,

I do not think I could have borne with temper from any other man

breathing the last letter which I received from you. I am sensible that

it was written with the best intentions for my happiness; but I must now

inform you, that the lady in question has accepted of my protection, and

consequently no man who esteems me can treat her with disrespect.

It is no longer a question, what she will sacrifice for me; she has

shown the greatest generosity and tenderness of soul; and I should

despise myself, if I did not exert every power to make her happy.--We

are at Richmond: but if you write, direct to me at my house in town.

Yours sincerely,

F. L----.

Letter lvi.

_General B---- to Mr L----._

Dream your dream out, my dear L----. Since you are angry with me, as

Solander was with Sir Joseph Banks for awakening him, I shall not take

the liberty of shaking you any more. I believe I shook you rather too

roughly: but I assure you it was for your good, as people always tell

their friends when they do the most disagreeable things imaginable.

Forgive me, and I will let you dream in peace. You will however allow

me to watch by you whilst you sleep; and, my dear somnambulist, I may

just take care that you do not knock your head against a post, or fall

into a well.

I hope you will not have any objection to my paying my respects to Lady

Olivia when I come to town, which, I flatter myself, I shall be able to

do shortly. The fortifications here are almost completed.

Yours truly,

J. B.

Letter lvij.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

Richmond, ----.

Happy!--No, my dear Gabrielle, nor shall I ever be happy, whilst I have

not exclusive possession of the heart of the man I love. I have

sacrificed everything to him; I have a right to expect that he should

sacrifice at least a wife for me--a wife whom he only esteems. But L----

has not sufficient strength of mind to liberate himself from the cobwebs

which restrain those who talk of conscience, and who, in fact, are only

superstitious. I see with indignation, that his soul is continually

struggling between passion for me and a something, I know not what to

call it, that he feels for this wife. His thoughts are turning towards

home. I believe that to an Englishman's ears there is some magic in the

words _home_ and _wife_. I used to think foreigners ridiculous for

associating the ideas of milord Anglois with roast beef and pudding; but

I begin to see that they are quite right, and that an Englishman has a

certain set of inveterate _homely_ prejudices, which are necessary to

his well-being, and almost to his existence. You may entice him into the

land of sentiment, and for a time keep him there; but refine and polish

and enlighten him as you will, he recurs to his own plain sense, as he

terms it, on the first convenient opportunity. In short, it is lost

labour to civilize him, for sooner or later he will _hottentot_ again.

Pray introduce that term, Gabrielle--_you_ can translate it. For my

part, I can introduce nothing here; my maniere d'etre is really

insupportable; my talents are lost; I, who am accustomed to shine in

society, see nobody; I might, as Josephine every day observes, as well

be buried alive. Retirement and love are charming; but then it must be

perfect love--not the equivocating sort that L----feels for me, which

keeps the word of promise only to the ear. I bear every sort of

desagrement for him; I make myself a figure for the finger of scorn to

point at, and he insults me with esteem for a wife. Can you conceive

this, my amiable Gabrielle?--No, there are ridiculous points in the

characters of my countrymen which you will never be able to comprehend.

And what is still more incomprehensible, it is my fate to love this man;

yes, passionately to love him!--But he must give me proof of reciprocal

passion. I have too much spirit to sacrifice everything for him, who

will sacrifice nothing for me. Besides, I have another motive. To you,

my faithful Gabrielle, I open my whole heart.--Pride inspires me as well

as love. I am resolved that Leonora, the haughty Leonora, shall live to

repent of having insulted and exasperated Olivia. In some situations

contempt can be answered only by vengeance; and when the malice of a

contracted and illiberal mind provokes it, revenge is virtue. Leonora

has called me her enemy, and consequently has made me such. 'Tis she has

declared the war! 'tis for me to decide the victory!

L----, I know, has the offer of an embassy to Petersburg.--He shall

accept it.--I will accompany him thither. Lady Leonora may, in his

absence, console herself with her august counsellor and mother:--that

proudest of earthly paragons is yet to be taught the extent of Olivia's

power. Adieu, my charming Gabrielle! I will carry your tenderest

remembrances to our brilliant Russian princess. She has often invited

me, you know, to pay her a visit, and this will be the ostensible object

of my journey. A horrible journey, to be sure!!!--But what will not love

undertake and accomplish, especially when goaded by pride, and

inspirited by great revenge?

Olivia.

Letter lviij.

_Olivia to Mr L----._

Victim to the delusions of passion, too well I know my danger, and now,

even now foresee my miserable fate. Too well I know that the delicious

poison which spreads through my frame exalts, entrances, but to destroy.

Too well I know that the meteor fire, which shines so bright on my path,

entices me forward but to plunge me in the depths of infamy. The long

warnings of recorded time teach me, that perjured man triumphs,

disdains, and abandons. Too well, alas! I know these fatal truths; too

well I feel my approaching doom. Yet, infatuated as I am, prescience

avails not; the voice of prudence warns, the hand of Heaven beckons me

in vain.

My friend! my more than friend, my lover! beloved beyond expression! you

to whom I immolate myself, you for whom I sacrifice more than life, O

whisper words of peace! for you, and you alone, can tranquillize this

agitated bosom. Assure me, L----, if with truth you can assure me, that

I have no rival in your affections. O tell me that the name of wife

does not invalidate the claims of love! Repeat for me, a thousand times

repeat, that I am sole possessor of your heart!

The moment you quit me I am overpowered with melancholy forebodings.

Scarcely are you out of my sight, before I dread that I should never see

you more, or that some fatality should deprive me of your love. When

shall the sails of love waft us from this dangerous shore? O! when shall

I dare to call you mine? Heavens! how many things may intervene. . . .

Let nothing detain you from Richmond this evening; but come not at

all--come no more, unless to reassure my trembling heart, and to

convince me that love and Olivia have banished every other image.

Olivia.

Letter lix.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

My dear General,

I am come to a resolution to accept of that embassy to Russia which I

lately refused. My mind has been in such constant anxiety for some time

past, that my health has suffered, and change of air and place are

necessary to me. You will say, that the climate of Russia is a strange

choice for an invalid: I could indeed have wished for a milder; but in

this world we must be content with the least of two evils. I wish to

have some ostensible reason for going abroad, and this embassy is the

only one that presents itself in an unquestionable shape. Anything is

better than staying where I am, and _as_ I am. My motives are not so

entirely personal and selfish as I have stated them. A man who has a

grain of feeling cannot endure to see the woman whom he loves, whose

only failing is her love, living in a state of dereliction, exposed to

the silent scorn of her equals and inferiors, if not to open insult. All

her fine talents, every advantage of nature and education sacrificed,

and her sensibility to shame a perpetual source of misery. A man must be

a brute if he do not feel for a woman whose affection for him has

reduced her to this situation. My delicacy as to female manners, and the

high value I set upon public opinion in all that concerns the sex, make

me peculiarly susceptible and wretched in my present circumstances. To

raise the drooping spirits, and support the self-approbation of a woman,

who is conscious that she has forfeited her claim to respect--to make

love supply the place of all she has sacrificed to love, is a difficult

and exquisitely painful task. My feelings render hers more acute, and

the very precautions which I take, however delicate, alarm and wound her

pride, by reminding her of all she wishes to forget. In this country no

woman, who is not lost to shame, can bear to live without

reputation.----I pass over a great many intermediate ideas, my dear

general; your sense and feeling will supply them. You see the

expediency, the necessity of my accepting this embassy. Olivia urges,

how can I refuse it? She wishes to accompany me. She made this offer

with such decision of spirit, with such passionate tenderness, as

touched me to the very soul. A woman who really loves absolutely devotes

herself, and becomes insensible to every difficulty and danger; to her

all parts of the world are like; all she fears is to be separated from

the object of her affections.

But the very excess of certain passions proves them to be genuine. Even

whilst we blame the rashness of those who act from the enthusiasm of

their natures, whilst we foresee all the perils to which they seem

blind, we tremble at their danger, we grow more and more interested for

them every moment, we admire their courage, we long to snatch them from

their fate, we are irresistibly hurried along with them down the

precipice.

But why do I say all this to you, my dear general? To no man upon earth

could it be more ineffectually addressed. Let me see you, however,

before we leave England. It would be painful to me to quit this country

without taking leave of you, notwithstanding all that you have lately

done to thwart my inclinations, and notwithstanding all I may expect you

to say when we meet. Probably I shall be detained here some weeks, as I

must wait for instructions from our court. I write this day to Lady

Leonora, to inform her that I am appointed ambassador to Russia. She

shall have all the honours of war; she shall be treated with all the

respect to which she is so well entitled. I suppose she will wish to

reside with her mother during my absence. She cannot do better: she will

then be in the most eligible situation, and I shall be relieved from all

anxiety upon her account. She will be perfectly happy with her mother. I

have often thought that she was much happier before she married me than

she has been since our union.

I have some curiosity to know whether she will see the prince when I am

gone. Do not mistake me; I am not jealous: I have too little love, and

too much esteem for Leonora, to feel the slightest jealousy. I have no

doubt, that if I were to stay in Russia for ten years, and if all the

princes and potentates in Europe were to be at her feet, my wife would

conduct herself with the most edifying propriety: but I am a little

curious to know how far vanity or pride can console a virtuous woman for

the absence of love.

Yours truly,

F. L----.

Letter lx.

_Madame de P---- to Olivia._

Paris.

You are really decided then to go to Russia, my amiable friend, and you

will absolutely undertake this horrible voyage! And you are not

intimidated by the idea of the immense distance between Petersburg and

Paris! Alas! I had hoped soon to see you again. The journey from my

convent to Paris was the longest and most formidable that I ever

undertook, and at this moment it appears to me terrible; you may

conceive therefore my admiration of your courage and strength of mind,

my dear Olivia, who are going to brave the ocean, turning your back on

Paris, and every moment receding from our polished centre of attraction,

to perish perhaps among mountains of ice. Mon Dieu! it makes me shudder

to think of it. But if it pleases Heaven that you should once arrive at

Petersburg, you will crown your tresses with diamonds, you will envelop

yourself with those superb furs of the north, and smiling at all the

dangers you have passed, you will be yourself a thousand times more

dangerous than they. You, who have lived so long at Paris, who speak our

language in all its shades of elegance; you, who have divined all our

secrets of pleasing, who have caught our very air,

"Et la grace, encore plus belle que la beaute;"

you, who are absolutely a French woman, and a Parisian, what a sensation

you will produce at Petersburg!--Quels succes vous attendent!--Quels

hommages!

You will have the goodness to offer my tenderest sentiments, and the

assurances of my perfect respect, to our dear princess; you will also

find the proper moment to remind her of the promise she made to send me

specimens of the fine ermines and sables of her country. For my part, I

used to be, I confess, in a great error with respect to furs: I always

acknowledged them to be rich, but avoided them as heavy; I considered

them as fitter for the stiff magnificence of an empress of all the

Russias than for the light elegance of a Parisian beauty; but our

charming princess convinced me that this is a heresy in taste. When I

beheld the grace with which she wore her ermine, and the art with which

she knew how to vary its serpent folds as she moved, or as she spoke;

the variety it gave to her costume and attitudes; the development it

afforded to a fine hand and arm, the resource in the pauses of

conversation, and that soft and attractive air which it seemed to impart

even to the play of her wit, I could no longer refuse my homage to

ermine. Such is the despotism of beauty over all the objects of taste

and fashion; and so it is, that a woman of sense, address, and

sentiment, let her be born or thrown by fate where she may, will always

know how to avail herself of every possible advantage of nature and art.

Nothing will be too trifling or too vast for her genius.

I must make you understand me, my dear Olivia; your Gabrielle is not so

frivolous as simpletons imagine. Frivolity is an excellent, because an

unsuspected mask, under which serious and important designs may be

safely concealed. I would explain myself further, but must now go to the

opera to see the new ballet. Let me know, my interesting, my sublime

Olivia, when you are positively determined on your voyage to Petersburg;

and then you shall become acquainted with your friend as a politician.

Her friendship for you will not be confined to a mere intercourse of

sentiment, but will, if you have courage to second her views, give you a

secret yet decisive weight and consequence, of which you have hitherto

never dreamed.--Adieu.--These gentlemen are so impatient, I must go.

Burn the last page of this letter, and the whole of my next as soon as

you have read it, I conjure you, my dear.

Gabrielle de P----.

Letter lxi.

_General B---- to Mr L----._

Dear L----.

I have time but to write one line to satisfy that philosophical

curiosity, which, according to your injunctions, I will not denominate

jealousy--except when I talk to myself.

You have a philosophical curiosity to know whether your wife will see

the prince in your absence. I saw his favourite yesterday, who

complained to me, that his highness had been absolutely refused

admittance at your castle, notwithstanding he had made many ingenious

and some bold attempts to see Lady Leonora L---- in the absence of her

faithless husband.

As to your scheme of going to Russia, you will be obliged, luckily, to

wait for some time for instruction, and in the interval, it is to be

hoped you will recover your senses. I shall see you as soon as possible.

Yours truly,

J. B.

Letter lxij.

_Madame de P---- to Lady Olivia._

Paris.

As our vanity always endeavours to establish a balance between our own

perfections and those of our friends, I must flatter myself, my dear

Olivia, that in compensation for that courage and ardent imagination in

which you are so much my superior, I possess some little advantages over

you in my scientific, hereditary knowledge of court intrigue, and of the

arts of representation; all which will be necessary to you in your

character of ambassadress: you will in fact deserve this title, for of

course you will govern the English ambassador, whom you honour with your

love. And of course you will appear with splendour, and you will be

particularly careful to have your _traineau_ well appointed. Pray

remember that one of your horses must gallop, whilst the other trots, or

you are nobody. It will also be absolutely necessary to have a numerous

retinue of servants, because this suits the Russian idea of

magnificence. You must have, as the Russian nobles always had in Paris,

four servants constantly to attend your equipage; one to carry the

flambeau, another to open the door, and a couple to carry you into and

out of your carriage. I beseech you to bear in mind perpetually, that

you are to be as helpless as possible. A Frenchman of my acquaintance,

who spent nine years in Russia, told me, that in his first setting out

at Petersburg, he was put on his guard in this particular by a speech of

his Russian valet de chambre:--"Sir, the Englishman you visited to-day

cannot be worthy of your acquaintance; he cannot be a gentleman. Son

valet me dit qu'il se deshabille seul!!!"

I suppose you take Josephine with you; she will be an inestimable

treasure; and I shall make it my business to send you the first advices

of Paris fashions, which her talents will not fail to comprehend and

execute. My charming Olivia! you will be the model of taste and

elegance! Do not suspect that dress is carrying me away from politics.

I assure you I know what I am about, and am going straight to my object.

The art of attending to trifles is the art of governing the world, as

all historians know, who have gone to the bottom of affairs. Was not the

face of Europe changed by a dish of tea thrown on Mrs Masham's gown, as

Voltaire with penetrating genius remarks? Women, without a doubt,

understand the importance of trifles better than men do, and

consequently always move in secret the slight springs of that vast

machine, the civilized world. Is not your ambition roused, my Olivia?

You must, however, lay aside a little of your romance, and not approach

the political machine whilst you are intoxicated with love, else you

will blunder infallibly, and do infinite and irreparable mischief to

yourself and your friends.

Permit me to tell you, that you have been a little spoiled by

sentimental novels, which are good only to talk of when one must show

sensibility, but destructive as rules of action. By the false lights

which these writers, who know nothing of the world, have thrown upon

objects, you have been deluded; you have been led to mistake the means

for the end. Love has been with you the sole end of love; whereas it

ought to be the beginning of power. No matter for the past: the future

is yours: at our age this future must be dexterously managed. A woman of

spirit, and, what is better, of sense, must always take care that in her

heart the age of love is not prolonged beyond the age of being beloved.

In these times a woman has no choice at a certain period but politics,

or bel esprit; for devotion, which used to be a resource, is no longer

in fashion. We must all take a part, my dear; I assure you I have taken

mine decidedly, and I predict that you will take yours with brilliant

success. How often must one cry in the ears of lovers--Love must die!

must die! must die! But you, my dear Olivia, will not be deaf to the

warning voice of common sense. Your own experience has on former

occasions convinced you, that passion cannot be eternal; and at present,

if I mistake not, there is in your love a certain mixture of other

feelings, a certain alloy, which will make it happily ductile and

manageable. When your triumph over the wife is complete, passion for the

husband will insensibly decay; and this will be fortunate for you,

because assuredly your ambassador would not choose to remain all the

rest of his days in love and in exile at Petersburg. All these English

are afflicted with the maladie du pays; and, as you observe so well, the

words home and wife have ridiculous but unconquerable power over their

minds. What will become of you, my friend, when this Mr L----chooses to

return to England to his castle, &c.? You could not accompany him. You

must provide in time against this catastrophe, or you will be a

deserted, disgraced, undone woman, my dear friend.

No one should begin to act a romance who has not well considered the

denouement. It is a charming thing to mount with a friend in a balloon,

amid crowds of spectators, who admire the fine spectacle, and applaud

the courage of the aerostats; the losing sight of this earth, and the

being in or above the clouds, must also be delightful: but the moment

will come when the travellers descend, and then begins the danger; then

they differ about throwing out the ballast, the balloon is rent in the

quarrel, it sinks with frightful rapidity, and they run the hazard, like

the poor Marquis d'Arlande, of being spitted upon the spire of the

Invalides, or of being entangled among woods and briers--at last,

alighting upon the earth, our adventurers, fatigued and bruised, and

disappointed, come out of their shattered triumphal car, exposed to the

derision of the changeable multitude.

Everything in this world is judged of by success. Your voyage to

Petersburg, my dear Olivia, must not be a mere adventure of romance; as

a party of pleasure it would be ridiculous; we must make something more

of it. Enclosed is a letter to a Russian nobleman, an old lover of mine,

who I understand is in favour. He will certainly be at your command. He

is a man possessed by the desire of having reputation among foreigners,

vain of the preference of our sex, generous even to prodigality. By his

means you will be immediately placed on an easy footing with all the

leading persons of the Russian court. You will go on from one step to

another, till you are at the height which I have in view. Now for my

grand object.--No, not now--for I have forty little notes about nothings

to write this morning. Great things hang upon these nothings, so they

should not be neglected. I must leave you, my amiable Olivia, and defer

my grand object till to-morrow.

Gabrielle de P----.

Letter lxiij.

_Leonora to the Duchess of ----._

Dear Mother,

This moment I have received a letter from Mr L----. He has accepted of

an embassy to Petersburg. I cannot guess by the few lines he has

written, whether or not he wishes that I should accompany him. Most

ardently I wish it; but if my offer should be refused, or if it should

be accepted only because it could not be well refused; if I should be a

burthen, a restraint upon him, I should wish myself dead.

Perhaps he accepts of this embassy on purpose that he may leave me and

take another person with him: or perhaps, dearest mother (I hardly dare

to hope it)--perhaps he wishes to break off that connexion, and goes to

Russia to leave temptation behind him. I know that this embassy was

offered to him some weeks ago, and he had then no thoughts of accepting

it.--O that I could see into his heart--that heart which used to be

always open to me! If I could discover what his wishes are, I should

know what mine ought to be. I have thoughts of going to town immediately

to see him; at least I may take leave of him. Do you approve of it?

Write the moment you receive this: but I need not say that, for I am

sure you will do so. Dearest mother, you have prophesied that his heart

will return to me, and on this hope I live.

Your ever affectionate daughter,

Leonora L----.

Letter lxiv.

_The Duchess of ---- to Leonora._

Yes, my dear, I advise you by all means to go to town, and to see your

husband. Your desire to accompany him to Russia he will know before you

see him, for I have just written and despatched an express to him with

your last letter, and with all those which I have received from you

within these last six months. Leave Mr L---- time to read them before he

sees you; and do not hurry or fatigue yourself unnecessarily. You know

that an embassy cannot be arranged in two days; therefore travel by easy

journeys: you cannot do otherwise without hazard. Your courage in

offering to undertake this long voyage with your husband is worthy of

you, my beloved daughter. God bless and preserve you! If you go to

Petersburg, let me know in time, that I may see you before you leave

England. I will be at any moment at any place you appoint.

Your affectionate mother,

Letter lxv.

_The Duchess of ---- to Mr L----._

Perhaps this letter may find you at the feet of your mistress. Spare me,

sir, a few moments from your pleasures. You may perhaps expect

reproaches from the mother of your wife; but let me assure you, that you

have none to apprehend. For my daughter's sake, if not for yours, I

would forbear. Never was departing love recalled by the voice of

reproach; you shall not hear it from me, you have not heard it from

Leonora. But mistake not the cause of her forbearance; let it not be

attributed to pusillanimity of temper, or insensibility of heart.

Enclosed I send you all the letters which my daughter has written to me

from the first day of her acquaintance with Lady Olivia to this hour.

From these you will be enabled to judge of what she has felt for some

months past, and of the actual state of her heart; you will see all the

tenderness and all the strength of her soul.

It has ever been my fixed opinion, that a wife who loves her husband,

and who has possessed his affections, may reclaim them from the lure of

the most artful of her sex, by persevering kindness, temper, and good

sense, unless indeed her husband be a fool or a libertine. I have

prophesied that my daughter will regain your heart; and upon this

prophecy, to use her own expression, she lives. And even now, when its

accomplishment is far removed, I am so steady in my opinion of her and

of you; so convinced of the uniform result of certain conduct upon the

human mind, that undismayed I repeat my prophecy.

Were you to remain in this kingdom, I should leave things to their

natural course; I should not interfere so far even as to send you

Leonora's letters: but as you may be separated for years, I think it

necessary now to put into your hands incontrovertible proofs of what she

is, and what she has been. Do not imagine that I am so weak as to expect

that the perusal of these letters will work a sudden change: but it is

fit, that before you leave England you should know that Leonora is not a

cold, sullen, or offended wife; but one who loves you most tenderly,

most generously; who, concealing the agony of her heart, waits with

resignation for the time when she will be your refuge, and the permanent

blessing of your life.

Letter lxvi.

_Madame de P---- to Olivia._

Paris.

And now, my charming Olivia, raise your fine eyes as high as ambition

can look, and you will perhaps discover my grand object. You do not see

it yet. Look again.--Do you not see the Emperor of Russia? What would

you think of him for a lover? If it were only for novelty's sake, it

would really be pleasant to have a czar at one's feet. Reign in his

heart, and you in fact seat yourself invisibly on the throne of all the

Russias: thence what a commanding prospect you have of the affairs of

Europe! and how we should govern the world at our ease! The project is

bold, but not impracticable. The ancients represent Cupid riding the

Numidian lion; and why should he not tame the Russian bear? It would

make a pretty design for a vignette. I can engrave as well as La

Pompadour could at least, and anticipating your victory, my charming

Olivia, I will engrave Cupid leading the bear in a chain of flowers.

This shall be my seal. Mon cachet de faveur.

Courage, my fair politician! You have a difficult task; but the glory is

in proportion to the labour; and those who value power properly are paid

by its acquisition for all possible fatigue and hardships. With your

knowledge of our modes, you will be at Petersburg the arbitress of

delights. You have a charming taste and invention for fetes and

spectacles. Teach these people to vary their pleasures. Their monarch

must adore you, if you banish from his presence that most dreadful enemy

of kings, and most obstinate resident of courts, _ennui_. Trust, my

Olivia, neither to your wit, nor your beauty, nor your accomplishments,

but employ your "various arts of trifling prettily," and, take my word

for it, you will succeed.

As I may not have an opportunity of sending you another private letter,

and as lemon-juice, goulard, and all those sympathetic inks, are subject

to unlucky accidents, I must send you all my secret instructions by the

present safe conveyance.

You must absolutely sacrifice, my dear child, all your romantic notions,

and all your taste for love, to the grand object. The czar must not have

the slightest cause for jealousy. These czars make nothing, you know, of

cutting off their mistresses' pretty heads upon the bare suspicion of an

intrigue. But you must do what is still more difficult than to be

constant, you must yield your will, and, what is more, you must never

let this czar guess that his will is not always your pleasure. Your

humour, your tastes, your wishes, must be incessantly and with alacrity

sacrificed to his. You must submit to the constraint of eternal court

ceremony and court dissimulation. You must bear to be surrounded with

masks, instead of the human face divine; and instead of

fellow-creatures, you must content yourself with puppets. You will have

the amusement of pulling the wires: but remember that you must wear a

mask perpetually as well as others, and never attempt to speak, and

never expect to hear the language of truth or of the heart. You must not

be the dupe of attachment in those who call themselves friends, or

zealous and affectionate servants, &c. &c. You must have sufficient

strength of character to bear continually in mind that all these

professions are mere words, that all these people are alike false, and

actuated but by one motive, self-interest. To secure yourself from

secret and open enemies, you must farther have sufficient courage to

live without a friend or a confidante, for such persons at court are

only spies, traitors in the worst forms. All this is melancholy and

provoking, to be sure; but all this you must see without feeling, or at

least without showing a spark of indignation. A sentimental

misanthropist, male or female, is quite out of place at court. You must

see all that is odious and despicable in human nature in a comic point

of view; and you must consider your fellow-creatures as objects to be

laughed at, not to be hated. Laughter, besides being good for the

health, and consequently for the complexion, always implies superiority.

Without this gratification to our vanity there would be no possibility

of enduring that eternal penance of hypocrisy, and that solitary state

of suspicion, to which the ambitious condemn themselves. I fear, my

romantic Olivia, that you, who are a person used to yield to first

impressions, and not quite accustomed to subdue your passions to your

interest, will think that politics require too much from you, almost as

much as constancy or religion. But consider the difference! for Heaven's

sake, my dear, consider the greatness of our object! Would to God that I

had the eloquence of Bossuet, and I would make you a convert from love

and a proselyte to glory. Dare, my Olivia, to be a martyr to

ambition!--See! already high in air she holds a crown over your head--it

is almost within your grasp--stretch out your white arm and seize

it--fear not the thorns!--every crown has thorns--but who upon that

account ever yet refused one? My dear empress, I have the honour to kiss

your powerful hands.

Gabrielle de P----.

Letter lxvij.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

My dear Friend,

You need not hurry yourself to come to town on my account, for by this

change of ministry my embassy will be delayed some weeks.

A few days ago this delay would have been a terrible disappointment to

me; yet now I feel it a respite. A respite! you will exclaim. Yes, my

dear friend--so it is. Such is the heart of man!--so changeable, so

contradictory, so much at variance with itself from day to day, from

hour to hour. I believe, from what I now feel, that every man under the

dominion of passion is reduced to a most absurd and miserable

condition.--I have just been reading some letters from Leonora, which

have wrung my heart; letters addressed to her mother, laying open every

feeling of her mind for some months. My dear friend, what injustice

have I done to this admirable woman! With what tenderness, with what

delicacy has she loved me! while I, mistaking modesty for coldness,

fortitude for indifference, have neglected, injured, and abandoned her!

With what sweetness of temper, with what persevering goodness has she

borne with me, while, intoxicated with passion, I saw everything in a

false point of view! How often have I satisfied myself with the

persuasion, that she scarcely observed my attachment to Olivia, or

beheld it unconcerned, secure by the absence of love from the pangs of

jealousy! How often have I accused her of insensibility, whilst her

heart was in tortures! Olivia was deceived also, and confirmed me in

this cruel error. And all that time Leonora was defending her rival, and

pleading her cause! With what generosity, with what magnanimity she

speaks of Olivia in those letters! Her confidence was unbounded, her

soul above suspicion; to the very last she doubted and blamed

herself--dear amiable woman! blamed herself for our faults, for feeling

that jealousy, which no wife who loved as she did could possibly subdue.

She never betrayed it by a single word or look of reproach. Even though

she fainted at that cursed fete champetre, yet the moment she came to

her senses, she managed so that none of the spectators could suspect she

thought Olivia was her rival. My dear general, you will forgive me--as

long as I praise Leonora you will understand me. At last you will

acknowledge that I do justice to the merits of my wife. Justice! no--I

am unworthy of her. I have no heart like hers to offer in return for

such love. She wishes to go with me to Petersburg; she has forborne to

make this offer directly to me; but I know it from her last letter to

her mother, which now lies before me. How can I refuse?--and how can I

accept? My soul is torn with violence different ways. How can I leave

Leonora; and how can I tear myself from Olivia!--even if her charms had

no power over my heart, how could I with honour desert the woman who has

sacrificed everything for me! I will not shield myself from you, my

friend, behind the word honour. See me as you have always seen me,

without disguise, and now without defence. I respect, I love

Leonora--but, alas! I am in love with Olivia!

Yours ever,

F. L----.

Letter lxviij.

_Mr L---- to Olivia._

Triumphant as you are over my heart, dear enchanting Olivia! you cannot

make me false. I cannot, even to appease your anger, deny this morning

what I said last night. It is inconsistent with all your professions,

with your character, with your generous disposition, to desire me to

"_abjure Leonora for ever_!" it would be to render myself for ever

unworthy of Olivia. I am convinced, that had you read the letters of

which I spoke, you would have been touched, you would have been struck

by them as I was: instead of being hurt and displeased by the impression

that they made upon me, you would have sympathized in my feelings, you

would have been indignant if I had not admired, you would have detested

and despised me if I could have been insensible to "_so much goodness

and generosity_." I repeat my words: I will not "_retract_," I cannot

"_repent of them_." My dear Olivia! when you reflect upon what is past,

I am persuaded you will acknowledge that your sensibility made you

unjust. Indeed, my love, you did not show your usual candour; I had

just read all that Leonora had written of you, all that she had urged

against her mother in your defence; even when she had most cause to be

irritated against us, I could not avoid being shocked by the different

manner in which you spoke of her. Perhaps I told you so too abruptly: if

I had loved you less, I should have been more cautious and more calm--if

I had esteemed you less, calmer still. I could then, possibly, have

borne to hear you speak in a manner unbecoming yourself. Forgive me the

pain I gave you--the pain I now give you, my dearest Olivia! My

sincerity is the best security you can have for my future love. Banish

therefore this unjust, this causeless jealousy: moderate this excessive

sensibility for both our sakes, and depend upon the power you have over

my heart. You cannot conceive how much I have felt from this

misunderstanding--the first we have ever had. Let it be the last. I have

spent a sleepless night. I am detained in town by provoking, tiresome,

but necessary business. Meet me in the evening with smiles, my Olivia:

let me behold in those fascinating eyes their wonted expression, and

hear from your voice its usual, its natural tone of tenderness and love.

Ever devotedly yours,

F. L----.

Letter lxix.

_Olivia to Mr L----._

You have spoken daggers to me! Come not to Richmond this evening! I

cannot--will not see you! Not for the universe would I see you with my

present feelings!

Write to me more letters like that which I have just received. Dip your

pen in gall; find words more bitter than those which you have already

used. Accuse me of want of candour, want of generosity, want of every

amiable, every estimable quality. Upbraid me with the loss of all of

which you have bereft me. Recollect every sacrifice that I have made,

and, if you can, imagine every sacrifice that I would still make for

you--peace of mind, friends, country, fortune, fame, virtue; name them

all, and triumph--and disdain your triumph! Remind me how low I am

fallen--sink me lower still--insult, debase, humble me to the dust.

Exalt my rival, unroll to my aching eyes the emblazoned catalogue of her

merits, her claims to your esteem, your affection; number them over,

dwell upon those that I have forfeited, those which can never be

regained; tell me that such merits are above all price; assure me that

beyond all her sex you respect, you admire, you love your wife; say it

with enthusiasm, with fire in your eyes, with all the energy of passion

in your voice; then bid me sympathize in your feelings--bid me banish

jealousy--wonder at my alarm--call my sorrow anger--conjure me to

restrain my sensibility! Restrain my sensibility! Unhappy Olivia! he is

tired of your love. Let him then at once tell me the dreadful truth, and

I will bear it. Any evil is better than uncertainty, than lingering

hope. Drive all hope from my mind. Bid me despair and die--but do not

stretch me on the rack of jealousy!--Yet if such be your cruel pleasure,

enjoy it.--Determine how much I can endure and live. Stop just at the

point when human nature sinks, that you may not lose your victim, that

she may linger on from day to day, your sport and your derision.

Olivia.

Letter lxx.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

My dear General,

You will rejoice to hear that Olivia and I have been in a state of

warfare for some days past, and you will be still more pleased when you

learn the cause of our quarrel. On the day that I had been reading

Leonora's letters I was rather later at Richmond than usual. Olivia,

offended, insisted upon knowing by what I could possibly have been

detained. Her anger knew no bounds when she heard the truth. She made

use of some expressions, in speaking of my wife, which I could not, I

hope, have borne at any time, but which shocked me beyond measure at

that moment. I defended Leonora with warmth. Olivia, in a scornful tone,

talked of my wife's coldness of disposition, and bid me compare Lady

Leonora's love with hers. It was a comparison I had it more in my power

to make than Olivia was aware of; it was the most disadvantageous moment

for her in which that comparison could be made. She saw or suspected my

feelings, and perceived that all she had said of my Leonora's

_incapability of loving_ produced an effect directly contrary to her

expectations. Transported by jealousy, she then threw out hints

respecting the prince. I spoke as I felt, indignantly. I know not

precisely what I said, but Olivia and I parted in anger. I have since

received a passionately fond note from her. But I feel unhappy. Dear

general, when will you come to town?

Yours truly,

F. L----.

Letter lxxi.

_Mrs C---- to the Duchess of ----._

My dear Madam,

Your grace's cautions and entreaties to Lady Leonora not to over-exert

and fatigue herself were, alas! as ineffectual as mine. From the time

she heard that Mr L---- had accepted this embassy to Petersburg, she was

so eager to set out on her journey to town, and so impatient to see him,

that neither her mind nor her body had one moment's tranquillity. She

waited with indescribable anxiety for your grace's answer to her letter;

and the instant she was secure of your approbation, her carriage was

ordered to the door. I saw that she was ill; but she would not listen to

my fears; she repeated with triumph, that her mother made no objection

to her journey, and that she had no apprehensions for herself. However,

she was obliged at last to yield. The carriage was actually at the door,

when she was forced to submit to be carried to her bed. For several

hours she was in such danger, that I never expected she could live till

this day. Thank God! she is now safe. Her infant, to her great delight,

is a boy: she was extremely anxious to have a son, because Mr

L----formerly wished for one so much. She forbids me to write to Mr

L----, lest I should communicate the account of her _sudden illness_ too

abruptly.

She particularly requests that your grace will mention to him this

_accident_ in the least alarming manner possible. I shall write again

next post. Lady Leonora has now fallen asleep, and seems to sleep

quietly. Who should sleep in peace if she cannot! I never saw her

equal.

My dear madam,

I am,

With respect and attachment,

Your grace's

Sincerely affectionate,

Helen C----.

It is with extreme concern I am forced to add, that since I wrote this

Letter the child has been so ill that I have fears for his life.--His

poor mother!

Letter lxxij.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

My dear General,

All is upon velvet again. Poor Olivia was excessively hurt by my letter:

she was ill for two days--seriously ill. Yesterday I at length obtained

admittance. Olivia was all softness, all candour: she acknowledged that

she had been wrong, and in so sweet a voice! She blamed herself till I

could no longer think her blameable. She seemed so much humbled and

depressed, such a tender melancholy appeared in her bewitching eyes,

that I could not resist the fascination. I certainly gave her some cause

for displeasure that unfortunate evening; for as Olivia has strong

passions and exquisite sensibility, I should not have been so abrupt. A

fit of jealousy may seize the best and most generous mind, and may

prompt to what it would be incapable of saying or thinking in

dispassionate moments. I am sure that Olivia has, upon reflection, felt

more pain from this affair than I have. My Russian embassy is still in

_abeyance_. Ministers seem to know their own minds as little as I know

mine. Ambition has its quarrels and follies as well as love. At all

events, I shall not leave England till next month; and I shall not go

down to L---- Castle till I have received my last instructions from our

court, and till the day for my sailing is fixed. The parting with

Leonora will be a dreadful difficulty. I cannot think of it steadily.

But as she herself says, "Is it not better that she should lose a year

of my affections than a life?" The duchess is mistaken in imagining it

possible that any woman, let her influence be ever so great over my

heart, could prejudice me against my amiable, my admirable wife. What

has just passed between Olivia and me convinces me that it is

impossible. She has too much knowledge of my character to hazard in

future a similar attempt. No, my dear friend, be assured I would not

suffer it. I have not yet lost all title to your esteem or to my own.

This enchantress may intoxicate me with her cup, but shall never degrade

me; and I should feel myself less degraded even by losing the human form

than by forfeiting that principle of honour and virtue, which more nobly

distinguishes man from brute.

Yours most sincerely,

F. L----.

Letter lxxiij.

_General B---- to Mr L----._

My dear Friend,

It is well that I did not answer your letter of Saturday before I

received that of Monday. My congratulations upon your quarrel with your

fair one might have come just as you were kissing hands upon a

reconciliation.

I have often found a great convenience in writing a bad hand; my letters

are so little like what they are intended for, and have among them such

equality of unintelligibility, that each seems either; and with the

slightest alteration, each will stand and serve for the other. My _m_,

_n_, and _u_, are convertible letters; so are the terms and propositions

of your present mode of reasoning, my dear L----, and I perceive that

you find your account in it. Upon this I congratulate you; and I

congratulate Lady Leonora upon your being detained some weeks longer in

England. Those who have a just cause need never pray for victory; they

need only ask the gods for time. Time always brings victory to truth,

and shame to falsehood. But you are not worthy of such fine apophthegms.

At present "you are not fit to hear yourself convinced." I will wait for

a better opportunity, and have patience with you, if I can.

You seem to plume yourself mightily upon your resolve to do justice to

the merits of your wife, and upon the courage you have shown in stuffing

cotton into your ears to prevent your listening to the voice of the

siren: but pray take the cotton out, and hear all she can say or sing.

Lady Leonora cannot be hurt by anything Olivia can say, but her own

malice may destroy herself.

In the meantime, as you tell me that you are upon velvet again, I am to

presume that you are perfectly at ease; and I should be obliged to you,

if, as often as you can find leisure, you would send me bulletins of

your happiness. I have never yet been in love with one of these

high-flown heroines, and I am really curious to know what degree of

felicity they can bestow upon a man of common sense. I should be glad

to profit by the experience of a friend.

Yours truly,

J. B.

Letter lxxiv.

_Olivia to Madame de P----._

Richmond.

Accept my sincere thanks, inimitable Gabrielle! for having taken off my

hands a lover, who really has half-wearied me to death. If you had dealt

more frankly with me, I could, however, have saved you much superfluous

trouble and artifice. I now perfectly comprehend the cause of poor

R***'s strange silence some months ago; he was then under the influence

of your charms, and it was your pleasure to deceive me even when there

was no necessity for dissimulation. You knew the secret of my growing

attachment to L----, and must have foreseen that R*** would be

burthensome to me. You needed therefore only to have treated me with

candour, and you would have gained a lover without losing a friend: but

Mad. de P---- is too accomplished a politician to go the simple straight

road to her object. I now perfectly comprehend why she took such pains

to persuade me that an imperial lover was alone worthy of my charms. She

was alarmed by an imaginary danger. Believe me, I am incapable of

disputing with any one _les restes d'un coeur_.

Permit me to assure you, madam, that your incomparable talents for

explanation will be utterly thrown away on me in future. I am in

possession of the whole truth, from a person whose information I cannot

doubt: I know the precise date of the commencement of your connexion

with R***, so that you must perceive it will be impracticable to make me

believe that you have not betrayed my easy confidence.

I cannot, however, without those pangs of sentiment which your heart

will never experience, reflect upon the treachery, the perfidy of one

who has been my bosom friend.--Return my letters, Gabrielle.--With this

you will receive certain _souvenirs_, at which I could never

henceforward look without sighing. I return you that ring I have so long

worn with delight, the picture of that treacherous eye,[2] which you

know so well how to use. Adieu, Gabrielle.--The illusion is over.--How

many of the illusions of my fond heart have been dispelled by time and

treachery!

Olivia.

[Footnote 2: Certain ladies at this time carried pictures of the eyes of

their favourites.]

Letter lxxv.

_Madame de P---- to Monsieur R***._

Paris, -- 18, --.

I have just received the most extravagant letter imaginable from your

Olivia. Really you may congratulate yourself, my dear friend, upon

having recovered your liberty. 'Twere better to be a galley slave at

once than to be bound to please a woman for life, who knows not what she

would have either in love or friendship. Can you conceive anything so

absurd as her upbraiding me with treachery, because I know the value of

a heart of which she tells me she was more than half tired? as if I were

to blame for her falling in love with Mr L----, and as if I did not know

the whole progress of her inconstancy. Her letters to me give a new

history of the birth and education of Love. Here we see Love born of

Envy, nursed by _Ennui_, and dandled in turn by all the Vices.

And this Lady Olivia fancies that she is a perfect Frenchwoman! There is

nothing we Parisians abhor and ridicule so much as these foreign, and

always awkward, caricatures of our manners. With us there are many who,

according to a delicate distinction, lose their virtue without losing

their taste for virtue; but I flatter myself there are few who resemble

Olivia entirely--who have neither the virtues of a man nor of a woman.

One cannot even say that "her head is the dupe of her heart," since she

has no heart. But enough of such a tiresome and incomprehensible

subject.

How I overvalued that head, when I thought it could ever be fit for

politics! 'Tis well we did not commit ourselves. You see how prudent I

am, my dear R***, and how much those are mistaken who think that we

women are not fit to be trusted with secrets of state. Love and politics

make the best mixture in the world. Adieu. Victoire summons me to my

toilette.

Gabrielle de P----.

Letter lxxvi.

_Madame de P---- to Lady Olivia._

Paris, -- 18, --.

Really, my dear Olivia, this is too childish. What! make a complaint in

form against me for taking a lover off your hands when you did not know

what to do with him! Do you quarrel in England every time you change

partners in a country dance? But I must be serious; for the

high-sounding words _treachery_ and _perfidy_ are surely sufficient to

make anybody grave. Seriously, then, if you are resolved to be tragical,

_et de me faire une scene_, I must submit--console myself, and, above

all things, take care not to be ridiculous.

Your letters, as you desire it so earnestly, and with so much reason,

shall be returned by the first safe conveyance; but excuse me if I

forbear to restore your _souvenirs_. With us Parisians this returning of

keepsakes has been out of fashion since the days of Moliere and _Le

depit amoureux_.

Adieu, my charming Olivia! I embrace you tenderly, I was going to say;

but I believe, according to your English etiquette, I must now conclude

with

I have the honour to be,

Madam,

Your most obedient,

Humble servant,

Gabrielle de P----.

Letter lxxvij.

_From Olivia to Mr L----._

Tuesday morning.

Come not to Richmond to-day; I am not in spirits to see you, my dearest

L----. Allow me to indulge my melancholy retired from every human eye.

Olivia.

Letter lxxviij.

_From Lady Olivia to Mr L----._

Tuesday evening.

"Explain to you the cause of my melancholy"--Vain request!--cruel as

vain! Your ignorance of the cause too well justifies my sad

presentiments. Were our feelings in unison, as once they were, would not

every chord of your heart vibrate responsively to mine?

With me love is an absorbing vortex of the soul, into which all other

thoughts, feelings, and ideas are irresistibly impelled; with you it is

but as the stranger stream that crosses the peaceful lake, and as it

flows wakens only the surface of the slumbering waters, communicating to

them but a temporary agitation. With you, my dear, but too

tranquil-minded friend, love is but one amid the vulgar crowd of

pleasures; it concentrates not your ideas, it entrances not your

faculties; it is not, as in my heart, the supreme delight, which renders

all others tasteless, the only blessing which can make life supportable;

the sole, sufficient object of existence. Alas! how cruelly different is

the feeble attachment that I have inspired from that all-powerful

sentiment to which I live a victim! Countless symptoms, by you unheeded,

mark to my love-watchful eye the decline of passion. How often am I

secretly shocked by the cold carelessness of your words and manner! How

often does the sigh burst from my bosom, the tear fall from my eye, when

you have left me at leisure to recall, by memory's torturing power,

instances of your increasing indifference! Seek not to calm my too

well-founded fears. Professions, with all their unmeaning, inanimate

formality, but irritate my anguish. Permit me to indulge, to feed upon

my grief in silence. Ask me no more to explain to you the cause of my

melancholy. Too plainly, alas! I feel it is beyond my utmost power to

endure it. Amiable Werter--divine St Preux--you would sympathize in my

feelings! Sublime Goethe--all-eloquent Rousseau--you alone could feel as

I do, and you alone could paint my anguish.

The miserable

Olivia.

Letter lxxix.

_Mr L---- to General B----._

Expect no bulletin of happiness from me, my friend. I find it impossible

to make Olivia happy. She has superior talents, accomplishments, beauty,

grace, all that can attract and fascinate the human heart--that could

triumph over every feeling, every principle that opposed her power: she

lives with the man she loves, and yet she is miserable.

Rousseau, it has been said, never really loved any woman but his own

Julie; I have lately been tempted to think that Olivia never really

loved any man but St Preux. Werter, perhaps, and some other German

heroes, might dispute her heart even with St Preux; but as for me, I

begin to be aware that I am loved only as a feeble resemblance of those

divine originals (to whom, however, my character bears not the slightest

similarity), and I am often indirectly, and sometimes directly,

reproached with my inferiority to imaginary models. But how can a plain

Englishman hope to reach

"The high sublime of deep absurd"?

I am continually reviled for not using a romantic language, which I have

never learned; and which, as far as I can judge, is foreign to all

natural feeling. I wish to make Olivia happy. There is nothing I would

not do to satisfy her of my sincerity; but nothing I can do will

suffice. She has a sort of morbid sensibility, which is more alive to

pain than pleasure, more susceptible of jealousy than of love. No terms

are sufficiently strong to convince her of my affection, but an

unguarded word makes her miserable for hours. She requires to be

agitated by violent emotions, though they exhaust her mind, and leave

her spiritless and discontented. In this alternation of rapture and

despair all her time passes. As she says of herself, she has no soul but

for love! she seems to think it a crime against sentiment to admit of

relief from common occupations or indifferent subjects; with a sort of

superstitious zeal she excludes all thoughts but those which relate to

one object, and in this spirit of amorous mysticism she actually makes a

penance even of love. I am astonished that her heart can endure this

variety of self-inflicted torments. What will become of Olivia when she

ceases to love and be loved? And what passion can be durable which is so

violent as hers, and to which no respite is allowed? No affection can

sustain these hourly trials of suspicion and reproach.

Jealousy of Leonora has taken such possession of Olivia's imagination,

that she misinterprets all my words and actions. By restraining my

thoughts, by throwing obstacles in the way of my affection for my wife,

she stimulates and increases it: she forces upon me continually those

comparisons which she dreads. Till I knew Olivia more intimately than

the common forms of a first acquaintance, or the illusions of a

treacherous passion permitted, her defects did not appear; but now that

I suffer, and that I see her suffer daily, I deplore them bitterly. Her

happiness rests and weighs heavily on my honour. I feel myself bound to

consider and to provide for the happiness of the woman who has

sacrificed to me all independent means of felicity. A man without honour

or humanity may perhaps finish an intrigue as easily as he can begin it,

but this is not exactly the case of your imprudent friend,