Memoirs of Emma Courtney
by Mary Hays · English · Gutenberg #41256 · 418,104 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs of Emma Courtney
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Memoirs of Emma Courtney
Author: Mary Hays
Release date: November 1, 2012 [eBook #41256]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41256
Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF EMMA COURTNEY ***
MEMOIRS OF
EMMA COURTNEY
MARY HAYS
CONTENTS
Preface xvii
Volume I 1
Chapter I 6
Chapter II 8
Chapter III 11
Chapter IV 14
Chapter V 16
Chapter VI 18
Chapter VII 20
Chapter VIII 24
Chapter IX 26
Chapter X 28
Chapter XI 31
Chapter XII 33
Chapter XIII 37
Chapter XIV 41
Chapter XV 46
Chapter XVI 52
Chapter XVII 55
Chapter XVIII 59
Chapter XIX 62
Chapter XX 65
Chapter XXI 68
Chapter XXII 71
Chapter XXIII 73
Chapter XXIV 76
Chapter XXV 79
Chapter XXVI 84
Chapter XXVII 88
Chapter XXVIII 92
Volume II 95
Chapter I 98
Chapter II 102
Chapter III 105
Chapter IV 109
Chapter V 112
Chapter VI 118
Chapter VII 121
Chapter VIII 129
Chapter IX 133
Chapter X 137
Chapter XI 141
Chapter XII 144
Chapter XIII 151
Chapter XIV 154
Chapter XV 157
Chapter XVI 162
Chapter XVII 164
Chapter XVIII 167
Chapter XIX 171
Chapter XX 173
Chapter XXI 176
Chapter XXII 181
Chapter XXIII 184
Chapter XXIV 187
Chapter XXV 190
Chapter XXVI 192
Chapter XXVII 196
PREFACE
The most interesting, and the most useful, fictions, are, perhaps, such,
as delineating the progress, and tracing the consequences, of one
strong, indulged, passion, or prejudice, afford materials, by which the
philosopher may calculate the powers of the human mind, and learn the
springs which set it in motion--'Understanding, and talents,' says
Helvetius, 'being nothing more, in men, than the produce of their
desires, and particular situations.' Of the passion of terror Mrs
Radcliffe has made admirable use in her ingenious romances.--In the
novel of Caleb Williams, curiosity in the hero, and the love of
reputation in the soul-moving character of Falkland, fostered into
ruling passions, are drawn with a masterly hand.
For the subject of these Memoirs, a more universal sentiment is chosen--a
sentiment hackneyed in this species of composition, consequently more
difficult to treat with any degree of originality;--yet, to accomplish
this, has been the aim of the author; with what success, the public
will, probably, determine.
Every writer who advances principles, whether true or false, that have a
tendency to set the mind in motion, does good. Innumerable mistakes have
been made, both moral and philosophical:--while covered with a sacred and
mysterious veil, how are they to be detected? From various combinations
and multiplied experiments, truth, only, can result. Free thinking, and
free speaking, are the virtue and the characteristics of a rational
being:--there can be no argument which mitigates against them in
one instance, but what equally mitigates against them in all; every
principle must be doubted, before it will be examined and proved.
It has commonly been the business of fiction to pourtray characters, not
as they really exist, but, as, we are told, they ought to be--a sort of
_ideal perfection_, in which nature and passion are melted away, and
jarring attributes wonderfully combined.
In delineating the character of Emma Courtney, I had not in view these
fantastic models: I meant to represent her, as a human being, loving
virtue while enslaved by passion, liable to the mistakes and weaknesses
of our fragile nature.--Let those readers, who feel inclined to judge
with severity the extravagance and eccentricity of her conduct, look
into their own hearts; and should they there find no record, traced by
an accusing spirit, to soften the asperity of their censures--yet, let
them bear in mind, that the errors of my heroine were the offspring
of sensibility; and that the result of her hazardous experiment is
calculated to operate as a _warning_, rather than as an example.--The
philosopher--who is not ignorant, that light and shade are more
powerfully contrasted in minds rising above the common level; that,
as rank weeks take strong root in a fertile soil, vigorous powers not
unfrequently produce fatal mistakes and pernicious exertions; that
character is the produce of a lively and constant affection--may,
possibly, discover in these Memoirs traces of reflection, and of
some attention to the phænomena of the human mind.
Whether the incidents, or the characters, are copied from life, is of
little importance--The only question is, if the _circumstances_, and
situations, are altogether improbable? If not--whether the consequences
_might_ not have followed from the circumstances?--This is a grand
question, applicable to all the purposes of education, morals, and
legislation--_and on this I rest my moral_--'Do men gather figs of
thorns, or grapes of thistles?' asked a moralist and a reformer.
Every _possible_ incident, in works of this nature, might, perhaps, be
rendered _probable_, were a sufficient regard paid to the more minute,
delicate, and connecting links of the chain. Under this impression, I
chose, as the least arduous, a simple story--and, even in that, the
fear of repetition, of prolixity, added, it may be, to a portion of
indolence, made me, in some parts, neglectful of this rule:--yet, in
tracing the character of my heroine from her birth, I had it in view.
For the conduct of my hero, I consider myself less responsible--it was
not _his_ memoirs that I professed to write.
I am not sanguine respecting the success of this little publication. It
is truly observed, by the writer of a late popular novel[1]--'That an
author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every
body is privileged to attack; for, though all are not able to write
books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition
carries with it its own punishment--contempt and ridicule:--a good one
excites envy, and (frequently) entails upon its author a thousand
mortifications.'
[Footnote 21: The Monk.]
To the feeling and the thinking few, this production of an active
mind, in a season of impression, rather than of leisure, is presented.
_Memoirs of Emma Courtney_
VOLUME 1
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY
Rash young man!--why do you tear from my heart the affecting narrative,
which I had hoped no cruel necessity would ever have forced me to
review?--Why do you oblige me to recall the bitterness of my past life,
and to renew images, the remembrance of which, even at this distant
period, harrows up my soul with inconceivable misery?--But your happiness
is at stake, and every selfish consideration vanishes.--Dear and sacred
deposit of an adored and lost friend!--for whose sake I have consented
to hold down, with struggling, suffocating reluctance, the loathed
and bitter portion of existence;--shall I expose your ardent mind to
the incessant conflict between truth and error--shall I practise the
disingenuousness, by which my peace has been blasted--shall I suffer
you to run the wild career of passion--shall I keep back the recital,
written upon my own mind in characters of blood, which may preserve the
child of my affections from destruction?
Ah! why have you deceived me?--Has a six months' absence obliterated from
your remembrance the precept I so earnestly and incessantly laboured to
inculcate--the value and importance of unequivocal sincerity? A precept,
which I now take shame to myself for not having more implicitly observed!
Had I supposed your affection for Joanna more than a boyish partiality;
had I not believed that a few months' absence would entirely erase it
from your remembrance; had I not been assured that her heart was devoted
to another object, a circumstance of which she had herself frankly
informed you; I should not now have distrusted your fortitude, when
obliged to wound your feelings with the intelligence--that the woman,
whom you have so wildly persecuted, was, yesterday, united to another.
TO THE SAME
I resume my pen. Your letter, which Joanna a few days since put into my
hands, has cost me--Ah! my Augustus, my friend, my son--what has it not
cost me, and what impressions has it not renewed? I perceive the vigour
of your mind with terror and exultation. But you are mistaken! Were it
not for the insuperable barrier that separates you, for ever, from your
hopes, perseverance itself, however active, however incessant, may fail
in attaining its object. Your ardent reasoning, my interesting and
philosophic young friend, though not unconsequential, is a finely
proportioned structure, resting on an airy foundation. The science of
morals is not incapable of demonstration, but we want a more extensive
knowledge of particular facts, on which, in any given circumstance,
firmly to establish our data.--Yet, be not discouraged; exercise your
understanding, think freely, investigate every opinion, disdain the rust
of antiquity, raise systems, invent hypotheses, and, by the absurdities
they involve, seize on the clue of truth. Rouse the nobler energies of
your mind; be not the slave of your passions, neither dream of eradicating
them. Sensation generates interest, interest passion, passion forces
attention, attention supplies the powers, and affords the means of
attaining its end: in proportion to the degree of interest, will be that
of attention and power. Thus are talents produced. Every man is born
with sensation, with the aptitude of receiving impressions; the force of
those impressions depends on a thousand circumstances, over which he
has little power; these circumstances form the mind, and determine the
future character. We are all the creatures of education; but in that
education, what we call chance, or accident, has so great a share, that
the wisest preceptor, after all his cares, has reason to tremble: one
strong affection, one ardent incitement, will turn, in an instant, the
whole current of our thoughts, and introduce a new train of ideas and
associations.
You may perceive that I admit the general truths of your reasoning;
but I would warn you to be careful in their particular application; a
long train of patient and laborious experiments must precede our
deductions and conclusions. The science of mind is not less demonstrative,
and far more important, than the science of Newton; but we must proceed
on similar principles. The term _metaphysics_ has been, perhaps, justly
defined--the first _principles of arts and sciences_.[2] Every discovery
of genius, resulting from a fortunate combination of circumstances, may
be resolved into simple facts; but in this investigation we must be
patient, attentive, indefatigable; we must be content to arrive at truth
through many painful mistakes and consequent sufferings.--Such appears
to be the constitution of man!
[Footnote 2: Helvetius.]
To shorten and meliorate your way, I have determined to sacrifice every
inferior consideration. I have studied your character: I perceive, with
joy, that its errors are the ardent excesses of a generous mind. I loved
your father with a fatal and unutterable tenderness: time has softened
the remembrance of his faults.--Our noblest qualities, without incessant
watchfulness, are liable insensibly to shade into vices--but his virtues
and _misfortunes_, in which my own were so intimately blended, are
indelibly engraven on my heart.
A mystery has hitherto hung over your birth. The victim of my own ardent
passions, and the errors of one whose memory will ever be dear to me, I
prepare to withdraw the veil--a veil, spread by an importunate, but, I
fear, a mistaken tenderness. Learn, then, from the incidents of my life,
entangled with those of his to whom you owe your existence, a more
striking and affecting lesson than abstract philosophy can ever afford.
CHAPTER I
The events of my life have been few, and have in them nothing very
uncommon, but the effects which they have produced on my mind; yet, that
mind they have helped to form, and this in the eye of philosophy, or
affection, may render them not wholly uninteresting. While I trace them,
they convince me of the irresistible power of circumstances, modifying
and controuling our characters, and introducing, mechanically, those
associations and habits which make us what we are; for without outward
impressions we should be nothing.
I know not how far to go back, nor where to begin; for in many cases,
it may be in all, a foundation is laid for the operations of our minds,
years--nay, ages--previous to our birth. I wish to be brief, yet to omit
no one connecting link in the chain of causes, however minute, that I
conceive had any important consequences in the formation of my mind, or
that may, probably, be useful to your's.
My father was a man of some talents, and of a superior rank in life, but
dissipated, extravagant, and profligate. My mother, the daughter of a
rich trader, and the sole heiress of his fortunes, allured by the
specious address and fashionable manners of my father, sacrificed to
empty shew the prospect of rational and dignified happiness. My father
courted her hand to make himself master of her ample possessions:
dazzled by vanity, and misled by self-love, she married him;--found,
when too late, her error; bitterly repented, and died in child bed the
twelfth month of her marriage, after having given birth to a daughter,
and commended it, with her dying breath, to the care of a sister (the
daughter of her mother by a former marriage), an amiable, sensible, and
worthy woman, who had, a few days before, lost a lovely and promising
infant at the breast, and received the little Emma as a gift from
heaven, to supply its place.
My father, plunged in expence and debauchery, was little moved by these
domestic distresses. He held the infant a moment in his arms, kissed it,
and willingly consigned it to the guardianship of its maternal aunt.
It will here be necessary to give a sketch of the character, situation,
and family, of this excellent woman; each of which had an important
share in forming the mind of her charge to those dispositions, and
feelings, which irresistibly led to the subsequent events.
CHAPTER II
Mr and Mrs Melmoth, my uncle and aunt, married young, purely from
motives of affection. Mr Melmoth had an active, ardent mind, great
benevolence of heart, a sweet and chearful temper, and a liberal manner
of thinking, though with few advantages of education: he possessed,
also, a sanguine disposition, a warm heart, a generous spirit, and an
integrity which was never called in question. Mrs Melmoth's frame
was delicate and fragile; she had great sensibility, quickness of
perception, some anxiety of temper, and a refined and romantic manner
of thinking, acquired from the perusal of the old romances, a large
quantity of which, belonging to a relation, had, in the early periods of
her youth, been accidentally deposited in a spare room in her father's
house. These qualities were mingled with a devotional spirit, a little
bordering on fanatacism. My uncle did not exactly resemble an Orlando,
or an Oroondates, but he was fond of reading; and having the command of
a ship in the West India trade, had, during his voyages in fine weather,
time to indulge in this propensity; by which means he was a tolerable
proficient in the belles lettres, and could, on occasion, quote
Shakespeare, scribble poetry, and even philosophize with Pope and
Bolingbroke.
Mr Melmoth was one-and-twenty, his bride nineteen, when they were
united. They possessed little property; but the one was enterprizing and
industrious, the other careful and oeconomical; and both, with hearts
glowing with affection for each other, saw cheering hope and fairy
prospects dancing before their eyes. Every thing succeeded beyond their
most sanguine expectations. My uncle's cheerful and social temper, with
the fairness and liberality of his dealings, conciliated the favour of
the merchants. His understanding was superior, and his manners more
courteous, than the generality of persons in his line of life: his
company was eagerly courted, and no vessel stood a chance of being
freighted till his had its full cargo.
His voyages were not long, and frequent absences and meetings kept alive
between him and my aunt, the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, and the
transports of love. Their family soon increased, but this was a new
source of joy to Mr Melmoth's affectionate heart. A walk or a ride in
the country, with his wife and little ones, he accounted his highest
relaxation:--on these occasions he gave himself up to a sweet and lively
pleasure; would clasp them alternately to his breast, and with eyes
overflowing with tears of delight, repeat Thomson's charming description
of the joys of virtuous love--
'Where nothing strikes the eye but sights of bliss,
All various nature pressing on the heart!'
This was the first picture that struck my young imagination, for I was,
in all respects, considered as the adopted child of the family.
This prosperity received little other interruption than from my uncle's
frequent absences, and the pains and cares of my aunt in bringing into
the world, and nursing, a family of children. Mr Melmoth's successful
voyages, at rather earlier than forty years of age, enabled him to leave
the sea, and to carry on an extensive mercantile employment in the
metropolis.--At this period his health began to be injured by the
progress of a threatening internal disorder; but it had little effect
either on his spirits or activity. His business every day became wider,
and his attention to it was unremitted, methodical, and indefatigable.
His hours of relaxation were devoted to his family and social enjoyment;
at these times he never suffered the cares of the counting-house to
intrude;--he was the life of every company, and the soul of every
pleasure.
He at length assumed a more expensive style of living; took a house in
the country (for the charms of which he had ever a peculiar taste) as
a summer residence; set up an equipage, increased the number of his
servants, and kept an open and hospitable, though not a luxurious,
table.
The hours fled on downy pinions; his wife rested on him, his children
caught sunshine from his smiles; his domestics adored him, and his
acquaintance vied with each other in paying him respect. His life,
he frequently repeated, had been a series of unbroken success. His
religion, for he laid no stress on forms, was a sentiment of grateful
and fervent love.--'_God is love_,' he would say, 'and the affectionate,
benevolent heart is his temple.'
CHAPTER III
It will now be necessary, for the development of my own particular
character, again to revert to earlier periods.--A few days before my
birth, my aunt had lost (as already related) a lovely female infant,
about four months old, and she received me, from the hands of my dying
mother, as a substitute.--From these tender and affecting circumstances
I was nursed and attended with peculiar care. My uncle's ship (it being
war time) was then waiting for a convoy at Portsmouth, where he was
joined by his wife: she carried me with her, and, tenderly watchful over
my safety, took me on all their little excursions, whether by sea or
land: I hung at her breast, or rested in her arms, and her husband, or
attendant, alternately relieved her.--Plump, smiling, placid, happy, I
never disturbed her rest, and the little Emma was the darling of her
kind guardians, and the plaything of the company.
At the age at which it was thought necessary to wean me, I was sent
from my tender nurse for that purpose, and consigned to the care of a
stranger, with whom I quickly pined myself into a jaundice and bilious
fever. My aunt dare not visit me during this short separation, she was
unable to bear my piercing cries of anguish at her departure. If a
momentary sensation, at that infantine period, deserve the appellation,
I might call this my first affectionate sorrow. I have frequently
thought that the tenderness of this worthy woman generated in my infant
disposition that susceptibility, that lively propensity to attachment,
to which I have through life been a martyr. On my return to my friends,
I quickly regained my health and spirits; was active, blythsome, ran,
bounded, sported, romped; always light, gay, alert, and full of glee.
At church, (whither on Sunday I was accustomed to accompany the family)
I offended all the pious ladies in our vicinity by my gamesome tricks,
and avoided the reprimands of my indulgent guardians by the drollery and
good humour which accompanied them.
When myself and my little cousins had wearied ourselves with play, their
mother, to keep us quiet in an evening, while her husband wrote letters in
an adjoining apartment, was accustomed to relate (for our entertainment)
stories from the Arabian Nights, Turkish Tales, and other works of
like marvellous import. She recited them circumstantially, and these I
listened to with ever new delight: the more they excited vivid emotions,
the more wonderful they were, the greater was my transport: they became
my favourite amusement, and produced, in my young mind, a strong desire
of learning to read the books which contained such enchanting stores of
entertainment.
Thus stimulated, I learned to read quickly, and with facility. My uncle
took pleasure in assisting me; and, with parental partiality, thought
he discovered, in the ardour and promptitude with which I received his
instructions, the dawn of future talents. At six years old I read aloud
before company, with great applause, my uncle's favourite authors, Pope's
Homer, and Thomson's Seasons, little comprehending either. Emulation was
roused, and vanity fostered: I learned to recite verses, to modulate my
tones of voice, and began to think myself a wonderful scholar.
Thus, in peace and gaiety, glided the days of my childhood. Caressed
by my aunt, flattered by her husband, I grew vain and self-willed; my
desires were impetuous, and brooked no delay; my affections were warm,
and my temper irascible; but it was the glow of a moment, instantly
subsiding on conviction, and when conscious of having committed
injustice, I was ever eager to repair it, by a profusion of caresses and
acknowledgements. Opposition would always make me vehement, and coercion
irritated me to violence; but a kind look, a gentle word, a cool
expostulation--softened, melted, arrested, me, in the full career of
passion. Never, but once, do I recollect having received a blow; but the
boiling rage, the cruel tempest, the deadly vengeance it excited, in my
mind, I now remember with shuddering.
Every day I became more attached to my books; yet, not less fond of
active play; stories were still my passion, and I sighed for a romance
that would never end. In my sports with my companions, I acted over what
I had read: I was alternately the valiant knight--the gentle damsel--the
adventurous mariner--the daring robber--the courteous lover--and the
airy coquet. Ever inventive, my young friends took their tone from me.
I hated the needle:--my aunt was indulgent, and not an hour passed
unamused:--my resources were various, fantastic, and endless. Thus, for
the first twelve years of my life, fleeted my days in joy and innocence.
I ran like the hind, frisked like the kid, sang like the lark, was full
of vivacity, health, and animation; and, excepting some momentary bursts
of passion and impatience, awoke every day to new enjoyment, and retired
to rest fatigued with pleasure.
CHAPTER IV
At this period, by the command of my father, I was sent to boarding
school.--Ah! never shall I forget the contrast I experienced. I was an
alien and a stranger;--no one loved, caressed, nor cared for me;--my
actions were all constrained;--I was obliged to sit poring over needle
work, and forbidden to prate;--my body was tortured into forms, my mind
coerced, and talks imposed upon me, grammar and French, mere words, that
conveyed to me no ideas. I loved my guardians with passion--my tastes
were all passions--they tore themselves from my embraces with difficulty.
I sat down, after their departure, and wept--bitter tears--sobbed
convulsively--my griefs were unheeded, and my sensibility ridiculed--I
neither gave nor received pleasure. After the rude stare of curiosity,
ever wounding to my feelings, was gratified, I was left to sob alone.
At length, one young lady, with a fair face and a gentle demeanour,
came and seated herself beside me. She spoke, in a soft voice, words of
sympathy--my desolate heart fluttered at the sound. I looked at her--her
features were mild and sweet; I dried my tears, and determined that she
should be my friend.--My spirits became calmer, and for a short time I
indulged in this relief; but, on enquiry, I found my fair companion had
already a selected favourite, and that their amity was the admiration
of the school.--Proud, jealous, romantic--I could not submit to be the
second in her esteem--I shunned her, and returned her caresses with
coldness.
The only mitigation I now felt to the anguish that had seized my
spirits, was in the hours of business. I was soon distinguished for
attention and capacity; but my governness being with-held, by an infirm
constitution, from the duties of her office, I was consigned, with my
companions, to ignorant, splenetic, teachers, who encouraged not my
emulation, and who sported with the acuteness of my sensations. In the
intervals from school hours I fought and procured books.--These were
often wantonly taken from me, as a punishment for the most trivial
offence; and, when my indignant spirit broke out into murmurs and
remonstrance, I was constrained to learn, by way of penance, chapters in
the Proverbs of Solomon, or verses from the French testament. To revenge
myself, I satirized my tyrants in doggrel rhymes: my writing master also
came in for a share of this little malice; and my productions, wretched
enough, were handed round the school with infinite applause. Sunk in
sullen melancholy, in the hours of play I crept into corners, and
disdained to be amused;--home appeared to me to be the Eden from which
I was driven, and there my heart and thoughts incessantly recurred.
My uncle from time to time addressed to me--with little presents--kind,
pleasant, affectionate notes--and these I treasured up as sacred relics.
A visit of my guardians was a yet more tumultuous pleasure; but it
always left me in increased anguish. Some robberies had been committed
on the road to town.--After parting with my friends, I have laid awake
the whole night, conjuring up in my imagination all the tragic accidents
I had ever heard or read of, and persuading myself some of them must
have happened to these darling objects of my affection.
Thus passed the first twelvemonth of my exile from all I loved; during
which time it was reported, by my school-fellows, that I had never been
seen to smile. After the vacations, I was carried back to my prison with
agonizing reluctance, to which in the second year I became, however,
from habit, better reconciled. I learned music, was praised and encouraged
by my master, and grew fond of it; I contracted friendships, and
regained my vivacity; from a forlorn, unsocial, being, I became, once
more, lively, active, enterprising,--the soul of all amusement, and the
leader of every innocently mischievous frolic. At the close of another
year I left school. I kept up a correspondence for some time with a few
of my young friends, and my effusions were improved and polished by my
paternal uncle.
CHAPTER V
This period, which I had anticipated with rapture, was soon clouded by
the gradual decay, and premature death, of my revered and excellent
guardian. He sustained a painful and tedious sickness with unshaken
fortitude;--with more, with chearfulness. I knelt by his bedside on the
day of his decease; and, while I bathed his hand with my tears, caught
hope from the sweet, the placid, serenity of his countenance, and could
not believe the terrors of dissolution near.
'The last sentiment of my heart,' said he, 'is gratitude to the Being
who has given me so large a portion of good; and I resign my family into
his hands with confidence.'
He awoke from a short slumber, a few minutes before his death.--'Emma,'
said he, in a faint voice, (as I grasped his cold hand between both
mine) turning upon me a mild, yet dying, eye, 'I have had a pleasant
sleep--Be a good girl, and comfort your aunt!'--
He expired without a groan, or a struggle--'His death was the serene
evening of a beautiful day!' I gazed on his lifeless remains, the day
before their interment, and the features still wore the same placid,
smiling benignity. I was then about fourteen years of age,--this first
emotion of real sorrow rent my heart asunder!
The sensations of Mrs Melmoth were those of agonizing, suffocating
anguish:--the fair prospect of domestic felicity was veiled for ever!
This was the second strong impression which struck my opening mind.
Many losses occurred, in consequence of foreign connections, in the
settlement of Mr Melmoth's affairs.--The family found their fortunes
scanty, and their expectations limited:--their numerous fair-professing
acquaintance gradually deserted them, and they sunk into oeconomical
retirement; but they continued to be respectable, because they knew how
to contract their wants, and to preserve their independence.
My aunt, oppressed with sorrow, could be roused only by settling the
necessary plans for the future provision of her family. Occupied with
these concerns, or absorbed in grief, we were left for some time to run
wild. Months revolved ere the tender sorrows of Mrs Melmoth admitted of
any mitigation: they at length yielded only to tender melancholy. My
wonted amusements were no more; a deep gloom was spread over our
once cheerful residence; my avidity for books daily increased; I
subscribed to a circulating library, and frequently read, or rather
devoured--little careful in the selection--from ten to fourteen novels
in a week.
CHAPTER VI
My father satisfied himself, after the death of my beloved uncle,
with making a short and formal visit of condolence to the family, and
proposing either my return to school, or to pay an annual stipend (which
Mr and Mrs Melmoth had hitherto invariably refused) for defraying the
expences of my continuance and board with the amiable family by which I
had been so kindly nurtured. I shrunk from the cold and careless air
of a man whom I had never been able to teach my heart either to love
or honour; and throwing my arms round the neck of my maternal aunt,
murmured a supplication, mingled with convulsive sobs, that she would
not desert me. She returned my caresses affectionately, and entreated
my father to permit me to remain with her; adding, that it was her
determination to endeavour to rouse and strengthen her mind, for the
performance of those pressing duties--the education of her beloved
children, among whom she had ever accounted her Emma--which now devolved
wholly upon her.
My father made no objection to this request; but observed, that
notwithstanding he had a very favourable opinion of her heart and
understanding, and considered himself indebted to her, and to her
deceased husband, for their goodness to Emma, he was nevertheless
apprehensive that the girl had been weakened and spoiled by their
indulgence;--that his own health was at present considerably
injured;--that it was probable he might not survive many years;--in
which case, he frankly confessed, he had enjoyed life too freely to be
able to make much provision for his daughter. It would therefore, he
conceived, be more judicious to prepare and strengthen my mind to
encounter, with fortitude, some hardships and rude shocks, to which
I might be exposed, than to foster a sensibility, which he already
perceived, with regret, was but too acute. For which purpose, he desired
I might spend one day in every week at his house in Berkley-square, when
he should put such books into my hands [he had been informed I had a
tolerable capacity] as he judged would be useful to me; and, in the
intervals of his various occupations and amusements, assist me himself
with occasional remarks and reflections. Any little accomplishments
which Mrs Melmoth might judge necessary for, and suitable to, a young
woman with a small fortune, and which required the assistance of a
master, he would be obliged to her if she would procure for me, and call
upon him to defray the additional expence.
He then, looking on his watch, and declaring he had already missed an
appointment, took his leave, after naming Monday as the day on which he
should constantly expect my attendance in Berkley-square.
Till he left the room I had not courage to raise my eyes from the
ground--my feelings were harrowed up--the tone of his voice was
discordant to my ears. The only idea that alleviated the horror of my
weekly punishment (for so I considered the visits to Berkley-square)
was the hope of reading new books, and of being suffered to range
uncountroled through an extensive and valuable library, for such I
had been assured was Mr Courtney's. I still retained my passion for
adventurous tales, which, even while at school, I was enabled to gratify
by means of one of the day-boarders, who procured for me romances from a
neighbouring library, which at every interval of leisure I perused with
inconceivable avidity.
CHAPTER VII
The following Monday I prepared to attend Mr Courtney. On arriving at
his house, and announcing my name, a servant conducted me into his
master's dressing-room. I appeared before him with trembling steps,
downcast eyes, and an averted face.
'Look up, child!' said my father, in an imperious tone. 'If you are
conscious of no crime, why all this ridiculous confusion?'
I struggled with my feelings: the tone and manner in which I was
addressed gave me an indignant sensation:--a deeper suffusion than that
of modesty, the glow of wounded pride, burnt in my cheeks:--I turned
quick, gazed in the face of Mr Courtney with a steady eye, and spoke a
few words, in a firm voice, importing--that I attended by his desire,
and waited his direction.
He regarded me with somewhat less _hauteur_, and, while he finished
dressing, interrogated me respecting the books I had read, and the
impression they had left on my mind. I replied with simplicity, and
without evasion. He soon discovered that my imagination had been left
to wander unrestrained in the fairy fields of fiction; but that, of
historical facts, and the science of the world, I was entirely ignorant.
'It is as I apprehended,' said he:--'your fancy requires a _rein_ rather
than a _spur_. Your studies, for the future, must be of a soberer
nature, or I shall have you mistake my valet for a prince in disguise,
my house for a haunted castle, and my rational care for your future
welfare for barbarous tyranny.'
I felt a poignant and suffocating sensation, too complicated to bear
analyzing, and followed Mr Courtney in silence to the library. My heart
bounded when, on entering a spacious room, I perceived on either side
a large and elegant assortment of books, regularly arranged in glass
cases, and I longed to be left alone, to expatiate freely in these
treasures of entertainment. But I soon discovered, to my inexpressible
mortification, that the cases were locked, and that in this intellectual
feast I was not to be my own purveyor. My father, after putting into
my hands the lives of Plutarch, left me to my meditations; informing
me, that he should probably dine at home with a few friends, at five
o'clock, when he should expect my attendance at the table.
I opened my book languidly, after having examined through the glass
doors the titles of those which were with-held from me. I felt a kind
of disgust to what I considered as a task imposed, and read a few
pages carelessly, gazing at intervals through the windows into the
square.--But my attention, as I proceeded, was soon forcibly arrested,
my curiosity excited, and my enthusiasm awakened. The hours passed
rapidly--I perceived not their flight--and at five o'clock, when
summoned to dinner, I went down into the dining-room, my mind pervaded
with republican ardour, my sentiments elevated by a high-toned
philosophy, and my bosom glowing with the virtues of patriotism.
I found with Mr Courtney company of both sexes, to whom he presented me
on my entrance. Their easy compliments disconcerted me, and I shrunk,
abashed, from the bold and curious eyes of the gentlemen. During the
repast I ate little, but listened in silence to every thing that passed.
The theatres were the first topic of conversation, Venice Preserved had
been acted the preceding evening, and from discussing the play, the
conversation took a political turn. A gentleman that happened to be
seated next me, who spoke fluently, looking around him every moment for
approbation, with apparent self-applause, gave the discourse a tone of
gallantry, declaring--'Pierre to be a noble fellow, and that the loss
of a mistress was a sufficient excuse for treason and conspiracy,
even though the country had been deluged in blood and involved in
conflagration.'
'And the mistresses of all his fellow citizens destroyed of course;'--said
a gentleman coolly, on the opposite side of the table.
Oh! that was not a consideration, every thing must give place when put
in competition with certain feelings. 'What, young lady,' (suddenly
turning to me) 'do you think a lover would not risque, who was in fear
of losing you?'
Good God! what a question to an admirer of the grecian heroes! I
started, and absolutely shuddered. I would have replied, but my words
died away upon my lips in inarticulate murmurs. My father observed and
enjoyed my distress.
'The worthies of whom you have been reading, Emma, lived in ancient
times. Aristides the just, would have made but a poor figure among our
modern men of fashion!'
'This lady reads, then,'--said our accomplished coxcomb--'Heavens,
Mr Courtney! you will spoil all her feminine graces; knowledge and
learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman--born only for the soft
solace of man! The mind of a young lady should be clear and unsullied,
like a sheet of white paper, or her own fairer face: lines of thinking
destroy the dimples of beauty; aping the reason of man, they lose
the exquisite, _fascinating_ charm, in which consists their true
empire;--Then strongest, when most weak--
"Loveliest in their fears--
And by this silent adulation, soft,
To their protection more engaging man."
'Pshaw!' replied Mr Courtney, a little peevishly--'you will persuade
Emma, that the age of chivalry is not yet over; and that giants and
ravishers are as common now, as in the time of Charlemagne: a young
woman of sense and spirit needs no other protection; do not flatter the
girl into affectation and imbecility. If blank paper be your passion,
you can be at no loss; the town will supply quires and reams.'
'There I differ from you,' said the gentleman on the opposite side of
the table; 'to preserve the mind a blank, we must be both deaf and
blind, for, while any inlet to perception remains, your paper will
infallibly contract characters of some kind, or be blotted and
scrawled!'
'For God's sake! do not let us begin to philosophise,' retorted his
antagonist, who was not to be easily silenced.
'I agree with you,'--rejoined the other--'_thinking_ is undoubtedly
very laborious, and _principle_ equally troublesome and impertinent.'
I looked at him as he finished speaking, and caught his eye for a
moment; its expression methought was doubtful. The man of fashion
continued to expatiate in rhetorical periods--He informed us, that he
had fine feelings, but they never extended beyond selfish gratification.
For his part, he had as much humanity as any man, for which reason he
carefully avoided the scene or the tale of distress. He, likewise, had
his opinions, but their pliability rendered them convenient to himself,
and accommodating to his friends. He had courage to sustain fatigue and
hardship, when, not his country, but vanity demanded the exertion. It
was glorious to boast of having travelled two hundred miles in eight and
forty hours, and sat up three nights, to be present, on two succeeding
evenings, at a ball in distant counties.
'This man,' I said to myself, while I regarded him with a look of
ineffable scorn--'takes a great deal of pains to render himself
ridiculous, he surely must have a vile heart, or a contemptible opinion
of mankind: if he be really the character he describes, he is a compound
of atrocity and folly, and a pest to the world; if he slanders himself,
what must be that state of society, the applause of which he persuades
himself is to be thus acquired?' I sighed deeply;--in either case the
reflection was melancholy;--my eyes enquired--'Am I to hate or to
despise you?' I know not whether he understood their language, but he
troubled me no more with his attentions.
I reflected a little too seriously:--I have since seen many a prating,
superficial coxcomb, who talks to display his oratory--_mere words_
--repeated by rote, to which few ideas are affixed, and which are
uttered and received with equal apathy.
CHAPTER VIII
During three years, I continued my weekly visits to Berkley square; I
was not always allowed to join the parties who assembled there, neither
indeed would it have been proper, for they were a motley groupe; when
permitted so to do, I collected materials for reflection. I had been
educated by my aunt, in strict principles of religion; many of Mr
Courtney's friends were men of wit and talents, who, occasionally,
discussed important subjects with freedom and ability: I never ventured
to mingle in the conversations, but I overcame my timidity sufficiently
to behave with propriety and composure; I listened attentively to all
that was said, and my curiosity was awakened to philosophic enquiries.
Mr Courtney now entrusted me with the keys of the bookcases, through
which I ranged with ever new delight. I went through, by my father's
direction, a course of historical reading, but I could never acquire a
taste for this species of composition. Accounts of the early periods of
states and empires, of the Grecian and Roman republics, I pursued with
pleasure and enthusiasm: but when they became more complicated, grew
corrupt, luxurious, licentious, perfidious, mercenary, I turned from
them fatigued, and disgusted, and sought to recreate my spirits in the
fairer regions of poetry and fiction.
My early associations rendered theology an interesting subject to me; I
read ecclesiastical history, a detail of errors and crimes, and entered
deeply into polemic divinity: my mind began to be emancipated, doubts
had been suggested to it, I reasoned freely, endeavoured to arrange and
methodize my opinions, and to trace them fearlessly through all their
consequences: while from exercising my thoughts with freedom, I seemed
to acquire new strength and dignity of character. I met with some of the
writings of Descartes, and was seized with a passion for metaphysical
enquiries. I began to think about the nature of the soul--whether it
was a composition of the elements, the result of organized matter, or
a subtle and etherial fire.
In the course of my researches, the Heloise of Rousseau fell into my
hands.--Ah! with what transport, with what enthusiasm, did I peruse this
dangerous, enchanting, work!--How shall I paint the sensations that were
excited in my mind!--the pleasure I experienced approaches the limits of
pain--it was tumult--all the ardour of my character was excited.--Mr
Courtney, one day, surprised me weeping over the sorrows of the tender
St Preux. He hastily snatched the book from my hand, and, carefully
collecting the remaining volumes, carried them in silence to his chamber:
but the impression made on my mind was never to be effaced--it was even
productive of a long chain of consequences, that will continue to
operate till the day of my death.
My time at this period passed rapidly and pleasantly. My father never
treated me with affection; but the austerity of his manner gradually
subsided. He gave me, occasionally, useful hints and instructions.
Without feeling for him any tenderness, he inspired me with a degree of
respect. The library was a source of lively and inexhaustible pleasure
to my mind; and, when admitted to the table of Mr Courtney, some new
character or sentiment frequently sharpened my attention, and afforded
me subjects for future enquiry and meditation. I delighted to expatiate,
when returning to the kind and hospitable mansion of my beloved aunt,
(which I still considered as my home) on the various topics which I had
collected in my little emigrations. I was listened to by my cousins with
a pleasure that flattered my vanity, and looked up to as a kind of
superior being;--a homage particularly gratifying to a young mind.
CHAPTER IX
The excellent woman, who had been my more than mother, took infinite
pains to cure the foibles, which, like pernicious weeds, entangled
themselves with, and sometimes threatened to choak, the embryo blossoms
of my expanding mind. Ah! with what pleasure do I recall her beloved
idea to my memory! Fostered by her maternal love, and guided by her mild
reason, how placid, and how sweet, were my early days!--Why, my first,
my tenderest friend, did I lose you at that critical period of life,
when the harmless sports and occupations of childhood gave place to the
pursuits, the passions and the errors of youth?--With the eloquence of
affection, with gentle, yet impressive persuasion, thou mightest have
checked the wild career of energetic feeling, which thou hast so often
remarked with hope and terror.
As I entered my eighteenth year, I lost, by a premature death, this
tender monitor. Never shall I forget her last emphatic, affectionate,
caution.
'Beware, my dear Emma,' said this revered friend, 'beware of
strengthening, by indulgence, those ardent and impetuous sensations,
which, while they promise vigour of mind, fill me with apprehension
for the virtue, for the happiness of my child. I wish not that the
canker-worm, Distrust, should blast the fair fruit of your ripening
virtues. The world contains many benevolent, many disinterested,
spirits; but civilization is yet distempered and imperfect; the
inequalities of society, by fostering artificial wants, and provoking
jealous competitions, have generated selfish and hostile passions.
Nature has been vainly provident for her offspring, while man, with
mistaken avidity, grasping more than he has powers to enjoy, preys on
his fellow man:--departing from simple virtues, and simple pleasures,
in their stead, by common consent, has a wretched semblance been
substituted. Endeavour to contract your wants, and aspire only to
a rational independence; by exercising your faculties, still the
importunate suggestions of your sensibility; preserve your sincerity,
cherish the ingenuous warmth of unsophisticated feeling, but let
discernment precede confidence. I tremble even for the excess of those
virtues which I have laboured to cultivate in your lively and docile
mind. If I could form a wish for longer life, it is only for my children,
and that I might be to my Emma instead of reason, till her own stronger
mind matures. I dread, lest the illusions of imagination should
render those powers, which would give force to truth and virtue, the
auxiliaries of passion. Learn to distinguish, with accuracy, the good
and ill qualities of those with whom you may mingle: while you abhor the
latter, separate the being from his errors; and while you revere the
former, the moment that your reverence becomes personal, that moment,
suspect that your judgment is in danger of becoming the dupe of your
affections.'
Would to God that I had impressed upon my mind--that I had recalled to
my remembrance more frequently--a lesson so important to a disposition
like mine!--a continual victim to the enthusiasm of my feelings;
incapable of approving, or disapproving, with moderation--the most
poignant sufferings, even the study of mankind, have been insufficient
to dissolve the powerful enchantment, to disentangle the close-twisted
associations!--But I check this train of overwhelming reflection, that
is every moment on the point of breaking the thread of my narration, and
obtruding itself to my pen.
CHAPTER X
Mr Courtney did not long survive the guardian of my infancy:--his
constitution had for some years been gradually impaired; and his death
was hastened by a continuance of habitual dissipation, which he had not
the resolution to relinquish, and to which his strength was no longer
equal. It was an event I had long anticipated, and which I contemplated
with a sensation of solemnity, rather than of grief. The ties of blood
are weak, if not the mere chimeras of prejudice, unless sanctioned by
reason, or cemented by habits of familiar and affectionate intercourse.
Mr Courtney refusing the title of father, from a conviction that his
conduct gave him no claim to this endearing appellation, had accustomed
me to feel for him only the respect due to some talents and good
qualities, which threw a veil over his faults. Courage and truth were
the principles with which he endeavoured to inspire me;--precepts, which
I gratefully acknowledge, and which forbid me to adopt the language of
affection, when no responsive sympathies exist in the heart.
My eyes were yet moist with the tears that I had shed for the loss of my
maternal friend, when I received a hasty summons to Berkley-square. A
servant informed me, that his master was, at length, given over by his
physicians, and wished to speak to Miss Courtney, before his strength
and spirits were too much exhausted.
I neither felt, nor affected, surprize at this intelligence, but threw
myself, without reply, into the carriage which had been dispatched for
my conveyance.
On entering the house, a gloomy silence seemed to reign throughout the
late festive apartments; but, as I had seldom been a partaker of the
festivity, the contrast struck me less forcibly than it might otherwise
have done. My name was announced, and I was conducted, by the housekeeper,
to the chamber of her dying master, who, supported on pillows, breathed
with difficulty, but appeared to be free from pain, and tolerably
composed. I met the physician in the ante-chamber; who, on my requesting
earnestly to know the situation of his patient, informed me--That an
internal mortification had taken place, and that he could not survive
many hours.
Approaching the bed, considerably shocked at the intelligence I had
received, Mr Courtney, in a low and faint voice, desired me to draw a
chair near him. I obeyed in silence.
'Emma,' said he, 'I am about to quit a world, in which I have
experienced little sincere enjoyment; yet, I leave it reluctantly. Had I
been more temperate in my pleasures, perhaps, they might have been less
destructive, and more protracted. I begin to suspect, that I have made
some great mistakes; but it is now too late for retraction, and I will
not, in my last moments, contradict, by my example, the lesson of
fortitude, with which it has been a part of my plan to inspire you.
You have now, unprotected, the world to encounter; for, I will frankly
confess, that my affection for you has not been strong enough to induce
me to forego my own more immediate gratification: but I have never
deceived you. Your mother, when she married, reserved for her private
expences a thousand pounds, which, on her deathbed, she desired might
be invested in the funds on your account. This request I religiously
complied with, and there it has remained untouched; and, being purchased
in your name, you may claim it whenever you please. I have appointed
you no guardians; for, already in your nineteenth year and possessing
an understanding superior to your sex and age, I chose to leave you
unfettered, and at your own discretion. I spared from my pleasures what
money was requisite to complete your education; for having no fortune to
give you, and my health being precarious, I thought it just to afford
you every advantage for the improvement of those talents which you
evidently possess, and which must now enable you to make your way in the
world; for the scanty pittance, that the interest of your fortune will
produce, is, I doubt, insufficient for your support. Had I lived, it was
my intention to have established you by marriage; but that is a scheme,
to which, at present, I would not advise you to trust. Marriage,
generally speaking, in the existing state of things, must of necessity
be an affair of _finance_. My interest and introduction might have
availed you something; but mere merit, wit, or beauty, stand in need of
more powerful auxiliaries. My brother, Mr Morton[3], called on me this
morning:--he has agreed, for the present, to receive you into his
family, where you must endeavour to make yourself useful and agreeable,
till you can fix on a better and more independent plan. Finding me in so
low a state, your uncle would have waited a few days in town, to have
seen the result, and in case of the worst, to have taken you down with
him, but pressing business urged his departure. I would advise you,
immediately after my decease, to set out for Morton Park. Proper persons
are appointed to settle my affairs:--when every thing is turned into
money, there will, I trust, be sufficient to discharge my just debts;
but do not flatter yourself with the expectation of a surplus. Your
presence here, when I am no more, will be equally unnecessary and
improper.'
[Footnote 3: Mr Courtney's brother had taken the name of
Morton, to qualify himself for the inheritance of an estate,
bequeathed to him by a distant relation.]
This was said at intervals, and with difficulty; when, seeming quite
exhausted, he waved his hand for me to leave the room, and sunk into a
sort of dose, or rather stupor, which continued till within some minutes
of his decease.
Mr Courtney had been, what is called, a man of pleasure:--he had passed
thro' life without ever loving any one but himself--intent, merely,
on gratifying the humour of the moment. A superior education, and
an attentive observance, not of rational, but, of social man, in an
extensive commerce with the world, had sharpened his sagacity; but he
was inaccessible to those kindlings of the affections--those glowings of
admiration--inspired by real, or fancied, excellence, which never fail
to expand and advance the minds of such as are capable of sketching,
with a daring hand, the dangerous picture:--or of those philosophic and
comprehensive views, which teach us to seek a reflected happiness in
benevolent exertions for the welfare of others. My mother, I suspected,
had been the victim of her husband's unkindness and neglect: wonder not,
then, that my heart revolted when I would have given him the tender
appellation of father! If he coldly acknowledged any little merits which
I possessed, he regarded them rather with jealousy than approbation; for
he felt that they tacitly reproached him.
I will make no comment on the closing scene of his life. Among the
various emotions which had rapidly succeeded each other in my mind,
during his last address, surprize had no place; I had not then his
character to learn.
CHAPTER XI
The small pittance bequeathed to me was insufficient to preserve me
from dependence.--_Dependence!_--I repeated to myself, and I felt my
heart die within me. I revolved in my mind various plans for my future
establishment.--I might, perhaps, be allowed to officiate, as an
assistant, in the school where I had been placed in my childhood, with
the mistress of which I still kept up an occasional correspondence; but
this was a species of servitude, and my mind panted for freedom, for
social intercourse, for scenes in motion, where the active curiosity of
my temper might find a scope wherein to range and speculate. What could
the interest of my little fortune afford? It would neither enable me
to live alone, nor even to board in a family of any respectability. My
beloved aunt was no more; her children were about to be dispersed, and
to form various connections.
Cruel prejudices!--I exclaimed--hapless woman! Why was I not educated
for commerce, for a profession, for labour? Why have I been rendered
feeble and delicate by bodily constraint, and fastidious by artificial
refinement? Why are we bound, by the habits of society, as with an
adamantine chain? Why do we suffer ourselves to be confined within a
magic circle, without daring, by a magnanimous effort, to dissolve the
barbarous spell?
A child in the drama of the world, I knew not which way to turn, nor on
what to determine. I wrote to Mr Morton, to enquire on what terms I was
to be received by his family. If merely as a visitor for a few weeks,
till I had time to digest my plans, I should meet, with pleasure, a
gentleman whose character I had been taught to respect; but I should not
consider myself as subject to controul. I ought, perhaps, to have been
satisfied with Mr Morton's answer to my interrogatories.
He wished to embrace the daughter of his brother, his family would be
happy to render Morton Park agreeable to her, as long as she should
think proper to favour them by making it her residence. The young
ladies expected both pleasure and improvement from the society of
their accomplished kinswoman, &c.
I believe I was unreasonable, the style of this letter was civil, nay
kind, and yet it appeared, to me, to want the vivifying principle--what
shall I say?--dictated merely by the head, it reached not the heart.
The trials of my mind, I foreboded, were about to commence, I shrunk
from the world I had been so willing to enter, for the rude storms of
which I had been little fitted by the fostering tenderness of my early
guardians. Those ardent feelings and lively expectations, with all the
glowing landscapes which my mind had sketched of the varied pleasures
of society, while in a measure secluded from its enjoyments, gradually
melted into one deep, undistinguished shade. That sanguine ardour of
temper, which had hitherto appeared the predominant feature of my
character, now gave place to despondency. I wept, I suffered my tears
to flow unrestrained: the solemnity of the late events had seized my
spirits, and the approaching change filled me with solicitude. I
wandered over the scenes of my past pleasures, and recalled to my
remembrance, with a sad and tender luxury, a thousand little incidents,
that derived all their importance from the impossibility of their
renewal. I gazed on every object, _for the last time_--What is there in
these words that awakens our fanaticisms? I could have done homage to
these inanimate, and, till now, uninteresting objects; merely because I
should _see them no more_.
How fantastic and how capricious are these sentiments! Ought I, or
ought I not, to blush while I acknowledge them? My young friends, also,
from whom I was about to separate myself!--how various might be our
destinies, and how unconscious were we of the future! Happy ignorance,
that by bringing the evils of life in succession, gradually inures us to
their endurance.
'Had I beheld the sum of ills, which one
By one, I have endured--my heart had broke.'
CHAPTER XII
The hour at length came, when, harrassed in body and in mind, I set out
for Morton Park. I travelled alone, and reached the end of my journey at
close of day. I entreated Mr Morton, who hastened to hand me from the
carriage, and welcome my arrival, that I might be permitted to retire
to my apartment, pleading fatigue, and wishing to wave the ceremony of
an introduction to the family till the next morning. My request was
obligingly granted, and a servant ordered to attend me to my chamber.
Many years had elapsed since I had seen this family, and my judgment
was then so immature, that our meeting at the breakfast table had with
each of us, I believe, the force of a first impression. You know my
_fanaticism_ on these occasions. I will attempt an imperfect sketch of
the groupe, assembled in the saloon, to whom I was severally presented
on my entrance, by the lord of the domain. Mr Morton, himself, to whom
precedence is due, seemed to be about fifty years of age, was of the
middle stature, his features regular, and his countenance placid: he
spoke but little, but that little was always mild and often judicious.
He appeared not to be void of benevolent affections, and had the
character of a humane landlord, but his virtues were, in a great
measure, sunk in an habitual indolence of temper; he would sometimes
sacrifice his principles to his repose, though never to his interest.
His lady--no, I will not describe her; her character will, it may be,
unfold itself to you in future--Suffice it to say, that her person
was gross, her voice loud and discordant, and her features rugged:
she affected an air of openness and pleasantry; It may be prejudiced,
perhaps she did not _affect it_. Sarah Morton, the eldest of the
daughters, was about my age, she was under the middle height, fair,
plump, loquacious; there was a childish levity in her accent and
manners, which impressed strangers with an unfavourable opinion of her
understanding, but it was an acquired manner, for she was shrewd and
sensible. Ann, the second daughter was a little lively brunette, with
sharp features and sparkling black eyes; volatile, giddy, vain and
thoughtless, but good humoured and pretty. The other children were much
younger.
Two gentlemen joined us at our repast, visitors at Morton park. Mr
Francis, the elder, was in his fortieth year, his figure slender and
delicate, his eye piercing, and his manner impressive. It occurred to
me, that I had somewhere seen him before, and, after a few minutes
recollection, I recognized in him a gentleman who had occasionally
visited at my father's, and whom I have already mentioned as the
antagonist of the man of fashion, whose sentiments and volubility
excited my youthful astonishment and indignation. Mr Montague the
younger, the son of a medical gentleman residing in a neighbouring
county, seemed about one and twenty, tall, elegantly formed, full of
fire and vivacity, with imperious manners, an impetuous temper, and
stubborn prejudices.
The introduction of a stranger generally throws some kind of restraint
over a company; a break is made in their usual topics and associations,
till the disposition and habits of the intruder have, in some degree,
unfolded themselves. Mrs Morton took upon herself to entertain; she
exhibited her talents on various subjects, with apparent self-approbation,
till a few keen remarks from Mr Francis arrested the torrent of her
eloquence. The young ladies scrutinized me with attention; even the
lively Ann, while she minutely observed me, ceased to court play from
Mr Montague, who attended to me with the air, and addressed me in the
language of gallantry. I sometimes caught the penetrating eye of Mr
Francis, and his glance seemed to search the soul.
After breakfast, Mr Morton having retired to his dressing-room, and the
younger part of the company strolling into the pleasure grounds, whither
I declined accompanying them, I took an opportunity, being ever desirous
of active and useful employment, of offering my assistance to Mrs Morton,
in the education of her younger children; proposing to instruct them
in the rudiments either of music, drawing, French, or any other
accomplishment, for which my own education had capacitated me. Mr
Francis remained standing in a window, his back towards us, with a book
in his hand, on which he seemed intent.
'If,' replied Mrs Morton, 'it is your wish, Miss Courtney, to procure
the situation of governess in any gentleman's family, and it is
certainly a very laudable desire in a young woman of your _small
fortune_, Mr Morton will, I have no doubt, have it in his power
to recommend you: but in the education of my family, I desire no
interference; it is an important task, and I have my peculiar notions
on the subject: their expectations are not great, and your _elegant_
accomplishments might unfit them for their future, probable, stations.'
The manner in which this speech was uttered spoke yet more forcibly than
the words.--I felt my cheeks glow.
'I was not asking favours, Madam, I was only desirous of being useful.'
'It is a pity, then, that your discernment had not corrected your
vanity.'
The housekeeper entering, to consult her mistress on some domestic
occasion, Mrs Morton quitted the room. Mr Francis closed his book,
turned round, and gazed earnestly in my face: before sufficiently
mortified, his observation, which I felt at this moment oppressive, did
not relieve me. I attempted to escape, but, seizing my hand, he detained
me by a kind of gentle violence.
'And why this confusion, my dear Miss Courtney; do you blush for having
acted with propriety and spirit?' I burst into tears--I could not help
it--'How weak is this, how unworthy of the good sense you have just
manifested.'
'I confess it, but I feel myself, at this moment, a poor, a friendless,
an unprotected being.'
'What prejudices! poverty is neither criminal, nor disgraceful; you
will not want friends, while you continue to deserve them; and as for
protection,' (and he smiled) 'I had not expected from Emma Courtney's
spirited letter to Mr Morton, and equally proper retort to his lady's
impertinence, so plaintive, so feminine a complaint.--You have talents,
cultivate them, and learn to rest on your own powers.'
'I thank you for your reproof, and solicit your future lessons.'
'Can you bear the truth?'
'Try me.'
'Have you not cherished a false pride?'
It is too true, thought I, and I sighed.
'How shall I cure this foible?'
'By self-examination, by resolution, and perseverance.'
'Be to me instead of a conscience.'
'What, then, is become of your own?'
'Prejudice, I doubt, has blinded and warped it.'
'I suspect so; but you have energy and candor, and are not, I hope, of a
temper to despond.'
The return of the family terminated this singular conversation.
The young ladies rallied me, on being found _tête-à-tête_ with the
philosopher; Mr Montague, I thought looked displeased. I stole out;
while the party were dressing for dinner, and rambled into the gardens,
which were extensive, and laid out with taste.
CHAPTER XIII
I judged my visit here would not be very long. I scarcely knew whether I
was most inclined to like or to fear Mr Francis, but I determined, if
possible, to cultivate his friendship. I interrogated myself again and
again--From whence this restlessness, this languor, this disgust, with
all I hear and see?--Why do I feel wayward, querulous, fastidious? Mr
Morton's family had no hearts; they appeared to want a _sense_, that
preyed incessantly on mine; I could not love them, and my heart panted
to expand its sensations.
Sarah and Ann became jealous of me, and of each other; the haughty, yet
susceptible, Montague addressed each in turn, with a homage equally
fervent for the moment, and equally transient. This young man was bold,
ardent, romantic, and enterprizing, but blown about by every gust of
passion, he appeared each succeeding moment a different character: with
a glowing and rapid imagination, he had never given himself time to
reason, to compare, to acquire principles: following the bent of a
raised, yet capricious fancy, he was ever in pursuit of meteors, that
led him into mischief, or phantoms, that dissolved at his approach.
Had my mind been more assured and at ease, I could have amused myself
with the whimsical flights of this eccentric being--One hour, attracted
by the sportive graces of Ann, he played with and caressed her, while
the minutes flew rapidly on the light wing of amusement, and, till
reminded by the grave countenance of Mr Morton, seemed to forget
that any other person was present. The next minute, disgusted by her
frivolity, all his attention was absorbed by the less fascinating, but
more artful and ingenious, Sarah. Then, quitting them both, he would
pursue my steps, break in upon my meditations, and haunt my retreats,
from whence, when not disposed to be entertained by his caprice, I
found it not difficult to drive him, by attacking some of his various
prejudices:--accustomed to feel, and not to reason, his tastes and
opinions were vehement and uncontroulable.
From this society, so uncongenial to my reflecting, reasoning, mind,
I found some resource in the conversation of Mr Francis. The pride of
Montague was evidently piqued by the decided preference which I gave to
the company of his friend; but his homage, or his resentment, were alike
indifferent to me: accustomed to speak and act from my convictions,
I was but little solicitous respecting the opinion of others. My
understanding was exercised by attending to the observations of Mr
Francis, and by discussing the questions to which they led; yet it
was exercised without being gratified: he opposed and bewildered me,
convicted me of error, and harrassed me with doubt.
Mr Francis soon after prepared to return to town. I was affected at the
idea of his departure; and felt, that in losing his society, I should be
deprived of my only rational recreation, and should again be exposed to
Mrs Morton's illiberal attacks, who appeared to have marked me out for
her victim, though at present restrained by the presence of a man, who
had found means to inspire, even her, with some degree of respect.
Mr Francis, on the evening preceding the day on which he purposed
leaving Morton Park, passing under the open window of my chamber, in
which I was sitting with a book to enjoy the refreshing breeze, invited
me to come down, and accompany him in a ramble. I immediately complied
with his request, and joined him in a few minutes, with a countenance
clouded with regret at the idea of his quitting us.
'You are going,' said I, as I gave him my hand (which he passed under
his arm), 'and I lose my friend and counsellor.'
'Your concern is obliging; but you are capable of standing alone, and
your mind, by so doing, will acquire strength.'
'I feel as if this would not be the case: the world appears to me a
thorny and pathless wilderness; I step with caution, and look around me
with dread.--That I require protection and assistance is, I confess, a
proof of weakness, but it is nevertheless true.'
'Mr Montague,' replied he, with some degree of archness in his tone and
manner, 'is a gallant knight, a pattern of chivalry, and appears to be
particularly calculated for the defender of distressed damsels!'
'I have no inclination to trust myself to the guidance of one, who seems
himself entangled in an inextricable maze of error, and whose versatile
character affords little basis for confidence.'
'Tell me what it is you fear;--are your apprehensions founded in
reason?'
'Recollect my youth, my sex, and my precarious situation.'
'I thought you contemned the plea of _sex_, as a sanction for weakness!'
'Though I disallow it as a natural, I admit it as an artificial, plea.'
'Explain yourself.'
'The character, you tell me, is modified by circumstances: the customs
of society, then, have enslaved, enervated, and degraded woman.'
'I understand you: there is truth in your remark, though you have given
it undue force.'
I hesitated--my heart was full--I felt as if there were many things
which I wished to say; but, however paradoxical, the manners of Mr
Francis repressed, while they invited, confidence. I respected his
reason, but I doubted whether I could inspire him with sympathy, or
make him fully comprehend my feelings. I conceived I could express
myself with more freedom on paper; but I had not courage to request a
correspondence, when he was silent on the subject. That it would be a
source of improvement to me, I could not doubt, but prejudice with-held
me from making the proposal. He looked at me, and perceived my mind
struggling with a suggestion, to which it dared not give utterance: he
suspected the truth, but was unwilling to disturb the operations of my
understanding. We walked for some time in silence:--my companion struck
into a path that led towards the house--listened to the village clock as
it struck nine--and observed, the hour grew late. He had distinguished
me, and I was flattered by that distinction; he had supported me against
the arrogance of Mrs Morton, retorted the sly sarcasms of Sarah, and
even helped to keep the impetuous Montague in awe, and obliged him to
rein in his offensive spirit, every moment on the brink of outrage. My
heart, formed for grateful attachment, taking, in one instant, a hasty
retrospect of the past, and a rapid glance into futurity, experienced at
that moment so desolating a pang, that I endeavoured in vain to repress
its sensations, and burst into a flood of tears. Mr Francis suddenly
stopped, appeared moved, and, with a benevolent aspect and soothing
accents, enquired into the cause of an emotion so sudden and unexpected.
I wept a few minutes in silence, and my spirits seemed, in some measure,
relieved.
'I weep,' (said I), 'because I am _friendless_; to be esteemed and
cherished is necessary to my existence; I am an alien in the family
where I at present reside, I cannot remain here much longer, and to
whom, and whither, shall I go?'
He took my hand--'I will not, at present, say all that it might be
proper to say, because I perceive your mind is in a feeble state;--My
affairs call me to London;--yet, there is a method of conversing at a
distance.'
I eagerly availed myself of this suggestion, which I had wished, without
having the courage to propose.
'Will you, then, allow me, through the medium of pen and paper, to
address, to consult you, as I may see occasion?'
'Will I? yes, most cheerfully! Propose your doubts and state your
difficulties, and we shall see,' (smiling) 'whether they admit of a
solution.'
Thanking him, I engaged to avail myself of this permission, and we
proceeded slowly to the house, and joined the party in the supper room.
I never once thought of my red and swoln eyes, till Sarah, glancing a
look half curious, half sarcastic, towards me, exclaimed from
Shakespear, in an affected tone,
'Parting is such sweet sorrow!'
Mr Francis looked at her sternly, she blushed and was silent; Mr
Montague was captious; Ann mortified, that she could not by her little
tricks gain his attention. Mrs Morton sat wrapped in mock dignity; while
Mr Morton, and his philosophic friend, canvassed the principles upon
which an horizontal mill was about to be constructed on the estate of
the former. After a short and scanty meal, I retired to my apartment,
determined to rise early the next morning, and make breakfast for my
friend before his departure.
CHAPTER XIV
Mr Francis had ordered his horse to be ready at five o'clock. I left
my chamber at four, to have the pleasure of preparing for him the last
friendly repast, and of saying _farewel_. He was serene and chearful as
usual, I somewhat more pensive; we parted with great cordiality, he
gave me his address in town, and engaged me to write to him shortly.
I accompanied him through the Park to the porter's lodge, where the
servant and horses waited his coming. My eyes glistened as I bade him
adieu, and reiterated my wishes for his safety and prosperity, while his
features softened into a more than usual benignity, as he returned my
salutation.
I wandered thoughtfully back towards the house, but the rich purple
that began to illumine the east, the harbinger of the rising sun, the
freshness of the morning air, the soft dews which already glittered on
every fragrant plant and flower, the solemn stillness, so grateful to
the reflecting mind, that pervaded the scene, induced me to prolong my
walk. Every object appeared in unison with my feelings, my heart swelled
with devotional affections, it aspired to the Author of nature. After
having bewildered ourselves amid systems and theories, religion, in such
situations, returns to the susceptible mind as a _sentiment_ rather than
as a principle. A passing cloud let fall a gentle, drizzling shower;
sheltered beneath the leafy umbrage of a spreading oak, I rather heard
than felt it; yet, the coolness it diffused seemed to quench those
ardent emotions, which are but too congenial with my disposition, while
the tumult of the passions subsided into a delicious tranquillity.
How mutable are human beings!--A very few hours converted this sublime
complacency into perturbation and tumult. Having extended my walk beyond
its accustomed limits, on my return, I retired, somewhat fatigued to my
apartment, and devoted the morning to my studies. At the dinner hour
I joined the family, each individual of which seemed wrapped up in
reserve, scarcely deigning to practise the common ceremonies of the
occasion. I was not sufficiently interested in the cause of these
appearances to make any enquiries, and willingly resigned myself, in
the intervals of the entertainment, to meditation.
When the table was cleared, and the servants had withdrawn, perceiving
the party not sociably inclined, I was about to retire--when Mrs Morton
observed, with features full of a meaning which I did not comprehend,
that--
'Their guest, Mr Francis, had, no doubt, left Morton Park gratefully
impressed by the _kindness_ of Miss Courtney.'
Montague reddened--bit his lips--got up--and sat down again. The young
ladies wore an air not perfectly good-humoured, and a little triumphant.
Mr Morton looked very solemn.
'I hope so, Madam,' I replied, somewhat carelessly. 'I felt myself
indebted to Mr Francis for his civilities, and was solicitous to make
him all the return in my power--I wish that power had been enlarged.'
She held up her hands and eyes with an affected, and ridiculous,
gesture.
'Mr Francis,' said Montague, abruptly, 'is very happy in having inspired
you with sentiments _so partial_.'
'I am not partial--I am merely just. Mr Francis appeared to me a
rational man, and my understanding was exercised and gratified by his
conversation.'
I was about to proceed, but my uncle (who seemed to have been tutored
for the occasion) interrupted me with much gravity.
'You are but little acquainted, Emma, with the customs of society; there
is great indecorum in a young lady's making these distinctions.'
'What distinctions, my dear Sir!--in prefering a reasonable man to fools
and coxcombs.'
'Forgive me, my dear--you have a quick wit, but you want experience. I
am informed, that you breakfasted with Mr Francis this morning, and
attended him through the Park:--this, with your late walk yesterday
evening, and evident emotion on your return, let me tell you, child,
wears an indecorous appearance:--the world is justly attentive to the
conduct of young women, and too apt to be censorious.'
I looked round me with unaffected surprize--'Good God!--did I suppose,
in this family, it was necessary to be upon my guard against malicious
constructions?'
'Pray,'--interrupted Sarah, pertly--'would you not have expressed some
surprize, had I shewed Mr Montague similar attentions?'
I looked at her, I believe, a little too contemptuously.--'Whatever
sentiments might have been excited in my mind by the attentions of Miss
Morton to Mr Montague, _surprize_, assuredly, would not have been among
them.'
She coloured, and Montague's passions began to rise. I stopped him at
the beginning of an impertinent harangue, by observing--
'That I did not think myself accountable to him for my conduct;--before
I should be solicitous respecting his opinions, he must give me better
reasons, than he had hitherto done, to respect his judgment.'
Ann wept, and prattled something, to which nobody thought it worth while
to attend.
'Well, Sir,' continued I, turning to Mr Morton, 'be pleased to give me,
in detail, what you have to alledge, that I may be enabled to justify
myself.'
'Will you allow me to ask you a question?'
'Most certainly.'
'Has Mr Francis engaged you to correspond with him?'
I was silent a few moments.
'You hesitate!'
'Only, Sir, _how_ to answer your question.--I certainly intend myself
the pleasure of addressing Mr Francis on paper; but I cannot strictly
say _he engaged_ me so to do, as it was a proposal he was led to make,
by conjecturing my wishes on the subject.'
Again, Mrs Morton, with uplifted hands and eyes--'What effrontery!'
I seemed not to hear her.--'Have you any thing more to say, my dear
uncle?'
'You are a strange girl. It would not, perhaps, be proper before this
company to enquire'--and he stopped.
'Any thing is proper, Sir, to enquire of me, and in any company--I have
no reserves, no secrets.'
'Well, then, I think it necessary to inform you, that, though a
sensible, well educated, liberal-minded, man, Mr Francis has neither
estate nor fortune, nor does he practise any lucrative profession.'
'I am sorry for it, on his own account; and for those whom his
generosity might benefit. But, what is it to me?'
'You affect to misunderstand me.'
'I _affect_ nothing.'
'I will speak more plainly:--Has he made you any proposals?'
The purport of this solemn, but ludicrous, preparation, at once flashed
upon my mind, the first time the thought had ever occurred. I laughed--I
could not help it.
'I considered Mr Francis as a _philosopher_, and not as a _lover_. Does
this satisfy you, Sir?'
My uncle's features, in spite of himself, relaxed into a half-smile.
'Very platonic--sweet simplicity!'--drauled out Mrs Morton, in ironical
accents.
'I will not be insulted, Mr Morton!' quitting my seat, and rising in
temper.--'I consider myself, merely, as your visitant, and not as
responsible to any one for my actions. Conscious of purity of intention,
and superior to all disguise or evasion, I was not aware of these
feminine, indelicate, unfriendly suggestions. If this behaviour be a
specimen of what I am to expect in the world--the world may do its
will--but I will never be its slave: while I have strength of mind
to form principles, and courage to act upon them, I am determined to
preserve my freedom, and trust to the general candour and good sense
of mankind to appreciate me justly. As the brother of my late father,
and as entitled to respect from your own kind intentions, I am
willing to enter into any explanations, which _you_, _Sir_, may think
necessary:--neither my motives, nor my actions, have ever yet shrunk
from investigation. Will you permit me to attend you in your library? It
is not my intention to intrude longer on your hospitality, and I could
wish to avail myself of your experience and counsels respecting my
future destination.'
Mr Morton, at my request, withdrew with me into the library, where I
quickly removed from his mind those injurious suspicions with which Mrs
Morton had laboured to inspire him. He would not hear of my removal from
the Park--apologized for what had passed--assured me of his friendship
and protection--and entreated me to consider his house as my home. There
was an honest warmth and sincerity in his manner, that sensibly affected
me; I could have wept; and I engaged, at his repeated request, not to
think, at present, of withdrawing myself from his protection. Thus we
separated.
How were the virtues of this really good man tarnished by an unsuitable
connection! In the giddy hours of youth, we thoughtlessly rush into
engagements, that fetter our minds, and affect our future characters,
without reflecting on the important consequences of our conduct. This is
a subject on which I have had occasion to reflect deeply; yet, alas! my
own boasted reason has been, but too often, the dupe of my imagination.
CHAPTER XV
Nothing, here, occupied my heart--a heart to which it was necessary to
love and admire. I had suffered myself to be irritated--the tumult of my
spirits did not easily subside--I was mortified at the reflection--I had
believed myself armed with patience and fortitude, but my philosophy was
swept before the impetuous emotions of my passions like chaff before the
whirlwind. I took up my pen to calm my spirits, and addressed myself to
the man who had been, unconsciously, the occasion of these vexations.--My
swelling heart needed the relief of communication.
TO MR FRANCIS
'I Sought earnestly for the privilege of addressing you on
paper. My mind seemed to overflow with a thousand
sentiments, that I had not the courage to express in words;
but now, when the period is arrived, that I can take up my
pen, unawed by your penetrating glance, unchecked by your
poignant reply, and pour out my spirit before you, I feel
as if its emotions were too wayward, too visionary, too
contradictory, to merit your attention.
'Every thing I see and hear is a disappointment to
me:--brought up in retirement--conversing only with
books--dwelling with ardour on the great characters, and
heroic actions, of antiquity, all my ideas of honour and
distinction were associated with those of virtue and
talents. I conceived, that the pursuit of truth, and the
advancement of reason, were the grand objects of universal
attention, and I panted to do homage to those superior
minds, who, teaching mankind to be wise, would at length
lead them to happiness. Accustomed to think, to feel, to
kindle into action, I am at a loss to understand the
distinction between theory and practice, which every one
seems eager to inculcate, as if the degrading and melancholy
intelligence, which fills my soul with despondency, and
pervades my understanding with gloom, was to them a subject
of exultation.
'Is virtue, then, a chimera--does it exist only in the
regions of romance?--Have we any interest in finding our
fellow creatures weak and miserable?--Is the Being who
formed them unjust, capricious, impotent, or tyrannical?
'Answer these questions, that press heavily on my mind, that
dart across it, in its brightest moments, clouding its
sun-shine with a thick and impenetrable darkness. Must the
benevolent emotions, which I have hitherto delighted to
cherish, turn into misanthropy--must the fervent and social
affections of my heart give place to inanity, to
apathy--must the activity of a curious and vigorous mind
sink into torpor and abhorred vacuity?
'While they teach me to distrust the existence of virtue,
they endeavour to impose on me, in its stead, a fictitious
semblance; and to substitute, for the pure gold of truth, a
paltry tinsel. It is in vain I ask--what have those to do
with "_seeming_," who still retain "that which _passeth
shew_?" However my actions may be corrupted by the
contagious example of the world, may I still hold fast my
integrity, and disdain to wear the _appearance_ of virtue,
when the substance shall no longer exist.
'To admire, to esteem, to love, are congenial to my
nature--I am unhappy, because these affections are not
called into exercise. To venerate abstract perfection,
requires too vigorous an exertion of the mental powers--I
would see virtue exemplified, I would love it in my fellow
creatures--I would catch the glorious enthusiasm, and rise
from created to uncreated excellence.
'I am perplexed with doubts; relieve the wanderings of my
mind, solve the difficulties by which it is agitated,
prepare me for the world which is before me. The prospect,
no longer beaming with light, no longer glowing with a
thousand vivid hues, is overspread with mists, which the
mind's eye vainly attempts to penetrate. I would feel,
again, the value of existence, the worth of rectitude, the
certainty of truth, the blessing of hope! Ah! tell me
not--that the gay expectations of youth have been the
meteors of fancy, the visions of a romantic and distempered
imagination! If I must not live to realize them, I would not
live at all.
'My harrassed mind turns to you! You will not ridicule its
scruples--you will, at least, deign to reason with me, and,
in the exercise of my understanding, I shall experience a
temporary relief from the sensations which devour me, the
suspicions that distress me, and which spread over futurity
a fearful veil.
'EMMA.'
I walked to the next market town, and left my letter at the post-house,--I
waited impatiently for a reply; my mind wanted _impression_, and sunk
into languor. The answer, which arrived in a few days, was kind, because
it was prompt, my sickly mind required a speedy remedy.
TO EMMA COURTNEY.
'Why will you thus take things in masses, and continually
dwell in extremes? You deceive yourself; instead of
cultivating your reason, you are fostering an excessive
sensibility, a fastidious delicacy. It is the business of
reason to compare, to separate, to discriminate. Is there no
medium--extraordinary exertions are only called forth by
extraordinary contingences;--because every human being is
not a hero, are we then to distrust the existence of virtue?
'The mind is modified by the circumstances in which it
is placed, by the accidents of birth and education; the
constitutions of society are all, as yet, imperfect; they
have generated, and perpetuated, many mistakes--the
consequences of those mistakes will, eventually, carry with
them their antidote, the seeds of reproduction are, even,
visible in their decay. The growth of reason is slow,
but not the less sure; the increase of knowledge must
necessarily prepare the way for the increase of virtue and
happiness.
'Look back upon the early periods of society, and, taking
a retrospective view of what has been done, amidst the
interruptions of barbarous inroads, falling empires, and
palsying despotism, calculate what yet may be achieved:
while the causes, which have hitherto impeded the progress
of civilization, must continue to decrease, in an
accelerated ration, with the wide, and still wider,
diffusion of truth.
'We may trace most of the faults, and the miseries of
mankind, to the vices and errors of political institutions,
their permanency having been their radical defect. Like
children, we have dreamt, that what gratifies our desires,
or contributes to our convenience, to-day, will prove
equally useful and satisfactory to-morrow, without
reflecting on the growth of the body, the change of humours,
the new objects, and the new situations, which every
succeeding hour brings in its train. That immutability,
which constitutes the perfection of what we (from the
poverty of language) term the _divine mind_, would
inevitably be the bane of creatures liable to error; it is
of the constancy, rather than of the fickleness, of human
beings, that we have reason to complain.
'Every improvement must be the result of successive
experiments, this has been found true in natural science,
and it must be universally applied to be universally
beneficial. Bigotry, whether religious, political, moral, or
commercial, is the canker-worm at the root of the tree of
knowledge and of virtue. The wildest speculations are less
mischievous than the torpid state of error: he, who tamely
resigns his understanding to the guidance of another,
sinks at once, from the dignity of a rational being, to a
mechanical puppet, moved at pleasure on the wires of the
artful operator.--_Imposition_ is the principle and support
of every varied description of tyranny, whether civil or
ecclesiastical, moral or mental; its baneful consequence is
to degrade both him who is imposed on, and him who imposes.
_Obedience_, is a word, which ought never to have had
existence: as we recede from conviction, and languidly
resign ourselves to any foreign authority, we quench the
principle of action, of virtue, of reason;--we bear about
the semblance of humanity, but the spirit is fled.
'These are truths, which will slowly, but ultimately,
prevail; in the splendour of which, the whole fabric of
superstition will gradually fade and melt away. The world,
like every individual, has its progress from infancy to
maturity--How many follies do we commit in childhood? how
many errors are we precipitated into by the fervour and
inexperience of youth! Is not every stable principle
acquired through innumerable mistakes--can you wonder, that
in society, amidst the aggregate of jarring interests and
passions, reformation is so tardy? Though civilization has
been impeded by innumerable obstacles, even these help to
carry on the great work: empires may be overturned, and the
arts scattered, but not lost. The hordes of barbarians,
which overwhelmed ancient Rome, adopted at length the
religion, the laws, and the improvements of the vanquished,
as Rome had before done those of Greece. As the stone,
which, thrown into the water, spreads circles still more
and more extended;--or (to adopt the gospel similitude) as
the grain of mustard seed, growing up into a large tree,
shelters the fowls of heaven in its branches--so will
knowledge, at length, diffuse itself, till it covers the
whole earth.
'When the minds of men are changed, the system of things
will also change; but these changes, though active and
incessant, must be gradual. Reason will fall softly,
and almost imperceptibly, like a gentle shower of dews,
fructifying the soil, and preparing it for future harvests.
Let us not resemble the ambitious shepherd, who, calling for
the accumulated waters of the Nile upon his lands, was, with
his flock, swept away in the impetuous torrent.
'You ask, whether--because human beings are still
imperfect--you are to resign your benevolence, and to
cherish misanthropy? What a question! Would you hate the
inhabitants of an hospital for being infected with a
pestilential disorder? Let us remember, that vice originates
in mistakes of the understanding, and that, he who seeks
happiness by means contradictory and destructive, _is
emphatically the sinner_. Our duties, then, are obvious--If
selfish and violent passions have been generated by the
inequalities of society, we must labour to counteract them,
by endeavouring to combat prejudice, to expand the mind,
to give comprehensive views, to teach mankind their true
interest, and to lead them to habits of goodness and
greatness. Every prejudice conquered, every mistake
rectified, every individual improved, is an advance upon the
great scale of virtue and happiness.
'Let it, then, be your noblest ambition to co-operate with,
to join your efforts, to those of philosophers and sages,
the benefactors of mankind. To waste our time in useless
repinings is equally weak and vain; every one in his sphere
may do something; each has a little circle where his
influence will be availing. Correct your own errors, which
are various--weeds in a luxuriant soil--and you will have
done something towards the general reformation. But you are
able to do more;--be vigilant, be active, beware of the
illusions of fancy! I suspect, that you will have much to
suffer--may you, at length, reap the fruits of a wholesome,
though it should be a bitter, experience.
'---- FRANCIS.'
I perused the letter, I had received, again and again; it awakened a
train of interesting reflections, and my spirits became tranquillized.
CHAPTER XVI
Early one fine morning, Ann tapped gently at the door of my chamber; I
had already risen, and invited her to enter.
'Would I accompany her to breakfast, with a widow lady, who resided in a
village about two miles from Morton Park, an occasional visitant in the
family, a lady with whom, she was certain, I should be charmed.'
I smiled at her ardour, thanked her for her kindness, and readily agreed
to her proposal. We strolled together through an adjacent wood, which,
by a shady and winding path, conducted us towards the residence of this
vaunted favourite of my little companion.
On our way, she entertained me with a slight sketch of the history of
Mrs Harley and her family. She was the widow of a merchant, who was
supposed to possess great property; but, practising occasionally as an
underwriter, a considerable capture by the enemy (during war time) of
some rich ships, reduced his fortune; and, by the consequent anxiety,
completely destroyed a before debilitated constitution. He died in a few
weeks after the confirmation of his loss, and, having neglected to make
a will, a freehold estate of some value, which was all that remained of
his effects, devolved of course to his eldest son; his two younger sons
and three daughters being left wholly unprovided for. Augustus Harley,
the heir, immediately sold the estate, and divided the produce, in equal
shares, between each individual of the family. His brothers had been
educated for commerce, and were enabled, through the generous kindness
of Augustus, to carry on, with advantage and reputation, their
respective occupations; the sisters were, soon after, eligibly married.
Augustus, who had been educated for the law, disgusted with its
chicanery, relinquished the profession, content to restrain his expences
within the limits of a narrow income. This income had since received an
increase, by the bequest of a distant relation, a man of a whimsical
character, who had married, early in life, a beautiful woman, for love;
but his wife having eloped from him with an officer, and, in the course
of the intrigue, practised a variety of deceptions, he had retired
disgusted from society, cherishing a misanthropical spirit: and, on his
decease, bequeathed an annual sum of four hundred pounds to Augustus
Harley (to whom in his childhood he had been particularly attached) on
condition of his remaining unmarried. On his marriage, or death, this
legacy passed into another branch of the family. On this acquisition
Augustus determined on making the tour of Europe; and, after travelling
on the continent for three years, on his return to his native country,
alternately resided, either in the village of----, with his mother, or
in the metropolis, where he divided his time, between liberal studies,
and rational recreation. His visits to the country had, of late,
been shorter and less frequent: he was the idol of his mother, and
universally respected by his acquaintance, for his noble and generous
conduct.--'Ah!' (added the lively narrator) 'could you but see Augustus
Harley, you would, infallibly, lose your heart--so frank, so pleasant,
so ingenuous are his manners, so intrepid, and yet so humane! Montague
is a fine gentleman, but Augustus Harley is more--_he is a man!_'
She began to grow eloquent on this, apparently, exhaustless theme, nor
did she cease her panegyric till we came in view of Mrs Harley's
mansion.
'You will love the mother as well as the son,' continued this agreeable
prattler, 'when you come to know her; she is very good and very
sensible.'
Drawing near the house, she tripped from me, to enquire if its mistress
had yet risen.
A small white tenement, half obscured in shrubbery, on a verdant lawn,
of dimensions equally modest, situated on the side of a hill, and
commanding an extensive and variegated prospect, was too interesting
and picturesque an object, not to engage for some moments my attention.
The image of Augustus, also, which my lively companion had pourtrayed
with more than her usual vivacity, played in my fancy--my heart paid
involuntary homage to virtue, and I entered the mansion of Mrs Harley
with a swelling emotion, made up of complicated feelings--half
respectful, half tender--sentiments, too mingled to be distinctly
traced. I was introduced into a room that overlooked a pleasant garden,
and which the servant called a library. It was hung with green paper,
the carpet the same colour, green venetian blinds to the windows, a
sopha and chairs covered with white dimity; some drawings and engravings
hung on the walls, arranged with exact symmetry; on one side of the room
stood a grand piano-forte, opposite to which, was a handsome book-case,
filled with books, elegantly bound; in the middle of the apartment was
placed a table, covered with a green cloth, on which was a reading desk,
some books and pamphlets, with implements for writing and drawing.
Nothing seemed costly, yet neatness, order, and taste, appeared through
the whole apartment, bespeaking the elegant and cultivated mind of the
owner.
After amusing myself for a short time, in this charming retirement, I
was summoned by Ann to the breakfast room, where Mrs Harley awaited
me. I was interested, at the first glance, in favour of this amiable
woman--she appeared to be near fifty, her person agreeable, her
countenance animated, her address engaging, and her manners polished.
Mutually pleased with each other, the hours passed rapidly; and, till
reminded by a significant look from my little friend, I was unconscious,
that I had made my visit of an unreasonable length.
Mrs Harley spoke much of her son, he was the darling and the pride of
her heart; she lamented the distance that separated them, and wished,
that her health, and his tenderness, would allow of her residence with
him in London. When conversing on this favourite topic, a glow enlivened
her countenance, and her eyes sparkled with a humid brightness. I
was affected by her maternal love--tender remembrances, and painful
comparisons, crouded into my mind--a tear fell, that would not be
twinkled away--she observed it, and seemed to feel its meaning; she held
out her hand to me, I took it and pressed it to my lips. At parting,
she entreated me speedily to renew my visit, to come often without
ceremony--I should cheer her solitude--my sympathy, for she perceived I
had a feeling heart, would help to console her in the absence of her
Augustus.
CHAPTER XVII
On our way home, Ann was in high spirits, congratulating herself upon
her sagacity.
'Mrs Harley,' (said she, archly leering in my face) 'will console you
for the departure of Mr Francis.'
I smiled without replying. At dinner our visit of the morning was
canvassed (Ann had wished me to conceal it, but this I positively
refused). Mr Morton spoke of Mrs Harley and her son with great respect,
Mrs Morton with a sarcastic sneer, accompanied with a reprimand to her
daughter, for the improper liberty she had taken.
I quitted the table, immediately after the desert, to stifle my disgust,
and, taking a book, wandered into the pleasure grounds, but incapable of
fixing my attention, I presently shut my book, and, sauntering slowly
on, indulged in a reverie. My melancholy reflections again returned--How
could I remain in a house, where I was every day marked out for insult
by its mistress--and where was I to dispose of myself? My fortune was
insufficient to allow of my boarding in a respectable family. Mrs Harley
came across my mind--Amiable woman!--Would she, indeed, accept of my
society, and allow me to soften her solitude!--But her income was little
less limited than my own--it must not be thought of. I reflected on the
inequalities of society, the source of every misery and of every vice,
and on the peculiar disadvantages of my sex. I sighed bitterly; and,
clasping my hands together, exclaimed, unconsciously--
'Whither can I go--and where shall I find an asylum?'
'Allow me to propose one,' said a voice, in a soft accent, suddenly,
behind me.
I started, turned, and beheld Mr Montague. After some expressions of
sympathy for the distress which he had witnessed, apologies for his
intrusion, and incoherent expressions of respect and regard, he somewhat
abruptly offered his hand and heart to my acceptance, with the impetuosity
which accompanied all his sentiments and actions; yet, he expressed
himself with the air of a man who believes he is conferring an obligation.
I thanked him for his generous proposal--
But, as my heart spake not in his favour--'I must be allowed to decline
it.'
'That heart,' said he, rudely, 'is already bestowed upon another.'
'Certainly not, Mr Montague; if it were, I would frankly tell you.'
He pronounced the name of Mr Francis--
'Mr Francis is a man for whom I feel a sincere respect and veneration--a
man whom I should be proud to call my friend; but a thought beyond that,
I dare venture to say, has never occurred to either of us.'
He knew not how to conceive--that a woman in my situation, unprepossessed,
could reject so advantageous an establishment!
This, I told him, was indelicate, both to me and to himself. Were my
situation yet more desolate, I would not marry any man, merely for an
_establishment_, for whom I did not feel an affection.
Would I please to describe to him the model of perfection which I should
require in a husband?
It was unnecessary; as I saw no probability of the portrait bearing any
resemblance to himself.
He reddened, and turned pale, alternately; bit his lips, and muttered to
himself.--'Damned romantic affectation!'
I assumed a firmer tone--methought he insulted me.--'I beg you will
leave me, Sir--I chuse to be alone--By what right do you intrude upon my
retirements?'
My determined accent abashed him:--he tried, but with an ill grace, to
be humble; and entreated me to take time for consideration.
'There is no need of it. It is a principle with me, not to inflict a
moment's suspence on any human being, when my own mind is decided.'
'Then you absolutely refuse me, and prefer the being exposed to the mean
and envious insults of the vulgar mistress of this mansion!'
'Of the two evils, I consider it as the least, because it involves no
permanent obligation.'
His countenance was convulsed with passion. His love, he told me, was
converted into vengeance by my scorn: he was not to be contemned with
impunity; and he warned me to beware.
I smiled, I believe, a little too contemptuously. 'You love me not, Sir;
I am glad, for your own sake, that you never loved me.'
'My hatred may be more terrible!'
'You cannot intimidate me--I am little accustomed to fear.'
I turned from him somewhat disdainfully: but, instantly recollecting
myself, I stepped back, and apologized for the harsh manner into which I
had been betrayed by his abrupt address, vehement expostulation, and the
previous irritated state of my mind.
'I acknowledge,' said I, 'the disinterestedness of your proposal, and
the _distinction_ which it implies. Will you allow my own wounded
feelings to be an excuse for the too little consideration with which I
have treated _your's_? Can you forgive me?' added I, in a conciliating
tone, holding out my hand.
The strong emotions, which rapidly succeeded each other in his mind,
were painted in his countenance. After a moment's hesitation, he
snatched the hand I offered him, pressed it to his lips, and, murmuring
a few incoherent words, burst into tears. My spirits were already
depressed--affected by these marks of his sensibility, and still more
distressed by the recollection of the pain I had occasioned him by my
inconsiderate behaviour, I wept with him for some minutes in silence.
'Let us no more,' resumed I, making an effort to recover myself, 'renew
these impressions. I thank you sincerely for the sympathy you have
manifested for my situation. I am sensible that I have yielded to weak
and wayward feelings.--I have youth, health, and activity--I ought
not--neither do I despair.--The mortifications I have experienced, since
my residence here, will afford me a useful lesson for the future--they
have already taught me, what I before merely conjectured, _the value of
independence_!'
'Why, then,' interrupted he with quickness, 'do you reject an opportunity
of placing yourself out of the reach of insult?'
'Stop, my good friend,' replied I, smilingly looking in his face; 'there
is a possibility of exchanging evils. You are yet too young, and too
unstable, maturely to have weighed the importance of the scheme you
propose. Remember, likewise, that you are, yourself, in a great measure,
dependent on the will of your father; and that much reflection is
requisite before we fetter ourselves with engagements, that, once
entered into, are not easily dissolved.'
'You allow me, then, to hope!'
'Indeed I meant not to imply any such thing. I wish to soften what I
have already expressed--but, there are a variety of reasons which oblige
me to assure you, that I see no probability of changing my sentiments on
the subject.'
'Why, then, this cruel ostentation? I would either love or hate, bless
or curse you.'
'You shall do neither, if I can prevent it. If my esteem is of any value
to you, you must learn to respect both me and yourself.'
'Esteem!--Is that to be my frigid reward!'
'If _mine_ be worthless, propose to yourself _your own_ as a
recompense.'
'I have already forfeited it, by seeking to move a heart, that triumphs
in its cold inflexibility.'
'Is this just--is it kind? Is it, indeed, _my welfare_ you seek, while
you can thus add to the vexations and embarrassment, which were before
sufficiently oppressive? I would preserve you from an act of precipitation
and imprudence;--in return, you load me with unmerited reproaches. But
it is time to put an end to a conversation, that can answer little other
purpose than vain recrimination.'
He was about to speak--'Say no more--I feel myself, again, in danger
of losing my temper--my spirits are agitated--I would not give you
pain--Allow me to retire, and be assured of my best wishes.'
Some of the family appearing in sight, as if advancing towards us,
favoured my retreat. I quitted the place with precipitation, and retired
to my chamber, where I sought, by employing myself, to calm the
perturbation of my heart.
CHAPTER XVIII
In a few days I renewed my visit to Mrs Harley:--a strong sympathy
united us, and we became almost inseparable. Every day I discovered in
this admirable woman a new and indissoluble tie, that bound me to
her. Her cultivated understanding afforded an inexhaustible fund of
instruction and entertainment; and her affectionate heart spread a charm
over her most indifferent actions. We read, we walked, we conversed
together; but, with whatever subjects these conversations commenced,
some associated idea always led them to terminate in an eulogium on the
virtues and talents, or an expression of regret, for the absence of
Augustus. There was a portrait of him (drawn by a celebrated artist,
which he had lately sent from town as a present to his mother) hung up
in the library. I accustomed myself to gaze on this resemblance of a
man, in whose character I felt so lively an interest, till, I fancied,
I read in the features all the qualities imputed to the original by a
tender and partial parent.
Cut off from the society of mankind, and unable to expound my
sensations, all the strong affections of my soul seemed concentrated to
a single point. Without being conscious of it, my grateful love for Mrs
Harley had, already, by a transition easy to be traced by a philosophic
mind, transferred itself to her son. He was the St Preux, the Emilius of
my sleeping and waking reveries. I now spent almost my whole time in the
cottage of my friend, returning to Morton Park late in the evening, and
quitting it early in the morning, and sometimes being wholly absent for
weeks together.
Six months thus passed away in tranquillity, with but little variation.
Mr Montague, during this period, had several times left Mr Morton's, and
returned again abruptly: his manners became sullen, and even, at times,
ferocious. I carefully avoided encountering him, fearful of exasperating
a spirit, that appeared every moment on the verge of excess.
Hastening one evening to my friend, after a longer separation than
common, (having been prevailed on by Mr Morton and his daughters to
accompany them on a distant visit, where business of Mr Morton's
detained us for some days) I ran into the library, as usual, and threw
myself into the arms of Mrs Harley, that opened spontaneously to receive
me.
'Ah! you little truant,' said she, in a voice of kindness, 'where have
you been so long? My son has visited me in your absence; he passed
through this part of the country, in his way to the seat of a friend.
He staid with me two days, during which I sent half a dozen messages to
Morton Park, but you were flown away, it seems, nor could I learn any
tidings of you. Augustus,' continued she, without observing the emotions
she excited, 'had scarcely quitted the house an hour when you arrived.'
I made no reply; an unaccountable sensation seized, and oppressed, my
heart--sinking on the sopha, I burst into a convulsive flood of tears.
My friend was struck: all the indiscretion of her conduct (as she
has since told me) flashed suddenly into her mind; she felt that, in
indulging her own maternal sensations, she had, perhaps, done me an
irreparable injury, and she shuddered at the probable consequences. It
was some moments before either of us recovered;--our conversation was
that evening, for the first time, constrained, reserved, and painful;
and we retired at an early hour to our respective apartments.
I spent the night in self-examination. I was compelled to acknowledge,
to myself, that solitude, the absence of other impressions, the previous
circumstances that had operated on my character, my friendship for Mrs
Harley, and her eloquent, affectionate, reiterated, praises of her son,
had combined to awaken all the exquisite, though dormant, sensibilities
of my nature; and, however romantic it might appear to others, and did
appear even to myself, I felt, that I loved an ideal object (for such
was Augustus Harley to me) with a tender and fervent excess; an excess,
perhaps, involving all my future usefulness and welfare. 'People, in
general,' says Rousseau, 'do not sufficiently consider the influence
which the first attachments, between man and woman, have over the
remainder of their lives; they do not perceive, that an impression so
strong, and so lively, as that of love, is productive of a long chain of
effects, which pass unobserved in a course of years, yet, nevertheless,
continue to operate till the day of their deaths.' It was in vain I
attempted to combat this illusion; my reason was but an auxiliary to
my passion, it persuaded me, that I was only doing justice to high
and uncommon worth; imagination lent her aid, and an importunate
sensibility, panting after good unalloyed, completed the seduction.
From this period Mrs Harley was more guarded in her conduct; she
carefully avoided the mention of her son.--Under pretence of having an
alteration made in the frame, she removed his picture from the library;
but the constraint she put upon herself was too evident and painful;
we no longer sought, with equal ardour, an interchange of sentiment,
reserve took place of the tender confidence of friendship; a thousand
times, while I gazed upon her dear averted countenance, I yearned to
throw myself upon her bosom, to weep, to unfold to her the inmost
recesses of my mind--that ingenuous mind, which languished for
communication, and preyed upon itself! Dear and cruel friend, why did
you transfix my heart with the barbed and envenomed arrow, and then
refuse to administer the only healing balsam?
My visits to Mrs Harley became less frequent; I shut myself up whole
days in my apartment, at Morton Park, or wandered through its now
leafless groves, absorbed in meditation--fostering the sickly
sensibility of my soul, and nursing wild, improbable, chimerical,
visions of felicity, that, touched by the sober wand of truth, would
have 'melted into thin air.' 'The more desires I have' (observes an
acute, and profound French Philosopher[4]) 'the less ardent they are.
The torrents that divide themselves into many branches are the least
dangerous in their course. A strong passion is a solitary passion, that
concentrates all our desires within one point.'
[Footnote 4: Helvetius.]
CHAPTER XIX
I had not seen my friend for many days, when, on a dark and stormy
night, in the month of January, between nine and ten o'clock, the family
at Morton Park were alarmed, by a loud and violent knocking at the hall
door.
On opening it, a servant appeared--and a chaise, the porter having
unbolted the great gates, drew up to the door. The man delivered a note
addressed to Miss Courtney. I was unacquainted with the handwriting, and
unfolded it with trepidation. It contained but a few lines, written in a
female character, and signed with the name of a lady, who resided about
twelve miles from Morton Park, at whose house Mrs Harley sometimes made
a visit of a few days. It stated--
'That my friend was seized at the mansion of this lady with an
apoplectic fit, from which she had been restored, after some hours
of insensibility: that the physicians were apprehensive of a relapse,
and that Mrs Harley had expressed a desire of seeing Miss Courtney--A
carriage and servants were sent for her conveyance.'
Mr Morton was from home, his lady made no offer of any of her own
domestics to accompany me. Montague, who had been at the Park for some
days past, solicited permission to be my escort. I hesitated a moment,
and would willingly have declined this proposal, but he repeated and
enforced it with a vehemence, that, in the present hurried state of
my mind, I had not spirits to oppose. Shocked, alarmed, distressed, I
wrapped a shawl round me, and sprang into the chaise. Montague stepped
in after me, and seated himself by my side; the horses galloped, or
rather flew down the avenue, that led to the high road.
We travelled with great swiftness, and in uninterrupted silence for
some miles: the darkness was so thick and profound, that I could not
discover the road we took, and I began to feel very impatient to arrive
at the place of our destination. I questioned my companion respecting
his knowledge of our situation, and expressed an apprehension, that we
might possibly have missed the way. He made no reply to my interrogation,
but, starting as if from a reverie, seized my hand, while his own
trembled with a visible agitation, and began once more to urge a suit,
which I had hoped the steadiness and consistency of my conduct had
induced him entirely to relinquish.
'Is this a time, Mr Montague, for an address of this nature--do
you believe, that my favour is to be gained by these proofs of
inconsideration? Have some respect for the claims of humanity and
friendship, and, in seeking my affection, do not forfeit my esteem.'
He was about to reply, and I could perceive by the few words which he
uttered, and by the tone of his voice, that he struggled, in vain, to
rein in his quick and irascible spirit; when, in turning a sharp angle
of the road, the horses took fright at some object, indistinctly seen,
and ran precipitately down a steep hill, with a velocity that threatened
immediate destruction.
My companion, forcing open the door, seemed inclined to leap from the
carriage, but hesitated, as if unwilling to desert me in so imminent a
danger; I exhorted him to think only of providing for his own safety,
and, letting down the glasses on the side on which I sat, I resigned
myself to my fate. In springing from the chaise, by some means, Montague
entangled his coat in the step--he fell, without clearing it, and I
felt, with a horror that congealed my blood, the wheel go over him. In
a few minutes, I perceived a traveller, at the risque of his own life,
endeavouring to stop the horses--the pole of the chaise striking him
with great force, he was obliged to relinquish his humane efforts--but
this impediment occasioning the restive animals to turn out of the road,
they ran furiously up a bank, and overset the carriage. I felt it going,
and sitting, with my arms folded, close in the lower corner, fell with
it, without attempting to struggle, by which means I escaped unhurt.
The stranger, once more, came to our assistance, and, the mettle of the
horses being now pretty well exhausted, my deliverer was enabled to cut
the traces, and then hastened to extricate me from my perilous situation.
It was some time before I recovered myself sufficiently to thank him for
his humanity, and to assure him, that I had received no other injury
than from my fears. I then mentioned to him, my apprehensions for the
fate of my fellow traveller, entreating that he would return with me in
search of him. With this request he immediately complied, leaving the
horses in the care of the servants, neither of which had received any
material hurt.
We soon discovered the unfortunate Montague, lying in the road, in a
melancholy situation: the wheel had gone over one of his legs, the bone
of which was broken and splintered in a terrible manner, and, having
fainted from the pain, we were at first apprehensive that he was already
dead. Turning from this shocking spectacle, a faint sickness overspread
my heart, the stranger supported me in his arms, while a violent burst
of tears preserved me from swooning. My companion examining the body,
perceived signs of life, and, by our united efforts, sense and
recollection were soon restored.
I remained with Montague while the stranger returned to the carriage, to
enquire what damages it had received, and whether it was in a condition
to proceed to the next village, which, the postilion informed him, was
near two miles from the spot where the accident had happened, and we were,
yet, five miles from the place whither we were going. The axle-tree and
one of the hind wheels, upon examination, were found broken, the traces
had been cut in pieces, and the horses, had the chaise been in a better
condition, were so unmanageable, in consequence of their late fright,
that it would have been dangerous to have attempted putting them again
into harness.
With this intelligence, our kind friend came back to us--We held a short
consultation, on the means most proper to be adopted, and, at length it
was determined, that, after placing Montague in the carriage, where he
should be sheltered from the inclemency of the elements, and leaving him
in the charge of the servants, the traveller and myself should walk
onward to the village, and send a chaise, or litter, for the conveyance
of our unfortunate companion.
To this proposal Montague assented, at the same time, declaring it to be
his intention, to proceed directly across the country, to the house of
his father, which could not, he conjectured, be at any great distance,
and where he should be assured of meeting with greater attention, and
more skilful assistance, than at a petty inn, in a paltry village.
Having thus adjusted our plan, and, with the help of the servants,
carefully placed Montague in the chaise, we proceeded towards the
village.
CHAPTER XX
The night was tempestuous, and, though the moon was now rising, her
light was every moment obscured by dark clouds, discharging frequent
and heavy showers of rain, accompanied by furious gusts of wind. After
walking near a mile we entered upon a wide heath, which afforded no
shelter from the weather. I perceived my companion's steps began to grow
feeble, and his voice faint. The moon suddenly emerging from a thick
cloud, I observed his countenance, and methought his features seemed
familiar to me; but they were overspread by a pallid and death-like hue.
He stopped suddenly--
'I am very ill,' said he, in a tone of voice that penetrated into my
soul, 'and can proceed no further.'
He sunk upon the turf. Seating myself beside him, while his head fell
on my shoulder, I threw around him my supporting arms. His temples were
bedewed with a cold sweat, and he appeared to be in expiring agonies. A
violent sickness succeeded, followed by an hemorrhage.
'Gracious God!' I exclaimed, 'you have broken a blood vessel!'
'I fear so,' he replied. 'I have felt strangely disordered since the
blow I received from the pole of the carriage; but, till this moment, I
have not been at leisure to attend to my sensations.'
'Do not talk,' cried I, wildly; 'do not exhaust yourself.'
Again the clouds gathered; an impetuous gust of wind swept over the
heath, and the rain fell in torrents. Unconscious of what I did, I
clasped the stranger to my throbbing bosom,--the coldness of death
seemed upon him--I wrapped my shawl around him, vainly attempting
to screen him from the piercing blast. He spake not; my terrified
imagination already represented him as a lifeless corpse; I sat
motionless for some minutes, in the torpor of despair.
From this horrible situation, I was, at length, roused, by the sound
of a distant team: breathless, I listened for a few moments; I again
distinctly heard it wafted upon the wind; when, gently reclining my
charge on the grass, I started from the ground, and ran swiftly towards
the highway. The sound approached, and the clouds once more breaking,
and discovering a watery moon-light gleam, I perceived, with joy, a
waggon loaded with hay. I bounded over a part of the turf that still
separated me from the road, and accosting the driver, explained to
him, in a few words, as much of my situation as was necessary; and,
entreating his assistance, allured him by the hope of a reward.
We returned to my patient; he raised his head on my approach, and
attempted to speak; but, enjoining him silence, he took my hand, and, by
a gentle pressure, expressed his sense of my cares more eloquently than
by words. I assisted the countryman in supporting him to the road. We
prepared for him, in the waggon, a soft bed of hay, upon which we placed
him; and, resting his head on my lap, we proceeded gently to the nearest
village. On our arrival at an indifferent inn, I ordered a bed to be
immediately prepared for him, and sent a man and horse express, to the
next town, for medical assistance: at the same time, relating in brief
the accidents of the night, I dispatched a carriage for the relief of
Montague, who was conveyed, according to his wishes, to the house of his
father.
Notwithstanding all my precautions, the moving brought on a relapse of
the alarming symptoms; the discharge of blood returned with aggravated
violence, and, when the physician arrived, there appeared in the
unfortunate sufferer but little signs of life; but by the application of
styptics and cordials he once more began to revive; and, about five in
the morning, I was prevailed on, by the joint efforts of the landlady
and the humane Dr----, to resign my seat at the bed's head to a careful
servant, and to recruit my exhausted strength by a few hours' repose.
The vivid impressions, which had so rapidly succeeded each other in my
mind, for some time kept me waking, in a state of feverish agitation;
but my harrassed spirits were at length relieved by wearied nature's
kind restorer, and I slept for four hours profoundly.
On waking, my first enquiry was after my companion, in whose state I
felt an unusual degree of interest; and I heard, with pleasure, that
the hemorrhage had not returned; that he had rested with apparent
tranquillity, and appeared revived. I dressed myself hastily, and
passed into his apartment: he faintly smiled on perceiving my approach,
and gave me his hand.--The physician had ordered him to be kept quiet,
and I would not suffer him to speak; but, contemplating more attentively
his countenance, which had the night before struck me with a confused
recollection--what were my emotions, on tracing the beloved features of
Augustus Harley! His resemblance, not only to the portrait, but to his
mother, could not, as I thought, be mistaken. A universal trembling
seized me--I hastened out of the apartment with tottering steps, and
shutting myself into my chamber, a tide of melancholy emotions gushed
upon my heart. I wept, without knowing wherefore, tears half delicious,
half agonizing! Quickly coming to myself, I returned to the chamber of
my patient, (now more tenderly endeared) which, officiating as a nurse
for five days, I never quitted, except to take necessary rest and
refreshment.
I had written to Mr Morton a minute account of all that happened, merely
suppressing the name of my deliverer: to this letter I received no reply;
but had the pleasure of hearing, on the return of my messenger (who was
commissioned to make enquiries), that Mrs Harley had suffered no return
of her disorder, and was daily acquiring health and strength--I feared,
yet, to acquaint her with the situation of her son; not only on the
account of her own late critical situation, but, also, lest any sudden
agitation of spirits from the arrival of his mother, might, in his
present weak state, be fatal to Augustus.
I now redoubled for him my cares and attentions: he grew hourly better;
and, when permitted to converse, expressed in lively terms his grateful
sense of my kindness. Ah! why did I misconstrue these emotions, so
natural in such circumstances--why did I flatter my heart with the
belief of a sympathy which did not, could not, exist!
CHAPTER XXI
As my patient began to acquire strength, I demanded of him his name
and family, that I might inform his friends of his situation. On his
answering 'Harley,' I enquired, smiling--
If he remembered hearing his mother speak of a little _Protegé_, Emma
Courtney, whom she favoured with her partial friendship?
'Oh, yes!'--and his curiosity had been strongly awakened to procure a
sight of this lady.
'Behold her, then, in your nurse!'
'Is it possible!' he exclaimed, taking my hand, and pressing it with his
lips--'My sister!--my friend!--how shall I ever pay the debt I owe you?'
'We will settle that matter another time; but it is now become proper
that I should inform your excellent mother of what has happened, which I
have hitherto delayed, lest surprise should be prejudicial to you, and
retard your recovery.'
I then recounted to him the particulars of the late occurrences, of
which he had before but a confused notion; adding my surprise, that I
had neither seen, nor heard, any thing from Mr Morton.
He informed me, in his turn, that, having received an express, informing
him of his mother's alarming situation, he immediately quitted the seat
of his friend, where he was on a visit, to hasten to her; that, for this
purpose, riding late, he by some means bewildered himself through the
darkness of the evening, by which mistake he encountered our chaise, and
he hoped was, in some measure, notwithstanding the accidents which ensued,
accessary to my preservation.
I quitted him to write to my friend, whom I, at length, judged it
necessary to acquaint with his situation. On the receipt of my letter,
she flew to us on the wings of maternal tenderness--folded her beloved
Augustus, and myself, alternately to her affectionate bosom, calling us
'her children--her darling children!--I was her guardian angel--_the
preserver of her son!_--and _he_ only could repay my goodness!' I
ventured to raise my eyes to him--they met his--mine were humid with
tears of tenderness: a cloud passed over his brow--he entreated his
mother to restrain her transports--he was yet too enfeebled to bear
these emotions. She recollected herself in an instant; and, after again
embracing him, leaning on my arm, walked out into the air, to relieve
the tumultuous sensations that pressed upon her heart.
Once more she made me recite, minutely, the late events--strained me in
her arms, repeatedly calling me--
'Her beloved daughter--the meritorious child of her affections--the
preserver of her Augustus!'
Every word she uttered sunk deep into my soul, that greedily absorbed
the delicious poison, prepared for me by the cruel hand of more than
maternal fondness.
I mentioned to her my having written to Mr Morton, and my astonishment
at his silence.
He had not yet returned, she informed me, to Morton Park; and intimated,
that some malicious stories, respecting my sudden disappearance, had
been circulated by Mrs Morton through the neighbourhood. She had herself
been under extreme solicitude on my account. It was generally believed,
from the turn Mrs Morton's malice had given to the affair, that I had
eloped with Mr Montague:--the accident which had befallen him had been
rumoured; but the circumstances, and the occasion of it, had been
variously related. Confiding in my principles, she had waited with
anxiety for the elucidation of these mysterious accounts; lamenting
herself as the innocent occasion of them, yet assured they would,
eventually, prove to my honour. She commended the magnanimity, which her
partial friendship imputed to my behaviour, with all the enthusiasm of
affection, and execrated the baseness of Mrs Morton, who, having
received my letter, must have been acquainted with the real truth.
Her narration gave me many complicated, and painful, sensations; but the
good opinion of the world, however desirable it may be, as connected
with our utility, has ever been with me but a secondary consideration.
Confiding in the rectitude of my own conduct, I composed my spirits;
depending on that rectitude, and time, for removing the malignant
aspersions which at present clouded my fame. The tale of slander, the
basis of which is falsehood, will quietly wear away; and should it
not--how unfounded, frequently, are the censures of the world--how
confused its judgments! I entreated my friend to say nothing, at
present, to her son on this subject; it was yet of importance that his
mind should be kept still and tranquil.
We rejoined Augustus at the dinner hour, and spent the day together in
harmony and friendship. The physician calling in the evening, Mrs Harley
consulted him, whether it would be safe to remove her son, as she was
impatient to have him under her own roof. To this the doctor made no
objection, provided he was conveyed in an easy carriage, and by short
stages. On Mrs Harley's thanking him for his polite and humane attention
to his patient, smilingly pointing to me, he replied--'Her thanks were
misplaced.' His look was arch and significant; it called a glow into
my cheeks. I ventured, once more, to steal a glance at Augustus: his
features were again overspread with a more than usual seriousness, while
his eyes seemed designedly averted. Mrs Harley sighed, and, abruptly
changing the subject, asked the physician an indifferent question, who
soon after took his leave.
CHAPTER XXII
In a few days we returned to the peaceful mansion of my maternal friend.
Augustus seemed revived by the little journey, while every hour brought
with it an increase of health and spirits. Mrs Harley would not suffer
me to speak of going to Morton Park in the absence of its master;
neither could Augustus spare his kind nurse:--'I must stay,' he added,
and methought his accents were softened, 'and complete my charitable
purpose.' My appearance again in the village, the respectability, and
the testimony, of my friends, cleared my fame; and it was only at Morton
Park, that any injurious suspicions were affected to be entertained.
The hours flew on downy pinions:--my new _brother_, for so he would
call himself, endeavoured to testify his gratitude, by encouraging and
assisting me in the pursuit of learning and science: he gave us lectures
on astronomy and philosophy--
'While truths divine came mended from his tongue.'
I applied myself to the languages, and aided by my preceptor, attained
a general knowledge of the principles, and philosophy, of criticism and
grammar, and of the rules of composition. Every day brought with it
the acquisition of some new truth; and our intervals from study were
employed in music, in drawing, in conversation, in reading the _belles
lettres_--in--
'The feast of reason, and the flow of souls.'
The spring was advancing:--we now made little excursions, either on
horseback, in a chaise, or in a boat on the river, through the adjacent
country. The fraternal relation, which Augustus had assumed, banished
restraint, and assisted me in deceiving myself. I drank in large and
intoxicating draughts of a delicious poison, that had circulated through
every vein to my heart, before I was aware of its progress. At length,
part of a conversation, which I accidentally overheard between Mrs Harley
and her son, recalled me to a temporary recollection.
I was seeking them in the garden, towards the dusk of the evening, and a
filbert hedge separated us. I heard the voice of my friend, as speaking
earnestly, and I unconsciously stopped.
'It would be a comfort to my declining years to see you the husband of
a woman of virtue and sensibility: domestic affections meliorate the
heart; no one ought to live wholly to himself.'
'Certainly not, neither does any one; but, in the present state of
society, there are many difficulties and anxieties attending these
connections: they are a lottery, and the prizes are few. I think,
perhaps, nearly with you, but my situation is, _in many respects,
a peculiar one_,'--and he sighed deeply:--Need I enumerate these
peculiarities to you? Neither do I pretend to have lived so long in
the world without imbibing many of its prejudices, and catching the
contagion of its habits.'
'They are unworthy of you.'
'Perhaps so--but we will, if you please, change the subject; this to me
is not a pleasant one. What is become of my pupil? It is likely to be a
clear night; let us go in, and prepare for some astronomical
observations.'
My heart reproved me for listening, I crept back to my chamber--shed
one tear--heaved a convulsive, struggling, sigh--breathed on my
handkerchief, applied it to my eyes, and joined my friends in the
library.
Four months had rapidly passed--'the spot of azure in the cloudy
sky'--of my destiny. Mr Morton, I was informed, had returned to the
Park, and Augustus, whose health was now thoroughly restored, talked of
quitting the country. I advised with my friends, who agreed with me,
that it was now become proper for me to visit my uncle, and, explaining
to him the late events, justify my conduct. Mrs Harley and her son
offered to accompany me; but this, for many reasons, I declined; taking
my leave of them with a heavy heart, and promising, if I were not kindly
received, an immediate return.
CHAPTER XXIII
On my arrival at Mr Morton's, the porter informed me, he was ordered
by his lady, to deny my entrance. My swelling heart!--a sentiment of
indignation distended it almost to suffocation.--At this moment, Anne
tripped lightly through the court-yard, and, seeing me, ran to embrace
me. I returned her caresses with warmth.
'Ah!' said she, 'you are not, you cannot be, guilty. I have been longing
to see you, and to hear all that has happened, but it was not permitted
me.' She added, in a whisper, 'I cannot love my mother, for she torments
and restrains me--my desire of liberty is stronger than my duty--but I
shall one day be able to outwit her.'
'Will not your father, my love, allow me to speak with him? I have a
right to be heard, and I demand his attention.'
'He is in his dressing-room,' said Ann, 'I will slide softly, to him,
and tell him you are here.'
Away she flew, and one of the footmen presently returned, to conduct me
to his master. I found him alone, he received me with a grave and severe
aspect. I related to him, circumstantially, the occurrences which had
taken place during his absence. My words, my voice, my manner, were
emphatic--animated with the energy of truth--they extorted, they
commanded, they, irresistibly, compelled assent. His features softened,
his eyes glistened, he held out his hand, he was about to speak--he
hesitated a moment, and sighed. At this instant, Mrs Morton burst into
the room, with the aspect of a fury--her bloated countenance yet more
swelled and hideous--I shrunk back involuntarily--she poured forth a
torrent of abuse and invective. A momentary recollection reassured
me--waiting till she had exhausted her breath, I turned from her, and
to her husband, with calm dignity--
'I thank you, Sir, for all the kindness I have received from you--I am
convinced you do me justice--_for this I do not thank you_, it was a
duty to which I had a claim, and which you owed, not only to me, but,
to yourself. My longer continuance in this house, I feel, would be
improper. For the present, I return to Mrs Harley's, where I shall
respectfully receive, and maturely weigh, any counsels with which you
may in future think proper to favour me.'
Mr Morton bowed his head; poor man! his mild spirit was overborne, he
dared not assert the dictates of his own reason. I hurried out of
the apartment, and hastily embracing Ann, who awaited me in the hall,
charging myself with a hundred kisses for Mrs Harley, I took the way to
the hospitable mansion of my friend.
I had proceeded about half a mile, when I beheld Augustus, advancing
towards me; he observed my tremulous emotions, and pallid countenance;
he took my hand, holding it with a gentle pressure, and, throwing
his other arm round me, supported my faultering steps. His voice
was the voice of kindness--his words spake assurance, and breathed
hope--_fallacious hope!_--My heart melted within me--my tremor
encreased--I dissolved into tears.
'A deserted outcast from society--a desolate orphan--what was to become
of me--to whom could I fly?'
'Unjust girl! have I then forfeited all your confidence--have you not a
mother and a friend, who love you--' he stopped--paused--and added 'with
maternal, with _fraternal_, tenderness? to whom would you go?--remain
with us, your society will cheer my mother's declining years'--again
he hesitated,--'I am about to return to town, assure me, that you will
continue with Mrs Harley--it will soften the pain of separation.'
I struggled for more fortitude--hinted at the narrowness of my fortune--at
my wish to exert my talents in some way, that should procure me a less
dependent situation--spoke of my active spirit--of my abhorrence of a
life of indolence and vacuity.
He insisted on my waving these subjects for the present. 'There would
be time enough, in future, for their consideration. In the mean while,
I might go on improving myself, and whether present or absent, might
depend upon him, for every assistance in his power.'
His soothing kindness, aided by the affectionate attentions of my
friend, gradually, lulled my mind into tranquillity. My bosom was
agitated, only, by a slight and sweet emotion--like the gentle
undulations of the ocean, when the winds, that swept over its ruffled
surface, are hushed into repose.
CHAPTER XXIV
Another month passed away--every hour, I imbibed, in large draughts, the
deceitful poison of hope. A few days before that appointed for the
departure of Augustus, I received a visit from Mr Montague, of whose
situation, during his confinement, I had made many enquiries, and it
was with unaffected pleasure that I beheld him perfectly restored to
health. I introduced him to my friends, who congratulated him upon his
recovery, and treated him with that polite and cordial hospitality which
characterized them. He was on his way to Morton Park, and was particular
in his enquiries respecting the late conduct of the lady of the mansion,
of which he had heard some confused reports. I could not conceal from
him our final separation, but, aware of his inflammable temper, I
endeavoured to soften my recital as far as was consistent with truth and
justice. It was with difficulty, that our united persuasions induced him
to restrain his fiery spirit, which broke out into menaces and
execrations. I represented to him--
'That every thing had been already explained; that the affair had now
subsided; that a reconciliation was neither probable nor desirable; that
any interference, on his part, would only tend to mutual exasperation,
from which I must eventually be the sufferer.'
I extorted from him a promise--that, as he was necessitated to meet Mr
Morton on business, he would make no allusions to the past--I should be
mortified, (I added) by having it supposed, that I stood in need of a
_champion_.--Mr Morton had no doubts of the rectitude of my conduct, and
it would be barbarous to involve him in a perpetual domestic warfare.
Mr Montague, at the request of Augustus, spent that day, and the next,
with us. I thought, I perceived, that he regarded Mr Harley with a
scrutinizing eye, and observed my respect for, and attention to, him,
with jealous apprehension. Before his departure, he requested half an
hour's conversation with me alone, with which request I immediately
complied, and withdrew with him into an adjoining compartment. He
informed me--
'That he was going to London to pursue his medical studies--that, on his
return, his father had proposed to establish him in his profession--that
his prospects were very favourable, and that he should esteem himself
completely happy if he might, yet, hope to soften my heart in his
favour, and to place me in a more assured and tranquil position.'
I breathed a heavy sigh, and sunk into a melancholy reverie.
'Speak to me, Emma,' said he, with impatience, 'and relieve the anxiety
I suffer.'
'Alas! What can I say?'
'Say, that you will try to love me, that you will reward my faith and
perseverance.'
'Would to God, I could'--I hesitated--my eyes filled with tears--'Go to
London,' resumed I; 'a thousand new objects will there quickly obliterate
from your remembrance a romantic and ill-fated attachment, to which
retirement, and the want of other impression, has given birth, and which
owes its strength merely to opposition.'
'As that opposition,' retorted he, 'is the offspring of pride and
insensibility--'
I looked at him with a mournful air--'Do not reproach me, Montague, my
situation is far more pitiable than yours. _I am, indeed, unhappy_,'
--added I, after a pause; 'I, like you, am the victim of a raised, of, I
fear, a distempered imagination.'
He eagerly entreated me to explain myself.
'I will not attempt to deceive you--I should accuse myself, were I to
preserve any sentiment, however delicate its nature, that might tend
to remove your present illusion. It is, I confess, with extreme
reluctance--with real pain'--I trembled--my voice faultered, and I felt
my colour vary--'that I constrain myself to acknowledge a hopeless, an
extravagant'--I stopped, unable to proceed.
Fire flashed from his eyes, he started from his seat, and took two or
three hasty strides across the room.
'I understand you, but too well--Augustus Harley shall dispute with me a
prize'--
'Stop, Sir, be not unjust--make not an ungenerous return to the
confidence I have reposed in you. Respect the violence which, on your
account, I have done to my own feelings. I own, that I have not been
able to defend my heart against the accomplishments and high qualities
of Mr Harley--I respected his virtues and attainments, and, by a too
easy transition--at length--_loved his person_. But my tenderness is a
secret to all the world but yourself--It has not met with'--a burning
blush suffused my cheek--'It has little hope of meeting, a return. To
your _honor_ I have confided this cherished _secret_--dare you betray my
confidence? I know, you dare not!'
He seemed affected--his mind appeared torn by a variety of conflicting
emotions, that struggled for victory--he walked towards me, and again to
the door, several times. I approached him--I gave him my hand--
'Adieu, Montague,' said I, in a softened accent--'Be assured of my
sympathy--of my esteem--of my best wishes! When you can meet me with
calmness, I shall rejoice to see you--_as a friend_. Amidst some excesses,
I perceive the seeds of real worth in your character, cultivate them,
they may yield a noble harvest. I shall not be forgetful of the
distinction you have shewn me, _when almost a deserted orphan_--Once
again--farewel, my friend, and--may God bless you!'
I precipitately withdrew my hand from his, and rushed out of the room. I
retired to my chamber, and it was some hours before my spirits became
sufficiently composed to allow me to rejoin my friends. On meeting
them, Mrs Harley mentioned, with some surprize, the abrupt departure of
Montague, who had quitted the house, without taking leave of its owners,
by whom he had been so politely received.
'He is a fine young man,' added she, 'but appears to be very eccentric.'
Augustus was silent, but fixed his penetrating eyes on my face, with an
expression that covered me with confusion.
CHAPTER XXV
The day fixed for the departure of Mr Harley, for London, now drew
near--I had anticipated this period with the most cruel inquietude. I
was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! He, from
whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had
rested satisfied. I had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of
daily beholding, and listening to him--I was now to gaze on that beloved
countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. He was
about to mix in the gay world--to lose in the hurry of business, or of
pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments,
sacred to virtue and friendship, that had left an indelible impression
on my heart. Could I, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid,
affectionate, Emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous
scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced,
and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. How should
I, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how
contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his
associations? Ah! did he but know my tenderness--_the desire of being
beloved_, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart--why
should I hesitate to inform him of my affection--why do I blush and
tremble at the mere idea? It is a false shame! It is a pernicious system
of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! He is well
acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart--he will
at least regard me with esteem and tender pity--and how often has 'pity
melted the soul to love!' The experiment is, surely, innocent, and
little hazardous. What I have to apprehend? Can I distrust, for a
moment, those principles of rectitude, of honour, of goodness, which
gave birth to my affection? Have I not witnessed his humanity, have I
not experienced his delicacy, in a thousand instances? Though he should
be obliged to wound, he is incapable of insulting, the heart that loves
him; and that, loving him, believed, alas! for a long time, _that it
loved only virtue_!
The morning of our separation, at last, arrived. My friend, too much
indisposed to attend the breakfast table, took leave of her son in her
own apartment. I awaited him, in the library, with a beating heart, and,
on his departure, put into his hands a paper.--
'Read it not,' said I, in a low and almost inarticulate tone of voice,
'till arrived at the end of your journey; or, at least, till you are ten
miles from hence.'
He received it in silence; but it was a silence more expressive than
words.
'Suffer me,' it said, 'for a few moments, to solicit your
candour and attention. You are the only man in the world, to
whom I could venture to confide sentiments, that to many
would be inconceivable; and by those, who are unacquainted
with the human mind, and the variety of circumstances by
which characters are variously impressed and formed--who are
accustomed to consider mankind in masses--who have been used
to bend implicitly, to custom and prescription--the deviation
of a solitary individual from _rules_ sanctioned by usage, by
prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. I
frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes of
_modesty_, not of shame, that your virtues and accomplishments
have excited in my bosom an affection, as pure as the motives
which gave it birth, and as animated as it is pure.--This
ingenuous avowal may perhaps affect, but will scarcely (I
suspect) surprise, you; for, incapable of dissimulation,
the emotions of my mind are ever but too apparent in my
expressions, and in my conduct, to deceive a less penetrating
eye than yours--neither have I been solicitous to disguise
them.
'It has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection
is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the
species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the
individual,"[5] and, that individuality of character is the
only fastener of the affections. It is certain, however
singular it may appear, that many months before we became
personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high
qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence,
which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at
length, mixed itself with all my associations, and is become
interwoven with every fibre of my heart.
[Footnote 5: Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.]
'I have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of
cherishing an attachment, which a variety of circumstances
combine to render so unpromising, and--What shall I say?--So
peculiar is the constitution of my mind, that those very
circumstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what
might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to
render the sentiment, I have delighted to foster, more
affecting and interesting.--Yes! I am aware of the tenure
upon which you retain your fortunes--of the cruel and
unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious
testator: neither can I require a sacrifice which I am unable
to recompence. But while these melancholy convictions
deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the
disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by
communication.--Mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads
nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister
motives. Remember, then--should we never meet again--if in
future periods you should find, that the friendship of the
world is--"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"--if,
where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid
with ingratitude--where you have placed confidence, with
treachery--and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness!
Remember, _that you have once been beloved, for yourself
alone_, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your
life, would have found the happiness of her own.
'Is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by
prosperity, nor debased by fashionable levity--which vice has
not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized--can be wholly
insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural,
unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart?
"Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd,
By feeling, sympathy, and mind,
The sacred voice of truth deny,
And mock the mandate of the sky?"
'But I check my pen:--I am no longer--
"The hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life."
'The dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have
given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while I
acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me
to believe, that in happier circumstances, my artless
affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic
tenderness:--this is the extent of my hopes!--I recollect you
once told me "It was our duty to make our reason conquer the
sensibility of our heart." Yet, why? Is, then, apathy the
perfection of our nature--and is not that nature refined and
harmonized by the gentle and social affections? The Being who
gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its
sensibility.
'I make no apologies for, because I feel no consciousness of,
weakness. An attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and
virtue, ennoble the mind capable of conceiving and cherishing
it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly
incapable.
'You may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my
fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing
colouring--like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists--to
the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous
picture."--Allowing this, for a moment, _the sentiments it
inspires are not the less genuine_; and without some degree
of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts,
softens, embellishes, life--genius, virtue, love itself,
languishes. But, on this subject, my opinions have not been
lightly formed:--it is not to the personal graces, though
"the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the
virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect,
virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and,
were I never again to behold you--were you even the husband
of another--my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is
lively) would never cease!
'But, methinks, I hear you say,--"Whither does all this tend,
and what end does it propose?" Alas! this is a question I
scarcely dare to ask myself!--Yet, allow me to request, that
you will make me one promise, and resolve me one
question:--ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports
me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own
feelings, I should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom
of another:--_Is your heart, at present, free?_ Or should
you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that I
shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and,
in the assurance of your happiness, I will learn to forget my
own.
'I aspire to no higher title than that of the most faithful
of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your
esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for
improvement. I will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and
self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me
direction, and assistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and
truth.
'I have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it
up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of
whose delicacy I have experienced repeated proofs, should
misconstrue me.--"Oh! what a world is this!--into what false
habits has it fallen! Can hypocrisy be virtue? Can a desire
to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be
misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[6]
But I will banish these apprehensions; I am convinced they
are injurious.
'Yes!--I repeat it--I relinquish my pen with reluctance. A
melancholy satisfaction, from what source I can scarcely
define, diffuses itself through my heart while I unfold to
you its emotions.--Write to me; be _ingenuous_; I desire, I
call for, truth!
'EMMA.'
[Footnote 6: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]
CHAPTER XXVI
I had not courage to make my friend a confident of the step I had taken;
so wild, and so romantic, did it appear, even to myself--a false pride,
a false shame, with-held me. I brooded in silence over the sentiment,
that preyed on the bosom which cherished it. Every morning dawned with
expectation, and every evening closed in disappointment. I walked
daily to the post-office, with precipitate steps and a throbbing heart,
to enquire for letters, but in vain; and returned slow, dejected,
spiritless. _Hope_, one hour, animated my bosom and flushed my cheek;
the next, pale despair shed its torpid influence through my languid
frame. Inquietude, at length, gradually gave place to despondency, and
I sunk into lassitude.
My studies no longer afforded me any pleasure. I turned over my books,
incapable of fixing my attention; took out my drawings, threw them
aside; moved, restless and dissatisfied, from seat to seat; sought, with
unconscious steps, the library, and, throwing myself on the sopha, with
folded arms, fixed my eyes on the picture of Augustus, which had lately
been replaced, and sunk into waking dreams of ideal perfection and
visionary bliss. I gazed on the lifeless features, engraven on my heart
in colours yet more true and vivid--but where was the benignant smile,
the intelligent glance, the varying expression? Where the pleasant
voice, whose accents had been melody in my ear; that had cheered me in
sadness, dispelled the vapours of distrust and melancholy, and awakened
my emulation for science and improvement? Starting from a train of
poignant and distressing emotions, I fled from an apartment once so
dear, presenting now but the ghosts of departed pleasures--fled into the
woods, and buried myself in their deepest recesses; or, shutting myself
in my chamber, avoided the sight of my friend, whose dejected
countenance but the more forcibly reminded me--
'That such things were, and were most dear.'
In this state of mind, looking one day over my papers, without any known
end in view, I accidentally opened a letter from Mr Francis (with whom I
still continued, occasionally, to correspond), which I had recently
received. I eagerly seized, and re-perused, it. My spirits were weakened;
the kindness which it expressed affected me--it touched my heart--it
excited my tears. I determined instantly to reply to it, and to
acknowledge my sense of his goodness.
My mind was overwhelmed with the pressure of its own thoughts; a gleam
of joy darted through the thick mists that pervaded it; communication
would relieve the burthen. I took up my pen; and, though I dared not
betray the fatal secret concealed, as a sacred treasure, in the bottom
of my heart, I yet gave a loose to, I endeavoured to paint, its
sensations.
After briefly sketching the events that had driven me from Morton Park
(of which I had not hitherto judged it necessary to inform him), without
hinting the name of my deliverer, or suffering myself to dwell on the
services he had rendered me, I mentioned my present temporary residence
at the house of a friend, and expressed an impatience at my solitary,
inactive, situation.
I went on--
'To what purpose should I trouble you with a thousand
wayward, contradictory, ideas and emotions, that I am,
myself, unable to disentangle--which have, perhaps, floated
in every mind, that has had leisure for reflection--which
are distinguished by no originality, and which I may express
(though not feel) without force? I sought to cultivate my
understanding, and exercise my reason, that, by adding
variety to my resources, I might increase the number of my
enjoyments: for _happiness_ is, surely, the only desirable
_end_ of existence! But when I ask myself, Whether I am
yet nearer to the end proposed?--I dare not deceive
myself--sincerity obliges me to answer in the negative. I
daily perceive the gay and the frivolous, among my sex,
amused with every passing trifle; gratified by the insipid
_routine_ of heartless, mindless, intercourse; fully
occupied, alternately, by domestic employment, or the
childish vanity of varying external ornaments, and "hanging
drapery on a smooth block." I do not affect to despise, and
I regularly practise, the necessary avocations of my sex;
neither am I superior to their vanities. The habits acquired
by early precept and example adhere tenaciously; and are
never, perhaps, entirely eradicated. But all these are
insufficient to engross, to satisfy, the active, aspiring,
mind. Hemmed in on every side by the constitutions of
society, and not less so, it may be, by my own prejudices--I
perceive, indignantly perceive, the magic circle, without
knowing how to dissolve the powerful spell. While men pursue
interest, honor, pleasure, as accords with their several
dispositions, women, who have too much delicacy, sense,
and spirit, to degrade themselves by the vilest of all
interchanges, remain insulated beings, and must be content
tamely to look on, without taking any part in the great,
though often absurd and tragical, drama of life. Hence the
eccentricities of conduct, with which women of superior
minds have been accused--the struggles, the despairing
though generous struggles, of an ardent spirit, denied a
scope for its exertions! The strong feelings, and strong
energies, which properly directed, in a field sufficiently
wide, might--ah! what might they not have aided? forced
back, and pent up, ravage and destroy the mind which gave
them birth!
'Yes, I confess, _I am unhappy_, unhappy in proportion as I
believe myself (it may be, erringly) improved. Philosophy,
it is said, should regulate the feelings, but it has added
fervor to mine! What are passions, but another name for
powers? The mind capable of receiving the most forcible
impressions is the sublimely improveable mind! Yet, into
whatever trains such minds are accidentally directed, they
are prone to enthusiasm, while the vulgar stupidly wonder at
the effects of powers, to them wholly inconceivable: the
weak and the timid, easily discouraged, are induced, by the
first failure, to relinquish their pursuits. "They make the
impossibility they fear!" But the bold and the persevering,
from repeated disappointment, derive only new ardor and
activity. "They conquer difficulties, by daring to attempt
them."
'I feel, that I am writing in a desultory manner, that I am
unable to crowd my ideas into the compass of a letter, and,
that could I do so, I should perhaps only weary you. There
are but few persons to whom I would venture to complain, few
would understand, and still fewer sympathise with me. You
are in health, they would say, in the spring of life, have
every thing supplied you without labour (so much the worse)
nature, reason, open to you their treasures! All this is,
partly, true--but, with inexpressible yearnings, my soul
pants for something more, something higher! The morning
rises upon me with sadness, and the evening closes with
disgust--Imperfection, uncertainty, is impressed on every
object, on every pursuit! I am either restless or torpid, I
seek to-day, what to-morrow, wearies and offends me.
'I entered life, flushed with hope--I have proceeded but a
few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant
prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. The few
worthy persons I have known appear, to me, to be struggling
with the same half suppressed emotions.--Whence is all this?
Why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness?
Why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict
between truth and error? Shall I look beyond the disorders
which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall I
expect, shall I demand, from the inscrutable Being to whom I
owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_
of which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like
a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has hitherto served only to
torture and betray? The animal rises up to satisfy the
cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by
care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently
wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he
rises? Assist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write
to me--reprove me--spare me not!
'EMMA.'
To this letter I quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, though
not unmingled with the reproof I called for. It afforded me but a
temporary relief, and I once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rusted
for want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid.
CHAPTER XXVII
A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London--Mrs Harley, with
a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--The
superscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was from
Augustus, and addressed to Emma--I ran, with it, into my chamber, locked
myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its
contents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--I reperused it again
and again.
'I had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had
made the human heart his study, who could not be affected
by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the
passions--of the false and flattering medium through which
they presented objects to our view. He had answered my
letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts
to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he
knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not
necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better
be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written,
but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please
himself any better.--He was highly flattered by the
favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful
proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship,
&c. &c.'
This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied,
disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope--and, yet, had no _distinct_
ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meaning into a hundred
forms--I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she
seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to
enquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided
both in my principles, and in those of her son: I was wounded by what,
entangled in prejudice, I conceived to be a necessity for this reserve.
Again I addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other
impressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous
ascendency.
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
'I, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of
thought, that I foresee I am about to trespass on your time
and patience--yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human
heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to
trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments
of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind--a mind formed by
solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of
character.
'If to have been more guarded and reserved would have been
more discreet, I have already forfeited all claim to this
discretion--to affect it now, would be vain, and, by
pursuing a middle course, I should resign the only advantage
I may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of
expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom.
'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the
result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, _and is
not what I would recommend to general imitation_--To say
nothing of the hazards it might involve, I am aware,
generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove,
that certain customs, of which I, yet, think there is reason
to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature--I am led
to speak thus, because I am not willing to spare myself, but
would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to
hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate
consideration.
'Of what then, you may ask, do I complain?--Not of the laws
of nature! But when mind has given dignity to natural
affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have
combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall I say) to
sanctity them--Is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor
and severity, that such minds must either passively submit
to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the
endearing sympathies of life? Nature has formed woman
peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "The voice
of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial
precepts." To feel these affections in a supreme degree,
a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy
and reflection, is necessary--for it is intellect and
imagination only, that can give energy and interest to--
"The thousand soft sensations--
Which vulgar souls want faculties to taste,
Who take their good and evil in the gross."
'I wish we were in the vehicular state, and that you
understood the sentient language;[7] you might then
comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too
delicate for _words_. But I do you injustice.
[Footnote 7: See Light of Nature pursued. An entertaining
philosophical work.]
'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where
the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial--where
the _end_, sought to be attained, is--
"Something, than beauty dearer,"
'You may, perhaps, agree with me, that it is almost
indifferent on which side the sentiment originates. Yet, I
confess, my frankness has involved me in many after thoughts
and inquietudes; inquietudes, which all my reasoning is, at
times, insufficient to allay. The shame of being singular,
it has been justly observed,[8] requires strong principles,
and much native firmness of temper, to surmount.--Those who
deviate from the beaten track must expect to be entangled in
the thicket, and wounded by many a thorn--my wandering feet
have already been deeply pierced.
[Footnote 8: Aikin's Letters.]
'I should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the
solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately
rend my heart! I feel, that I have "put to sea upon a
shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for
safety." I dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken
your tenderness, I may have forfeited your respect; the
next, that I have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober
light of reason. In retirement, numberless contradictory
emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:--in company, I start
and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but
myself could trace any application. The end of doubt is the
beginning of repose. Say, then, to me, that it is a
principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem
lightly what may be attained without difficulty.--Tell me to
make distinctions between love and friendship, of which I
have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.--Say, that the
former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces,
to which I have little pretension, and that it is vain to
pretend, that--
"Truth and good are one,
And beauty dwells with them."
'Tell me, that I have indulged too long the wild and
extravagant chimeras of a romantic imagination. Let us walk
together into the palace of Truth, where (it is fancifully
related by an ingenious writer,[9] that) every one was
compelled by an irresistible, controuling, power, to reveal
his inmost sentiments! All this I will bear, and will still
respect your integrity, and confide in your principles; but
I can no longer sustain a suspense that preys upon my
spirits. It is not the Book of Fate--it is your mind, only,
I desire to read. A sickly apprehension overspreads my
heart--I pause here, unable to proceed.'
'EMMA.'
[Footnote 9: Madame de Genlis's Tales of the Castle.]
CHAPTER XXVIII
Week after week, month after month, passed away in the anguish of
vain expectation: my letter was not answered, and I again sunk into
despondency.--Winter drew near. I shuddered at the approach of this
dreary and desolate season, when I was roused by the receipt of a letter
from one of the daughters of the maternal aunt, under whose care I had
spent the happy, thoughtless, days of childhood. My cousin informed me--
'That she had married an officer in the East India service;
that soon after their union he was ordered abroad, and
stationed in Bengal for three years, during which period she
was to remain in a commodious and pleasant house, situated
in the vicinity of the metropolis. She had been informed of
my removal from Morton Park, and had no doubt but I should
be able to give a satisfactory account of the occasion of
that removal. She purposed, during the absence of her husband,
to let out a part of her house; and should I not be fixed
in my present residence, would be happy to accommodate me
with an apartment, on terms that should be rather dictated
by friendship than interest. She also hinted, that a
neighbouring lady, of respectable character, would be glad to
avail herself of the occasional assistance of an accomplished
woman in the education of her daughters; that she had
mentioned me to her in advantageous terms, conceiving that I
should have no objection, by such a means, to exercise my
talents, to render myself useful, and to augment my small
income.'
This intelligence filled me with delight: the idea of change, of
exertion, of new scenes--shall I add, _of breathing the same air with
Augustus_, rushed tumultuously through my imagination. Flying eagerly to
my friend, to impart these tidings, I was not aware of the ungrateful
and inconsiderate appearance which these exultations must give me in her
eyes, till I perceived the starting tear.--It touched, it electrified,
my heart; and, throwing myself into her arms, I caught the soft
contagion, and wept aloud.
'Go, Emma--my daughter,' said this excellent woman; 'I banish the
selfish regret that would prompt me to detain you. I perceive this
solitude is destructive to thy ardent mind. Go, vary your impressions,
and expand your sensations; gladden me only from time to time with an
account of your progress and welfare.'
I had but little preparation to make. I canvassed over, with my friend,
a thousand plans, and formed as many expectations and conjectures; but
they all secretly tended to one point, and concentrated in one object. I
gave my cousin notice that I should be with her in a few days--settled
a future correspondence with my friend--embraced her, at parting, with
unfeigned, and tender, sorrow--and, placing myself in a stage-coach,
that passed daily through the village, took the road, once more, with
a fluttering heart, to London. We travelled all night--it was cold and
dreary--but my fancy was busied with various images, and my bosom
throbbing with lively, though indistinct sensations.
The next day, at noon, I arrived, without accident, at the residence of
my relation, Mrs Denbeigh. She received me with unaffected cordiality:
our former amity was renewed; we spent the evening together, recalling
past scenes; and, on retiring, I was shewn into a neat chamber, which
had been prepared for me, with a light closet adjoining. The next day,
I was introduced to the lady, mentioned to me by my kind hostess, and
agreed to devote three mornings in the week to the instruction of the
young ladies (her daughters), in various branches of education.
_Memoirs of Emma Courtney_
VOLUME II
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY
'My friend, my son, it is for your benefit, that I have
determined on reviewing the sentiments, and the incidents,
of my past life. Cold declamation can avail but little
towards the reformation of our errors. It is by tracing, by
developing, the passions in the minds of others; tracing
them, from the seeds by which they have been generated,
through all their extended consequences, that we learn, the
more effectually, to regulate and to subdue our own.
'I repeat, it will cost me some pain to be ingenuous in the
recital which I have pledged myself to give you; even in the
moment when I resume my pen, prejudice continues to struggle
with principle, and I feel an inclination to retract. While
unfolding a series of error and mortification, I tremble,
lest, in warning you to shun the rocks and quicksands amidst
which my little bark has foundered, I should forfeit your
respect and esteem, the pride, and the comfort, of my
declining years. But you are deeply interested in my
narrative, you tell me, and you entreat me to proceed.'
CHAPTER I
Change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and the
conscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to my
spirits. My first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mind
of my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts and
occupations.
She had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son.
I enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) of
the change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it,
complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter.
--'If,' said I, 'from having observed the social and
sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, I
suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing
idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender,
so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been
unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed
kindred:--if I fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty,
truth--the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling
with the glow of affection, the features softened, the
accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the
eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more
dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if I
over-rated my own merit, and my own powers--surely my
mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! You should not,
indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the
conviction through a series of deductions so full of
mortification and anguish. You are too well acquainted with
the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can
equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour--the
agonizing images which _suspense_ forces upon the tender
and sensible heart! You should have written, in pity to the
situation of my mind. I would have thanked you for being
ingenuous, even though, like Hamlet, you had _spoke
daggers_. I expected it, from your character, and I had a
claim to your sincerity.
'But it is past!--the vision is dissolved! The barbed arrow
is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of
hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! But why am I to
lose your friendship? My heart tells me, I have not deserved
this! Do not suspect, that I have so little justice, or so
little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the
enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections.
I am unhappy, I confess; the principal charm of my life is
fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are
faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart,
perhaps too tender, preys on itself.
'I suspect I had formed some vain and extravagant
expectations. I could have loved you, had you permitted it,
with no mean, nor common attachment.--My words, my looks, my
actions, betrayed me, ere I suffered my feelings to dictate
to my pen. Would to God, I had buried this fatal secret in
the bottom of my soul! But repentance is, now, too late. Yet
the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself--and to whom
can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to
him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels
himself, however involuntarily, the cause? The world might
think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my
misfortune seldom to think with the world, and I ought,
perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which
this singularity has exposed me.
'I know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to
relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should
I? I now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt,
and this, I think, I should regain by one hour's frank
conversation with you; I would compose myself, listen to
you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. After such an
interview, my mind--no longer harrassed by vague suspicion,
by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes--should
struggle to subdue itself--at least, I would not permit it
to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. I am
exhausted by perturbation. I ask only certainty and rest.
'EMMA.'
A few days after I had written the preceding letter, Mr Harley called on
me. Mrs Denbeigh was with me on his entrance; I would have given worlds
to have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to my
relation. Overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, I was unable for some
time to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, and
congratulations on my amended prospects. My confusion and embarrassment
were but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived to
engage my hostess in discourse, that I might have time to rally my
spirits. By degrees, I commanded myself sufficiently to join in the
conversation--I spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively sense
I felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her.
Animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of Augustus, I
became more assured: we retraced the amusements and studies of H----shire,
and two hours passed delightfully and insensibly away, when Mrs Denbeigh
was called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her letters
and intelligence from the India House. Mr Harley, rising at the same
time from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a few
moments as if irresolute.
'You leave me,' said I, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave me
still in suspense?'
'Could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on the
receipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelings
were not enviable--Your affecting expostulation, added to other
circumstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthen
more than they were able to sustain.'
He resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on which
he held his fortune,--'I am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' added
he,--'I knew not how--_I could not answer your letter_. What shall
I say?--I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons
--_obligations_--Who can look back on every action of his past life
with approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed,
perplexed--_Insuperable obstacles_ forbid what otherwise'--
'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my own
weakness and vanity--I feel, that I have been rushing headlong into
the misery which you kindly sought to spare me--I am sensible of your
delicacy--of your humanity!--And is it with the full impression of
your virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounce
you--renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my
own panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of my
self-love--and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just--yet,
the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand little
of--I have violated common forms--seeking your tenderness, I have
perhaps forfeited your esteem!'
'Far, _very far_, from it--I would, but cannot, say more.'
'Must we, then, separate for ever--will you no longer assist me in the
pursuit of knowledge and truth--will you no more point out to me the
books I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the
principles they contain--Must all your lessons be at an end--all my
studies be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall I
regain my strength of mind--to what _end_ shall I seek to improve
myself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him--'
A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands,
I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken.
I heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh as
speaking to her servant--covered with shame and grief, I dared not in
this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door,
hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections tortured
my mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment.
I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fortitude, and that
perhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under this
impression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent
aspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflicts
affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my
spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered
imagination, I grew disgusted with life.
CHAPTER II
I began, at length, to think, that I had been too precipitate, and
too severe to myself.--Why was I to sacrifice a friend, from whose
conversation I had derived improvement and pleasure? I repeated this
question to myself, again and again; and I blushed and repented. But
I deceived myself. I had too frequently acted with precipitation, I
determined, now, to be more prudent--I waited three months, fortified
my mind with many reflections, and resumed my pen--
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
'Near three months have elapsed, since I last addressed you.
I remind you of this, not merely to suppress, as it arises,
any apprehension which you may entertain of further
embarrassment or importunity: for I can no longer afflict
myself with the idea, that my peace, or welfare, are
indifferent to you, but will rather adopt the sentiment of
Plato--who on being informed, that one of his disciples,
whom he had more particularly distinguished, had spoken ill
of him, replied, to the slanderer--"I do not believe you,
for it is impossible that I should not be esteemed by one
whom I so sincerely regard."
'My motive, for calling to your remembrance the date of my
last, is, that you should consider what I am now about to
say, as the result of calmer reflection, the decision of
judgment after having allowed the passions leisure to
subside. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to premise, that I am
not urged on by pride, from an obscure consciousness of
having been betrayed into indiscretion, to endeavour to
explain away, or to extenuate, any part of my former
expressions or conduct. To a mind like yours, such an
attempt would be impertinent; from one like mine, I hope,
superfluous. I am not ashamed of being a human being, nor
blush to own myself liable to "the shakes and agues of his
fragile nature." I have ever spoken, and acted, from the
genuine dictates of a mind swayed, at the time, by its own
views and propensities, nor have I hesitated, as those
views and propensities have changed, to avow my further
convictions--"Let not the coldly wise exult, that their
heads were never led astray by their hearts." I have all
along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal
language of sincerity.
'However _romantic_ (a vague term applied to every thing we
do not understand, or are unwilling to intimate) my views
and sentiments might appear to many, I dread not, from you,
this frigid censure. "The ideas, the associations, the
circumstances of each man are properly his own, and it is a
pernicious system, that would lead us to require all men,
however different their circumstances, to act in many of the
common affairs of life, by a precise, general rule."[10]
The genuine effusions of the heart and mind are easily
distinguished, by the penetrating eye, from the vain
ostentation of sentiment, lip deep, which, causing no
emotion, communicates none--Oh! how unlike the energetic
sympathies of truth and feeling--darting from mind to mind,
enlightening, warming, with electrical rapidity!
[Footnote 10: Godwin's Political Justice.]
'My ideas have undergone, in the last three months, many
fluctuations. My _affection_ for you (why should I seek
for vague, inexpressive phrases?) has not ceased, has not
diminished, but it has, in some measure, changed its nature.
It was originally generated by the report, and cemented by
the knowledge, of your virtues and talents; and to virtue
and talents my mind had ever paid unfeigned, enthusiastic,
homage! It is somewhere said by Rousseau--"That there may
exist such a suitability of moral, mental, and personal,
qualifications, as should point out the propriety of an
union between a prince and the daughter of an executioner."
Vain girl that I was! I flattered myself that between us
this sympathy really existed. I dwelt on the union between
mind and mind--sentiments of nature gently insinuated
themselves--my sensibility grew more tender, more
affecting--and my imagination, ever lively, traced the
glowing picture, and dipped the pencil in rainbow tints!
Possessing one of those determined spirits, that is not
easily induced to relinquish its purposes--while I conceived
that I had only your pride, or your insensibility, to
combat, I wildly determined to persevere.--A further
recapitulation would, perhaps, be unnecessary:--my
situation, alas! is now changed.
'Having then examined my heart, attentively and
deliberately, I suspect that I have been unjust to
myself, in supposing it incapable of a disinterested
attachment.--Why am I to deprive you of a faithful friend,
and myself of all the benefits I may yet derive from your
conversation and kind offices? I ask, why? And I should,
indeed, have cause to blush, if, after having had time for
reflection, I could really think this necessary. Shall I,
then, sign the unjust decree, that women are incapable of
energy and fortitude? Have I exercised my understanding,
without ever intending to apply my principles to practice?
Do I mean always to deplore the prejudices which have,
systematically, weakened the female character, without
making any effort to rise above them? Is the example
you have given me, of a steady adherence to honour and
principle, to be merely respected, without exciting in my
bosom any emulation? Dare I to answer these questions in the
affirmative, and still ask your esteem--the esteem of the
wise and good?--I dare not! No longer weakened by alternate
hopes and fears, like the reed yielding to every breeze, I
believe myself capable of acting upon firmer principles;
and I request, with confidence, the restoration of your
friendship! Should I afterwards find, that I have over-rated
my own strength, I will frankly tell you so, and expect
from your humanity those allowances, which are but a poor
substitute for respect.
'Believe, then, my views and motives to be simply such as I
state them; at least, such, after severely scrutinizing my
heart, they appear to myself; and reply to me with similar
ingenuousness. My expectations are very moderate: answer me
with simplicity--my very soul sickens at evasion! You have
undoubtedly, a right to judge and to determine for yourself;
but it will be but just to state to me the reasons for, and
the result of, that judgment; in which case, if I cannot
obviate those reasons, I shall be bound, however reluctantly,
to acquiesce in them. Be assured, I will never complain of
any consequences which may ensue, even, from the utterance
of all truth.
'EMMA.'
CHAPTER III
This letter was succeeded by a renewal of our intercourse and studies.
Mrs Denbeigh, my kind hostess, was usually of our parties. We read
together, or conversed only on general topics, or upon subjects of
literature. I was introduced by Mr Harley to several respectable
families, friends of his own and of his mother's. I made many indirect
enquiries of our common acquaintance, with a view to discover the
supposed object of my friend's attachment, but without success. All that
he had, himself, said, respecting such an engagement, had been so vague,
that I began to doubt of the reality of its existence.--When, in any
subsequent letters (for we continued occasionally to correspond) I
ventured to allude to the subject, I was warned 'not to confound my own
conceptions with real existences.' When he spoke of a susceptibility
to the tender affections, it was always in the past time,--'I _have_
felt,'--'I _have_ been--'Once he wrote--'Hi
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41256