CHAPTER III

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 beimpertinent; 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, thattheirheads were never led astray by their hearts." I have all along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal language of sincerity.'Howeverromantic(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."10The 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!'My ideas have undergone, in the last three months, many fluctuations. Myaffectionfor 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.'

'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 beimpertinent; 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, thattheirheads were never led astray by their hearts." I have all along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal language of sincerity.

'Howeverromantic(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."10The 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!

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

10:Godwin's Political Justice.

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,—'Ihavefelt,'—'Ihavebeen—'Once he wrote—'His situation had been rendered difficult, by a combination ofpeculiar circumstances; circumstances, with which but few persons were acquainted.' Sometimes he would affect to reflect upon his past conduct, and warn me against appreciating him too highly. In fine, he was a perfect enigma, and every thing which he said or wrote tended to increase the mystery.

A restless, an insatiable, curiosity, devoured me, heightened by feelings that every hour became more imperious, more uncontroulable. I proposed to myself, in the gratification of this curiosity, a satisfaction that should compensate for all the injuries I might suffer in the career. This inquietude prevented my mind from resting; and, by leaving room for conjecture, left room for the illusions of fancy, and of hope. Had I never expressed this, he might have affected ignorance of my sensations; he might have pleaded guiltless, when, in the agony of my soul, I accused him of having sacrificed my peace to his disingenuousness—but vain were all my expostulations!

'If,' said I, 'I have sought, too earnestly, to learn the state of your affections, it has been with a view to the more effectually disciplining of my own—of stifling everyignis fatuusof false hope, that making, even, impossibilities possible, will still, at times, continue to mislead me. Objects seen through obscurity, imperfectly discerned, allow to the fancy but too free a scope; the mind grows debilitated, by brooding over its apprehensions; and those apprehensions, whether real or imaginary, are carried with accumulated pain to the heart. I have said, on this subject, you have a right to be free; but I am, now, doubtful of this right: the health of my mind being involved in the question, has rendered it a question ofutility—and on what other basis can morals rest?'

I frequently reiterated these reasonings, always with encreased fervor and earnestness: represented—'that every step I took in advance would be miles in return—every minute that the blow was suspended, prepared it to descend with accumulated force.' I required no particulars, but merely requested to be assured ofa present, existing, engagement. I continued, from time to time, to urge this subject.

'Much,' said I, 'as I esteem you, and deeply as a thousand associations have fixed your idea in my heart—in true candour of soul, I, yet, feel myself your superior.—I recollect a sentiment of Richardson's Clarissa that always pleased me, and that may afford a test, by which each of us may judge of the integrity of our own minds—"I should be glad that you, and all the world, knew my heart; let my enemies sit in judgment upon my actions; fairly scanned, I fear not the result. Let them ask me my most secret thoughts; and, whether they make for me, or against me, I will reveal them."'This is the principle, my friend, upon which I have acted towards you. I have said many things, I doubt not, which make against me; but I trusted them to one, who told me, that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only in compliance with the prejudices of others, if I have taken any pains to conceal all I have thought and felt on this, or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. Had I not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should I have accused you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a hopeless maze of conjecture—by leaving me a prey to the constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something, which I should not have had the fortitude to support with dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still contributes to harrass, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind from bearing its disclosure.'I know you might reply—and more than nine-tenths of the world would justify you in this reply—"That you had already said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have been so to any other human being;—that you had not sought the confidence I boast of having reposed in you;—and that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has occasioned you only perplexity. If my own destiny was not equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what right had I to enquire after circumstances, in which, however affecting, I could have no real concern."'You may think all this, perhaps—I will not spare myself—and it may be reasonable.But could you say it—and have you, indeed, studied the human heart—have you, indeed, ever felt the affections?—Whatever may be the event—and it is in the mind of powers only that passions are likely to become fatal—and however irreproachable every other part of your conduct may have been, I shall,here, always say, you were culpable!'

'This is the principle, my friend, upon which I have acted towards you. I have said many things, I doubt not, which make against me; but I trusted them to one, who told me, that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only in compliance with the prejudices of others, if I have taken any pains to conceal all I have thought and felt on this, or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. Had I not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should I have accused you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a hopeless maze of conjecture—by leaving me a prey to the constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something, which I should not have had the fortitude to support with dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still contributes to harrass, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind from bearing its disclosure.

'I know you might reply—and more than nine-tenths of the world would justify you in this reply—"That you had already said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have been so to any other human being;—that you had not sought the confidence I boast of having reposed in you;—and that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has occasioned you only perplexity. If my own destiny was not equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what right had I to enquire after circumstances, in which, however affecting, I could have no real concern."

'You may think all this, perhaps—I will not spare myself—and it may be reasonable.But could you say it—and have you, indeed, studied the human heart—have you, indeed, ever felt the affections?—Whatever may be the event—and it is in the mind of powers only that passions are likely to become fatal—and however irreproachable every other part of your conduct may have been, I shall,here, always say, you were culpable!'

I changed my style.

'I know not,' said I, 'the nature of those stern duties, which oblige you to with-hold from me your tenderness; neither do I any longer enquire. I dread, only, lest I should acquire this knowledge when I am the least able to support it. Ignorant, then, of any reasons which should prevent me from giving up my heart to an attachment, now become interwoven with my existence, I yield myself up to these sweet and affecting emotions, so necessary to my disposition—to which apathy is abhorrent. "The affections (truly says Sterne) must be exercised on something; for, not to love, is to be miserable. Were I in a desart, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. If I could do no better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desart. If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them."'An attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth, must be both safe and salutary. My mind has not sufficient strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. I have ever found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections. I will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; I will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and satisfaction.—Is your heart so differently constituted from every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions? Why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its peace to your keeping.'Emma.'

'An attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth, must be both safe and salutary. My mind has not sufficient strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. I have ever found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections. I will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; I will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and satisfaction.—Is your heart so differently constituted from every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions? Why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its peace to your keeping.

'Emma.'

We met the next day at the house of a common friend. My accents, involuntarily, were softened, my attentions pointed.—Manifestly agitated, embarrassed, even distressed, Augustus quitted the company at an early hour.

It would be endless to enumerate all the little incidents that occurred; which, however trifling they might appear in the recital, continued to operate in one direction. Many letters passed to the same purport. My curiosity was a consuming passion; but this inflexible, impenetrable, man, was still silent, or alternately evaded, and resented, my enquiries. We continued, occasionally, to meet, but generally in company.

During the ensuing summer, Mr Harley proposed making a visit to his mother, and, calling to take his leave of me, on the evening preceding his journey, accidentally found me alone.—We entered into conversation on various subjects: twilight stole upon us unperceived. The obscure light inspired me with courage: I ventured to resume a subject, so often discussed; I complained, gently, of his reserve.

'Could I suppose,' he asked, 'that he had been withouthis shareof suffering?'

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

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

I reiterated the important, the so often proposed, enquiry—'Had he, or had he not, apresent, existing, engagement?'

He endeavoured to evade my question—I repeated it—He answered, with a degree of impatience, 'I cannot tell you; if I could, do you think I would have been silent so long?'—as once, before, he spoke of the circumstances of his past life, as being of 'a singular, a peculiar, nature.'

At our separation, I asked, if he would write to me during his absence. 'Certainly, he would.' The next morning, having some little commissions to execute for Mrs Harley, I sent them, accompanied by a few lines, to her son.

'Why is it,' said I, 'that our sagacity, and penetration, frequently desert us on the most interesting occasions? I can read any mind with greater facility than I can read your's; and, yet, what other have I so attentively studied? This is a problem I know not how to solve. One conclusion will force itself upon me—if a mistaken one, whom have you to blame?—That anhonourable, suitable, engagement, could have given no occasion for mystery.' I added, 'I should depend on hearing from him, according to his promise.'

Week after week, month after month, wore away, and no letter arrived. Perturbation was succeeded by anxiety and apprehension; but hearing, through my maternal friend, Mrs Harley, of the welfare of this object of our too tender cares, my solicitude subsided into despondency. The pressure of one corroding train of ideas preyed, like a canker-worm, upon my heart, and destroyed all its tranquillity.

In the beginning of the winter, this mysterious, inexplicable, being, again returned to town. I had undertaken a little business, to serve him, during his absence—I transmitted to him an account of my proceedings; subjoining a gentle reproach for his unkind silence.

'You promised you would write to me,' said I, 'during your residence in ——shire. I therefore depended upon hearing from you; and, yet, I was disappointed. You should not, indeed you should not, make these experiments upon my mind. My sensibility, originally acute, from having been too much exercised, has become nearly morbid, and has almost unfitted me for an inhabitant of this world. I am willing to believe, that your conduct towards me has originated in good motives, nevertheless, you have made some sad mistakes—you havedeeply, though undesignedly, wounded me: I have been harrassed, distressed, mortified. You know not, neither will I attempt to describe, all I have suffered! language would be inadequate to paint the struggles of a delicate, susceptible, mind, in some peculiar and interesting situations.

'You may suspect me of wanting resolution, but strong, persevering affections, are no mark of a weak mind. To have been the wife of a man of virtue and talents was my dearest ambition, and would have been my glory: I judged myself worthy of the confidence and affection of such a man—I felt, that I could have united in his pursuits, and shared his principles—aided the virtuous energies of his mind, and assured his domestic comforts. I earnestly sought to inspire you with tenderness, from the conviction, that I could contribute to your happiness, and to the worth of your character. And if, from innumerable associations, I at length loved your person, it was the magnanimity of your conduct, it was your virtues, that first excited my admiration and esteem. But you have rejected an attachment originating in the highest, the purest, principles—you have thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility, and you leave me in doubt, whether you have not sacrificed that heart to prejudice. Yet, contemned affection has excited in my mind no resentment; true tenderness is made up of gentle and amiable emotions; nothing hostile, nothing severe, can mix with it: it may gradually subside, but it will continue to soften the mind it has once subdued.

'I see much to respect in your conduct, and though, it is probable, some parts of it may have originated in mistaken principles, I trust, that their source was pure! I, also, have made many mistakes—have been guilty of many extravagances. Yet, distrust the morality, that sternly commands you to pierce the bosom that most reveres you, and then to call it virtue—Yes! distrust and suspect its origin!' I concluded with expressing a wish to see him—'merely as a friend'—requesting a line in reply.

He wrote not, but came, unexpectedly came, the next evening. I expressed, in lively terms, the pleasure I felt in seeing him. We conversed on various subjects, he spoke affectionately of his mother, and of the tender interest she had expressed for my welfare. He enquired after my pursuits and acquirements during his absence, commending the progress I had made. Just before he quitted me, he adverted to the reproach I had made him, for not having written to me, according to his engagement.

'Recollect,' said he, 'in the last letter I received from you, before I left London, you hinted some suspicions—' I looked at him, 'and what,' added he, 'could I reply?'

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

From this period, he continued to visit me (I confess at my solicitation) more frequently. We occasionally resumed our scientific pursuits, read together, or entered into discussion on various topics. At length he grew captious, disputatious, gloomy, and imperious—the more I studied to please him, the less I succeeded. He disapproved my conduct, my opinions, my sentiments; my frankness offended him. This change considerably affected me. In company, his manners were studiously cold and distant; in private capricious, yet reserved and guarded. He seemed to overlook all my efforts to please, and, with a severe and penetrating eye, to search only for my errors—errors, into which I was but too easily betrayed, by the painful, and delicate, situation, in which I had placed myself.

We, one day, accompanied Mrs Denbeigh on a visit of congratulation to her brother (eldest son of my deceased uncle Mr Melmoth), who had, when a youth, been placed by his father in a commercial house in the West Indies, and who had just returned to his native country with an ample fortune. His sister and myself anticipated the pleasure of renewing our early, fraternal, affection and intimacy, while I felt a secret pride in introducing to his acquaintance a man so accomplished and respectable as Mr Harley. We were little aware of the changes which time and different situations produce on the character, and, with hearts and minds full of the frank, lively, affectionate, youth, from whom we had parted, seven years since, with mutual tears and embraces, shrunk spontaneously, on our arrival at Mr Melmoth's elegant house in Bedford square, from the cold salutation, of the haughty, opulent, purse-proud, Planter, surrounded by ostentatious luxuries, and evidently valuing himself upon the consequence which he imagined they must give him in our eyes.

Mr Harley received the formal compliments of this favourite of fortune with the easy politeness which distinguishes the gentleman and the man of letters, and the dignified composure which the consciousness of worth and talents seldom fails to inspire. Mr Melmoth, by his awkward and embarrassed manner, tacitly acknowledged the impotence of wealth and the real superiority of his guest. We were introduced by our stately relation to his wife, the lady of the mansion, a young woman whom he had accidentally met with in a party of pleasure at Jamaica, whither she had attended a family in the humble office of companion or chief attendant to the lady. Fascinated by her beauty and lively manner, our trader had overlooked an empty mind, a low education, and a doubtful character, and, after a very few interviews, tendered to her acceptance his hand and fortune; which, though not without some affectation of doubt and delay, were in a short time joyfully accepted.

A gentleman joined our party in the dining-room, whom the servant announced by the name of Pemberton, in whom I presently recognized, notwithstanding some years had elapsed since our former meeting, the man of fashon and gallantry who had been the antagonist of Mr Francis, at the table of my father. He had lately (we were informed by our host) been to Jamaica, to take possession of an estate bequeathed to him, and had returned to England in the same vessel with Mr and Mrs Melmoth. After an elegant dinner of several courses had been served up and removed for the desert, a desultory conversation took place.

Mr Pemberton, it appeared, held a commission in the militia, and earnestly solicited Mrs Melmoth, on whom he lavished a profusion of compliments, to grace their encampment, which was to be stationed in the ensuing season near one of the fashionable watering places, with her presence.

This request the lady readily promised to comply with, expressing, in tones of affected softness, her admiration of military men, and of the

'Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!'

'Do you not think, Miss Courtney,' said she, turning to me, 'that soldiers are the most agreeable and charming men in the world?'

'Indeed I do not, Madam; their trade ismurder, and their trappings, in my eyes, appear but as the gaudy pomp of sacrifice.'

'Murder, indeed! What a harsh word—I declare you are a shocking creature—There have always been wars in the world, and there always must be: but surely you would not confound the brave fellows, who fight to protect their King and Country, andthe ladies, with common ruffians and housebreakers!'

'All the difference between them is, that the one, rendered desperate by passion, poverty, or injustice, endeavours bywrongmeans to do himselfright, and through this terrible and pitiable mistake destroys the life or the property of a fellow being—The others, wantonly and in cold blood, cut down millions of their species, ravage whole towns and cities, and carry devastation through a country.'

'Whatodd notions! Dear, Mr Pemberton, did you ever hear a lady talk so strangely?'

Thus called upon, Mr Pemberton thought it incumbent upon him to interfere—'Courtney, I think, Madam, your name is! The daughter of an old friend of mine, if I am not mistaken, and who, I remember, was, when a very young lady, a great admirer ofRoman virtues.'

'Not ofRoman virtues, I believe, Sir; they had in them too much of the destructive spirit which Mrs Melmoth thinks so admirable.'

'Indeed, I said nothing aboutRoman virtues, nor do I trouble myself with such subjects—I merely admired the soldiers because they are so brave and so polite; besides, the military dress is so elegant and becoming—Dear, Mr Pemberton, how charmingly you must look in your regimentals!'

Mr Pemberton, bowing in return to the compliment, made an animated eulogium on the taste and beauty of the speaker.

'Pray, Sir,' resumed she, addressing herself to Mr Harley, whose inattention seemed to pique her, and whose notice she was determined to attract, 'are you of Miss Courtney's opinion—do you think it right to call soldiersmurderers?'

'Upon my word, Madam,' with an air of irony, 'you must excuse me from entering into suchnice distinctions—whenladiesdiffer, who shall presume to decide?'

Mr Melmoth interposed, by wishing, 'that they had some thousands more of thesemurderersin the West Indies, to keep the slaves in subordination, who, since absurd notions of liberty had been put into their heads, were grown very troublesome and refractory, and, in a short time, he supposed, would become as insolent as the English servants.'

'Would you believe it, Mrs Denbeigh,' said the Planter's lady, addressing the sister of her husband, 'Mr Melmoth and I have been in England but a month, and have been obliged three times to change our whole suit of servants?'

'This is a land of freedom, my dear sister; servants, here, will not submit to be treated like the slaves of Jamaica.'

'Well, I am sure it is very provoking to have one's will disputed by such low, ignorant, creatures. How should they know what is right? It is enough for them to obey the orders of their superiors.'

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

'Think!sister,' said the lordly Mr Melmoth, with an exulting laugh, 'what haveservants, orwomen, to do withthinking?'

'Nay, now,' interrupted Mr Pemberton, 'you are too severe upon the ladies—how would the elegant and tasteful arrangement of Mrs Melmoth's ornaments have been produced without thinking?'

'Oh, you flatterer!' said the lady. 'Let them think only about their dress, and I have no objection, but don't let them plague us withsermonizing.'

'Mrs Melmoth,' said I, coolly, 'does not often, I dare say, offendin this way. That some of the gentlemen, present, should object to a woman's exercising her discriminating powers, is not wonderful, since it might operate greatly to their disadvantage.'

'A blow on the right cheek, from so fair a hand,' replied Mr Pemberton, affectedly bending his body, 'would almost induce one to adopt the christian maxim, and turn the left, also. What say you, Mr Harley?'

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

'He is a happy man then.'

'No, Sir, merely arational one!'

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

'It is an instinctive feeling of self-preservation—nature provides weak animals with timidity as a guard.'

Mr Pemberton reddened, and, affecting a careless air, hummed a tune. Mr Melmoth again reverted to the subject of English servants, which gave rise to a discussion on the Slave Trade. Mr Harley pleaded the cause of freedom and humanity with a bold and manly eloquence, expatiating warmly on the iniquity as well as impolicy of so accursed a traffic. Melmoth was awed into silence. Mr Pemberton advanced some trite arguments in opposition, respecting the temporary mischiefs which might ensue, in case of an abolition, to the planters, landholders, traders, &c. Augustus explained, by contending only for the gradual emancipation, after their minds had been previously prepared, of the oppressed Africans. The conversation grew interesting. Pemberton was not devoid of talents when he laid aside his affectation; the subject was examined both in a moral and a political point of view. I listened with delight, while Augustus exposed and confuted the specious reasoning and sophistry of his antagonist: exulting in the triumph of truth and justice, I secretly gloried—'with more than selfish vanity'—in the virtues and abilities of my friend. Though driven from all his resources, Mr Pemberton was too much the courtier to be easily disconcerted, but complimenting his adversary on his eloquence, declared he should be happy to hear of his having a seat in Parliament.

Mrs Melmoth, who had yawned and betrayed various symptoms of weariness during the discussion, now proposed the adjournment of the ladies into the drawing-room, whither I was compelled, by a barbarous and odious custom, reluctantly to follow, and to submit to be entertained with a torrent of folly and impertinence.

'I was ill-natured,' she told me.—'How could I be so severe upon thecharmingandelegantMr Pemberton?'

It was in vain I laboured to convince her, that to be treated like ideots was no real compliment, and that the men who condescend to flatter our foibles, despised the weak beings they helped to form.

My remonstrances were as fatiguing, and as little to be comprehended by thisfine lady, as the arguments respecting the Slave Trade:—she sought refuge from them in interrogating Mrs Denbeigh respecting the last new fashions, and in consulting her taste on the important question—whether blue or violet colour was the most becoming to a brunette complexion? The gentlemen joined us, to our great relief, at the tea-table:—other company dropped in, and the evening was beguiled with cards and the chess-board;—at the latter Mr Melmoth and Mr Harley were antagonists;—the former was no match for Augustus. I amused myself by observing their moves, and overlooking the game.

During our return from this visit, some conversation occurred between Mr Harley, my cousin, and myself, respecting the company we had quitted. I expressed my disappointment, disgust, and contempt, in terms, it may be, a little too strong.

'I wasfastidious,' Augustus told me, 'I wanted a world made on purpose for me, and beings formed after one model. It was both amusing, and instructive, to contemplate varieties of character. I was a romantic enthusiast—and should endeavour to become more like an inhabitant of the world.'

Piqued at these remarks, and at the tone and manner in which they were uttered, I felt my temper rising, and replied with warmth; but it was the glow of a moment; for, to say truth, vexation and disappointment, rather than reason, had broken and subdued my spirit. Mrs Denbeigh, perceiving I was pained, kindly endeavoured to give a turn to the conversation; yet she could not help expressing her regret, on observing the folly, levity, and extravagance, of the woman whom her brother had chosen for a wife.

'No doubt,' said Augustus, a little peevishly, 'he is fond of her—she is a fine woman—there is no accounting for thecapricesof the affections.'

I sighed, and my eyes filled with tears—'Is, then, affection socapriciousa sentiment—is it possible to love what we despise?'

'I cannot tell,' retorted Mr Harley, with quickness. 'Triflers can give noseriousoccasion for uneasiness:—the humours of superior women are sometimes still less tolerable.'

'Ah! how unjust. If gentleness be notthe perfection of reason, it is a quality which I have never, yet, properly understood.'

He made no reply, but sunk into silence, reserve, and reverie. On our arrival at my apartments, I ventured (my cousin having left us) to expostulate with him on his unkind behaviour; but was answered with severity. Some retrospection ensued, which gradually led to the subject ever present to my thoughts.—Again I expressed a solicitude to be informed of the real state of his heart, of the nature of those mysterious obstacles, to which, when clearly ascertained, I was ready to submit.—'Had he, or had he not, an attachment, that looked to, as itsend, a serious and legal engagement?' He appeared ruffled and discomposed.—'I ought not to be so urgent—he had already sufficiently explained himself.' He then repeated to me some particulars, apparently adverse to such a supposition—asking me, in his turn, 'If these circumstances bespoke his having any such event in view?'

For some time after this he absented himself from me; and, when he returned, his manners were still more unequal; even his sentiments, and principles, at times, appeared to me equivocal, and his character seemed wholly changed. I tried, in vain, to accommodate myself to a disposition so various. My affection, my sensibility, my fear of offending—a thousand conflicting, torturing, emotions, threw a constraint over my behaviour.—My situation became absolutely intolerable—time was murdered, activity vain, virtue inefficient: yet, a secret hope inspired me, thatindifferencecould not have produced the irritations, the inequalities, that thus harrassed me. I thought, I observed a conflict in his mind; his fits of absence, and reflection, were unusual, deep, and frequent: I watched them with anxiety, with terror, with breathless expectation. My health became affected, and my mind disordered. I perceived that it was impossible to proceed, in the manner we had hitherto done, much longer—I felt that it would, inevitably, destroy me.

I reflected, meditated, reasoned, with myself—'That one channel, into which my thoughts were incessantly impelled, was destructive of all order, of all connection.' New projects occurred to me, which I had never before ventured to encourage—I revolved them in my mind, examined them in every point of view, weighed their advantages and disadvantages, in a moral, in a prudential, scale.—Threatening evils appeared on all sides—I endeavoured, at once, to free my mind from prejudice, and from passion; and, in the critical andsingularcircumstances in which I had placed myself, coolly to survey the several arguments of the case, and nicely to calculate their force and importance.

'If, as we are taught to believe, the benevolent Author of nature be, indeed, benevolent,' said I, to myself, 'he surely must have intended thehappinessof his creatures. Our morality cannot extend to him, but must consist in the knowledge, and practice, of those duties which we owe to ourselves and to each other.—Individual happiness constitutes the general good:—happinessis the only trueendof existence;—all notions of morals, founded on any other principle, involve in themselves a contradiction, and must be erroneous. Man does right, when pursuing interest and pleasure—it argues no depravity—this is the fable of superstition: he ought to only be careful, that, in seeking his own good, he does not render it incompatible with the good of others—that he does not consider himself as standing alone in the universe. The infraction of establishedrulesmay, it is possible, in some cases, be productive of mischief; yet, it is difficult to state anyruleso precise and determinate, as to be alike applicable to every situation: what, in one instance, might be avice, in another may possibly become avirtue:—a thousand imperceptible, evanescent, shadings, modify every thought, every motive, every action, of our lives—no one can estimate the sensations of, can form an exact judgment for, another.

'I have sometimes suspected, that all mankind are pursuing phantoms, however dignified by different appellations.—The healing operations of time, had I patience to wait the experiment, might, perhaps, recover my mind from its present distempered state; but, in the meanwhile, the bloom of youth is fading, and the vigour of life running to waste.—Should I, at length, awake from a delusive vision, it would be only to find myself a comfortless, solitary, shivering, wanderer, in the dreary wilderness of human society. I feel in myself the capacities for increasing the happiness, and the improvement, of a few individuals—and this circle, spreading wider and wider, would operate towards the grand end of life—general utility.'

Again I repeated to myself—'Ascetic virtues are equally barbarous as vain:—the only just morals, are those which have a tendency to increase the bulk of enjoyment. My plan tends to this. The good which I seek does not appear to me to involve injury to any one—it is of a nature, adapted to the disposition of my mind, for which every event of my life, the education both of design and accident, have fitted me. If I am now put out, I may, perhaps, do mischief:—the placid stream, forced from its channel, lays waste the meadow. I seem to stand as upon a wide plain, bounded on all sides by the horizon:—among the objects which I perceive within these limits, some are so lofty, my eyes ache to look up to them; others so low, I disdain to stoop for them.One, only, seems fitted to my powers, and to my wishes—one, alone, engages my attention! Is not its possession worthy an arduous effort:Perseverancecan turn the course of rivers, and level mountains! Shall I, then, relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of success?

'The mind must have an object:—should I desist from my present pursuit, after all it has cost me, for what can I change it? I feel, that I am neither a philosopher, nor a heroine—but awoman, to whom education has given a sexual character. It is true, I have risen superior to the generality of myoppressed sex; yet, I have neither the talents for a legislator, nor for a reformer, of the world. I have still many female foibles, and shrinking delicacies, that unfit me for rising to arduous heights. Ambition cannot stimulate me, and to accumulate wealth, I am still less fitted. Should I, then, do violence to my heart, and compel it to resign its hopes and expectations, what can preserve me from sinking into, the most abhorred of all states,languor and inanity?—Alas! that tender and faithful heart refuses to change its object—it can never love another. Like Rousseau's Julia, my strong individual attachment has annihilated every man in the creation:—him I love appears, in my eyes, something more—every other, something less.

'I have laboured to improve myself, that I might be worthy of the situation I have chosen. I would unite myself to a man of worth—I would have our mingled virtues and talents perpetuated in our offspring—I would experience those sweet sensations, of which nature has formed my heart so exquisitely susceptible. My ardent sensibilities incite me to love—to seek to inspire sympathy—to be beloved! My heart obstinately refuses to renounce the man, to whose mind my own seems akin! From the centre of private affections, it will at length embrace—like spreading circles on the peaceful bosom of the smooth and expanded lake—the whole sensitive and rational creation. Is it virtue, then, to combat, or to yield to, my passions?'

I considered, and reconsidered, these reasonings, so specious, so flattering, to which passion lent its force. One moment, my mind seemed firmly made up on the part I had to act;—I persuaded myself, that I had gone too far to recede, and that there remained for me no alternative:—the next instant, I shrunk, gasping, from my own resolves, and shuddered at the important consequences which they involved. Amidst a variety of perturbations, of conflicting emotions, I, at length, once more, took up my pen.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I blush, when I reflect what a weak, wavering, inconsistent being, I must lately have appeared to you. I write to you on important subjects—I forbid you to answer me on paper; and, when you seem inclined to put that period to the present, painful, high-wrought, and trying, state of my feelings, which is now become so necessary, I appear neither to hear, nor to comprehend you. I fly from the subject, and thicken the cloud of mystery, of which I have so often, and, I still think, so justly complained.—These are some of the effects of the contradictory systems, that have so long bewildered our principles and conduct. A combination of causes, added to the conflict between a thousand delicate and nameless emotions, have lately conspired to confuse, to weaken, my spirits. You can conceive, that these acute, mental, sensations, must have had a temporary effect on the state of my health. To say truth (and, had I not said it, my countenance would have betrayed me), I have not, for some time past, been so thoroughly disordered.'Once more, I have determined to rally my strength; for I feel, that a much longer continuance in the situation, in which my mind has been lately involved, would be insupportable:—and I call upon you,now, with a resolution to summon all my fortitude to bear the result, for thewrittenstate of your mind, on the topic become so important to my future welfare and usefulness.'You may suppose, that a mind like mine must have, repeatedly, set itself to examine, on every side, all that could possibly have a relation to a subject affecting it so materially. You have hinted atmysteriousobstacles to the wish, in which every faculty of my soul has been so long absorbed—the wish of forming with you, a connection, nearer,and more tender, than that of friendship. This mystery, by leaving room for conjecture (and how frequently have I warned you of this!), left room for the illusions of imagination, and of hope—left room for the suspicion, that you might, possibly, be sacrificingyour own feelingsas well as mine, to a mistaken principle. Is it possible that you were not aware of this—you, who are not unacquainted with the nature of the mind! Still less were you ignorant of the nature of my mind—which I had so explicitly, so unreservedly, laid open! I had a double claim upon your confidence—a confidence, that I was utterly incapable of abusing, or betraying—a confidence, which must have stopped my mind in its career—which would have saved me the bitter, agonizing, pangs I have sustained. Mine were not common feelings—it isobscurityandmysterywhich has wrought them up to frenzy—truthandcertaintywould, long ere this, have caused them temporarily to subside into their accustomed channels. You understand little of the human heart, if you cannot conceive this—"Where the imagination is vivid, the feelings strong, the views and desires not bounded by common rules;—in such minds, passions, if not subdued, become ungovernable and fatal: where there is much warmth, much enthusiasm, there is much danger.—My mind is no less ardent than yours, though education and habit may have given it a different turn—it glows with equal zeal to attain its end."11Yes, I must continue to repeat, there has been in your conductone grand mistake; and the train of consequences which may, yet, ensue, are uncertain, and threatening.—But, I mean no reproach—we are all liable to errors; and my own, I feel, are many, and various. But to return—'You may suppose I have revolved, in my thoughts, every possible difficulty on the subject alluded to; balancing their degrees of probability and force:—and, I will frankly confess, such is the sanguine ardour of my temper, that I can conceive but one obstacle, that would beabsolutely invincible; which is, supposing that you have already contracted alegal, irrecoverable, engagement. Yet, this I do not suppose. I will arrange, under five heads, (on all occasions, I love to class and methodize) every other possible species of objection, and subjoin all the reasonings which have occurred to me on the subjects.'And, first, I will imagine, as the most serious and threatening difficulty, that you love another. I would, then, ask—Is she capable of estimating your worth—does she love you—has she the magnanimity to tell you so—would she sacrifice to that affection every meaner consideration—has she the merit to secure, as well as accomplishments to attract, your regard?—You are too well acquainted with the human heart, not to be aware, that what is commonly called love is of a fleeting nature, kept alive only by hopes and fears, if the qualities upon which it is founded afford no basis for its subsiding into tender confidence, and rational esteem. Beauty may inspire a transient desire, vivacity amuse, for a time, by its sportive graces; but the first will quickly fade and grow familiar—the last degenerate into impertinence and insipidity. Interrogate your own heart—Would you not, when the ardour of the passions, and the fervor of the imagination, subsided, wish to find the sensible, intelligent, friend, take place of the engaging mistress?—Would you not expect the economical manager of your affairs, the rational and judicious mother to your offspring, the faithful sharer of your cares, the firm friend to your interest, the tender consoler of your sorrows, the companion in whom you could wholly confide, the discerning participator of your nobler pursuits, the friend of your virtues, your talents, your reputation—who could understand you, who was formed to pass the ordeal of honour, virtue, friendship?—Ask yourself these questions—ask them closely, without sophistry, and without evasion. You are not, now, an infatuated boy! Supposing, then, that you are, at present, entangled in an engagement which answers not this description—Is it virtue to fulfil, or to renounce, it? Contrast it with my affection, with its probable consequences, and weigh our different claims!Would you have been the selected choice, of this woman, from all mankind—would no other be capable of making her equally happy—would nothing compensate to her for your loss—are you the only object that she beholds in creation—might not another engagement suit her equally well, or better—is her whole soul absorbed but by one sentiment, that of fervent love for you—is her future usefulness, as well as peace, at stake—does she understand your high qualities better than myself—will she emulate them more?—Does the engagement promise a favourable issue, or does it threaten to wear away the best period of life in protracted and uncertain feeling—the most pernicious, and destructive, of all state of mind?Remember, also, that the summer of life will quickly fade; and that he who has reached the summit of the hill, has no time to lose—if he seize not the present moment, age is approaching, and life melting fast away.—I quit this, to state my second hypothesis—'That you esteem and respect me, but that your heart has hitherto refused the sympathies I have sought to awaken in it. If this be the case, it remains to search for the reason; and, I own, I am at a loss to find it, either in moral, or physical, causes. Our principles are in unison, our tastes and habits not dissimilar, our knowledge of, and confidence in, each other's virtues is reciprocal, tried, and established—our ages, personal accomplishments, and mental acquirements do not materially differ. From such an union, I conceive, mutual advantages would result. I have found myself distinguished, esteemed, beloved by, others, where I have not sought for this distinction. How, then, can I believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so many strong efforts, and reiterated impressions, can have produced no effect upon yours? Is your heart constituted differently from every other human heart?—I have lately observed an inequality in your behaviour, that has whispered something flattering to my heart. Examine yourself—Have you felt no peculiar interest in what concerns me—would the idea of our separation affect you with no more than a slight and common emotion?—One more question propose to yourself, as a test—Could you see me form a new, and more fortunate, attachment, with indifference? If you cannot, without hesitation, answer these questions, I have still a powerful pleader in your bosom, though unconscious of it yourself, that will, ultimately, prevail. If I have, yet, failed of producing an unequivocal effect, it must arise from having mistaken themeansproper to produce the desiredend. My own sensibility, and my imperfect knowledge of your character may, here, have combined to mislead me. The first, by its suffocating and depressing powers, clouding my vivacity, incapacitating me from appearing to you with my natural advantages—these effects would diminish as assurance took the place of doubt. The last, every day would contribute to correct. Permit me, then,to hope for, as well as to seek your affections, and if I do not, at length, gain and secure them, it will be a phenomenon in the history of mind!'But to proceed to my third supposition—The peculiar, pecuniary, embarrassments of your situation—Good God! did this barbarous, insidious, relation, allow himself to consider the pernicious consequences of his absurd bequest?—threatening to undermine every manly principle, to blast every social virtue? Oh! that I had the eloquence to rouse you from this tame and unworthy acquiescence—to stimulate you to exercise your talents, to trust to the independent energies of your mind, to exert yourself to procure the honest rewards of virtuous industry. In proportion as we lean for support on foreign aid, we lose the dignity of our nature, and palsey those powers which constitute that nature's worth. Yet, I will allow, from my knowledge of your habits and associations, this obstacle its full force. But there remains one method of obviating, even this! I will frankly confess, that could I hope to gain the interest in your heart, which I have so long and so earnestly sought—my confidence in your honour and integrity, my tenderness for you, added to the wish of contributing to your happiness, would effect, what no lesser considerations could have effected—would triumph, not over my principles, (for the individuality of an affection constitutes its chastity) but over my prudence. I repeat, I am willing to sacrifice every inferior consideration—retain your legacy, so capriciously bequeathed—retain your present situation, and I will retain mine. This proposition, though not a violation of modesty, certainly involves in it very serious hazards—It is, wholly, the triumph of affection!You cannot suppose, that a transient engagement would satisfy a mind like mine; I should require a reciprocal faith plighted and returned—an after separation, otherwise than by mutual consent, would be my destruction—I should not survive your desertion. My existence, then, would be in your hands. Yet, having once confided, your affection should be my recompence—my sacrifice should be a cheerful and a voluntary one; I would determine not to harrass you with doubts nor jealousies, I would neither reflect upon the past, nor distrust the future: I would rest upon you, I would confide in you fearlessly and entirely! but, though I would not enquire after the past, my delicacy would require the assurance of your present, undivided, affection.'The fourth idea that has occurred to me, is the probability of your having formed a plan of seeking some agreeable woman of fortune, who should be willing to reward a man of merit for the injustice of society. Whether you may already have experienced some disappointments of this nature, I will not pretend to determine. I can conceive, that, by many women, a coxcomb might be preferred to you—however this may be, the plan is not unattended with risque, nor with some possible degrading circumstances—and you may succeed, and yet be miserable: happiness depends not upon the abundance of our possessions.'The last case which I shall state, and on which I shall lay little comparative stress, is the possibility of an engagement of a very inferior nature—a mere affair of the senses. The arguments which might here be adduced are too obvious to be repeated. Besides, I think highly of your refinement and delicacy—Having therefore just hinted, I leave it with you.'And now to conclude—After considering all I have urged, you may, perhaps, reply—That the subject is too nice and too subtle for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. These, I think, are mistakes. There is no subject, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. What is it that we desire—pleasure—happiness? I allow, pleasure is the supreme good: but it may be analyzed—it must have a stable foundation—to this analysis I now call you! This is the critical moment, upon which hangs a long chain of events—This moment may decide your future destiny and mine—it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! My spirit is pervaded with these important ideas—my heart flutters—I breathe with difficulty—My friend—I would give myself to you—the gift is not worthless. Pause a moment, ere you rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable, so worthy of you! The heart may be compelled—compelled by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred, indissoluble ties, mind to mind! Do not prepare for yourself future remorse—when lost, you may recollect my worth, and my affection, and remember them with regret—Yet mistake me not, I have no intention to intimidate—I think it my duty to live, while I may possibly be useful to others, however bitter and oppressive may be that existence. I will livefor duty, though peace andenjoymentshould be for ever fled. You may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. And, if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would prevent me from adding, to the anxieties I have already given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion, however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow creature.'While I await your answer, I summon to my heart all its remaining strength and spirits. Say to me, in clear and decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affectionare absolutely, and altogether, insuperable—Or that there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. In this case, I will not disturb the future operations of your mind, assuring myself, that you will continue my suspence no longer than is proper and requisite—or frankly accept, and return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer than life itself!'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny. Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force—since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction—We have, already, refined too much—I promise to live—more, alas! I cannot promise.'Farewel!dearest and most beloved of men—whatever may be my fate—be happiness yours!Once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeatsfarewel!'Emma.'

'Once more, I have determined to rally my strength; for I feel, that a much longer continuance in the situation, in which my mind has been lately involved, would be insupportable:—and I call upon you,now, with a resolution to summon all my fortitude to bear the result, for thewrittenstate of your mind, on the topic become so important to my future welfare and usefulness.

'You may suppose, that a mind like mine must have, repeatedly, set itself to examine, on every side, all that could possibly have a relation to a subject affecting it so materially. You have hinted atmysteriousobstacles to the wish, in which every faculty of my soul has been so long absorbed—the wish of forming with you, a connection, nearer,and more tender, than that of friendship. This mystery, by leaving room for conjecture (and how frequently have I warned you of this!), left room for the illusions of imagination, and of hope—left room for the suspicion, that you might, possibly, be sacrificingyour own feelingsas well as mine, to a mistaken principle. Is it possible that you were not aware of this—you, who are not unacquainted with the nature of the mind! Still less were you ignorant of the nature of my mind—which I had so explicitly, so unreservedly, laid open! I had a double claim upon your confidence—a confidence, that I was utterly incapable of abusing, or betraying—a confidence, which must have stopped my mind in its career—which would have saved me the bitter, agonizing, pangs I have sustained. Mine were not common feelings—it isobscurityandmysterywhich has wrought them up to frenzy—truthandcertaintywould, long ere this, have caused them temporarily to subside into their accustomed channels. You understand little of the human heart, if you cannot conceive this—"Where the imagination is vivid, the feelings strong, the views and desires not bounded by common rules;—in such minds, passions, if not subdued, become ungovernable and fatal: where there is much warmth, much enthusiasm, there is much danger.—My mind is no less ardent than yours, though education and habit may have given it a different turn—it glows with equal zeal to attain its end."11Yes, I must continue to repeat, there has been in your conductone grand mistake; and the train of consequences which may, yet, ensue, are uncertain, and threatening.—But, I mean no reproach—we are all liable to errors; and my own, I feel, are many, and various. But to return—

'You may suppose I have revolved, in my thoughts, every possible difficulty on the subject alluded to; balancing their degrees of probability and force:—and, I will frankly confess, such is the sanguine ardour of my temper, that I can conceive but one obstacle, that would beabsolutely invincible; which is, supposing that you have already contracted alegal, irrecoverable, engagement. Yet, this I do not suppose. I will arrange, under five heads, (on all occasions, I love to class and methodize) every other possible species of objection, and subjoin all the reasonings which have occurred to me on the subjects.

'And, first, I will imagine, as the most serious and threatening difficulty, that you love another. I would, then, ask—Is she capable of estimating your worth—does she love you—has she the magnanimity to tell you so—would she sacrifice to that affection every meaner consideration—has she the merit to secure, as well as accomplishments to attract, your regard?—You are too well acquainted with the human heart, not to be aware, that what is commonly called love is of a fleeting nature, kept alive only by hopes and fears, if the qualities upon which it is founded afford no basis for its subsiding into tender confidence, and rational esteem. Beauty may inspire a transient desire, vivacity amuse, for a time, by its sportive graces; but the first will quickly fade and grow familiar—the last degenerate into impertinence and insipidity. Interrogate your own heart—Would you not, when the ardour of the passions, and the fervor of the imagination, subsided, wish to find the sensible, intelligent, friend, take place of the engaging mistress?—Would you not expect the economical manager of your affairs, the rational and judicious mother to your offspring, the faithful sharer of your cares, the firm friend to your interest, the tender consoler of your sorrows, the companion in whom you could wholly confide, the discerning participator of your nobler pursuits, the friend of your virtues, your talents, your reputation—who could understand you, who was formed to pass the ordeal of honour, virtue, friendship?—Ask yourself these questions—ask them closely, without sophistry, and without evasion. You are not, now, an infatuated boy! Supposing, then, that you are, at present, entangled in an engagement which answers not this description—Is it virtue to fulfil, or to renounce, it? Contrast it with my affection, with its probable consequences, and weigh our different claims!Would you have been the selected choice, of this woman, from all mankind—would no other be capable of making her equally happy—would nothing compensate to her for your loss—are you the only object that she beholds in creation—might not another engagement suit her equally well, or better—is her whole soul absorbed but by one sentiment, that of fervent love for you—is her future usefulness, as well as peace, at stake—does she understand your high qualities better than myself—will she emulate them more?—Does the engagement promise a favourable issue, or does it threaten to wear away the best period of life in protracted and uncertain feeling—the most pernicious, and destructive, of all state of mind?Remember, also, that the summer of life will quickly fade; and that he who has reached the summit of the hill, has no time to lose—if he seize not the present moment, age is approaching, and life melting fast away.—I quit this, to state my second hypothesis—

'That you esteem and respect me, but that your heart has hitherto refused the sympathies I have sought to awaken in it. If this be the case, it remains to search for the reason; and, I own, I am at a loss to find it, either in moral, or physical, causes. Our principles are in unison, our tastes and habits not dissimilar, our knowledge of, and confidence in, each other's virtues is reciprocal, tried, and established—our ages, personal accomplishments, and mental acquirements do not materially differ. From such an union, I conceive, mutual advantages would result. I have found myself distinguished, esteemed, beloved by, others, where I have not sought for this distinction. How, then, can I believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so many strong efforts, and reiterated impressions, can have produced no effect upon yours? Is your heart constituted differently from every other human heart?—I have lately observed an inequality in your behaviour, that has whispered something flattering to my heart. Examine yourself—Have you felt no peculiar interest in what concerns me—would the idea of our separation affect you with no more than a slight and common emotion?—One more question propose to yourself, as a test—Could you see me form a new, and more fortunate, attachment, with indifference? If you cannot, without hesitation, answer these questions, I have still a powerful pleader in your bosom, though unconscious of it yourself, that will, ultimately, prevail. If I have, yet, failed of producing an unequivocal effect, it must arise from having mistaken themeansproper to produce the desiredend. My own sensibility, and my imperfect knowledge of your character may, here, have combined to mislead me. The first, by its suffocating and depressing powers, clouding my vivacity, incapacitating me from appearing to you with my natural advantages—these effects would diminish as assurance took the place of doubt. The last, every day would contribute to correct. Permit me, then,to hope for, as well as to seek your affections, and if I do not, at length, gain and secure them, it will be a phenomenon in the history of mind!

'But to proceed to my third supposition—The peculiar, pecuniary, embarrassments of your situation—Good God! did this barbarous, insidious, relation, allow himself to consider the pernicious consequences of his absurd bequest?—threatening to undermine every manly principle, to blast every social virtue? Oh! that I had the eloquence to rouse you from this tame and unworthy acquiescence—to stimulate you to exercise your talents, to trust to the independent energies of your mind, to exert yourself to procure the honest rewards of virtuous industry. In proportion as we lean for support on foreign aid, we lose the dignity of our nature, and palsey those powers which constitute that nature's worth. Yet, I will allow, from my knowledge of your habits and associations, this obstacle its full force. But there remains one method of obviating, even this! I will frankly confess, that could I hope to gain the interest in your heart, which I have so long and so earnestly sought—my confidence in your honour and integrity, my tenderness for you, added to the wish of contributing to your happiness, would effect, what no lesser considerations could have effected—would triumph, not over my principles, (for the individuality of an affection constitutes its chastity) but over my prudence. I repeat, I am willing to sacrifice every inferior consideration—retain your legacy, so capriciously bequeathed—retain your present situation, and I will retain mine. This proposition, though not a violation of modesty, certainly involves in it very serious hazards—It is, wholly, the triumph of affection!You cannot suppose, that a transient engagement would satisfy a mind like mine; I should require a reciprocal faith plighted and returned—an after separation, otherwise than by mutual consent, would be my destruction—I should not survive your desertion. My existence, then, would be in your hands. Yet, having once confided, your affection should be my recompence—my sacrifice should be a cheerful and a voluntary one; I would determine not to harrass you with doubts nor jealousies, I would neither reflect upon the past, nor distrust the future: I would rest upon you, I would confide in you fearlessly and entirely! but, though I would not enquire after the past, my delicacy would require the assurance of your present, undivided, affection.

'The fourth idea that has occurred to me, is the probability of your having formed a plan of seeking some agreeable woman of fortune, who should be willing to reward a man of merit for the injustice of society. Whether you may already have experienced some disappointments of this nature, I will not pretend to determine. I can conceive, that, by many women, a coxcomb might be preferred to you—however this may be, the plan is not unattended with risque, nor with some possible degrading circumstances—and you may succeed, and yet be miserable: happiness depends not upon the abundance of our possessions.

'The last case which I shall state, and on which I shall lay little comparative stress, is the possibility of an engagement of a very inferior nature—a mere affair of the senses. The arguments which might here be adduced are too obvious to be repeated. Besides, I think highly of your refinement and delicacy—Having therefore just hinted, I leave it with you.

'And now to conclude—After considering all I have urged, you may, perhaps, reply—That the subject is too nice and too subtle for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. These, I think, are mistakes. There is no subject, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. What is it that we desire—pleasure—happiness? I allow, pleasure is the supreme good: but it may be analyzed—it must have a stable foundation—to this analysis I now call you! This is the critical moment, upon which hangs a long chain of events—This moment may decide your future destiny and mine—it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! My spirit is pervaded with these important ideas—my heart flutters—I breathe with difficulty—My friend—I would give myself to you—the gift is not worthless. Pause a moment, ere you rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable, so worthy of you! The heart may be compelled—compelled by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred, indissoluble ties, mind to mind! Do not prepare for yourself future remorse—when lost, you may recollect my worth, and my affection, and remember them with regret—Yet mistake me not, I have no intention to intimidate—I think it my duty to live, while I may possibly be useful to others, however bitter and oppressive may be that existence. I will livefor duty, though peace andenjoymentshould be for ever fled. You may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. And, if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would prevent me from adding, to the anxieties I have already given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion, however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow creature.

'While I await your answer, I summon to my heart all its remaining strength and spirits. Say to me, in clear and decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affectionare absolutely, and altogether, insuperable—Or that there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. In this case, I will not disturb the future operations of your mind, assuring myself, that you will continue my suspence no longer than is proper and requisite—or frankly accept, and return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer than life itself!

'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny. Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force—since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction—We have, already, refined too much—I promise to live—more, alas! I cannot promise.

'Farewel!dearest and most beloved of men—whatever may be my fate—be happiness yours!Once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeatsfarewel!

'Emma.'

It would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval in which I waited a reply to this letter—I struggled to repress hope, and to prepare my mind for the dissolution of a thousand air-built fabrics. The day wore tediously away in strong emotion, and strong exertion. On the subsequent morning, I sat, waiting the return of my messenger, in a state of mind, difficult even to be conceived—I heard him enter—breathless, I flew to meet him—I held out my hand—I could not speak.

'Mr Harley desired me to tell you,he had not had time to write.'

Gracious God! I shudder, even now, to recall the convulsive sensation! I sunk into a chair—I sat for some time motionless, every faculty seemed suspended. At length, returning to recollection, I wrote a short incoherent note, entreating—

'To be spared another day, another night, like the preceding—I asked onlyone single line! In the morning I had made up my mind to fortitude—it was now sinking—another day, I could not answer for the consequences.'

Again an interval of suspense—again my messenger returned with a verbal reply—'He would write to-morrow.' Unconsciously, I exclaimed—'Barbarous, unfeeling, unpitying, man!' A burst of tears relieved—no—it did not relieve me. The day passed—I know not how—I dare not recollect.

The next morning, I arose, somewhat refreshed; my exhausted strength and spirits had procured me a few hours of profound slumber. A degree of resentment gave a temporary firmness to my nerves. 'What happiness (I repeated to myself) could I have expected with a man, thus regardless of my feelings?' I composed my spirits—hope was at an end—into a sort of sullen resignation to my fate—a half stupor!

At noon the letter arrived, coldly, confusedly written; methought there appeared even a degree of irritation in it.

'Another, a prior attachment—His behaviour had been such, as necessarily resulted from such an engagement—unavoidable circumstances had prevented an earlier reply.' My swollen heart—but it is enough—'He blamed my impatience—he would, in future, perhaps, when my mind had attained more composure, make some remarks on my letter.'

11:Holcraft's Anna St Ives.

To write had always afforded a temporary relief to my spirits—The next day I resumed my pen.

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