LIBER AMORIS, OR, THE NEW PYGMALION

by

WILLIAM HAZLITT

ADVERTISEMENT

The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages, happeneda very short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left his owncountry early in life, in consequence of political animosities and anill-advised connection in marriage. It was some years after that heformed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the followingnarrative. The whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand, a little before he set out for the Continent in hopes of benefiting by achange of scene, but he died soon after in the Netherlands--it issupposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid stateof mind. It was his wish that what bad been his strongest feeling whileliving, should be preserved in this shape when he was no more. --It hasbeen suggested to the friend, into whose hands the manuscript wasentrusted, that many things (particularly in the Conversations in theFirst Part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but apromise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge washeld sacred. The names and circumstances are so far disguised, it ispresumed, as to prevent any consequences resulting from the publication, farther than the amusement or sympathy of the reader. 

CONTENTS

PART I

THE PICTURETHE INVITATIONTHE MESSAGETHE FLAGEOLETTHE CONFESSIONTHE QUARRELTHE RECONCILIATION

LETTERS TO THE SAMETO THE SAMEWRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMIONA PROPOSAL OF LOVE

PART II

LETTERS TO C. P. ----, ESQ. LETTER IILETTER IIILETTER IVLETTER VLETTER VILETTER VIILETTER VIIITO EDINBURGHA THOUGHTANOTHERANOTHERLETTER IXLETTER XLETTER XITO S. L. LETTER XII. UNALTERED LOVEPERFECT LOVEFROM C. P. , ESQ. LETTER XIIILETTER THE LAST

PART III

ADDRESSED TO J. S. K. ----TO THE SAME (In continuation)TO THE SAME (In conclusion)

PART I

THE PICTURE

H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you--I have got a picturehere. Do you know any one it's like?

S. No, Sir. 

H. Don't you think it like yourself?

S. No: it's much handsomer than I can pretend to be. 

H. That's because you don't see yourself with the same eyes that othersdo. I don't think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine asyours sometimes is. 

S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine isdark. 

H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colourwere a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hairwere let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken fora picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead islike, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrowsare like, and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up andsay--"No--never!"

S. What then, do I always say--"No--never!" when I look up?

H. I don't know about that--I never heard you say so but once; but thatwas once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, "you couldnever be mine. " Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long bemyself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think ofnothing, I have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image hastaken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction. Yet I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then I might fancythat I had thy love in return, which I cannot live without!

S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is apicture of. 

H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted inoil on a gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido's orRaphael's, but I think Raphael's. Some say it is a Madonna; others callit a Magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek, though no tear is there. But it seems to me more like Raphael's St. Cecilia, "with looks commercing with the skies, " than anythingelse. --See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear girl, these are theideas I have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and I never foundany thing to realise them on earth till I met with thee, my love! Whilethou didst seem sensible of my kindness, I was but too happy: but nowthou hast cruelly cast me off. 

S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever. 

H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing toyou. Is it not too true?

S. No. 

H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now--yourmouth full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blushupon that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it istoo handsome, or because you want complexion. Thou art heavenly-fair, my love--like her from whom the picture was taken--the idol of thepainter's heart, as thou art of mine! Shall I make a drawing of it, altering the dress a little, to shew you how like it is?

S. As you please. --

THE INVITATION

H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of theFrench character and abuse of the English? You know there is but onesubject on which I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me. 

S. I must say, you don't seem to have a very high opinion of thiscountry. 

H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth. 

S. Do you like the French women better than the English?

H. No: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made. But they none of them look like you. I like the Italian women I haveseen, much better than the French: they have darker eyes, darker hair, and the accents of their native tongue are much richer and moremelodious. But I will give you a better account of them when I comeback from Italy, if you would like to hear it. 

S. I should much. It is for that I have sometimes had a wish fortravelling abroad, to understand something of the manners and charactersof different people. 

H. My sweet girl! I will give you the best account I can--unless youwould rather go and judge for yourself. 

S. I cannot. 

H. Yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go WITH HONOUR--you knowwhat I mean. 

S. You know it is not in your power to take me so. 

H. But it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, Iwould swear never to think of an Italian woman while I am abroad, nor ofan English one after I return home. Thou art to me more than thy wholesex. 

S. I require no such sacrifices. 

H. Is that what you thought I meant by SACRIFICES last night? Butsacrifices are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold. 

S. I have no way of doing it. 

H. You have not the will. --

S. I must go now. 

H. Stay, and hear me a little. I shall soon be where I can no morehear thy voice, far distant from her I love, to see what change ofclimate and bright skies will do for a sad heart. I shall perhaps seethee no more, but I shall still think of thee the same as ever--I shallsay to myself, "Where is she now?--what is she doing?" But I shallhardly wish you to think of me, unless you could do so more favourablythan I am afraid you will. Ah! dearest creature, I shall be "fardistant from you, " as you once said of another, but you will not thinkof me as of him, "with the sincerest affection. " The smallest share ofthy tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever love me asthou didst him, I should feel like a God! My face would change to adifferent expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. I wasgetting well, I was growing young in the sweet proofs of yourfriendship: you see how I droop and wither under your displeasure! Thouart divine, my love, and canst make me either more or less than mortal. Indeed I am thy creature, thy slave--I only wish to live for yoursake--I would gladly die for you--

S. That would give me no pleasure. But indeed you greatly overrate mypower. 

H. Your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. When I amnear thee, nothing can harm me. Thou art an angel of light, shadowingme with thy softness. But when I let go thy hand, I stagger on aprecipice: out of thy sight the world is dark to me and comfortless. There is no breathing out of this house: the air of Italy will stifleme. Go with me and lighten it. I can know no pleasure away from thee--

"But I will come again, my love, An' it were ten thousand mile!"

THE MESSAGE

S. Mrs. E---- has called for the book, Sir. 

H. Oh! it is there. Let her wait a minute or two. I see this is abusy-day with you. How beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves!

S. I do not like to wear them. 

H. Then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortalswho might die with gazing. 

S. I have no power to kill. 

H. You have, you have--Your charms are irresistible as your will isinexorable. I wish I could see you always thus. But I would have noone else see you so. I am jealous of all eyes but my own. I shouldalmost like you to wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot;but even if you were, and not a glimpse of you could be seen, it wouldbe to no purpose--you would only have to move, and you would be admiredas the most graceful creature in the world. You smile--Well, if youwere to be won by fine speeches--

S. You could supply them!

H. It is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily, and I shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word trembleson my tongue, and that will be thy name, my love--the name of myInfelice! You will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after youare dead. Don't you thank me for that?

S. I have no such ambition, Sir. But Mrs. E---- is waiting. 

H. She is not in love, like me. You look so handsome to-day, I cannotlet you go. You have got a colour. 

S. But you say I look best when I am pale. 

H. When you are pale, I think so; but when you have a colour, I thenthink you still more beautiful. It is you that I admire; and whateveryou are, I like best. I like you as Miss L----, I should like you stillmore as Mrs. ----. I once thought you were half inclined to be a prude, and I admired you as a "pensive nun, devout and pure. " I now think youare more than half a coquet, and I like you for your roguery. The truthis, I am in love with you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me theperfection of thy sex. I care not what thou art, while thou art stillthyself. Smile but so, and turn my heart to what shape you please!

S. I am afraid, Sir, Mrs. E---- will think you have forgotten her. 

H. I had, my charmer. But go, and make her a sweet apology, allgraceful as thou art. One kiss! Ah! ought I not to think myself thehappiest of men?

THE FLAGEOLET

H. Where have you been, my love?

S. I have been down to see my aunt, Sir. 

H. And I hope she has been giving you good advice. 

S. I did not go to ask her opinion about any thing. 

H. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale anddejected, as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast withpity. Cruel girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, orresemble some graceful marble statue, in the moon's pale ray! Sadnessonly heightens the elegance of your features. How can I escape fromyou, when every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings outsome new charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you doit, is only a new link added to my chain. Raise those downcast eyes, bend as if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . Ah! enchanting littletrembler! if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what mustthy love have been? I cannot think how any man, having the heart ofone, could go and leave it. 

S. No one did, that I know of. 

H. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, andthough he knew--Oh! gracious God! that you loved him) he left youbecause "the pride of birth would not permit a union. "--For myself, Iwould leave a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live butfor thee, here--I only wish to live again to pass all eternity withthee. But even in another world, I suppose you would turn from me toseek him out who scorned you here. 

S. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal. 

H. Do not look so--do not talk so--unless you would drive me mad. Icould worship you at this moment. Can I witness such perfection, andbear to think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see youcan mould me as you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a littlechild; and with you my way would be like a little child's:--you couldstrew flowers in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. I shouldthen indeed hail the return of spring with joy, could I indulge thefaintest hope--would you but let me try to please you!

S. Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir. 

H. Will you go and leave me so?

S. It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stoppingso long. 

H. You know he has nothing to fear for you--it is poor I that am alonein danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could Isee that which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly beworth while; but if it isn't, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one foryou. Can't you bring up your own to shew me?

S. Not to-night, Sir. 

H. I wish you could. 

S. I cannot--but I will in the morning. 

H. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and blessthee!

[The next morning, S. Brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and lookingtowards the tea-tray, she said, "Oh! I see my sister has forgot thetea-pot. " It was not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs, shecame up in a minute, with the tea-pot in one hand, and the flageolet inthe other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. It would have beenawkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray and she couldnot have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it. Something, therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite witch! But do Ilove her the less dearly for it? I cannot. ]

THE CONFESSION

H. You say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in thecase? Was there any one else that you did like?

S. Yes, there was another. 

H. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then?

S. It is two years, Sir. 

H. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes?

S. No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, andever shall, though he is far distant. 

H. And did he return your regard?

S. I had every reason to think so. 

H. What then broke off your intimacy?

S. It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to thinkof a union. 

H. Was he a young man of rank, then?

S. His connections were high. 

H. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step?

S. No--he had too great a regard for me. 

H. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was itthe fineness of his manners?

S. It was more his manner: but I can't tell how it was. It was chieflymy own fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously ofme. But he used to make me read with him--and I used to be with him agood deal, though not much neither--and I found my affections entangledbefore I was aware of it. 

H. And did your mother and family know of it?

S. No--I have never told any one but you; nor I should not havementioned it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction. 

H. Why did he go at last?

S. We thought it better to part. 

H. And do you correspond?

S. No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, thoughit will be only in the way of friendship. 

H. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that barehope!

S. I did not wish to live always, Sir--I wished to die for a long timeafter, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured tobe as resigned as I can. 

H. And do you think the impression will never wear out?

S. Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometimesince, --and I find no difference. 

H. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for yourcondescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? You havechanged my esteem into adoration. --Never can I harbour a thought of illin thee again. 

S. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship. 

H. And can you return them?

S. Yes. 

H. And nothing more?

S. No, Sir. 

H. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, inpaying you the homage that my heart feels towards you. 

THE QUARREL

H. You are angry with me?

S. Have I not reason?

H. I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicionsunjust. But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felttowards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross mymind for an instant that you were what I dare not name--a commonlodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were ascommon as the stairs--

S. Let me go, Sir!

H. Nay--prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down andworship you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me;and to have my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to amockery--it is too much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singledme out as your victim?

S. I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love. 

H. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock. Yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister's running outto you, and saying "He thought I did not see him!" when I had followedyou into the other room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free withyou? Or is not the joke against HER sister, unless you make mycourtship of you a jest to the whole house? Indeed I do not well seehow you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, andday after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turnwith your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me?

S. I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsey was always watching andlistening when Mr. M---- was courting my eldest sister, till he wasobliged to complain of it. 

H. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, whenyour servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day, and I was afraid she might tell your mother, you said "You did not care, for you had no secrets from your mother. " This seemed to me odd at thetime, but I thought no more of it, till other things brought it to mymind. Am I to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile part, all this time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as I like, that you sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed mewith kisses, and let me take other liberties with you, and that for ayear together; and that you do all this not out of love, or liking, orregard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch, withoutone natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents outof me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? Thereis something monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of you. 

S. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. I have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressedthe greatest esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in myconduct; and I cannot help what Betsey or others do. I have always beenconsistent from the first. I told you my regard could amount to no morethan friendship. 

H. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that therewas an insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard ismerely friendship, and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything morefor you. Yet the first time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you; thefirst time I ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned fullround at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you doeverything, and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, "Is hecaught?"--that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms roundme, caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty;and I have not got much farther since. Now if you did all this with me, a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me, mustI not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?--Or, ifyou do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me forsome reason or other. 

S. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations. 

H. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given younone the first day I came. You do not consider yourself OBLIGED toeveryone who asks you for a kiss?

S. No, Sir. 

H. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But youseemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, youlooked so innocent--I thought it impossible you could deceive me. Whatever favors you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothedvirgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modestor more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and athousand times. Could I have thought I should ever live to believe theman inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? Do youthink they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me, soul and body? You say it is friendship--but if this is friendship, I'll forswear love. Ah! Sarah! it must be something more or less thanfriendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness--if theyare not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once letsome words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, andyou could trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other timesthat no one ever took such liberties with you as I have done. Iremember once in particular your saying, as you went out at the door inanger--"I had an attachment before, but that person never attemptedanything of the kind. " Good God! How did I dwell on that wordBEFORE, thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but you havesince disclaimed any such meaning. You say you have never professedmore than esteem. Yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, onmy knee, embracing and fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could notlove, you made answer, "I could easily say so, whether I did or not--YOUSHOULD JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!" And another time, when you were in thesame posture, and I reproached you with indifference, you replied inthese words, "Do I SEEM INDIFFERENT?" Was I to blame after this toindulge my passion for the loveliest of her sex? Or what can I think?

S. I am no prude, Sir. 

H. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, "It was hardif you might not indulge in a little levity. " She has strange notionsof levity. But levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Yourordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: youcome up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in thetea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. You move inminuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offendingin the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the stairs, butby a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces waiton you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations, breathing balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You looklike one at this instant! Do I not adore you--and have I merited thisreturn?

S. I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy thingsout of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not aword of truth in your suspicions. 

H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to whichyou were a party? Shall I repeat it?

S. I had rather not hear it!

H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?

S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort. 

H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn't * * * * * * * * *(as I heard she did) she said "Oh, there's nothing in that, for Sarahvery often * * * * * *, " and your doing so before company, is only atrifling addition to the sport. 

S. I'll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you. 

H. Then she'll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were"very persevering in your resistance to gay young men, " and had been"several times obliged to ring the bell?" Did you always ring it? Ordid you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by thedemureness of your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or haveyou two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, yournatural one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like anactress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did younot, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C----came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he'd take youfor a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of beingTAKEN for a light character? Oh! Sarah!

S. I'll stay and hear this no longer. 

H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?

S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely. 

H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment forhim, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is anotherthing I had to say--be what you will, I love you to distraction! Youare the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and thatfeeling was so new to me, and so delicious, that it "will never from myheart. " Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in thewilderness of my life; and though thou should'st turn out a weed, I'llnot fling thee from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dreadto think--wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered withrags, disease, and infamy, I'd clasp thee to my bosom, and live and diewith thee, my love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress!

S. NEVER. 

H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you--nor I will not. 

THE RECONCILIATION

H. I have then lost your friendship?

S. Nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult. 

H. The words I uttered hurt me more than they did you. 

S. It was not words merely, but actions as well. 

H. Nothing I can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you--Ah, Sarah! I am unworthy of your love: I hardly dare ask for your pity; butoh! save me--save me from your scorn: I cannot bear it--it withers melike lightning. 

S. I bear no malice, Sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a liefor his sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in whatyou were told. 

H. I believe it; or there is no truth in woman. It is enough for me toknow that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me tothink that you did not deserve it. But cannot you forgive the agony ofthe moment?

S. I can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things!

H. Nay, my sweet Sarah (frown if you will, I can bear your resentmentfor my ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that harrowup my soul)--but I was going to ask, if you had been engaged to bemarried to any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what I did, whether he could have felt any true regard for the character of hisbride, his wife, if he had not been hurt and alarmed as I was?

S. I believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been brokenoff by unjust suspicions. 

H. Or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have saidin my case?

S. He would never have listened to anything of the sort. 

H. He had greater reasons for confidence than I have. But it is yourrepeated cruel rejection of me that drives me almost to madness. Tellme, love, is there not, besides your attachment to him, a repugnance tome?

S. No, none whatever. 

H. I fear there is an original dislike, which no efforts of mine canovercome. 

S. It is not you--it is my feelings with respect to another, which areunalterable. 

H. And yet you have no hope of ever being his? And yet you accuse meof being romantic in my sentiments. 

S. I have indeed long ceased to hope; but yet I sometimes hope againsthope. 

H. My love! were it in my power, thy hopes should be fulfilledto-morrow. Next to my own, there is nothing that could give me so muchsatisfaction as to see thine realized! Do I not love thee, when I canfeel such an interest in thy love for another? It was that which firstwedded my very soul to you. I would give worlds for a share in a heartso rich in pure affection!

S. And yet I did not tell you of the circumstance to raise myself inyour opinion. 

H. You are a sublime little thing! And yet, as you have no prospectsthere, I cannot help thinking, the best thing would be to do as I havesaid. 

S. I would never marry a man I did not love beyond all the world. 

H. I should be satisfied with less than that--with the love, or regard, or whatever you call it, you have shown me before marriage, if that hasonly been sincere. You would hardly like me less afterwards. 

S. Endearments would, I should think, increase regard, where there waslove beforehand; but that is not exactly my case. 

H. But I think you would be happier than you are at present. You takepleasure in my conversation, and you say you have an esteem for me; andit is upon this, after the honeymoon, that marriage chiefly turns. 

S. Do you think there is no pleasure in a single life?

H. Do you mean on account of its liberty?

S. No, but I feel that forced duty is no duty. I have high ideas ofthe married state!

H. Higher than of the maiden state?

S. I understand you, Sir. 

H. I meant nothing; but you have sometimes spoken of any seriousattachment as a tie upon you. It is not that you prefer flirting with"gay young men" to becoming a mere dull domestic wife?

S. You have no right to throw out such insinuations: for though I ambut a tradesman's daughter, I have as nice a sense of honour as anyonecan have. 

H. Talk of a tradesman's daughter! you would ennoble any family, thouglorious girl, by true nobility of mind. 

S. Oh! Sir, you flatter me. I know my own inferiority to most. 

H. To none; there is no one above thee, man nor woman either. You areabove your situation, which is not fit for you. 

S. I am contented with my lot, and do my duty as cheerfully as I can. 

H. Have you not told me your spirits grow worse every year?

S. Not on that account: but some disappointments are hard to bear upagainst. 

H. If you talk about that, you'll unman me. But tell me, my love, --Ihave thought of it as something that might account for somecircumstances; that is, as a mere possibility. But tell me, there wasnot a likeness between me and your old lover that struck you at firstsight? Was there?

S. No, Sir, none. 

H. Well, I didn't think it likely there should. 

S. But there was a likeness. 

H. To whom?

S. To that little image! (looking intently on a small bronze figure ofBuonaparte on the mantelpiece). 

H. What, do you mean to Buonaparte?

S. Yes, all but the nose was just like. 

H. And was his figure the same?

S. He was taller!

[I got up and gave her the image, and told her it was hers by everyright that was sacred. She refused at first to take so valuable acuriosity, and said she would keep it for me. But I pressed it eagerly, and she look it. She immediately came and sat down, and put her armround my neck, and kissed me, and I said, "Is it not plain we are thebest friends in the world, since we are always so glad to make it up?"And then I added "How odd it was that the God of my idolatry should turnout to be like her Idol, and said it was no wonder that the same facewhich awed the world should conquer the sweetest creature in it!" How Iloved her at that moment! Is it possible that the wretch who writesthis could ever have been so blest! Heavenly delicious creature! Can Ilive without her? Oh! no--never--never. 

"What is this world? What asken men to have, Now with his love, now inthe cold grave, Alone, withouten any compagnie!"

Let me but see her again! She cannot hate the man who loves her as Ido. ]

LETTERS TO THE SAME

Feb. , 1822. 

--You will scold me for this, and ask me if this is keeping my promiseto mind my work. One half of it was to think of Sarah: and besides, Ido not neglect my work either, I assure you. I regularly do ten pages aday, which mounts up to thirty guineas' worth a week, so that you see Ishould grow rich at this rate, if I could keep on so; AND I COULD KEEPON SO, if I had you with me to encourage me with your sweet smiles, andshare my lot. The Berwick smacks sail twice a week, and the wind sitsfair. When I think of the thousand endearing caresses that have passedbetween us, I do not wonder at the strong attachment that draws me toyou; but I am sorry for my own want of power to please. I hear the windsigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and over to myself twolines of Lord Byron's Tragedy--

"So shalt thou find me ever at thy side Here and hereafter, if the lastmay be. "--

applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever seethee again. Perhaps not--for some years at least--till both thou and Iare old--and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep tothee, and die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hatedby her I loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though buta mockery and a dream, I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought tohave dried up my tears for ever, the day I left you; but as I writethis, they stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst. I walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, thatcome up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but theydo not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. As yousay, it will one day be colder. --Forgive what I have written above; Idid not intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bearthe thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault. Has any one called? Do not send any letters that come. I should likeyou and your mother (if agreeable) to go and see Mr. Kean in Othello, and Miss Stephens in Love in a Village. If you will, I will write toMr. T----, to send you tickets. Has Mr. P---- called? I think I mustsend to him for the picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my bestbeloved. Ah! if you can never be mine, still let me be your proud andhappy slave. 

H. 

TO THE SAME

March, 1822. 

--You will be glad to learn I have done my work--a volume in less than amonth. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and anotheris, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got throughthis job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I canlittle afford to lose)--and besides, I am more anxious to do well now, as I wish you to hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon, and hear the birds sing as I told you, and think, if I had you hangingon my arm, and that for life, how happy I should be--happier than I everhoped to be, or had any conception of till I knew you. "But that cannever be"--I hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. Well, let me dreamof it sometimes--I am not happy too often, except when that favouritenote, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth, whispersthy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something aboutMr. Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious night, when I went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet. Can Iforget it for a moment--your sweet modest looks, your infinite proprietyof behaviour, all your sweet winning ways--your hesitating about takingmy arm as we came out till your mother did--your laughing about nearlylosing your cloak--your stepping into the coach without my being able tomake the slightest discovery--and oh! my sitting down beside you there, you whom I had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me I had notlessened your pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me yourdear hand to press in mine! I thought I was in heaven--that slenderexquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as Ifolded you--yes, you, my own best Sarah, to my bosom, there was, as yousay, A TIE BETWEEN US--you did seem to me, for those few shortmoments, to be mine in all truth and honour and sacredness--Oh! that wecould be always so--Do not mock me, for I am a very child in love. Iought to beg pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, but I hope THELITTLE IMAGE made it up between us, &c. 

[To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rollingyears of eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be?What am I? Or where have I been?]

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION

I want a hand to guide me, an eye to cheer me, a bosom to repose on; allwhich I shall never have, but shall stagger into my grave, old before mytime, unloved and unlovely, unless S. L. Keeps her faith with me. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

--But by her dove's eyes and serpent-shape, I think she does not hateme; by her smooth forehead and her crested hair, I own I love her; byher soft looks and queen-like grace (which men might fall down andworship) I swear to live and die for her!

A PROPOSAL OF LOVE

(Given to her in our early acquaintance)

 "Oh! if I thought it could be in a woman (As, if it can, I will presume in you) To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love, To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving beauties outward with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays: Or that persuasion could but thus convince me, That my integrity and truth to you Might be confronted with the match and weight Of such a winnowed purity in love-- How were I then uplifted! But, alas, I am as true as truth's simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth. "

 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 

PART II

LETTERS TO C. P----, ESQ. 

Bees-Inn. 

My good friend, Here I am in Scotland (and shall have been here threeweeks, next Monday) as I may say, ON MY PROBATION. This is a loneinn, but on a great scale, thirty miles from Edinburgh. It is situatedon a rising ground (a mark for all the winds, which blow hereincessantly)--there is a woody hill opposite, with a winding valleybelow, and the London road stretches out on either side. You may guesswhich way I oftenest walk. I have written two letters to S. L. And gotone cold, prudish answer, beginning SIR, and ending FROM YOURSTRULY, with BEST RESPECTS FROM HERSELF AND RELATIONS. I was going togive in, but have returned an answer, which I think is a touch-stone. Isend it you on the other side to keep as a curiosity, in case she killsme by her exquisite rejoinder. I am convinced from the profoundcontemplations I have had on the subject here and coming along, that Iam on a wrong scent. We had a famous parting-scene, a complete quarreland then a reconciliation, in which she did beguile me of my tears, butthe deuce a one did she shed. What do you think? She cajoled me out ofmy little Buonaparte as cleverly as possible, in manner and formfollowing. She was shy the Saturday and Sunday (the day of mydeparture) so I got in dudgeon, and began to rip up grievances. I askedher how she came to admit me to such extreme familiarities, the firstweek I entered the house. "If she had no particular regard for me, shemust do so (or more) with everyone: if she had a liking to me from thefirst, why refuse me with scorn and wilfulness?" If you had seen howshe flounced, and looked, and went to the door, saying "She was obligedto me for letting her know the opinion I had always entertained ofher"--then I said, "Sarah!" and she came back and took my hand, andfixed her eyes on the mantelpiece--(she must have been invoking her idolthen--if I thought so, I could devour her, the darling--but I doubther)--So I said "There is one thing that has occurred to me sometimes aspossible, to account for your conduct to me at first--there wasn't alikeness, was there, to your old friend?" She answered "No, none--butthere was a likeness!" I asked, to what? She said "to that littleimage!" I said, "Do you mean Buonaparte?"--She said "Yes, all but thenose. "--"And the figure?"--"He was taller. "--I could not stand this. SoI got up and took it, and gave it her, and after some reluctance, sheconsented to "keep it for me. " What will you bet me that it wasn't alla trick? I'll tell you why I suspect it, besides being fairly out of mywits about her. I had told her mother half an hour before, that Ishould take this image and leave it at Mrs. B. 's, for that I didn't wishto leave anything behind me that must bring me back again. Then up shecomes and starts a likeness to her lover: she knew I should give it heron the spot--"No, she would keep it for me!" So I must come back forit. Whether art or nature, it is sublime. I told her I should writeand tell you so, and that I parted from her, confiding, adoring!--She isbeyond me, that's certain. Do go and see her, and desire her not togive my present address to a single soul, and learn if the lodging islet, and to whom. My letter to her is as follows. If she shews theleast remorse at it, I'll be hanged, though it might move a stone, Imodestly think. (See before, Part I. First letter. )

N. B. --I have begun a book of our conversations (I mean mine and thestatue's) which I call LIBER AMORIS. I was detained at Stamford andfound myself dull, and could hit upon no other way of employing my timeso agreeably. 

LETTER II

Dear P----, Here, without loss of time, in order that I may have youropinion upon it, is little Yes and No's answer to my last. 

"Sir, I should not have disregarded your injunction not to send you anymore letters that might come to you, had I not promised the Gentlemanwho left the enclosed to forward it the earliest opportunity, as he saidit was of consequence. Mr. P---- called the day after you left town. My mother and myself are much obliged by your kind offer of tickets tothe play, but must decline accepting it. My family send their bestrespects, in which they are joined by

Yours, truly, S. L. 

The deuce a bit more is there of it. If you can make anything out of it(or any body else) I'll be hanged. You are to understand, this comes ina frank, the second I have received from her, with a name I can't makeout, and she won't tell me, though I asked her, where she got franks, asalso whether the lodgings were let, to neither of which a word ofanswer. * * * * is the name on the frank: see if you can decypher it bya Red-book. I suspect her grievously of being an arrant jilt, to say nomore--yet I love her dearly. Do you know I'm going to write to thatsweet rogue presently, having a whole evening to myself in advance of mywork? Now mark, before you set about your exposition of the newApocalypse of the new Calypso, the only thing to be endured in the aboveletter is the date. It was written the very day after she receivedmine. By this she seems willing to lose no time in receiving theseletters "of such sweet breath composed. " If I thought so--but I waitfor your reply. After all, what is there in her but a pretty figure, and that you can't get a word out of her? Hers is the Fabian method ofmaking love and conquests. What do you suppose she said the nightbefore I left her?

"H. Could you not come and live with me as a friend?

"S. I don't know: and yet it would be of no use if I did, you wouldalways be hankering after what could never be!"

I asked her if she would do so at once--the very next day? And what doyou guess was her answer--"Do you think it would be prudent?" As Ididn't proceed to extremities on the spot, she began to look grave, anddeclare off. "Would she live with me in her own house--to be with meall day as dear friends, if nothing more, to sit and read and talk withme?"--"She would make no promises, but I should find her thesame. "--"Would she go to the play with me sometimes, and let it beunderstood that I was paying my addresses to her?"--"She could not, as ahabit--her father was rather strict, and would object. "--Now what am Ito think of all this? Am I mad or a fool? Answer me to that, MasterBrook! You are a philosopher. 

LETTER III

Dear Friend, I ought to have written to you before; but since I receivedyour letter, I have been in a sort of purgatory, and what is worse, Isee no prospect of getting out of it. I would put an end to my tormentsat once; but I am as great a coward as I have been a dupe. Do you knowI have not had a word of answer from her since! What can be the reason? Is she offended at my letting you know she wrote to me, or is it somenew affair? I wrote to her in the tenderest, most respectful manner, poured my soul at her feet, and this is the return she makes me! Canyou account for it, except on the admission of my worst doubtsconcerning her? Oh God! can I bear after all to think of her so, orthat I am scorned and made a sport of by the creature to whom I hadgiven my whole heart? Thus has it been with me all my life; and so willit be to the end of it!--If you should learn anything, good or bad, tellme, I conjure you: I can bear anything but this cruel suspense. If Iknew she was a mere abandoned creature, I should try to forget her; buttill I do know this, nothing can tear me from her, I have drank inpoison from her lips too long--alas! mine do not poison again. I sitand indulge my grief by the hour together; my weakness grows upon me;and I have no hope left, unless I could lose my senses quite. Do youknow I think I should like this? To forget, ah! to forget--there wouldbe something in that--to change to an idiot for some few years, and thento wake up a poor wretched old man, to recollect my misery as past, anddie! Yet, oh! with her, only a little while ago, I had different hopes, forfeited for nothing that I know of! * * * * * * If you can give me anyconsolation on the subject of my tormentor, pray do. The pain I sufferwears me out daily. I write this on the supposition that Mrs. ---- maystill come here, and that I may be detained some weeks longer. Directto me at the Post-office; and if I return to town directly as I fear, Iwill leave word for them to forward the letter to me in London--not atmy old lodgings. I will not go back there: yet how can I breathe awayfrom her? Her hatred of me must be great, since my love of her couldnot overcome it! I have finished the book of my conversations with her, which I told you of: if I am not mistaken, you will think it very nicereading. 

Yours ever. 

Have you read Sardanapalus? How like the little Greek slave, Myrrha, isto HER!

LETTER IV

(Written in the Winter)

My good Friend, I received your letter this morning, and I kiss the rodnot only with submission, but gratitude. Your reproofs of me and yourdefences of her are the only things that save my soul from perdition. She is my heart's idol; and believe me those words of yours applied tothe dear saint--"To lip a chaste one and suppose her wanton"--were balmand rapture to me. I have LIPPED HER, God knows how often, and oh! isit even possible that she is chaste, and that she has bestowed her loved"endearments" on me (her own sweet word) out of true regard? Thatthought, out of the lowest depths of despair, would at any time make mestrike my forehead against the stars. Could I but think the love"honest, " I am proof against all hazards. She by her silence makes mydark hour; and you by your encouragements dissipate it for twenty-fourhours. Another thing has brought me to life. Mrs. ---- is actually onher way here about the divorce. Should this unpleasant business (whichhas been so long talked of) succeed, and I should become free, do youthink S. L. Will agree to change her name to ----? If she WILL, sheSHALL; and to call her so to you, or to hear her called so by others, would be music to my ears, such as they never drank in. Do you think ifshe knew how I love her, my depressions and my altitudes, my wanderingsand my constancy, it would not move her? She knows it all; and if sheis not an INCORRIGIBLE, she loves me, or regards me with a feelingnext to love. I don't believe that any woman was ever courted morepassionately than she has been by me. As Rousseau said of Madamed'Houptot (forgive the allusion) my heart has found a tongue in speakingto her, and I have talked to her the divine language of love. Yet shesays, she is insensible to it. Am I to believe her or you? You--for Iwish it and wish it to madness, now that I am like to be free, and tohave it in my power to say to her without a possibility of suspicion, "Sarah, will you be mine?" When I sometimes think of the time I firstsaw the sweet apparition, August 16, 1820, and that possibly she may bemy bride before that day two years, it makes me dizzy with incrediblejoy and love of her. Write soon. 

LETTER V

My dear Friend, I read your answer this morning with gratitude. I havefelt somewhat easier since. It shewed your interest in my vexations, and also that you know nothing worse than I do. I cannot describe theweakness of mind to which she has reduced me. This state of suspense islike hanging in the air by a single thread that exhausts all yourstrength to keep hold of it; and yet if that fails you, you have nothingin the world else left to trust to. I am come back to Edinburgh aboutthis cursed business, and Mrs. ---- is coming from Montrose next week. How it will end, I can't say; and don't care, except as it regards theother affair. I should, I confess, like to have it in my power to makeher the offer direct and unequivocal, to see how she'd receive it. Itwould be worth something at any rate to see her superfine airs upon theoccasion; and if she should take it into her head to turn round hersweet neck, drop her eye-lids, and say--"Yes, I will be yours!"--whythen, "treason domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch me further. "By Heaven! I doat on her. The truth is, I never had any pleasure, likelove, with any one but her. Then how can I bear to part with her? Doyou know I like to think of her best in her morning-gown and mob-cap--itis so she has oftenest come into my room and enchanted me! She was onceill, pale, and had lost all her freshness. I only adored her the morefor it, and fell in love with the decay of her beauty. I could devourthe little witch. If she had a plague-spot on her, I could touch theinfection: if she was in a burning fever, I could kiss her, and drinkdeath as I have drank life from her lips. When I press her hand, Ienjoy perfect happiness and contentment of soul. It is not what shesays or what she does--it is herself that I love. To be with her is tobe at peace. I have no other wish or desire. The air about her isserene, blissful; and he who breathes it is like one of the Gods! Sothat I can but have her with me always, I care for nothing more. Inever could tire of her sweetness; I feel that I could grow to her, bodyand soul? My heart, my heart is hers. 

LETTER VI

(Written in May)

Dear P----, What have I suffered since I parted with you! A raging fireis in my heart and in my brain, that never quits me. The steam-boat(which I foolishly ventured on board) seems a prison-house, a sort ofspectre-ship, moving on through an infernal lake, without wind or tide, by some necromantic power--the splashing of the waves, the noise of theengine gives me no rest, night or day--no tree, no natural object variesthe scene--but the abyss is before me, and all my peace lies welteringin it! I feel the eternity of punishment in this life; for I see no endof my woes. The people about me are ill, uncomfortable, wretchedenough, many of them--but to-morrow or next day, they reach the place oftheir destination, and all will be new and delightful. To me it will bethe same. I can neither escape from her, nor from myself. All isendurable where there is a limit: but I have nothing but the blacknessand the fiendishness of scorn around me--mocked by her (the false one)in whom I placed my hope, and who hardens herself against me!--I believeyou thought me quite gay, vain, insolent, half mad, the night I left thehouse--no tongue can tell the heaviness of heart I felt at that moment. No footsteps ever fell more slow, more sad than mine; for every stepbore me farther from her, with whom my soul and every thought lingered. I had parted with her in anger, and each had spoken words of highdisdain, not soon to be forgiven. Should I ever behold her again?Where go to live and die far from her? In her sight there was Elysium;her smile was heaven; her voice was enchantment; the air of love wavedround her, breathing balm into my heart: for a little while I had satwith the Gods at their golden tables, I had tasted of all earth's bliss, "both living and loving!" But now Paradise barred its doors against me;I was driven from her presence, where rosy blushes and delicious sighsand all soft wishes dwelt, the outcast of nature and the scoff of love!I thought of the time when I was a little happy careless child, of myfather's house, of my early lessons, of my brother's picture of me whena boy, of all that had since happened to me, and of the waste of yearsto come--I stopped, faultered, and was going to turn back once more tomake a longer truce with wretchedness and patch up a hollow league withlove, when the recollection of her words--"I always told you I had noaffection for you"--steeled my resolution, and I determined to proceed. You see by this she always hated me, and only played with my credulitytill she could find some one to supply the place of her unalterableattachment to THE LITTLE IMAGE. * * * * * I am a little, a very littlebetter to-day. Would it were quietly over; and that this misshapen form(made to be mocked) were hid out of the sight of cold, sullen eyes! Thepeople about me even take notice of my dumb despair, and pity me. Whatis to be done? I cannot forget HER; and I can find no other like whatSHE SEEMED. I should wish you to call, if you can make an excuse, andsee whether or no she is quite marble--whether I may go back again at myreturn, and whether she will see me and talk to me sometimes as an oldfriend. Suppose you were to call on M---- from me, and ask him what hisimpression is that I ought to do. But do as you think best. Pardon, pardon. 

P. S. --I send this from Scarborough, where the vessel stops for a fewminutes. I scarcely know what I should have done, but for this reliefto my feelings. 

LETTER VII

My dear Friend, The important step is taken, and I am virtually a freeman. * * * What had I better do in these circumstances? I dare notwrite to her, I dare not write to her father, or else I would. She hasshot me through with poisoned arrows, and I think another "winged wound"would finish me. It is a pleasant sort of balm (as you express it)she has left in my heart! One thing I agree with you in, it will remainthere for ever; but yet not very long. It festers, and consumes me. Ifit were not for my little boy, whose face I see struck blank at thenews, looking through the world for pity and meeting with contemptinstead, I should soon, I fear, settle the question by my death. Thatrecollection is the only thought that brings my wandering reason to ananchor; that stirs the smallest interest in me; or gives me fortitude tobear up against what I am doomed to feel for the ungrateful. Otherwise, I am dead to every thing but the sense of what I have lost. She was mylife--it is gone from me, and I am grown spectral! If I find myself ina place I am acquainted with, it reminds me of her, of the way in whichI thought of her, --"and carved on every tree The soft, the fair, the inexpressive she!"

If it is a place that is new to me, it is desolate, barren of allinterest; for nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. Ifthe clock strikes, the sound jars me; a million of hours will not bringback peace to my breast. The light startles me; the darkness terrifiesme. I seem falling into a pit, without a hand to help me. She hasdeceived me, and the earth fails from under my feet; no object in natureis substantial, real, but false and hollow, like her faith on which Ibuilt my trust. She came (I knew not how) and sat by my side and wasfolded in my arms, a vision of love and joy, as if she had dropped fromthe Heavens to bless me by some especial dispensation of a favouringProvidence, and make me amends for all; and now without any fault ofmine but too much fondness, she has vanished from me, and I am left toperish. My heart is torn out of me, with every feeling for which Iwished to live. The whole is like a dream, an effect of enchantment; ittorments me, and it drives me mad. I lie down with it; I rise up withit; and see no chance of repose. I grasp at a shadow, I try to undo thepast, and weep with rage and pity over my own weakness and misery. Ispared her again and again (fool that I was) thinking what she allowedfrom me was love, friendship, sweetness, not wantonness. How could Idoubt it, looking in her face, and hearing her words, like sighsbreathed from the gentlest of all bosoms? I had hopes, I had prospectsto come, the flattery of something like fame, a pleasure in writing, health even would have come back with her smile--she has blighted all, turned all to poison and childish tears. Yet the barbed arrow is in myheart--I can neither endure it, nor draw it out; for with it flows mylife's-blood. I had conversed too long with abstracted truth to trustmyself with the immortal thoughts of love. THAT S. L. MIGHT HAVE BEENMINE, AND NOW NEVER CAN--these are the two sole propositions that forever stare me in the face, and look ghastly in at my poor brain. I amin some sense proud that I can feel this dreadful passion--it gives me akind of rank in the kingdom of love--but I could have wished it had beenfor an object that at least could have understood its value and pitiedits excess. You say her not coming to the door when you went is aproof--yes, that her complement is at present full! That is the reasonshe doesn't want me there, lest I should discover the new affair--wretchthat I am! Another has possession of her, oh Hell! I'm satisfied of itfrom her manner, which had a wanton insolence in it. Well might I runwild when I received no letters from her. I foresaw, I felt my fate. The gates of Paradise were once open to me too, and I blushed to enterbut with the golden keys of love! I would die; but her lover--my loveof her--ought not to die. When I am dead, who will love her as I havedone? If she should be in misfortune, who will comfort her? when sheis old, who will look in her face, and bless her? Would there be anyharm in calling upon M----, to know confidentially if he thinks it worthmy while to make her an offer the instant it is in my power? Let mehave an answer, and save me, if possible, FOR her and FROM myself. 

LETTER VIII

My dear Friend, Your letter raised me for a moment from the depths ofdespair; but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day (as I hoped) Ihave had a relapse. You say I want to get rid of her. I hope you aremore right in your conjectures about her than in this about me. Oh no!believe it, I love her as I do my own soul; my very heart is wedded toher (be she what she may) and I would not hesitate a moment between herand "an angel from Heaven. " I grant all you say about myself-tormenting folly: but has it been without cause? Has she notrefused me again and again with a mixture of scorn and resentment, aftergoing the utmost lengths with a man for whom she now disclaims allaffection; and what security can I have for her reserve with others, whowill not be restrained by feelings of delicacy towards her, and whom shehas probably preferred to me for their want of it. "SHE CAN MAKE NOMORE CONFIDENCES"--these words ring for ever in my ears, and will be mydeath-watch. They can have but one meaning, be sure of it--she alwaysexpressed herself with the exactest propriety. That was one of thethings for which I loved her--shall I live to hate her for it? My poorfond heart, that brooded over her and the remains of her affections asmy only hope of comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation. Who is there so low as me? Who is there besides (I ask) after thehomage I have paid her and the caresses she has lavished on me, so vile, so abhorrent to love, to whom such an indignity could have happened?When I think of this (and I think of nothing else) it stifles me. I ampent up in burning, fruitless desires, which can find no vent or object. Am I not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone I love or ever didlove? I cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from thesense of her contempt and her ingratitude. I can settle to nothing:what is the use of all I have done? Is it not that very circumstance(my thinking beyond my strength, my feeling more than I need about somany things) that has withered me up, and made me a thing for Love toshrink from and wonder at? Who could ever feel that peace from thetouch of her dear hand that I have done; and is it not torn from me forever? My state is this, that I shall never lie down again at night norrise up in the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little boy's facewith pleasure while I live--unless I am restored to her favour. Insteadof that delicious feeling I had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and myheart softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, I amnow inclosed in a dungeon of despair. The sky is marble to my thoughts;nature is dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give meone gleam of satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. I wander by the sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair andher face are before me. Slighted by her, on whom my heart by its lastfibre hung, where shall I turn? I wake with her by my side, not as mysweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my love, without a heart in herbosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me; and the worm gnaws me, and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a hopeless, endlesssorrow. I have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety; and myfavourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I got up, has nomoisture in it. Oh! cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, comparedwith those which I promised myself with her; or which I made when shehad been standing an hour by my side, my guardian-angel, my wife, mysister, my sweet friend, my Eve, my all; and had blest me with herseraph kisses! Ah! what I suffer at present only shews what I haveenjoyed. But "the girl is a good girl, if there is goodness in humannature. " I thank you for those words; and I will fall down and worshipyou, if you can prove them true: and I would not do much less for himthat proves her a demon. She is one or the other, that's certain; but Ifear the worst. Do let me know if anything has passed: suspense is mygreatest punishment. I am going into the country to see if I can work alittle in the three weeks I have yet to stay here. Write on the receiptof this, and believe me ever your unspeakably obliged friend. 

TO EDINBURGH

--"Stony-hearted" Edinburgh! What art thou to me? The dust of thystreets mingles with my tears and blinds me. City of palaces, or oftombs--a quarry, rather than the habitation of men! Art thou likeLondon, that populous hive, with its sunburnt, well-baked, brick-builthouses--its public edifices, its theatres, its bridges, its squares, itsladies, and its pomp, its throng of wealth, its outstretched magnitude, and its mighty heart that never lies still? Thy cold grey walls reflectback the leaden melancholy of the soul. The square, hard-edged, unyielding faces of thy inhabitants have no sympathy to impart. What isit to me that I look along the level line of thy tenantless streets, andmeet perhaps a lawyer like a grasshopper chirping and skipping, or thedaughter of a Highland laird, haughty, fair, and freckled? Or whyshould I look down your boasted Prince's Street, with the beetle-browedCastle on one side, and the Calton Hill with its proud monument at thefurther end, and the ridgy steep of Salisbury Crag, cut off abruptly byNature's boldest hand, and Arthur's Seat overlooking all, like a lionesswatching her cubs? Or shall I turn to the far-off Pentland Hills, withCraig-Crook nestling beneath them, where lives the prince of critics andthe king of men? Or cast my eye unsated over the Frith of Forth, thatfrom my window of an evening (as I read of AMY and her love) glitterslike a broad golden mirror in the sun, and kisses the winding shores ofkingly Fife? Oh no! But to thee, to thee I turn, North Berwick-Law, with thy blue cone rising out of summer seas; for thou art the beacon ofmy banished thoughts, and dost point my way to her, who is my heart'strue home. The air is too thin for me, that has not the breath of Lovein it; that is not embalmed by her sighs!

A THOUGHT

I am not mad, but my heart is so; and raves within me, fierce anduntameable, like a panther in its den, and tries to get loose to itslost mate, and fawn on her hand, and bend lowly at her feet. 

ANOTHER

Oh! thou dumb heart, lonely, sad, shut up in the prison-house of thisrude form, that hast never found a fellow but for an instant, and invery mockery of thy misery, speak, find bleeding words to express thythoughts, break thy dungeon-gloom, or die pronouncing thy Infelice'sname!

ANOTHER

Within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate;but above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces, silent and in tears. 

LETTER IX

My dear P----, You have been very kind to me in this business; but Ifear even your indulgence for my infirmities is beginning to fail. Towhat a state am I reduced, and for what? For fancying a little artfulvixen to be an angel and a saint, because she affected to look like one, to hide her rank thoughts and deadly purposes. Has she not murdered meunder the mask of the tenderest friendship? And why? Because I haveloved her with unutterable love, and sought to make her my wife. Yousay it is my own "outrageous conduct" that has estranged her: nay, Ihave been TOO GENTLE with her. I ask you first in candour whether theambiguity of her behaviour with respect to me, sitting and fondling aman (circumstanced as I was) sometimes for half a day together, and thendeclaring she had no love for him beyond common regard, and professingnever to marry, was not enough to excite my suspicions, which thedifferent exposures from the conversations below-stairs were notcalculated to allay? I ask you what you yourself would have felt ordone, if loving her as I did, you had heard what I did, time after time? Did not her mother own to one of the grossest charges (which I shallnot repeat)--and is such indelicacy to be reconciled with her pretendedcharacter (that character with which I fell in love, and to which IMADE LOVE) without supposing her to be the greatest hypocrite in theworld? My unpardonable offence has been that I took her at her word, and was willing to believe her the precise little puritanical person sheset up for. After exciting her wayward desires by the fondest embracesand the purest kisses, as if she had been "made my wedded wifeyestreen, " or was to become so to-morrow (for that was always my feelingwith respect to her)--I did not proceed to gratify them, or to follow upmy advantage by any action which should declare, "I think you a commonadventurer, and will see whether you are so or not!" Yet any one but acredulous fool like me would have made the experiment, with whateverviolence to himself, as a matter of life and death; for I had everyreason to distrust appearances. Her conduct has been of a piece fromthe beginning. In the midst of her closest and falsest endearments, shehas always (with one or two exceptions) disclaimed the natural inferenceto be drawn from them, and made a verbal reservation, by which she mightlead me on in a Fool's Paradise, and make me the tool of her levity, heravarice, and her love of intrigue as long as she liked, and dismiss mewhenever it suited her. This, you see, she has done, because myintentions grew serious, and if complied with, would deprive her of THEPLEASURES OF A SINGLE LIFE! Offer marriage to this "tradesman'sdaughter, who has as nice a sense of honour as any one can have;" andlike Lady Bellaston in Tom Jones, she CUTS you immediately in a fitof abhorrence and alarm. Yet she seemed to be of a different mindformerly, when struggling from me in the height of our first intimacy, she exclaimed--"However I might agree to my own ruin, I never willconsent to bring disgrace upon my family!" That I should have sparedthe traitress after expressions like this, astonishes me when I lookback upon it. Yet if it were all to do over again, I know I should actjust the same part. Such is her power over me! I cannot run the leastrisk of offending her--I love her so. When I look in her face, I cannotdoubt her truth! Wretched being that I am! I have thrown away my heartand soul upon an unfeeling girl; and my life (that might have been sohappy, had she been what I thought her) will soon follow eithervoluntarily, or by the force of grief, remorse, and disappointment. Icannot get rid of the reflection for an instant, nor even seek relieffrom its galling pressure. Ah! what a heart she has lost! All the loveand affection of my whole life were centred in her, who alone, Ithought, of all women had found out my true character, and knew how tovalue my tenderness. Alas! alas! that this, the only hope, joy, orcomfort I ever had, should turn to a mockery, and hang like an ugly filmover the remainder of my days!--I was at Roslin Castle yesterday. Itlies low in a rude, but sheltered valley, hid from the vulgar gaze, andpowerfully reminds one of the old song. The straggling fragments of therusset ruins, suspended smiling and graceful in the air as if they wouldlinger out another century to please the curious beholder, the greenlarch-trees trembling between with the blue sky and white silver clouds, the wild mountain plants starting out here and there, the date of theyear on an old low door-way, but still more, the beds of flowers inorderly decay, that seem to have no hand to tend them, but keep up asort of traditional remembrance of civilization in former ages, presentaltogether a delightful and amiable subject for contemplation. Theexquisite beauty of the scene, with the thought of what I should feel, should I ever be restored to her, and have to lead her through suchplaces as my adored, my angelwife, almost drove me beside myself. Forthis picture, this ecstatic vision, what have I of late instead as theimage of the reality? Demoniacal possessions. I see the young witchseated in another's lap, twining her serpent arms round him, her eyeglancing and her cheeks on fire--why does not the hideous thought chokeme? Or why do I not go and find out the truth at once? The moonlightstreams over the silver waters: the bark is in the bay that might waftme to her, almost with a wish. The mountain-breeze sighs out her name:old ocean with a world of tears murmurs back my woes! Does not my heartyearn to be with her; and shall I not follow its bidding? No, I mustwait till I am free; and then I will take my Freedom (a glad prize) andlay it at her feet and tell her my proud love of her that would notbrook a rival in her dishonour, and that would have her all or none, andgain her or lose myself for ever!--

You see by this letter the way I am in, and I hope you will excuse it asthe picture of a half-disordered mind. The least respite from myuneasiness (such as I had yesterday) only brings the contrary reflectionback upon me, like a flood; and by letting me see the happiness I havelost, makes me feel, by contrast, more acutely what I am doomed to bear. 

LETTER X

Dear Friend, Here I am at St. Bees once more, amid the scenes which Igreeted in their barrenness in winter; but which have now put on theirfull green attire that shews luxuriant to the eye, but speaks a tale ofsadness to this heart widowed of its last, its dearest, its only hope!Oh! lovely Bees-Inn! here I composed a volume of law-cases, here I wrotemy enamoured follies to her, thinking her human, and that "all below wasnot the fiend's"--here I got two cold, sullen answers from the littlewitch, and here I was ---- and I was damned. I thought the revisitingthe old haunts would have soothed me for a time, but it only brings backthe sense of what I have suffered for her and of her unkindness the morestrongly, till I cannot endure the recollection. I eye the Heavens indumb despair, or vent my sorrows in the desart air. "To the winds, tothe waves, to the rocks I complain"--you may suppose with what effect!I fear I shall be obliged to return. I am tossed about (backwards andforwards) by my passion, so as to become ridiculous. I can nowunderstand how it is that mad people never remain in the sameplace--they are moving on for ever, FROM THEMSELVES!

Do you know, you would have been delighted with the effect of theNorthern twilight on this romantic country as I rode along last night?The hills and groves and herds of cattle were seen reposing in the greydawn of midnight, as in a moonlight without shadow. The whole widecanopy of Heaven shed its reflex light upon them, like a pure crystalmirror. No sharp points, no petty details, no hard contrasts--everyobject was seen softened yet distinct, in its simple outline and naturaltones, transparent with an inward light, breathing its own mild lustre. The landscape altogether was like an airy piece of mosaic-work, or likeone of Poussin's broad massy landscapes or Titian's lovely pastoralscenes. Is it not so, that poets see nature, veiled to the sight, butrevealed to the soul in visionary grace and grandeur! I confess thesight touched me; and might have removed all sadness except mine. So (Ithought) the light of her celestial face once shone into my soul, andwrapt me in a heavenly trance. The sense I have of beauty raises me fora moment above myself, but depresses me the more afterwards, when Irecollect how it is thrown away in vain admiration, and that it onlymakes me more susceptible of pain from the mortifications I meet with. Would I had never seen her! I might then not indeed have been happy, but at least I might have passed my life in peace, and have sunk intoforgetfulness without a pang. --The noble scenery in this country mixeswith my passion, and refines, but does not relieve it. I was atStirling Castle not long ago. It gave me no pleasure. The declivityseemed to me abrupt, not sublime; for in truth I did not shrink backfrom it with terror. The weather-beaten towers were stiff and formal:the air was damp and chill: the river winded its dull, slimy way like asnake along the marshy grounds: and the dim misty tops of Ben Leddi, andthe lovely Highlands (woven fantastically of thin air) mocked myembraces and tempted my longing eyes like her, the sole queen andmistress of my thoughts! I never found my contemplations on thissubject so subtilised and at the same time so desponding as on thatoccasion. I wept myself almost blind, and I gazed at the broad goldensunset through my tears that fell in showers. As I trod the greenmountain turf, oh! how I wished to be laid beneath it--in one grave withher--that I might sleep with her in that cold bed, my hand in hers, andmy heart for ever still--while worms should taste her sweet body, that Ihad never tasted! There was a time when I could bear solitude; but itis too much for me at present. Now I am no sooner left to myself than Iam lost in infinite space, and look round me in vain for suppose orcomfort. She was my stay, my hope: without her hand to cling to, Istagger like an infant on the edge of a precipice. The universe withouther is one wide, hollow abyss, in which my harassed thoughts can find noresting-place. I must break off here; for the hysterica passio comesupon me, and threatens to unhinge my reason. 

LETTER XI

My dear and good Friend, I am afraid I trouble you with my querulousepistles, but this is probably the last. To-morrow or the next daydecides my fate with respect to the divorce, when I expect to be a freeman. In vain! Was it not for her and to lay my freedom at her feet, that I consented to this step which has cost me infinite perplexity, andnow to be discarded for the first pretender that came in her way! Ifso, I hardly think I can survive it. You who have been a favourite withwomen, do not know what it is to be deprived of one's only hope, and tohave it turned to shame and disappointment. There is nothing in theworld left that can afford me one drop of comfort--THIS I feel moreand more. Everything is to me a mockery of pleasure, like her love. The breeze does not cool me: the blue sky does not cheer me. I gazeonly on her face averted from me--alas! the only face that ever wasturned fondly to me! And why am I thus treated? Because I wanted herto be mine for ever in love or friendship, and did not push my grossfamiliarities as far as I might. "Why can you not go on as we havedone, and say nothing about the word, FOREVER?" Was it not plain fromthis that she even then meditated an escape from me to some lesssentimental lover? "Do you allow anyone else to do so?" I said to heronce, as I was toying with her. "No, not now!" was her answer; that is, because there was nobody else in the house to take freedoms with her. Iwas very well as a stopgap, but I was to be nothing more. While thecoast was clear, I had it all my own way: but the instant C---- came, she flung herself at his head in the most barefaced way, ran breathlessup stairs before him, blushed when his foot was heard, watched for himin the passage, and was sure to be in close conference with him when hewent down again. It was then my mad proceedings commenced. No wonder. Had I not reason to be jealous of every appearance of familiarity withothers, knowing how easy she had been with me at first, and that sheonly grew shy when I did not take farther liberties? What has hercharacter to rest upon but her attachment to me, which she now denies, not modestly, but impudently? Will you yourself say that if she had allalong no particular regard for me, she will not do as much or more withother more likely men? "She has had, " she says, "enough of myconversation, " so it could not be that! Ah! my friend, it was not to besupposed I should ever meet even with the outward demonstrations ofregard from any woman but a common trader in the endearments of love! Ihave tasted the sweets of the well practiced illusion, and now feel thebitterness of knowing what a bliss I am deprived of, and must ever bedeprived of. Intolerable conviction! Yet I might, I believe, have wonher by other methods; but some demon held my hand. How indeed could Ioffer her the least insult when I worshipped her very footsteps; andeven now pay her divine honours from my inmost heart, whenever I thinkof her, abased and brutalised as I have been by that Circean cup ofkisses, of enchantments, of which I have drunk! I am choked, withered, dried up with chagrin, remorse, despair, from which I have not amoment's respite, day or night. I have always some horrid dream abouther, and wake wondering what is the matter that "she is no longer thesame to me as ever?" I thought at least we should always remain dearfriends, if nothing more--did she not talk of coming to live with meonly the day before I left her in the winter? But "she's gone, I amabused, and my revenge must be to LOVE her!"--Yet she knows that oneline, one word would save me, the cruel, heartless destroyer! I seenothing for it but madness, unless Friday brings a change, or unless sheis willing to let me go back. You must know I wrote to her to thatpurpose, but it was a very quiet, sober letter, begging pardon, andprofessing reform for the future, and all that. What effect it willhave, I know not. I was forced to get out of the way of her answer, till Friday came. 

Ever yours. 

TO S. L. 

My dear Miss L----, EVIL TO THEM THAT EVIL THINK, is an old saying;and I have found it a true one. I have ruined myself by my unjustsuspicions of you. Your sweet friendship was the balm of my life; and Ihave lost it, I fear for ever, by one fault and folly after another. What would I give to be restored to the place in your esteem, which, youassured me, I held only a few months ago! Yet I was not contented, butdid all I could to torment myself and harass you by endless doubts andjealousy. Can you not forget and forgive the past, and judge of me bymy conduct in future? Can you not take all my follies in the lump, andsay like a good, generous girl, "Well, I'll think no more of them?" Ina word, may I come back, and try to behave better? A line to say sowould be an additional favour to so many already received by

Your obliged friend, And sincere well-wisher. 

LETTER XII. 

TO C. P----

I have no answer from her. I'm mad. I wish you to call on M---- inconfidence, to say I intend to make her an offer of my hand, and that Iwill write to her father to that effect the instant I am free, and askhim whether he thinks it will be to any purpose, and what he wouldadvise me to do. 

UNALTERED LOVE

"Love is not love that alteration finds: Oh no! it is an ever-fixedmark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. "

Shall I not love her for herself alone, in spite of fickleness andfolly? To love her for her regard to me, is not to love her, butmyself. She has robbed me of herself: shall she also rob me of my loveof her? Did I not live on her smile? Is it less sweet because it iswithdrawn from me? Did I not adore her every grace? Does she bend lessenchantingly, because she has turned from me to another? Is my lovethen in the power of fortune, or of her caprice? No, I will have itlasting as it is pure; and I will make a Goddess of her, and build atemple to her in my heart, and worship her on indestructible altars, andraise statues to her: and my homage shall be unblemished as herunrivalled symmetry of form; and when that fails, the memory of it shallsurvive; and my bosom shall be proof to scorn, as hers has been to pity;and I will pursue her with an unrelenting love, and sue to be her slave, and tend her steps without notice and without reward; and serve herliving, and mourn for her when dead. And thus my love will have shewnitself superior to her hate; and I shall triumph and then die. This ismy idea of the only true and heroic love! Such is mine for her. 

PERFECT LOVE

Perfect love has this advantage in it, that it leaves the possessor ofit nothing farther to desire. There is one object (at least) in whichthe soul finds absolute content, for which it seeks to live, or dares todie. The heart has as it were filled up the moulds of the imagination. The truth of passion keeps pace with and outvies the extravagance ofmere language. There are no words so fine, no flattery so soft, thatthere is not a sentiment beyond them, that it is impossible to express, at the bottom of the heart where true love is. What idle sounds thecommon phrases, adorable creature, angel, divinity, are? What a proudreflection it is to have a feeling answering to all these, rooted in thebreast, unalterable, unutterable, to which all other feelings are lightand vain! Perfect love reposes on the object of its choice, like thehalcyon on the wave; and the air of heaven is around it. 

FROM C. P. , ESQ. 

London, July 4th, 1822. 

I have seen M----! Now, my dear H----, let me entreat and adjure you totake what I have to tell you, FOR WHAT IT IS WORTH--neither for less, nor more. In the first place, I have learned nothing decisive from him. This, as you will at once see, is, as far as it goes, good. I ameither to hear from him, or see him again in a day or two; but I thoughtyou would like to know what passed inconclusive as it was--so I writewithout delay, and in great haste to save a post. I found him frank, and even friendly in his manner to me, and in his views respecting you. I think that he is sincerely sorry for your situation; and he feels thatthe person who has placed you in that situation is not much lessawkwardly situated herself; and he professes that he would willingly dowhat he can for the good of both. But he sees great difficultiesattending the affair--which he frankly professes to consider as analtogether unfortunate one. With respect to the marriage, he seems tosee the most formidable objections to it, on both sides; but yet he byno means decidedly says that it cannot, or that it ought not to takeplace. These, mind you, are his own feelings on the subject: but themost important point I learn from him is this, that he is not preparedto use his influence either way--that the rest of the family are of thesame way of feeling; and that, in fact, the thing must and does entirelyrest with herself. To learn this was, as you see, gaining a greatpoint. --When I then endeavoured to ascertain whether he knew anythingdecisive as to what are her views on the subject, I found that he didnot. He has an opinion on the subject, and he didn't scruple to tell mewhat it was; but he has no positive knowledge. In short, he believes, from what he learns from herself (and he had purposely seen her on thesubject, in consequence of my application to him) that she is at presentindisposed to the marriage; but he is not prepared to say positivelythat she will not consent to it. Now all this, coming from him in themost frank and unaffected manner, and without any appearance of cant, caution, or reserve, I take to be most important as it respects yourviews, whatever they may be; and certainly much more favourable to them(I confess it) than I was prepared to expect, supposing them to remainas they were. In fact as I said before, the affair rests entirely withherself. They are none of them disposed either to further the marriage, or throw any insurmountable obstacles in the way of it; and what is moreimportant than all, they are evidently by no means CERTAIN that SHEmay not, at some future period, consent to it; or they would, for hersake as well as their own, let you know as much flatly, and put an endto the affair at once. 

Seeing in how frank and straitforward a manner he received what I had tosay to him, and replied to it, I proceeded to ask him what were HISviews, and what were likely to be HERS (in case she did not consent)as to whether you should return to live in the house;--but I added, without waiting for his answer, that if she intended to persist intreating you as she had done for some time past, it would be worse thanmadness for you to think of returning. I added that, in case you didreturn, all you would expect from her would be that she would treat youwith civility and kindness--that she would continue to evince thatfriendly feeling towards you, that she had done for a great length oftime, &c. To this, he said, he could really give no decisive reply, butthat he should be most happy if, by any intervention of his, he couldconduce to your comfort; but he seemed to think that for you to returnon any express understanding that she should behave to you in anyparticular manner, would be to place her in a most awkward situation. He went somewhat at length into this point, and talked very reasonablyabout it; the result, however, was that he would not throw any obstaclesin the way of your return, or of her treating you as a friend, &c. , nordid it appear that he believed she would refuse to do so. And, finally, we parted on the understanding that he would see them on the subject, and ascertain what could be done for the comfort of all parties: thoughhe was of opinion that if you could make up your mind to break off theacquaintance altogether, it would be the best plan of all. I am to hearfrom him again in a day or two. --Well, what do you say to all this? Canyou turn it to any thing but good--comparative good? If you would knowwhat _I_ say to it, it is this:--She is still to be won by wise andprudent conduct on your part; she was always to have been won bysuch;--and if she is lost, it has been not, as you sometimes suppose, because you have not carried that unwise, may I not say UNWORTHY?conduct still farther, but because you gave way to it at all. Of courseI use the terms "wise" and "prudent" with reference to your object. Whether the pursuit of that object is wise, only yourself can judge. Isay she has all along been to be won, and she still is to be won; andall that stands in the way of your views at this moment is your pastconduct. They are all of them, every soul, frightened at you; they haveSEEN enough of you to make them so; and they have doubtless heard tentimes more than they have seen, or than anyone else has seen. They areall of them including M---- (and particularly she herself) frightenedout of their wits, as to what might be your treatment of her if she wereyours; and they dare not trust you--they will not trust you, at present. I do not say that they will trust you, or rather that SHE will, forit all depends on her, when you have gone through a probation, but I amsure that she will not trust you till you have. You will, I hope, notbe angry with me when I say that she would be a fool if she did. If shewere to accept you at present, and without knowing more of you, even Ishould begin to suspect that she had an unworthy motive for doing it. Let me not forget to mention what is perhaps as important a point asany, as it regards the marriage. I of course stated to M---- that whenyou are free, you are prepared to make her a formal offer of your hand;but I begged him, if he was certain that such an offer would be refused, to tell me so plainly at once, that I might endeavour, in that case, todissuade you from subjecting yourself to the pain of such a refusal. HE WOULD NOT TELL ME THAT HE WAS CERTAIN. He said his opinion wasthat she would not accept your offer, but still he seemed to think thatthere would be no harm in making it!---One word more, and a veryimportant one. He once, and without my referring in the slightestmanner to that part of the subject, spoke of her as a GOOD GIRL, andLIKELY TO MAKE ANY MAN AN EXCELLENT WIFE! Do you think if she were abad girl (and if she were, he must know her to be so) he would havedared to do this, under these circumstances?--And once, in speaking ofHIS not being a fit person to set his face against "marrying forlove, " he added "I did so myself, and out of that house; and I have hadreason to rejoice at it ever since. " And mind (for I anticipate yourcursed suspicions) I'm certain, at least, if manner can entitle one tobe certain of any thing, that he said all this spontaneously, andwithout any understood motive; and I'm certain, too, that he knows youto be a person that it would not do to play any tricks of this kindwith. I believe--(and all this would never have entered my thoughts, but that I know it will enter yours) I believe that even if they thought(as you have sometimes supposed they do) that she needs whitewashing, ormaking an honest woman of, YOU would be the last person they wouldthink of using for such a purpose, for they know (as well as I do) thatyou couldn't fail to find out the trick in a month, and would turn herinto the street the next moment, though she were twenty times yourwife--and that, as to the consequences of doing so, you would laugh atthem, even if you couldn't escape from them. --I shall lose the post if Isay more. 

Believe me, Ever truly your friend, C. P. 

LETTER XIII

My dear P----, You have saved my life. If I do not keep friends withher now, I deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. She is an angelfrom Heaven, and you cannot pretend I ever said a word to the contrary!The little rogue must have liked me from the first, or she never couldhave stood all these hurricanes without slipping her cable. What couldshe find in me? "I have mistook my person all this while, " &c. Do youknow I saw a picture, the very pattern of her, the other day, atDalkeith Palace (Hope finding Fortune in the Sea), just before thisblessed news came, and the resemblance drove me almost out of my senses. Such delicacy, such fulness, such perfect softness, such buoyancy, suchgrace! If it is not the very image of her, I am no judge. --You have theface to doubt my making the best husband in the world; you might as welldoubt it if I was married to one of the Houris of Paradise. She is asaint, an angel, a love. If she deceives me again, she kills me. But Iwill have such a kiss when I get back, as shall last me twenty years. May God bless her for not utterly disowning and destroying me! What anexquisite little creature it is, and how she holds out to the last inher system of consistent contradictions! Since I wrote to you aboutmaking a formal proposal, I have had her face constantly before me, looking so like some faultless marble statue, as cold, as fixed andgraceful as ever statue did; the expression (nothing was ever likeTHAT!) seemed to say--"I wish I could love you better than I do, butstill I will be yours. " No, I'll never believe again that she will notbe mine; for I think she was made on purpose for me. If there's anyoneelse that understands that turn of her head as I do, I'll give her upwithout scruple. I have made up my mind to this, never to dream ofanother woman, while she even thinks it worth her while to REFUSE TOHAVE ME. You see I am not hard to please, after all. Did M---- knowof the intimacy that had subsisted between us? Or did you hint at it?I think it would be a CLENCHER, if he did. How ought I to behave whenI go back? Advise a fool, who had nearly lost a Goddess by his folly. The thing was, I could not think it possible she would ever like ME. Her taste is singular, but not the worse for that. I'd rather have herlove, or liking (call it what you will) than empires. I deserve to callher mine; for nothing else CAN atone for what I've gone through forher. I hope your next letter will not reverse all, and then I shall behappy till I see her, --one of the blest when I do see her, if she lookslike my own beautiful love. I may perhaps write a line when I come tomy right wits. --Farewel at present, and thank you a thousand times forwhat you have done for your poor friend. 

P. S. --I like what M---- said about her sister, much. There are goodpeople in the world: I begin to see it, and believe it. 

LETTER THE LAST

Dear P----, To-morrow is the decisive day that makes me or mars me. Iwill let you know the result by a line added to this. Yet whatsignifies it, since either way I have little hope there, "whence alonemy hope cometh!" You must know I am strangely in the dumps at thispresent writing. My reception with her is doubtful, and my fate is thencertain. The hearing of your happiness has, I own, made me thoughtful. It is just what I proposed to her to do--to have crossed the Alps withme, to sail on sunny seas, to bask in Italian skies, to have visitedVevai and the rocks of Meillerie, and to have repeated to her on thespot the story of Julia and St. Preux, and to have shewn her all that myheart had stored up for her--but on my forehead alone iswritten--REJECTED! Yet I too could have adored as fervently, and lovedas tenderly as others, had I been permitted. You are going abroad, yousay, happy in making happy. Where shall I be? In the grave, I hope, orelse in her arms. To me, alas! there is no sweetness out of her sight, and that sweetness has turned to bitterness, I fear; that gentleness tosullen scorn! Still I hope for the best. If she will but HAVE me, I'll make her LOVE me: and I think her not giving a positive answerlooks like it, and also shews that there is no one else. Her holdingout to the last also, I think, proves that she was never to have beengained but with honour. She's a strange, almost an inscrutable girl:but if I once win her consent, I shall kill her with kindness. --Will youlet me have a sight of SOMEBODY before you go? I should be mostproud. I was in hopes to have got away by the Steam-boat to-morrow, butowing to the business not coming on till then, I cannot; and may not bein town for another week, unless I come by the Mail, which I am stronglytempted to do. In the latter case I shall be there, and visible onSaturday evening. Will you look in and see, about eight o'clock? Iwish much to see you and her and J. H. And my little boy once more; andthen, if she is not what she once was to me, I care not if I die thatinstant. I will conclude here till to-morrow, as I am getting into myold melancholy. --

It is all over, and I am my own man, and yours ever--

PART III

ADDRESSED TO J. S. K. ----

My dear K----, It is all over, and I know my fate. I told you I wouldsend you word, if anything decisive happened; but an impenetrablemystery hung over the affair till lately. It is at last (by the merestaccident in the world) dissipated; and I keep my promise, both for yoursatisfaction, and for the ease of my own mind. 

You remember the morning when I said "I will go and repose my sorrows atthe foot of Ben Lomond"--and when from Dumbarton Bridge itsgiant-shadow, clad in air and sunshine, appeared in view. We had apleasant day's walk. We passed Smollett's monument on the road (somehowthese poets touch one in reflection more than most militaryheroes)--talked of old times; you repeated Logan's beautiful verses tothe cuckoo, * which I wanted to compare with Wordsworth's, but my couragefailed me; you then told me some passages of an early attachment whichwas suddenly broken off; we considered together which was the most to bepitied, a disappointment in love where the attachment was mutual or onewhere there has been no return, and we both agreed, I think, that theformer was best to be endured, and that to have the consciousness of ita companion for life was the least evil of the two, as there was asecret sweetness that took off the bitterness and the sting of regret, and "the memory of what once had been" atoned, in some measure, and atintervals, for what "never more could be. " In the other case, there wasnothing to look back to with tender satisfaction, no redeeming trait, not even a possibility of turning it to good. It left behind it notcherished sighs, but stifled pangs. The galling sense of it did notbring moisture into the eyes, but dried up the heart ever after. Onehad been my fate, the other had been yours!

[*--"Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thouhast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year. "

So they begin. It was the month of May; the cuckoo sang shrouded insome woody copse; the showers fell between whiles; my friend repeatedthe lines with native enthusiasm in a clear manly voice, still resonantof youth and hope. Mr. Wordsworth will excuse me, if in thesecircumstances I declined entering the field with his profoundermetaphysical strain, and kept my preference to myself. ]

You startled me every now and then from my reverie by the robust voice, in which you asked the country people (by no means prodigal of theiranswers)--"If there was any trout fishing in those streams?"--and ourdinner at Luss set us up for the rest of our day's march. The sky nowbecame overcast; but this, I think, added to the effect of the scene. The road to Tarbet is superb. It is on the very verge of thelake--hard, level, rocky, with low stone bridges constantly flung acrossit, and fringed with birch trees, just then budding into spring, behindwhich, as through a slight veil, you saw the huge shadowy form of BenLomond. It lifts its enormous but graceful bulk direct from the edge ofthe water without any projecting lowlands, and has in this respect muchthe advantage of Skiddaw. Loch Lomond comes upon you by degrees as youadvance, unfolding and then withdrawing its conscious beauties like anaccomplished coquet. You are struck with the point of a rock, the archof a bridge, the Highland huts (like the first rude habitations of men)dug out of the soil, built of turf, and covered with brown heather, asheep-cote, some straggling cattle feeding half-way down a precipice;but as you advance farther on, the view expands into the perfection oflake scenery. It is nothing (or your eye is caught by nothing) butwater, earth, and sky. Ben Lomond waves to the right, in its simplemajesty, cloud-capt or bare, and descending to a point at the head ofthe lake, shews the Trossacs beyond, tumbling about their blue ridgeslike woods waving; to the left is the Cobler, whose top is like a castleshattered in pieces and nodding to its ruin; and at your side rise theshapes of round pastoral hills, green, fleeced with herds, and retiringinto mountainous bays and upland valleys, where solitude and peace mightmake their lasting home, if peace were to be found in solitude! That itwas not always so, I was a sufficient proof; for there was one imagethat alone haunted me in the midst of all this sublimity and beauty, andturned it to a mockery and a dream!

The snow on the mountain would not let us ascend; and being weary ofwaiting and of being visited by the guide every two hours to let us knowthat the weather would not do, we returned, you homewards, and I toLondon--

"Italiam, Italiam!"

You know the anxious expectations with which I set out:--now hear theresult--

As the vessel sailed up the Thames, the air thickened with theconsciousness of being near her, and I "heaved her name pantinglyforth. " As I approached the house, I could not help thinking of thelines--

"How near am I to a happiness, That earth exceeds not! Not another likeit. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'dcomforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air Ofblessings when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath truelove sends forth! The violet-beds not sweeter. Now for a welcome Ableto draw men's envies upon man: A kiss now that will hang upon my lip, Assweet as morning dew upon a rose, And full as long!"

I saw her, but I saw at the first glance that there was something amiss. It was with much difficulty and after several pressing intreaties thatshe was prevailed on to come up into the room; and when she did, shestood at the door, cold, distant, averse; and when at length she waspersuaded by my repeated remonstrances to come and take my hand, and Ioffered to touch her lips, she turned her head and shrunk from myembraces, as if quite alienated or mortally offended. I asked what itcould mean? What had I done in her absence to have incurred herdispleasure? Why had she not written to me? I could get only short, sullen, disconnected answers, as if there was something labouring in hermind which she either could not or would not impart. I hardly knew howto bear this first reception after so long an absence, and so differentfrom the one my sentiments towards her merited; but I thought itpossible it might be prudery (as I had returned without having actuallyaccomplished what I went about) or that she had taken offence atsomething in my letters. She saw how much I was hurt. I asked her, "Ifshe was altered since I went away?"--"No. " "If there was any one elsewho had been so fortunate as to gain her favourable opinion?"--"No, there was no one else. " "What was it then? Was it any thing in myletters? Or had I displeased her by letting Mr. P---- know she wrote tome?"--"No, not at all; but she did not apprehend my last letter requiredany answer, or she would have replied to it. " All this appeared to mevery unsatisfactory and evasive; but I could get no more from her, andwas obliged to let her go with a heavy, foreboding heart. I howeverfound that C---- was gone, and no one else had been there, of whom I hadcause to be jealous. --"Should I see her on the morrow?"--"She believedso, but she could not promise. " The next morning she did not appearwith the breakfast as usual. At this I grew somewhat uneasy. Thelittle Buonaparte, however, was placed in its old position on themantelpiece, which I considered as a sort of recognition of old times. I saw her once or twice casually; nothing particular happened till thenext day, which was Sunday. I took occasion to go into the parlour forthe newspaper, which she gave me with a gracious smile, and seemedtolerably frank and cordial. This of course acted as a spell upon me. I walked out with my little boy, intending to go and dine out at one ortwo places, but I found that I still contrived to bend my steps towardsher, and I went back to take tea at home. While we were out, I talkedto William about Sarah, saying that she too was unhappy, and asking himto make it up with her. He said, if she was unhappy, he would not bearher malice any more. When she came up with the tea-things, I said toher, "William has something to say to you--I believe he wants to befriends. " On which he said in his abrupt, hearty manner, "Sarah, I'msorry if I've ever said anything to vex you"--so they shook hands, andshe said, smiling affably--"THEN I'll think no more of it!" Iadded--"I see you've brought me back my little Buonaparte"--She answeredwith tremulous softness--"I told you I'd keep it safe for you!"--as ifher pride and pleasure in doing so had been equal, and she had, as itwere, thought of nothing during my absence but how to greet me with thisproof of her fidelity on my return. I cannot describe her manner. Herwords are few and simple; but you can have no idea of the exquisite, unstudied, irresistible graces with which she accompanies them, unlessyou can suppose a Greek statue to smile, move, and speak. Those linesin Tibullus seem to have been written on purpose for her--

Quicquid agit quoquo vestigil vertit, Componit furtim, subsequiturquedecor. 

Or what do you think of those in a modern play, which might actuallyhave been composed with an eye to this little trifler--

--"See with what a waving air she goes Along the corridor. How like afawn! Yet statelier. No sound (however soft) Nor gentlest echo tellethwhen she treads, But every motion of her shape doth seem Hallowed bysilence. So did Hebe grow Among the gods a paragon! Away, I'm grown Thevery fool of Love!"

The truth is, I never saw anything like her, nor I never shall again. How then do I console myself for the loss of her? Shall I tell you, butyou will not mention it again? I am foolish enough to believe that sheand I, in spite of every thing, shall be sitting together over asea-coal fire, a comfortable good old couple, twenty years hence! Butto my narrative. --

I was delighted with the alteration in her manner, and said, referringto the bust--"You know it is not mine, but yours; I gave it you; nay, Ihave given you all--my heart, and whatever I possess, is yours! Sheseemed good-humouredly to decline this carte blanche offer, and waved, like a thing of enchantment, out of the room. False calm!--Deceitfulsmiles!--Short interval of peace, followed by lasting woe! I sought aninterview with her that same evening. I could not get her to come anyfarther than the door. "She was busy--she could hear what I had to saythere. " Why do you seem to avoid me as you do? Not one five minutes'conversation, for the sake of old acquaintance? Well, then, for thesake of THE LITTLE IMAGE!" The appeal seemed to have lost itsefficacy; the charm was broken; she remained immoveable. "Well, then Imust come to you, if you will not run away. " I went and sat down in achair near the door, and took her hand, and talked to her for threequarters of an hour; and she listened patiently, thoughtfully, andseemed a good deal affected by what I said. I told her how much I hadfelt, how much I had suffered for her in my absence, and how much I hadbeen hurt by her sudden silence, for which I knew not how to account. Icould have done nothing to offend her while I was away; and my letterswere, I hoped, tender and respectful. I had had but one thought everpresent with me; her image never quitted my side, alone or in company, to delight or distract me. Without her I could have no peace, nor evershould again, unless she would behave to me as she had done formerly. There was no abatement of my regard to her; why was she so changed? Isaid to her, "Ah! Sarah, when I think that it is only a year ago thatyou were everything to me I could wish, and that now you seem lost to mefor ever, the month of May (the name of which ought to be a signal forjoy and hope) strikes chill to my heart. --How different is this meetingfrom that delicious parting, when you seemed never weary of repeatingthe proofs of your regard and tenderness, and it was with difficulty wetore ourselves asunder at last! I am ten thousand times fonder of youthan I was then, and ten thousand times more unhappy!" "You have noreason to be so; my feelings towards you are the same as they everwere. " I told her "She was my all of hope or comfort: my passion forher grew stronger every time I saw her. " She answered, "She was sorryfor it; for THAT she never could return. " I said something aboutlooking ill: she said in her pretty, mincing, emphatic way, "I despiselooks!" So, thought I, it is not that; and she says there's no oneelse: it must be some strange air she gives herself, in consequence ofthe approaching change in my circumstances. She has been probablyadvised not to give up till all is fairly over, and then she will be myown sweet girl again. All this time she was standing just outside thedoor, my hand in hers (would that they could have grown together!) shewas dressed in a loose morning-gown, her hair curled beautifully; shestood with her profile to me, and looked down the whole time. Noexpression was ever more soft or perfect. Her whole attitude, her wholeform, was dignity and bewitching grace. I said to her, "You look like aqueen, my love, adorned with your own graces!" I grew idolatrous, andwould have kneeled to her. She made a movement, as if she wasdispleased. I tried to draw her towards me. She wouldn't. I then gotup, and offered to kiss her at parting. I found she obstinatelyrefused. This stung me to the quick. It was the first time in her lifeshe had ever done so. There must be some new bar between us to producethese continued denials; and she had not even esteem enough left to tellme so. I followed her half-way down-stairs, but to no purpose, andreturned into my room, confirmed in my most dreadful surmises. I couldbear it no longer. I gave way to all the fury of disappointed hope andjealous passion. I was made the dupe of trick and cunning, killed withcold, sullen scorn; and, after all the agony I had suffered, couldobtain no explanation why I was subjected to it. I was still to betantalized, tortured, made the cruel sport of one, for whom I would havesacrificed all. I tore the locket which contained her hair (and which Iused to wear continually in my bosom, as the precious token of her dearregard) from my neck, and trampled it in pieces. I then dashed thelittle Buonaparte on the ground, and stamped upon it, as one of herinstruments of mockery. I could not stay in the room; I could not leaveit; my rage, my despair were uncontrollable. I shrieked curses on hername, and on her false love; and the scream I uttered (so pitiful and sopiercing was it, that the sound of it terrified me) instantly broughtthe whole house, father, mother, lodgers and all, into the room. Theythought I was destroying her and myself. I had gone into the bedroom, merely to hide away from myself, and as I came out of it, raging-madwith the new sense of present shame and lasting misery, Mrs. F----said, "She's in there! He has got her in there!" thinking the cries hadproceeded from her, and that I had been offering her violence. "Oh!no, " I said, "She's in no danger from me; I am not the person;" andtried to burst from this scene of degradation. The mother endeavouredto stop me, and said, "For God's sake, don't go out, Mr. ----! forGod's sake, don't!" Her father, who was not, I believe, in the secret, and was therefore justly scandalised at such outrageous conduct, saidangrily, "Let him go! Why should he stay?" I however sprang downstairs, and as they called out to me, "What is it?--What has she done toyou?" I answered, "She has murdered me!--She has destroyed me forever!--She has doomed my soul to perdition!" I rushed out of the house, thinking to quit it forever; but I was no sooner in the street, than thedesolation and the darkness became greater, more intolerable; and theeddying violence of my passion drove me back to the source, from whenceit sprung. This unexpected explosion, with the conjectures to which itwould give rise, could not be very agreeable to the precieuse or herfamily; and when I went back, the father was waiting at the door, as ifanticipating this sudden turn of my feelings, with no friendly aspect. I said, "I have to beg pardon, Sir; but my mad fit is over, and I wishto say a few words to you in private. " He seemed to hesitate, but someuneasy forebodings on his own account, probably, prevailed over hisresentment; or, perhaps (as philosophers have a desire to know the causeof thunder) it was a natural curiosity to know what circumstances ofprovocation had given rise to such an extraordinary scene of confusion. When we reached my room, I requested him to be seated. I said, "It istrue, Sir, I have lost my peace of mind for ever, but at present I amquite calm and collected, and I wish to explain to you why I havebehaved in so extravagant a way, and to ask for your advice andintercession. " He appeared satisfied, and I went on. I had no chanceeither of exculpating myself, or of probing the question to the bottom, but by stating the naked truth, and therefore I said at once, "Sarahtold me, Sir (and I never shall forget the way in which she told me, fixing her dove's eyes upon me, and looking a thousand tender reproachesfor the loss of that good opinion, which she held dearer than all theworld) she told me, Sir, that as you one day passed the door, whichstood a-jar, you saw her in an attitude which a good deal startled you;I mean sitting in my lap, with her arms round my neck, and mine twinedround her in the fondest manner. What I wished to ask was, whether thiswas actually the case, or whether it was a mere invention of her own, toenhance the sense of my obligations to her; for I begin to doubteverything?"--"Indeed, it was so; and very much surprised and hurt I wasto see it. " "Well then, Sir, I can only say, that as you saw hersitting then, so she had been sitting for the last year and a half, almost every day of her life, by the hour together; and you may judgeyourself, knowing what a nice modest-looking girl she is, whether, afterhaving been admitted to such intimacy with so sweet a creature, and forso long a time, it is not enough to make any one frantic to be receivedby her as I have been since my return, without any provocation given orcause assigned for it. " The old man answered very seriously, and, as Ithink, sincerely, "What you now tell me, Sir, mortifies and shocks me asmuch as it can do yourself. I had no idea such a thing was possible. Iwas much pained at what I saw; but I thought it an accident, and that itwould never happen again. "--"It was a constant habit; it has happened ahundred times since, and a thousand before. I lived on her caresses asmy daily food, nor can I live without them. " So I told him the wholestory, "what conjurations, and what mighty magic I won his daughterwith, " to be anything but MINE FOR LIFE. Nothing could well exceedhis astonishment and apparent mortification. "What I had said, " heowned, "had left a weight upon his mind that he should not easily getrid of. " I told him, "For myself, I never could recover the blow I hadreceived. I thought, however, for her own sake, she ought to alter herpresent behaviour. Her marked neglect and dislike, so far fromjustifying, left her former intimacies without excuse; for nothing couldreconcile them to propriety, or even a pretence to common decency, buteither love, or friendship so strong and pure that it could put on theguise of love. She was certainly a singular girl. Did she think itright and becoming to be free with strangers, and strange to oldfriends?" I frankly declared, "I did not see how it was in human naturefor any one who was not rendered callous to such familiarities bybestowing them indiscriminately on every one, to grant the extreme andcontinued indulgences she had done to me, without either liking the manat first, or coming to like him in the end, in spite of herself. Whenmy addresses had nothing, and could have nothing honourable in them, shegave them every encouragement; when I wished to make them honourable, she treated them with the utmost contempt. The terms we had been allalong on were such as if she had been to be my bride next day. It wasonly when I wished her actually to become so, to ensure her owncharacter and my happiness, that she shrunk back with precipitation andpanic-fear. There seemed to me something wrong in all this; a want bothof common propriety, and I might say, of natural feeling; yet, with allher faults, I loved her, and ever should, beyond any other human being. I had drank in the poison of her sweetness too long ever to be cured ofit; and though I might find it to be poison in the end, it was still inmy veins. My only ambition was to be permitted to live with her, and todie in her arms. Be she what she would, treat me how she would, I feltthat my soul was wedded to hers; and were she a mere lost creature, Iwould try to snatch her from perdition, and marry her to-morrow if shewould have me. That was the question--"Would she have me, or would shenot?" He said he could not tell; but should not attempt to put anyconstraint upon her inclinations, one way or other. I acquiesced, andadded, that "I had brought all this upon myself, by acting contrary tothe suggestions of my friend, Mr. ----, who had desired me to take nonotice whether she came near me or kept away, whether she smiled orfrowned, was kind or contemptuous--all you have to do, is to waitpatiently for a month till you are your own man, as you will be in allprobability; then make her an offer of your hand, and if she refuses, there's an end of the matter. " Mr. L. Said, "Well, Sir, and I don'tthink you can follow a better advice!" I took this as at least a sortof negative encouragement, and so we parted. 

TO THE SAME

(In continuation)

My dear Friend, The next day I felt almost as sailors must do after aviolent storm over-night, that has subsided towards daybreak. Themorning was a dull and stupid calm, and I found she was unwell, inconsequence of what had happened. In the evening I grew more uneasy, and determined on going into the country for a week or two. I gatheredup the fragments of the locket of her hair, and the little bronzestatue, which were strewed about the floor, kissed them, folded them upin a sheet of paper, and sent them to her, with these lines written inpencil on the outside--"Pieces of a broken heart, to be kept inremembrance of the unhappy. Farewell. " No notice was taken; nor did Iexpect any. The following morning I requested Betsey to pack up my boxfor me, as I should go out of town the next day, and at the same timewrote a note to her sister to say, I should take it as a favour if shewould please to accept of the enclosed copies of the Vicar ofWakefield, The Man of Feeling and Nature and Art, in lieu of threevolumes of my own writings, which I had given her on differentoccasions, in the course of our acquaintance. I was piqued, in fact, that she should have these to shew as proofs of my weakness, and as if Ithought the way to win her was by plaguing her with my own performances. 

She sent me word back that the books I had sent were of no use to her, and that I should have those I wished for in the afternoon; but that shecould not before, as she had lent them to her sister, Mrs. M----. Isaid, "very well;" but observed (laughing) to Betsey, "It's a bad ruleto give and take; so, if Sarah won't have these books, you must; theyare very pretty ones, I assure you. " She curtsied and took them, according to the family custom. In the afternoon, when I came back totea, I found the little girl on her knees, busy in packing up my things, and a large paper parcel on the table, which I could not at first tellwhat to make of. On opening it, however, I soon found what it was. Itcontained a number of volumes which I had given her at different times(among others, a little Prayer-Book, bound in crimson velvet, with greensilk linings; she kissed it twenty times when she received it, and saidit was the prettiest present in the world, and that she would shew it toher aunt, who would be proud of it)--and all these she had returnedtogether. Her name in the title-page was cut out of them all. Idoubted at the instant whether she had done this before or after I hadsent for them back, and I have doubted of it since; but there is nooccasion to suppose her UGLY ALL OVER WITH HYPOCRISY. Poor littlething! She has enough to answer for, as it is. I asked Betsey if shecould carry a message for me, and she said "YES. " "Will you tell yoursister, then, that I did not want all these books; and give my love toher, and say that I shall be obliged if she will still keep these that Ihave sent back, and tell her that it is only those of my own writingthat I think unworthy of her. " What do you think the little imp madeanswer? She raised herself on the other side of the table where shestood, as if inspired by the genius of the place, and said--"AND THOSEARE THE ONES THAT SHE PRIZES THE MOST!" If there were ever words spokenthat could revive the dead, those were the words. Let me kiss them, andforget that my ears have heard aught else! I said, "Are you sure ofthat?" and she said, "Yes, quite sure. " I told her, "If I could be, Ishould be very different from what I was. " And I became so thatinstant, for these casual words carried assurance to my heart of heresteem--that once implied, I had proofs enough of her fondness. Oh! howI felt at that moment! Restored to love, hope, and joy, by a breathwhich I had caught by the merest accident, and which I might have pinedin absence and mute despair for want of hearing! I did not know how tocontain myself; I was childish, wanton, drunk with pleasure. I gaveBetsey a twenty-shilling note which I happened to have in my hand, andon her asking "What's this for, Sir?" I said, "It's for you. Don't youthink it worth that to be made happy? You once made me very wretched bysome words I heard you drop, and now you have made me as happy; and allI wish you is, when you grow up, that you may find some one to love youas well as I do your sister, and that you may love better than she doesme!" I continued in this state of delirium or dotage all that day andthe next, talked incessantly, laughed at every thing, and was soextravagant, nobody could tell what was the matter with me. I murmuredher name; I blest her; I folded her to my heart in delicious fondness; Icalled her by my own name; I worshipped her: I was mad for her. I toldP---- I should laugh in her face, if ever she pretended not to like meagain. Her mother came in and said, she hoped I should excuse Sarah'scoming up. "Oh, Ma'am, " I said, "I have no wish to see her; I feel herat my heart; she does not hate me after all, and I wish for nothing. Let her come when she will, she is to me welcomer than light, than life;but let it be in her own sweet time, and at her own dear pleasure. "Betsey also told me she was "so glad to get the books back. " I, however, sobered and wavered (by degrees) from seeing nothing of her, day after day; and in less than a week I was devoted to the InfernalGods. I could hold out no longer than the Monday evening following. Isent a message to her; she returned an ambiguous answer; but she cameup. Pity me, my friend, for the shame of this recital. Pity me for thepain of having ever had to make it! If the spirits of mortal creatures, purified by faith and hope, can (according to the highest assurances)ever, during thousands of years of smooth-rolling eternity and balmy, sainted repose, forget the pain, the toil, the anguish, thehelplessness, and the despair they have suffered here, in this frailbeing, then may I forget that withering hour, and her, that fair, paleform that entered, my inhuman betrayer, and my only earthly love! Shesaid, "Did you wish to speak to me, Sir?" I said, "Yes, may I not speakto you? I wanted to see you and be friends. " I rose up, offered her anarm-chair which stood facing, bowed on it, and knelt to her adoring. She said (going) "If that's all, I have nothing to say. " I replied, "Why do you treat me thus? What have I done to become thus hateful toyou?" ANSWER, "I always told you I had no affection for you. " Youmay suppose this was a blow, after the imaginary honey-moon in which Ihad passed the preceding week. I was stunned by it; my heart sunkwithin me. I contrived to say, "Nay, my dear girl, not always neither;for did you not once (if I might presume to look back to those happy, happy times), when you were sitting on my knee as usual, embracing andembraced, and I asked if you could not love me at last, did you not makeanswer, in the softest tones that ever man heard, 'I COULD EASILY SAYSO, WHETHER I DID OR NOT; YOU SHOULD JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!' Was I toblame in taking you at your word, when every hope I had depended on yoursincerity? And did you not say since I came back, 'YOUR FEELINGS TO MEWERE THE SAME AS EVER?' Why then is your behaviour so different?" S. "Is it nothing, your exposing me to the whole house in the way you didthe other evening?" H. "Nay, that was the consequence of your cruelreception of me, not the cause of it. I had better have gone away lastyear, as I proposed to do, unless you would give some pledge of yourfidelity; but it was your own offer that I should remain. 'Why should Igo?' you said, 'Why could we not go on the same as we had done, and saynothing about the word FOREVER?'" S. "And how did you behave whenyou returned?" H. "That was all forgiven when we last parted, and yourlast words were, 'I should find you the same as ever' when I came home?Did you not that very day enchant and madden me over again by the purestkisses and embraces, and did I not go from you (as I said) adoring, confiding, with every assurance of mutual esteem and friendship?" S. "Yes, and in your absence I found that you had told my aunt what hadpassed between us. " H. "It was to induce her to extort your realsentiments from you, that you might no longer make a secret of your trueregard for me, which your actions (but not your words) confessed. " S. "I own I have been guilty of improprieties, which you have gone andrepeated, not only in the house, but out of it; so that it has come tomy ears from various quarters, as if I was a light character. And I amdetermined in future to be guided by the advice of my relations, andparticularly of my aunt, whom I consider as my best friend, and keepevery lodger at a proper distance. " You will find hereafter that herfavourite lodger, whom she visits daily, had left the house; so that shemight easily make and keep this vow of extraordinary self-denial. Precious little dissembler! Yet her aunt, her best friend, says, "No, Sir, no; Sarah's no hypocrite!" which I was fool enough to believe; andyet my great and unpardonable offence is to have entertained passingdoubts on this delicate point. I said, Whatever errors I had committed, arose from my anxiety to have everything explained to her honour: myconduct shewed that I had that at heart, and that I built on the purityof her character as on a rock. My esteem for her amounted to adoration. "She did not want adoration. " It was only when any thing happened toimply that I had been mistaken, that I committed any extravagance, because I could not bear to think her short of perfection. "She was farfrom perfection, " she replied, with an air and manner (oh, my God!) asnear it as possible. "How could she accuse me of a want of regard toher? It was but the other day, Sarah, " I said to her, "when that littlecircumstance of the books happened, and I fancied the expressions yoursister dropped proved the sincerity of all your kindness to me--youdon't know how my heart melted within me at the thought, that after all, I might be dear to you. New hopes sprung up in my heart, and I felt asAdam must have done when his Eve was created for him!" "She had heardenough of that sort of conversation, " (moving towards the door). This, I own, was the unkindest cut of all. I had, in that case, no hopeswhatever. I felt that I had expended words in vain, and that theconversation below stairs (which I told you of when I saw you) hadspoiled her taste for mine. If the allusion had been classical I shouldhave been to blame; but it was scriptural, it was a sort of religiouscourtship, and Miss L. Is religious!

At once he took his Muse and dipt her Right in the middle of theScripture. 

It would not do--the lady could make neither head nor tail of it. Thisis a poor attempt at levity. Alas! I am sad enough. "Would she go andleave me so? If it was only my own behaviour, I still did not doubt ofsuccess. I knew the sincerity of my love, and she would be convinced ofit in time. If that was all, I did not care: but tell me true, is therenot a new attachment that is the real cause of your estrangement? Tellme, my sweet friend, and before you tell me, give me your hand (nay, both hands) that I may have something to support me under the dreadfulconviction. " She let me take her hands in mine, saying, "She supposedthere could be no objection to that, "--as if she acted on thesuggestions of others, instead of following her own will--but stillavoided giving me any answer. I conjured her to tell me the worst, andkill me on the spot. Any thing was better than my present state. Isaid, "Is it Mr. C----?" She smiled, and said with gay indifference, "Mr. C---- was here a very short time. " "Well, then, was it Mr. ----?"She hesitated, and then replied faintly, "No. " This was a meretrick to mislead; one of the profoundnesses of Satan, in which she is anadept. "But, " she added hastily, "she could make no more confidences. ""Then, " said I, "you have something to communicate. " "No; but she hadonce mentioned a thing of the sort, which I had hinted to her mother, though it signified little. " All this while I was in tortures. Everyword, every half-denial, stabbed me. "Had she any tie?" "No, I have notie!" "You are not going to be married soon?" "I don't intend ever tomarry at all!" "Can't you be friends with me as of old?" "She couldgive no promises. " "Would she make her own terms?" "She would makenone. "--"I was sadly afraid the LITTLE IMAGE was dethroned from herheart, as I had dashed it to the ground the other night. "--"She wasneither desperate nor violent. " I did not answer--"But deliberate anddeadly, "--though I might; and so she vanished in this running fight ofquestion and answer, in spite of my vain efforts to detain her. Thecockatrice, I said, mocks me: so she has always done. The thought was adagger to me. My head reeled, my heart recoiled within me. I was stungwith scorpions; my flesh crawled; I was choked with rage; her scornscorched me like flames; her air (her heavenly air) withdrawn from me, stifled me, and left me gasping for breath and being. It was a fable. She started up in her own likeness, a serpent in place of a woman. Shehad fascinated, she had stung me, and had returned to her proper shape, gliding from me after inflicting the mortal wound, and instilling deadlypoison into every pore; but her form lost none of its originalbrightness by the change of character, but was all glittering, beauteous, voluptuous grace. Seed of the serpent or of the woman, shewas divine! I felt that she was a witch, and had bewitched me. Fatehad enclosed me round about. _I_ was transformed too, no longer human(any more than she, to whom I had knit myself) my feelings were marble;my blood was of molten lead; my thoughts on fire. I was taken out ofmyself, wrapt into another sphere, far from the light of day, of hope, of love. I had no natural affection left; she had slain me, but noother thing had power over me. Her arms embraced another; but hermock-embrace, the phantom of her love, still bound me, and I had not awish to escape. So I felt then, and so perhaps shall feel till I growold and die, nor have any desire that my years should last longer thanthey are linked in the chain of those amorous folds, or than herenchantments steep my soul in oblivion of all other things! I startedto find myself alone--for ever alone, without a creature to love me. Ilooked round the room for help; I saw the tables, the chairs, the placeswhere she stood or sat, empty, deserted, dead. I could not stay where Iwas; I had no one to go to but to the parent-mischief, the preternaturalhag, that had "drugged this posset" of her daughter's charms andfalsehood for me, and I went down and (such was my weakness andhelplessness) sat with her for an hour, and talked with her of herdaughter, and the sweet days we had passed together, and said I thoughther a good girl, and believed that if there was no rival, she still hada regard for me at the bottom of her heart; and how I liked her all thebetter for her coy, maiden airs: and I received the assurance over andover that there was no one else; and that Sarah (they all knew) neverstaid five minutes with any other lodger, while with me she would stayby the hour together, in spite of all her father could say to her (whatwere her motives, was best known to herself!) and while we were talkingof her, she came bounding into the room, smiling with smothered delightat the consummation of my folly and her own art; and I asked her motherwhether she thought she looked as if she hated me, and I took herwrinkled, withered, cadaverous, clammy hand at parting, and kissed it. Faugh!--

I will make an end of this story; there is something in it discordant tohonest ears. I left the house the next day, and returned to Scotland ina state so near to phrenzy, that I take it the shades sometimes ran intoone another. R---- met me the day after I arrived, and will tell youthe way I was in. I was like a person in a high fever; only mine was inthe mind instead of the body. It had the same irritating, uncomfortableeffect on the bye-standers. I was incapable of any application, anddon't know what I should have done, had it not been for the kindness of----. I came to see you, to "bestow some of my tediousness upon you, "but you were gone from home. Everything went on well as to the lawbusiness; and as it approached to a conclusion, I wrote to my goodfriend P---- to go to M----, who had married her sister, and ask him ifit would be worth my while to make her a formal offer, as soon as I wasfree, as, with the least encouragement, I was ready to throw myself ather feet; and to know, in case of refusal, whether I might go back thereand be treated as an old friend. Not a word of answer could be got fromher on either point, notwithstanding every importunity and intreaty; butit was the opinion of M---- that I might go and try my fortune. I didso with joy, with something like confidence. I thought her giving nopositive answer implied a chance, at least, of the reversion of herfavour, in case I behaved well. All was false, hollow, insidious. Thefirst night after I got home, I slept on down. In Scotland, the flinthad been my pillow. But now I slept under the same roof with her. Whatsoftness, what balmy repose in the very thought! I saw her that sameday and shook hands with her, and told her how glad I was to see her;and she was kind and comfortable, though still cold and distant. Hermanner was altered from what it was the last time. She still absentedherself from the room, but was mild and affable when she did come. Shewas pale, dejected, evidently uneasy about something, and had been ill. I thought it was perhaps her reluctance to yield to my wishes, her pityfor what I suffered; and that in the struggle between both, she did notknow what to do. How I worshipped her at these moments! We had a longinterview the third day, and I thought all was doing well. I found hersitting at work in the window-seat of the front parlour; and on myasking if I might come in, she made no objection. I sat down by her;she let me take her hand; I talked to her of indifferent things, and ofold times. I asked her if she would put some new frills on myshirts?---"With the greatest pleasure. " If she could get THE LITTLEIMAGE mended? "It was broken in three pieces, and the sword was gone, but she would try. " I then asked her to make up a plaid silk which Ihad given her in the winter, and which she said would make a prettysummer gown. I so longed to see her in it!--"She had little time tospare, but perhaps might!" Think what I felt, talking peaceably, kindly, tenderly with my love, --not passionately, not violently. Itried to take pattern by her patient meekness, as I thought it, and tosubdue my desires to her will. I then sued to her, but respectfully, tobe admitted to her friendship--she must know I was as true a friend asever woman had--or if there was a bar to our intimacy from a dearerattachment, to let me know it frankly, as I shewed her all my heart. She drew out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes "of tears which sacredpity had engendered there. " Was it so or not? I cannot tell. But soshe stood (while I pleaded my cause to her with all the earnestness, andfondness in the world) with the tears trickling from her eye-lashes, herhead stooping, her attitude fixed, with the finest expression that everwas seen of mixed regret, pity, and stubborn resolution; but withoutspeaking a word, without altering a feature. It was like a petrifactionof a human face in the softest moment of passion. "Ah!" I said, "howyou look! I have prayed again and again while I was away from you, inthe agony of my spirit, that I might but live to see you look so again, and then breathe my last!" I intreated her to give me some explanation. In vain! At length she said she must go, and disappeared like aspirit. That week she did all the little trifling favours I had askedof her. The frills were put on, and she sent up to know if I wanted anymore done. She got the Buonaparte mended. This was like healing oldwounds indeed! How? As follows, for thereby hangs the conclusion of mytale. Listen. 

I had sent a message one evening to speak to her about some specialaffairs of the house, and received no answer. I waited an hourexpecting her, and then went out in great vexation at my disappointment. I complained to her mother a day or two after, saying I thought it sounlike Sarah's usual propriety of behaviour, that she must mean it as amark of disrespect. Mrs. L---- said, "La! Sir, you're always fancyingthings. Why, she was dressing to go out, and she was only going to getthe little image you're both so fond of mended; and it's to be done thisevening. She has been to two or three places to see about it, beforeshe could get anyone to undertake it. " My heart, my poor fond heart, almost melted within me at this news. I answered, "Ah! Madam, that'salways the way with the dear creature. I am finding fault with her andthinking the hardest things of her; and at that very time she's doingsomething to shew the most delicate attention, and that she has nogreater satisfaction than in gratifying my wishes!" On this we had somefarther talk, and I took nearly the whole of the lodgings at a hundredguineas a year, that (as I said) she might have a little leisure to sitat her needle of an evening, or to read if she chose, or to walk outwhen it was fine. She was not in good health, and it would do her goodto be less confined. I would be the drudge and she should no longer bethe slave. I asked nothing in return. To see her happy, to make herso, was to be so myself. --This was agreed to. I went over to Blackheaththat evening, delighted as I could be after all I had suffered, and laythe whole of the next morning on the heath under the open sky, dreamingof my earthly Goddess. This was Sunday. That evening I returned, for Icould hardly bear to be for a moment out of the house where she was, andthe next morning she tapped at the door--it was opened--it was she--shehesitated and then came forward: she had got the little image in herhand, I took it, and blest her from my heart. She said "They had beenobliged to put some new pieces to it. " I said "I didn't care how it wasdone, so that I had it restored to me safe, and by her. " I thanked herand begged to shake hands with her. She did so, and as I held the onlyhand in the world that I never wished to let go, I looked up in herface, and said "Have pity on me, have pity on me, and save me if youcan!" Not a word of answer, but she looked full in my eyes, as much asto say, "Well, I'll think of it; and if I can, I will save you!" Wetalked about the expense of repairing the figure. "Was the manwaiting?"--"No, she had fetched it on Saturday evening. " I said I'dgive her the money in the course of the day, and then shook hands withher again in token of reconciliation; and she went waving out of theroom, but at the door turned round and looked full at me, as she did thefirst time she beguiled me of my heart. This was the last. --

All that day I longed to go down stairs to ask her and her mother to setout with me for Scotland on Wednesday, and on Saturday I would make hermy wife. Something withheld me. In the evening, however, I could notrest without seeing her, and I said to her younger sister, "Betsey, ifSarah will come up now, I'll pay her what she laid out for me the otherday. "--"My sister's gone out, Sir, " was the answer. What again! thoughtI, That's somewhat sudden. I told P---- her sitting in the window-seatof the front parlour boded me no good. It was not in her old character. She did not use to know there were doors or windows in the house--andnow she goes out three times in a week. It is to meet some one, I'lllay my life on't. "Where is she gone?"--"To my grandmother's, Sir. ""Where does your grandmother live now?"--"At Somers' Town. " Iimmediately set out to Somers' Town. I passed one or two streets, andat last turned up King Street, thinking it most likely she would returnthat way home. I passed a house in King Street where I had once lived, and had not proceeded many paces, ruminating on chance and change andold times, when I saw her coming towards me. I felt a strange pang atthe sight, but I thought her alone. Some people before me moved on, andI saw another person with her. THE MURDER WAS OUT. It was a tall, rather well-looking young man, but I did not at first recollect him. Wepassed at the crossing of the street without speaking. Will you believeit, after all that had past between us for two years, after what hadpassed in the last half-year, after what had passed that very morning, she went by me without even changing countenance, without expressing theslightest emotion, without betraying either shame or pity or remorse orany other feeling that any other human being but herself must have shewnin the same situation. She had no time to prepare for acting a part, tosuppress her feelings--the truth is, she has not one natural feeling inher bosom to suppress. I turned and looked--they also turned and lookedand as if by mutual consent, we both retrod our steps and passed again, in the same way. I went home. I was stifled. I could not stay in thehouse, walked into the street and met them coming towards home. As soonas he had left her at the door (I fancy she had prevailed with him toaccompany her, dreading some violence) I returned, went up stairs, andrequested an interview. Tell her, I said, I'm in excellent temper andgood spirits, but I must see her! She came smiling, and I said, "Comein, my dear girl, and sit down, and tell me all about it, how it is andwho it is. "--" What, " she said, "do you mean Mr. C----?" "Oh, " said I, "Then it is he! Ah! you rogue, I always suspected there was somethingbetween you, but you know you denied it lustily: why did you not tell meall about it at the time, instead of letting me suffer as I have done?But, however, no reproaches. I only wish it may all end happily andhonourably for you, and I am satisfied. But, " I said, "you know youused to tell me, you despised looks. "--"She didn't think Mr. C---- wasso particularly handsome. " "No, but he's very well to pass, and awell-grown youth into the bargain. " Pshaw! let me put an end to thefulsome detail. I found he had lived over the way, that he had beenlured thence, no doubt, almost a year before, that they had first spokenin the street, and that he had never once hinted at marriage, and hadgone away, because (as he said) they were too much together, and that itwas better for her to meet him occasionally out of doors. "There couldbe no harm in them walking together. " "No, but you may go some whereafterwards. "--" One must trust to one's principle for that. " Consummatehypocrite! * * * * * * I told her Mr. M----, who had married hersister, did not wish to leave the house. I, who would have married her, did not wish to leave it. I told her I hoped I should not live to seeher come to shame, after all my love of her; but put her on her guard aswell as I could, and said, after the lengths she had permitted herselfwith me, I could not help being alarmed at the influence of one overher, whom she could hardly herself suppose to have a tenth part of myesteem for her!! She made no answer to this, but thanked me coldly formy good advice, and rose to go. I begged her to sit a few minutes, thatI might try to recollect if there was anything else I wished to say toher, perhaps for the last time; and then, not finding anything, I badeher good night, and asked for a farewell kiss. Do you know she refused;so little does she understand what is due to friendship, or love, orhonour! We parted friends, however, and I felt deep grief, but noenmity against her. I thought C---- had pressed his suit after I went, and had prevailed. There was no harm in that--a little fickleness orso, a little over-pretension to unalterable attachment--but that wasall. She liked him better than me--it was my hard hap, but I must bearit. I went out to roam the desert streets, when, turning a corner, whomshould I meet but her very lover? I went up to him and asked for a fewminutes' conversation on a subject that was highly interesting to me andI believed not indifferent to him: and in the course of four hours'talk, it came out that for three months previous to my quitting Londonfor Scotland, she had been playing the same game with him as withme--that he breakfasted first, and enjoyed an hour of her society, andthen I took my turn, so that we never jostled; and this explained why, when he came back sometimes and passed my door, as she was sitting in mylap, she coloured violently, thinking if her lover looked in, what adenouement there would be. He could not help again and againexpressing his astonishment at finding that our intimacy had continuedunimpaired up to so late a period after he came, and when they were onthe most intimate footing. She used to deny positively to him thatthere was anything between us, just as she used to assure me withimpenetrable effrontery that "Mr. C---- was nothing to her, but merely alodger. " All this while she kept up the farce of her romanticattachment to her old lover, vowed that she never could alter in thatrespect, let me go to Scotland on the solemn and repeated assurance thatthere was no new flame, that there was no bar between us but thisshadowy love--I leave her on this understanding, she becomes more fondor more intimate with her new lover; he quitting the house (whethertired out or not, I can't say)--in revenge she ceases to write to me, keeps me in wretched suspense, treats me like something loathsome to herwhen I return to enquire the cause, denies it with scorn and impudence, destroys me and shews no pity, no desire to soothe or shorten the pangsshe has occasioned by her wantonness and hypocrisy, and wishes to lingerthe affair on to the last moment, going out to keep an appointment withanother while she pretends to be obliging me in the tenderest point(which C---- himself said was too much). . . . What do you think of allthis? Shall I tell you my opinion? But I must try to do it in anotherletter. 

TO THE SAME

(In conclusion)

I did not sleep a wink all that night; nor did I know till the next daythe full meaning of what had happened to me. With the morning's light, conviction glared in upon me that I had not only lost her for ever--butevery feeling I had ever had towards her--respect, tenderness, pity--allbut my fatal passion, was gone. The whole was a mockery, a frightfulillusion. I had embraced the false Florimel instead of the true; or waslike the man in the Arabian Nights who had married a GOUL. Howdifferent was the idea I once had of her? Was this she, --"Who had been beguiled--she who was made Within a gentle bosom to be laid-- To bless and to be blessed--to be heart-bare To one who found his bettered likeness there-- To think for ever with him, like a bride-- To haunt his eye, like taste personified-- To double his delight, to share his sorrow, And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow?

I saw her pale, cold form glide silent by me, dead to shame as to pity. Still I seemed to clasp this piece of witchcraft to my bosom; thislifeless image, which was all that was left of my love, was the onlything to which my sad heart clung. Were she dead, should I not wish togaze once more upon her pallid features? She is dead to me; but whatshe once was to me, can never die! The agony, the conflict of hope andfear, of adoration and jealousy is over; or it would, ere long, haveended with my life. I am no more lifted now to Heaven, and then plungedin the abyss; but I seem to have been thrown from the top of aprecipice, and to lie groveling, stunned, and stupefied. I ammelancholy, lonesome, and weaker than a child. The worst is, I have noprospect of any alteration for the better: she has cut off allpossibility of a reconcilement at any future period. Were she even toreturn to her former pretended fondness and endearments, I could have nopleasure, no confidence in them. I can scarce make out thecontradiction to myself. I strive to think she always was what I nowknow she is; but I have great difficulty in it, and can hardly believebut she still IS what she so long SEEMED. Poor thing! I am afraidshe is little better off herself; nor do I see what is to become of her, unless she throws off the mask at once, and RUNS A-MUCK at infamy. She is exposed and laid bare to all those whose opinion she set a valueupon. Yet she held her head very high, and must feel (if she feels anything) proportionably mortified. --A more complete experiment oncharacter was never made. If I had not met her lover immediately afterI parted with her, it would have been nothing. I might have supposedshe had changed her mind in my absence, and had given him the preferenceas soon as she felt it, and even shewn her delicacy in declining anyfarther intimacy with me. But it comes out that she had gone on in themost forward and familiar way with both at once--(she could not changeher mind in passing from one room to another)--told both the samebarefaced and unblushing falsehoods, like the commonest creature;received presents from me to the very last, and wished to keep up thegame still longer, either to gratify her humour, her avarice, or hervanity in playing with my passion, or to have me as a dernier resort, in case of accidents. Again, it would have been nothing, if she had notcome up with her demure, well-composed, wheedling looks that morning, and then met me in the evening in a situation, which (she believed)might kill me on the spot, with no more feeling than a common courtesanshews, who BILKS a customer, and passes him, leering up at her bully, the moment after. If there had been the frailty of passion, it wouldhave been excusable; but it is evident she is a practised, callous jilt, a regular lodging-house decoy, played off by her mother upon thelodgers, one after another, applying them to her different purposes, laughing at them in turns, and herself the probable dupe and victim ofsome favourite gallant in the end. I know all this; but what do I gainby it, unless I could find some one with her shape and air, to supplythe place of the lovely apparition? That a professed wanton should comeand sit on a man's knee, and put her arms round his neck, and caresshim, and seem fond of him, means nothing, proves nothing, no oneconcludes anything from it; but that a pretty, reserved, modest, delicate-looking girl should do this, from the first hour to the last ofyour being in the house, without intending anything by it, is new, and, I think, worth explaining. It was, I confess, out of my calculation, and may be out of that of others. Her unmoved indifference andself-possession all the while, shew that it is her constant practice. Her look even, if closely examined, bears this interpretation. It isthat of studied hypocrisy or startled guilt, rather than of refinedsensibility or conscious innocence. "She defied anyone to read herthoughts?" she once told me. "Do they then require concealing?" Iimprudently asked her. The command over herself is surprising. Shenever once betrays herself by any momentary forgetfulness, by anyappearance of triumph or superiority to the person who is her dupe, byany levity of manner in the plenitude of her success; it is onefaultless, undeviating, consistent, consummate piece of acting. Wereshe a saint on earth, she could not seem more like one. Herhypocritical high-flown pretensions, indeed, make her the worse: butstill the ascendancy of her will, her determined perseverance in whatshe undertakes to do, has something admirable in it, approaching to theheroic. She is certainly an extraordinary girl! Her retired manner, and invariable propriety of behaviour made me think it next toimpossible she could grant the same favours indiscriminately to everyone that she did to me. Yet this now appears to be the fact. She musthave done the very same with C----, invited him into the house to carryon a closer intrigue with her, and then commenced the double game withboth together. She always "despised looks. " This was a favouritephrase with her, and one of the hooks which she baited for me. Nothingcould win her but a man's behaviour and sentiments. Besides, she couldnever like another--she was a martyr to disappointed affection--andfriendship was all she could even extend to any other man. All thetime, she was making signals, playing off her pretty person, and havingoccasional interviews in the street with this very man, whom she couldonly have taken so sudden and violent a liking to him from his looks, his personal appearance, and what she probably conjectured of hiscircumstances. Her sister had married a counsellor--the Miss F----'s, who kept the house before, had done so too--and so would she. "Therewas a precedent for it. " Yet if she was so desperately enamoured ofthis new acquaintance, if he had displaced THE LITTLE IMAGE from herbreast, if he was become her SECOND "unalterable attachment" (which Iwould have given my life to have been) why continue the sameunwarrantable familiarities with me to the last, and promise that theyshould be renewed on my return (if I had not unfortunately stumbled uponthe truth to her aunt) and yet keep up the same refined cant about herold attachment all the time, as if it was that which stood in the way ofmy pretensions, and not her faithlessness to it? "If one swerves fromone, one shall swerve from another"--was her excuse for not returning myregard. Yet that which I thought a prophecy, was I suspect a history. She had swerved twice from her avowed engagements, first to me, and thenfrom me to another. If she made a fool of me, what did she make of herlover? I fancy he has put that question to himself. I said nothing tohim about the amount of the presents; which is another damningcircumstance, that might have opened my eyes long before; but they wereshut by my fond affection, which "turned all to favour and toprettiness. " She cannot be supposed to have kept up an appearance ofold regard to me, from a fear of hurting my feelings by her desertion;for she not only shewed herself indifferent to, but evidently triumphedin my sufferings, and heaped every kind of insult and indignity uponthem. I must have incurred her contempt and resentment by my mistakendelicacy at different times; and her manner, when I have hinted atbecoming a reformed man in this respect, convinces me of it. "She hatedit!" She always hated whatever she liked most. She "hated Mr. C----'sred slippers, " when he first came! One more count finishes theindictment. She not only discovered the most hardened indifference tothe feelings of others; she has not shewn the least regard to her owncharacter, or shame when she was detected. When found out, she seemedto say, "Well, what if I am? I have played the game as long as I could;and if I could keep it up no longer, it was not for want of good will!"Her colouring once or twice is the only sign of grace she has exhibited. Such is the creature on whom I had thrown away my heart and soul-onewho was incapable of feeling the commonest emotions of human nature, asthey regarded herself or any one else. "She had no feelings withrespect to herself, " she often said. She in fact knows what she is, andrecoils from the good opinion or sympathy of others, which she feels tobe founded on a deception; so that my overweening opinion of her musthave appeared like irony, or direct insult. My seeing her in the streethas gone a good way to satisfy me. Her manner there explains her mannerin-doors to be conscious and overdone; and besides, she looks butindifferently. She is diminutive in stature, and her measured step andtimid air do not suit these public airings. I am afraid she will soongrow common to my imagination, as well as worthless in herself. Herimage seems fast "going into the wastes of time, " like a weed that thewave bears farther and farther from me. Alas! thou poor hapless weed, when I entirely lose sight of thee, and for ever, no flower will everbloom on earth to glad my heart again!