CHAPTER XXIII

'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 thebelles 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.

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, withfraternal, 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.

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 achampion.—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 yourhonorI have confided this cherishedsecret—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 distinctionyouhave 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.

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 fromrulessanctioned by usage, by prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. I frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes ofmodesty, 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,"5and, 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.'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?"6But 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; beingenuous; I desire, I call for, truth!'Emma.'

'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,"5and, 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.

'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?"6But 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; beingenuous; I desire, I call for, truth!

'Emma.'

5:Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.

6:Holcroft's Anna St Ives.

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: forhappinessis, surely, the only desirableendof 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 insipidroutineof 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, theendof which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormentingignis 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.'

'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, theendof which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormentingignis 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.

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 nodistinctground 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;7you might then comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too delicate forwords. But I do you injustice.'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial—where theend, 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,8requires 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.'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,9that) 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.'

'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;7you might then comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too delicate forwords. But I do you injustice.

'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial—where theend, 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,8requires 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.

'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,9that) 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.'

7:See Light of Nature pursued. An entertaining philosophical work.

8:Aikin's Letters.

9:Madame de Genlis's Tales of the Castle.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

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, asmine, 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 whichsuspenseforces 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 hadspoke 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.'

'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 ofH——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 obstaclesforbid 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 whatendshall 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.

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—

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