Memoirs of Emma Courtney

by Mary Hays

  Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  MEMOIRS OF EMMA COURTNEY

  MARY HAYS

  CONTENTS

  Preface xvii

  Volume I 1

  Chapter I 6 Chapter II 8 Chapter III 11 Chapter IV 14 Chapter V 16 Chapter VI 18 Chapter VII 20 Chapter VIII 24 Chapter IX 26 Chapter X 28 Chapter XI 31 Chapter XII 33 Chapter XIII 37 Chapter XIV 41 Chapter XV 46 Chapter XVI 52 Chapter XVII 55 Chapter XVIII 59 Chapter XIX 62 Chapter XX 65 Chapter XXI 68 Chapter XXII 71 Chapter XXIII 73 Chapter XXIV 76 Chapter XXV 79 Chapter XXVI 84 Chapter XXVII 88 Chapter XXVIII 92

  Volume II 95

  Chapter I 98 Chapter II 102 Chapter III 105 Chapter IV 109 Chapter V 112 Chapter VI 118 Chapter VII 121 Chapter VIII 129 Chapter IX 133 Chapter X 137 Chapter XI 141 Chapter XII 144 Chapter XIII 151 Chapter XIV 154 Chapter XV 157 Chapter XVI 162 Chapter XVII 164 Chapter XVIII 167 Chapter XIX 171 Chapter XX 173 Chapter XXI 176 Chapter XXII 181 Chapter XXIII 184 Chapter XXIV 187 Chapter XXV 190 Chapter XXVI 192 Chapter XXVII 196

  PREFACE

  The most interesting, and the most useful, fictions, are, perhaps, such,as delineating the progress, and tracing the consequences, of onestrong, indulged, passion, or prejudice, afford materials, by which thephilosopher may calculate the powers of the human mind, and learn thesprings which set it in motion--'Understanding, and talents,' saysHelvetius, 'being nothing more, in men, than the produce of theirdesires, and particular situations.' Of the passion of terror MrsRadcliffe has made admirable use in her ingenious romances.--In thenovel of Caleb Williams, curiosity in the hero, and the love ofreputation in the soul-moving character of Falkland, fostered intoruling passions, are drawn with a masterly hand.

  For the subject of these Memoirs, a more universal sentiment is chosen--asentiment hackneyed in this species of composition, consequently moredifficult to treat with any degree of originality;--yet, to accomplishthis, has been the aim of the author; with what success, the publicwill, probably, determine.

  Every writer who advances principles, whether true or false, that have atendency to set the mind in motion, does good. Innumerable mistakes havebeen made, both moral and philosophical:--while covered with a sacred andmysterious veil, how are they to be detected? From various combinationsand multiplied experiments, truth, only, can result. Free thinking, andfree speaking, are the virtue and the characteristics of a rationalbeing:--there can be no argument which mitigates against them inone instance, but what equally mitigates against them in all; everyprinciple must be doubted, before it will be examined and proved.

  It has commonly been the business of fiction to pourtray characters, notas 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, andjarring attributes wonderfully combined.

  In delineating the character of Emma Courtney, I had not in view thesefantastic models: I meant to represent her, as a human being, lovingvirtue while enslaved by passion, liable to the mistakes and weaknessesof our fragile nature.--Let those readers, who feel inclined to judgewith severity the extravagance and eccentricity of her conduct, lookinto their own hearts; and should they there find no record, traced byan accusing spirit, to soften the asperity of their censures--yet, letthem bear in mind, that the errors of my heroine were the offspringof sensibility; and that the result of her hazardous experiment iscalculated to operate as a _warning_, rather than as an example.--Thephilosopher--who is not ignorant, that light and shade are morepowerfully contrasted in minds rising above the common level; that,as rank weeks take strong root in a fertile soil, vigorous powers notunfrequently produce fatal mistakes and pernicious exertions; thatcharacter is the produce of a lively and constant affection--may,possibly, discover in these Memoirs traces of reflection, and ofsome attention to the phaenomena of the human mind.

  Whether the incidents, or the characters, are copied from life, is oflittle importance--The only question is, if the _circumstances_, andsituations, are altogether improbable? If not--whether the consequences_might_ not have followed from the circumstances?--This is a grandquestion, applicable to all the purposes of education, morals, andlegislation--_and on this I rest my moral_--'Do men gather figs ofthorns, or grapes of thistles?' asked a moralist and a reformer.

  Every _possible_ incident, in works of this nature, might, perhaps, berendered _probable_, were a sufficient regard paid to the more minute,delicate, and connecting links of the chain. Under this impression, Ichose, as the least arduous, a simple story--and, even in that, thefear of repetition, of prolixity, added, it may be, to a portion ofindolence, made me, in some parts, neglectful of this rule:--yet, intracing 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 wasnot _his_ memoirs that I professed to write.

  I am not sanguine respecting the success of this little publication. Itis truly observed, by the writer of a late popular novel[1]--'That anauthor, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; for, though all are not able to writebooks, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad compositioncarries with it its own punishment--contempt and ridicule:--a good oneexcites envy, and (frequently) entails upon its author a thousandmortifications.'

  [Footnote 21: The Monk.]

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

  _Memoirs of Emma Courtney_

  VOLUME 1

  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 toreview?--Why do you oblige me to recall the bitterness of my past life,and to renew images, the remembrance of which, even at this distantperiod, harrows up my soul with inconceivable misery?--But your happinessis at stake, and every selfish consideration vanishes.--Dear and sacreddeposit of an adored and lost friend!--for whose sake I have consentedto hold down, with struggling, suffocating reluctance, the loathedand bitter portion of existence;--shall I expose your ardent mind tothe incessant conflict between truth and error--shall I practise thedisingenuousness, by which my peace has been blasted--shall I sufferyou 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 thechild of my affections from destruction?

  Ah! why have you deceived me?--Has a six months' absence obliterated fromyour remembrance the precept I so earnestly and incessantly laboured toinculcate--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 itfrom your remembrance; had I not been assured that her heart was devotedto another object, a circumstance of which she had herself franklyinformed you; I should not now have distrusted your fortitude, whenobliged 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 myhands, has cost me--Ah! my Augustus, my friend, my son--what has it notcost me, and what impressions has it not renewed? I perceive the vigourof your m
ind with terror and exultation. But you are mistaken! Were itnot for the insuperable barrier that separates you, for ever, from yourhopes, perseverance itself, however active, however incessant, may failin attaining its object. Your ardent reasoning, my interesting andphilosophic young friend, though not unconsequential, is a finelyproportioned structure, resting on an airy foundation. The science ofmorals is not incapable of demonstration, but we want a more extensiveknowledge of particular facts, on which, in any given circumstance,firmly to establish our data.--Yet, be not discouraged; exercise yourunderstanding, think freely, investigate every opinion, disdain the rustof antiquity, raise systems, invent hypotheses, and, by the absurditiesthey involve, seize on the clue of truth. Rouse the nobler energies ofyour mind; be not the slave of your passions, neither dream of eradicatingthem. Sensation generates interest, interest passion, passion forcesattention, attention supplies the powers, and affords the means ofattaining its end: in proportion to the degree of interest, will be thatof attention and power. Thus are talents produced. Every man is bornwith sensation, with the aptitude of receiving impressions; the force ofthose impressions depends on a thousand circumstances, over which hehas little power; these circumstances form the mind, and determine thefuture character. We are all the creatures of education; but in thateducation, what we call chance, or accident, has so great a share, thatthe wisest preceptor, after all his cares, has reason to tremble: onestrong affection, one ardent incitement, will turn, in an instant, thewhole current of our thoughts, and introduce a new train of ideas andassociations.

  You may perceive that I admit the general truths of your reasoning;but I would warn you to be careful in their particular application; along train of patient and laborious experiments must precede ourdeductions and conclusions. The science of mind is not less demonstrative,and far more important, than the science of Newton; but we must proceedon similar principles. The term _metaphysics_ has been, perhaps, justlydefined--the first _principles of arts and sciences_.[2] Every discoveryof genius, resulting from a fortunate combination of circumstances, maybe resolved into simple facts; but in this investigation we must bepatient, attentive, indefatigable; we must be content to arrive at truththrough many painful mistakes and consequent sufferings.--Such appearsto be the constitution of man!

  [Footnote 2: Helvetius.]

  To shorten and meliorate your way, I have determined to sacrifice everyinferior consideration. I have studied your character: I perceive, withjoy, that its errors are the ardent excesses of a generous mind. I lovedyour father with a fatal and unutterable tenderness: time has softenedthe remembrance of his faults.--Our noblest qualities, without incessantwatchfulness, are liable insensibly to shade into vices--but his virtuesand _misfortunes_, in which my own were so intimately blended, areindelibly engraven on my heart.

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

  CHAPTER I

  The events of my life have been few, and have in them nothing veryuncommon, but the effects which they have produced on my mind; yet, thatmind they have helped to form, and this in the eye of philosophy, oraffection, may render them not wholly uninteresting. While I trace them,they convince me of the irresistible power of circumstances, modifyingand controuling our characters, and introducing, mechanically, thoseassociations and habits which make us what we are; for without outwardimpressions 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 omitno one connecting link in the chain of causes, however minute, that Iconceive had any important consequences in the formation of my mind, orthat may, probably, be useful to your's.

  My father was a man of some talents, and of a superior rank in life, butdissipated, extravagant, and profligate. My mother, the daughter of arich trader, and the sole heiress of his fortunes, allured by thespecious address and fashionable manners of my father, sacrificed toempty shew the prospect of rational and dignified happiness. My fathercourted 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 thetwelfth month of her marriage, after having given birth to a daughter,and commended it, with her dying breath, to the care of a sister (thedaughter of her mother by a former marriage), an amiable, sensible, andworthy woman, who had, a few days before, lost a lovely and promisinginfant at the breast, and received the little Emma as a gift fromheaven, to supply its place.

  My father, plunged in expence and debauchery, was little moved by thesedomestic 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 importantshare in forming the mind of her charge to those dispositions, andfeelings, which irresistibly led to the subsequent events.

  CHAPTER II

  Mr and Mrs Melmoth, my uncle and aunt, married young, purely frommotives of affection. Mr Melmoth had an active, ardent mind, greatbenevolence of heart, a sweet and chearful temper, and a liberal mannerof thinking, though with few advantages of education: he possessed,also, a sanguine disposition, a warm heart, a generous spirit, and anintegrity which was never called in question. Mrs Melmoth's framewas delicate and fragile; she had great sensibility, quickness ofperception, some anxiety of temper, and a refined and romantic mannerof thinking, acquired from the perusal of the old romances, a largequantity of which, belonging to a relation, had, in the early periods ofher youth, been accidentally deposited in a spare room in her father'shouse. These qualities were mingled with a devotional spirit, a littlebordering on fanatacism. My uncle did not exactly resemble an Orlando,or an Oroondates, but he was fond of reading; and having the command ofa 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 tolerableproficient in the belles lettres, and could, on occasion, quoteShakespeare, scribble poetry, and even philosophize with Pope andBolingbroke.

  Mr Melmoth was one-and-twenty, his bride nineteen, when they wereunited. They possessed little property; but the one was enterprizing andindustrious, the other careful and oeconomical; and both, with heartsglowing with affection for each other, saw cheering hope and fairyprospects dancing before their eyes. Every thing succeeded beyond theirmost sanguine expectations. My uncle's cheerful and social temper, withthe fairness and liberality of his dealings, conciliated the favour ofthe merchants. His understanding was superior, and his manners morecourteous, than the generality of persons in his line of life: hiscompany was eagerly courted, and no vessel stood a chance of beingfreighted till his had its full cargo.

  His voyages were not long, and frequent absences and meetings kept alivebetween him and my aunt, the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, and thetransports of love. Their family soon increased, but this was a newsource of joy to Mr Melmoth's affectionate heart. A walk or a ride inthe country, with his wife and little ones, he accounted his highestrelaxation:--on these occasions he gave himself up to a sweet and livelypleasure; would clasp them alternately to his breast, and with eyesoverflowing with tears of delight, repeat Thomson's charming descriptionof the joys of virtuous love--

  'Where nothing strikes the eye but sights of bliss, All various nature pressing on the heart!'

  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 interrup
tion than from my uncle'sfrequent absences, and the pains and cares of my aunt in bringing intothe world, and nursing, a family of children. Mr Melmoth's successfulvoyages, at rather earlier than forty years of age, enabled him to leavethe sea, and to carry on an extensive mercantile employment in themetropolis.--At this period his health began to be injured by theprogress of a threatening internal disorder; but it had little effecteither 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 tointrude;--he was the life of every company, and the soul of everypleasure.

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

  The hours fled on downy pinions; his wife rested on him, his childrencaught sunshine from his smiles; his domestics adored him, and hisacquaintance vied with each other in paying him respect. His life,he frequently repeated, had been a series of unbroken success. Hisreligion, for he laid no stress on forms, was a sentiment of gratefuland 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 particularcharacter, again to revert to earlier periods.--A few days before mybirth, my aunt had lost (as already related) a lovely female infant,about four months old, and she received me, from the hands of my dyingmother, as a substitute.--From these tender and affecting circumstancesI was nursed and attended with peculiar care. My uncle's ship (it beingwar time) was then waiting for a convoy at Portsmouth, where he wasjoined by his wife: she carried me with her, and, tenderly watchful overmy safety, took me on all their little excursions, whether by sea orland: I hung at her breast, or rested in her arms, and her husband, orattendant, alternately relieved her.--Plump, smiling, placid, happy, Inever disturbed her rest, and the little Emma was the darling of herkind guardians, and the plaything of the company.