Volume 1 — CHAPTER XXVII

A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London—Mrs Harley, with a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands—The superscription bore the well known characters—yes, it was from Augustus, and addressed to Emma—I ran, with it, into my chamber, locked myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its contents with avidity—scarce daring to respire—I reperused it again and again.

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

This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied, disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope—and, yet, had no distinct ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meaning into a hundred forms—I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to enquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided both in my principles, and in those of her son: I was wounded by what, entangled in prejudice, I conceived to be a necessity for this reserve.

Again I addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other impressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous ascendency.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of thought, that I foresee I am about to trespass on your time and patience—yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind—a mind formed by solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of character.

'If to have been more guarded and reserved would have been more discreet, I have already forfeited all claim to this discretion—to affect it now, would be vain, and, by pursuing a middle course, I should resign the only advantage I may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom.

'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, and is not what I would recommend to general imitation—To say nothing of the hazards it might involve, I am aware, generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove, that certain customs, of which I, yet, think there is reason to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature—I am led to speak thus, because I am not willing to spare myself, but would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate consideration.

'Of what then, you may ask, do I complain?—Not of the laws of nature! But when mind has given dignity to natural affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall I say) to sanctity them—Is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor and severity, that such minds must either passively submit to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the endearing sympathies of life? Nature has formed woman peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "The voice of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial precepts." To feel these affections in a supreme degree, a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy and reflection, is necessary—for it is intellect and imagination only, that can give energy and interest to—

"The thousand soft sensations—

Which vulgar souls want faculties to taste,

Who take their good and evil in the gross."

'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial—where the end, sought to be attained, is—

"Something, than beauty dearer,"

'I should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately rend my heart! I feel, that I have "put to sea upon a shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for safety." I dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken your tenderness, I may have forfeited your respect; the next, that I have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober light of reason. In retirement, numberless contradictory emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:—in company, I start and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but myself could trace any application. The end of doubt is the beginning of repose. Say, then, to me, that it is a principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem lightly what may be attained without difficulty.—Tell me to make distinctions between love and friendship, of which I have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.—Say, that the former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces, to which I have little pretension, and that it is vain to pretend, that—

"Truth and good are one,

And beauty dwells with them."

'Emma.'