Memoirs of Emma Courtney Read online

  'It has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the individual,"[5] and, that individuality of character is the only fastener of the affections. It is certain, however singular it may appear, that many months before we became personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence, which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at length, mixed itself with all my associations, and is become interwoven with every fibre of my heart.

  [Footnote 5: Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.]

  'I have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of cherishing an attachment, which a variety of circumstances combine to render so unpromising, and--What shall I say?--So peculiar is the constitution of my mind, that those very circumstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to render the sentiment, I have delighted to foster, more affecting and interesting.--Yes! I am aware of the tenure upon which you retain your fortunes--of the cruel and unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious testator: neither can I require a sacrifice which I am unable to recompence. But while these melancholy convictions deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by communication.--Mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister motives. Remember, then--should we never meet again--if in future periods you should find, that the friendship of the world is--"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"--if, where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid with ingratitude--where you have placed confidence, with treachery--and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness! Remember, _that you have once been beloved, for yourself alone_, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your life, would have found the happiness of her own.

  'Is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by prosperity, nor debased by fashionable levity--which vice has not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized--can be wholly insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural, unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart?

  "Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd, By feeling, sympathy, and mind, The sacred voice of truth deny, And mock the mandate of the sky?"

  'But I check my pen:--I am no longer--

  "The hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life."

  'The dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while I acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me to believe, that in happier circumstances, my artless affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic tenderness:--this is the extent of my hopes!--I recollect you once told me "It was our duty to make our reason conquer the sensibility of our heart." Yet, why? Is, then, apathy the perfection of our nature--and is not that nature refined and harmonized by the gentle and social affections? The Being who gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its sensibility.

  'I make no apologies for, because I feel no consciousness of, weakness. An attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and virtue, ennoble the mind capable of conceiving and cherishing it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly incapable.

  'You may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing colouring--like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists--to the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous picture."--Allowing this, for a moment, _the sentiments it inspires are not the less genuine_; and without some degree of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts, softens, embellishes, life--genius, virtue, love itself, languishes. But, on this subject, my opinions have not been lightly formed:--it is not to the personal graces, though "the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect, virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and, were I never again to behold you--were you even the husband of another--my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is lively) would never cease!

  'But, methinks, I hear you say,--"Whither does all this tend, and what end does it propose?" Alas! this is a question I scarcely dare to ask myself!--Yet, allow me to request, that you will make me one promise, and resolve me one question:--ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own feelings, I should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom of another:--_Is your heart, at present, free?_ Or should you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that I shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and, in the assurance of your happiness, I will learn to forget my own.

  'I aspire to no higher title than that of the most faithful of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for improvement. I will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me direction, and assistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and truth.

  'I have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of whose delicacy I have experienced repeated proofs, should misconstrue me.--"Oh! what a world is this!--into what false habits has it fallen! Can hypocrisy be virtue? Can a desire to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[6] But I will banish these apprehensions; I am convinced they are injurious.

  'Yes!--I repeat it--I relinquish my pen with reluctance. A melancholy satisfaction, from what source I can scarcely define, diffuses itself through my heart while I unfold to you its emotions.--Write to me; be _ingenuous_; I desire, I call for, truth!

  'EMMA.'

  [Footnote 6: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]

  CHAPTER XXVI

  I had not courage to make my friend a confident of the step I had taken;so wild, and so romantic, did it appear, even to myself--a false pride,a false shame, with-held me. I brooded in silence over the sentiment,that preyed on the bosom which cherished it. Every morning dawned withexpectation, and every evening closed in disappointment. I walkeddaily 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 languidframe. Inquietude, at length, gradually gave place to despondency, andI 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 themaside; moved, restless and dissatisfied, from seat to seat; sought, withunconscious steps, the library, and, throwing myself on the sopha, withfolded arms, fixed my eyes on the picture of Augustus, which had latelybeen replaced, and sunk into waking dreams of ideal perfection andvisionary bliss. I gazed on the lifeless features, engraven on my heartin colours yet more true and vivid--but where was the benignant smile,the intelligent glance, the varying expression? Where the pleasantvoice, whose accents had been melody in my ear; that had cheered me insadness, dispelled the vapours of distrust and melancholy, and awakenedmy emulation for science and improvement? Starting from a train ofpoignant and distressing emotions, I fled from an apartment once sodear, presenting now but the ghosts of departed pleasures--fled into thewoods, and buried myself in their deepest recesses; or
, shutting myselfin my chamber, avoided the sight of my friend, whose dejectedcountenance 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 knownend in view, I accidentally opened a letter from Mr Francis (with whom Istill continued, occasionally, to correspond), which I had recentlyreceived. I eagerly seized, and re-perused, it. My spirits were weakened;the kindness which it expressed affected me--it touched my heart--itexcited my tears. I determined instantly to reply to it, and toacknowledge my sense of his goodness.

  My mind was overwhelmed with the pressure of its own thoughts; a gleamof joy darted through the thick mists that pervaded it; communicationwould relieve the burthen. I took up my pen; and, though I dared notbetray the fatal secret concealed, as a sacred treasure, in the bottomof my heart, I yet gave a loose to, I endeavoured to paint, itssensations.

  After briefly sketching the events that had driven me from Morton Park(of which I had not hitherto judged it necessary to inform him), withouthinting the name of my deliverer, or suffering myself to dwell on theservices he had rendered me, I mentioned my present temporary residenceat the house of a friend, and expressed an impatience at my solitary,inactive, situation.

  I went on--

  'To what purpose should I trouble you with a thousand wayward, contradictory, ideas and emotions, that I am, myself, unable to disentangle--which have, perhaps, floated in every mind, that has had leisure for reflection--which are distinguished by no originality, and which I may express (though not feel) without force? I sought to cultivate my understanding, and exercise my reason, that, by adding variety to my resources, I might increase the number of my enjoyments: for _happiness_ is, surely, the only desirable _end_ of existence! But when I ask myself, Whether I am yet nearer to the end proposed?--I dare not deceive myself--sincerity obliges me to answer in the negative. I daily perceive the gay and the frivolous, among my sex, amused with every passing trifle; gratified by the insipid _routine_ of heartless, mindless, intercourse; fully occupied, alternately, by domestic employment, or the childish vanity of varying external ornaments, and "hanging drapery on a smooth block." I do not affect to despise, and I regularly practise, the necessary avocations of my sex; neither am I superior to their vanities. The habits acquired by early precept and example adhere tenaciously; and are never, perhaps, entirely eradicated. But all these are insufficient to engross, to satisfy, the active, aspiring, mind. Hemmed in on every side by the constitutions of society, and not less so, it may be, by my own prejudices--I perceive, indignantly perceive, the magic circle, without knowing how to dissolve the powerful spell. While men pursue interest, honor, pleasure, as accords with their several dispositions, women, who have too much delicacy, sense, and spirit, to degrade themselves by the vilest of all interchanges, remain insulated beings, and must be content tamely to look on, without taking any part in the great, though often absurd and tragical, drama of life. Hence the eccentricities of conduct, with which women of superior minds have been accused--the struggles, the despairing though generous struggles, of an ardent spirit, denied a scope for its exertions! The strong feelings, and strong energies, which properly directed, in a field sufficiently wide, might--ah! what might they not have aided? forced back, and pent up, ravage and destroy the mind which gave them birth!

  'Yes, I confess, _I am unhappy_, unhappy in proportion as I believe myself (it may be, erringly) improved. Philosophy, it is said, should regulate the feelings, but it has added fervor to mine! What are passions, but another name for powers? The mind capable of receiving the most forcible impressions is the sublimely improveable mind! Yet, into whatever trains such minds are accidentally directed, they are prone to enthusiasm, while the vulgar stupidly wonder at the effects of powers, to them wholly inconceivable: the weak and the timid, easily discouraged, are induced, by the first failure, to relinquish their pursuits. "They make the impossibility they fear!" But the bold and the persevering, from repeated disappointment, derive only new ardor and activity. "They conquer difficulties, by daring to attempt them."

  'I feel, that I am writing in a desultory manner, that I am unable to crowd my ideas into the compass of a letter, and, that could I do so, I should perhaps only weary you. There are but few persons to whom I would venture to complain, few would understand, and still fewer sympathise with me. You are in health, they would say, in the spring of life, have every thing supplied you without labour (so much the worse) nature, reason, open to you their treasures! All this is, partly, true--but, with inexpressible yearnings, my soul pants for something more, something higher! The morning rises upon me with sadness, and the evening closes with disgust--Imperfection, uncertainty, is impressed on every object, on every pursuit! I am either restless or torpid, I seek to-day, what to-morrow, wearies and offends me.

  'I entered life, flushed with hope--I have proceeded but a few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. The few worthy persons I have known appear, to me, to be struggling with the same half suppressed emotions.--Whence is all this? Why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness? Why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict between truth and error? Shall I look beyond the disorders which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall I expect, shall I demand, from the inscrutable Being to whom I owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_ of which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has hitherto served only to torture and betray? The animal rises up to satisfy the cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he rises? Assist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write to me--reprove me--spare me not!

  'EMMA.'

  To this letter I quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, thoughnot unmingled with the reproof I called for. It afforded me but atemporary relief, and I once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rustedfor want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London--Mrs Harley, witha look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--Thesuperscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was fromAugustus, and addressed to Emma--I ran, with it, into my chamber, lockedmyself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused itscontents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--I reperused it againand again.

  'I had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had made the human heart his study, who could not be affected by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the passions--of the false and flattering medium through which they presented objects to our view. He had answered my letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written, but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please himself any better.--He was highly flattered by the favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship, &c. &c.'

  This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied,disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope--and, yet, had no _distinct_ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meani
ng into a hundredforms--I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which sheseemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not toenquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confidedboth 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 otherimpressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerousascendency.

  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.