CHAPTER I.

THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE;

A SEQUEL TO HOME INFLUENCE.

BY GRACE AGUILAR.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1859.

PREFACE.

The domestic story of "Home Influence," and its Sequel, the present

volume, were written in the early part of the year 1836, and the entire

work was completed when its author was little above the age of nineteen;

and, although no portion of it was published till some years after its

composition, but little alteration was made in the original plan.

The labours of my dear child were unceasing, and from the hour when she

could read, it may truly be stated that she learned to write; her

contributions to the current literature of the day, her valuable works

upon religious subjects, and others of a lighter character, most of

which have been reprinted in other lands, all testify to a mind of no

common stamp; and here, in reply to numerous questions relative to her

literary remains, I may state that Grace Aguilar has left many excellent

works in manuscript, both in prose and verse; some of which may, at a

future day, be presented to the public.

I have been induced to publish "The Mother's Recompense," in compliance

with the repeated solicitations of many friends, but in doing so I feel

it incumbent on me to state that, unlike its predecessor, it has not

received the advantage of that correction, which later years and ripened

judgment would doubtless have cast around it. A long and fatal illness

prevented its revision for the press; the circumstances of which will be

found detailed in a short memoir, accompanying the last edition of "Home

Influence." The universal voice of praise, which attended the

publication of that work, it was not permitted her to enjoy,--an

all-wise Creator called her to himself.

It was ever my dear child's wish to aid, by the example of her pen, the

education of the Heart. It was her desire, in the truthful

exemplification of character, to point out to the youthful of her own

sex the paths of rectitude and virtue. The same kindly love--the same

heartfelt charity--the same spirit of devotion, which breathes through

every line in "Home Influence," will be found pervading the pages of the

present work.

If, then, the Home Education of the Hamilton Family be well traced and

faithfully delineated in "Home Influence, a Tale for Mothers and

Daughters," its _effect_ will be found illustrated in the "Mother's

Recompense;" there, as its dear author writes, will still further be

portrayed the cares, anxieties, and ultimate reward of maternal love.

SARAH AGUILAR.

_December_, 1850.

THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE

VOL. I.

CHAPTER I.

_From Emmeline Hamilton to Mary Greville_.

London, January, 18--

At length, dearest Mary, I may write to you; at length indulge my

long-controlled wishes. My conscience has given me permission now,

though I once thought I never could again. We parted in August, and it

is now January; and except during our little tour, you have not had one

line from me, but very many more than one from Caroline and Ellen. I

used to wrong them, but I am glad I adhered to mamma's advice and my

resolution, painful as it has been; for it did seem hard that I, who

consider myself even more my dear Mary's own friend, should not address

you when my sister and cousin did. And now to explain this riddle, for

though mamma has excused my silence to you, I am quite sure she has not

told you the real truth. She would not expose my silly weakness, and

therefore prepare yourself for a most humiliating confession, which

will, in all probability, lower me ten degrees in your estimation.

However, truth must he told, and so it shall be with all the necessary

regularity and precision. _You_ know, almost better than any one else,

how very much I disliked the thought of leaving dear happy Oakwood, and

residing any part of the year in London. You often used to warn me, when

I have thus spoken, against permitting such fancies to obtain too much

dominion; but I did not follow your advice, dear Mary, but indulged them

till, of course, they became so heightened that the last month of our

sojourn at Oakwood was embittered by the anticipation. I saw you thought

me foolish, and I knew that mamma and papa's plans could not be altered

to please my fancy, and that my confessed distaste to them would give

pain to both: therefore, I concealed my dislike, but instead of doing

all I could to conquer it, encouraged every gloomy anticipation to the

very utmost. I found, during our delightful tour through the south of

England, I could enjoy myself, but still the thoughts of London, and

masters, and strangers, and the fancy our style of living would be so

different in the metropolis to what it was in Oakwood, and that I should

not see nearly as much of mamma, all chose to come, like terrifying

spectres, to scare away the present pleasure.

We visited Oxford, although completely out of our way, in order that we

might see the residence of my brothers. There Percy's wild mirth and

eloquent descriptions partly banished my ill-humour, but as I neared

London all my fancied evils returned to me again. When we first arrived,

which was in September, this huge city was, comparatively speaking, a

desert; for all the fashionables were out ruralizing. Mamma was not, I

believe, sorry for this, for she wished us to have full six or seven

months' hard study before she entered at all into society. Ellen and I,

of course, will have more, but Caroline is to make her regular _entrée_

in March or April, and therefore must be drilled accordingly. First-rate

masters were instantly engaged; indeed, papa had written to many before

we arrived, that no time should be lost, and as almost all their pupils

were from London, we had the choice of hours, which was very agreeable,

although at that time I did not feel inclined to think anything

agreeable, being accustomed to no instruction save that bestowed by Miss

Harcourt and mamma; professors of music, drawing, French, Italian,

German (which Caroline is seized with a violent fancy to acquire, and

which I deign to learn, because I should like to read Klopstock in the

original), and even what I term a lady professor of embroidery, which

Caroline has succeeded in tormenting mamma to let her have--_entre

nous_, it is only because she has taught Annie Grahame; all these, my

dear Mary, presented a most formidable array, and for the first month I

did not choose to profit by their instructions in the least. I gave full

vent to all the dislike I felt to them. I encouraged indolence to a

degree that frequently occasioned a reproof from Miss Harcourt. I could

not bear their mode of teaching; the attention so many things required

was in my present state a most painful exertion, and I almost made an

inward determination to show mamma that all her endeavours were lost on

me. I would not learn when everything was so changed. Do not throw away

my letter in despair of your friend, dearest Mary; only read to the end,

and perhaps my character may be in some measure redeemed. There was a

weight on my spirits I could not, because I would not, remove. I became

ill-tempered and petulant without cause; before papa and mamma I tried

to restrain it, but did not always succeed. Percy and Herbert both

spoke to me on this unwarrantable change; and I think almost for the

first time in my life I saw Percy seriously angry with me, for I had

even shown my irritation at his interference. I told him I had a right

to act and feel as I pleased. Herbert looked sorry, and desisted in his

reasonings when he found I would not listen. Percy's evident irritation

and the reproaches of my own conscience added not a little to my

uncomfortable feelings, as you may suppose. I looked back to what I had

been at Oakwood, and the contrast of my past and present self really

gave me much cause for misery. It was just before my brothers returned

to college I wrote to you a long, very long letter, in which I gave more

than enough vent to my silly, I should say sinful feelings. Several

hours I had employed in its composition, and to obtain these, neglected

my exercises, etc, for my masters, and caused more than one for several

days to make a formal complaint of my indolence and carelessness to Miss

Harcourt. Her remonstrances, I am ashamed to confess, only had the

effect of increasing my ill-temper. Well; I concluded at length my

epistle to you, which, had you received it, would have been a trial of

patience indeed; for it consisted of ten or twelve closely-written

pages, in which I had so magnified my feelings of discontent and

unhappiness, that any one must have fancied I had not one single

blessing left. I was folding and preparing to seal it, when mamma

entered my room. I must tell you that as yet I had not had one reproof

from her lips, though I am quite sure I deserved it long before; I used

to see her look very grieved at any burst of petulance from me, but she

had never spoken on the subject. I almost trembled when she appeared,

for I knew that morning Miss Harcourt had said she must inform her of

Mons. Deville and Signor Rozzi's continued complaints. Without entering

on that subject, however, she sat down by me, and with one of her own

sweet smiles, which reproached me a great deal more than words, she

asked me if I really were going to seal and send that long letter of

confidence to you without having shown or told any part of it to her.

She might well ask, dear Mary, for I had never written a line before

which I had kept from her; but my conscience told me she would not,

could not approve of this, and therefore I certainly did wish I could

have sent it without telling her anything about it. What deceit, too! I

hear you exclaim. Yes, dear Mary; and before this tale of shame is over,

you will see still more clearly how one fault makes many. I did not

answer her question, but remained sulkily silent.

"Will my Emmeline think me a harsh intruder on her private thoughts, if

I say I cannot let this letter go till I have seen at least some parts

of its contents?" she said very mildly, but so firmly I had no power to

resist her; and when she asked if I would not, as I always did, read her

some portions, I answered, pettishly, if she read any she might as well

read all. She looked deeply grieved, and my heart painfully smote me the

moment the words were said; but I was too proud at that moment to show

any marks of contrition, and all the time she was reading I continued

working myself up to increased ill-humour.

"Are you indeed so very unhappy, my dear Emmeline?" were the only words

mamma said, as she laid down, the last sheet and looked in my face,

with a tear trembling in her eye. I turned away, for I felt too

irritated and cross to give way to the emotion I always feel when I see

her grieved, and I was determined not to answer. "And do you prefer,"

she continued, "seeking the sympathy of a young girl like yourself to

that of a mother, who has always endeavoured not only to sympathise

with, but to soothe the sorrows of her children?" Still I would not

answer, and she added, mildly, "Do you not think, Emmeline, Mary would

have been better pleased if you had written to her rather in a lighter

strain? do you not think, if you were to try and shake off these painful

fancies, you could write another and less desponding letter--one that I

might give you my full and free permission to send, which, sorry as I am

to say it, I cannot with this?"

Mild as were her words and manner, the import of what she said put the

finishing stroke to my ill-temper. "If I may not write as I like, I will

not write at all," I passionately exclaimed, and seizing the sheet

nearest to me tore it asunder, and would have done the same with the

rest, had not mamma gently laid her hand on my arm, uttering my name in

an accent of surprise and sorrow; my irritable and sinful feelings found

vent in a most violent flood of tears.

Will you not think, dearest Mary, I am writing of Caroline, and not of

myself; does it not resemble the scenes of my sister's childhood? Can

you believe that this is an account of your Emmeline, whose sweetness of

temper and gentleness of disposition you have so often extolled? But it

was I who thus forgot myself--I, who once believed nothing ever could

make me passionate or angry, and in one minute I was both--had excited

myself till I became so even against my nature, and with whom?--even my

mother, my kind, devoted mother, who has ever done so much for me, whom

in my childhood, when I knew her worth much less than I do now, I had

never caused to shed a tear. Oh, Mary, I cannot tell you what I felt the

moment those passionate words escaped me. I may truly say I did not cry

from anger, but from the most bitter, the most painful self-reproach. I

think her usual penetration must have discovered this, for if she had

thought my tears were really those of passion, she would not, could not

have acted as she did.

She drew me gently to her, and kissed me without speaking. I threw my

arms round her neck, and in a voice almost choked by sobs, implored her

again and again to forgive me; that I did not mean to answer her so

disrespectfully--that I knew I had become a very wicked girl, but that I

really did feel very unhappy. For a few minutes she was silent, and I

could see was struggling to suppress the tears my unusual conduct had

occasioned. I will make no apology, dearest Mary, for entering on such

minute details; for I know how you love my mother, and that every word

she says is _almost_ as precious to you as to her own children--_quite_

it cannot be; and I give you this account also, that you may know me as

I am, and not imagine I am so free from faults as I know you once

believed me. Oh, when I have looked back on that day, I have felt so

painfully humiliated, I would gladly banish the recollection; but it is

better for me to remember it, lest I should fancy myself better than I

am. Every word she said in that gentle and persuasive tone was engraved

upon my heart, even as she spoke. She easily and fully convinced me of

my sinfulness in thus permitting imaginary evils to make me so

miserable: for that they were but imaginary it was easy to discover. Not

a single blessing could I say I had lost. All I loved were around me, in

health and happiness--every comfort of life was the same; and could it

be possible, mamma said, that the mere departure from a favourite

residence, and only for a few months, could render me so completely

blind to the many blessings my Heavenly Father had scattered around me.

As she spoke, a film appeared removed from my eyes, and the enormity of

my conduct stood for the first time in its true colours before me. I

saw--I knew how sinful I had been; and bitterly I regretted that I had

not confessed every feeling to mamma, instead of hiding them, as I had

done, in my own heart, and brooding on them till it became a kind of

pleasure to do so, and till fancied evils produced real ones. I wept

bitterly while she spoke, for to find how completely I had created

misery for myself was no agreeable matter of reflection, and my remorse

was heightened when mamma said, "You have disappointed us not a little,

my dear Emmeline; for I will no longer conceal from you that the little

tour we took on our way to London was originally planned by your father

and myself, to reconcile you to a change of residence. We saw how much

you regretted leaving Oakwood; nor did we wonder at it, for such

feelings were most natural to one of your disposition; and therefore,

instead of travelling direct, and suddenly changing the scenes of our

beautiful Devonshire for the confinement of this huge city, we hoped by

visiting various places, and giving you new objects of reflection, to

lessen your regret, and make the change of residence less painfully

abrupt." As well as I could, I expressed my sorrow and repentance, and

promised to use every endeavour to atone for the past, and become all

that she and papa wished me.

"I believe you, my own Emmeline," my kind mother said, as she again

kissed me, and her voice was no longer so sorrowfully grave as it had

been at first. "I am sure, now you know all the pain you were inflicting

on both your parents, every effort will be put in force to remove it."

Did I deserve this speech, dear Mary? I do not think I did; for I often

saw by mamma's countenance I had grieved her, and yet made no effort to

control myself, and so I told her. She smiled her own sweet, dear smile

of approbation, and thanking me for my candour, said--

"If I say that by indulging in these gloomy fancies and appearing

discontented, and repining when so many blessings are around you, my

Emmeline will be doing her mother a real injury, by rendering my

character questionable, not only in the eyes of the world, but of my

most valued friends, will she not do all in her power to become her own

light-hearted self again?"

"Injuring your character, dearest mother!" I exclaimed, with much

surprise; "in what manner?"

"I will tell you, my love," she replied; "there are many, not only of my

acquaintances, but my friends, those whose opinions I really value, who

believe I have been acting very wrongly all these years, in never having

permitted you and Caroline to visit London. They think by this strict

retirement I have quite unfitted you both for the station your rank

demands you should fill. That by constantly living alone with us, and

never mingling in society, you have imbibed notions that, to say the

least, may be old-fashioned and romantic, and which will make you both

feel uncomfortable when you are introduced in London. These fears never

entered my mind; I wished you to receive ideas that were somewhat

different to the generality of Fashion's dictates, and I did not doubt

but that the uncomfortable feeling, against which the letters of my

friends often warned me, would very quickly be removed. But since we

have been here--I do not wish to grieve you more, my dear Emmeline--I

must confess your conduct has been productive to me of the most painful

self-reproach. I thought, indeed, my friends were right, and that for

years I had been acting on an injudicious plan, and that instead of my

measures tending to future happiness, they were only productive of pain

and misery, which, had I done as other mothers of my station, might have

been avoided."

"Oh! do not, pray do not think so," I exclaimed, for she had spoken so

sorrowfully, I could not bear it. "I formed my own misery, dearest

mother; you had nothing to do with it."

"You think so now, my love," she answered, with her usual fondness; "but

if my friends see you gloomy and sad, and evidently discontented,

longing for pleasures which are not offered to you in London, only

dwelling on visions of the past, and notions tending to the indulgence

of romance, what will they think? will not my judgment be called in

question? and more, they know how very much I prefer a country to a

London life, domestic pleasures, to those of society, and they may

imagine, and with some probability, that to indulge my selfish wishes,

I have disregarded the real interests of my children."

"They cannot, they will not think so," I passionately said. "They can

never have known you who form such conclusions." Would you not have

agreed with me, dear Mary, and can you not fancy the wretchedness

mamma's words inflicted?

"My love," she replied, with a smile, "they will not fancy they do not

know me; they will rather imagine they must have been deceived in their

opinion; that I am not what I may have appeared to them some few years

ago. The character of a mother, my Emmeline, is frequently judged of by

the conduct of her children; and such conclusions are generally correct,

though, of course, as there are exceptions to every rule, there are to

this, and many a mother may have been unjustly injured in the estimation

of the world, by the thoughtless or criminal conduct of a wilful and

disobedient child. I have been so completely a stranger to London

society the last sixteen years, that my character and conduct depend

more upon you and Caroline to be raised or lowered in the estimation of

my friends and also of the world, than on any of the young people with

whom you may mingle. On which, then, will my Emmeline decide,--to

indulge in these gloomy fancies, and render herself ill both in health

and temper, as well as exposing her mother to censure and suspicion; or

will she, spite of the exertion and pain it may occasion, shake off this

lethargy, recall all her natural animation and cheerfulness, and with

her own bright smile restore gladness to the hearts of her parents?"

I could not speak in answer to this appeal, dear Mary, but I clung

weeping to mamma's neck. I never till that moment knew all my

responsibility, how much depended on my conduct; but at that moment I

inwardly vowed that never, never should my conduct injure that dear

devoted mother, who endeavoured so fondly to soothe my grief, and check

my bitter tears; who had done so much for me, who had devoted herself so

completely to her children. Mentally I resolved that nothing should be

wanting on my part to render her character as exalted in the eyes of the

world as it was in mine. I could not bear to think how ungratefully I

had acted, and I cried till I made my head and mamma's heart ache; but I

could not long resist her fond caresses, her encouraging words, and

before she left me I could even smile.

"And what am I to say," she said, with her usual playfulness, "of the

sad complaints that I have received the last few days from Miss

Harcourt, that she does not know what has come to you, from Mons.

Deville and Signer Rozzi? Now what am I to say or do to prove that this

Mademoiselle Emmeline does like Italian, and is not ill, as our polite

professors fancy? must I lecture as I did when she was an idle little

girl, and liked her play better than her studies? Suppose these

gentlemen are asked, which in all probability they certainly are, what

sort of pupils Mrs. Hamilton's daughters are; they ought to be something

out of the way, for we hear she has instructed them principally herself.

What answer will be given, what conclusions drawn, if you do not exert

yourself and prove that you can learn as well, when you like, as your

sister, and even quicker than your cousin?"

I felt so ashamed, dearest Mary, that I concealed my face on her

shoulder, and would not even look up to promise amendment, for I felt I

was not certain of myself; but when mamma spoke of my letter to you, and

asked me if I still wished to send it, or if I would not write another,

I made a desperate effort, and answered as well as I could--

"I will not write again to Mary, dear mamma, till I have conquered all

these silly and sinful feelings, and can write as usual; and to be quite

sure of myself, that I may not break my resolution, I promise you that

for six months I will not give myself the pleasure of addressing her,

and if even at the end of that time you do not think I have sufficiently

recovered my senses, which certainly appear to have deserted me, you

shall increase at your will my time of probation; I deserve some

privation for my ungrateful conduct, and the not writing to Mary now is

the greatest I can think of." I tried to appear very heroic as I made

this speech, but with all my efforts I completely failed. Mamma looked

at me a moment in surprise, but then, with more than usual fondness, she

strained me to her heart, and I felt a tear fall on my cheek.

"My own sweet child, my darling Emmeline!" she exclaimed, "I did not

expect this offered sacrifice, but I will accept it, my own love, and

let its pain he soothed to your affectionate heart by the knowledge that

in making it, you have given me the purest, most delicious sense of

pleasure you could bestow. We will not say six months," she added, more

playfully, "we will see what the middle or end of January brings. You

will then still have nearly four months to redeem your character. I have

not the slightest doubt that even before that period my Emmeline will be

herself." Oh, Mary, I felt so very happy as she thus spoke, that I

thought I must find it very easy to conquer myself, but I was mistaken,

painfully mistaken; I had encouraged despondency and gloom for so long a

period, that it required every exertion, in the very least, to subdue

it. I had chosen to waste my time, and be inattentive to all the means

of improvement which were offered me, and to command my attention

sufficiently to regain the good opinion of our sage professors was most

disagreeably difficult; but I was no longer afraid, to encounter mamma's

sorrowful or reproving glance, as I had been before, and her fond

encouragement and the marks of approval which both she and papa

bestowed, when I could not but feel I had done little to deserve them,

lightened the labour of my task, and by causing me to wish earnestly to

deserve their kindness, increased my efforts; and at length, dearest

Mary, these miserable feelings so completely departed from me, that I

was surprised to perceive how very nearly I could be as happy in London

as at dear Oakwood; quite as happy is impossible, because I feel more

and more how very much I prefer a quiet domestic life in the country to

London and society. You will perhaps smile as mamma does, and say I am

not introduced yet, and then I may change my mind; but I do not think I

shall. She prefers the country, so it will not be very strange if I

should; but when I see how completely, and yet how cheerfully, she has

given up her favourite residence and employments, for the interests and

happiness of her children, I feel ashamed at the egregious selfishness

which has been mine. Oh, Mary, when shall I ever be like mamma? when can

I ever be worthy of half, nay, one quarter of that respectful admiration

which is bestowed upon her, even by those whose principles and conduct

are directly opposite?

In her conversations with me she had spoken more of the opinion of the

world than she ever did at Oakwood, and one day venturing to notice it,

as being contrary to that which she so carefully instilled, that to God

and our conscience we should alone be answerable for our conduct, she

answered, with a smile--

"I have been long expecting this remark, my dear Emmeline, and I have

endeavoured to be prepared with an answer. To our Father in Heaven and

to our own conscience we must still look for our guide in life; that not

in one thing must we transgress the love and duty we owe our Maker, or

disregard the warning or reproaches of our hearts; but still, mingling

in the world as it is undoubtedly our duty to do--for as I have often

told you, we do not live for ourselves, but for others--we must have due

regard in minor things to the opinions of those with whom we associate.

When a woman has once set up for an Independent, when, scorning the

opinion of the world, she walks forth conscious in her own integrity and

virtue, though no stain may have sullied her conduct or name, though she

may be innately amiable and good, yet every gentler female will shrink

from such a character, and tremble lest they should become like her.

Women are dependent beings; in Infinite Wisdom it was thus ordained, and

why should we endeavour to be otherwise? When once we set up a standard

for ourselves, we have thrown aside our surest safeguard, and exposed

ourselves to censure and suspicion. When the ordinances of society do

not interfere with the higher principle of our lives they should be

obeyed, and in doing so we are following up the dictates of true

religion, by doing our duty as members of a community, as children of

one common father, which, if we stand selfishly apart, we cannot do. I

speak more of the opinion of the world," mamma then continued, "to you

than either to your sister or your cousin. Caroline I would rather check

in her perhaps too great regard for admiration; and Ellen is at present

too young, and in much too delicate health, to go out with me as much as

you will, even before you are what is termed introduced: besides which,

her natural reserve and timidity banish all fears on that account for

her. But for you, Emmeline, I do sometimes feel fearful that, in the

indulgence of uncontrolled feeling, you will forget you are not quite

such an independent being as you were at Oakwood. Many of your ideas are

quite contrary to those generally entertained by several with whom you

may associate; and I sometimes dread that by their unchecked expression,

or the avowed determination never to think as your companions do--that

you hate such confined ideas, or some such thing, which," and she

smiled, "if I know my Emmeline rightly, is not at all unlikely--you may

be exposing yourself to suspicion and dislike. I feel quite sure you

never will wilfully offend, or that you will really deserve such

censure; all I wish is that you will be a little more guarded and

controlled in your intercourse with strangers here, than you ever were

in the happy halls of Oakwood."

I did not answer, my dear Mary; for I do not know why, but there was

something in her words that caused my eyes to fill with tears. I think

it was because it seemed such a painful task to maintain such a

continued control over my words and feelings, and mamma as usual divined

the cause of my sadness, even before I could define it myself.

"Do not look so very sad, my sweet girl," she said so fondly, that like

a simpleton I cried the more. "I do not wish to see you changed, however

different you may be to others. I do not wish to chill one feeling in

this affectionate little heart, nor check one burst of enthusiasm. Your

character has been and is too great a source of unalloyed pleasure to

your mother, my Emmeline; it would be misery indeed to see it in any way

changed, though I do preach control so very much," she continued, more

playfully, but with that same fond affection which, while it made me

cry, appeared to soothe every painful emotion. "We shall not always be

in society, Emmeline; come to me as of old, and tell me every thought

and feeling, and all that has given you pain or pleasure. With me,

dearest, there must be no control, no reserve; if there be the least

appearance of either, you will inflict more pain on my heart than from

your infancy you have ever done, for I shall think my own counsels have

alienated from me the confidence of my child."

I never shall forget the impressive sadness with which she spoke these

words, dearest Mary, and clinging to her, I declared and with truth, as

long as I might speak and think and feel without control when with her,

I would be all, all she wished in society--that I never could be

unhappy,--and to be reserved with her, I felt sure I never, never could.

She embraced me with the utmost tenderness, and banished all my

remaining sadness by the earnest assurance that she believed me.

What a long letter have I written to you, my dearest friend; will you

not say I have atoned for my long silence? If I have not atoned to you,

I have at least gratified myself; for you know not how very often I

longed, after such conversations as I have recounted, to sit down and

write them all to you, as I had promised, when I could no longer tell in

speech all my kind mother's instructions.

I do not make any apology for writing so much of her and myself, for I

know to you it is unnecessary. I tried to write all she said, that you

may benefit by it likewise, and in doing so I assure you I give you the

sincerest proof of my affection; for to no one but my own Mary have I

thus related the precious conversations I had alone with mamma. I know

no one but you whom I deem worthy of them. How I wish in return you

could solve a riddle for me. Why do I _fear_ mamma so much, when I love

her so very dearly? When I do or even think anything that my conscience

tells me is wrong, or at least not right, I absolutely tremble when I

meet her eye, though she may know nothing for which to condemn me. I

have never heard her voice in anger, but its sorrowful tones are far

more terrible. I think sometimes, if I had been in Ellen's place

eighteen months ago, I should have been as ill from fear alone, as she

was from a variety of emotions, poor girl. Yet why should I feel thus?

Caroline does not even understand me when I speak of such an emotion.

She says she is always very sorry when she has displeased mamma; but

fear is to her unknown--we two certainly are complete opposites. I think

Ellen's character resembles mine much more than my sister's does. But

you will like to know how my time of probation is thus shortened. For I

should have kept my resolution and waited the six months, pain as it

was, but one day about a week ago, mamma chanced to enter our study at

the very instant that the poor man who so politely believed Mademoiselle

Emmeline was too ill to appreciate his lessons was praising me up to the

skies for my progress; that same day Signor Rozzi had informed mamma,

with all the enthusiasm of his nation, that he was delighted to teach a

young lady who took such pleasure in the study of poetry, and so capable

of appreciating the beauties of the Italian poets. "In truth, madam," he

said, "she should be a poet herself, and the Temple of the Muses graced

with her presence." There's for you, Mary! But jokes apart, I do love

Italian; it is, it must be the natural language of poetry; the

sentiments are so exquisitely lovely, the language, the words, as if

framed to receive them--music dwells in every line. Petrarch, Tasso,

Dante, all are open to me now, and I luxuriate even in the anticipation

of the last,--but how I am digressing. That night mamma followed me to

my room, as I retired to bed, and smiling, almost laughing, at the half

terror of my countenance expressed, for I fancied she had come to

reprove the wild spirits I had indulged in throughout the day, she said,

"Is not this little head half turned with the flattery it has received

to-day?"

"No," I instantly replied. "It is only the approbation of one or two

that can put me in any danger of such a misfortune."

"Indeed," she answered, again smiling; "I fancied it was the fine

speeches you had been hearing to-day that had excited such high spirits,

but I am glad it is not; otherwise, I might have hesitated to express

what I came here to do--my approbation of my Emmeline's conduct the last

few months."

I felt my colour rising to my very temples, dear Mary, for I did not

expect this, but I endeavoured to conceal all I felt by seizing her

hand, and imploring her, in a serio-comic, semi-tragic tone, not to

praise me, for she and papa were the two whose praises would have the

effect on me she feared.

"But you must endeavour to keep your head steady now," she continued,

"because papa sends a packet to Oakwood next week, and a long letter for

Mary from my Emmeline must accompany it; her patience, I think, must be

very nearly exhausted, and I know if you once begin to write, a frank

will not contain all you will have to say, will it?" she added, with an

arch but such a dear smile.

All my high spirits seemed for the moment to desert me, and I could not

answer her, except to cover her hand with kisses. I have told you what

she said in the way of reproof and advice, my dear Mary, but I cannot

coolly write all she said as encouragement and praise; it was much more

than I deserved, and all, therefore, that I can do, is to continue my

endeavours to feel one day rather more to merit it. I have risen every

morning an hour earlier, that I might tell you all I wished without

encroaching on my allotted hours of study; for I hope you will not

imagine I have written all this in one or two, or even three sittings;

and now do I not deserve a letter almost as long from you? If you do not

thus reward me, dread my vengeance, and write soon, for I long to have a

letter from you; of you I have heard often--but of and from, though

they may be both brothers of the family of the prepositions, are very

different in meaning. I have not written one word of Caroline or Ellen.

Am I not incurably egotistical? The former declares she is sure you will

have no time to read a letter from her, with such a volume as mine, and

Ellen says she has no time by this opportunity. I told her she ought to

get up as I did, she blushed, looked confused enough to awaken my

attention, and then said she supposed she was too lazy; and now I really

must say farewell. Mind you write all concerning yourself and your dear

mother, to whom present my very loving respects, and as for yourself,

dear Mary, let this long letter prove the sincere affection and perfect

confidence of your giddy friend,

EMMELINE.

P.S.--No young lady can write without a post-script. Mamma has

absolutely had the patience to read through my letter, and except that

she said so much of her was certainly needless, she approves of it

almost as much as she disapproved of my other, which she has just

compelled me to read. What a tissue of absurdity it contained,--worse,

it is sinful. I have had the pleasure of burning it, and I hope and

trust all my silly repinings are burnt with it. Once more, adieu.

E.H.

_From Mrs. Hamilton to Miss Greville._

I cannot, my dear Mary, suffer Emmeline's long letter to be forwarded to

you without a few lines from me, to remove all lingering fears which you

may perhaps have had, that I do not approve of your correspondence.

Believe me, my dear girl, that to see you the chosen friend of my giddy

but warm-hearted Emmeline is still, as it has ever been from your

childhood, a source of real pleasure both to Mr. Hamilton and myself.

Female friendships are, I know, often regarded with contempt, not only

by men, but frequently by the sterner principles of our own sex; they

are deemed connections of folly; that the long letters which pass

between young ladies set down by the world as intimate friends, are but

relations of all the petty incidents they may hear or see. Such letters

are also considered tending to weaken the mind and produce false

sensibility, by the terms of affection they force into their

service--the magnified expression of momentary and fleeting emotions.

That such may sometimes be the tenor of some young people's

correspondence, I do not pretend to deny, and when that is the case, and

such letters are treasured up in secret and requested to be burnt, lest

any eyes save those for whom they are intended should chance to

encounter them, then, indeed, I too might disapprove of similar

intimacies, and it was to prevent this I would not permit Emmeline to

send the first letter to which she has alluded. Every feeling was

magnified and distorted, till you must have fancied--had not the real

cause been told--that some very serious evil had happened, or was

impending over her. I did not in the least doubt but that you would have

used all your influence to combat with and conquer this sinful repining;

but still I thought your very replies might have called forth renewed

ebullitions of sensibility, and thus in the frame of mind which she was

then indulging, your hinted reproaches, however gentle, might have been

turned and twisted into a decay of friendship or some such display of

sensitiveness, which would certainly have removed your affection and

injured herself. When, therefore, she so frankly acknowledged her error,

and offered to sacrifice the pleasure I knew it was to write to you, I

accepted it, spite of the pain which I saw she felt, and which to

inflict on her, you may believe gave her, and now I certainly feel

rewarded for all the self-denial we both practised, Emmeline is again

the same happy girl she was at Oakwood, although I can perceive there is

nothing, or at best but very little here, that can compensate for the

rural pleasures she has left. I do not wonder at this, for in such

feelings I trace those which, from my girlhood, were my own. I hope,

therefore, my dear young friend, that nothing in future will check your

intercourse with Emmeline, but that your correspondence may long

continue a source of pleasure to both of you. I love to see the perfect

confidence with which Emmeline has written, it proves she regards you as

you deserve to be regarded, as indeed her friend, not her companion in

frivolity and sentiment; and believe me, you may thus have it in your

power to improve and strengthen her perhaps rather too yielding

character. The manner in which, through the mercy of our compassionate

God, you have been enabled, young as you are, to bear your trials, which

are indeed severe, has inspired her with a respect for your character,

which the trifling difference in your ages might otherwise have

prevented, and therefore your letters will be received with more than

ordinary interest, and your good example, my dear girl, may do much

towards teaching her to bear those evils of life from which we cannot

expect her to be exempt, with the same patient resignation that

characterises you. Write to her therefore, as often as you feel

inclined, and do not, I beg, suppress the thoughts her candid letter may

have produced. I will not ask you to read her confession charitably, for

I know you will, and I assure you she has completely redeemed her fault.

The struggle was a very severe one to subdue the depression she had

encouraged so long; but she has nobly conquered, and I do not fear such

feelings of discontent ever again obtaining too great an ascendency.

Tell your dear mother, with my affectionate love, that she will be

pleased to hear Ellen's health is improving, and has not as yet suffered

in the least from the winter or the more confined air of London, which I

almost dreaded might be baneful to one so delicate as she was when we

left Oakwood. I think our little tour did her much good, though the idea

of the exertion at first appeared painful. She is ever cheerful, though

I sometimes wish she would be more lively, and cannot help fancying,

notwithstanding her melancholy as a child was remarkable, that her

sufferings, both bodily and mental, the last eighteen months have made

her the very pensive character she is. I had hoped before that

unfortunate affair she was becoming as animated and light-hearted as my

Emmeline, but as that cannot be, I endeavoured to be thankful for the

health and quiet, and, I trust, happiness she now enjoys. We receive,

every opportunity, from Edward very satisfactory and pleasing letters,

which, as you will believe, tend not a little to lessen the anxiety of

both his sister and myself. His new captain is a far sterner character

and even more rigid in discipline than was Sir Edward Manly; but our

young sailor writes that this is rather a source of pleasure to him, for

it will be the greater merit to win his regard, which he has resolved to

use every endeavour to maintain.

I must not forget, in thus writing of my family, to mention that Herbert

never writes home without inquiring after his favourite Mary, and if his

sisters do not answer such queries very particularly, they are sure in

the next letter to obtain as severe a reproach as can flow from his pen.

Will you not return such little tokens of remembrance, my dear girl?

Herbert has only lately changed the term by which in his boyhood he has

so often spoken of you--his sister Mary; and surely friends in such

early childhood may continue so in youth. The season has not, and will

not yet commence here. Caroline is anticipating it with a delight which

I could wish less violent. I certainly never observed the very striking

contrast between my daughters as I do now, though I always knew they

were very unlike. You, dear Mary, would, I think, even more than

Emmeline, shrink from the life which for a few months in every year we

must now lead, if we would do our duty in the station we are ordained to

fill. I think one season will prove to Caroline that it is not in gaiety

she will find true and perfect happiness, and if it do so, I shall join

in society next year with a less trembling heart. And now, adieu, my

dear young friend. If by Emmeline's long silence you have ever permitted

yourself to entertain a suspicion that I did not approve of your

correspondence, let this letter from me prove your error, and remember,

if ever sorrows in your young yet chequered life should assail you, and

you would conceal them from your revered parent, fearing to increase

her griefs, write to me without hesitation, without fear, and I will

answer you to the best of my ability; for sympathy, believe me, you will

never appeal to me in vain, and if you require advice, I will give it

you with all the affection I feel towards you. God bless you, my dear

girl.

Yours, most affectionately, E. HAMILTON.

_From Emmeline Hamilton to Mary Greville._

A month, actually a whole month has elapsed, dearest Mary, since I wrote

to you last, and not a line from you. Granting it was nearly a week on

the way, three weeks are surely long enough for you to have written an

answer, when I entreated you to write so soon. What can be the cause of

this silence? I will not upbraid you, because I tremble when I think

what may perhaps have occasioned it. Mamma has become almost as anxious

as myself, therefore, as soon as you can, pray write, if it be but one

line to say you are well and at peace, I do not, will not ask more. I

scarcely like to write on indifferent subjects in this letter, but yet

as you have given me nothing to answer, I must do so to fill up my

paper; for if what I dread be not the case, you will not thank me for an

epistle containing but a dozen lines. London is becoming rather more

agreeable, and the fogs have given place to fine weather. The Court

arrived from Brighton yesterday, and they say the town will now rapidly

fill. Caroline is all joy, because early next month Mr. Grahame's family

leave Brighton. They have a fine house in Piccadilly not very far from

us, and Caroline is anticipating great pleasure in the society of Annie.

I wonder what my sister can find to like so much in Miss Grahame; to me

this friendship has been and is quite incomprehensible. She does not

possess one quality that would attract me; what a fortunate thing it is

we do not all like the same sort of people. Congratulate me, my dear

friend, I am overcoming in a degree my dislike to the company of

strangers. Some of papa and mamma's select friends and their families

have been calling on us the last month, and we have lately had rather

more society in the evening; not anything like large parties, but nice

little conversaziones, and really the lords and ladies who compose them

are much more agreeable than my fancy pictured them. They are so

intelligent, and know so much of the world, and the anecdotes they

relate are so amusing, and some so full of good-natured wit, that in one

evening I become more advanced in my favourite study, that of character,

than I do in weeks spent in retirement. Caroline is very much admired,

and I sometimes look at her with surprise; for she certainly looks much

better, and makes herself more agreeable among strangers than she

_always_ does at home. Mamma would call that perhaps an unkind

reflection, but I do not mean it for such; some people are more

fascinating out than at home. I am contented to remain in the shade, and

only speak when I am spoken to, like a good little girl; that is to say,

I converse with those who are good-natured enough to converse with me,

and many agreeable evenings have I passed in that way. There is her

Grace the Duchess D----, a very delightful woman, with elegant manners,

and full of true kindness. I like the way she speaks to her daughters,

at least her two youngest--the rest are married--Lady Anne and Lady

Lucy; they appear very nice young women, agreeable companions, as yet

we have but little conversation in common, though they appear to get on

remarkably well with Caroline. The Countess Elmore, a _nouvelle mariée_,

but a delightful creature, so exquisitely lovely--such eyes, hair,

teeth; and yet these rare charms appear entirely forgotten, or displayed

only for the Earl her husband, who is worthy of it all. He has talked to

me so often, that his wife also takes a great deal of notice of me, and

when they are of our party I always pass an agreeable evening. The Earl

is well acquainted with our beautiful Devonshire, dearest Mary; he

admires country as I do, and he asked so much about it one night last

week, that I quite forgot all my intentions about control, and actually

talked and apostrophised the Dart as I would to one of my own brothers.

I forgot everybody else in the room, till I caught mamma's glance fixed

earnestly on me, and then, my dear friend, I did not feel over

comfortable, however, I was soon at ease again, for I saw it was only

_warning_, not _reproving_; and the next morning, when I sought her to

tell her all my delight of the preceding evening, she shared in it all,

and when I asked her, half fearfully, if her glance meant I was passing

the boundary she had laid down, she said, "Not with the Earl of Elmore,

my dear Emmeline; but had you been talking in the same animated strain

to the Marquis of Alford, who, I believe, took you into supper, I should

say you had."

"But I did not with him," I exclaimed.

"No, my love," she answered, laughing at the anxiety that was, I felt,

imprinted on my face. "But why are you so terrified at the bare

suggestion?"

"Because," I said, and I felt I blushed, "he is a single man; and I

never can speak with the same freedom to unmarried as to married men."

"And why not?" she asked, and fixed her most penetrating glance on my

face.

I became more and more confused, dear Mary, for I felt even to my own

mother it would be difficult to express my feelings on that subject. I

managed, however, with some difficulty, to say that I had often heard

Annie say she hated assemblies where there were only married men, though

there might be some fun in endeavouring to excite the jealousy of their

wives; but it was nothing compared to the triumph of chaining young men

to her side, and by animated conversation and smiles make each believe

himself a special object of attraction, when, in reality, she cared

nothing for either. "Rather than do that," I exclaimed, starting from

the stool which I had occupied at mamma's feet, and with an energy I

could not restrain, "I would bury myself for ever in a desert, and never

look upon a face I loved; rather than play upon the feelings of my

fellow-creatures, I would--I know not what I would not endure. Mother,"

I continued, "mother, if ever you see me for one instant forget myself,

and by word or sign approach the borders of what is termed coquetry,

promise me faithfully you will on the instant prevent farther

intercourse, you will not hesitate one moment to tell me of it; even

though in your eyes it may appear but earnest or animated conversation.

Mother, promise me this," I repeated, for I felt carried so far beyond

myself, that when I look back on that conversation, it is with

astonishment at my own temerity. "Annie has laughed at me when I

expressed my indignation; she says it is what every woman of fashion

does, and that I am ridiculous if I hope to be otherwise. Mother, you

will not laugh at me. Spare me, spare me from the remorse that will

ensue, if such ever be my conduct."

"Fear not, my dear and noble child," she exclaimed (her voice I knew

expressed emotion), and she pressed me fondly to her heart; "I promise

all, all you wish. Retain these noble feelings, these virtuous fears,

and I shall never have occasion to do what you desire. Oh, that your

sister thought the same!" she added; and oh, Mary, I shall never forget

the tone of anxiety and almost distress with which those last words were

said.

"She does, she will, she must," I said, vehemently, for I would have

given worlds to calm the anxiety I know she feels for Caroline, and I do

wish that on some points my sister thought as I do, not from vanity, my

dear Mary, believe me, but for her own happiness. I cannot describe each

member of our circle, dear Mary, in this letter, but you shall have them

by degrees. The Earl and Countess Elmore are my favourites. I was very

sorry mamma did not permit me to join a very small party at their house

last week; the Countess came herself to beg, but mamma's mandate had

gone forth long ago, and therefore I submitted I hope with a good grace,

but I doubt it. She wishes me only to join in society at home this year,

but next year I may go out with her as often as I please. Lord Henry

D'Este is one of the most amusing creatures I ever met with, he has

always some droll anecdote to relate that calls forth universal

merriment; but of single men, the Earl of St. Eval, eldest son of the

Marquis of Malvern, is the most agreeable. He is not particularly

handsome, but has an eloquent smile and persuading voice, very tall and

noble in his carriage. He has talked to me much of Oxford, where for

about six or seven months he was acquainted with my brothers, of whom he

spoke in such high terms, dear Mary, and quite regretted he could not

enjoy their society longer. He has since been on the Continent, and

relates so delightfully all he has remarked or seen among foreigners,

that it is evident he travelled really for pleasure and information, not

for fashion. He appears much attracted with Caroline. I am sure he

admires her very much, and I only wish she would be as pleased with him

as I am, but she always provokes me by saying he has not sufficient

_esprit_; nor is he quite handsome enough to please her; and yet she

never refuses his attentions or shrinks from his conversation, as, if I

disliked him (as when we are alone she appears to do), I know I should.

Do not tremble for my peace, dear Mary, as you read these flowing

descriptions. In society they are most agreeable, but as the partner of

my life, I have not yet seen one to whom, were the question asked, I

could with any hope of happiness give my hand. These scenes are well for

a time, but they are not those in which I would wish to pass my life. My

wishes are humbler, much humbler; but I do not yet understand them

sufficiently even to define them to myself. It is much the same with the

young ladies of rank with whom I now frequently associate; they are

agreeable companions, but not one, no, not one can supply your place,

dearest Mary. Not one can I love as I do you. We have no ideas in

common; amiable and good as in all probability they are, still, as my

intimate friends I could not regard them; and yet--strange contradiction

you will say--I wish Caroline could find one amongst them to supply the

place of Annie Grahame in her heart. Why am I so prejudiced against her,

you will ask. Mary, I am prejudiced, and I cannot help it. Something

tells me my sister will obtain no good from this intimacy, I never did

like her, and of late this feeling has increased. Ellen is pleased, too,

when her health permits her to join our agreeable little coteries. She

appears overcoming her very great reserve, but does not become more

lively. She looks always to me, as if she felt a stain yet lingers on

her character, and though mamma and papa treat her even more kindly than

they did before, if possible, still there are times when to me she

appears inwardly unhappy. Strangers would only pronounce her more

pensive than usual for her years; for her slight figure and very

delicate features, as well as retiring manner, make her appear even

younger than she is, but I sometimes fancy I read more. She is always

calm and gentle as she used to be, and I never can discover when

anything vexes her, except by her heightened colour, which is more

easily visible now than when her health was better.

I am summoned away, dear Mary, to go with mamma to ride, and as this

leaves to night, I must not write more now; but I intend teasing you

with letters every week till you write to me, if you are not well, in

the sincere wish to arouse you and draw your thoughts from what may be

unpleasing subjects: and if you are idle, to spur you to your task.

Adieu, my dearest friend.

Your ever affectionate EMMELINE.

_From Mary Greville to Emmeline Hamilton_.

Greville Manor, March 13.

How can I thank you sufficiently, my dearest Emmeline, for the

affectionate letters which I have received so regularly the last month.

I am still so weak that much writing is forbidden me, and therefore to

reply to them all as my affection dictates is impossible. But I know

your kind heart, my Emmeline; I know it will be satisfied, when I say

your letters have indeed cheered my couch of suffering; have indeed

succeeded not only in changing _my_ thoughts from the subject that

perhaps too much engrosses them, but sometimes even my poor mother's.

Your first long letter, dated January, you tell me you wrote to let me

know you as you are, that all your faults may be laid bare to my

inspection; and what is to be the consequence--that you are, as you said

you would be, lowered in my estimation? no, dear and candid girl, you

are not, and while you retain such ingenuousness of disposition, you

never can be. Wrong you certainly were to encourage such despondency,

when so very many blessings were around you; but when once you become

sensible of an error, it is already with you corrected. Mamma has, I

know, some weeks ago, written to Mrs. Hamilton, to tell her Greville

Manor is to be sold. We shall never return to it again; the haunts I so

dearly loved, the scenes in which I have spent so many happy hours, all

will pass into the hands of strangers,--it will be no longer our own; we

shall be no longer together, as for so many years we have been. In

changing my residence thus, I feel as if every tie I loved was torn

asunder.

* * * * *

I thought I could have written calmly on this subject, my Emmeline, but

I believed myself stronger, both in mind and body, than I am. I have

been very ill, and therefore let that be my excuse. Plead for me with

your mother, Emmeline; tell her she knows not how I struggle to conceal

every pang from the watchful eyes of that mother who has hung over my

couch, with an agony that has told me plainer than words I am indeed her

only joy on earth. My spirit has been so tortured the three months of my

stern father's residence at home, that I feel as if I would--oh! how

gladly--flee away and be at rest: but for her sake, I pray for life, for

strength; for her sake, I make no resistance to the advice of Mr.

Maitland, that for a year or two we should live in Italy or Switzerland,

though in leaving England I feel as if I left I know not what, but

somewhat more than the mere love for my native land. Why, why is my

health so weak? why does it ever suffer when my mind is unhappy? Oh,

Emmeline, you know not the fierce struggle it is not to murmur; to feel

that it is in mercy my Father in Heaven afflicts me thus. If I might but

retain my health, my mother should never suspect my sufferings, I would,

I know I would, hide them from every eye; but she reads them in my

failing frame and pallid features, when I would by every means in my

power prove to her that while she is spared to me, I cannot be wholly

unhappy. It was not illness of body that prevented my replying to your

first long letter; but papa and Alfred were both at home, and my nerves

were so frequently shaken, that I knew it would be impossible to write

and therefore did not attempt it, even at the risk of offending, or at

least giving pain to you. I begged mamma to write to Mrs. Hamilton, and

tell her all that had occurred, on the receipt of your second, dated

February; for I thought while explaining our silence it would relieve

herself, which I think it did. It is six weeks since then and I am only

now allowed to write, and have been already obliged to pause more than

once in my task; so forgive all incoherences, my dearest Emmeline. The

Manor is to be sold in June: for my sake, mamma ventured to implore my

father to dispose of another estate, which has lately become his,

instead of this, but he would not listen to her; and I implored her not

to harrow her feelings by vain supplications again. Alfred is to go to

Cambridge, and this increased expense, as it is for him, papa seems to

think nothing of, but to my poor mother it is only another subject of

uneasiness, not so much for our sakes as for his own. Temptations of

every kind will be around him; his own little income will never be

sufficient to enable him to lead that life which his inclination will

bid him seek. Misfortune on every side appears to darken the future; I

cannot look forward. Pray for me, my dearest friend, that I may be

enabled to trust so implicitly in the Most High that even now my faith

should not for a moment waver. Oh! Emmeline, spite of all his harshness,

his coldness, and evident dislike, my heart yearns to my father. Would

he but permit me, I would love and respect him as fondly as ever child

did a parent, and when, after beholding his cruelty to my mother, my

heart has sometimes almost involuntarily reproached him and risen in

rebellion against him, the remorse which instantly follows adds to that

heavy burden which bows me to the earth. We leave England in May, if I

am sufficiently strong. I do not think we shall visit London, but travel

leisurely along the coast to Dover. I wish I could see you once more,

for I know not if we shall ever meet again, dear Emmeline; but perhaps

it is better not, it would only heighten the pain of separation. I

should like much to have written to your kind good mother with this, but

I fear my strength will not permit, yet perhaps, if she have one

half-hour's leisure, she will write to me again; her letters indeed are

my comfort and support. I thank your brother Herbert for his many kind

and affectionate messages; tell him all you will of our plans, and tell

him--tell him--his sister Mary will never forget the brother of her

childhood--the kind, the sympathising companion of her youth. To Percy,

too, remember me; and say all your own affection would dictate to

Caroline and Ellen. I would have written to the latter, but my weakness

will I know prove my best excuse. Before I quite conclude, let me say

how pleased I am to think that, although you still regret Oakwood, you

can find some pleasures in your present life. The society you describe

must be agreeable. I could scarcely, however, refrain from smiling at

your simplicity, my dear Emmeline, in imagining that all who visited at

your father's house would be as delightful and estimable as those whom

your second letter so eloquently described. Why are we so constantly

commanded to be charitable in our intercourse one with another? Must it

not be because our Great Master knew that we all had failings, some more

than others? if all were as worthy and virtuous as some appear, there

would be no need to practise such a virtue; but it is in a mixed society

it is more frequently called into play. More, would we preserve our own

virtue and piety, we must be charitable. We must look on the weaknesses

of our fellow-creatures with mercy and kindness, or how can we demand it

for ourselves? I am no advocate for seclusion in general, though my own

feelings prefer a quiet life. I think a life of retirement is apt to

render us selfish, and too positive in the wisdom and purity of our own

notions, too prejudiced against the faults of our fellows. Society is a

mirror, where we can see human character reflected in a variety of

shades, and thereby, if our minds be so inclined, we may attain a better

knowledge of ourselves. If, before we condemned others, we looked into

our own hearts, we are likely to become more charitable and more humble

at the same moment, and our own conduct necessarily becomes more

guarded. But with your mother, my Emmeline, and your open

heart--unsophisticated as it may be--you will never go far wrong. Mamma

is looking anxiously at me, as if she feared I am exerting myself too

much. I feel my cheeks are painfully flushed, and therefore I will obey

her gentle hint. Farewell, my Emmeline; may you long be spared the

sorrows that have lately wrung the heart of your attached and constant

friend,

MARY GREVILLE.

_From Mrs. Hamilton to Miss Greville_.

London, March 20th.

Your letter to Emmeline, my dear young friend, I have read with feelings

both of pain and pleasure, and willingly, most willingly, do I comply

with your request, that I would write to you, however briefly. Your

despondency is natural, and yet it is with delight I perceive through

its gloom those feelings of faith and duty, which your sense of religion

has made so peculiarly your own. I sympathise, believe me, from my

heart, in those trials which your very delicate health renders you so

little able to bear. I will not endeavour by words of consolation to

alleviate their severity, for I know it would be in vain. In your

earliest youth I endeavoured to impress upon your mind that we are not

commanded to check every natural feeling. We are but told to pour before

God our trouble, to lean on His mercy, to trust in His providence, to

restrain our lips from murmuring, and if we do so, though our tears may

fall, and our heart feel breaking, yet our prayers will be heard and

accepted on high. It is not with you, my poor girl, the weak indulgence

of sorrow that ever prostrates you on a couch of suffering, it is the

struggle of resignation and concealment that is too fierce for the

delicacy of your constitution; and do you not think that strife is

marked by Him, who, as a father, pitieth His children? Painful as it is

to you, my dear Mary, your sufferings may be in a degree a source of

mercy to your mother. Agonizing as it is to the heart of a parent, to

watch the fevered couch of a beloved child, yet had she not that

anxiety, the conduct of your father and brother might present still

deeper wretchedness. For your sake, she dismisses the harrowing thoughts

that would otherwise be her own; for your sake, she rallies her own

energies, which else might desert her; and when you are restored to her,

when, in those intervals of peace which are sometimes your own, she sees

you in health, and feels your constant devotion, believe me, there is a

well of comfort, of blessed comfort in her fond heart, of which nothing

can deprive her. For her sake, then, my dearest Mary, try to conquer

this reluctance to leave England. I do not reproach your grief, for I

know that it is natural. But endeavour to think that this residence for

a few years on the Continent, may restore your mother to a degree of

peace, which, in England, at present she cannot know; and will not this

thought, my love, reconcile you to a short separation from the land of

your birth, and the friends you so dearly love? We shall all think of

and love our Mary, however widely parted. We will write very frequently,

and every information I can obtain of your brother shall be faithfully

recorded. Mr. Hamilton has ever felt for your mother as a brother would,

and for her sake, her misguided son will be ever an object of his

dearest care. Do not fear for him, and endeavour to soothe your mother's

anxiety on that head also. Herbert has written to you, I enclose his

letter; and he entreats most earnestly that you will not only permit him

to continue to write, but answer him, during your residence abroad. He

has been deeply grieved at the intelligence we have reported of you, and

I hope and think, if your mother do not disapprove of your

correspondence, that the humble yet fervent faith which breathes in the

religion of my son may long prove a source of consolation as well as

interest to you, who, from your childhood, could sympathise with all his

exalted feelings. Poor Emmeline has shed many bitter tears over your

letter; she cannot bear to think of your leaving England, but yet agrees

with me in believing it will be a beneficial change for both yourself

and Mrs. Greville, but her letter shall speak her own feelings. I will

not write more now, but will very soon again. Do not exert yourself too

much to answer either Emmeline or myself; we will not wait for regular

replies. I have written to your mother also, therefore this brief

epistle is entirely for yourself, as you wished it. Mr. Hamilton will

meet you at Dover, which will afford me much satisfaction, as I shall

know more than I could ever learn by a letter, and he will, I trust, be

enabled to set your mother's heart at rest on some points which must be

now subjects of anxiety. God bless you, my Mary, and restore you

speedily to health and peace.

Yours, with the warmest affection,

E. HAMILTON.