The Sylph Part 9

"Why, if your father had not taken advantage of my cursed infatuation for you, I should not have been distressed in pecuniary matters by making so large a settlement."

"A cursed infatuation! do you call it? Sure, that is a harsh expression!

Oh! how wretched would my poor father feel, could he imagine the affection which he fancied his unhappy daughter had inspired you with, would be stiled by yourself, and to _her_ face, _a cursed infatuation_!"

Think you, Louisa, I was not pained to the soul? Too sure I was--I could not prevent tears from gus.h.i.+ng forth. Sir William saw the effect his cruel speech had on me; he started from his seat, and took my hand in his. A little resentment, and a thousand other reasons, urged me to withdraw it from his touch.--"Give me your hand, Julia," cried he, drawing his chair close to mine, and looking at my averted face--"give me your hand, my dear, and pardon the rashness of my expressions; I did not mean to use such words;--I recall them, my love: it was ungenerous and false in me to arraign your father's conduct. I would have doubled and trebled the settlement, to have gained you; I would, by heavens! my Julia.--Do not run from me in disgust; come, come, you shall forgive me a thoughtless expression, uttered in haste, but seriously repented of."

"You cannot deny your sentiments, Sir William; nor can I easily forget them. What my settlement is, as I never wished to out-live you, so I never wished to know how ample it was. Large I might suppose it to be, from the conviction that you never pay any regard to consequences to obtain your desires, let them be what they will. I was the whim of the day; and if you have paid too dearly for the trifling gratification, I am sorry for it; heartily sorry for it, indeed, Sir William. You found me in the lap of innocence, and in the arms of an indulgent parent; happy, peaceful, and serene; would to heaven you had left me there!" I could not proceed; my tears prevented my utterance. "Pshaw!" cried Sir William, clapping his fingers together, and throwing his elbow over the chair, which turned his face nearer me, "how ridiculous this is! Why, Julia, I am deceived in you; I did not think you had so much resentment in your composition. You ought to make some allowance for the _derangement_ of my affairs. My hands are tied by making a larger settlement than my present fortune would admit; and I cannot raise money on my estate, because I have no child, and it is entailed on my uncle, who is the greatest curmudgeon alive. Reflect on all these obstacles to my release from some present exigencies; and do not be so hard-hearted and inexorable to the prayers and intreaties of your husband."--During the latter part of this speech, he put his arm round my waist, and drew me almost on his knees, striving by a thousand little caresses to make me pardon and smile on him; but, Louisa, caresses, which I now know came not from the heart, lose the usual effect on me; yet I would not be, as he said, inexorable. I therefore told him, I would no longer think of any thing he would wish me to forget.--With the utmost appearance of tenderness he took my handkerchief, and dried my eyes; laying his cheek close to mine, and pressing my hands with warmth,--in short, acting over the same farce as (once) induced me to believe I had created the most permanent flame in his bosom. I could not bear the reflection that he should suffer from his former attachment to me; and I had hopes that my generosity might rouze him from his lethargy, and save him from the ruin which was likely to involve him. I told him, "I would with the greatest chearfulness relinquish any part of my settlement, if by that means he could be extricated from his present and future difficulties."--"Why, to be sure, a part of it would set me to rights as to the present; but as for the future, I cannot look into futurity, Julia."--"I wish you could, Sir William, and reflect in time."--"Reflect! Oh, that is so _outre_! I hate reflection. Reflection cost poor D--r his life the other day; he, like me, could not bear reflection."

"I tremble to hear you thus lightly speak of that horrid event. The more so, as I too much fear the same fatal predilection has occasioned your distress: but may the chearfulness with which I resign my future dependence awaken in you a sense of your present situation, and secure you from fresh difficulties!"

"Well said, my little _monitress_! why you are quite an _orator_ too.

But you shall find I can follow your lead, and be _just_ at least, if not so generous as yourself. I would not for the world accept the whole of your jointure. I do not want it; and if I had as much as I could raise on it, perhaps I might not be much richer for it. _Riches make to themselves wings, and fly away_, Julia. There is a sentence for you. Did you think your rattle-pated husband had ever read the book of books from whence that sentence is drawn?" I really had little patience to hear him run on in this ludicrous and trifling manner. What an argument of his insensibility! To stop him, I told him, I thought we had better not lose time, but have the writings prepared, which would enable me to do my duty as an obedient wife, and enable him to pay his debts like a man of honour and integrity; and then he need not fear his treasure flying away, since it would be laid up where neither thieves could break through, or rust destroy.

The writings are preparing, to dispose of an estate which was settled on me; it brings in at present five hundred a year; which I find is but a quarter of my jointure. Ah! would to heaven he would take all, provided it would make a change in his sentiments! But that I despair of, without the interposition of a miracle. You never saw such an alteration as an hour made on him. So alert and brisk! and apishly fond! I mean affectedly so; for, Louisa, a man of Sir William's cast never could love sincerely,--never could experience that genuine sentimental pa.s.sion,

"Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone To bless the dearer object of its soul."

No, his pa.s.sions are turbulent--the madness of the moment--eager to please himself--regardless of the satisfaction of the object.--And yet I thought he loved--I likewise thought I loved. Oh! Louisa! how was I deceived! But I check my pen. Pardon me, and, if possible, excuse your sister.

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XXII.

TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

What are we to make of this divine and destructive beauty? this Lady Stanley? Did you not observe with what eager avidity she became a votary to the gaming-table, and bragged away with the best of us? You must: you was witness to the glow of animation that reigned despotic over every lovely feature when she had got a pair-royal of braggers in her snowy fingers. But I am confoundedly bit! She condescended to borrow of that pattern of Germanic virtue, Baron Ton-hausen. Perhaps you will say, why did not you endeavour to be the Little Premium? No, I thought I played a better game: It was better to be the second lender; besides, I only wanted to excite in her a pa.s.sion for play; and, or I am much deceived, never woman entered into it with more zeal. But what a turn to our affairs! I am absolutely cast off the scent; totally ignorant of the doubles she has made. I could hardly close my eyes, from the pleasing expectations I had formed of gratifying the wishes of my heart in both those interesting pa.s.sions of love and revenge. Palpitating with hopes and fears, I descended from my chariot at the appointed hour. The party were a.s.sembled, and my devoted victim looked as beautiful as an angel of light; her countenance wore a solemnity, which added to her charms by giving an irresistible and persuasive softness to her features. I scrutinized the lineaments of her lovely face; and, I a.s.sure you, she lost nothing by the strict examination. G.o.ds! what a transporting creature she is! And what an insensible brute is Stanley! But I recall my words, as to the last:--he was distractedly in love with her before he had her; and perhaps, if she was _my_ wife, I should be as indifferent about her as _he_ is, or as _I_ am about the numberless women of all ranks and conditions with whom I have "trifled away the dull hours."--While I was in contemplation antic.i.p.ating future joys, I was struck all of a heap, as the country-girls say, by hearing Lady Stanley say,--"It is in vain--I have made a firm resolution never to play again; my resolution is the result of my own reflections on the uneasiness which those bits of painted paper have already given me. It is altogether fruitless to urge me; for from the determination I have made, I shall never recede. My former winnings are in the sweepstake-pool at the _commerce-table_, which you will extremely oblige me to sit down to; but for me, I play no more.--I shall have a pleasure in seeing you play; but I own I feel myself too much discomposed with ill fortune; and I am not unreasonable enough to be pleased with the misfortunes of others. I have armed my mind against the shafts of ridicule, that I see pointed at me; but, while I leave others the full liberty of following their own schemes of diversion, I dare say, none will refuse me the same privilege."--We all stared with astonishment; but the devil a one offered to say a word, except against sitting down to divide her property;--there we entered into a general protest; so we set down, at least I can answer for myself, to an insipid game.--Lady Stanley was marked down as a fine _pigeon_ by some of our ladies, and as a delicious _morceau_ by the men. The gentle Baron seemed all aghast. I fancy he is a little disappointed in his expectations too.--Perhaps he has formed hopes that his soft sighs and respectful behaviour may have touched the lovely Julia's heart. He felt himself flattered, no doubt, at her giving him the preference in borrowing from his purse. Well then, his hopes are _derange_, as well as mine.--But, _courage, mi Lor_, I shall play another game now; and peradventure, as safe a one, if not more so, than what I planned before.--I will not, however, antic.i.p.ate a pleasure (which needs no addition should I succeed) or add to my mortification should I fail, by expatiating on it at present.

Adieu! dear Montague! Excuse my _boring_ you with these trifles;--for to a man in love, every thing is trifling except the _trifle_ that possesses his heart; and to one who is not under the guidance of the _soft deity, that_ is the _greatest_ trifle (to use a Hibernicism) of all.

I am your's most cordially,

BIDDULPH.

LETTER XXIII.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

Well, my dear Louisa, the important point I related the particulars of in my last is quite settled, and Sir William has been able to satisfy some rapacious creditors. Would to heaven I could tell you, the butcher, baker, &c. were in the list! No, my sister; the creditors are a vile set of gamblers, or, in the language of the _polite_ world--_Black-legs_.

Thus is the purpose of my heart entirely frustrated, and the laudably industrious tradesman defrauded of his due. But how long will they remain satisfied with being repeatedly put by with empty promises, which are never kept? Good G.o.d! how is this to end? I give myself up to the most gloomy reflections, and see no point of time when we shall be extricated from the cruel dilemmas in which Sir William's imprudence has involved us. I vainly fancied, I should gain some advantages, at least raise myself in his opinion, from my generosity; but I find, on the contrary, he only laughs at me for being such a simpleton, to suppose the sale of five hundred a-year would set him to rights. It is plain, I have got no credit by my condescension, for he has not spent one day at home since; and his temper, when I do see him, seems more uncertain than ever.--Oh! Louisa! and do all young women give up their families, their hand, and virgin-affections, to be thus recompensed? But why do I let fall these expressions? Alas! they fall with my tears; and I can no more suppress the one than the other; I ought, however, and indeed do endeavour against both. I seek to arm my soul to support the evils with which I see myself surrounded. I beseech heaven to afford me strength, for I too plainly see I am deprived of all other resources. I forget to caution you, my dear sister, against acquainting my father, that I have given up part of my jointure; and lest, when I am unburthening the weight of my over-charged bosom to you, I should in future omit this cautionary reserve, do you, my Louisa, keep those little pa.s.sages a secret within your own kind sympathizing breast; and add not to my affliction, by planting such daggers in the heart of my dear--more dear than ever--parent. You know I have pledged my honour to you, I will never, by my own conduct, acc.u.mulate the distresses this fatal union has brought on me. Though every vow on his part is broken through, yet I will remember I am _his_ wife,--and, what is more, _your_ sister. Would you believe it? he--Sir William I mean--is quite displeased that I have given up cards, and very politely told me, I should be looked on as a fool by all his acquaintance,--and himself not much better, for marrying such an ignorant uninstructed rustic. To this tender and husband-like speech, I returned no other answer, than that "my conscience should be the rule and guide of my actions; and _that_, I was certain, would never lead me to disgrace him." I left the room, as I found some difficulty in stifling the resentment which rose at his indignant treatment. But I shall grow callous in time; I have so far conquered my weakness, as never to let a tear drop in his presence. Those indications of self-sorrow have no effect on him, unless, indeed, he had any point to gain by it; and then he would feign a tenderness foreign to his nature, but which might induct the ignorant uninstructed fool to yield up every thing to him.

Perhaps he knows it not; but I might have instructors enough;--but he has taught me sufficient of evil--thank G.o.d! to make me despise them all. From my unhappy connexions with one, I learn to hate and detest the whole race of rakes; I might add, of both s.e.xes. I tremble to think what I might have been, had I not been blessed with a virtuous education, and had the best of patterns in my beloved sister. Thus I was early initiated in virtue; and let me be grateful to my kind _Sylph_, whose knowledge of human nature has enabled him to be so serviceable to me: he is a sort of second conscience to me:--What would the Sylph say? I whisper to myself. Would he approve? I flatter myself, that, insignificant as I am, I am yet the care of heaven; and while I depend on that merciful Providence and its vicegerents, I shall not fall into those dreadful pits that are open on every side: but, to strengthen my reliances, let me have the prayers of my dear Louisa; for every support is necessary for her faithful Julia.

LETTER XXIV.

TO THE SAME.

I have repeatedly mentioned to my Louisa, how earnestly I wished to have more frequent communications with my Sylph. A thought struck me the other day, of the practicability of effecting such a scheme. I knew I was safe from detection, as no one on earth, yourself excepted, knew of his agency in my affairs. I therefore addressed an advertis.e.m.e.nt to my invisible friend, which I sent to the St. James's Chronicle, couched in this concise manner.

TO THE SYLPH

"Grateful for the friendly admonition, the receiver of the Sylph's favour is desirous of having the power of expressing _it_ more largely than is possible through this channel. If still int.i.tled to protection, begs to be informed, how a private letter may reach his hand."

I have not leisure nor inclination to make a long digression, or would tell you, the St. James's is a news-paper which is the fas.h.i.+onable vehicle of intelligence; and from the circ.u.mstance alone of its admission into all families, and meeting all eyes, I chose it to convey my wishes to the Sylph. The next evening I had the satisfaction of finding those wishes answered; and the further pleasure (as you will see by the enclosed copy) of being a.s.sured of his approbation of the step I have taken.

And now for a little of family-affairs. You know I have a certain allowance, of what is called pin-money;--my quarter having been due for some time, I thought I might as well have it in my own possession,--not that I am poor, for I a.s.sure you, on the contrary, I have generally a quarter in hand, though I am not in debt. I sent Win to Harris's the steward, for my stipend. She returned, with his duty to me, acquainting me, it was not in his power at present to honour my note, not having any cash in hand. Surprized at his inability of furnis.h.i.+ng a hundred and fifty pounds, I desired to speak with him; when he gave me so melancholy a detail of his master's circ.u.mstances, as makes me dread the consequences. He is surrounded with Jew-brokers; for, in this Christian land, Jews are the money-negotiators; and such wretches as you would tremble to behold are admitted into the private recesses of the Great, and caressed as their better-angels. These infernal agents procure them money; for which they pay fifty, a hundred, and sometimes two hundred _per Cent_. Am I wrong in styling them _infernal_? Do they not make the silly people who trust in them pay very dear for the means of accomplis.h.i.+ng their own destruction? Like those miserable beings they used to call _Witches_, who were said to sell their souls to the Devil for everlasting, to have the power of doing temporary mischief upon earth.

_These_ now form the bosom-a.s.sociates of my husband. Ah! wonder not the image of thy sister is banished thence! rather rejoice with me, that he pays that reverence to virtue and decency as to distinguish me from that dreadful herd of which his chief companions are composed.

I go very little from home--In truth, I have no creature to go with.--I avoid Lord Biddulph, because I hate him; and (dare I whisper it to my Louisa?) I estrange myself from the Baron, lest I should be too partial to the numerous good qualities I cannot but see, and yet which it would be dangerous to contemplate too often. Oh, Louisa! why are there not many such men? His merit would not so forcibly strike me, if I could find any one in the circle of my acquaintance who could come in compet.i.tion with him; for, be a.s.sured, it is not the tincture of the skin which I admire; not because _fairest_, but _best_. But where shall a married-woman find excuse to seek for, and admire, merit in any other than her husband? I will banish this too, too amiable man from my thoughts. As my Sylph says, such men (under the circ.u.mstances I am in) are infinitely more dangerous than a Biddulph. Yet, can one fall by the hand of virtue?--Alas! this is deceitful sophistry. If I give myself up to temptation, how dare I flatter myself I shall _be delivered from evil_?

Could two men be more opposite than what Sir William appeared at Woodley-vale, and what he now is?--for too surely, _that_ was appearance--_this_ reality. Think of him then sitting in your library, reading by turns with my dear father some instructive and amusing author, while _we_ listened to their joint comments; what lively sallies we discovered in him; and how we all united in approving the natural flow of good spirits, chastened as we thought with the principles of virtue! See him now--But my pen refuses to draw the pain-inspiring portrait. Alas! it would but be a copy of what I have so repeatedly traced in my frequent letters; a copy from which we should turn with disgust, bordering on contempt. This we should do, were the character unknown or indifferent to us. But how must that woman feel--who sees in the picture the well-known features of a man, whom she is bound by her vows to love, honour, and obey? Your tenderness, my sister, will teach you to pity so unhappy a wretch. I will not, however, tax that tenderness too much. I will not dwell on the melancholy theme.

But I lose sight of my purpose, in thus contrasting Sir William _to himself_; I meant to infer, from the total change which seems to have taken place in him, that other men may be the same, could the same opportunity of developing their characters present itself. Thus, though the Baron wears this semblance of an angel--yet it may be a.s.sumed. What will not men do to carry a favourite point? He saw the open and avowed principles of libertinism in Lord Biddulph disgusted me from the first.

He, therefore, may conceal the same invidious intention under the seducing form of every virtue. The simile of the robber and the beggar, in the Sylph's first letter, occurs to my recollection. Yet, perhaps, I am injuring the Baron by my suspicion. He may have had virtue enough to suppress those feelings in my favour, which my situation should certainly destroy in a virtuous breast.--Nay, I believe, I may make myself wholly easy on that head. He has, for some time, paid great attention to Miss Finch, who, I find, has totally broke with Colonel Montague. Certainly, if we should pay any deference to appearance, she will make a much better election by chusing Baron Ton-hausen, than the Colonel. She has lately--Miss Finch, I should say--has lately spent more time with me than any other lady--for my two first companions I have taken an opportunity of civilly dropping. I took care to be from home whenever they called by _accident_--and always to have some _prior_ engagement when they proposed meeting by _design_.

Miss Finch is by much the least reprehensible character I have met with.--But, as Lady Besford once said, one can form no opinion of what a woman is while she is single. _She_ must keep within the rules of decorum. The single state is not a state of freedom. Only the married ladies have that privilege. But, as far as one can judge, there is no danger in the acquaintance of Miss Finch. I own, I like her, for having refused Colonel Montague, and yet, (Oh! human nature!) on looking over what I have written, I have expressed myself disrespectfully, on the supposition that she saw Ton-hausen with the same eyes as a certain foolish creature that shall be nameless.

LETTER XXV.

Enclosed in the foregoing.

TO Lady STANLEY.

The satisfaction of a benevolent heart will ever be its own recompense; but not its _only_ reward, as you have sweetly a.s.sured me, by the advertis.e.m.e.nt that blessed my eyes last night. I beheld, with pleasure, that my admonitions have not lost their intended effect. I should have been most cruelly disappointed, and have given up my knowledge of the human heart as imperfect, had I found you incorrigible to my advice. But I have heretofore told you, I was thoroughly acquainted with the excellencies of your mind. Your renunciation of your favourite game, and cards in general, give every reason to justify my sentiments of you. I have formed the most exalted idea of you.--And you alone can destroy the altar I have raised to your divinity. All the incense I dare hope to receive from you, is a just and implicit observance of my dictates, while _they_ are influenced by virtue, of which none but you can properly judge, since to none but yourself they are addressed. Doubts, I am convinced, may arise in your mind concerning this invisible agency.

As far as is necessary, I will satisfy those doubts. But to be for ever concealed from your knowledge as to ident.i.ty, your own good sense will see too clearly the necessity of, to need any ill.u.s.tration from my pen.

If I admired you before--how much has that admiration encreased from the chearful acquiescence you have paid to my injunctions! Go on, then, my beloved charge! Pursue the road of _virtue_; and be a.s.sured, however rugged the path, and tedious the way, you will, one day, arrive at the goal, and find _her_ "in her own form--how lovely!" I had almost said, as lovely as yourself.

Perhaps, you will think this last expression too warm, and favouring more of the man--than the Rosicrusian philosopher.--But be not alarmed.

By the most rigid observance of virtue it is we attain this superiority over the rest of mankind; and only by this course can we maintain it--we are not, however, divested of our sensibilities; nay, I believe, as they have not been vitiated by contamination, they are more _tremblingly alive_ than other mortals usually are. In the human character, I could be of no use to you; in the Sylphiad, of the utmost. Look on me, then, only in the light of a preternatural being--and if my sentiments should sometimes flow in a more earthly stile--yet, take my word as a Sylph, they shall never be such as shall corrupt your heart. To guard it from the corruptions of mortals, is my sole view in the lectures I have given, or shall from time to time give you.

I saw and admired the laudable motive which induced you to give up part of your settlement. Would to heaven, for your sake, it had been attended with the happy consequences you flattered yourself with seeing. Alas!

all the produce of that is squandered after the rest. Beware how you are prevailed on to resign any more; for, I question not, you will have application made you very soon for the remainder, or at least part of it: but take this advice of your true and disinterested friend. The time may come, and from the unhappy propensities of Sir William, I must fear it will not be long ere it does come, when both he and you may have no other resource than what your jointure affords you. By this ill-placed benevolence you will deprive yourself of the means of supporting him, when all other means will have totally failed. Let this be your plea to resist his importunities.

When you shall be disposed to make me the repository of your confidential thoughts, you may direct to A.B. at Anderton's coffee-house. I rely on your prudence, to take no measures to discover me. May you be as happy as you deserve, or, in one word, as I wish you!