Were it otherwise, should it ever be otherwise, what would not your JULIA do, to smooth the latter days of a father, on whose gray hairs distresses are multiplied! Methinks, since this last blow, he is greatly changed. That haughtiness of spirit, which seemed to brave, but, in reality, was irritated by misfortune, has left him. He looks calmly upon things; they affect him more, but hurt him less; his tears fall oftener, but they are less terrible than the sullen gloom which used to darken his aspect. I can now mingle mine with his, free to affliction, without uneasiness or fear; and those offices of kindness, which once my piety exacted, are now the offering of my heart. Montauban has behaved, on this occasion, as became his character. How perfect were it, but for that weakness which regards your JULIA! He came to see my father the day after that on which my mother died. "I will not endeavour (said he) to stop the current of your grief That comfort which the world offers at times like these, flows not from feeling, and cannot be addressed to it. Your sorrow is just I come to give you leisure to indulge it Employ me in those irksome offices, which distress us more that the tears they oblige [Page] us to dry Think nothing too mean to impose on me, that can any how relieve my friend." And this friend his daughter is forced to deprive him of. Such at least is the common pride of the sex, that will not brook any other connection where one is rejected. I am assailed by motives on every hand; but my own feelings are still unconquered. Support them, my ever faithful MARIA, if they are just; if notbut they cannot be unjust. The only friend of my own sex, whom I possessed besides thee, is now no more! We needed no additional tie; yet, methinks, in the grief of my heart, I lean upon yours with increasing affection. Thou tooI will not say pitythou shalt love me more. LETTER XV. JULIA TO MARIA. I HAVE, this moment, received your answer to my last. Ah! my friend, it answers not as I wished. Is this forwardness in me, to hear, with pleasure, only the arguments on one side, when my conduct should be guided by those on both? [Page] You say, "it is from the absence of Savillon, that the impression he had made on my heart has gained its present strength; that the contemplation of distant objects is always stronger than the sense of present ones; and that, were I to see him now, were I daily to behold him the husband of another, I should soon grow tranquil at the sight. That it is injustice to myself, and a want of that proper pride, which should be the constant attendant of our sex, to suffer this unhappy attachment to overcome my mind; and, that after looking calmly on the world, you cannot allow so much force to those impressions, as our youth was apt to suppose in them. That they are commonly vanquished by an effort to vanquish them; and that the sinking under their pressure, is one of those diseases of the mind, which, like certain diseases of the body, the exercise of its better faculties will very soon remove." There is reason in all this; but while you argue from reason, I must decide from my feelings. In every one's own case, there is a rule of judging, which is not the less powerful that one cannot express it.I insist not on the memory of Savillon; I can forget him, I think I cantime will be kind that wayIt is fit I should forget him, he is happy as the husband of another.But should I wed any man, be his worth what [Page] it may, if I feel not that lively preference for him, which waits not for reasoning to persuade its consent? The suggestions I have heard of Montauban's unwearied love, his uncommon virtues, winning my affections in a state of wedlock, I have always held a very dangerous experiment; there is equivocation in those vows, which unite us to a husband, our affection for whom we leave to contingency."But I already esteem and admire him."It is most true;why is he not contented with my esteem and admiration? If those feelings are to be ripened into love, let him wait that period when my hand may be his without a blush. This I have already told him; he almost owned the injustice of his request, but pleaded the ardour of passion in excuse. Is this fair dealing, MARIA? that his feelings are to be an apology for his suit, while mine are not allowed to be a reason for refusal? I am called away by my father; I heard the Count's voice below some time before. There was a solemnity in my father's manner of asking me down, which indicates something important in this visit. You shall hear what that is, before this letter is closed.Again! he is come to fetch me. [Page] MARIA! let me recover my surprise! Yet why should I be [...] at the generosity of Montauban? I know the native nobleness of his soulWas it in such a girl as me to enfeeble it so long? My father led me into the parlour. Montauban was standing in a pensive posture; he made me a silent bow. I was placed in a chair, standing near another, which the Count had occupied before He sat down. My father walked to the window; his back was to us. Montauban put himself once or twice into the attitude of speaking; but we were still silent. My father turned and approached us. "The Count has something to communicate, JULIA. Would you choose, Sir, that it should be addressed to her alone?" "No, (answered he) it is an expiation to both, and both should hear it made. I fear, I have, unwillingly been the cause of disquiet to a family, whose society, for some time past, has been one of the chief sweeteners of my life. They know my gratitude, for the blessing of that intimacy they were kind enough to allow me. When I wished for a tenderer connexion, they could not blame my wish; but when I pressed it so far as to wound their peace, I was unworthy of the esteem they had formerly given, an esteem [Page] I cannot now bear to lose. When I cease my suit, Miss JULIA, let it speak, [...] diminution, but an increase of my affection. In that regard, which you often had the generosity to confess for me, was impaired by my addresses, let me recover it by this sacrifice of my hopes; and while I devote to your quiet the solicitations of my love, let it confirm to me every privilege of the most sacred friendship." Such were the words of Montauban. I know not what answer I made I remember a movement of admiration, and no more. At that instant, he seemed nobler than ever; and when, in spite of his firmness, a tear broke forth, my pity almost carried me beyond esteem. How happy might this man make another! JULIA DE ROUBIGNE' is fated to be miserable! [Page] LETTER XVI. THE COUNT DE MONTAUBAN TO MONS. DUVERGNE AT PARIS. I HAVE sent only three of the bills I proposed in my last, to remit; that for five thousand, and the other for twelve thousand livres, at short dates, I have retained, as, I believe, I shall have use for them here. You may discount some of the others, if you want money for immediate use, which however I imagine, will not be, the case. I beg you may, immediately on receipt of this, send the inclosed letter as directed. The name in the superscription I have made Vervette, though my steward from whom I take it, is not sure if it be exactly that; but, as he tells me the man is a procureur of some practice, and is certain as to the place of his residence, I imagine, you will have no difficulty in finding him. I wish my letter to reach him in Paris; but if you hear that he is gone into the country, send me notice by the messenger, who is to fetch down my uncle's papers, by whom I shall receive your answer sooner than by post. [Page] LETTER XVII. LISETTE TO MARIA. MADAM, I MAKE bold to write this, in great haste, because I am sensible of your friendship for my lady, and that you will thank me for giving you an opportunity of trying to serve her father and her in their present distress. She, poor lady, is in such a situation as not to be able to write; and besides, she is so nobleminded, that I dare be sworn she would not tell you the worst, lest it should look like asking your assistance. How shall I tell you, Madam? My poor master is in danger of being forced away from us, and thrown into prison. A debt it seems owing to some people in Paris, on account of expences about that unfortunate lawsuit, has been put into the hands of a procureur, who will not hear of any delay in the payment of it; and he was here this morning, and told my master, as Le Blanc overheard, that, if he could not procure the money in three hours time, he must attend him to a jail. My master wished to conceal this from his daughter, and desired the procureur to do his duty, without any noise or disturbance; but Le Blanc had scarcely got up stairs, when she called him, [Page] and enquired about that man's business, and he could not hide it, his heart was so full, and so he told her all that had passed below. Then she flew down to her father's room, and hung about him in such a manner, weeping and sobbing, that it would have melted the heart of a savage, and so, to be sure, I said to the procureur; but he did not mind me a bit, nor my lady neither, though she looked so as I never beheld in all my life, and I was terrified to see her so, and said all I could to comfort her, but to no purpose. At last a servant of the procureur brought him a letter, and presently he went out of the house, but left two of his attendants to watch that my master should not escape; and they are now here, and they say that he cannot grant any respite; but that, as sure as can be, when he returns, he will take away Mons. de Roubign to prison. I send this by a boy, a nephew of Le Blanc's, who serves a gentleman in this province, who is just now going post to Paris, and the boy called on his way, by good fortune, to see his uncle. I am in haste, your very faithful and obedient servant, LISETTE. My lady is much more composed now, and so is my master. The procureur has not returned yet, and I have a sort of hope; yet GOD knows whence it should be, except, from your ladyship. [Page] LETTER XVIII. LISETTE TO MARIA. TO be sure, Madam, you must have been much affected with the distress in our family, of which I informed you in my last, considering what a friendship there is between my dear lady and you. And now I am much vexed, that I should have given you so much uneasiness in vain, and send this to let you know of the happy deliverance my master has met with, from that most generous of men the Count de Montauban; I say, the most generous of men, as to be sure he is, to advance so large a sum without any near prospect of being repaid, and without ever being asked to do such a favour; for I verily believe my master would die before he would ask such a favour of any one, so high minded he is, notwithstanding all his misfortunes. He is just now gone to see the Count, for that noblehearted gentleman would not come to our house, lest, as Mons. de Roubign said, he should seem to triumph in the effects of his own generosity. Indeed, the thing was done as if it had been by witchcraft, without one of this family suspecting such a matter; and the procureur never came back at all, [Page] only sent a paper, discharging the debt, to one of the men he had left behind, who, upon that, behaved very civilly, and went away with much better manners, forsooth, than they came; but Le Blanc followed them to the village, where they met the procureur, and thus it was that we discovered the debt to have been paid by the Count, who, it seems, had sent that letter, but without a name, which the procureur received, when he left us at the time I wrote your ladyship last. Mons. de Roubign is returned from his visit to the Count de Montauban, and has been a long time closeted with my lady, and, to be sure, something particular must have passed, but what it is I can not guess; only I am certain it is something more than common, because I was in the way when they parted, and my lady passed me, and I saw by her looks that there had been something. When she went into her own chamber I followed her, and there she sat down, leaning her arm on her dressing table, and gave such a sigh, as I thought her heart would have burst with it. Then I thought I might speak, and asked if she was not well; Very well, Lisette, said she; but she said it as if she was not well for all that, breathing strongly, as she spoke the words, as one [Page] does when one has run one's self out of breath. "Leave me child (said she) I will call you again by and by." And so I left her as she bid me, and as I went out of the room, shutting the door softly behind me, I heard her start up from her chair, and say to herself "The lot is cast!" I think that was it. My master has been all this while in his study, writing, and just now he called Le Blanc, and gave him a letter for the Count de Montauban, and Le Blanc told me, as he passed, that Mons. de Roubign looked gayer and more in spirits than usual, when he gave it him. My lady is still in her chamber alone, and has never called me, as she promised. Poor dear soul! I am sure I would do any thing to serve her, that I would, and well I may, for she is the kindest, sweetest lady to me, and so indeed she is to every body. And now, Madam, I am sure I should ask a thousand pardons for using the freedom to write to you in such a manner, just by starts, as things happen. But I am sensible your ladyship will not impute my doing so to any want of respect, but only to my desiring to give your ladyship an account of the situation of my lady, and of this family, which you were so condescending as to say, [Page] after my first letter, you were much obliged to me for giving you, and begged that it might be in my own style, which, to be sure, is none of the best; but which your ladyship will be so good as pardon, especially as I am, when I write to you about these matters, in a flutter, as one may say, as well as having little time to order my expressions for the best. I am, honoured Madam, With due respect, Your faithful And obedient servant, LISETTE. LETTER XIX. JULIA TO MARIA. IN the intricacies of my fate or of my conduct, I have long been accustomed to consider you my support and my judge. For some days past these have come thick upon me; but I could not find composure enough to state them coolly even to myself. At this hour of midnight. I have summoned up a still recollection of the past; and with you, as my other conscience, I will unfold and examine it. [Page] The ready zeal of my faithful Lisette has, I understand, saved me a recital of the distress, in which my father found himself involved, from the consequences of that lawsuit we have often lamented. I could only share it with him; but a more effectual friend stepped forth in the Count de Montauban. His generosity relieved my father, and gave him back to freedom and your JULIA. The manner of his doing this was such as the delicacy of a mind, jealous of its own honour, would prompt in the cause of another's. I thought I saw a circumstance, previous to the Count's performing it, which added to that delicacy. My father did not then perceive this; it was not till he waited on Montauban, that the force of it struck his mind. When he returned home, I saw some remains of that pride, which formerly rankled under the receipt of favours it was unable to return. "My JULIA, (said he) your father is unhappy, every way unhappy; but it is fit I should be humblePierre de Roubign must learn humility!" He uttered these words in a tone that frightened me; I could not speak. He saw me confused, I believe, and, putting on a milder aspect, took my hand and kissed it."Heaven knows, that, for [Page] myself, I rate not life or liberty at much;but, when I thought what my child must sufferI alone am left to protect herand I am old and weak, and must ask for that assistance which I am unable to repay." "The generous, Sir, (said I) know from their own hearts what yours can feel All beyond is accident alone." "The generous, indeed, my child! but you know not all the generosity of Montauban. When he tore himself from those hopes which his love had taught him; when he renounced his pretensions to that hand, which I know can alone confer happiness on his life; it was but for a more delicate opportunity of relieving thy father.I could not (said he) while I sought your daughter's love, bear the appearance of purchasing it by a favour; now, when I have renounced it for ever, I am free to the offices of friendship.Had you seen him, JULIA, when he pronounced this for ever great as his soul is, he wept! by Heaven he wept, at pronouncing it!These tears, JULIA, these tears of my friend!Would I had met my dungeon in silence! they had not torn my heart thus!" MARIA, mine was swelled to a sort of enthusiastic madness I full at his feet. [Page] "No, my father, they shall not.Amidst the fall of her family, your daughter shall not stand aloof in safety. She would have shared the prison of her father in the pride of adversity; behold her now the partner of his humiliation! Tell the Count de Montauban, that JULIA DE ROUBIGN; offers that hand to his generosity, which she refused to his solicitation;tell him also, she is above deceit She will not conceal the small value of the gift. 'Tis but the offering of a wretch, who would somehow requite the sufferings of her father, and the services of his friend. If he shall now reject it, that ugly debt, which his unhappiness lays us under, will be repaid in the abasement she endures; if he accepts of it as it is, tell him its mistress is not ignorant of the duty that should attend it." My father seemed to recover at my words; yet surprise was mixed with the satisfaction his countenance expressed. "Are these your sentiments, my love? pressing my hand closer in hisThe heroism of duty was wastedI answered him with my tears. "Speak, (said he) my JULIA, coolly; and let not the distresses of your father warp your resolution. He can endure any thing, even his gratitude shall be silenced."My fortitude revived again."There is some weakness, Sir, attends even our best resolves Mine [Page] are not without it; but they are fixed, and I have spoken them." He asked if he might acquaint Mons. de Montauban. "Immediately, Sir, (I answered) if you please; the sooner he knows my resolution, the more will he see it flowing from my heart." My father went into his study, and wrote a letter, which he read to me. It was not all I could have wished, yet I could not mend it by correction. Who shall give words to the soul at such a time? My very thoughts are not accurate expressions of what I feel There is something busy about my heart, which I cannot reduce into thinking.Oh! MARIA! Montauban came immediately on receipt of this letter; we did not expect him that night; we were at supper. In what a situation was your JULIA while it lasted? In this terrible interval, I was obliged to meet his eye sometimes, in addressing ordinary civilities to him. To see him, to speak to him thus, while the fate of my life was within the power of a few little words, was such torture, as it required the utmost of my resolution to bear. My father saw it, and put as speedy an end to our meal as possible.We were left alone. My father spoke first, not without hesitation. Montauban was still more confused; but it was [Page] the confusion of a happy man. He spoke some half sentences about the delicacy of my sentiments and his own, but was entangled there, and I think, not able to extricate himself. At last, turning fuller towards me, who sat the silent [...] of the scene, (why should I score through that word when writing to you? yet it is a bad one, and I pray you to forgive it) he said, he knew his own unworthiness of that hand, which my generosity had now allowed me to hope for; but that every endeavour of his future lifethe rest was common place; for his sex have but one sort of expression for the exulting modesty of successMy father put my hand in hisI was obliged to raise my eyes from the ground and look on him; his were bent earnestly on me There was too, too much joy in them, MARIA; mine could not bear them long. "That hand (said my father) is the last treasure of Roubign. Fallen as his fortunes are, not the wealth of worlds had purchased it To your friendship, to your virtue, he is blessed in bequeathing it.""I know its value said the Count, and receive it as the dearest gift of Heaven and you." He kissed my hand with rapture. It is done, and I am Montauban's forever! [Page] LETTER XX. MONTAUBAN TO SEGARVA. GIVE me joy, Segarva, give me joythe lovely JULIA is mine. Let not the torpid considerations of prudence, which your last letter contained, rise up to check the happiness of your friend, or that which his good fortune will bestow on you. Trust me, thy fears are groundlessdidst thou but know her as I do!Perhaps I am tenderer that way than usual; but there were some of your fears I felt a blush at in reading. Talk not of the looseness of marriagevows in France, nor compare her with those women of it, whose heads are giddy with the follies of fashion, and whose hearts are debauched by the manners of its votaries. Her virtue was ever above the breath of suspicion, and I dare pledge my life, it will ever continue so. But that is not enough; I can feel, as you do, that it is not enough. I know the nobleness of her soul, the delicacy of her sentiments. She would not give me her hand except from motives of regard and affection, were I master of millions. I rejoice that her own situation is such, as infers no suspicion of interestedness in me; were she [Page] not JULIA DE ROUBIGN, I would not have wedded her with the world for her dower. You talk of her former reluctance; but I am not young enough to imagine that it is impossible for a marriage to be happy without that glow of rapture which lovers have felt and poets described. Those starts of passion are not the basis for wedded felicity, which wisdom would chuse, because they are only the delirium of a month, which possession destroys, and disappointment follows. I have perfect confidence in the affection of JULIA, though it is not of that intemperate kind, which some brides have shewn. Had you seen her eyes, how they spoke, when her father gave me her hand! there was still a reluctance in them, a reluctance more winning than all the flush of consent could have made her. Modesty and fear, esteem and gratitude, darkened and enlightened them by turns; and those tears, those silent tears, which they shed, gave me a more sacred bond of her attachment, than it was in the power of words to have formed. I have sometimes allowed myself to think, or rather I have supposed you thinking, it might be held an imputation on the purity of her affection, that from an act of generosity towards her father, (with the circumstances of which I was under the [Page] necessity of acquainting you in my last) her hand became rather a debt of gratitude than a gift of love. But there is a deception in those romantic sounds, which tell us, that pure affection should be unbiassed in its disposal of a lover or a mistress. If they say, that affection is a mere involuntary impulse, neither waiting the decisions of reason, or the dissuasives of prudence, do they not in reality degrade us to machines, which are blindly actuated by some uncontrolable power? If they allow a woman reasonable motives for her attachment, what can be stronger than those sentiments which excite her esteem, and those proofs of them which produce her gratitude? But why do I thus reason on my happiness? I feel no fears, no suspicion of alloy to it; and I will not search for them in abstract opinion, or in distant conjecture. Tuesday next is fixed for the day that is to unite us; the shew and ceremony that mingle so ill with the feelings of a time like this, our situation here renders unnecessary. A few of those simple ornaments, in which my JULIA meets the gave of the admiring rustics around us, are more congenial to her beauty than all the trappings of vanity or magnificence. We propose passing a week or two [Page] here, before removing to Montauban, where I must then carry my wife, to shew my people their mistress, and receive that sort of homage, which I hope I have taught them to pay from the heart. Those relations of my family, who live in that neighbourhood, must come and learn to love me better than they did. Methinks I shall now be more easily pleased with them than I formerly was. I know not if it is nobler to despise insignificant people, than to bear with them coolly; but I believe it is much less agreeable. The asperities of our own mind recoil on itself. JULIA has shewn me the bliss of losing them. Could I hope for my Segarva at Montauban?Much as I doat on my lovely bride, there wants the last approval of my soul, till he smiles on this marriage and blesses it. I know, there needs only his coming thither to grant this.I anticipate your answer, that now it is impossible; but let it be a debt on the future, which the first of your leisure is to pay. Meantime believe me happy, and add to my happiness by telling me of your own. [Page] LETTER XXI. JULIA TO MARIA. WHY should I teaze you by writing of those little things which teaze me in the doing? They teaze, yet perhaps they are useful. At this time, I am afraid of a moment's leisure to be idle, and am even pleased with the happy impertinence of Lisette, whose joy, on my account, gives her tongue much freedom. I call her often, when I have little occasion for her service, merely that I may have her protection from solitude. For the same reason, I am somehow afraid of writing to you, which is only another sort of thinking. Do not therefore expect to hear from me again till after Tuesday at soonest.MARIA! you remember our fancy at school of shewing our friendship, by setting down remarkable days of one another's little joys and disappointments.Set down Tuesday next for your JULIAbut leave its property blank.Fate will fill it up one day! [Page] LETTER XXII. LISETTE TO MARIA. MADAM, I HOPE my lady and you will both excuse my writing this, to give you notice of the happy event, which has happened in our family. I made so bold as to ask her if she intended writing to you. "Lisette, (said she) I cannot write, I cannot indeed," So I have taken up the pen, who am a poor unworthy correspondent; but your ladyship's goodness has made allowances for me in that way before, and, I hope, will do so still. The ceremony was performed yesterday. I think I never saw a more lovely figure than my lady's; she is a sweet angel at all times, but I wish your ladyship had seen how she looked then. She was dressed in a white muslin nightgown, with striped lilac and white ribbands Her hair was kept in the loose way you used to make me dress it for her at Belville, with two waving curls down one side of her neck, and a braid of little peals, you made her a present of then. And to he sure, with her dark brown locks resting upon it, her bosom looked as pure white as the driven [Page] snow.And then her eyes, when she gave her hand to the Count! they were cast half down, and you might see her eyelashes, like strokes of a pencil, over the white of her skinthe modest gentleness, with a sort of a sadness too, as it were, and a gentle heave of her bosom at the same time;O! Madam, you know I have not language, as my lady and you have, to describe such things; but it made me cry, in truth it did, for very joy and admiration. There was a tear in my master's eye too, though I believe two happier hearts were not in France, than his and the Count de Montauban's. I am sure, I pray for blessings on all three, with more earnestness, that I do, than for myself. It seems, it is settled that the new married couple shall not remain long here, but set out in a week or two hence, for the Count's principal seat, about six leagues distant from his house in our neighbourhood, which is not large enough for entertaining the friends, whose visits they must receive on this joyful occasion. I fancy Mons. de Roubign will be much with them, though, I understand, he did not choose to accept of the Count's pressing invitation to live with his daughter and him; but an elderly lady, a relation of my dear mistress that is gone, is to keep house for him. [Page] I must break off now, for I hear my lady's bell ring, and your ladyship may believe we are all in a sort of buz here. I dare to say, she will not fail to write to you soon; but mean time, hoping you will accept of this poor scrawling letter of mine, I remain, with due respect, Your most faithful and obedient servant, LISETTE. P. S. My lady is to have me with her at the Chateau de Montauban; and to be sure, I am happy to attend her, as I could willingly spend all the days of my life with so kind a lady, and so good conditioned. The Count likewise has been so good to me, as I can't tell how, and said, that he hoped my mistress and I would never part, "If she does not grow jealous, (said he merrily) of so handsome a maid." And at that we all laughed, as to be sure we might. My lady will be a happy lady, I am sure. [Page] LETTER XXIII. JULIA TO MARIA. MY friend will, by this time, be chiding me for want of attention to her; yet, in truth, she has seldom been absent from my thoughts. Were we together but for a single hour, I should have much to tell you; but there is an intricacy in my feelings on this change of situation, which, [...] as I write to you, I cannot manage on paper. I can easily imagine what you would first desire to know, though perhaps it is the last question you would put. The happiness of your JULIA, I know, is ever the warmest object of your wishes.Ask me not, why I cannot answer even this directlyBe satisfied when I tell you, that I ought to be happy.Montauban has every desire to make me so. One thing I wish to accomplish towards his peace and mine. The history of this poor heart I have entrusted only to your memory and my own I will endeavour, though I know with how much difficulty, henceforth to forget it forever. You must assist me, by holding it a blank, which recollection is no more to full up. I know the [Page] weakness of my sex; myself of that sex the weakest I will not run the risk of calling up ideas, which were once familiar, and may not now be the less dangerous, nor the less readily listened to, for the pain they have caused. My husband has now a right to every better thought; it were unjust to embitter those hours, which are but half the property of JULIA DE MONTAUBAN, with the remembrance of former ones, which belonged to sadness and JULIA DE ROUBIGN. We are on the eve of our departure for the family castle of Mons. de Montauban. My father, whose happiness, at present, is a flattering testimony, as well as a support to my piety, accompanies us thither, but is soon to return home, where our cousin, La Pelliere, whom you may remember having seen with my mother in Paris is to keep house for him. This separation I cannot help looking to as a calamity; yet, I believe, his reasons for it are just. What a change in a woman's situation does this momentous connexion make?I will think no more of it.Farewell. Yet a few words, to own my folly at least, if I cannot amend it. I went to assort some little articles of dress for carrying home with me; [Page] while I was rummaging out a drawer to find one of them, a little picture of Savillon, drawn for him when a boy, by a painter who was accidentally in our neighbourhood, crossed me in the way. You cannot easily imagine how this circumstance disconcerted me.


I shut the drawer as if it had contained a viper; then opened it again; and again the countenance of Savillon, mild and thoughtful, (for even then it was thoughtful) met my view!Was it a consciousness of guilt that turned my eye involuntarily to the door of the appartment?Can there be any in accidentally thinking of Savillon!Yet I fear I looked too long, and too impassionedly on this minature. It was drawn with something sorrowful in the countenance, and methought it looked then more sorrowful than ever. The question comes strong upon me, how I should like that my husband had seen this.In truth, MARIA, I fear my keeping this picture is improper; yet at the time it was painted, there was one drawn for me by the same hand, and we exchanged resemblances without any idea of impropriety. Ye unfeeling decorums of the world!Yet it is dangerous; is it not, my best monitor to think thus?Yet, were I to return the picture would it not look like a suspicion of myself?I will keep it, till you convince me I should not. [Page] Montauban and virtue! I am your's. Suffer but one sigh to that weakness which I have not yet been able to overcome. My heart, I trust, is innocentblame it not for being unhappy. LETTER XXIV. JULIA TO MARIA. MY father was with me this morning, in my chamber, for more than an hour. We sat, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking interrupted sentences, and tears were frequently all the intercourse we held. Lisette coming in, to acquaint us that Montauban was in the parlour, waiting us, at length put an end to our interview. "JULIA, (said my father) I imagined I had much to say to you; but the importance of my thoughts, on your behalf, stifles my expression of them. There are moments when I cannot help looking to that separation, which your marriage will make between us, as if it were the loss of my child; yet I have fortitude enough to resist the impression, and to reflect that she is going to be happy with the worthiest of men. My instruction for your conduct in that state you have just entered [Page] into, your own sentiments, I trust, would render unnecessary, were they in no other way supplied, but I discovered lately in your mother's bureau, a paper which still farther supersedes their necessity. It contains some advices, which experience and observation had enabled her to give, and her regard for you had prompted her to write down. 'Tis, however, only a fragment, which accident or diffidence of herself has prevented her completing; but it is worthy of your serious perusal, and you will read it with more warmth than if it came from a general instructor." He left the paper with me; I have read it with the care, with the affection it deserves; I send a copy of it now, as I would every good thing, for the participation of my friend. She cannot read it with the interest of a daughter; but she will find it no cold, nor common lecture. It speaks, if I am not too partial to the best of mothers, the language of prudence, but not of artifice; it would mend the heart by sentiment, not cover it with dissimulation. She, for whose use it was written, has need of such a monitor, and would listen to no other; if she has paid any debt to prudence, it was not from the obligation of wisdom, but the impulse of feeling. [Page] "For my Daughter JULIA. "Before this can reach you, the hand that writes it and the heart that dictates, shall be mouldering in the grave. I mean it to supply the place of some cautions, which I should think it my duty to deliver to you, should I live to see you a wife. The precepts it contains, you have often heard me inculcate but I know that general observations on a possible event, have much less force than those which apply to our immediate condition. In the fate of a woman, marriage is the most important crisis It fixes her in a state, of all others the most happy, or the most wretched; and though mere precept can perhaps do little in any case, yet there is a natural propensity to try its efficacy in all. She who writes this paper, has been long a wife, and a mother; the experience of one, and the anxiety of the other, prompt her instructions; and she has been too happy in both characters to have much doubt of their truth, or fear of their reception. "Sweetness of temper, affection to a husband, and attention to his interests, constitute the duties of a wife, and form the basis of matrimonial felicity. These are indeed the texts, from which every rule for attaining this felicity is drawn. The [Page] charms of beauty, and the brilliancy of wit, though they may captivate in the mistress, will not long delight in the wife They will shorten even their own transitory reign, if, as I have seen in many wives, they shine more for the attraction of every body else than of their husbands. Let the pleasing of that one person be a thought never absent from your conduct. If he loves you as you would wish he should, he would bleed at heart should he suppose it for a moment withdrawn If he does not, his pride will supply the place of love, and his resentment that of suffering. "Never consider a trifle what may tend to please him. The great articles of duty he will set down as his own; but the lesser attentions he will mark as favours; and trust me, for I have experienced it, there is no feeling more delightful to one'sself, than that of turning those little things to so precious a use. "If you marry a man of a certain sort, such as the romance of young minds generally paints for a husband, you will deride the supposition of any possible decrease in the ardour of your affections. But wedlock, even in its happiest lot, is not exempted from the common fate of all sublunary blessings; there is ever a delusion in hope [Page] which cannot abide with possession. The rapture of extravagant love will evaporate and waste; the conduct of the wife must substitute in its room other regards, as delicate, and more lasting. I say, the conduct of the wife; for marriage, be a husband what he may, reverses the prerogative of sex; his will expect to be pleased, and ours must be sedulous to please. "This privilege a good natured man may wave. He will feel it, however, due; and third persons will have penetration enough to see, and may have malice enough to remark, the want of it in his wife. He must be a husband unworthy of you, who could bear the degradation of suffering this in silence. The idea of power on either side, should be totally banished from the system It is not sufficient that the husband should never have occasion to regret the want of it; the wife must so behave, that he may never conscious of possessing it. "But my JULIA, if a mother's fondness deceives me not, stands not much in need of cautions like these. I cannot allow myself the idea of her wedding a man, on whom she would not wish to be dependent, or whose inclinations a temper like hers would desire to controul. She will be more in danger from that softness, that [Page] sensibility of soul, which will yield perhaps too much for the happiness of both. The office of a wife includes the exertion of a friend A good one must frequently strengthen and support that weakness, which a bad one would endeavour to overcome. There are situations, where it will not be enough to love, to cherish, to obey She must teach her husband to be at peace with himself, to be reconciled to the world, to resist misfortune, to conquer adversity. "Alas! my child, I am here an instructress but too well skilled! These tears, with which this paper is soiled, fell not in the presence of your father, though, now, they but trace the remembrance of what, then, it was my lot to feel. Think it not impossible to restrain your feelings, because they are strong. The enthusiasm of feeling will sometimes overcome distresses, which the cold heart of prudence had been unable to endure. "But misfortune is not always misery. I have known this truth; I am proud to believe, that I have sometimes taught it to Roubign. Thanks be to that power, whose decrees I reverence! He often tempered the anguish of our sufferings, till there was a sort of luxury in feeling them. Then is the triumph of wedded love!the tie that [Page] binds the happy may be dear; but that which links the unfortunate is tenderness unutterable. "There are afflictions less easy to be endured, which your mother has not experienced Those which a husband inflicts, and the best wives feel the most severely. These, like all our sharpest calamities, the fortitude that can resist, can only cure. Complainings debase her who suffers, and harden him who aggrieves. Let not a woman always look for their cause in the injustice of her lord They may proceed from many trifling errors in her own conduct, which virtue cannot blame, though wisdom must regret. If she makes this discovery, let them be amended without a thought, if possible, at any rate without an expression of merit in amending them. In this, and in every other instance, it must never be forgotten, that the only government allowed on our side, is that of gentleness and attraction; and that its power, like the fabled influence of imaginary beings, must be invisible to be complete. "Above all, let a wife beware of communicating to others any want of duty or tenderness, she may think she has perceived in her husband. This untwists, at once, those delicate cords, which preserve the unity of the marriageengagement. [Page] Its sacredness is broken forever, if third parties are made witnesses of its failings, or umpires of its disputes. It may seem almost profane in me to confess, that once, when, through the malice of an enemy, I was made, for a short time, to believe, that my Roubign had wronged me, I durst not, even in my prayers to Heaven petition for a restoration of his love; I prayed to be made a better wife When I would have said, a more beloved one, my utterance failed me for the word." LETTER XXV. JULIA TO MARIA. WE have got to the end of our journey; and I am now the mistress of this mansion. Our journey was too short and too slow; I wished for some mechanical relief from my feelings in the rapidity of a postchaise; our progress was too stately to be expeditious, and we reached not this place, though but six leagues distant, till the evening. Methinks I have suffered a good deal; but my heart is not callous yet; else wherefore was it wrung so, at leaving my father's peaceful retreat; [Page] I did not trust myself with looking back; but I was too well acquainted with the objects, not to recollect every tree from the side window as we passed. A little ragged boy, who keeps some sheep of my father's opened the gate for us at the end of the furthermost inclosure; he pulled off his hat, which he had adorned with some gaycoloured ribands in honour of the occasion; Montauban threw money into it, and the boy followed us, for some time, with a number of blessings. When he turned back, methought I envied him his return. The full picture of the place we had left, rose before me; it needed all my resolution, and all my fears of offending, to prevent my weeping outright. At our dinner on the road, I was very busy, and affected to be very much pleased; La Peiliere was a lucky companion for me; you know how full she is of observation on trifles. When we approached the house, she spoke of every thing, and praised every thing; I had nothing to do but to assent. We entered between two rows of limetrees, at the end of which is the gate of the house, wide and rudely magnificent; its large leaves were opened to receive us by an old but freshlooking servant, who seemed too honest to be polite, and did not shew me quite so much curtesy as some [Page] mistresses would have expected. All these circumstances however were in a stile, which my friend has heard me commend; yet was I weak enough, not perfectly to relish them when they happened to myself. There was a presaging gloom about this mansion which filled my approach with terror; and when Montauban's old domestic opened the coachdoor, I looked upon him as a criminal might do on the messenger of death, My dreams ever since have been full of horror; and while I write these lines, the creaking of the pendulum of the great clock in the hall, sounds like the knell of your devoted JULIA. I expect you to rally me on my ideal terrors. You may remember, when we used to steal a midnight hour's conversation together, you would laugh at my foreboding of a short period to my life, and often jeeringly tell me, I was born to be a greatgrandmother in my time. I know the foolishness of this impression, though I have not yet been able to conquer it. But to me it is not the source of disquiet; I never feel more possessed of myself than at those moments when I indulge it the most. Why should "I wish for long life? Why should so many wish for it? Did we sit down to number the calamities of this world; did we think how many wretches there are of disease, of poverty, of oppression, of vice, (alas! I fear [Page] there are some even of virtue) we should change one idea of evil, and learn to look on death as a friend. This might a philosopher accomplish; but a christian, MARIA, can do more Religion has taught me to look beyond dissolution. Religion has removed the darkness that covered the sepulchres of our fathers, and filled that gloomy void which was only the retreat of hopeless affliction, with prospects, in contemplation of which, even the felicity of the world dwindles into nothing! END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. JULIA DE ROUBIGN. A SENTIMENTAL NOVEL. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. JULIA DE ROUBIGN. A SENTIMENTAL NOVEL. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS.  [Page] JULIA DE ROUBIGN, A SENTIMENTAL NOVEL. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. VOL. II. [Page] ADVERTISEMENT. MY readers will easily perceive something particular, in the place where the following letters of Savillon are found, as they are manifestly of a date considerably prior to many of the preceding. They came to my hands, afforted in the manner I have now published them, probably from a view in my young friend, who had the charge of their arrangement, of keeping the correspondence of JULIA, which communicated the great train of her feelings on the subjects contained in them, as much undivided as possible. While I conjectured this reason for their present order, I was aware of some advantage, which these papers, as relating a story, might derive from an alteration in that particular; but, after balancing those different considerations, without coming to any decision, my indolence, [Page] perhaps (a stronger motive with most men than they are disposed to allow) at length prevailed, and I resolved to give them to the public in the order they were transmitted to me from France. Many of the particulars they recount are anticipated by a perusal of the foregoing letters; but it is not so much on story, as sentiment, that their interest with the reader must depend. [Page] JULIA DE ROUBIGN. A SENTIMENTAL NOVEL. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. LETTER XXVI. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. AFTER a very unfavourable passage, we are at last arrived at our destined port. A ship is lying alongside of us, ready to fail for France, and every one on board, who can write, is now writing to some relation or friend the hardships of his voyage, and the period of his arrival. How few has Savillon to greet with tidings! to Roubign I have already written; to Beauvaris I am now writing; and when I have excepted these, there is not in France a single man, to whom I am entitled to write. Yet I mean not to class them together To Roubign [Page] I owe the tribute of esteem, the debt of gratitude; for you I feel something tenderer than either. Roubign has been the guide, the father of my youth, and him I reverence as a parent You have been the friend, the brother, of my soul, and with yours it mingles as with a part of itself. You remember the circumstances of our parting. You would not bid me adieu till the ship was getting under way I believe you judged aright, if you meant to spare us both The bustle of the scene, the rattling of the sails, the noise of the sailors, had a mechanical effect on the mind, and stifled those tender feelings, which we indulge in solitude and silence. When I went to bed, I had time to indulge them. I found it vain to attempt sleeping, and scarcely wished to succeed in attempting it. About midnight I arose, and went upon deck. The wind had been fair all day, and we were then, I suppose, more than thirty leagues from the shore. I looked on the arch of Heaven, where the moon pursued her course unclouded; and my ear caught no sound, except the stilly noise of the sea around me. I thought of my distance from France as of some illusive dream, and could not believe, without an effort, that it was not four and twenty hours since we parted. I recollected a thousand things which I [Page] should have said to you, and spoke them, involuntarily in the ear of night. There was, my friend, there was one thing, which I meant to have told you at parting. Had you staid a few moments longer in the room after the seamen called us, I should have spoken it then; but you shunned being alone with me, and I could not command even words enough to tell you, that I wished to speak to you in private Hear it now, and pity your Savillon. JULIA DE ROUBIGN!Did you feel that name as I do!Even traced with my own pen, what throbbing remembrances has it raised!You are acquainted with my obligations to her father You have heard me sometimes talk of her; but you know not, for I tremble to tell you, the power she has acquired over the heart of your friend. The fate of my father, as well as mutual inclination, made Roubign his friend; for this last is of a temper formed rather to delight in the pride of assisting unfortunate worth, than in the joy of knowing it in a better situation. After the death of my father, I became the ward of his friend's generosity A state I should have brooked ill, had not JULIA been his daughter. [Page] From those early days, when first I knew her, I remember her friendship as making part of my existence Without her, pleasure was vapid, and sorrow, in her society, was changed into enjoyment. At that time of life, the mind has little reserve. We meant but friendship, and called it so without alarm. The love, to which at length I discovered my heart to be subject, had conquered without tumult, and become despotic under the semblance of freedom. The misfortunes of her family first shewed me how I loved.When her father told them the ruined state of his fortune, when he prepared them for leaving the now alienated seat of his ancestors, I was a spectator of the scene. When I saw the old man, with indignant pride, stifling the anguish of his heart, and pointing to the chaise that was to carry them from Belville, his wife, with one hand clasping her husband's, the other laid on her bosom, turning up to Heaven a look of resignation; his daughter, striving to check her tears, kneeling before him, and vowing her duty to his misfortunes; then did I first curse my poverty, which prevented me from throwing myself at her feet, and bidding her parents be happy with their JULIA!The luxury of the idea still rushes on my mind!to heal the fortunes of my father's friend; to justify the ways [Page] of Heaven to his saintlike wife; to wipe the tears from the eyes of his angel daughter!Beauvaris, our Philosophy is false Power and wealth are the choicest gifts of Heaven To possess them indeed, is nothing, but thus to use them, is rapture! I had them not thus to use; but what I could, I did. I attended his family to that antient mansion, which was now the sole property of the once opulent Roubign. With unwearied attention I soothed his sorrows, and humbled myself before his misfortunes, as much as I had formerly resisted dependence on his prosperity. He felt the assiduity of my friendship, and I saw him grateful for its exertion; yet would the idea of being obliged, often rankle in his mind; and I have seen him frequently look at me with an appearance of anger, when he thought I was conscious of obliging him. Far different was the gentle nature of his daughter. She thanked me with unfeigned gratitude for my services to her father, and seemed solicitous to compensate with her smiles, for that wan of acknowledgment she observed in him. Had my heart been free before, it was impossible to preserve its freedom now. A spectator of [Page] all those excellencies which, though she ever possessed, her present situation alone could give full room to exert; all that sublimity of mind, which bore adversity unmoved; all that gentleness, which contrived to lighten it to her father, and smooth the rankling of his haughty soul! I applauded the election I had made, and looked on my love as a virtue. Yet there were moments of anxiety, in which I feared the consequences of indulging this attachment. My own situation, the situation of JULIA, the pride of her father, the pride which it was proper for herself to feel All these were present to my view, and shewed me how little I could build on hope; yet it cheated me, I know not how, and I dreamed from day to day, of blessings, which every day's reflection told me were not to be looked for. There was, indeed something in the scene around us, formed to create those romantic illusions. The retreat of Roubign is a venerable pile, the remains of ancient Gothic magnificence, and the grounds adjoining to it are in that stile of melancholy grandeur, which marks the dwellings of our forefathers. One part of that small estate, which is still the appendage of this oncerespectable mansion, is a wild and rocky dell, where tasteless [Page] wealth has never warred on nature, nor even elegance refined or embellished her beauties. The walks are only worn by the tread of the shepherds, and the banks only smoothed by the feeding of their stocks. There, too dangerous society! have I passed whole days with JULIA There, more dangerous still! have I passed whole days in thinking of her. A circumstance, trifling in itself, added not a little to the fascination of the rest. The same good woman who nursed me was also the nurse of JULIA. She was too fond of her fosterdaughter, and too well treated by her, ever to leave the fortunes of her family. To this residence she attended them when they left Belville, and here too, as at that place, had a small house and garden allotted her. It was situated at the extreme verge of that dell I have described, and was often the end of those walks we took through it together. The good Lasune, for that is our nurse's name, considered us her children, and treated us, in those visits to her little dwelling, with that simplicity of affection, which has the most powerful effect on hearts of sensibility. Oh! Beauvaris! methinks I see the figure of Lasune, at this moment, pointing out to your friend, with rapture in her countenance, the beauties of [Page] her lovely daughter! She places our seats together; she produces her shining platters, with fruit and milk, for our repast; she presses the smiling JULIA, and will not be denied by Savillon!Am I then a thousand leagues distant? Does JULIA remember Savillon?Should I hope that she does? My friend, I will confess my weakness; perhaps, it is worse than weakness; I have wishedI have hoped, that I am not indifferent to her. Often have I been on the point of unloading my throbbing heart, of telling her how passionately I loved, of asking her forgiveness for my presumption. I have thought, perhaps, it was vanity, that at some seasons she might have answered and blessed me; but I saw the consequences which would follow to both, and had fortitude enough to resist the impulse.A time may come, when better fortune shall entitle me to speak; when the pride of Roubign may not blush to look on Savillon as his son. But this is the language of visionary hope! In the mean time, I am torn from her, from France, from every connection my heart had formed; cast, like a ship wrecked thing, on the other side of the Atlantic, amidst a desert, of all others, the most dreadful, the desert of society, with which no social tie unites me! Where now are Roubign's [Page] little copses, where his winding walks, his nameless rivulets? Where the ivy'd gate of his venerable dwelling, the Gothic windows of his echoing hall?That morning, on which I set out for Paris, is still fresh on my memory. I could not bear the formality of parting, and stole from his house by daybreak. As I passed that hall, the door was open; I entered to take one last look, and bid it adieu! I had sat in it with JULIA the night before; the chairs we had occupied were still in their places; you know not, my friend, what I felt at the sight There was something in the silent attitude of those very chairs, that wrung my heart beyond the power of language; and I believe, the servant had told me that my horses waited, five or six times over, before I could listen to what he said. A gentleman has sent to ask, if my name is Savillon If it is, he desires his compliments, and will do himself the pleasure of waiting of me. I started to hear my name thus asked for in Martinique. [Page] This gentleman is a seacaptain, a particular acquaintance of my uncle He is more, Beauvaris he is an acquaintance of Roubign, has been often at Belville, has sometimes seen my JULIA,We are intimate already, and he has offered to conduct me to my uncle's house His horses, he says, are in waiting. Adieu, my dearest friend! think of me often; write to me often; though you should seldom have an opportunity of conveying letters, yet write as if you had; make a journal of intelligence, and let it come when it may. Tell me every thing, though I should ask nothing. Your letters must give me back my country, and nothing is a trifle that belongs to her. [Page] LETTER XXVII. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. IT is now a week since I reached my uncle's, during all which time I have been so much occupied in answering questions to the curiosity of others, or asking questions for the satisfaction of my own, that I have scarce had a moment left for any other employment. I have now seized the opportunity of the rest of the family being still abed, to write to you on account of this uncle, of him under whose protection I am to rise into life, under whose guidance I am to thrid the mazes of the world. I fear I am unfit for the task I must unlearn feelings in which I have long been accustomed to delight I must accommodate sentiment to conveniency, pride to interest, and sometimes even virtue itself to fashion. But is all this absolutely necessary?I hate to believe it. I have been frequently told so indeed, but my authorities are drawn either from men who have never entered the scene at all, or entered [Page] it, resolved to be overcome, without the trouble of resistance. To think too meanly of mankind is dangerous to our reverence of virtue. It is supposed, that in these wealthy islands, profit is the only medium of opinion, and that morality has nothing to do in the system; but I cannot easily imagine that, in any latitude, the bosom is shut to those pleasures which result from the exercise of goodness, or that honesty should be always so unsuccessful as to have the sneer of the million against it. Men will not be depraved beyond the persuasion of some motive, and selfinterest will often be the parent of social obligation. My uncle is better fitted for judging of this question; he is cool enough to judge of it from experience, without being misled by feeling.He believes there are many more honest dealings than honest men, but that there are more honest men than knaves every where; that common sense will keep them so, even exclusive of principle; but that all may be vanquished by adequate temptation. With a competent share of plain useful parts, and a certain steady application of mind, he entered into commerce at an early period of life. [Page] Not apt to be seduced by the glare of great apparent advantage, nor easily intimidated from his purposes by accidental disappointment, he has held on, with some vicissitude of fortune, but with uniform equality of temper, till, in virtue of his abilities, his diligence and his observation, he has acquired very considerable wealth. He still, however, continues the labour of the race, though he has already reached the goal; not because he is covetous of greater riches, but because the industry, by which greater riches are acquired, is grown necessary to his enjoyment of life. "I have been long, said he yesterday, a very happy man; having has a little less time, and a little more money, than I know what to make of." The opinion of the world he trusts but little, in his judgment of others; of men's actions he speaks with caution, either in praise or blame, and is commonly most sceptical, when those around him are most convinced For it is a maxim with him, in questions of character, to doubt a strong evidence, from the very circumstances of its strength. With regard to himself, however, he accepts of the common opinion, as a sort of coin, which passes current, though it is not always real, and often seems to yield up the conviction of his own [Page] mind in compliance to the general voice. Ever averse to splendid project in action or splendid conjecture in argument, he contents himself with walking in the beaten track of things, and does not even venture to leave it, though he may, now and then, observe it making small deviations from reason and justice. He has sometimes, since our acquaintance began, tapped me on the shoulder, in the midst of some sentiment I was uttering, and told me with a smile, that these were fine words, and did very well in the mouth of a young man. Yet he seems not displeased with my feeling what himself does not feel; and looks on me with the more favourable eye, that I have something about me for experience and observation to prune. His plan of domestic economy is regular, but nobody is disturbed by its regularity; for he is perfectly free from that rigid attention to method, which one frequently sees in the houses of old batchelors. He has sense, or sang froid enough, not to be troubled with little disarrangements, and bears, with wonderful complacency, and consequently with great ease to guests, those accidents which disturb the peace of other entertainments. Since my arrival we have had every day something like a feast, probably from a sort of compliment which his friends meant to pay to [Page] him and to me; but at his table, in its most elevated style, the government is nearly republican; he assumes very little, either of the trouble, or the dignity of a landlord, satisfied with giving a general assurance of welcome and goodhumour in his aspect. At one of those dinners was a neighbour and intimate acquaintance of my uncle, a Mr. Dorville, with his wife and daughter. The young lady was seated next me, and my uncle seemed to incline that I should be particularly pleased with her. He addressed such discourse to her as might draw her forth to the greatest advantage; and, as he had heard me profess myself as lover of music, he made her sing, after dinner, till, I believe, some of the company began to be tired of their entertainment. After they were gone, he asked my opinion of Mademoiselle Dorville, in that particular style by which a man gives you to understand, that his own is a very favourable one. To say truth, the lady's appearance is in her favour; but there is a jealous sort of feeling, which arises in my mind, when I hear the praises of any woman but one; and, from that cause perhaps, I answered my uncle rather coldly. I saw he thought so, from the reply he made; I offered some awkward apology; he smiled, and said, I [Page] was a philosopher. Alas! he knows not how little claim I have to philosophy in that way; if, indeed, we are so often to profane that word, by affixing to it the idea of insensibility. Today I begin business.


My uncle and I are to view his different plantations, and he is to shew me, in general, the province he means to allot me. I wish for an opportunity to be assiduous in his service Till I can do something on my part, his favours are debts upon me. It is only to a friend, like my Beauvaris, that one feels a pleasure in being obliged. [Page] LETTER XXVIII. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. A THOUSAND thanks for your last letter. When you know how much I enjoyed the unwieldy appearance of the packet, with my friend's hand on the back of it, you will not grudge the time it cost you. It is just such as I wished Your scenepainting is delightful. No man is more susceptible of local attachments than I; and, with the Atlantic between, there is not a stone in France, which I can remember with indifference. Yet I am happier here than I could venture to expect. Had I been left to my own choice, I should probably have sat down in solitude, to think of the past, and enjoy my reflections; but I have been forced to do better. There is an active duty, which rewards every man in the performance; and my uncle has so contrived matters, that I have had very little time unemployed. He has been liberal of instruction, and, I hope, has found me willing to be instructed. Our [...] is, indeed, is not very intricate; but in the simplest occupations, there are a thousand little [Page] circumstances, which experience alone can teach us. In certain departments, however, I have tried projects of my own Some of them have failed in the end, but all gave me pleasure in the pursuit. In one I have been successful beyond expectation; and in that one I was the most deeply interested, because it touched the cause of humanity. To a man not callous from habit, the treatment of the negroes, in the plantations here, is shocking. I felt it strongly, and could not forbear expressing my sentiments to my uncle. He allowed them to be natural, but pleaded necessity, in justification of those severities, which his overseers sometimes used towards his slaves. I ventured to doubt this proposition, and begged he would suffer me to try a different mode of government in one plantation, the produce of which he had already allotted to my management. He consented, though with the belief that I should succeed very ill in the experiment. I began by endeavouring to ingratiate myself with such of the slaves as could best speak the language of my country; but I found this was a manner they did not understand, and that, from a white, the appearance of indulgence carried the suspicion of treachery. Most of them, to whom [Page] suffered it to drop to its former posture. "Can this man have been a prince in Africa?" said I to myself.I reflected for a moment."Yet what should he now do, if he has?Just what I see him do. I have seen a deposedsovereign at Paris; but in Europe, kings are artificial beings, like their subjects.Silence is the only throne which adversity has left to princes." "I fear, (said I to him) you have been sometimes treated [...] by the overseen; but you shall be treated so no more I wish all my people to be happy." He looked on me now for the first time."Can you speak my language, or shall I call for some of your friends who can explain what you would say to me?"I speak no say to you," he replied in his broken French."And you will not be my friend?""No.""Even if I should deserve it.""You a white man."I felt the rebuke as I ought."But all white men are not overseers. What shall I do to make you think me a good man?Use men goodly."I mean to do so, and you among the first, Yambu.""Be good for Yambu's people; do your please with Yambu." Just then the bell rung as a summons for the negroes to go to work He made a few steps towards [Page] the door. "Would you now go to work (said I) if you were at liberty to avoid it?"You make go for whip, and no man love go.""I will go along with you, though I am not obliged; for I chuse to work sometimes, rather than be idle.""Chuse work, no work at all, said Yambu.'Twas the very principle on which my system was founded. I took him with me into the house when our task was over. "I wrought chusework (said I) Yambu, yet I did less than you?""Yambu do chusework then too?"You shall do so always, answered I From this moment you are mine no more!""You sell me other white men then? No, you are free, and may do whatever you please!Yambu's please no here, no this country?" he replied, waving his hand, and looking wistfully towards the sea."I can not give you back your country, Yambu; but I can make this one better for you. You can make it better for me too, and for your people!""Speak Yambu that (said he eagerly) and be good man!""You would not (said I) make your people work by the whip, as you see the overseers do?""Oh! no, no whip!"Yet they must work, else we shall have no sugars to buy them meat and clothing with,"(He put his hand to his brow, as if I had started [Page] a difficulty he was unable to overcome.)"Then you shall have the command of them, and they shall work chusework for Yambu,"He looked askance, as if he doubted the truth of what I said; I called the negroe with whom I had the first conversation about him, and pointing to Yambu, "Your master (said I) is now free, and may leave you when he pleases!"Yambu no leave you," said he to the negroe warmly."But he may accompany Yambu if he chuses."Yambu shook his head."Master, (said his former subject) where we go? leave good white man, and go to bad; for much bad white men in this country."Then if you think it better, you shall both stay; Yambu shall be my friend and help me to raise sugars for the good of us all You shall have no overseer but Yambu, and shall work no more than he bids you?The negroe fell at my feet and kissed them Yambu stood silent and I saw a tear on his cheek."This man has been a prince in Africa!" said I to myself. I did not mean to deceive them. Next morning I called those negroes who had formerly been in his service together, and told them that, while they continued in the plantation, Yambu was to superintend their work; that, if they chose to leave him and me, they were at liberty to go; [Page] and that, if found idle or unworthy, they should not be allowed to stay. He has, accordingly, ever since had the command of his former subjects, and superintended their work in a particular quarter of the plantation; and, having been declared free, according to the mode prescribed by the laws of the island, has a certain portion of ground allotted him, the produce of which is his property. I have had the satisfaction of observing those men under the feeling of good treatment, and the idea of liberty, do more than almost double their number subject to the whip of an overseer. I am under no apprehension of desertion or mutiny; they work with the willingness of freedom, yet are mine with more than the obligation of slavery. I have been often tempted to doubt whether there is not an error in the whole plan to negro servitude, and whether whites, or creoles born in the WestIndies, or perhaps cattle, after the manner of European husbandry, would not do the business better and cheaper than the slaves do. The money which the latter cost at first, the sickness (often owing to despondency of mind) to which they are liable after their arrival, and the proportion that die in consequence of it, make the machine, if it may be so called, of a plantation extremely expensive in its operations. In [Page] the list of slaves belonging to a wealthy planter, it would astonish you to see the number unfit for service, pining under disease, a burden on their master.I am talking only as a merchant But as a mangood Heavens! when I think of the many thousands of my fellow creatures groaning under servitude and misery!Great God! hast thou peopled those regions of thy world for the purpose of casting out their inhabitants to chains and torture?No; thou gavest them a land teeming with good things, and lighted'st up thy sun to bring forth spontaneous plenty; but the refinements of man, ever at war with thy works, have changed this scene of profusion and luxuriance, into a theatre of repine, of slavery and of murder. Forgive the warmth of this apostrophe Here it would not be understood; even my uncle, whose heart is far from a hard one, would smile at my romance, and tell me that things must be so. Habit, the tyrant of nature and of reason, is deaf to the voice of either; here she stifles humanity, and debases the speciesfor the master of slaves has seldom the soul of a man. This is not difficult to be accounted for; from his infancy he is made callous to those feelings, which soften at once and ennoble our nature. Children must of necessity first exert those towards [Page] domestics, because the society of domestics is the first they enjoy; here they are taught to command for the sake of commanding, to beat and torture for pure amusement;their reason and good nature improve as may be expected. Among the legends of a European nursery, are stories of captives delivered, of slaves released who had pined for years in the durance of unmerciful enemies. Could we suppose its infant audience transported to the seashore where a ship laden with slaves is just landing; the question would be universal, "Who shall set these poor people free?"The young WestIndian asks his father to buy as boy for him, that he may have something to vent his spite on when he is peevish. Methinks too, these people lose a sort of connexion which is of more importance in life than most of the relationships we enjoy. The antient, the tried domestic of a family, is one of its most useful members, one of its most assured supports. My friend, the illfated Roubign, has not one relation who has stood by him in the shipwreck of his fortunes; but the storm could not sever from their master his faithful Le Blanc, or the venerable Lasune. [Page] Oh Beauvaris! I sometimes sit down alone, and transporting myself into the little circle at Roubign's, grow sick of the world, and hate the part which I am obliged to perform in it. LETTER XXIX. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. SINCE the date of my last is a longer period than you allow between my letters; but my time has been more than commonly occupied of late. Among other employments was that of acquiring a friend. Be not however, jealous My heart cannot own a second in the same degree with Beauvaris; yet is this one above the level of ordinary men. He enjoys also that privilege [Page] which misfortune bestows on the virtuous. Among those, with whom my uncle's extensive dealings have connected him, he had mentioned with particular commendation, one Herbert, an Englishman, a merchant in one of the British WestIndia Islands. Chance brought him lately to Martinique, and I was solicitous to shew every possible civility to one, who, to the claim of a stranger, added the character of a worthy and amiable man. Prepossessed as I was in his favour, my expectations fell short of the reality. I discovered in him a delicacy and fineness of sentiment, which something beyond the education of a trader must have inspired; and I looked on him perhaps with the greater reverence, from the circumstance of having found him in a station where I did not expect he would be found. On a closer investigation, I preceived tincture of melancholy enthusiasm, in his mind, which, I was persuaded, was not altogether owing to the national character, but must have arisen from some particular cause. This increased my regard for him; and I could not help expressing it in the very style which was suited to its object, a quiet and still attention, sympathetic but not intrusive. He seemed to take notice of my behaviour, and looked as if he had found a person, who guessed him to be unhappy, and to whom he could talk [Page] of his unhappiness. I encouraged the idea with that diffidence, which I believe, is of all manners the most intimate with a mind of the sort I have described; and, soon after, he took an opportunity of telling me the story of his misfortunes. It was simple, but not the less pathetic. Inheriting a considerable fortune from his father, he set out in trade with every advantage. Soon after he was settled in business, he married a beautiful and excellent woman, for whom, from his infancy, he had conceived the tenderest attachment; and, about a year after their marriage, she blessed him with a son. But love and fortune did not long continue to smile upon him. Losses in trade, to which, though benevolence like his be more exposed, the most prudent and unfeeling are liable, reduced him, from his former affluence, to very embarrassed circumstances; and his distress was aggravated from the consideration, that he did not suffer alone, but communicated misfortune to a woman he passionately loved. Some very considerable debts remained due to him in the WestIndies, and he found it absolutely necessary, for their recovery, to repair thither himself, however terrible might be a separation from his wife, now in a situation of all others the most susceptible. They parted, and she was, soon after, [Page] delivered of a girl, whose promising appearance, as well as that of her brother, was some consolation for the absence of their father. His absence, though cruel, was necessary and he found his affairs in such a situation, that it promised not to be long. Day after day, however, elapsed, without their final settlement. The impatience both of his wife and him was increased, by the appearance of a conclusion, which so repeatedly disappointed them; till, at last he ventured to suggest, and she warmly approved, the expedient of coming out to a husband, whose circumstances prevented him from meeting her at home. She set sail with her children; but wife nor children ever reached the unfortunate Herbert! They perished in a storm soon after their departure from England. You can judge of the feelings of a man, who upbraided himself as their murderer. An interval of madness, he informed me, succeeded the account he received of their death. When his reason returned, it settled into a melancholy, which time has soothed, not extinguished, which indeed seems to have become the habitual tone of his mind. Yet is it gentle, though deep, in its effects; it disturbs not the circle of society around him, and few, except such as are formed to discover [Page] and to pity it, observe any thing peculiar in his behaviour. But he holds it not the less sacred to himself; and often retires from the company of those, whom he has entertained with the good humour of a wellbred man, to arrange the memorials of his much loved Emily, and call up the sad remembrance of his former joys. Having acquired a sort of privilege with his distress, from my acquaintance with its cause, I entered his room yesterday, when he had thus shut out the world, and found him with some letters on the table before him, on which he looked, with a tear, not of anguish, but of tenderness. I stopped short on perceiving him thus employed; he seemed unable to speak, but making a movement, as if he desired that I should come forward, put two of those letters successively into my hand. They were written by his wife The first, soon after their marriage. When some business had called him away from her into the country; and the second, addressed to him in the WestIndies, where, by that time, their illfortune had driven him. They pleased me so much, that I asked his leave to keep them for a day or two. He would not absolutely refuse me; but said they had never been out of his possession. I pressed him no further I could only read them over repeatedly, and some parts, that struck most forcibly on my [Page] memory, which you know is pretty tenacious, I can recollect almost verbatim. To another, it might seem odd to write such things as these; but my Beauvaris is never inattentive to the language of nature, or the voice of misfortune. In the first letter were the following expressions. You know not what feelings are here, at thus, for the first time, writing to my Henry under the name of a husband.A mixture of tenderness, of love, of esteem, and confidence. A something, never experienced before, is so warm in my heart, that sure it is, at this moment, more worthy of his love than ever.Shall not this last, my Harry, notwithstanding what I have heard from the scoffers among you men? I think it shall. It is not a tumultuous transport, that must suddenly disappear; but the soft, still pleasure of a happy mind, that can feel its happiness, and delight in its cause. I have had little company since you left me, and I wish not for much. The idea of my Henry is my best companion. I have figured out your journey, your company, and your business, and filled up my hours with the picture of what they are to you. [Page] John has just taken away my chicken You know he takes liberties."Dear heart, a leg and wing only.Betty says, Madam, the cheesecakes are excellent."I smiled at John's manner of pressing, and helped myself to a cheesecake. The poor fellow looked so happy"My master will soon return," said he, by way of accounting for my puny dinner. He set the wine upon the table I filled out half a glass, and began to think of you; but, in carrying it to my lips, I reproached myself that it was not a bumper That was remedied as it should be. John, I believe, guessed at the correction."God bless him!" I heard him say, muttering as he put up the things in his basket.I sent him down with the rest of the bottle, and they are now drinking your health in the Kitchen. My cousin Harriet has come in to see me, and is going on with the cap I was making up, while I write this by her. She is a better milliner than I, and would have altered it somewhat; but I stuck to my own way, for I heard you say you liked it in that shape."It is not half so fashionable, indeed, my dear," said Harriot; but she does not know [Page] the luxury of making up a cap to please the husband one loves.This is all very foolish Is it not? But I love to tell you those trifles It is like having you here. If you can, write me just such a letter about you. Of the other letter, I recollect some passages, such as these. Captain Lewson has just now been with me, but has brought no letter; and gives for reason, your having written by a ship that left the island but a few days before him, meaning the Triton, by which I got your last; but I beg to hear from you by every opportunity, especially by so friendly a hand as Lewson; it would endear a man, to whom I have reason to be grateful, much more to me, that he brought a few lines from you. Think, my dearest Harry, that hearing from you is all that your Emily has now to expect, at least for a long, long time. Perhaps, (as you sometimes told me, in former days, when, alas! we only talked of misfortunes) we always think our present calamity [Page] the bitterest; yet, methinks, our separation is the only evil, for which I could not have found a comfort. In truth, we were not unhappy Health and strength were left us We could have done much for one another, and for our dear little ones. I fear, my love, you thought of me less nobly, than I hope I deserved I was not to be shocked by any retrenchment from our former way of living I could have borne even the hardships of poverty, had it left me my Harry. Your sweetmeats arrived very safe under the care of Captain Lewson The children have profited by them, particularly Billy, who has still some remains of the hoopingcough. He asked me, if they did not come from papa; and when, said he, will papa come himself? "papa," cried my little Emmy, who has just learned to lisp the word. "She never saw papa, (replied her brother) did she mamma?"I could not stand this prattle; my boy wept with me for company's sake! [Page] Emmy, they tell me, will be a beauty. She has, to say truth, lovely dark blue eyes and a charming complexion. I think there is something of melancholy in her look; but this may be only my fancy. Billy is quite different, a bold spirited child; yet he is remarkably attentive to every thing I endeavour to teach him, and can read a little already, with no other tutor than myself. I chose this task, to amuse my lonely hours; for I make it a point of duty, to keep up my spirits as well as I can. Sometimes, indeed, I droop in spite of me, especially when you seem to waver about the time of your return. Think, my love, what risks your health runs for the sake of those riches, which are of no use without it; and, after all, it is chiefly in opinion, that their power of bestowing happiness consists. I am sure, the little parlour, in which I now write, is more snug and comfortable, than the large room we used to receive company in formerly; and the plain meal, to which I sit down with my children, has more relish than the formal dinners we were obliged to invite them to. Return then, my dearest Harry, from those fatigues and dangers, to which, by your own account, you are obliged to be exposed. Return to your Emily's love, [Page] and the smiles of those little cherubs that wait your arrival. Such was the wife whom Herbert lost; you will not wonder at his grief; yet sometimes, when the whole scene is before me, I know not how, I almost envy him his tears. It is something to endeavour to comfort him. 'Tis perhaps a selfish movement in our nature, to conceive an attachment to such a character; one that throws itself on our pity by feeling its distresses, is ever more beloved than that which rises above them.I know, however, without farther enquiry, that I feel myself pleased with being the friend of Herbert; would we were in France, that I might make him the friend of Beauvaris! Your last mentions nothing of Roubign, or his family. I know he dislikes writing, and therefore am not surprised at his silence to myself. You say, in a former letter, you find it difficult to hear of them; there is a young lady in Paris, for whom the lovely JULIA has long entertained a very uncommon friendship; her name is Roncilles, daughter of the president Roncilles.Yet, on second thoughts, I would not have [Page] you visit her, on purpose to make inquiry as from me; but you may fall on some method of getting intelligence of them in this line. Do not let slip the opportunity of this ship's return to write me fully; she is consigned to a correspondent of ours, and particular care will be taken of my letters. I think, if that had been the case with the last that arrived here, I should have found one from you on board of her. Think of me frequently, and write me as often as our situation will allow. LETTER XXX. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. I BEGIN to suspect that the sensibility, of which your minds are proud, from which they look down with contempt on the unfeeling multitude of ordinary men, is less a blessing than an inconvenience.Why cannot I be as happy as my uncle, as Dorville, as all the other good people around me?I eat, and drink, and sing, nay I can be merry, like them; but they close the account, and set down this mirth for happiness; I retire to the family of my own thoughts, and find them in weeds of sorrow. [Page] Herbert left this place yesterday! the only man besides thee, whom my soul can acknowledge as a friend. And him perhaps, I shall see no more And thee! my heart droops at this moment, and I could weep without knowing why.Tell me, as soon as possible, that you are well and happy; there is, methinks, a languor in your last letteror is it but the livery of my own imagination, which the objects around me are constrained to wear? Herbert was a sort of proxy for my Beauvaris; he spoke from the feelings of a heart like his. To him I could unbosom mine, and be understood; for the speaking of a common language, is but one requisite towards the dearest intercourse of society. His sorrows gave him a sacredness in my regard, that made every endeavour to serve or oblige him, like the performance of a religious duty; there was a quiet satisfaction in it, which calmed the rufflings of a sometimes troubled spirit, and restored me to peace with myself. He is sailed for England, whither some business material to a friend of his much loved Emily, obliges him to return. He yields to this, I perceive, as a duty he thinks himself bound to discharge, though the sight of his native country, spoiled as it is of those blessings which it once [Page] possessed for him, must be no easy trial of his fortitude. He talks of leaving it as soon as this affair will allow him, not to return to the WestIndies (for of his business there he is now independent) but to travel through some parts of Europe, which the employments of his younger years prevented him from visiting at an early period of life. If he goes to Paris he has promised me to call on you.Could I be with you!What a thought is there!but I shall not be forgotten at the interview. I have just received yours of the third of last month. I must still complain of its shortness, though I dare not quarrel with it as it assures me of your welfare. But get rid, I pray you, of that very bad practice, of supposing things unimportant at Martinique, because you think them so at Paris. Give me your intelligence, and allow me to be the judge of its consequence. You are partial to your friend, when you write in such high terms, of his treatment of Yambu. We think but seldom of those things which habit has made common, otherwise we should correct many of them; there needed only to give one's feelings room on this theme, and [Page] they could prompt no other conduct than mine. Your approbation, however, is not lost upon me; the best of our resolutions are bettered, by a consciousness of the suffrage of good men in their favour; and the reward is still higher, when that suffrage is from those we love. My uncle has sent for me, to help him to entertain some company who are just arrived here. He knows not what a train of thinking he calls me fromI have a little remembrancer, Beauvaris, a picture which has hung at my bosom for some years past, that speaks such things! The servant again!Mademoiselle Dorville is below, and I must come immediately.Well thenIt will be difficult for me to be civil to heryet the girl deserves politeness.But that picture! [Page] LETTER XXXI. SAVILLON TO BEAUVARIS. YOU say the letter, to which your last was an answer, was written in low spirits; I confess I am not always in high ones; not even now, though I am just returned from a little feast, where there was much mirth, and excellent wine. It was a dinner given by Dorville, on occasion of his daughter's birthday, to which my uncle and I, among other of his friends, had been long invited. The old gentleman displayed all his wealth, and all his wit, in entertaining us; some of us thanked him for neither, though every one's complaisance obliged them to eat of his dainties, and laugh at his jests. It is after such a scene, that one is often in a state the most stupid of any. The assumption of a character, in itself humiliating, distresses and wastes us, while the loss of so much time, like the bad fortune of a gamester, is doubly felt, when we reflect that fools have won from us. Yet it must be so in life, and I wish to overcome the spleen of repining at it. [Page] I was again set next Mademoiselle Dorville, and had the honour of accompanying some of the songs she sung to us. A vain fellow, in my circumstances, might imagine that girl liked him. I believe there is nothing so serious in her mind, and I should be sorry there were. The theft of a woman's affections is not so atrocious as that of her honour; but I have often seen it more terrible than that of her life; at least, if living wretchedness be worse than death Yet is it reckoned a very venial breach of confidence, to endeavour to become more than agreeable, where a man feels it impossible to repay what he may receive. Her father I am apt to believe, has something of what is commonly called a plot upon me; but as to him my conscience is easy, because, the coffers of my uncle being his quarry, it matters not much if he is disappointed. Were it not from a point of delicacy, not to run the smallest risk of being thought particular, I could, sometimes, be very well entertained with the society of Mademoiselle Dorville. There is a sprightliness about her, which amuses, though it is not winning, and I ever found it so easy to talk nonsense to any other woman. I fancy this is always the case, where there is no chance of [Page] the heart being interested It is perfectly so in the present instance with me.Oh! Beauvaris! I have laid out more soul in sitting five minutes with JULIA DE ROUBIGN in silence, than I should in a year's conversation with this little Dorville. The Conversation of women has perhaps a charm from its weakness; but this must be, like all their other weaknesses that please us, what claims an interest in our affections, without offending our reason. I know not if there is really a sex in the soul Custom and education have established one, in our idea; but we wish to feel the inferiority of the other sex, as one that does not debase but endear it. To their knowledge, in many things, we have set limits, because it seems to encroach on the softness of their feelings, which we suppose of that retiring kind, that shuns the keenness of argument or enquiry. Knowledge or learning has often this effect among men It is even sometimes fatal to taste, if by taste is meant the effect which beauties have on ourselves, rather than the power of criticising on that which they ought to have on others. [Page] There is a little world of sentiment made for women to move in, where they certainly excel our sex, and where our sex, perhaps, ought to be excelled by them. This is irresistibly engaging, where it is natural; but of all affectations, that of sentiment is the most disgusting. It is, I believe, more common in France than any where else; and I am not sure, if it does not proceed from our women possessing the reality less. The daughter of Mons. Dorville, when she would be great, is always sentimental. I was forced to tell her today, that I hated sentiments, and that they spoiled the complexion. She looked in the glass, and began to ask some questions about the Italian comedy. My uncle, who had staid some time behind me with Dorville, came in. He was very copious on the subject of Mademoiselle. I was perfectly of his opinion in every thing, and praised her in echo to what he said, but he had discernment enough to see an indifference in this, which I was sorry to find he did not like. I know not how far he meant to go, if we had been long together; but he found himself somewhat indisposed, and was obliged to go to bed. [Page] I sat down alone, and thought of JULIA DE ROUBIGN. My uncle is, this morning, really ill. I owe him too much, not to be distressed at this. He is uneasy about his own situation, though, I believe, without reason; but men, who like him, have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are apt to be apprehensive. I have sent for a physician without letting him know; for it was another effect of his good constitution, to hold the faculty in contempt. At present, I am sure, he will thank me, in his heart, for my precaution. The doctor has been with him, and talks doubtfully; that, perhaps, is unavoidable in a science, from its nature, so uncertain; for this man has really too much knowledge to wish to seem wiser. I find I must conclude this letter, as the ship, by which I am to send it, is within a quarter of an hour of sailing. Would it had been a few days later! a few days might do much in a fate like mine.I cannot express that sort of doubt and fear which the look of futurity, at this moment, gives me. [Page] Do not, for Heaven's sake, do not fail to write me about the situation of Roubign and his family.