by Mary Hays
I was one day roused from these melancholy reflections by the entranceof my cousin, Mrs Denbeigh. She held in her hand a letter, from my onlyremaining friend, Mrs Harley. I snatched it hastily; my heart, laceratedby the seeming unkindness of him in whom it had confided, yearned toimbibe the consolation, which the gentle tenderness of this dear,maternal, friend, had never failed to administer. The first paragraphinformed me--
'That she had, a few days since, received a letter from the person to whom the legacy of her son devolved, should he fail in observing the prescribed conditions of the testator: that this letter gave her notice, that those conditions had already been infringed, Mr Harley having contracted a marriage, three years before, with a foreigner, with whom he had become acquainted during his travels; that this marriage had been kept a secret, and, but very lately, by an accidental concurrence of circumstances, revealed to the person most concerned in the detection. Undoubted proofs of the truth of this information could be produced; it would therefore be most prudent in her son to resign his claims, without putting himself, and the legal heir, to unnecessary expence and litigation. Ignorant of the residence of Mr Harley, the writer troubled his mother to convey to him these particulars.'
The paper dropped from my hand, the colour forsook my lips andcheeks;--yet I neither wept, nor fainted. Mrs Denbeigh took myhands--they were frozen--the blood seemed congealed in my veins--and Isat motionless--my faculties suspended, stunned, locked up! My friendspake to me--embraced, shed tears over, me--but she could not excitemine;--my mind was pervaded by a sense of confused misery. I remainedmany days in this situation--it was a state, of which I have but afeeble remembrance; and I, at length, awoke from it, as from atroublesome dream.
With returning reason, the tide of recollection also returned. Oh!how complicated appeared to me the guilt of Augustus! Ignorant of hissituation, I had been unconsciously, and perseveringly, exerting myselfto seduce the affections of a _husband_ from his _wife_. He had mademe almost criminal in my own eyes--he had risqued, at once, by adisingenuous and cruel reserve, the virtue and the happiness of threebeings. What is virtue, but a calculation of _the consequences of ouractions_? Did we allow ourselves to reason on this principle, to reflecton its truth and importance, we should be compelled to shudder at manyparts of our conduct, which, _taken unconnectedly_, we have habituatedourselves to consider as almost indifferent. Virtue can exist only in amind capable of taking comprehensive views. How criminal, then, isignorance!
During this sickness of the soul, Mr Francis, who had occasionallyvisited me since my residence in town, called, repeatedly, to enquireafter my welfare; expressing a friendly concern for my indisposition. Isaw him not--I was incapable of seeing any one--but, informed by my kindhostess of his humane attentions, soothed by the idea of having yeta friend who seemed to interest himself in my concerns, I once morehad recourse to my pen (Mrs Denbeigh having officiously placed theimplements of writing in my way), and addressed him in the wild andincoherent language of despair.
TO MR FRANCIS.
'You once told me, that I was incapable of heroism; and you were right--yet, I am called to great exertions! a blow that has been suspended over my head, days, weeks, months, years, has at length fallen--still I live! My tears flow--I struggle, in vain, to suppress them, but they are not tears of blood!--My heart, though pierced through and through, is not broken!
'My friend, come and teach me how to acquire fortitude--I am wearied with misery--All nature is to me a blank--an envenomed shaft rankles in my bosom--philosophy will not heal the festering wound--_I am exquisitely wretched!_
'Do not chide me till I get more strength--I speak to you of my sorrows, for your kindness, while I was yet a stranger to you, inspired me with confidence, and my desolate heart looks round for support.
'I am indebted to you--how shall I repay your goodness? Do you, indeed, interest yourself in my fate? Call upon me, then, for the few incidents of my life--I will relate them simply, and without disguise. There is nothing uncommon in them, but the effect which they have produced upon my mind--yet, that mind they formed.
'After all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! Why cannot I sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? But something whispers, "_this would be wrong_."--How shall I tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted, associations?--And must I live--_live for what?_ God only knows! Yet, how am I sure that there is a God--is he wise--is he powerful--is he benevolent? If he be, can he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble, impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their choice--impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through mistake, into calamity?--Ah! my friend, who will condemn the poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and accelerate the hour of repose.[16] Who would be born if they could help it? You would perhaps--_you may do good_--But on me, the sun shines only to mock my woes--Oh! that I had never seen the light.
[Footnote 16: This is the reasoning of a mind distorted by passion. Even in the moment of disappointment, our heroine judged better. See page 38.]
'Torn by conflicting passions--wasted in anguish--life is melting fast away--A burthen to myself, a grief to those who love me, and worthless to every one. Weakened by long suspence--preyed upon, by a combination of imperious feelings--I fear, I greatly fear, the _irrecoverable blow is struck_! But I blame no one--I have been entangled in error--_who is faultless?_
'While pouring itself out on paper, my tortured mind has experienced a momentary relief: If your heart be inaccessible to tender sympathies, I have only been adding one more to my numberless mistakes! 'EMMA.'
Mr Francis visited me, and evinced for my situation the most humane anddelicate consideration. He reminded me of the offer I had made him, andrequested the performance of my engagement. In compliance with thisrequest, and to beguile my melancholy thoughts, I drew up a sketch ofthe events of my past life, and unfolded a history of the sentiments ofmy mind (from which I have extracted the preceding materials) reservingonly any circumstance which might lead to a detection of the name andfamily of the man with whom they were so intimately blended.
CHAPTER XI
After having perused my manuscript, Mr Francis returned it, at mydesire, accompanied by the following letter.
TO EMMA COURTNEY.
'Your narrative leaves me full of admiration for your qualities, and compassion for your insanity.
'I entreat however your attention to the following passage, extracted from your papers. "After considering all I have urged, you may perhaps reply, that the subject is too nice, and too subtle, for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. This, I think, is a mistake. There is no topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. What is it we desire? pleasure, happiness. What! the pleasure of an instant, only; or that which is more solid and permanent? I allow, pleasure is the supreme good! but it may be analysed. To this analysis I now call you."
'Could I, if I had studied for years, invent a comment on your story, more salutary to your sorrows, more immoveable in its foundation, more clearly expressed, or more irresistibly convincing to every rational mind?
'How few real, substantial, misfortunes there are in the world! how few calamities, the sting of which does not depend upon our cherishing the viper in our bosom, and applying the aspic to our veins! The general pursuit of all men, we are frequently t
old, is happiness. I have often been tempted to think, on the contrary, that the general pursuit is misery. It is true, men do not recognize it by its genuine appellation; they content themselves with the pitiful expedient of assigning it a new denomination. But, if their professed purpose were misery, could they be more skilful and ingenious in the pursuit?
'Look through your whole life. To speak from your own description, was there ever a life, in its present period, less chequered with substantial _bona fide_ misfortune? The whole force of every thing which looks like a misfortune was assiduously, unintermittedly, provided by yourself. You nursed in yourself a passion, which, taken in the degree in which you experienced it, is the unnatural and odious invention of a distempered civilization, and which in almost all instances generates an immense overbalance of excruciating misery. Your conduct will scarcely admit of any other denomination than moon-struck madness, hunting after torture. You addressed a man impenetrable as a rock, and the smallest glimpse of sober reflection, and common sense, would have taught you instantly to have given up the pursuit.
'I know you will tell me, and you will tell yourself, a great deal about constitution, early association, and the indissoluble chain of habits and sentiments. But I answer with small fear of being erroneous, "It is a mistake to suppose, that the heart is not to be compelled. There is no topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. Pleasure, happiness, is the supreme good; and happiness is susceptible of being analysed." I grant, that the state of a human mind cannot be changed at once; but, had you worshipped at the altar of reason but half as assiduously as you have sacrificed at the shrine of illusion, your present happiness would have been as enviable, as your present distress is worthy of compassion. If men would but take the trouble to ask themselves, once every day, Why should I be miserable? how many, to whom life is a burthen, would become chearful and contented.
'Make a catalogue of all the real evils of human life; bodily pain, compulsory solitude, severe corporal labour, in a word, all those causes which deprive us of health, or the means of spending our time in animated, various, and rational pursuits. Aye, these are real evils! But I should be ashamed of putting disappointed love into my enumeration. Evils of this sort are the brood of folly begotten upon fastidious indolence. They shrink into non-entity, when touched by the wand of truth.
'The first lesson of enlightened reason, the great fountain of heroism and virtue, the principle by which alone man can become what man is capable of being, is _independence_. May every power that is favourable to integrity, to honour, defend me from leaning upon another for support! I will use the word, I will use my fellow men, but I will not abuse these invaluable benefits of the system of nature. I will not be weak and criminal enough, to make my peace depend upon the precarious thread of another's life or another's pleasure. I will judge for myself; I will draw my support from myself--the support of my existence and the support of my happiness. The system of nature has perhaps made me dependent for the means of existence and happiness upon my fellow men taken collectively; but nothing but my own folly can make me dependent upon individuals. Will these principles prevent me from admiring, esteeming, and loving such as are worthy to excite these emotions? Can I not have a mind to understand, and a heart to feel excellence, without first parting with the fairest attribute of my nature?
'You boast of your sincerity and frankness. You have doubtless some reason for your boast--Yet all your misfortunes seem to have arisen from concealment. You brooded over your emotions, and considered them as a sacred deposit--You have written to me, I have seen you frequently, during the whole of this transaction, without ever having received the slightest hint of it, yet, if I be a fit counsellor now, I was a fit counsellor then; your folly was so gross, that, if it had been exposed to the light of day, it could not have subsisted for a moment. Even now you suppress the name of your hero: yet, unless I know how much of a hero and a model of excellence he would appear in my eyes, I can be but a very imperfect judge of the affair.
'---- FRANCIS.'
CHAPTER XII
To the remonstrance of my friend, which roused me from the languor intowhich I was sinking, I immediately replied--
TO MR FRANCIS.
'You retort upon me my own arguments, and you have cause. I felt a ray of conviction dart upon my mind, even, while I wrote them. But what then?--"I seemed to be in a state, in which reason had no power; I felt as if I could coolly survey the several arguments of the case--perceive, that they had prudence, truth, and common sense on their side--And then answer--I am under the guidance of a director more energetic than you!"[17] I am affected by your kindness--I am affected by your letter. I could weep over it, bitter tears of conviction and remorse. But argue with the wretch infected with the plague--will it stop the tide of blood, that is rapidly carrying its contagion to the heart? I blush! I shed burning tears! But I am still desolate and wretched! And how am I to stop it? The force which you impute to my reasoning was the powerful frenzy of a high delirium.
[Footnote 17: Godwin's Caleb Williams.]
'What does it signify whether, abstractedly considered, a misfortune be worthy of the names real and substantial, if the consequences produced are the same? That which embitters all my life, that which stops the genial current of health and peace is, whatever be its nature, a real calamity to me. There is no end to this reasoning--what individual can limit the desires of another? The necessaries of the civilized man are whimsical superfluities in the eye of the savage. Are we, or are we not (as you have taught me) the creatures of sensation and circumstance?
'I agree with you--and the more I look into society, the deeper I feel the soul-sickening conviction--"The general pursuit is misery"--necessarily--excruciating misery, from the source to which you justly ascribe it--"_The unnatural and odious inventions of a distempered civilization._" I am content, you may perceive, to recognize things by their genuine appellation. I am, at least, a reasoning maniac: perhaps the most dangerous species of insanity. But while the source continues troubled, why expect the streams to run pure?
'You know I will tell you--"about the indissoluble chains of association and habit:" and you attack me again with my own weapons! Alas! while I confess their impotence, with what consistency do I accuse the flinty, impenetrable, heart, I so earnestly sought, in vain, to move? What materials does this stubborn mechanism of the mind offer to the wise and benevolent legislator!
'Had I, you tell me, "worshipped at the altar of reason, but half as assiduously as I have sacrificed at the shrine of illusion, my happiness might have been enviable." But do you not perceive, that my reason was the auxiliary of my passion, or rather my passion the generative principle of my reason? Had not these contradictions, these oppositions, roused the energy of my mind, I might have domesticated, tamely, in the lap of indolence and apathy.
'I do ask myself, every day--"Why should I be miserable?"--and I answer, "Because the strong, predominant, sentiment of my soul, close twisted with all its cherished associations, has been rudely torn away, and the blood flows from the lacerated wound. You would be ashamed of placing disappointed love in your enumeration of evils! Gray was not ashamed of this--
'And pining love shall waste their youth, And jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaw
s the secret heart!'
* * * * *
'These shall the stings of falsehood try, And hard unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow.'"
'Is it possible that you can be insensible of all the mighty mischiefs which have been caused by this passion--of the great events and changes of society, to which it has operated as a powerful, though secret, spring? That Jupiter shrouded his glories beneath a mortal form; that he descended yet lower, and crawled as a reptile--that Hercules took the distaff, and Sampson was shorn of his strength, are in their spirit, no fables. Yet, these were the legends of ages less degenerate than this, and states of society less corrupt. Ask your own heart--whether some of its most exquisite sensations have not arisen from sources, which, to nine-tenths of the world, would be equally inconceivable: Mine, I believe, is a _solitary madness in the eighteenth century: it is not on the altars of love, but of gold, that men, now, come to pay their offerings_.
'Why call woman, miserable, oppressed, and impotent, woman--_crushed, and then insulted_--why call her to _independence_--which not nature, but the barbarous and accursed laws of society, have denied her? _This is mockery!_ Even you, wise and benevolent as you are, can mock the child of slavery and sorrow! "Excluded, as it were, by the pride, luxury, and caprice, of the world, from expanding my sensations, and wedding my soul to society, I was constrained to bestow the strong affections, that glowed consciously within me, upon a few."[18] Love, in minds of any elevation, cannot be generated but upon a real, or fancied, foundation of excellence. But what would be a miracle in architecture, is true in morals--the fabric can exist when the foundation has mouldered away. _Habit_ daily produces this wonderful effect upon every feeling, and every principle. Is not this the theory which you have taught me?
