MEMOIRS OF

EMMA COURTNEY

MARY HAYS

CONTENTS

PREFACE

The most interesting, and the most useful, fictions, are, perhaps, such, as delineating the progress, and tracing the consequences, of one strong, indulged, passion, or prejudice, afford materials, by which the philosopher may calculate the powers of the human mind, and learn the springs which set it in motion—'Understanding, and talents,' says Helvetius, 'being nothing more, in men, than the produce of their desires, and particular situations.' Of the passion of terror Mrs Radcliffe has made admirable use in her ingenious romances.—In the novel of Caleb Williams, curiosity in the hero, and the love of reputation in the soul-moving character of Falkland, fostered into ruling passions, are drawn with a masterly hand.

For the subject of these Memoirs, a more universal sentiment is chosen—a sentiment hackneyed in this species of composition, consequently more difficult to treat with any degree of originality;—yet, to accomplish this, has been the aim of the author; with what success, the public will, probably, determine.

Every writer who advances principles, whether true or false, that have a tendency to set the mind in motion, does good. Innumerable mistakes have been made, both moral and philosophical:—while covered with a sacred and mysterious veil, how are they to be detected? From various combinations and multiplied experiments, truth, only, can result. Free thinking, and free speaking, are the virtue and the characteristics of a rational being:—there can be no argument which mitigates against them in one instance, but what equally mitigates against them in all; every principle must be doubted, before it will be examined and proved.

It has commonly been the business of fiction to pourtray characters, not as they really exist, but, as, we are told, they ought to be—a sort of ideal perfection, in which nature and passion are melted away, and jarring attributes wonderfully combined.

In delineating the character of Emma Courtney, I had not in view these fantastic models: I meant to represent her, as a human being, loving virtue while enslaved by passion, liable to the mistakes and weaknesses of our fragile nature.—Let those readers, who feel inclined to judge with severity the extravagance and eccentricity of her conduct, look into their own hearts; and should they there find no record, traced by an accusing spirit, to soften the asperity of their censures—yet, let them bear in mind, that the errors of my heroine were the offspring of sensibility; and that the result of her hazardous experiment is calculated to operate as a warning, rather than as an example.—The philosopher—who is not ignorant, that light and shade are more powerfully contrasted in minds rising above the common level; that, as rank weeks take strong root in a fertile soil, vigorous powers not unfrequently produce fatal mistakes and pernicious exertions; that character is the produce of a lively and constant affection—may, possibly, discover in these Memoirs traces of reflection, and of some attention to the phænomena of the human mind.

Whether the incidents, or the characters, are copied from life, is of little importance—The only question is, if the circumstances, and situations, are altogether improbable? If not—whether the consequences might not have followed from the circumstances?—This is a grand question, applicable to all the purposes of education, morals, and legislation—and on this I rest my moral—'Do men gather figs of thorns, or grapes of thistles?' asked a moralist and a reformer.

Every possible incident, in works of this nature, might, perhaps, be rendered probable, were a sufficient regard paid to the more minute, delicate, and connecting links of the chain. Under this impression, I chose, as the least arduous, a simple story—and, even in that, the fear of repetition, of prolixity, added, it may be, to a portion of indolence, made me, in some parts, neglectful of this rule:—yet, in tracing the character of my heroine from her birth, I had it in view. For the conduct of my hero, I consider myself less responsible—it was not his memoirs that I professed to write.

I am not sanguine respecting the success of this little publication. It is truly observed, by the writer of a late popular novel[¹]—'That an author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack; for, though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment—contempt and ridicule:—a good one excites envy, and (frequently) entails upon its author a thousand mortifications.'

To the feeling and the thinking few, this production of an active mind, in a season of impression, rather than of leisure, is presented.

[1:] The Monk.

Memoirs of
Emma Courtney

VOLUME I

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY

Rash young man!—why do you tear from my heart the affecting narrative, which I had hoped no cruel necessity would ever have forced me to review?—Why do you oblige me to recall the bitterness of my past life, and to renew images, the remembrance of which, even at this distant period, harrows up my soul with inconceivable misery?—But your happiness is at stake, and every selfish consideration vanishes.—Dear and sacred deposit of an adored and lost friend!—for whose sake I have consented to hold down, with struggling, suffocating reluctance, the loathed and bitter portion of existence;—shall I expose your ardent mind to the incessant conflict between truth and error—shall I practise the disingenuousness, by which my peace has been blasted—shall I suffer you to run the wild career of passion—shall I keep back the recital, written upon my own mind in characters of blood, which may preserve the child of my affections from destruction?

Ah! why have you deceived me?—Has a six months' absence obliterated from your remembrance the precept I so earnestly and incessantly laboured to inculcate—the value and importance of unequivocal sincerity? A precept, which I now take shame to myself for not having more implicitly observed! Had I supposed your affection for Joanna more than a boyish partiality; had I not believed that a few months' absence would entirely erase it from your remembrance; had I not been assured that her heart was devoted to another object, a circumstance of which she had herself frankly informed you; I should not now have distrusted your fortitude, when obliged to wound your feelings with the intelligence—that the woman, whom you have so wildly persecuted, was, yesterday, united to another.

TO THE SAME

I resume my pen. Your letter, which Joanna a few days since put into my hands, has cost me—Ah! my Augustus, my friend, my son—what has it not cost me, and what impressions has it not renewed? I perceive the vigour of your mind with terror and exultation. But you are mistaken! Were it not for the insuperable barrier that separates you, for ever, from your hopes, perseverance itself, however active, however incessant, may fail in attaining its object. Your ardent reasoning, my interesting and philosophic young friend, though not unconsequential, is a finely proportioned structure, resting on an airy foundation. The science of morals is not incapable of demonstration, but we want a more extensive knowledge of particular facts, on which, in any given circumstance, firmly to establish our data.—Yet, be not discouraged; exercise your understanding, think freely, investigate every opinion, disdain the rust of antiquity, raise systems, invent hypotheses, and, by the absurdities they involve, seize on the clue of truth. Rouse the nobler energies of your mind; be not the slave of your passions, neither dream of eradicating them. Sensation generates interest, interest passion, passion forces attention, attention supplies the powers, and affords the means of attaining its end: in proportion to the degree of interest, will be that of attention and power. Thus are talents produced. Every man is born with sensation, with the aptitude of receiving impressions; the force of those impressions depends on a thousand circumstances, over which he has little power; these circumstances form the mind, and determine the future character. We are all the creatures of education; but in that education, what we call chance, or accident, has so great a share, that the wisest preceptor, after all his cares, has reason to tremble: one strong affection, one ardent incitement, will turn, in an instant, the whole current of our thoughts, and introduce a new train of ideas and associations.

You may perceive that I admit the general truths of your reasoning; but I would warn you to be careful in their particular application; a long train of patient and laborious experiments must precede our deductions and conclusions. The science of mind is not less demonstrative, and far more important, than the science of Newton; but we must proceed on similar principles. The term metaphysics has been, perhaps, justly defined—the first principles of arts and sciences.[²] Every discovery of genius, resulting from a fortunate combination of circumstances, may be resolved into simple facts; but in this investigation we must be patient, attentive, indefatigable; we must be content to arrive at truth through many painful mistakes and consequent sufferings.—Such appears to be the constitution of man!

To shorten and meliorate your way, I have determined to sacrifice every inferior consideration. I have studied your character: I perceive, with joy, that its errors are the ardent excesses of a generous mind. I loved your father with a fatal and unutterable tenderness: time has softened the remembrance of his faults.—Our noblest qualities, without incessant watchfulness, are liable insensibly to shade into vices—but his virtues and misfortunes, in which my own were so intimately blended, are indelibly engraven on my heart.

A mystery has hitherto hung over your birth. The victim of my own ardent passions, and the errors of one whose memory will ever be dear to me, I prepare to withdraw the veil—a veil, spread by an importunate, but, I fear, a mistaken tenderness. Learn, then, from the incidents of my life, entangled with those of his to whom you owe your existence, a more striking and affecting lesson than abstract philosophy can ever afford.

[2:] Helvetius.

CHAPTER I

The events of my life have been few, and have in them nothing very uncommon, but the effects which they have produced on my mind; yet, that mind they have helped to form, and this in the eye of philosophy, or affection, may render them not wholly uninteresting. While I trace them, they convince me of the irresistible power of circumstances, modifying and controuling our characters, and introducing, mechanically, those associations and habits which make us what we are; for without outward impressions we should be nothing.

I know not how far to go back, nor where to begin; for in many cases, it may be in all, a foundation is laid for the operations of our minds, years—nay, ages—previous to our birth. I wish to be brief, yet to omit no one connecting link in the chain of causes, however minute, that I conceive had any important consequences in the formation of my mind, or that may, probably, be useful to your's.

My father was a man of some talents, and of a superior rank in life, but dissipated, extravagant, and profligate. My mother, the daughter of a rich trader, and the sole heiress of his fortunes, allured by the specious address and fashionable manners of my father, sacrificed to empty shew the prospect of rational and dignified happiness. My father courted her hand to make himself master of her ample possessions: dazzled by vanity, and misled by self-love, she married him;—found, when too late, her error; bitterly repented, and died in child bed the twelfth month of her marriage, after having given birth to a daughter, and commended it, with her dying breath, to the care of a sister (the daughter of her mother by a former marriage), an amiable, sensible, and worthy woman, who had, a few days before, lost a lovely and promising infant at the breast, and received the little Emma as a gift from heaven, to supply its place.

My father, plunged in expence and debauchery, was little moved by these domestic distresses. He held the infant a moment in his arms, kissed it, and willingly consigned it to the guardianship of its maternal aunt.

It will here be necessary to give a sketch of the character, situation, and family, of this excellent woman; each of which had an important share in forming the mind of her charge to those dispositions, and feelings, which irresistibly led to the subsequent events.

CHAPTER II

Mr and Mrs Melmoth, my uncle and aunt, married young, purely from motives of affection. Mr Melmoth had an active, ardent mind, great benevolence of heart, a sweet and chearful temper, and a liberal manner of thinking, though with few advantages of education: he possessed, also, a sanguine disposition, a warm heart, a generous spirit, and an integrity which was never called in question. Mrs Melmoth's frame was delicate and fragile; she had great sensibility, quickness of perception, some anxiety of temper, and a refined and romantic manner of thinking, acquired from the perusal of the old romances, a large quantity of which, belonging to a relation, had, in the early periods of her youth, been accidentally deposited in a spare room in her father's house. These qualities were mingled with a devotional spirit, a little bordering on fanatacism. My uncle did not exactly resemble an Orlando, or an Oroondates, but he was fond of reading; and having the command of a ship in the West India trade, had, during his voyages in fine weather, time to indulge in this propensity; by which means he was a tolerable proficient in the belles lettres, and could, on occasion, quote Shakespeare, scribble poetry, and even philosophize with Pope and Bolingbroke.

Mr Melmoth was one-and-twenty, his bride nineteen, when they were united. They possessed little property; but the one was enterprizing and industrious, the other careful and œconomical; and both, with hearts glowing with affection for each other, saw cheering hope and fairy prospects dancing before their eyes. Every thing succeeded beyond their most sanguine expectations. My uncle's cheerful and social temper, with the fairness and liberality of his dealings, conciliated the favour of the merchants. His understanding was superior, and his manners more courteous, than the generality of persons in his line of life: his company was eagerly courted, and no vessel stood a chance of being freighted till his had its full cargo.

His voyages were not long, and frequent absences and meetings kept alive between him and my aunt, the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, and the transports of love. Their family soon increased, but this was a new source of joy to Mr Melmoth's affectionate heart. A walk or a ride in the country, with his wife and little ones, he accounted his highest relaxation:—on these occasions he gave himself up to a sweet and lively pleasure; would clasp them alternately to his breast, and with eyes overflowing with tears of delight, repeat Thomson's charming description of the joys of virtuous love—

This was the first picture that struck my young imagination, for I was, in all respects, considered as the adopted child of the family.

This prosperity received little other interruption than from my uncle's frequent absences, and the pains and cares of my aunt in bringing into the world, and nursing, a family of children. Mr Melmoth's successful voyages, at rather earlier than forty years of age, enabled him to leave the sea, and to carry on an extensive mercantile employment in the metropolis.—At this period his health began to be injured by the progress of a threatening internal disorder; but it had little effect either on his spirits or activity. His business every day became wider, and his attention to it was unremitted, methodical, and indefatigable. His hours of relaxation were devoted to his family and social enjoyment; at these times he never suffered the cares of the counting-house to intrude;—he was the life of every company, and the soul of every pleasure.

He at length assumed a more expensive style of living; took a house in the country (for the charms of which he had ever a peculiar taste) as a summer residence; set up an equipage, increased the number of his servants, and kept an open and hospitable, though not a luxurious, table.

The hours fled on downy pinions; his wife rested on him, his children caught sunshine from his smiles; his domestics adored him, and his acquaintance vied with each other in paying him respect. His life, he frequently repeated, had been a series of unbroken success. His religion, for he laid no stress on forms, was a sentiment of grateful and fervent love.—'God is love,' he would say, 'and the affectionate, benevolent heart is his temple.'

CHAPTER III

It will now be necessary, for the development of my own particular character, again to revert to earlier periods.—A few days before my birth, my aunt had lost (as already related) a lovely female infant, about four months old, and she received me, from the hands of my dying mother, as a substitute.—From these tender and affecting circumstances I was nursed and attended with peculiar care. My uncle's ship (it being war time) was then waiting for a convoy at Portsmouth, where he was joined by his wife: she carried me with her, and, tenderly watchful over my safety, took me on all their little excursions, whether by sea or land: I hung at her breast, or rested in her arms, and her husband, or attendant, alternately relieved her.—Plump, smiling, placid, happy, I never disturbed her rest, and the little Emma was the darling of her kind guardians, and the plaything of the company.

At the age at which it was thought necessary to wean me, I was sent from my tender nurse for that purpose, and consigned to the care of a stranger, with whom I quickly pined myself into a jaundice and bilious fever. My aunt dare not visit me during this short separation, she was unable to bear my piercing cries of anguish at her departure. If a momentary sensation, at that infantine period, deserve the appellation, I might call this my first affectionate sorrow. I have frequently thought that the tenderness of this worthy woman generated in my infant disposition that susceptibility, that lively propensity to attachment, to which I have through life been a martyr. On my return to my friends, I quickly regained my health and spirits; was active, blythsome, ran, bounded, sported, romped; always light, gay, alert, and full of glee. At church, (whither on Sunday I was accustomed to accompany the family) I offended all the pious ladies in our vicinity by my gamesome tricks, and avoided the reprimands of my indulgent guardians by the drollery and good humour which accompanied them.

When myself and my little cousins had wearied ourselves with play, their mother, to keep us quiet in an evening, while her husband wrote letters in an adjoining apartment, was accustomed to relate (for our entertainment) stories from the Arabian Nights, Turkish Tales, and other works of like marvellous import. She recited them circumstantially, and these I listened to with ever new delight: the more they excited vivid emotions, the more wonderful they were, the greater was my transport: they became my favourite amusement, and produced, in my young mind, a strong desire of learning to read the books which contained such enchanting stores of entertainment.

Thus stimulated, I learned to read quickly, and with facility. My uncle took pleasure in assisting me; and, with parental partiality, thought he discovered, in the ardour and promptitude with which I received his instructions, the dawn of future talents. At six years old I read aloud before company, with great applause, my uncle's favourite authors, Pope's Homer, and Thomson's Seasons, little comprehending either. Emulation was roused, and vanity fostered: I learned to recite verses, to modulate my tones of voice, and began to think myself a wonderful scholar.

Thus, in peace and gaiety, glided the days of my childhood. Caressed by my aunt, flattered by her husband, I grew vain and self-willed; my desires were impetuous, and brooked no delay; my affections were warm, and my temper irascible; but it was the glow of a moment, instantly subsiding on conviction, and when conscious of having committed injustice, I was ever eager to repair it, by a profusion of caresses and acknowledgements. Opposition would always make me vehement, and coercion irritated me to violence; but a kind look, a gentle word, a cool expostulation—softened, melted, arrested, me, in the full career of passion. Never, but once, do I recollect having received a blow; but the boiling rage, the cruel tempest, the deadly vengeance it excited, in my mind, I now remember with shuddering.

Every day I became more attached to my books; yet, not less fond of active play; stories were still my passion, and I sighed for a romance that would never end. In my sports with my companions, I acted over what I had read: I was alternately the valiant knight—the gentle damsel—the adventurous mariner—the daring robber—the courteous lover—and the airy coquet. Ever inventive, my young friends took their tone from me. I hated the needle:—my aunt was indulgent, and not an hour passed unamused:—my resources were various, fantastic, and endless. Thus, for the first twelve years of my life, fleeted my days in joy and innocence. I ran like the hind, frisked like the kid, sang like the lark, was full of vivacity, health, and animation; and, excepting some momentary bursts of passion and impatience, awoke every day to new enjoyment, and retired to rest fatigued with pleasure.

CHAPTER IV

At this period, by the command of my father, I was sent to boarding school.—Ah! never shall I forget the contrast I experienced. I was an alien and a stranger;—no one loved, caressed, nor cared for me;—my actions were all constrained;—I was obliged to sit poring over needle work, and forbidden to prate;—my body was tortured into forms, my mind coerced, and talks imposed upon me, grammar and French, mere words, that conveyed to me no ideas. I loved my guardians with passion—my tastes were all passions—they tore themselves from my embraces with difficulty. I sat down, after their departure, and wept—bitter tears—sobbed convulsively—my griefs were unheeded, and my sensibility ridiculed—I neither gave nor received pleasure. After the rude stare of curiosity, ever wounding to my feelings, was gratified, I was left to sob alone.

At length, one young lady, with a fair face and a gentle demeanour, came and seated herself beside me. She spoke, in a soft voice, words of sympathy—my desolate heart fluttered at the sound. I looked at her—her features were mild and sweet; I dried my tears, and determined that she should be my friend.—My spirits became calmer, and for a short time I indulged in this relief; but, on enquiry, I found my fair companion had already a selected favourite, and that their amity was the admiration of the school.—Proud, jealous, romantic—I could not submit to be the second in her esteem—I shunned her, and returned her caresses with coldness.

The only mitigation I now felt to the anguish that had seized my spirits, was in the hours of business. I was soon distinguished for attention and capacity; but my governness being with-held, by an infirm constitution, from the duties of her office, I was consigned, with my companions, to ignorant, splenetic, teachers, who encouraged not my emulation, and who sported with the acuteness of my sensations. In the intervals from school hours I fought and procured books.—These were often wantonly taken from me, as a punishment for the most trivial offence; and, when my indignant spirit broke out into murmurs and remonstrance, I was constrained to learn, by way of penance, chapters in the Proverbs of Solomon, or verses from the French testament. To revenge myself, I satirized my tyrants in doggrel rhymes: my writing master also came in for a share of this little malice; and my productions, wretched enough, were handed round the school with infinite applause. Sunk in sullen melancholy, in the hours of play I crept into corners, and disdained to be amused;—home appeared to me to be the Eden from which I was driven, and there my heart and thoughts incessantly recurred.

My uncle from time to time addressed to me—with little presents—kind, pleasant, affectionate notes—and these I treasured up as sacred relics. A visit of my guardians was a yet more tumultuous pleasure; but it always left me in increased anguish. Some robberies had been committed on the road to town.—After parting with my friends, I have laid awake the whole night, conjuring up in my imagination all the tragic accidents I had ever heard or read of, and persuading myself some of them must have happened to these darling objects of my affection.

Thus passed the first twelvemonth of my exile from all I loved; during which time it was reported, by my school-fellows, that I had never been seen to smile. After the vacations, I was carried back to my prison with agonizing reluctance, to which in the second year I became, however, from habit, better reconciled. I learned music, was praised and encouraged by my master, and grew fond of it; I contracted friendships, and regained my vivacity; from a forlorn, unsocial, being, I became, once more, lively, active, enterprising,—the soul of all amusement, and the leader of every innocently mischievous frolic. At the close of another year I left school. I kept up a correspondence for some time with a few of my young friends, and my effusions were improved and polished by my paternal uncle.

CHAPTER V

This period, which I had anticipated with rapture, was soon clouded by the gradual decay, and premature death, of my revered and excellent guardian. He sustained a painful and tedious sickness with unshaken fortitude;—with more, with chearfulness. I knelt by his bedside on the day of his decease; and, while I bathed his hand with my tears, caught hope from the sweet, the placid, serenity of his countenance, and could not believe the terrors of dissolution near.

'The last sentiment of my heart,' said he, 'is gratitude to the Being who has given me so large a portion of good; and I resign my family into his hands with confidence.'

He awoke from a short slumber, a few minutes before his death.—'Emma,' said he, in a faint voice, (as I grasped his cold hand between both mine) turning upon me a mild, yet dying, eye, 'I have had a pleasant sleep—Be a good girl, and comfort your aunt!'—

He expired without a groan, or a struggle—'His death was the serene evening of a beautiful day!' I gazed on his lifeless remains, the day before their interment, and the features still wore the same placid, smiling benignity. I was then about fourteen years of age,—this first emotion of real sorrow rent my heart asunder!

The sensations of Mrs Melmoth were those of agonizing, suffocating anguish:—the fair prospect of domestic felicity was veiled for ever! This was the second strong impression which struck my opening mind. Many losses occurred, in consequence of foreign connections, in the settlement of Mr Melmoth's affairs.—The family found their fortunes scanty, and their expectations limited:—their numerous fair-professing acquaintance gradually deserted them, and they sunk into œconomical retirement; but they continued to be respectable, because they knew how to contract their wants, and to preserve their independence.

My aunt, oppressed with sorrow, could be roused only by settling the necessary plans for the future provision of her family. Occupied with these concerns, or absorbed in grief, we were left for some time to run wild. Months revolved ere the tender sorrows of Mrs Melmoth admitted of any mitigation: they at length yielded only to tender melancholy. My wonted amusements were no more; a deep gloom was spread over our once cheerful residence; my avidity for books daily increased; I subscribed to a circulating library, and frequently read, or rather devoured—little careful in the selection—from ten to fourteen novels in a week.

CHAPTER VI

My father satisfied himself, after the death of my beloved uncle, with making a short and formal visit of condolence to the family, and proposing either my return to school, or to pay an annual stipend (which Mr and Mrs Melmoth had hitherto invariably refused) for defraying the expences of my continuance and board with the amiable family by which I had been so kindly nurtured. I shrunk from the cold and careless air of a man whom I had never been able to teach my heart either to love or honour; and throwing my arms round the neck of my maternal aunt, murmured a supplication, mingled with convulsive sobs, that she would not desert me. She returned my caresses affectionately, and entreated my father to permit me to remain with her; adding, that it was her determination to endeavour to rouse and strengthen her mind, for the performance of those pressing duties—the education of her beloved children, among whom she had ever accounted her Emma—which now devolved wholly upon her.

My father made no objection to this request; but observed, that notwithstanding he had a very favourable opinion of her heart and understanding, and considered himself indebted to her, and to her deceased husband, for their goodness to Emma, he was nevertheless apprehensive that the girl had been weakened and spoiled by their indulgence;—that his own health was at present considerably injured;—that it was probable he might not survive many years;—in which case, he frankly confessed, he had enjoyed life too freely to be able to make much provision for his daughter. It would therefore, he conceived, be more judicious to prepare and strengthen my mind to encounter, with fortitude, some hardships and rude shocks, to which I might be exposed, than to foster a sensibility, which he already perceived, with regret, was but too acute. For which purpose, he desired I might spend one day in every week at his house in Berkley-square, when he should put such books into my hands [he had been informed I had a tolerable capacity] as he judged would be useful to me; and, in the intervals of his various occupations and amusements, assist me himself with occasional remarks and reflections. Any little accomplishments which Mrs Melmoth might judge necessary for, and suitable to, a young woman with a small fortune, and which required the assistance of a master, he would be obliged to her if she would procure for me, and call upon him to defray the additional expence.

He then, looking on his watch, and declaring he had already missed an appointment, took his leave, after naming Monday as the day on which he should constantly expect my attendance in Berkley-square.

Till he left the room I had not courage to raise my eyes from the ground—my feelings were harrowed up—the tone of his voice was discordant to my ears. The only idea that alleviated the horror of my weekly punishment (for so I considered the visits to Berkley-square) was the hope of reading new books, and of being suffered to range uncountroled through an extensive and valuable library, for such I had been assured was Mr Courtney's. I still retained my passion for adventurous tales, which, even while at school, I was enabled to gratify by means of one of the day-boarders, who procured for me romances from a neighbouring library, which at every interval of leisure I perused with inconceivable avidity.

CHAPTER VII

The following Monday I prepared to attend Mr Courtney. On arriving at his house, and announcing my name, a servant conducted me into his master's dressing-room. I appeared before him with trembling steps, downcast eyes, and an averted face.

'Look up, child!' said my father, in an imperious tone. 'If you are conscious of no crime, why all this ridiculous confusion?'

I struggled with my feelings: the tone and manner in which I was addressed gave me an indignant sensation:—a deeper suffusion than that of modesty, the glow of wounded pride, burnt in my cheeks:—I turned quick, gazed in the face of Mr Courtney with a steady eye, and spoke a few words, in a firm voice, importing—that I attended by his desire, and waited his direction.

He regarded me with somewhat less hauteur, and, while he finished dressing, interrogated me respecting the books I had read, and the impression they had left on my mind. I replied with simplicity, and without evasion. He soon discovered that my imagination had been left to wander unrestrained in the fairy fields of fiction; but that, of historical facts, and the science of the world, I was entirely ignorant.

'It is as I apprehended,' said he:—'your fancy requires a rein rather than a spur. Your studies, for the future, must be of a soberer nature, or I shall have you mistake my valet for a prince in disguise, my house for a haunted castle, and my rational care for your future welfare for barbarous tyranny.'

I felt a poignant and suffocating sensation, too complicated to bear analyzing, and followed Mr Courtney in silence to the library. My heart bounded when, on entering a spacious room, I perceived on either side a large and elegant assortment of books, regularly arranged in glass cases, and I longed to be left alone, to expatiate freely in these treasures of entertainment. But I soon discovered, to my inexpressible mortification, that the cases were locked, and that in this intellectual feast I was not to be my own purveyor. My father, after putting into my hands the lives of Plutarch, left me to my meditations; informing me, that he should probably dine at home with a few friends, at five o'clock, when he should expect my attendance at the table.

I opened my book languidly, after having examined through the glass doors the titles of those which were with-held from me. I felt a kind of disgust to what I considered as a task imposed, and read a few pages carelessly, gazing at intervals through the windows into the square.—But my attention, as I proceeded, was soon forcibly arrested, my curiosity excited, and my enthusiasm awakened. The hours passed rapidly—I perceived not their flight—and at five o'clock, when summoned to dinner, I went down into the dining-room, my mind pervaded with republican ardour, my sentiments elevated by a high-toned philosophy, and my bosom glowing with the virtues of patriotism.

I found with Mr Courtney company of both sexes, to whom he presented me on my entrance. Their easy compliments disconcerted me, and I shrunk, abashed, from the bold and curious eyes of the gentlemen. During the repast I ate little, but listened in silence to every thing that passed.

The theatres were the first topic of conversation, Venice Preserved had been acted the preceding evening, and from discussing the play, the conversation took a political turn. A gentleman that happened to be seated next me, who spoke fluently, looking around him every moment for approbation, with apparent self-applause, gave the discourse a tone of gallantry, declaring—'Pierre to be a noble fellow, and that the loss of a mistress was a sufficient excuse for treason and conspiracy, even though the country had been deluged in blood and involved in conflagration.'

'And the mistresses of all his fellow citizens destroyed of course;'—said a gentleman coolly, on the opposite side of the table.

Oh! that was not a consideration, every thing must give place when put in competition with certain feelings. 'What, young lady,' (suddenly turning to me) 'do you think a lover would not risque, who was in fear of losing you?'

Good God! what a question to an admirer of the grecian heroes! I started, and absolutely shuddered. I would have replied, but my words died away upon my lips in inarticulate murmurs. My father observed and enjoyed my distress.

'The worthies of whom you have been reading, Emma, lived in ancient times. Aristides the just, would have made but a poor figure among our modern men of fashion!'

'This lady reads, then,'—said our accomplished coxcomb—'Heavens, Mr Courtney! you will spoil all her feminine graces; knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman—born only for the soft solace of man! The mind of a young lady should be clear and unsullied, like a sheet of white paper, or her own fairer face: lines of thinking destroy the dimples of beauty; aping the reason of man, they lose the exquisite, fascinating charm, in which consists their true empire;—Then strongest, when most weak—

'Pshaw!' replied Mr Courtney, a little peevishly—'you will persuade Emma, that the age of chivalry is not yet over; and that giants and ravishers are as common now, as in the time of Charlemagne: a young woman of sense and spirit needs no other protection; do not flatter the girl into affectation and imbecility. If blank paper be your passion, you can be at no loss; the town will supply quires and reams.'

'There I differ from you,' said the gentleman on the opposite side of the table; 'to preserve the mind a blank, we must be both deaf and blind, for, while any inlet to perception remains, your paper will infallibly contract characters of some kind, or be blotted and scrawled!'

'For God's sake! do not let us begin to philosophise,' retorted his antagonist, who was not to be easily silenced.

'I agree with you,'—rejoined the other—'thinking is undoubtedly very laborious, and principle equally troublesome and impertinent.'

I looked at him as he finished speaking, and caught his eye for a moment; its expression methought was doubtful. The man of fashion continued to expatiate in rhetorical periods—He informed us, that he had fine feelings, but they never extended beyond selfish gratification. For his part, he had as much humanity as any man, for which reason he carefully avoided the scene or the tale of distress. He, likewise, had his opinions, but their pliability rendered them convenient to himself, and accommodating to his friends. He had courage to sustain fatigue and hardship, when, not his country, but vanity demanded the exertion. It was glorious to boast of having travelled two hundred miles in eight and forty hours, and sat up three nights, to be present, on two succeeding evenings, at a ball in distant counties.

'This man,' I said to myself, while I regarded him with a look of ineffable scorn—'takes a great deal of pains to render himself ridiculous, he surely must have a vile heart, or a contemptible opinion of mankind: if he be really the character he describes, he is a compound of atrocity and folly, and a pest to the world; if he slanders himself, what must be that state of society, the applause of which he persuades himself is to be thus acquired?' I sighed deeply;—in either case the reflection was melancholy;—my eyes enquired—'Am I to hate or to despise you?' I know not whether he understood their language, but he troubled me no more with his attentions.

I reflected a little too seriously:—I have since seen many a prating, superficial coxcomb, who talks to display his oratory—mere words—repeated by rote, to which few ideas are affixed, and which are uttered and received with equal apathy.

CHAPTER VIII

During three years, I continued my weekly visits to Berkley square; I was not always allowed to join the parties who assembled there, neither indeed would it have been proper, for they were a motley groupe; when permitted so to do, I collected materials for reflection. I had been educated by my aunt, in strict principles of religion; many of Mr Courtney's friends were men of wit and talents, who, occasionally, discussed important subjects with freedom and ability: I never ventured to mingle in the conversations, but I overcame my timidity sufficiently to behave with propriety and composure; I listened attentively to all that was said, and my curiosity was awakened to philosophic enquiries.

Mr Courtney now entrusted me with the keys of the bookcases, through which I ranged with ever new delight. I went through, by my father's direction, a course of historical reading, but I could never acquire a taste for this species of composition. Accounts of the early periods of states and empires, of the Grecian and Roman republics, I pursued with pleasure and enthusiasm: but when they became more complicated, grew corrupt, luxurious, licentious, perfidious, mercenary, I turned from them fatigued, and disgusted, and sought to recreate my spirits in the fairer regions of poetry and fiction.

My early associations rendered theology an interesting subject to me; I read ecclesiastical history, a detail of errors and crimes, and entered deeply into polemic divinity: my mind began to be emancipated, doubts had been suggested to it, I reasoned freely, endeavoured to arrange and methodize my opinions, and to trace them fearlessly through all their consequences: while from exercising my thoughts with freedom, I seemed to acquire new strength and dignity of character. I met with some of the writings of Descartes, and was seized with a passion for metaphysical enquiries. I began to think about the nature of the soul—whether it was a composition of the elements, the result of organized matter, or a subtle and etherial fire.

In the course of my researches, the Heloise of Rousseau fell into my hands.—Ah! with what transport, with what enthusiasm, did I peruse this dangerous, enchanting, work!—How shall I paint the sensations that were excited in my mind!—the pleasure I experienced approaches the limits of pain—it was tumult—all the ardour of my character was excited.—Mr Courtney, one day, surprised me weeping over the sorrows of the tender St Preux. He hastily snatched the book from my hand, and, carefully collecting the remaining volumes, carried them in silence to his chamber: but the impression made on my mind was never to be effaced—it was even productive of a long chain of consequences, that will continue to operate till the day of my death.

My time at this period passed rapidly and pleasantly. My father never treated me with affection; but the austerity of his manner gradually subsided. He gave me, occasionally, useful hints and instructions. Without feeling for him any tenderness, he inspired me with a degree of respect. The library was a source of lively and inexhaustible pleasure to my mind; and, when admitted to the table of Mr Courtney, some new character or sentiment frequently sharpened my attention, and afforded me subjects for future enquiry and meditation. I delighted to expatiate, when returning to the kind and hospitable mansion of my beloved aunt, (which I still considered as my home) on the various topics which I had collected in my little emigrations. I was listened to by my cousins with a pleasure that flattered my vanity, and looked up to as a kind of superior being;—a homage particularly gratifying to a young mind.

CHAPTER IX

The excellent woman, who had been my more than mother, took infinite pains to cure the foibles, which, like pernicious weeds, entangled themselves with, and sometimes threatened to choak, the embryo blossoms of my expanding mind. Ah! with what pleasure do I recall her beloved idea to my memory! Fostered by her maternal love, and guided by her mild reason, how placid, and how sweet, were my early days!—Why, my first, my tenderest friend, did I lose you at that critical period of life, when the harmless sports and occupations of childhood gave place to the pursuits, the passions and the errors of youth?—With the eloquence of affection, with gentle, yet impressive persuasion, thou mightest have checked the wild career of energetic feeling, which thou hast so often remarked with hope and terror.

As I entered my eighteenth year, I lost, by a premature death, this tender monitor. Never shall I forget her last emphatic, affectionate, caution.

'Beware, my dear Emma,' said this revered friend, 'beware of strengthening, by indulgence, those ardent and impetuous sensations, which, while they promise vigour of mind, fill me with apprehension for the virtue, for the happiness of my child. I wish not that the canker-worm, Distrust, should blast the fair fruit of your ripening virtues. The world contains many benevolent, many disinterested, spirits; but civilization is yet distempered and imperfect; the inequalities of society, by fostering artificial wants, and provoking jealous competitions, have generated selfish and hostile passions. Nature has been vainly provident for her offspring, while man, with mistaken avidity, grasping more than he has powers to enjoy, preys on his fellow man:—departing from simple virtues, and simple pleasures, in their stead, by common consent, has a wretched semblance been substituted. Endeavour to contract your wants, and aspire only to a rational independence; by exercising your faculties, still the importunate suggestions of your sensibility; preserve your sincerity, cherish the ingenuous warmth of unsophisticated feeling, but let discernment precede confidence. I tremble even for the excess of those virtues which I have laboured to cultivate in your lively and docile mind. If I could form a wish for longer life, it is only for my children, and that I might be to my Emma instead of reason, till her own stronger mind matures. I dread, lest the illusions of imagination should render those powers, which would give force to truth and virtue, the auxiliaries of passion. Learn to distinguish, with accuracy, the good and ill qualities of those with whom you may mingle: while you abhor the latter, separate the being from his errors; and while you revere the former, the moment that your reverence becomes personal, that moment, suspect that your judgment is in danger of becoming the dupe of your affections.'

Would to God that I had impressed upon my mind—that I had recalled to my remembrance more frequently—a lesson so important to a disposition like mine!—a continual victim to the enthusiasm of my feelings; incapable of approving, or disapproving, with moderation—the most poignant sufferings, even the study of mankind, have been insufficient to dissolve the powerful enchantment, to disentangle the close-twisted associations!—But I check this train of overwhelming reflection, that is every moment on the point of breaking the thread of my narration, and obtruding itself to my pen.

CHAPTER X

Mr Courtney did not long survive the guardian of my infancy:—his constitution had for some years been gradually impaired; and his death was hastened by a continuance of habitual dissipation, which he had not the resolution to relinquish, and to which his strength was no longer equal. It was an event I had long anticipated, and which I contemplated with a sensation of solemnity, rather than of grief. The ties of blood are weak, if not the mere chimeras of prejudice, unless sanctioned by reason, or cemented by habits of familiar and affectionate intercourse. Mr Courtney refusing the title of father, from a conviction that his conduct gave him no claim to this endearing appellation, had accustomed me to feel for him only the respect due to some talents and good qualities, which threw a veil over his faults. Courage and truth were the principles with which he endeavoured to inspire me;—precepts, which I gratefully acknowledge, and which forbid me to adopt the language of affection, when no responsive sympathies exist in the heart.

My eyes were yet moist with the tears that I had shed for the loss of my maternal friend, when I received a hasty summons to Berkley-square. A servant informed me, that his master was, at length, given over by his physicians, and wished to speak to Miss Courtney, before his strength and spirits were too much exhausted.

I neither felt, nor affected, surprize at this intelligence, but threw myself, without reply, into the carriage which had been dispatched for my conveyance.

On entering the house, a gloomy silence seemed to reign throughout the late festive apartments; but, as I had seldom been a partaker of the festivity, the contrast struck me less forcibly than it might otherwise have done. My name was announced, and I was conducted, by the housekeeper, to the chamber of her dying master, who, supported on pillows, breathed with difficulty, but appeared to be free from pain, and tolerably composed. I met the physician in the ante-chamber; who, on my requesting earnestly to know the situation of his patient, informed me—That an internal mortification had taken place, and that he could not survive many hours.

Approaching the bed, considerably shocked at the intelligence I had received, Mr Courtney, in a low and faint voice, desired me to draw a chair near him. I obeyed in silence.

'Emma,' said he, 'I am about to quit a world, in which I have experienced little sincere enjoyment; yet, I leave it reluctantly. Had I been more temperate in my pleasures, perhaps, they might have been less destructive, and more protracted. I begin to suspect, that I have made some great mistakes; but it is now too late for retraction, and I will not, in my last moments, contradict, by my example, the lesson of fortitude, with which it has been a part of my plan to inspire you. You have now, unprotected, the world to encounter; for, I will frankly confess, that my affection for you has not been strong enough to induce me to forego my own more immediate gratification: but I have never deceived you. Your mother, when she married, reserved for her private expences a thousand pounds, which, on her deathbed, she desired might be invested in the funds on your account. This request I religiously complied with, and there it has remained untouched; and, being purchased in your name, you may claim it whenever you please. I have appointed you no guardians; for, already in your nineteenth year and possessing an understanding superior to your sex and age, I chose to leave you unfettered, and at your own discretion. I spared from my pleasures what money was requisite to complete your education; for having no fortune to give you, and my health being precarious, I thought it just to afford you every advantage for the improvement of those talents which you evidently possess, and which must now enable you to make your way in the world; for the scanty pittance, that the interest of your fortune will produce, is, I doubt, insufficient for your support. Had I lived, it was my intention to have established you by marriage; but that is a scheme, to which, at present, I would not advise you to trust. Marriage, generally speaking, in the existing state of things, must of necessity be an affair of finance. My interest and introduction might have availed you something; but mere merit, wit, or beauty, stand in need of more powerful auxiliaries. My brother, Mr Morton[³], called on me this morning:—he has agreed, for the present, to receive you into his family, where you must endeavour to make yourself useful and agreeable, till you can fix on a better and more independent plan. Finding me in so low a state, your uncle would have waited a few days in town, to have seen the result, and in case of the worst, to have taken you down with him, but pressing business urged his departure. I would advise you, immediately after my decease, to set out for Morton Park. Proper persons are appointed to settle my affairs:—when every thing is turned into money, there will, I trust, be sufficient to discharge my just debts; but do not flatter yourself with the expectation of a surplus. Your presence here, when I am no more, will be equally unnecessary and improper.'

This was said at intervals, and with difficulty; when, seeming quite exhausted, he waved his hand for me to leave the room, and sunk into a sort of dose, or rather stupor, which continued till within some minutes of his decease.

Mr Courtney had been, what is called, a man of pleasure:—he had passed thro' life without ever loving any one but himself—intent, merely, on gratifying the humour of the moment. A superior education, and an attentive observance, not of rational, but, of social man, in an extensive commerce with the world, had sharpened his sagacity; but he was inaccessible to those kindlings of the affections—those glowings of admiration—inspired by real, or fancied, excellence, which never fail to expand and advance the minds of such as are capable of sketching, with a daring hand, the dangerous picture:—or of those philosophic and comprehensive views, which teach us to seek a reflected happiness in benevolent exertions for the welfare of others. My mother, I suspected, had been the victim of her husband's unkindness and neglect: wonder not, then, that my heart revolted when I would have given him the tender appellation of father! If he coldly acknowledged any little merits which I possessed, he regarded them rather with jealousy than approbation; for he felt that they tacitly reproached him.

I will make no comment on the closing scene of his life. Among the various emotions which had rapidly succeeded each other in my mind, during his last address, surprize had no place; I had not then his character to learn.

[3:] Mr Courtney's brother had taken the name of Morton, to qualify himself for the inheritance of an estate, bequeathed to him by a distant relation.

CHAPTER XI

The small pittance bequeathed to me was insufficient to preserve me from dependence.—Dependence!—I repeated to myself, and I felt my heart die within me. I revolved in my mind various plans for my future establishment.—I might, perhaps, be allowed to officiate, as an assistant, in the school where I had been placed in my childhood, with the mistress of which I still kept up an occasional correspondence; but this was a species of servitude, and my mind panted for freedom, for social intercourse, for scenes in motion, where the active curiosity of my temper might find a scope wherein to range and speculate. What could the interest of my little fortune afford? It would neither enable me to live alone, nor even to board in a family of any respectability. My beloved aunt was no more; her children were about to be dispersed, and to form various connections.

Cruel prejudices!—I exclaimed—hapless woman! Why was I not educated for commerce, for a profession, for labour? Why have I been rendered feeble and delicate by bodily constraint, and fastidious by artificial refinement? Why are we bound, by the habits of society, as with an adamantine chain? Why do we suffer ourselves to be confined within a magic circle, without daring, by a magnanimous effort, to dissolve the barbarous spell?

A child in the drama of the world, I knew not which way to turn, nor on what to determine. I wrote to Mr Morton, to enquire on what terms I was to be received by his family. If merely as a visitor for a few weeks, till I had time to digest my plans, I should meet, with pleasure, a gentleman whose character I had been taught to respect; but I should not consider myself as subject to controul. I ought, perhaps, to have been satisfied with Mr Morton's answer to my interrogatories.

He wished to embrace the daughter of his brother, his family would be happy to render Morton Park agreeable to her, as long as she should think proper to favour them by making it her residence. The young ladies expected both pleasure and improvement from the society of their accomplished kinswoman, &c.

I believe I was unreasonable, the style of this letter was civil, nay kind, and yet it appeared, to me, to want the vivifying principle—what shall I say?—dictated merely by the head, it reached not the heart.

The trials of my mind, I foreboded, were about to commence, I shrunk from the world I had been so willing to enter, for the rude storms of which I had been little fitted by the fostering tenderness of my early guardians. Those ardent feelings and lively expectations, with all the glowing landscapes which my mind had sketched of the varied pleasures of society, while in a measure secluded from its enjoyments, gradually melted into one deep, undistinguished shade. That sanguine ardour of temper, which had hitherto appeared the predominant feature of my character, now gave place to despondency. I wept, I suffered my tears to flow unrestrained: the solemnity of the late events had seized my spirits, and the approaching change filled me with solicitude. I wandered over the scenes of my past pleasures, and recalled to my remembrance, with a sad and tender luxury, a thousand little incidents, that derived all their importance from the impossibility of their renewal. I gazed on every object, for the last time—What is there in these words that awakens our fanaticisms? I could have done homage to these inanimate, and, till now, uninteresting objects; merely because I should see them no more.

How fantastic and how capricious are these sentiments! Ought I, or ought I not, to blush while I acknowledge them? My young friends, also, from whom I was about to separate myself!—how various might be our destinies, and how unconscious were we of the future! Happy ignorance, that by bringing the evils of life in succession, gradually inures us to their endurance.

CHAPTER XII

The hour at length came, when, harrassed in body and in mind, I set out for Morton Park. I travelled alone, and reached the end of my journey at close of day. I entreated Mr Morton, who hastened to hand me from the carriage, and welcome my arrival, that I might be permitted to retire to my apartment, pleading fatigue, and wishing to wave the ceremony of an introduction to the family till the next morning. My request was obligingly granted, and a servant ordered to attend me to my chamber.

Many years had elapsed since I had seen this family, and my judgment was then so immature, that our meeting at the breakfast table had with each of us, I believe, the force of a first impression. You know my fanaticism on these occasions. I will attempt an imperfect sketch of the groupe, assembled in the saloon, to whom I was severally presented on my entrance, by the lord of the domain. Mr Morton, himself, to whom precedence is due, seemed to be about fifty years of age, was of the middle stature, his features regular, and his countenance placid: he spoke but little, but that little was always mild and often judicious. He appeared not to be void of benevolent affections, and had the character of a humane landlord, but his virtues were, in a great measure, sunk in an habitual indolence of temper; he would sometimes sacrifice his principles to his repose, though never to his interest. His lady—no, I will not describe her; her character will, it may be, unfold itself to you in future—Suffice it to say, that her person was gross, her voice loud and discordant, and her features rugged: she affected an air of openness and pleasantry; It may be prejudiced, perhaps she did not affect it. Sarah Morton, the eldest of the daughters, was about my age, she was under the middle height, fair, plump, loquacious; there was a childish levity in her accent and manners, which impressed strangers with an unfavourable opinion of her understanding, but it was an acquired manner, for she was shrewd and sensible. Ann, the second daughter was a little lively brunette, with sharp features and sparkling black eyes; volatile, giddy, vain and thoughtless, but good humoured and pretty. The other children were much younger.

Two gentlemen joined us at our repast, visitors at Morton park. Mr Francis, the elder, was in his fortieth year, his figure slender and delicate, his eye piercing, and his manner impressive. It occurred to me, that I had somewhere seen him before, and, after a few minutes recollection, I recognized in him a gentleman who had occasionally visited at my father's, and whom I have already mentioned as the antagonist of the man of fashion, whose sentiments and volubility excited my youthful astonishment and indignation. Mr Montague the younger, the son of a medical gentleman residing in a neighbouring county, seemed about one and twenty, tall, elegantly formed, full of fire and vivacity, with imperious manners, an impetuous temper, and stubborn prejudices.

The introduction of a stranger generally throws some kind of restraint over a company; a break is made in their usual topics and associations, till the disposition and habits of the intruder have, in some degree, unfolded themselves. Mrs Morton took upon herself to entertain; she exhibited her talents on various subjects, with apparent self-approbation, till a few keen remarks from Mr Francis arrested the torrent of her eloquence. The young ladies scrutinized me with attention; even the lively Ann, while she minutely observed me, ceased to court play from Mr Montague, who attended to me with the air, and addressed me in the language of gallantry. I sometimes caught the penetrating eye of Mr Francis, and his glance seemed to search the soul.

After breakfast, Mr Morton having retired to his dressing-room, and the younger part of the company strolling into the pleasure grounds, whither I declined accompanying them, I took an opportunity, being ever desirous of active and useful employment, of offering my assistance to Mrs Morton, in the education of her younger children; proposing to instruct them in the rudiments either of music, drawing, French, or any other accomplishment, for which my own education had capacitated me. Mr Francis remained standing in a window, his back towards us, with a book in his hand, on which he seemed intent.

'If,' replied Mrs Morton, 'it is your wish, Miss Courtney, to procure the situation of governess in any gentleman's family, and it is certainly a very laudable desire in a young woman of your small fortune, Mr Morton will, I have no doubt, have it in his power to recommend you: but in the education of my family, I desire no interference; it is an important task, and I have my peculiar notions on the subject: their expectations are not great, and your elegant accomplishments might unfit them for their future, probable, stations.'

The manner in which this speech was uttered spoke yet more forcibly than the words.—I felt my cheeks glow.

'I was not asking favours, Madam, I was only desirous of being useful.'

'It is a pity, then, that your discernment had not corrected your vanity.'

The housekeeper entering, to consult her mistress on some domestic occasion, Mrs Morton quitted the room. Mr Francis closed his book, turned round, and gazed earnestly in my face: before sufficiently mortified, his observation, which I felt at this moment oppressive, did not relieve me. I attempted to escape, but, seizing my hand, he detained me by a kind of gentle violence.

'And why this confusion, my dear Miss Courtney; do you blush for having acted with propriety and spirit?' I burst into tears—I could not help it—'How weak is this, how unworthy of the good sense you have just manifested.'

'I confess it, but I feel myself, at this moment, a poor, a friendless, an unprotected being.'

'What prejudices! poverty is neither criminal, nor disgraceful; you will not want friends, while you continue to deserve them; and as for protection,' (and he smiled) 'I had not expected from Emma Courtney's spirited letter to Mr Morton, and equally proper retort to his lady's impertinence, so plaintive, so feminine a complaint.—You have talents, cultivate them, and learn to rest on your own powers.'

'I thank you for your reproof, and solicit your future lessons.'

'Can you bear the truth?'

'Try me.'

'Have you not cherished a false pride?'

It is too true, thought I, and I sighed.

'How shall I cure this foible?'

'By self-examination, by resolution, and perseverance.'

'Be to me instead of a conscience.'

'What, then, is become of your own?'

'Prejudice, I doubt, has blinded and warped it.'

'I suspect so; but you have energy and candor, and are not, I hope, of a temper to despond.'

The return of the family terminated this singular conversation. The young ladies rallied me, on being found tête-à-tête with the philosopher; Mr Montague, I thought looked displeased. I stole out; while the party were dressing for dinner, and rambled into the gardens, which were extensive, and laid out with taste.

CHAPTER XIII

I judged my visit here would not be very long. I scarcely knew whether I was most inclined to like or to fear Mr Francis, but I determined, if possible, to cultivate his friendship. I interrogated myself again and again—From whence this restlessness, this languor, this disgust, with all I hear and see?—Why do I feel wayward, querulous, fastidious? Mr Morton's family had no hearts; they appeared to want a sense, that preyed incessantly on mine; I could not love them, and my heart panted to expand its sensations.

Sarah and Ann became jealous of me, and of each other; the haughty, yet susceptible, Montague addressed each in turn, with a homage equally fervent for the moment, and equally transient. This young man was bold, ardent, romantic, and enterprizing, but blown about by every gust of passion, he appeared each succeeding moment a different character: with a glowing and rapid imagination, he had never given himself time to reason, to compare, to acquire principles: following the bent of a raised, yet capricious fancy, he was ever in pursuit of meteors, that led him into mischief, or phantoms, that dissolved at his approach.

Had my mind been more assured and at ease, I could have amused myself with the whimsical flights of this eccentric being—One hour, attracted by the sportive graces of Ann, he played with and caressed her, while the minutes flew rapidly on the light wing of amusement, and, till reminded by the grave countenance of Mr Morton, seemed to forget that any other person was present. The next minute, disgusted by her frivolity, all his attention was absorbed by the less fascinating, but more artful and ingenious, Sarah. Then, quitting them both, he would pursue my steps, break in upon my meditations, and haunt my retreats, from whence, when not disposed to be entertained by his caprice, I found it not difficult to drive him, by attacking some of his various prejudices:—accustomed to feel, and not to reason, his tastes and opinions were vehement and uncontroulable.

From this society, so uncongenial to my reflecting, reasoning, mind, I found some resource in the conversation of Mr Francis. The pride of Montague was evidently piqued by the decided preference which I gave to the company of his friend; but his homage, or his resentment, were alike indifferent to me: accustomed to speak and act from my convictions, I was but little solicitous respecting the opinion of others. My understanding was exercised by attending to the observations of Mr Francis, and by discussing the questions to which they led; yet it was exercised without being gratified: he opposed and bewildered me, convicted me of error, and harrassed me with doubt.

Mr Francis soon after prepared to return to town. I was affected at the idea of his departure; and felt, that in losing his society, I should be deprived of my only rational recreation, and should again be exposed to Mrs Morton's illiberal attacks, who appeared to have marked me out for her victim, though at present restrained by the presence of a man, who had found means to inspire, even her, with some degree of respect.

Mr Francis, on the evening preceding the day on which he purposed leaving Morton Park, passing under the open window of my chamber, in which I was sitting with a book to enjoy the refreshing breeze, invited me to come down, and accompany him in a ramble. I immediately complied with his request, and joined him in a few minutes, with a countenance clouded with regret at the idea of his quitting us.

'You are going,' said I, as I gave him my hand (which he passed under his arm), 'and I lose my friend and counsellor.'

'Your concern is obliging; but you are capable of standing alone, and your mind, by so doing, will acquire strength.'

'I feel as if this would not be the case: the world appears to me a thorny and pathless wilderness; I step with caution, and look around me with dread.—That I require protection and assistance is, I confess, a proof of weakness, but it is nevertheless true.'

'Mr Montague,' replied he, with some degree of archness in his tone and manner, 'is a gallant knight, a pattern of chivalry, and appears to be particularly calculated for the defender of distressed damsels!'

'I have no inclination to trust myself to the guidance of one, who seems himself entangled in an inextricable maze of error, and whose versatile character affords little basis for confidence.'

'Tell me what it is you fear;—are your apprehensions founded in reason?'

'Recollect my youth, my sex, and my precarious situation.'

'I thought you contemned the plea of sex, as a sanction for weakness!'

'Though I disallow it as a natural, I admit it as an artificial, plea.'

'Explain yourself.'

'The character, you tell me, is modified by circumstances: the customs of society, then, have enslaved, enervated, and degraded woman.'

'I understand you: there is truth in your remark, though you have given it undue force.'

I hesitated—my heart was full—I felt as if there were many things which I wished to say; but, however paradoxical, the manners of Mr Francis repressed, while they invited, confidence. I respected his reason, but I doubted whether I could inspire him with sympathy, or make him fully comprehend my feelings. I conceived I could express myself with more freedom on paper; but I had not courage to request a correspondence, when he was silent on the subject. That it would be a source of improvement to me, I could not doubt, but prejudice with-held me from making the proposal. He looked at me, and perceived my mind struggling with a suggestion, to which it dared not give utterance: he suspected the truth, but was unwilling to disturb the operations of my understanding. We walked for some time in silence:—my companion struck into a path that led towards the house—listened to the village clock as it struck nine—and observed, the hour grew late. He had distinguished me, and I was flattered by that distinction; he had supported me against the arrogance of Mrs Morton, retorted the sly sarcasms of Sarah, and even helped to keep the impetuous Montague in awe, and obliged him to rein in his offensive spirit, every moment on the brink of outrage. My heart, formed for grateful attachment, taking, in one instant, a hasty retrospect of the past, and a rapid glance into futurity, experienced at that moment so desolating a pang, that I endeavoured in vain to repress its sensations, and burst into a flood of tears. Mr Francis suddenly stopped, appeared moved, and, with a benevolent aspect and soothing accents, enquired into the cause of an emotion so sudden and unexpected. I wept a few minutes in silence, and my spirits seemed, in some measure, relieved.

'I weep,' (said I), 'because I am friendless; to be esteemed and cherished is necessary to my existence; I am an alien in the family where I at present reside, I cannot remain here much longer, and to whom, and whither, shall I go?'

He took my hand—'I will not, at present, say all that it might be proper to say, because I perceive your mind is in a feeble state;—My affairs call me to London;—yet, there is a method of conversing at a distance.'

I eagerly availed myself of this suggestion, which I had wished, without having the courage to propose.

'Will you, then, allow me, through the medium of pen and paper, to address, to consult you, as I may see occasion?'

'Will I? yes, most cheerfully! Propose your doubts and state your difficulties, and we shall see,' (smiling) 'whether they admit of a solution.'

Thanking him, I engaged to avail myself of this permission, and we proceeded slowly to the house, and joined the party in the supper room. I never once thought of my red and swoln eyes, till Sarah, glancing a look half curious, half sarcastic, towards me, exclaimed from Shakespear, in an affected tone,

'Parting is such sweet sorrow!'

Mr Francis looked at her sternly, she blushed and was silent; Mr Montague was captious; Ann mortified, that she could not by her little tricks gain his attention. Mrs Morton sat wrapped in mock dignity; while Mr Morton, and his philosophic friend, canvassed the principles upon which an horizontal mill was about to be constructed on the estate of the former. After a short and scanty meal, I retired to my apartment, determined to rise early the next morning, and make breakfast for my friend before his departure.

CHAPTER XIV

Mr Francis had ordered his horse to be ready at five o'clock. I left my chamber at four, to have the pleasure of preparing for him the last friendly repast, and of saying farewel. He was serene and chearful as usual, I somewhat more pensive; we parted with great cordiality, he gave me his address in town, and engaged me to write to him shortly. I accompanied him through the Park to the porter's lodge, where the servant and horses waited his coming. My eyes glistened as I bade him adieu, and reiterated my wishes for his safety and prosperity, while his features softened into a more than usual benignity, as he returned my salutation.

I wandered thoughtfully back towards the house, but the rich purple that began to illumine the east, the harbinger of the rising sun, the freshness of the morning air, the soft dews which already glittered on every fragrant plant and flower, the solemn stillness, so grateful to the reflecting mind, that pervaded the scene, induced me to prolong my walk. Every object appeared in unison with my feelings, my heart swelled with devotional affections, it aspired to the Author of nature. After having bewildered ourselves amid systems and theories, religion, in such situations, returns to the susceptible mind as a sentiment rather than as a principle. A passing cloud let fall a gentle, drizzling shower; sheltered beneath the leafy umbrage of a spreading oak, I rather heard than felt it; yet, the coolness it diffused seemed to quench those ardent emotions, which are but too congenial with my disposition, while the tumult of the passions subsided into a delicious tranquillity.

How mutable are human beings!—A very few hours converted this sublime complacency into perturbation and tumult. Having extended my walk beyond its accustomed limits, on my return, I retired, somewhat fatigued to my apartment, and devoted the morning to my studies. At the dinner hour I joined the family, each individual of which seemed wrapped up in reserve, scarcely deigning to practise the common ceremonies of the occasion. I was not sufficiently interested in the cause of these appearances to make any enquiries, and willingly resigned myself, in the intervals of the entertainment, to meditation.

When the table was cleared, and the servants had withdrawn, perceiving the party not sociably inclined, I was about to retire—when Mrs Morton observed, with features full of a meaning which I did not comprehend, that—

'Their guest, Mr Francis, had, no doubt, left Morton Park gratefully impressed by the kindness of Miss Courtney.'

Montague reddened—bit his lips—got up—and sat down again. The young ladies wore an air not perfectly good-humoured, and a little triumphant. Mr Morton looked very solemn.

'I hope so, Madam,' I replied, somewhat carelessly. 'I felt myself indebted to Mr Francis for his civilities, and was solicitous to make him all the return in my power—I wish that power had been enlarged.'

She held up her hands and eyes with an affected, and ridiculous, gesture.

'Mr Francis,' said Montague, abruptly, 'is very happy in having inspired you with sentiments so partial.'

'I am not partial—I am merely just. Mr Francis appeared to me a rational man, and my understanding was exercised and gratified by his conversation.'

I was about to proceed, but my uncle (who seemed to have been tutored for the occasion) interrupted me with much gravity.

'You are but little acquainted, Emma, with the customs of society; there is great indecorum in a young lady's making these distinctions.'

'What distinctions, my dear Sir!—in prefering a reasonable man to fools and coxcombs.'

'Forgive me, my dear—you have a quick wit, but you want experience. I am informed, that you breakfasted with Mr Francis this morning, and attended him through the Park:—this, with your late walk yesterday evening, and evident emotion on your return, let me tell you, child, wears an indecorous appearance:—the world is justly attentive to the conduct of young women, and too apt to be censorious.'

I looked round me with unaffected surprize—'Good God!—did I suppose, in this family, it was necessary to be upon my guard against malicious constructions?'

'Pray,'—interrupted Sarah, pertly—'would you not have expressed some surprize, had I shewed Mr Montague similar attentions?'

I looked at her, I believe, a little too contemptuously.—'Whatever sentiments might have been excited in my mind by the attentions of Miss Morton to Mr Montague, surprize, assuredly, would not have been among them.'

She coloured, and Montague's passions began to rise. I stopped him at the beginning of an impertinent harangue, by observing—

'That I did not think myself accountable to him for my conduct;—before I should be solicitous respecting his opinions, he must give me better reasons, than he had hitherto done, to respect his judgment.'

Ann wept, and prattled something, to which nobody thought it worth while to attend.

'Well, Sir,' continued I, turning to Mr Morton, 'be pleased to give me, in detail, what you have to alledge, that I may be enabled to justify myself.'

'Will you allow me to ask you a question?'

'Most certainly.'

'Has Mr Francis engaged you to correspond with him?'

I was silent a few moments.

'You hesitate!'

'Only, Sir, how to answer your question.—I certainly intend myself the pleasure of addressing Mr Francis on paper; but I cannot strictly say he engaged me so to do, as it was a proposal he was led to make, by conjecturing my wishes on the subject.'

Again, Mrs Morton, with uplifted hands and eyes—'What effrontery!'

I seemed not to hear her.—'Have you any thing more to say, my dear uncle?'

'You are a strange girl. It would not, perhaps, be proper before this company to enquire'—and he stopped.

'Any thing is proper, Sir, to enquire of me, and in any company—I have no reserves, no secrets.'

'Well, then, I think it necessary to inform you, that, though a sensible, well educated, liberal-minded, man, Mr Francis has neither estate nor fortune, nor does he practise any lucrative profession.'

'I am sorry for it, on his own account; and for those whom his generosity might benefit. But, what is it to me?'

'You affect to misunderstand me.'

'I affect nothing.'

'I will speak more plainly:—Has he made you any proposals?'

The purport of this solemn, but ludicrous, preparation, at once flashed upon my mind, the first time the thought had ever occurred. I laughed—I could not help it.

'I considered Mr Francis as a philosopher, and not as a lover. Does this satisfy you, Sir?'

My uncle's features, in spite of himself, relaxed into a half-smile.

'Very platonic—sweet simplicity!'—drauled out Mrs Morton, in ironical accents.

'I will not be insulted, Mr Morton!' quitting my seat, and rising in temper.—'I consider myself, merely, as your visitant, and not as responsible to any one for my actions. Conscious of purity of intention, and superior to all disguise or evasion, I was not aware of these feminine, indelicate, unfriendly suggestions. If this behaviour be a specimen of what I am to expect in the world—the world may do its will—but I will never be its slave: while I have strength of mind to form principles, and courage to act upon them, I am determined to preserve my freedom, and trust to the general candour and good sense of mankind to appreciate me justly. As the brother of my late father, and as entitled to respect from your own kind intentions, I am willing to enter into any explanations, which you, Sir, may think necessary:—neither my motives, nor my actions, have ever yet shrunk from investigation. Will you permit me to attend you in your library? It is not my intention to intrude longer on your hospitality, and I could wish to avail myself of your experience and counsels respecting my future destination.'

Mr Morton, at my request, withdrew with me into the library, where I quickly removed from his mind those injurious suspicions with which Mrs Morton had laboured to inspire him. He would not hear of my removal from the Park—apologized for what had passed—assured me of his friendship and protection—and entreated me to consider his house as my home. There was an honest warmth and sincerity in his manner, that sensibly affected me; I could have wept; and I engaged, at his repeated request, not to think, at present, of withdrawing myself from his protection. Thus we separated.

How were the virtues of this really good man tarnished by an unsuitable connection! In the giddy hours of youth, we thoughtlessly rush into engagements, that fetter our minds, and affect our future characters, without reflecting on the important consequences of our conduct. This is a subject on which I have had occasion to reflect deeply; yet, alas! my own boasted reason has been, but too often, the dupe of my imagination.

CHAPTER XV

Nothing, here, occupied my heart—a heart to which it was necessary to love and admire. I had suffered myself to be irritated—the tumult of my spirits did not easily subside—I was mortified at the reflection—I had believed myself armed with patience and fortitude, but my philosophy was swept before the impetuous emotions of my passions like chaff before the whirlwind. I took up my pen to calm my spirits, and addressed myself to the man who had been, unconsciously, the occasion of these vexations.—My swelling heart needed the relief of communication.

TO MR FRANCIS

'I Sought earnestly for the privilege of addressing you on paper. My mind seemed to overflow with a thousand sentiments, that I had not the courage to express in words; but now, when the period is arrived, that I can take up my pen, unawed by your penetrating glance, unchecked by your poignant reply, and pour out my spirit before you, I feel as if its emotions were too wayward, too visionary, too contradictory, to merit your attention.

'Every thing I see and hear is a disappointment to me:—brought up in retirement—conversing only with books—dwelling with ardour on the great characters, and heroic actions, of antiquity, all my ideas of honour and distinction were associated with those of virtue and talents. I conceived, that the pursuit of truth, and the advancement of reason, were the grand objects of universal attention, and I panted to do homage to those superior minds, who, teaching mankind to be wise, would at length lead them to happiness. Accustomed to think, to feel, to kindle into action, I am at a loss to understand the distinction between theory and practice, which every one seems eager to inculcate, as if the degrading and melancholy intelligence, which fills my soul with despondency, and pervades my understanding with gloom, was to them a subject of exultation.

'Is virtue, then, a chimera—does it exist only in the regions of romance?—Have we any interest in finding our fellow creatures weak and miserable?—Is the Being who formed them unjust, capricious, impotent, or tyrannical?

'Answer these questions, that press heavily on my mind, that dart across it, in its brightest moments, clouding its sun-shine with a thick and impenetrable darkness. Must the benevolent emotions, which I have hitherto delighted to cherish, turn into misanthropy—must the fervent and social affections of my heart give place to inanity, to apathy—must the activity of a curious and vigorous mind sink into torpor and abhorred vacuity?

'While they teach me to distrust the existence of virtue, they endeavour to impose on me, in its stead, a fictitious semblance; and to substitute, for the pure gold of truth, a paltry tinsel. It is in vain I ask—what have those to do with "seeming," who still retain "that which passeth shew?" However my actions may be corrupted by the contagious example of the world, may I still hold fast my integrity, and disdain to wear the appearance of virtue, when the substance shall no longer exist.

'To admire, to esteem, to love, are congenial to my nature—I am unhappy, because these affections are not called into exercise. To venerate abstract perfection, requires too vigorous an exertion of the mental powers—I would see virtue exemplified, I would love it in my fellow creatures—I would catch the glorious enthusiasm, and rise from created to uncreated excellence.

'I am perplexed with doubts; relieve the wanderings of my mind, solve the difficulties by which it is agitated, prepare me for the world which is before me. The prospect, no longer beaming with light, no longer glowing with a thousand vivid hues, is overspread with mists, which the mind's eye vainly attempts to penetrate. I would feel, again, the value of existence, the worth of rectitude, the certainty of truth, the blessing of hope! Ah! tell me not—that the gay expectations of youth have been the meteors of fancy, the visions of a romantic and distempered imagination! If I must not live to realize them, I would not live at all.

'My harrassed mind turns to you! You will not ridicule its scruples—you will, at least, deign to reason with me, and, in the exercise of my understanding, I shall experience a temporary relief from the sensations which devour me, the suspicions that distress me, and which spread over futurity a fearful veil.

'Emma.'

I walked to the next market town, and left my letter at the post-house,—I waited impatiently for a reply; my mind wanted impression, and sunk into languor. The answer, which arrived in a few days, was kind, because it was prompt, my sickly mind required a speedy remedy.

TO EMMA COURTNEY.

'Why will you thus take things in masses, and continually dwell in extremes? You deceive yourself; instead of cultivating your reason, you are fostering an excessive sensibility, a fastidious delicacy. It is the business of reason to compare, to separate, to discriminate. Is there no medium—extraordinary exertions are only called forth by extraordinary contingences;—because every human being is not a hero, are we then to distrust the existence of virtue?

'The mind is modified by the circumstances in which it is placed, by the accidents of birth and education; the constitutions of society are all, as yet, imperfect; they have generated, and perpetuated, many mistakes—the consequences of those mistakes will, eventually, carry with them their antidote, the seeds of reproduction are, even, visible in their decay. The growth of reason is slow, but not the less sure; the increase of knowledge must necessarily prepare the way for the increase of virtue and happiness.

'Look back upon the early periods of society, and, taking a retrospective view of what has been done, amidst the interruptions of barbarous inroads, falling empires, and palsying despotism, calculate what yet may be achieved: while the causes, which have hitherto impeded the progress of civilization, must continue to decrease, in an accelerated ration, with the wide, and still wider, diffusion of truth.

'We may trace most of the faults, and the miseries of mankind, to the vices and errors of political institutions, their permanency having been their radical defect. Like children, we have dreamt, that what gratifies our desires, or contributes to our convenience, to-day, will prove equally useful and satisfactory to-morrow, without reflecting on the growth of the body, the change of humours, the new objects, and the new situations, which every succeeding hour brings in its train. That immutability, which constitutes the perfection of what we (from the poverty of language) term the divine mind, would inevitably be the bane of creatures liable to error; it is of the constancy, rather than of the fickleness, of human beings, that we have reason to complain.

'Every improvement must be the result of successive experiments, this has been found true in natural science, and it must be universally applied to be universally beneficial. Bigotry, whether religious, political, moral, or commercial, is the canker-worm at the root of the tree of knowledge and of virtue. The wildest speculations are less mischievous than the torpid state of error: he, who tamely resigns his understanding to the guidance of another, sinks at once, from the dignity of a rational being, to a mechanical puppet, moved at pleasure on the wires of the artful operator.—Imposition is the principle and support of every varied description of tyranny, whether civil or ecclesiastical, moral or mental; its baneful consequence is to degrade both him who is imposed on, and him who imposes. Obedience, is a word, which ought never to have had existence: as we recede from conviction, and languidly resign ourselves to any foreign authority, we quench the principle of action, of virtue, of reason;—we bear about the semblance of humanity, but the spirit is fled.

'These are truths, which will slowly, but ultimately, prevail; in the splendour of which, the whole fabric of superstition will gradually fade and melt away. The world, like every individual, has its progress from infancy to maturity—How many follies do we commit in childhood? how many errors are we precipitated into by the fervour and inexperience of youth! Is not every stable principle acquired through innumerable mistakes—can you wonder, that in society, amidst the aggregate of jarring interests and passions, reformation is so tardy? Though civilization has been impeded by innumerable obstacles, even these help to carry on the great work: empires may be overturned, and the arts scattered, but not lost. The hordes of barbarians, which overwhelmed ancient Rome, adopted at length the religion, the laws, and the improvements of the vanquished, as Rome had before done those of Greece. As the stone, which, thrown into the water, spreads circles still more and more extended;—or (to adopt the gospel similitude) as the grain of mustard seed, growing up into a large tree, shelters the fowls of heaven in its branches—so will knowledge, at length, diffuse itself, till it covers the whole earth.

'When the minds of men are changed, the system of things will also change; but these changes, though active and incessant, must be gradual. Reason will fall softly, and almost imperceptibly, like a gentle shower of dews, fructifying the soil, and preparing it for future harvests. Let us not resemble the ambitious shepherd, who, calling for the accumulated waters of the Nile upon his lands, was, with his flock, swept away in the impetuous torrent.

'You ask, whether—because human beings are still imperfect—you are to resign your benevolence, and to cherish misanthropy? What a question! Would you hate the inhabitants of an hospital for being infected with a pestilential disorder? Let us remember, that vice originates in mistakes of the understanding, and that, he who seeks happiness by means contradictory and destructive, is emphatically the sinner. Our duties, then, are obvious—If selfish and violent passions have been generated by the inequalities of society, we must labour to counteract them, by endeavouring to combat prejudice, to expand the mind, to give comprehensive views, to teach mankind their true interest, and to lead them to habits of goodness and greatness. Every prejudice conquered, every mistake rectified, every individual improved, is an advance upon the great scale of virtue and happiness.

'Let it, then, be your noblest ambition to co-operate with, to join your efforts, to those of philosophers and sages, the benefactors of mankind. To waste our time in useless repinings is equally weak and vain; every one in his sphere may do something; each has a little circle where his influence will be availing. Correct your own errors, which are various—weeds in a luxuriant soil—and you will have done something towards the general reformation. But you are able to do more;—be vigilant, be active, beware of the illusions of fancy! I suspect, that you will have much to suffer—may you, at length, reap the fruits of a wholesome, though it should be a bitter, experience.

'—— Francis.'

I perused the letter, I had received, again and again; it awakened a train of interesting reflections, and my spirits became tranquillized.

CHAPTER XVI

Early one fine morning, Ann tapped gently at the door of my chamber; I had already risen, and invited her to enter.

'Would I accompany her to breakfast, with a widow lady, who resided in a village about two miles from Morton Park, an occasional visitant in the family, a lady with whom, she was certain, I should be charmed.'

I smiled at her ardour, thanked her for her kindness, and readily agreed to her proposal. We strolled together through an adjacent wood, which, by a shady and winding path, conducted us towards the residence of this vaunted favourite of my little companion.

On our way, she entertained me with a slight sketch of the history of Mrs Harley and her family. She was the widow of a merchant, who was supposed to possess great property; but, practising occasionally as an underwriter, a considerable capture by the enemy (during war time) of some rich ships, reduced his fortune; and, by the consequent anxiety, completely destroyed a before debilitated constitution. He died in a few weeks after the confirmation of his loss, and, having neglected to make a will, a freehold estate of some value, which was all that remained of his effects, devolved of course to his eldest son; his two younger sons and three daughters being left wholly unprovided for. Augustus Harley, the heir, immediately sold the estate, and divided the produce, in equal shares, between each individual of the family. His brothers had been educated for commerce, and were enabled, through the generous kindness of Augustus, to carry on, with advantage and reputation, their respective occupations; the sisters were, soon after, eligibly married. Augustus, who had been educated for the law, disgusted with its chicanery, relinquished the profession, content to restrain his expences within the limits of a narrow income. This income had since received an increase, by the bequest of a distant relation, a man of a whimsical character, who had married, early in life, a beautiful woman, for love; but his wife having eloped from him with an officer, and, in the course of the intrigue, practised a variety of deceptions, he had retired disgusted from society, cherishing a misanthropical spirit: and, on his decease, bequeathed an annual sum of four hundred pounds to Augustus Harley (to whom in his childhood he had been particularly attached) on condition of his remaining unmarried. On his marriage, or death, this legacy passed into another branch of the family. On this acquisition Augustus determined on making the tour of Europe; and, after travelling on the continent for three years, on his return to his native country, alternately resided, either in the village of——, with his mother, or in the metropolis, where he divided his time, between liberal studies, and rational recreation. His visits to the country had, of late, been shorter and less frequent: he was the idol of his mother, and universally respected by his acquaintance, for his noble and generous conduct.—'Ah!' (added the lively narrator) 'could you but see Augustus Harley, you would, infallibly, lose your heart—so frank, so pleasant, so ingenuous are his manners, so intrepid, and yet so humane! Montague is a fine gentleman, but Augustus Harley is more—he is a man!'

She began to grow eloquent on this, apparently, exhaustless theme, nor did she cease her panegyric till we came in view of Mrs Harley's mansion.

'You will love the mother as well as the son,' continued this agreeable prattler, 'when you come to know her; she is very good and very sensible.'

Drawing near the house, she tripped from me, to enquire if its mistress had yet risen.

A small white tenement, half obscured in shrubbery, on a verdant lawn, of dimensions equally modest, situated on the side of a hill, and commanding an extensive and variegated prospect, was too interesting and picturesque an object, not to engage for some moments my attention. The image of Augustus, also, which my lively companion had pourtrayed with more than her usual vivacity, played in my fancy—my heart paid involuntary homage to virtue, and I entered the mansion of Mrs Harley with a swelling emotion, made up of complicated feelings—half respectful, half tender—sentiments, too mingled to be distinctly traced. I was introduced into a room that overlooked a pleasant garden, and which the servant called a library. It was hung with green paper, the carpet the same colour, green venetian blinds to the windows, a sopha and chairs covered with white dimity; some drawings and engravings hung on the walls, arranged with exact symmetry; on one side of the room stood a grand piano-forte, opposite to which, was a handsome book-case, filled with books, elegantly bound; in the middle of the apartment was placed a table, covered with a green cloth, on which was a reading desk, some books and pamphlets, with implements for writing and drawing. Nothing seemed costly, yet neatness, order, and taste, appeared through the whole apartment, bespeaking the elegant and cultivated mind of the owner.

After amusing myself for a short time, in this charming retirement, I was summoned by Ann to the breakfast room, where Mrs Harley awaited me. I was interested, at the first glance, in favour of this amiable woman—she appeared to be near fifty, her person agreeable, her countenance animated, her address engaging, and her manners polished. Mutually pleased with each other, the hours passed rapidly; and, till reminded by a significant look from my little friend, I was unconscious, that I had made my visit of an unreasonable length.

Mrs Harley spoke much of her son, he was the darling and the pride of her heart; she lamented the distance that separated them, and wished, that her health, and his tenderness, would allow of her residence with him in London. When conversing on this favourite topic, a glow enlivened her countenance, and her eyes sparkled with a humid brightness. I was affected by her maternal love—tender remembrances, and painful comparisons, crouded into my mind—a tear fell, that would not be twinkled away—she observed it, and seemed to feel its meaning; she held out her hand to me, I took it and pressed it to my lips. At parting, she entreated me speedily to renew my visit, to come often without ceremony—I should cheer her solitude—my sympathy, for she perceived I had a feeling heart, would help to console her in the absence of her Augustus.

CHAPTER XVII

On our way home, Ann was in high spirits, congratulating herself upon her sagacity.

'Mrs Harley,' (said she, archly leering in my face) 'will console you for the departure of Mr Francis.'

I smiled without replying. At dinner our visit of the morning was canvassed (Ann had wished me to conceal it, but this I positively refused). Mr Morton spoke of Mrs Harley and her son with great respect, Mrs Morton with a sarcastic sneer, accompanied with a reprimand to her daughter, for the improper liberty she had taken.

I quitted the table, immediately after the desert, to stifle my disgust, and, taking a book, wandered into the pleasure grounds, but incapable of fixing my attention, I presently shut my book, and, sauntering slowly on, indulged in a reverie. My melancholy reflections again returned—How could I remain in a house, where I was every day marked out for insult by its mistress—and where was I to dispose of myself? My fortune was insufficient to allow of my boarding in a respectable family. Mrs Harley came across my mind—Amiable woman!—Would she, indeed, accept of my society, and allow me to soften her solitude!—But her income was little less limited than my own—it must not be thought of. I reflected on the inequalities of society, the source of every misery and of every vice, and on the peculiar disadvantages of my sex. I sighed bitterly; and, clasping my hands together, exclaimed, unconsciously—

'Whither can I go—and where shall I find an asylum?'

'Allow me to propose one,' said a voice, in a soft accent, suddenly, behind me.

I started, turned, and beheld Mr Montague. After some expressions of sympathy for the distress which he had witnessed, apologies for his intrusion, and incoherent expressions of respect and regard, he somewhat abruptly offered his hand and heart to my acceptance, with the impetuosity which accompanied all his sentiments and actions; yet, he expressed himself with the air of a man who believes he is conferring an obligation. I thanked him for his generous proposal—

But, as my heart spake not in his favour—'I must be allowed to decline it.'

'That heart,' said he, rudely, 'is already bestowed upon another.'

'Certainly not, Mr Montague; if it were, I would frankly tell you.'

He pronounced the name of Mr Francis—

'Mr Francis is a man for whom I feel a sincere respect and veneration—a man whom I should be proud to call my friend; but a thought beyond that, I dare venture to say, has never occurred to either of us.'

He knew not how to conceive—that a woman in my situation, unprepossessed, could reject so advantageous an establishment!

This, I told him, was indelicate, both to me and to himself. Were my situation yet more desolate, I would not marry any man, merely for an establishment, for whom I did not feel an affection.

Would I please to describe to him the model of perfection which I should require in a husband?

It was unnecessary; as I saw no probability of the portrait bearing any resemblance to himself.

He reddened, and turned pale, alternately; bit his lips, and muttered to himself.—'Damned romantic affectation!'

I assumed a firmer tone—methought he insulted me.—'I beg you will leave me, Sir—I chuse to be alone—By what right do you intrude upon my retirements?'

My determined accent abashed him:—he tried, but with an ill grace, to be humble; and entreated me to take time for consideration.

'There is no need of it. It is a principle with me, not to inflict a moment's suspence on any human being, when my own mind is decided.'

'Then you absolutely refuse me, and prefer the being exposed to the mean and envious insults of the vulgar mistress of this mansion!'

'Of the two evils, I consider it as the least, because it involves no permanent obligation.'

His countenance was convulsed with passion. His love, he told me, was converted into vengeance by my scorn: he was not to be contemned with impunity; and he warned me to beware.

I smiled, I believe, a little too contemptuously. 'You love me not, Sir; I am glad, for your own sake, that you never loved me.'

'My hatred may be more terrible!'

'You cannot intimidate me—I am little accustomed to fear.'

I turned from him somewhat disdainfully: but, instantly recollecting myself, I stepped back, and apologized for the harsh manner into which I had been betrayed by his abrupt address, vehement expostulation, and the previous irritated state of my mind.

'I acknowledge,' said I, 'the disinterestedness of your proposal, and the distinction which it implies. Will you allow my own wounded feelings to be an excuse for the too little consideration with which I have treated your's? Can you forgive me?' added I, in a conciliating tone, holding out my hand.

The strong emotions, which rapidly succeeded each other in his mind, were painted in his countenance. After a moment's hesitation, he snatched the hand I offered him, pressed it to his lips, and, murmuring a few incoherent words, burst into tears. My spirits were already depressed—affected by these marks of his sensibility, and still more distressed by the recollection of the pain I had occasioned him by my inconsiderate behaviour, I wept with him for some minutes in silence.

'Let us no more,' resumed I, making an effort to recover myself, 'renew these impressions. I thank you sincerely for the sympathy you have manifested for my situation. I am sensible that I have yielded to weak and wayward feelings.—I have youth, health, and activity—I ought not—neither do I despair.—The mortifications I have experienced, since my residence here, will afford me a useful lesson for the future—they have already taught me, what I before merely conjectured, the value of independence!'

'Why, then,' interrupted he with quickness, 'do you reject an opportunity of placing yourself out of the reach of insult?'

'Stop, my good friend,' replied I, smilingly looking in his face; 'there is a possibility of exchanging evils. You are yet too young, and too unstable, maturely to have weighed the importance of the scheme you propose. Remember, likewise, that you are, yourself, in a great measure, dependent on the will of your father; and that much reflection is requisite before we fetter ourselves with engagements, that, once entered into, are not easily dissolved.'

'You allow me, then, to hope!'

'Indeed I meant not to imply any such thing. I wish to soften what I have already expressed—but, there are a variety of reasons which oblige me to assure you, that I see no probability of changing my sentiments on the subject.'

'Why, then, this cruel ostentation? I would either love or hate, bless or curse you.'

'You shall do neither, if I can prevent it. If my esteem is of any value to you, you must learn to respect both me and yourself.'

'Esteem!—Is that to be my frigid reward!'

'If mine be worthless, propose to yourself your own as a recompense.'