CHARLES AND CHARLOTTE.
VOL. I.
CHARLES AND CHARLOTTE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
Heaven first taught Letters for some Wretches aid:
POPE'S ELOISA.
LONDON: Printed for WILLIAM LANE, Leadenhall-Street. MDCCLXXVII.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Countess of DERBY.
MADAM.
THE veneration I have for your Ladyship, flows, from contemplating the preserved purity of your
conjugal
character, encircled by a court, whose general infidelity is sanctified by the licentious taste of the times.
You obstinately persist in the Gothic endearments of Domestic Constancy, though adorned with all those personal graces which provoke the impertinence of the most seducing solicitations: and you have fortitude enough to prefer
family felicity
to the
etiquette
of an elopement, or the
eclat
of a divorce.
After such an acknowledgment, Madam, it sounds inconsistent to shield under your protection, a series of misfortunes, which arise principally from
family differences.
This apparent objection to your Ladyship's patronage, is, however, easily removed. To
whom
can an unfortunate pair so properly apply for sympathy, as to the virtuous and sympathizing? CHARLES and CHARLOTTE are as singularly as pathetically circumstanced— Their distress is directed closely to the feeling heart — they will meet many a scornful sarcasm from the pride of
pretended
virtue— but from
real
innocence— from the COUNTESS of DERBY, they invite the recompence of—a Tear!—
I am Your LADYSHIP's most obliged, and obedient servant, THE AUTHOR.
CHARLES AND CHARLOTTE.
LETTER I. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
London.
I LEFT your house this morning, pre-determined never to enter it again; the shelter I have flown to promises me the utmost security: do not therefore seek after me; since I am obliged, in the sorrow of my soul, to tell you, that I should be compelled to refuse even the supplications of my beloved Charles, should his vigilance detect my retreat. May you be for ever happy, and have the philosophy and prudence soon to forget the unfortunate
CHARLOTTE.
P.S.
I trust this to the penny post, to prevent its being traced. Farewell.
LETTER II. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
GOD of heaven! Pre-determined never to enter my house again —And did the hitherto kind, gentle, affectionate Charlotte, form such a resolution; and has she had the heart to put it in practice—? Inhuman girl! What am I to think of this? I will instantly fly to all your acquaintance, and never rest till I again have the fugitive Charlotte in the arms of the faithful
CHARLES.
LETTER III.
From the same to the same.
I BEGAN my pursuit at five minutes past eleven in the morning, and I continued it till within a quarter of twelve at night; the cloth and dinner all that time remaining untouched upon the table; for I sent your sister one way, while I went another: but the labour of both hath terminated in disappointment.
I now catch up the pen involuntarily to write to you, without knowing whither to send my letter: and though convinced of this, I continue to write on. My heart is full, and I must discharge some part of its load upon paper: surely your residence will not long be a secret, and then I will send it to you.
Soft a little—'Tis the dead of the night, and the least alarm is heard distinctly. In the moment of expectation the soul sits in the ear, and listens to the approaches of her object—The sound of a coach wheel rolls remotely. May it bring onward the treasure I have lost!
Flattering, fond imagination! The vehicle has past my door, and 'twas in vain I threw up the sash of the window to wait its stopping.
Why, Charlotte, do you treat me thus? Ungrateful girl, I will retire into my chamber, and think no more about you.
CHARLES.
LETTER IV.
From the same to the same.
ACCURSED is the gift of sensibility. 'Tis the smart that "agonizes at every pore." Ever wretched shall the lover be, in proportion to the fineness of his feelings. How little to be desired is delicacy of passion! The higher degrees of tenderness are distracting; and, if the agitation I am now in should continue long, with what fervency of supplication should I pray for stoicism or apathy, or any other power that deadens the enervating softness of recollection!
I rise from my bed to pen this ejaculation before the dawn of the day. Ah! barbarous Charlotte, what a night have I laboured through? I had resolved to think of you no more, but my heart, unfaithful to its resolutions, will admit no other ideas but those which are connected with love and Charlotte. Instantly sprang the tear to my eye as I entered the solitary chamber: the late scenes of serenity and interchanged endearment were now altered on the sudden to every thing that is dreary, every thing that is desolate: unpressed was the pillow, which, but the night before, administered the balm of softness to the cheek of beauty; and I found something to awaken a distressful feeling in every object that the taper exhibited to my view—The toilet was not trusted with its suspended ornaments—the chair was unoccupied which used to sustain your day-dress—but the night robes were hanging idly, and full in view, at the side of the bed: there was nobody to take them down—nobody to wear them. Their mistress had deserted them. I tost about for an hour, and fretted myself into fatigue; an unquiet slumber suceeded only to torture fancy by presenting you to me in dreams.
She gave you to me in colours the most glowing, attitudes the most atttacting, and situations impossible to be born. I yielded to the pleasures of imagination, caught her dear figure in my arms, and imprinted upon it the visionary kiss. What was my astonishment—what my anguish, when I awaked to the deception—? If the post of the morning does not bring me intelligence, or if affection does not prevail with you to come yourself—ah, thou fair, returning fugitive—! I shall either lose my senses, or have
reason
left, only to hope for its departure.
Farewell.
LETTER V.
From the same to the same.
THE breakfast table has been covered and uncovered without the tea being made or any thing eaten, and it is near twelve o'clock.
Polly, your sister, has examined your trunks and drawers, out of which she says nothing is missing; and, it seems, you are gone without either cloaths or money. How shall I interpret this? Dreadful images rise before me; and yet—it cannot be,—you have no cause. Since the day that we met I have affectionately anticipated every wish, and, to the utmost of my power, protected you from every care—self-destruction—! No, no, that can never be; you have too aweful a sense of deity—of duty—and you have no temptation to rob the world and me of an individual so inestimable—the more I think, the deeper do I dive into perplexities. I will throw away the pen and think no more. You do not imagine the peace of my soul worth a single slip of paper, or one stroke of the pen. Farewell:
You have injured CHARLES.
LETTER VI. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
SOMETHING is due, I forsee, to the alleviation of that anxiety, which my absence will throw you into. I am therefore hence induced to tell you that I am well and happy, and, upon your solemn engagement of promise never to come in person, will transmit to you my address, where I shall think myself honoured by your
correspondence,
the only connexion that can for the future take place betwixt Charles and
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER VII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
BARBAROUS as is the inhibition, I solemnly comply with it, and desire to have your address immediately forwarded to the forsaken
CHARLES.
LETTER VIII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
RECEIVE inclosed what you request, and God bless you.
Adieu, CHARLOTTE.
LETTER IX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
I Send, agreeable to your given direction, the packet I had written at different times since your departure, but I am too ill to add more to it than the now forgotten name of
CHARLES.
LETTER X. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
I Received your packet, every sentence of which was calculated to afflict me—ah forbear my beloved Charles—forbear to charm me into a relapse! you accuse me of barbarity, when you ought to encourage me in virtue. I have made a sacrifice my dear friend—late as it is, I have made a sacrifice to devotion, and to duty. That I may not however suffer any longer the imputation of cruelty, I will frankly reveal to you the motive—the only motive that could prevail with me to quit the society of Charles.
To tell you the whole matter in a single sentence—I have seen a person who hath a greater right to Charles than Charlotte—I have seen—your wife. Ah, sir, what an interview—? unprepared for the scene, how could I sustain it? I sunk under it; and your lady triumphed in all the dignity of privilege, and advantages of argument.—Surely heaven threw her in my way to shew me in blushing colours to her and to myself.— We had never met before, and as the meeting was delayed for more than four years, it was by so much the more aweful and insupportable. Yet do not blame her Charles. Whatever may have been your disagreements, and however multiplied the causes that led originally to your disunion, she hath still the right of a married woman, and deserves to be heard. Nor can I complain of her conduct even upon so trying an occasion—she did not insult, she did not execrate: but, pursuing a much nearer way to the heart, she appealed from my passions to my sense of justice, and from my tenderness, to my truth. Oh! Charles, Charles, her pleadings were too pathetic to be resisted—I took her hand and bathed it with my tears, and she followed the advantage she had gained till she obtained that promise, which I have at length had the fortitude to perform.
Severe, I confess to you—severe, even to the verge of distraction, has been the
conflict.
Long I hesitated, long I remained undetermined; and even at last I have been compelled rather to stifle the rising emotions of tenderness precipitately, than act upon the calm principles of deliberation.—Yet I have now been almost a week absent, and am alive: though there is a stand of coaches opposite my window (any one of which would carry me to the only man I love upon earth) I have had the courage to see them drive off and return, without filling a place in any one of them myself.
No longer therefore accuse a behaviour that challenges your admiration, even while it afflicts you. My trunk, you may, if you please, forward to my apartment, and my sister (who being ignorant of our real situation had better be still kept so) I would recommend you to send home to her mother in the country, where the news, neither of our separation nor its motive, may ever arrive. Be this as it may, return to you again I never can; and indeed, to shew you the impossibility of it, I have paid a voluntary visit to Cleora, your lawful lady, to assure her we are parted for ever. Nothing therefore remains, but that you endeavour to emulate, till you surpass, the heroism of the determined
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE. (After receiving the foregoing.)
IN the agony of my heart I have equity enough to praise your heroism, though it is dashed with a romance that ascends to the very summit of enthusiasm. I now see my fate, and the continuance of the misery that attends it.
The claims of the wife, the lawful lady and the married woman, are all, I see, dancing their fascinations before thee.
Think not, Charlotte, I laugh at laws, or ridicule institutions held sacred and obligatory. Dear girl, I do not laugh at them, but, in my particular case, and in others similar to mine, an ample apology is found in the dictates of nature, reason, and common sense. I will not, nor indeed am I yet calm enough, to ramble into the detail of original grievances—those grievances which produced a separation from the wife of the law, who hath now separated the wife of the soul. Suffice it to say, it was a rash marriage, and soon repented on both sides: the bitterness of conjugal repentance is beyond every other poignant, and happy is it if
disunion,
rather than perpetuated
disagreement,
results from it. Is this sophistry? — Is this casuistry? no Charlotte, it is simple, didactic argument, ratified by unprejudiced reason, and stampt with the sanction of unbigotted sense—I feel as nicely as yourself the force of virtue, and the elegant triumphs of unspotted character, but I see no reason why those, who, upon the evidence of more than two years experience, are unsuited to each other, "join'd, not match'd," should live janglingly together, merely to pull the tight cord of a connexion at different ends, and exist miserably under the same roof, for the meagre satisfaction of having it to say, we fight it out friendly, without parting.
Egregious folly! and superstition and slavery in their extremes! you know the whole matter: my situation has been often delineated to you, and I will only desire you to reflect attentively upon it, before I obey your cruel request in relation to your trunk. Ah, Charlotte, how can I bear to see those several ornaments purchased by my own hand in the ostentatious fondness of shewing you to the admiring public as the property of your constant protector— how can I bear to see these depart into any other dressing-room but that which belongs to you, and in which they are now waiting the return of her who honours them in the wearing. My dear, dear companion, it must not be: the laws of love and life, and reciprocated conjunction of hearts and minds forbid it. Think better—oh, think better of it—throw aside the rigour of those resolutions which can produce no good, and admit those receiv'd ideas which will soften this unnecessary severity, and direct you to the sighing bosom, and open arms of
CHARLES.
LETTER XIII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
YOU
do
sophisticate Charles, and you are a casuist. Deny it not. Your wife is a fine woman, and you ought to love her: she is chaste, and you ought to live with her. But live with her or not, I have done my duty, and though it should shorten my life, I will still persevere, and fly the open arms of the late beloved Charles as sedulously as if they were filled with poison.
CHARLOTTE.
P. S.
If you refuse to send the trunk, make a compliment of it to my sister. I can do without it.
LETTER XIV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
MADAM,
I ASK your pardon for detaining any part of your property after it was so peremptorily demanded. I have however now, though late, made restitution of every thing which either your sister's industry or mine, could find about your apartments—I have seen, madam, the trunk containing your dresses, and decorations carried upon the shoulders of a porter, coffin like; and had it been
indeed
your coffin my despair would have been only one degree superior. Heavy as it is, with what a joy should I have stooped to the burden, and been myself the messenger; while the insensible athletic animal who is now such, will be intent only upon the profits of his message, and view only with a vulgar amazement, the form of the fair tyrant who rejects her conquest, and and yet holds in chains her captive.
Your concluding sentiment enters a caveat against further argument, and shortens my letter. It is not, I perceive, the force of virtuous principles drives you from me only, but the poison of aversion you have conceived for those open arms to which you were so tenderly, though I confess so officiously invited. Fear not, I beseech you madam, the shortness of your life upon my account; it is in no danger from that quarter, and I do not doubt but your health and spirits will continue to encrease in proportion to the length of your absence.
The point is plain enough, and I am sorry your delicacy and ingenuity have been put to such a strait for an expedient. How extremely-
á-propos
was your interview with Cleora! and how sincerely do I congratulate you upon the lucky crisis in which it has united inclination and duty. I perceive they have gone in this affair, like friends, well, but unexpectedly met, hand in hand together. Four years possession, is I must own enough to
poison
any body, and it is only for such constant fools as Charles to increase his passion, by gratifying it. I again beg your pardon, and promise to trespass no more upon that time, which you are no doubt employing in more agreeable engagements than reading the letters of a
cast
lover— perhaps the present hour is enlivened by the charms of a new acquaintance, and it may be, in the delirium of female vivacity upon the dear subject of liberty restored—that
paradise regained
to the soul of a woman— the name, I say, and infirmity of the neglected Charles may give additional zest to sprightliness, and enhance the entertainment of a delicious
tête-á-tête.
The victor, I must own, hath a right to imitate the barbarism of Achilles, and draw at the tail of his chariot the corpse of conquest. At this I shall not pretend to cavil. 'Tis the prescriptive right of the tyrant, and the slave must submit. But if there exists any
man
in the creation hardy enough to
partake
your conquest, and to express the impudence of exultation over it—if such a one there is madam, let
him
tremble—for nothing but his life shall pacify my heart, or atone for the sport he has made of my weakness, or my sensibility.
CHARLES.
LETTER XV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
NOW, indeed, Sir, you have nobly exerted yourself, and I ought to express to you my thanks for taking the only method that could make me forget you. Were I not inexcusably weak I
should
do this, but I own you have wounded me: I own that your several sarcasms have gone where you directed them—into the recesses of my heart. Most ungenerous Charles, to interpret that action into the most mercenary meanness, which, I summon the great God that inspired it, to witness, proceeded from principle.
No, Sir; my spirits and health (if I may judge of the future, by the present) are
not
likely to be restored to me in proportion to the length of my absence: nor was the abruptness of my departure the effort of so much ingenuity as you may be pleased to imagine.—
If you are yet capable of doing justice, I desire you to reflect on the various struggles I have at different times had since the commencement of our connection, upon the point that now carried me for ever from you! Even before I saw the lawful Cleora I shed many a tear, and heaved many a sigh at the thought of that injury I was every hour committing against her. Nay, did I not twice before, even in the warmest transports of our tenderness, bring myself to the resolution of leaving you? You pursued, persuaded, prevailed, and brought me back to guilty pleasures. Seeing the life of Charles bound up in the society of Charlotte, I endeavoured again to reconcile myself to my situation. I even adopted, in some degree, the sophistry of your own sentiments. I argued, as an apology, the innocence of my intention; the hearty desire I had to serve your family, the gratitude I owe to the man, who improved my understanding and adorned my manners: and, in short, I took refuge in a thousand plausibilities, rather than be torn on the rack of reflection, and leave a society so inexpressibly dear to me.
Auspicious to the scheme of forgetfulness, it was about this time you know, Sir, that we began our excursions, and took the different tours of England, Ireland, and Scotland. The improvements I made in the course of these journies, the serenity of the seasons in which they were, for the most part, performed, and the attracting benefits of so ingenious a companion as Charles, suspended for a while the kneener sense of an illicit connection. Yet, in the very bosom of bliss I was never so dull as not to know that it
was
an illicit one; and therefore, proper to be broken. To break it, nevertheless, was far beyond the feebleness of my power. The idea of Charles and all his fascinating qualities, mixt with every image, and made the leading feature of every figure that was formed by the soul. In repugnance to the conduct I ought to have pursued, I called to my aid all the seductions of imagination, and, when
they
failed, I derived the comforts of self-delusion, even from the pictures of truth—Is he not, said I, industrious to justify my error, while I soothed my passion; is he not the man, who took me up in a more than orphan state, and proved himself to me a father and a friend? Did he not find me a ruined creature—a poor unfortunate wanderer, who had been just deserted by the villain lord, who, taking advantage of simplicity had robbed my innocence, and turned me unprovided upon the world—? Ought I not to bless the accident then that threw me in the way of this affectionate protector? From what irremediable misery may he not have saved me? How indefatigable has been his tenderness? How assiduous his efforts to support me? How anxious and unremitting his wishes and labours to place me in a way of supporting myself, against that day in which he might want life to exert himself? Was not this my first preceptor? Wanting the attentions of a parent, and an early victim to my credulity, did he not find me stepping into the very border of female violation? Was not our first interview in the very momentous crisis of a woman's fate; and was I not weeping, in the bitter sincerity of my heart, over the prospects of destruction?
Surrounded by calamities like these, did not providence direct Charles to save me, as the guardian angel of an unhappy girl? and has not this very Charles preserved his friendship unbroken, and his fidelity consummate ever since the day of my deliverance?
Arguments like these, strongly seconded by the feelings of my heart, did I frequently exert, till, cooperating with the refinements of your conversation, and the charm I never failed to find in your entertaining company, I had almost brought myself to believe there was nothing extremely wrong in our intercourse.
Lulled, however, by this pleasing lethargy of the senses, and sung to repose by the syren of tenderness, I argued myself into a transient serenity, and indulged the softness which I perceived to be so soothing. We compleated our designs, and returned from our rambles in the English nation and its neighbouring countries, in order to visit together the continent of France. Preparations you know, Sir, were making for our
route
soon after our arrival in London, and the beginning of the next week was fixed for our departure.
In the interim I met with the injured Cleora, who told me in the most affecting manner, that, though she never wished a re-union with you, it would give that peace to her heart which was long lost, if I would tear myself from your embraces. Agonized by her pleadings, and stung by the sense of having wronged her, I fell upon my knee, and, solemnly in that situation
engaged
to do what I
have
done.
I have nothing to do with your family differences Charles, nor shall I listen to the story of either party. Duty and conscience are both concerned in the measure I have taken, and I shall not be made to repent of it, even by the severity of your upbraidings. It was, nevertheless, too much descending from the native dignity of your disposition—too unlike the candour of Charles's character, to suppose a connection of four years establishment, every day of which produced some evidence of its sincerity, should be sacrificed to the very grossest purposes in the first week's separation. A new acquaintance! What would you insinuate? To what indelicacy do you allude? I have a tear now falling upon that part of your letter, and I wish it had the power to blot both the sentiment and the recollection of it out of my memory for ever! With great reluctancy shall I admit any ideas that disgrace the elegance of Charles's sensibility. Though duty commands me to quit his protection, my knowledge of his many eminent virtues, incline me to cherish his idea, and still love him for his excellencies. I would most gladly consider him as a friend, a correspondent, and a conspicuous character: and, though we shall never meet again, the sense of my obligations to him, and his own merits, might be a constant source of innocent contemplation to me: why, Charles will you rob me of so agreeable a refuge, perhaps the greatest the whole world has now to afford me. Do you think Sir, then that I can so soon make a transfer of my affections? can I, think you, in so very short a space of time,
command
them from Charles to any accidental object? have I so convenient a heart —so obedient a versality? what do you take me for? but indeed I deserve it all; she who can bring herself to sleep upon an unsanctified pillow, four long twelve months, may well be supposed to perpetrate any thing that is wrong; and therefore I forgive you: although, in justice to myself, I must observe how I shudder, and how the blood runs from my heart, at the bare suggestion of such perfidy.
Indeed you wrong me; and I cannot bear you to entertain such ideas: even though by entertaining them yourself,
my
image would be the sooner obliviated. Though you found me a fallen woman, I am not constitutionally a wretch of purchase, Sir. Your many amiable lessons of morality have not been so egregiously misemployed. The virtue you have inculcated, and the volumes you have put into my hand, have produced effects more salutary: nay Charles, it is to your own instructions — to your own cultivation of my head and heart, that I have been induced to undertake the magnanimity of this action. With respect to resources— such I mean as are necessary, merely necessary to the preservation of human life, it is impossible that I should be destitute of them, while I have health; and the power who encouraged me to a good action will not, I trust, suffer the sharpness of poverty to result from it. But even if he should, I shall eat no longer the bitter bread of adultery, and considering that punishment proportioned to the offence, shall kiss the omnipotent rod without complaining, and supplicate the aids of penitence and patience till my sentence is softened, and the punishment remitted.
For the support of life, I have no doubt but that industry will enable me to get a sufficiency. You, Charles, have not suffered me to lead a life of idleness: I am skilled in the elegant labours of the needle: I can embroider: I have some little knowledge of those employments which may assist me from applying to the milliners— nay, and—such has been the effect of your instructions—I am not incapable of undertaking the elementary principles of female education. Here, indeed Charles, I feel a severe stroke from reflection. Who will put any children under the care of a free woman? what parent will trust its rising hopes to one who has herself failed?—how long, alas! will it be before the world can be convinced of my penitence, or my propriety! let this be as it will, my resolution remains firm as at the first, and Charles must be eternally disunited from
CHARLOTTE.
P. S.
I received the trunk, and thank you for your care.
Farewell.
LETTER XVI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
Too amiable CHARLOTTE.
WHEREFORE do you thus officiously labour to extort my approbation? and wherefore have you not left it in my power to censure you? were there any hard part in your character—had you charitably left me but one single cruelty, on which I might have founded a reasonable complaint, so that I might have ruminated upon it till I had argued myself into aversion, it might have been more tolerable: but you are obstinately bent upon murdering me by your goodness, and every moment increase the admiration which I ought to feel daily diminishing. The laws of the land and the prescriptions of custom have thrown the arguments so abundantly on your side, that 'tis impossible to baffle them without seeming to sophisticate. Fool and idiot that I was, to run into the shackle that galls for life, and to bind it like a volunteer slave, on my own leg! and yet, Charlotte, you have assisted Cleora in acting contradictions. Does she not by her own confession militate against a re-union? does she not declare the misery, of which she foresees, it would be productive? to what end then—to what end, but the most cruel and unnecessary one, should she wish to effect a separation between Charles and Charlotte? Cleora and Charles entertain not for each other either hatred or love; indifference is the point between them. And what virtuous purpose is likely to arise from the parting, in which she has been instrumental.
But you are, I see, too immersed in established ideas and the customs of a country, to admit a single exception to a general rule: although a minute's reflection would convince you that
my
case and
yours
are such as should be absolutely set apart from almost every other.
Ah, inflexible Charlotte, wherefore have you shielded your heart from the dear arrows of love under the bulwark of such venerable maxims—maxims, which, be their general tenor ever so admirable, must always allow deviation in certain cases. How easy were it to prove that, in strict speaking, it would be absurd and irrational even to unite again with Cleora. Nay, to put our of the question every other plea, and rely only on the energy of a single argument: the argument of our mutual
indifference,
is it not (demonstrably) ridiculous to live a loveless life with any being? Peculiar circumstances, of temporal distress at the first occasioned my leaving Cleora: I left her with a heart utterly at liberty, and in situations in no degree worse than before I heartily invited, and hastily obtained her hand. Chance, or rather surely the contrivance of some pitying deity, soon afterwards presented before my eye the image of Charlotte. Every thing in human nature that corresponds with the pathetic, united to favour our first interview. It was in the still hour of midnight: 'twas in the hour of misfortune. We were both sufferers: I mourned the barbarity of a mother, embarrassed affairs, and anxieties at home: you were sinking under the sense of an equal injury. Social sorrows soon suit themselves to the soul, and the impression that is made in such a crisis, is deep and delicate, indeed.
I see, methinks, the first scene; and I feel what language and sentiment denies the power to describe. Ah! Charlotte—Think a little upon it!—Prepare for a Picture so particularly interesting. Invoke the powers of imagination, fidelity, and fondness to do it justice.—Lay aside every formal, every unnecessary punctilio, and give, upon so important an occasion, a full scope to the tenderness of nature.—That tenderness, my dear, which was bestowed by the great God of kindness to
make the nauseous draught of life go down.
I have, in preparing you for such a portrait inspired myself. The subject is not to be withstood.—I dedicate it Charlotte to your sensibility. —I address it to your Heart. Did I, in the first Scene, insult you? Did I insult you with any offer that could distress or confuse you? No, Charlotte — some secret impulse it was that withheld me from the deed: some god it was, which inclined me to be inquisitively exact in drawing from you the history of your unhappiness. The tale was told with a simplicity and bewitching artlessness, that might have gained credit from infidelity, and attracted attention from frolic. Let the tears that I then shed, let the kindness with which I have since cherished you, witness the truth of my tenderness and protection. How were we both affected? how did our sympathy incline us to approach till our cheeks were as the reposing, yet glowing cushions of each other's. Can you forget the trembling throbs that you felt as I pressed your making hand upon my bosom.—I withdrew till you undrest, and I appeal to you, if I did not sit like the nurse of your chamber by the side of your bed till morning. I found it absolutely impracticable to treat your misery in any other manner: even your beauty, dazzling as it was, and in the most trying of all situations, was not able to betray me: I paid my court to your heart— to your situation—to your pathetic circumstances, and to every thing but your person: the charms of which, resplendent as I acknowledge they were, I had no leisure to reflect upon, till I had in some measure soothed the mighty anguish under which you were struggling.
I proposed a retreat in the recesses of the country. Such a retreat, Charlotte, my vigilant affection, (ever wakeful, ever indefatigable) soon provided; and when I had smoothed your own situation, and related to you in the undisguise of my soul, the particulars of mine, I then ventured (and not
till
then) to mention the wishes, which, after all the little delaying reluctances that endear ultimate consent, were successful.
Tell not me, Charlotte, of the prude's unfeeling formality. Do not suggest to me the sneer which outrageous virtue would cast upon such a transaction. Spirits I know there are (terribly holy, and formidably devout—punctilious as to the minutiae of ceremonials, and negligent of essentials) which would ridicule the delaying reluctances of Charlotte, as artful pretences — What—say they, piously violent—shall
she
who ascends the
nuptial
couch to supply unlawfully, the place of the lawful—to fill the arms that are awefully
preoccupied
— who hath, moreover, forfeited her innocence to the seducer, and been reduced to irreputable refuges — shall
she
assume the character of chastity and all its coynesses, or, indeed, any of those marks of amiableness which ought to distinguish only married modesty, and maiden decorum—? Fie upon her!
Ah! hard of heart, and shallow of head! illiberal, contracted women! Is it not possible for virtue to
be
independent of forms? is it not possible, in a case like Charlotte's, for the most unspotted purity of mind to survive an accidental violation of person?—But then, you reply, she lived, after all, publicly with the husband of another woman. In any other exigence but her's and mine, it might be impossible to offer a plea of palliation:
Let wealth and honour wait the wedded dame;
August her deed, and sacred be her fame.
Far be it from me, far from the most unhappy Charles be it, to blast the laurels, or wither the roses of conjugal life. 'Twere impious, 'twere impracticable. I am not audacious enough to say with Eloisa,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made.
Ah gracious, gracious heaven, that it had been permitted to blend in
our
connection the laws of love, and of the land, natural, with moral institutions! —May never any pair, Charlotte, who love as
we
love, be reduced by the tyranny of their situation, to equal measures: may those whose hearts are equally tuned by
nature
into equal sympathy, find a friend in
fortune
to facilitate their union! Happy—eminently happy they, who are thus assisted, and whose joys receive, in conformity to the custom of nations, their imprimatur of tenderness and possession at the
altar.
—
Our fates, Charlotte, were unfortunately peculiar, and our resolution to run them together was natural, and, set off as they were by ten thousand delicacies, irresistable. Let not our conduct be proposed as an example to be adopted, where it is even possible for man and wife to live together: but let not our fidelity, after we
had
united, be censured too vigourously, or too incautiously.
Weigh these facts well, and they will tempt you to seek again your long accustomed pillow upon the bosom (the heart under which will swell to welcome your return) of
CHARLES.
LETTER XVII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
HOW often must I repeat— how often waft it on the wings of the post, that I must never more repose on the bosom of Charles. Cease, cease then, ah, my dear seducer, for pity's sake. Do not continue to croud upon me those images which it is pernicious to entertain! Wherefore—oh thou ungenerous— wherefore do you oppose the most omnipotent of all human arguments, wherefore do you oppose
yourself,
betwixt the severely contending powers of duty and passion—Ah inhuman! it is not without exertions the most violent, and pangs the most accumulated, that I am able to sustain the conduct I have for the last four days observed. Conscious as you are of the
propriety
of that conduct, forbear, I solemnly conjure you, to address my partiality again upon the only subject which it cannot safely contemplate!
The sketch you have delineated of our intercourse, in its first dear, but unfortunate beginnings, is too boldly coloured, and bears too visibly the delicate touches of a master, for the eye of one, who can trace so lively a likeness betwixt the copy and the original. If then you have any regard to the peace of my mind—any to my prosperity—never present to my view again, so animated or so dangerous a picture: rather, I beseech you, turn that most powerful pen of yours into a chaster style: indulge it in the display of subjects more suited to our circumstances. Direct your fine, but too persuasive genius into the proper channel, and let the strength and vigour of Charles's understanding, rather prevent than debilitate the infirmity of Charlotte's; and besides this, how unfair is it to avail yourself of that very feeling in your favour, which your reason tells you it is inequitable to indulge.
The copious effusion of tender tears that flowed, as I suppose you cruelly intended they should, in obedience to the commanding sentiments of your last, have a little relieved my heart, at the expence of exhausting my spirits.
I have acquired once more sufficient composure to write to the man who seems resolved to keep me in constant agitation.
You
did
save me, Charles, from distress the most agonizing; from a state the most dreadful: you
did
unite in your character, all the relations; as a father instructed—as a mother admonished—as a brother protected —as a sister entertained, and as a husband cherished. Oh Charles, Charles, it is all well, all great, all a noble climax, till we get to the last expression. It was only
as
a husband: it was
like
one, that you cherished me. 'Twas out of your power—oh, the malice of fortune—to
be
one, and as that was the case, we should not have united. I should have found that generosity in your
friendship,
which you ought to have denied me in your
tenderness.
I might have been the object of your
benevolence,
without— I write the sentence with a blush burning my cheek—without sharing your bed. How would it have redounded to the honour of my Charles, how officiously would the daughters of distress have trusted his fame to the echo of posterity, if his bounty had been totally unaccompanied by guilt: if he had rescued an unhappy girl from misery, without bringing her out of one error to lead her into another.
Methinks I now see how Charles might at once have procured my honour, and my happiness: and I, who know the goodness of his heart, wonder the scheme, or something similar to it, escaped him. Might he not have placed the unhappy female far from the delusions of the metropolis, in some sheltering part of the country, where the knowledge of her calamity might never arrive? There, might she not, under the protection of some decent matron, have learned all the arts of useful life, even till the often transmitted bounty of her absent friend Charles, might be no longer necessary to her subsistance. What room had here been for probation—what scope for innocence recovered: and what immortality—what undescribeable sensations must have attended an action so disinterested, so unmixt—so admirable! Instead of which — but I cannot, I ought not to upbraid you. I acknowledge the delicacy of your deportment when it was the most essential, and when very, very few would have therefore bestowed it. But let us drop the subject: assist me not treacherously, to the recollection of scenes, which I wish, and ought to forget. Surely, surely it is not now a time to receive them in the memory. Ah, Charles, why did not heaven allow our first meeting to have preceded your union with Cleora: then, with what a transport, a transport sanctified by religion, should I—but it is unavailing to wish: we are parted eternally: nor can even such an epistle as your last, adorned as it is with all the glowing graces of language, and artfully addressed to every passion that alarms the sex, make me revolt from that steady principle I have fixt to myself, in the deliberation of my soul, as the rule of my future conduct. If therefore you set any price upon the pleasures of our continued correspondence—for I will forfeit even your letters rather than read myself into a relapse—let this ultimate, this repeated assurance, satisfy you once for all. In a word, Charles, let it teach your heart to be contented with a gratification, somewhat less terrible than that which would terminate in the perdition of the afflicted, but, alas! still
affectionate CHARLOTTE.
P. S.
You do not mention my sister, but you certainly have sent her to the arms of an innocent and expecting mother, whose want of knowledge in my case, is, perhaps, the only thing that prevents bringing her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Adieu.
LETTER XVIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
INVULNERABLE, and unrelenting as you are, I have the right of a painter to finish my picture. Hard would it indeed be, were I denied so trifling a liberty as that which the pen allows, when I obey your too rigid injunctions in keeping from the apartment which I know to contain my treasure. Think, madam —oh, that cold word—think, Charlotte, of the severe restraint I impose upon myself! I know the very house in which you sleep—if you indeed
can
sleep—and yet I desist from going to make enquiries in which I am so much interested.
And are you alarmed by the faintly drawn sketch of our first week's connexion? Alas! how very poor, how very unequal was all which
then
past, when compared to the months, and years that succeeded it! a dew drop to the deep, and main world of waters! Carry your imagination in retrospect to the time when we first yielded to the exigence, and agreed to live in the same house; when, in all tender respects, we agreed to consider ourselves as—united people. Look back to the very night, ever precious to love-sick remembrance, when you first indulged the solicited embrace. Till after the attention of many days, I did not dare to intimate the hopes of a conquered heart, nor even at last, till I had reconciled you to every part of my hapless situation—till we had both lamented the bar that prevented a public sanction. Paint to your fancy the joy that was then realized, when you first permitted me, half consenting, half denying, to draw the curtain betwixt us and every interruption — I can say no more: I refer you to the powers of imagination—It was not the
unsoul'd
debauch of a dissipated pair: it was not the delirium of two young people, sedulous to snatch the hasty revels of a night's voluptuousness! but it was the unaffected transport of sentiment and taste, of body and mind, consolidated: not a vein in our hearts that did not thrill to the emotions of sympathy: animated by the fire of real love, not a pulse about us that did not leap to salute its hindred pulsation. Remember, above all things, our next morning meeting at breakfast: the sighs which we then wafted over the tea-cup: the tears which were scarce contained within their sluices of crystal: the various flushings of the countenance, and our aukward-enough endeavours to conceal the confusion which was thus rendered the more apparent, all gave silent, but delicious testimony, that the mutual approbation was compleat.
Perhaps you will say, that this might be the energy of juvenile desire: the mere enthusiastic riot of the agitated senses—the transient fever of inflamatory spirits. How easy were it, in opposition to this, to prove its origin from a more pure and permanent source. Reflect, I prithee, fair fugitive, on the scenes which succeeded. Consider what diversity of events happened
after,
to cool the blood, and settle the senses. Examine the train of misfortunes which arose rapidly one out of another. Did not my whole patrimony, and all my hopes of elevated circumstances, sink suddenly before me? did not the hardened creditor then take his advantage of my calamity, and hunt me with a blood-hound industry, from to place? was not my health invaded in consequence of my anxiety, and were we not both reduced to uncertain resources? was not this aggregate of affliction enough to quiet the impetuosity of mere animal inclination? surely it was; but they only rendered
us
still dearer to one another: the burdens were heavy, and each was therefore emulous to carry the greatest load of them: we had even a sort of jealousy lest the one should encroach upon the share of the other. Tenderness and transport presided over our very difficulties—Ah! how often in the desolate moment, when the whole hemisphere of hope was clouded, have we watched the fall of the tear upon the cheek, and kist it away? how frequently have we caught the sigh while parting from the lips? great woes we reconciled into sentiments of moderation; and every gale of good fortune, from whatever corner of her compass it blew, was swelled by love into enchantment: the beauty of a flower; the paint of a tulip; the fragrance of a rose; the sudden lustre of the sun; an evening walk; or the morning prospect over our breakfast, painted by the gay pencil of imagination, were more than a match for the empty purse, the ill-natured accident, or miseries of the greatest magnitude. And, can those who have gone for the service of each other through the fiery trial, ever forget, ever ultimately separate? Of all paradoxes, it is to me the most irreconcilable.
I conjure you then by the memory of our past misfortunes, than which even the recollection of extacies is not more endearing—I conjure you by the memory of our pleasures, of which we have had our proportion— I conjure you by the wishes you cherish for my health; by the many miseries of a situation that calls aloud for constant attentions; in short, Charlotte, I conjure, implore, and challenge you, by all that you hope, and all which you dread, to suffer me to enforce the pleadings of my heart at
your own lodgings:
I will obey every injunction—ah! thou delightful tyrant—imposed upon me: the click of the clock shall bring me to the moment of your assignation: I shall enter your apartment with all the tremors of a lover, and yet I will not, till you permit me, speak of love: I will anticipate the commands of your tongue, and watch the time to depart from the waving of your finger, the nod of your head, or the turn of your eye—More than than the power of a sultaness shall attend you in this interview—Only admit me once—to tea, to breakfast — to dine — to sup — I cannot Charlotte—I swear by the heart you have carried forcibly away from me —I cannot, any longer, support your absence. Do not then hurry me into violence, but indulge, for this once, my passion, and trust to my prudence, and my promises. Farewell, farewell.
CHARLES.
LETTER XIX. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
IS this your solemn engagement? pressing for an interview already. To what end do you think I left you Sir? Was it to give myself a few days unnecessary agony, to involve you in needless calamity, and then to repent upon my folly, and return again to the errors I have left? I am angry that you think me guilty of so much inconsistency. What a child must you believe me? and yet how do you oblige me to be even with you. For shame, Sir, for shame; you want the philosophy of an infant. You have devoted several of the years of your youth to the study of the sciences, you are deeply read in virtuous compositions, and yet you are more feeble than the babe.
To be outdone in a good action by a woman, by the very woman whose undemanding and heart have been, as it were, the work of your own hands: whom you have made what she is —To let
her
surpass you in fortitude! Blush, blush, and rise into the ambition of excelling her.
From the very arguments that you draw as motives of my return, I can extract the most forcible reasons for my desisting from a reunion, even supposing that there was no personal criminality attending it.
Wherefore should I hang as a clog at the foot of a man already oppressed by the heavy hand of calamity? whatever you may think, it is no real testimony of regard to share your miseries without being able to relieve them. To behold you struggling with your fate, without the power to better it, and rather adding
to,
than taking
from,
your embarrassments. No, Charles; trust me, we can both do more tolerably alone, at least for the present: in the course of a little time, fortune may be generous to one of us,
which,
is a point of no moment: our persons only, and not our purses, are divided: it will be the same thing whether the shower of prosperity falls upon Charles, or Charlotte: I hope neither of us shall at any time be capable of separate interests, and that neither of us shall be too proud to receive assistance at the hand of the other. As to your part, your talents will recommend you,
wheresoever
or
howsoever
you exert them; and you cannot long fail of conquering the inconveniences which at present surround you. Charlotte's society, however dear, was rather an impediment than any thing else, to Charles's advancement, and he will now be admitted into connections which were before impenetrable. We may amuse ourselves, my dear friend, with the idea of despising the customs of our country, and the forms of our church: nay, we may attempt to soothe ourselves with the opinions of ourselves, and a narrow circle of our private friends, but if the voice of the public, and the established modes of religion are against us, it will be in vain that we receive a
partial
approbation. It is not only politic, but morally just, that the general clamour should be raised against a couple in our situation. The disagreements that pass under a man's own roof, and the quarrels or feuds which divide the husband from the wife, do not authorize an open defiance of either the laws of man, or the commands of God: nor will the world, however proper the separation, ever enter into the intricacies of circumstance, or pathetic of passion that throws the divided husband into the arms of another woman. I am still willing to hope, Charles, that our offence will be mitigated by the God of mercy, upon account of the many peculiar temptations and exigences that belonged to it: in strict speaking, perhaps, there may not be any greater degree of guilt in our late connection, than if it had immediately succeeded a divorce from your Cleora: but when I am appealed to by a pleading wife, who charges me with seducing the the affections of a husband; when I am branded by that wife, as the artful and infamous cause of her child's misery, and her own, amongst all her friends and acquaintances; when I am held up as the terror of married women, at the very time that I know I would have at any time yielded the society of Charles to to more lawful claims; how do you think I can bear to live under this load of half-merited ignominy, and half-undeserved reproach? the truth will break, like the sun, through all disguising interceptions: the delicacy of your passion for me, Charles, led you to conceal the fact in regard to my real situation. Wherever you went, the brilliance of your wit and the polish of your genius, together with the public evidences you have given of it, attracted notice, ensured popularity, and commanded curiosity—You took me by the hand, and presented me in all our excursions as your
wedded wife:
I did my best to support the character, I would have given worlds to have realized it: but even in my happiest moment, Charles, I felt a pang at my heart, and apprehended a discovery that would have overwhelmed me with the blushes of confusion. In the course of our rambles, your sanction provided for me several amiable friends. I had too much veneration for the
name
of wife to injure it by any light, or unbecoming behaviour; and I have the felicity to reflect, that my deportment under this assumed character, was in all respects, conjugal and exact: well was it for me, nevertheless, dear Charles, that our passion for travel, did not allow us to stay long in a place. Your situation must soon have been publicly known; even the political
disguise
of your
real
name must have been seen through; your fatal pre-engagement with Cleora would have been detected, and the endearing countenance that was before shewn me, while I lay under the shelter of a charming imposition, would be ignominiously withdrawn. That this, in part
has
been the case, you cannot but remember: I have occasionally been met by an old acquaintance of yours, who hath officiously circulated the secret of our connexion, and my character became in an instant suspected, or at least ambiguous.
The industry with which I applied to those accomplishments in which it is the chief glory of women to excel, and the books and masters which you recommended to me for that purpose, soon polished simplicity into a degree of refined knowledge, and made me more deserving my Charles's society. And yet, my friend, the agonies of my heart increased with the instructions of my head. Objects and actions soon presented themselves to me in a different light from that in which I had been accustomed to behold them: the days of girlish giddiness were past, and the sedater reflections of the woman succeeded. From a state of rusticity and village ignorance, I was able to think profoundly and compare accurately; a nicer sense of right and wrong began to take place; an aweful admiration for illustrious characters, and a more than enthusiastic ambition to reach them, seized upon my senses: proportioned to the augmentation of my intellectual powers, rose into greater lustre the sensibilities of my soul; and, under the influence of these cultivations, all flowing from the generous stream of Charles's fondness, think what I must in the cool hour undergo, at the thought of living in a state so palpably condemned by mandates above and below; and so forcibly reprobated by every law, divine and human.
It was not, Charles, over the exigences of a precarious fortune, it was not for the loss of your estate, nor was it even for the gradual declinings of your health, that half those tears were shed, which in different places, and at different periods, flowed from me. Studious of your serenity, how often have I repress'd the sigh that was half ready to break its way through my bosom: arm in arm as we walked affectionately together, amidst the perfumes of the spring, or the fragrant profusions of the summer; delighted too as I was with the faithful testimonies of the warmest passion that ever nature rendered mutual, even then, in seasons so sacred to composure, the bitter idea would overtake me, and I have been compelled to complain of some transient pain of the person, to hide from my companion the anguish of the heart. Nay, Charles, I have often sought out a hiding-place when my heart was overcharged, to relieve it by tears. That Cleora and you could not live amicably together, that I was the woman of your choice, that incidents perfectly uncommon united us, that we both lived in the strictest fidelity, that our passion was as elevated as ever inhabited the human bosom, and that we were every thing that is precious to each other, were by no means counterballances to the censure of the world, the violation of moral obligations, the strokes of my own conscience, and the claims of Cleora, which my avow'd residence with you,
seemed
at least to intercept.
Collect yourself sufficiently Charles, to put these several sentiments together: consider them one by one, as you arrange them in due order, and form them into a whole. When you have done this, quiet I beseech you the disorders of every rebellious passion, and let reason, in her robes of sobriety, sit in judgment. The sentence which she passes will command your attention: methinks I see her from her aweful throne, in the center of the human heart preparing to speak —hark, Charles, I hear her voice, and it shall decide between us.— Persevere Charlotte, persevere in these resolutions, she says. "Forbear Charles, forbear to throw thy temptations again in the path of the penitent."
The very force of the image of Charles invigorates my virtue, and gives me fresh spirits to persist.
Farewell. CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
AWEFUL, admirable girl, I bow to the dignity of thy superior soul. I yield to the sentiments it is impossible to controvert. Yes, cruel world, I will henceforth bleed in silence a victim to thy circumscribed opinions. Your resolves, Charlotte, are, I perceive, as the rock that defies the batter of the winds and of the waves. Your virtue
commands,
and my passions shall
obey:
adieu, adieu for ever, to CHARLES.
LETTER XXI. CHARLES, TO HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
THE struggles of conscience, have again prevailed over the tenderness of love, and I have lived a whole week, without the society, or even the sight of Charlotte. Leave —I desire you, as soon as possible, and hasten to the apartments of the unhappy
CHARLES.
LETTER XXII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
YOUR last short letter was as a cordial to the spirits of a swooning creature. Noble, noble youth, how agreeably you flatter me! and is it possible that Charles can be a convert to the sentiments of Charlotte? has she been so happy as to vindicate her own conduct, and kindle in his heart the sparks of imitation?— imitation did I say? no; my dear friend has twice the power and ten times the goodness of Charlotte, if he will but exert them. Have I not known him melt and soften into sympathy at the pitiable circumstances of a distressed enemy? have I not seen the tear of gratitude in his eye, and his hands folded together, for pain alleviated, danger escaped, differences accommodated, and comforts multiplied? is he not the friend of all that want, of all that wish? hath not nature directed his hand to his purse to divide with the indigent or the soliciting, the last efforts of his liberality? doth not his
own
miseries teach him to feel for
others,
and suggest to him all the finer obligations of morality?
And can such a character, can such an exalted spirit, long remain insensible to a duty of the greatest magnitude? impossible, impossible! 'Tis I, only I, have been to blame, in winding my fatal image, and destructive affections, round his heart, till it became entangled beyond the power of extrication. Long ago would this excellent young man have recovered the dignity of his duty, had not I prevented it. I should have slown before: since his delicacy was too great to quit
me,
my virtue should sooner have urged me to quit
him.
Perhaps by this time, he might have quite forgotten me, or only at most have recollected me with the indifference I deserve.
It is, however, some consolation, that I have at last been equal to the impulses of my reason, and I cannot but hope the most salutary effects will arise from them. Already my dearest friend (for as such I shall ever consider him) is open to conviction: to be
so,
is one great step towards every thing laudable and desirable: to see the path of virtue, and to be pleased with it, is a powerful inducement to pursue it without any suture deviations. I rise every morning more reconciled to my separation, and I can command my thoughts from the image of Charles, when I find them wandering that way, with the cost only of a few tears: my slumbers are not indeed sound, nor can I frequently close my eyes; but I can meditate without distraction, and know the direction of the only man upon earth whom I—I—I whom —whom—I—I say I can reflect upon the very spot, where I suppose Charles to be sitting, without passing by his door, or knocking at it for admittance: for
that
admittance, which I now hope, and believe he will, after the lapse of a few months, refuse me, except upon the terms of an ordinary acquaintance. — No Charles, no: not an
ordinary
acquaintance neither. I could not bear to receive from
you
the forms of compliment, or the cold civilities of a mere well-bred decorum. If we ever do again see each other, let it be with kindness, with attention, with friendship, and with any thing
from
the extremes either of relapsing fondness, or fashionable disregard: it would be extremely aukward—perhaps it would be utterly impossible for Charles and Charlotte ever to meet upon so ceremonious a visit: nor will it, I dare say, be necessary. The passion will be altered, the sensibilities of love will be extinguished, but the sentiments of a pure and established friendship, may, and
must
remain.
You have now set my heart at rest; and the favours of your pen, upon more lively and interesting subjects, will indulge, while they improve, the now happier
CHARLOTTE.
P. S.
Not a word yet about my sister Polly; but you have been too much vexed with your own feelings, and I make myself satisfied she is an innocent cottager at—with her mother.
LETTER XXIII. CHARLOTTE to CLEORA.
MADAM,
I STILL remain steady in pursuing the measures I have taken: and though my endeavours were twice ineffectual before, yet I now feel myself equal to the sacrifices which my own conscience, and justice to you, require. Your husband seems already to be sensible of my propriety, and ceases to talk upon a subject I am truly labouring to forget for ever. I have heard
your
story and
his;
and I am utterly unable (and a very improper person) to say who is in the right. It is most likely (you will pardon me) that both of you are in the wrong; family differences are much too delicate for one
out
of the family to interfere in them. The injuries, however, I have done you are at an end, and Charles is at full liberty to repair the mischiefs, if indeed they are the heaviest on
his
side) of Cleora. That any thing not extremely substantial should disunite him from so much sense and beauty, as you Madam, are possest off, would be such a repugnance to every part of his character, that I cannot readily conceive it possible; and yet, it appears to me full as strange and unaccountable, that so accomplished a lady should not have the power to fix the affections of a man whose heart is extremely tender, and whose love of domestic happiness, is the manifestly first principle of his ambition.
These mysteries make it improper for me to say more, than that I cordially wish (if it is for his felicity, and for yours) that whatever has past may be obliviated; that a single trace of his connection with the most unfortunate Charlotte may never interrupt you, and that, whatever becomes of me, you may pass the long remainder of your days in reconciled tenderness, and restored affections.
Although, Madam, I can no otherwise promote this than by my good wishes, and persevering in my good resolutions, yet I think it a part of my duty to tell you, that your husband's present lodgings are at —.
There, either you or your letters will find him; and whatever you expect from him, may you receive it from his justice, or his sensibility.
I am, Madam,
the truly penitent CHARLOTTE.
P. S.
I ought to give you the caution of directing to him under cover to his friend Mr. K. whose address you know, and who will deliver your letter immediately on the receipt of it. Poor Charles's situation renders
this
necessary to his personal safety, and neither you, nor I Madam, can be indifferent to that.
LETTER XXIV.
An unknown person to
CLEORA.
I AM just informed, Madam, that your circumstances demand the attention of benevolence, and as I know the present situation of your husband (were you both happily united) could not allow him to assist you, I have taken the liberty, as a very old friend to your family, to inclose a modicum, which, though shamefully small, is I protest to you, proportioned to the immediate ability of
Madam,
Your most obliged humble servant.
LETTER XXV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
A WEEK's silence, my dear Charles, must sure have done great things: you certainly find it for your ease to lay down the pen which used so frequently to address Charlotte; and, therefore, I submit to the suspension of your correspondence. Possibly I am by this time an object only of friendly, and undisturbed contemplation. I will endeavour to rejoice at the supposition: 'tis what I ought to do.—Now then, my friend, summon yourself to the undertaking: I have made the
first
sacrifice to virtue; do you collect all your strength to sustain a
second!
Your wife is now in London, Charles, and the child, which you have so long and anxiously wished to fondle in your arms, is now blooming in beauty, by the side of her. Your barbarous mother (voluptuous in her age, and wicked in her weeds) denies any longer to support or educate the babe, and the little fortune is at present locked up, and is likely to remain so till the sale of that estate of which you have been iniquitously robbed, is compleated. In the worst dilemma, however, your talents are always a sufficient resource, for the subsistance of human life. She who indeed loves, will love in all circumstances: she who feels as she
ought
to feel, will follow her object into the worst of all possible situations—What say you to an interview with Cleora? can you not obliterate the idea of the subjects which parted you, and visit each other, without a past unnecessary reflection? I have been several hours in her company. There is nothing in her person but what might attract a husband's attention: her understanding is even masculinely strong. She doats upon the child you have presented to her. She denies the infamous charge that either malice, or wantonness brought against her fame: she is young, handsome, accomplished, well born, your real wife, and in distress, oh, heavens! can such a heart as Charles's remain hardened, or can he close his eye upon such a picture— a picture, glowing with the two principal portraits of his own family?
Admitting, however, that you cannot feel upon this occasion all the luxury of a love-match; admitting, that Cleora wants the power to delight; ought she not to be received as a married wife? and though you may want ability to be transported, yet cannot you entertain enough of that friendship, which you always allow to our sex, to live within the limits of propriety? in fine, Charles, if you can avoid absolute aversion on the one hand, and altercation (to which I am sure you are not by nature inclined) on the other, it is a plain point of honour and conscience, to invite her again to your arms.
Believe me, my friend, she is the only woman in the creation I could bear to see there: but I have been the
seeming
instrument of keeping you from her—the
real
one I am sure I have not—and therefore it would give me a pleasure inexpressible to bring you together, even before I have totally conquered my own partialities. Do Charles, do endeavour to give my vanity the gratification of one distinguished action: let me have one opportunity to shew those who have aspersed me, that I had something like a soul at the bottom. Exert yourself, I charge you; and let it be said, that Charles was capable of a dignity in conduct, which was not unworthily emulated by
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XXVI. HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
to CHARLES.
AM I never to see my best friend, the amiable Charles, permanently happy? is he for ever to be subjected to these anxious vicissitudes? and is one of the noblest of human hearts thus constantly to be tortured on the wheel of misfortune? If you bear as ill the third elopement of Charlotte, as you did the first and second, I shall dread to see you: sure never did a young man possess so unfashionable a fidelity: and yet I cannot blame you: the value of the object justifies the constancy and violence of the passion.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look in her face, and you forget them all.
The beauties of your Charlotte, both mental and bodily, are indeed too attractingly eminent to be easily worn from the memory of a man, who hath not only possess'd, but so greatly contributed to polish them.
I have long known her merit; long paid to it the tribute of my admiration; and as long lamented the bar that prevented the union of which she is so truly deserving. From the ripening refinements of her mind, however, and from the ardent precipitation of her temper, tinctured as it is with a little both of enthusiasm and romance, I apprehended something of this sort would ensue from the meeting of her and Cleora, should that ever happen.
How unlucky is it that the point is on all sides, too nice and critical to be spoken to. I most heartily wish all wives well, and all lovers happy: above all other things I have
ever
wished it upon solid motives: their hearts were moulded for each other: the joys, sorrows, evil, and good, they have mutually sustained in the course of a long, and faithful interchange, must have bound them in chains of peculiar force. And yet, as the matter
has
fallen out, what has my friend to do, but to exert his phi
hy, and call all the powers of
is assistance.
I am heartily glad you are in London, where uneasiness of any kind may be whirl'd off, much sooner than in the country. The shades are infectious: rural objects, and especially to a poetical mind, are absolutely so many distractions. I would not have you by any means venture into those parts of the country where you have of late been used to reside. The idea that should not be indulged, will obtrude itself in a moment: every thing you behold, from the leaves of the tree, to the husbandman at his labour, will revive the treacherous image you should eradicate.
Rather, my good friend, pursue a different course: however reluctantly, rush into mixt and multiplied society. Indulge not the softness of relaxing solitude. Engage for a short time in all the frivolous scenes of busy existence. Let the great soul stoop a little, and condescend to be amused by innocent levities. Superior as you are, I would now advise you to frequent the places of public resort — and, in short, I would advise every thing gay and airy, except downright dissipation. Against that I would caution you; for you already know its ineffectuallity. I shall be in town on Thursday, and will dedicate my time totally to you. In the mean while, pray think of Charlotte only as a departed friend; as one who does, and must ever wish you well, but whose present absence is necessary to her future happiness. You see Charles, by the dull common-place of this letter, that it is a subject I really know not how to treat. I am honestly the friend of Charles and Charlotte: what then is to be said upon this trying crisis? I will only say, that if the smallest degree of either's happiness depended upon me, my power should be exerted before it could be solicited. Be of good courage: look about you: think little, read less, sigh seldom, smile as often as you can, and God bless you. Such are the hints of your ever faithful servant
HAMLET TEMPLETON.
LETTER XXVII. CHARLES to HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
FOR the second time in my life I am absolutely inebriated— Dead drunk, Templeton, in the vain effort of drowning my distraction, and your letter was delivered to me over the dizziness of the third bottle.
Charlotte is fixt in the frost of her resolutions, and I have ceased to address her on my subject. Heavy hung the hours upon my hand, and I have been endeavouring to shorten them by forgetfulness — Ah, Templeton! I have gone suddenly from the extremes of melancholy to those of madness. I called upon a vacant acquaintance, who never felt a poignant woe in his life, who laughs at tenderness, and snaps his fingers at love, and, in the very stupor of my soul, strolled with him into a tavern. I am this moment every thing but delirious, and I have compelled my colleague in dissipation, to drink prosperity to every step of Charlotte —at least at every second glass—In this state of
capital
elevation, what will become of me for the rest of the night, heaven knows; but as I am certain of being both sick and sorry tomorrow, I am resolv'd not to be either to night.—Heigh—heigh—oh! Templeton! Templeton, what machines we are! obedient to the breath of every passion, tost into tempest by every gust of disappointment or desire. What a fever we are in from fifteen to five and twenty; what an ague overtakes us soon after that, till we are frozen to death and good for nothing—Oh! these violent transitions —I lay down my pen to pledge you in a bumper of good wishes for the health of Charlotte. I would murder my brother if he refused the toast of my heart—Never was I so strongly inclined to break my promise, and go abruptly to her apartment. I could now talk to her like an angel: I could charm her with claret-caught eloquence, were she adamant from top to bottom.
"Hot with the Tuscan grape, and high in blood,"—by my soul, Templeton, I am just at this time a a match for every thing that could happen to me—I could smooth the wrinkles of her dear indignant brow— I could press her beloved hand with a tenderness so gentle—I could advance to her rosy lip with so pathetic an humility, a countenance so touching, and a sigh so delicate, that I should certainly conquer all her scruples, and allure her once more to the arms that are ever extending involuntarily, to embrace her. The fellow who has been the companion of my revels, is both too headless and too heartless to continue any longer — His dull eye twinkles in drowsiness, and he had rather, I perceive, hug his
pillow,
than the goddess of beauty—The wretch absolutely yawns. Oh the negative—! Whatever becomes of me I will never pray, no Templeton, (though agony of soul were to mark every moment) I will never pray for the lethargies of insensibility—I will this instant go to the arms of
willing
beauty.
CHARLES.
LETTER XXVIII. CHARLES to HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
CONFUSION and perplexity! What a mistake have I blundered into! Curse on the power of wine! Curse on the folly that rushes into extremes. In the giddiness of my cups, I hastily prest my seal upon the letter intended for
you,
and addressed it to Charlotte: addressed to
her,
what I had written in the libertine hour of drunkenness and intoxication. The post-office happened to be hard by, where I had been accustomed to throw in my correspondence, and as I parted from my fuddled associate, I trusted my licentious epistle to the letter box. Read the inclosed, Templeton, and execrate the stupidity of
CHARLES.
LETTER XXIX. (Being the inclosed) From CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
SIR,
YOU have directed to one friend, what was, I perceive, designed for another: the letter I return to you under cover, will explain the matter. I shall only observe upon it, that the fair hopes I began to entertain are again destroyed, and I have the worst consequences to apprehend from your desperate, and dreadful conduct. I do not doubt but you put into execution the scheme you projected, and practiced the odious purposes at which you glanced in the concluding lines of your letter to Mr. Templeton!
what,
Charles, are you
already
capable of this? can you, with a more than brutal precipitation, subdue the boasted feelings of tenderness for one woman, and hurry away to make an offer of your person to another?
Indelicate and ungrateful youth! separated as we are—could I have imagined—could I have even believed it possible, that a few days should so have prostituted,
what
I fondly took to be the most constant of hearts? rather than have committed so gross—so disrespectful—so barbarous, an action, why did you not even venture, as you threatened, (wrong as such a step would have been) to call upon me. The condition you were in, would have, in some measure, excused you to me— I might have advised you to return home: I might have—as a friend, as a sister—as a parent, pointed out to you the palpable sin—guilt—impropriety—barbarity of such an action! not, Sir, that the action affects me: I have neither right or dominion over you. I speak not upon my own account, heaven knows! so far on the contrary, that in my very last letter, I promised your reconciliation with Cleora. In
her
arms I could almost bear to behold you. But what could lead you to this early violation? who knows what may be the consequence!—who knows what multiplied mischief may spring from it! Ah, my friend, think what a slight constitution you possess—think how long, and assiduously (even with all the attentions and nursings of love) your Charlotte laboured to confirm your health—Perhaps the unhappy female, whose favours you have thus purchased, may be one, who—oh, Charles! you have been much to blame; indeed you have. I am so truly—so deeply affected at this rashness—for
your
sake—that I tremble as I sit in my chair; a sigh which I cannot repress, bursts from my bosom, and a tear which I cannot restrain, drops upon my paper. If you look closely you will perceive where it fell. But that is nothing; a friend's health must ever be precious—were it not for your health's sake, the rashness of your conduct would not so much vex me. What though you bought a
beauty—!
she was extremely handsome no doubt— 'Tis very strange, Sir, that you cannot be contented with having a pretty wife for nothing; but you must— in your embarrassed circumstances too—ramble into houses a man of feeling should blush to enter. Do not suppose I want to trace your favourites—I have no such curiosity. Possibly the lady was your
fair incog.
long before I left you. But what indeed is that to me? you are your own master—we are utterly disunited, and, and, and—oh! Charles, Charles, I begin to adopt the sentiment of Cleora, and believe, you never had the least affection for
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XXX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE. (After receiving the above.)
DEAR, and justly offended Charlotte, forgive me! The agonies I have felt, and still feel from your reproaches, are even more insupportable than the absence which made me rush into the behaviour that deserved them. And yet, (so thrive my hopes for your felicity) I am less guilty than you may be led to guess, from the declarations of a drunken man!
Since the letter has fallen into your hands, I will religiously relate the unextenuated facts.
The lunacy of disappointed love, and the madness of wine, to which you know I am so little accustomed, hurried me, I must confess, into all the distractions of dissipation.
When the partner of my intoxication left me, I was in the street; scarce sensible in my head, and unable to keep my heels. I stood supporting myself for some time against the pillars of a door in a state of irresolution: even then, the image of the relentless Charlotte presented itself; I would have died with pleasure the next morning, to have part that night in your company. The little likelihood of this drove me to despair, and calling a coach, I ordered the driver to carry me to your lodgings. About twenty yards from the house I pulled the check-string, and alighted: the moon was in her meridian, and I walked on till I came opposite your window. The shutters were closed; the streets were quiet, and not an object near, except the watchman, whose night-box was stationed within five paces of your apartment. I twined my arms in a melancholy folding, and directed my eye, as I stood fixed, to that part of the mansion which I knew you occupied. There is a lane which leads to the back of the house, and I got staggeringly upon the wall that separated the property. Here, Charlotte, as I stood upright on the ridge, I commanded the adjacent apartments.—The extreme warmth of the night had induced the inhabitant to suffer the sash about a third part open, and the cooling breezes of midnight rewarded the design. Ah! God! what were my sensations, when, levelling my eye to the casement, I saw, by the assistance of the moon-beams, (at this time uncommonly bright) a dress that I knew! At the edge of the toilet lay that very hussive which I presented to you so very lately, and whose first employment was to contain the needles which assisted in making the ruffles you left unfinished. The spotted handkerchief, the cap, the hat, and even the garters you yourself knitted, were there. Spread upon a chair, at a small distance, was a packet of papers, partly unfolded, perhaps the correspondence of Charles—and the curtain on the female side of the bed was undrawn: at the foot it was impenetrably and enviously pinned close together. Imagine, oh! imagine, my situation! for I cannot describe it. The watchman neglected to inspect the lane, though he sat almost at the beginning of it. Love's auspicious god had surely charmed him to rest, for he did not even call his hour after the clock had struck. I remained still undiscovered, and could not persuade mvself to remove. How shall I paint what followed? ah! beloved woman, pardon and pity me! I brought my ear even with the edge of the window-frame, and listened: what did I hear? even the balmy breath of my Charlotte, heaving somewhat interruptedly in slumber. I opened my lips, if aught of the perfume would reach me, that I might inhale it. Five minutes, or more than five, did I continue in this attitude; and then — mighty love assist me — then did I hear the dearest of women, starting from her sleep, exclaim— "This should be
his
pillow—here should his cheek repose—ah! Charles, Charles, why did we ever meet? this parting will distract me" —My heart at this time prompted me to discover myself, and I tremblingly put my hand to the sash, and heaved it higher—I could have stepped into Charlotte's bedchamber with ease: another lift would have carried me into her arms; but the pullies rattled, you called loudly to know "who was there," and I was compelled to descend from the walls of paradise.
The abruptness with which I descended, brought me headlong to the ground, I cut myself with pieces of broken glass, and other rubbish that had been thrown into the lane. I had just risen, when I once more looked at the window, where, to compleat my misery, I saw the disrobed, lovely, and beautiful Charlotte, pulling down the sash.
Agitated as I was, I dared not speak. I kept my promise with you, even in drunkenness, and was silent under all these touching circumstances. But what did all these efforts of honour cost me? I thought my senses would utterly have left me!
That nothing may remain concealed, I will disclose even the scenes which succeeded — And yet, why
should
I? to what end do I make you acquainted with more instances of my weakness? — you wish me to hate you: you have annihilated my image, and you earnestly desire I should obliviate yours: you detest, you abhor, you laugh at the agonies of
CHARLES.
LETTER XXXI. HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
to CHARLES.
FOR heaven's sake, my dear Charles, be more guarded: you will destroy the happiness both of Charlotte and yourself. She is palpably jealous of you: every syllable in her letter declares it. Her tenderness for you is even greater than ever. I conjure you, therefore, not to injure her: continue still to consider her silently as your sister, and I prophecy that something will happen in the course of a little time, to make her as essentially your wife, by the laws of the land, as she is evidently already by the laws of the tenderest love that can possibly be reciprocated. At least give her the indulgence of a short period. I still expect to see you happy together, and I am persuaded, if you let fortune take her own play, without unseasonably interrupting her, she will contrive matters in your favour, till all shall work together for your good. Persecutions and searchings after her at present, will only defeat your purposes. View her, therefore, I again conjure you, as the dearest relation in the world, who cannot possibly live in the same house with you. Surely there is a most delicate consolation in believing yourself most passionately beloved by an
absent
friend. That you
are
passionately beloved, and that you will continue to be so, there is not the smallest doubt: and, give me as a friend, leave to tell you, that, to suppose you are
not,
is a poor compliment to Charlotte: your incredulity, in this case, argues your want of confidence. Depend upon it, if she who has torn herself from you, ever finds it again in her power (I mean in the power of her feelings) to return, she will not hesitate to crown the warmest wishes of her amiable companion, who, both by habit and inclination, must be too dear to be soon forgotten. Do you think she
has
forgotten you? oh, Charles, you cannot be so ignorant of the workings of nature, nor can you be so insensible to the peculiarly soft heart of her, whose absence you are deploring. Take my word for it, that were you to meet twelve-months hence, your first interview would not be sustained like persons who had buried the remembrance of each other. I judge not romantically, but from a knowledge of you both: I judge from the scenes of lively, and lasting endearment you have both experienced: you can no more forget one another, than you can forget yourselves. Many a sad hour does she feel, as well as Charles, and much anguish must she undergo to support and continue these triumphs of her delicacy. Once more, therefore, I desire you to let things take their course, and, by some stroke of providence, Charlotte will assuredly be restored to you. I am not able to settle my business here so expeditiously as I could, for your sake, wish. But I must insist on your letters giving me all material occurrences, since it is impossible any thing should happen to you, that can be matter of indifference to
HAMLET TEMPLETON.
P. S.
I like not your scheme of indulging in wine; it is only one degree more excusable than indulging with women. Neither of these will assist you at present; and therefore you would do better to avoid both.
LETTER XXXII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
GOOD God, Charles, what a life do you make me lead! and what real misery hath distinguished the night and the day since the arrival of your last! how can you be so ingenious to torture your own heart and mine? Your scene at my window thrills me with horror. What a time to be exposed to the open air: careless and intoxicated too as you were! what wretchedness must attend your prospect! How could the impetuosity of your passion suggest such an expedient; dangerous in itself, and painful in its consequences? I hope, however, you have not cut yourself alarmingly: pray get the best advice: glass sometimes sticks within the skin, and gangrenes. Oh! for heaven's sake, take care. Had you staid till the noise brought me to the window, what would have become of us both? to have denied you admittance, would have been, in such a situation, impossible: to have admitted you would have been a fresh gall to those wounds of honour which I am trying to heal. If you regard either my health, my happiness, or my life, never put me again to such severe trials.
If, Charles, the scenes that succeeded this shocking one at my chamber window are such as an eye, not wholly abandoned, may dare to look upon, you may send it to me. I can, however, too readily guess the scope of it: and yet it was, methinks, a strange heart, that could just quit the most pathetic object in the world, and find a gratification, the next minute, in the grossest.
Write, nevertheless, and faithfully write, the honest truth. Tell me how happy you have been made by the miserable she whom gold allured to the man she possibly never saw before. Oh! Charles, where has been your delicacy! or if your passions rioted over your reason, why did you not seek to relieve them in the arms of Cleora? Farewell, you have planted a fresh dagger in the bosom of
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XXXIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
HARD-judging Charlotte! you think worse of me than you ought. I have, as you will presently see, preserved my delicacy, in spite of my dissipation; did I not at this time feel too severely the
effects
of that dissipation, and was I not sitting up in my bed, in defiance of a fever that almost parches the pen as I hold it, I would convince you of this. But I am quite exhausted, and must defer this matter to a future opportunity.
I am your afflicted CHARLES.
LETTER XXXIV. HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
to CHARLES.
I HAVE met an adventure that I think may draw off your mind, in some measure, from its present fatal object of contemplation; and therefore I will describe it as accurately as my memory permits. You cannot too attentively apply yourself to those scenes which amuse the imagination and soothe the fancy.
At the house of Mr. — where I now am on a visit (from which I cannot yet politely disengage self) dined the other day, six people of both sexes; amongst them a stripling, who complained bitterly that he had been abused by the lady of his heart, who, after a courtship (and all its costly consequences) of five years, had left him in the lurch; kept his presents, stolen his affections, and turned him adrift, in favour of a stupid fellow with a smooth face, a laced coat, and a well-turned pair of legs. This poor swain made a fool of himself all dinner time, could drink little, eat less, sighed every second, and at last solemnly declared he would renounce the sex, and set out the next week to seek for indifference, in rambling round the habitable globe.
After this declaration, he sat silent and melancholy for a long time, and really infected the whole company: at length an old gentleman that sat next him, tapp'd him softly on the shoulder, and said, "he was in hopes he did not know in what
real
misery consisted; and so, continued he, as we are all mighty
English,
and inclined to be pensive, I will tell you the heads of
my
history, from which you will be able, perhaps, to deduce a very useful lesson: namely, that happiness hates to be
hunted,
and is very seldom caught by those, who
violently
pursue her. She detests pressing, and must come a volunteer into the service of mortals."
"All our misery, or at least the greatest portions of it, arise from the want of settled and consolidated sentiments—in other words, from submitting to the violence of various passions, without sticking to any one of them upon principle. This has been my misfortune; take care that it is not yours. I am now, you see, in the decline of life, and yet, from the time that I came to years of discretion, as
indiscreet
people too often call them, I have been chacing different shadows; and fluctuating, tempest-tost, betwixt opposite opinions. At my first coming into the world, a mere noviciate in all respects, (as it were, in the very morning of exigence) fancy, and curiosity threw before my eye a thousand gay and glittering appearances. I could neither engage in a dance, or make one at a dinner, or attend a concert, or visit any place of public diversion, without receiving some unlucky impression in favour of objects either recommended by their novelty, or to which I was invited by the ardour of my temper. I, like you, had a free hand, a liberal soul, and a susceptible heart: my spirits were lively, my ideas excursive, and fancy for ever on the wing. The ruling propensities of my nature were social, and, I cultivated with a vigour peculiar to young people, all the friendly and interesting connections."
"To rescue my friend, or to prove my fidelity, to him, I set at nought hazard, embarrassment, and enterprize, with all the enthusiastical vehemence of a knight-errant. My efforts were without the least mercenary mixture, and my opinions conceived and admitted without any suspicion. Having indulged this luxury of the young man for some time, till certain tokens of insincerity somewhat cooled my ardour, I was taught by experience, the necessity of caution, and found it wholesome to alter a little the system I had adopted: instead, therefore, of falling in love at first sight, of conferring indiscriminate favours, of fixing promiscuous friendships, or of lavishing offers of service to all men, without caution or distinction, I was tempted to enter into intercourses of a more stationary kind: my appetites were now less refractory: imagination had enjoyed her frolic, and the curiosity of a rambling, romantic heart was satisfied. I now resolved to begin the world on a new principle: I courted a young woman eminently beautiful, and obtained her hand: from this moment I entertained notions, views and wishes, utterly the reverse of my former ones: fortune— interest—children—family and posterity, all crouded upon me: the shilling, which in my late bachelor-state I should have toss'd carelesly away, I turned very deliberately, and placed it as an accumulated twelve-pence in my drawer."
"At the end of a year my wife presented me with a similitude of herself; and the moment it came into the world, I imagined it gave so sacred an addition to my character, that, I remember well, on that very day I bustled into my barber's shop with an unusual strut, and ordered a supernumerary row of curls to my peruke, the better to figure as the father of a family. The succeeding year gave me a son, with whom I was no sooner provided, than I became anxious to provide a fortune to support him. To accomplish this, need I say, that I adopted the most circumspect maxims. I gave nothing without knowing to what end. I engaged in a good business, entertained but seldom, threw myself as little as possible in the way of pleasurable temptation, rose up early in the morning to the account book, and knowing my infirmity (for you must know I always loved
wine
) I kept the bottle out of sight. Yet, in reward of this self-denial, I eat hearty, slept sound, and repaired the constitution, which the career of the former part of my life had deplorably shaken. For several years I applied myself to the maxims of gain, and, in the end, obtained by such industry a considerable fortune."
"About this period my sentiments underwent
another
total alteration: from the domestic friend and man of business, I shifted to the man of magnificence and parade; and just as I had, by dint of infinite drudgery, obtained a good fortune, I took it into my head to spend it like a fool. As you are in
love,
young Sir, you know something about human inconsistency, and therefore will not wonder at this apparent lunacy. Well, Sir, I took it into my ridiculous head, as I was saying, to purchase a piece of ground on the side of a hill, in the county of Somerset: upon this hill, I had the nonsensical ambition to build a spacious house, and in this house, to my shame be it spoken, I placed pictures and paintings, which, as the learned in those matters
told me,
were extremely fine and valuable. I now no longer listen'd to the chatter upon change, the jargon of Garraway's, nor the stupidity of the stocks. I bustled no more in business, took my cash out of trade, set up a chaise, and commenced the
eminent merchant retired from
ways,
to live upon his
means. I turned a bleak, bare hill behind my villa, into a shrubbery of sirs, and the steep descent from before my front door, I converted into a garden, in which I placed statues of all the great folks; and, that the matter might be compleat, I ordered a pond to be cut in the centre, that I might have at once wood, water, and fish into the bargain. My wife, however, soon complained that the walls were damp, my children were constantly afflicted with colds: my gardener discovered, that nothing either useful or beautiful would grow, upon account of barren ground; and the neighbouring gentry, after paying a compliment to my taste in building, pitied me on being unfortunate in the
situation.
I made no more ado, Sir, but upon this, I pull'd (like a true baby tired of my plaything) the whole edifice down, even to the cornerstone; and, in the rage of my heart, hurried with my family again to London, where I took lodgings, and, in mere despair and shame, shut myself up for several days."
"My fortune, acquired by the diligence of many years, was too substantial to be much hurt by a single folly. I had indeed thrown away upwards of two thousand pounds, and I had got a pretty deal of experience. Now mark the reverse: from that day to this, I do not believe I have misemployed or misplaced a single penny. You see me now in the last stage of my journey. My wife is in heaven, and my children are in good circumstances: one of my boys has made a very good piece of arable out of that very ground which was reprobated by the indolent gardener: I have rebuilt the house, so as to make it fine, and warm enough for a farmer; and my third son has persuaded me to buy a pretty parcel of land contiguous to it. As to myself, after all the frolics and vagaries of youth, I have something to line the easy chair of old age: I have an old woman to rub my ancles when the gout hath wrapt them up in flannels; my bed is the softer for being my own buying, and though I do not bid every puppy put his hand into my purse, yet, if he can prove to me that he is not a rogue, and is guilty only of raggedness, I shall never be churl enough to refuse him a cast coat that hangs idly collecting dust upon a peg, nor will I send him away in the winter, without warming himself against the weather, by a warm seat in the chimney-corner. Thus young, Sir, you see how fatal it is to indulge imagination: I was the sport of it for a long time, and happy was it for me, that I condescended, in the season of the grey hair, to lead the life of reason."
Here, my dear Charles, the old gentleman ended his story, which, though not absolutely in point, was truly entertaining, and enriched by very pertinent and salutary observations. In all events it will answer a very good purpose, if the recital of it in any degree alleviates the misery of my friend—a friend, whose joys and woes are always reverberated upon the heart of his
HAMLET TEMPLETON.
LETTER XXXV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
I HAVE health, or at least strength enough returned to vindicate myself to you; for I feel, that I must ever remain additionally uneasy till I stand fair and unsuspected in your thoughts and opinions.
True it is, that I wandered into a house of ill reputation, and did it with a view of burying the image which haunted my repose. The utmost, indeed, that could possibly be expected from such an effort, was not pleasure, but alleviation of pain. Heaven knows I did not hope for happiness from the embraces of venal beauty, but merely to deaden for a moment, the sense of intolerable anguish; and even this was attempted in the absence or lethargy of every cool and rational faculty. Shall I confess to you, that I sent a creature of convenience for a wretched female, who depended on her daily violations for subsistence? the messenger delayed, and my spirits sinking in the
interim,
I swallowed a bumper of champaign, and drank to the health of Charlotte, even in my debauch. As I was pouring down the third glass, now almost daylight, I heard the rustle of silks upon the stairs. What a sensation did this trifle produce! but, ah! how unlike
that I
had been us'd to feel, when the step of Charlotte animated my expectation. A female came; shewy, laboriously adorned, and, as she soon told me, just out of bed. I began immediately to make comparisons: they were indeed
odious.
I look'd in the eyes, for Charlotte's love-born languishment, and I found in their stead artful ogles, misusing the lustre of what might once have been innocently bright. I surveyed the face for tender sensibility; the form for engaging deportment, and the dress, for the union of elegance and judgment; instead of which, I beheld confident aukwardness, and a flaunting variety, betraying at once the taste and the trade. The lady, however, to whom long habit had rendered every thing indifferent but finery, called up a look which signified an entire compliance. I must own to my dear friend, that time, place, and opportunity, all favoured. Ah! madam, there was but one thing wanting to compleat the scene. There was only wanting—
inclination.
In a word Charlotte, confess yourself deceived in me; confess that I am less infamously unfaithful than you supposed. I was shocked, disgusted, and burst into tears both of remorse and disappointment. As soon as I recovered, I threw five pieces on the table, hung on my sword with a trembling hand, and bade the unfortunate, farewell. Upon this transaction I dare not make a comment, nor have I the courage to expect more than your pity for the yet ardent passion of
CHARLES.
LETTER XXXVI. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
'TIS impossible I should speak upon the subject of your last. I rejoice however truly, in the recovery of your health, of which I desire you to be extremely careful, and take the liberty of a tender friend to advise you never will again put yourself unnecessarily in the way of destroying it.
You make me very uneasy about my sister, whom you do not mention in any of your letters—what can be the reason of it? nor do you answer my request in relation to Cleora.
Adieu I am yours CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XXXVII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
I HAVE this minute received a little money. If you think an apology necessary for my telling you of this, or of dividing it with you, as usual, you must greatly have altered your opinion of
CHARLES.
LETTER XXXVIII.
The Answer.
SEND me as much of the money you have received as is convenient; but do not forget that there is a
third
person in the world less amply accommodated than might be wished by
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XXXIX. CHARLOTTE to CLEORA.
MADAM.
CHARLES has sent me what, under my present circumstances, I have no right to detain, and which, for fear of wounding his delicacy, I had not the courage to forbid his transmitting. I do not doubt but he has sent a
proper
message to you; at the same time I judge it a point of honour, and shall esteem it a very great favour, if you will not be offended at my inclosure, which is undoubtedly the property of Cleora.
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER XL. CHARLES to CLEORA.
MADAM.
YOU are not to be acquainted that I have lost my happiness. But that is not to be the subject of this address: you complain of your circumstances, and I shall, to the utmost of my very slender abilities, be ever ready to alleviate them. You will please to accept the inclosed trifle, as an evidence of my future intentions.
I believe you have no idea that it is possible for you and I to be re-united. Without entering painfully into a repetition of the points that at first divided us, I shall only observe to you, that our reconciliation (I mean so far as relates to our living together) is
impracticable.
I find that
our child
is at boarding-school at a great distance from you: as your money is locked up at present, the support of this must be inconvenient. I have been long anxious to see, and have my share of the pleasure arising from the society of the child; and I will now venture to request that I may be allowed to take upon me the care of its education under my own eye. It shall receive from me all the tenderness and delicate assiduities of a father. I will lead it up in the paths of honour; not a sentiment shall be inculcated but those that will inspire her heart with virtue, or accomplish her head with understanding. Surely madam, though it is necessary we should remain separate, it is by no means so that we should, in any degree, altercate, or entertain against each other a single sentiment of antipathy. I beseech you therefore to allow me the common pleasure of a parent: as the child is apart from you at present, it may as well remain under
my
protection as that of a stranger. I have thoughts of placing it near me at an excellent seminary, of which I will, at the proper time, give you the direction, that you may favour the object of our mutual delight with your visits, and maternal attention: only trust it to my care, and I shall be satisfied.
I do not insult you with a sentence in relation to a late connection. Whatever were the disagreements betwixt you and me, may they never be communicated to the curiosity of the public: and as to my intercourses elsewhere, may they never come within your knowledge to distress you. Farewel.
I am, your obedient servant, CHARLES.
LETTER XLI. HAMLET TEMPLETON,
ESQ
TO CHARLOTTE.
DEAR MADAM,
IT is not without great uneasiness, I find it necessary to be the amanuensis of your old correspondent Charles, who is in a condition that renders it impossible for him to take up the pen at present. In a word, madam, he is wounded, and I seriously fear at the point of death. The cause of this you will better learn from the inclosed, than from any thing I can possibly say upon the subject. He wishes exceedingly to hear from you, although he does not know that I am addressing you; and therefore I must beg you will not take any step to acquaint him by what means the news of his illness arrived.
I am, with the best wishes for the health and happiness of both,
Dear Madam,
your most obedient, humble servant, HAMLET TEMPLETON.
LETTER XLII. CHARLES, TO H. TEMPLETON, ESQ,
(Inclosed in the above.)
I WRITE to you with my left arm in a sling, and a ball in the bottom of my breast, as yet vainly endeavoured to be extracted: the anguish of my mind exceeds that of my body, and I have no relief but from writing to you; and that
is
a relief although it is not without a great deal of pain I hold the pen: my surgeon, however, has left me for an hour, and I am resolved to employ the interval of his perfections, in relating to you the principal circumstances of a quarrel that ended in blood on both sides.
I was on Tuesday last at a public dinner in the city, whither I went (in the hand of an acquaintance) on purpose to dissipate a little, and to expel thought, by looking about me. The glass was briskly circulated, and after we had run rapidly the round of general healths, such as the king, church, royal family,
&c. &c.
we came home to the private toasts of the heart, and drank each to the prosperity of his passion, and the happiness of his mistress. In the sincerity of my heart, I verged a little upon common ceremonies, and gave the divine Charlotte. I was pleased to see many politely ready to fill his glass of good wishes; but a person at the other end of the table repeated her name two or three times sarcastically, and at last, in a kind of half whisper, told his companion that she was to be
had
at—, but that her price was confoundedly high. I desired an explanation of this— smoke the
favourite,
said the gentleman, simpering to his companion.—The companion called to order, and I sat down: we drank freely, and though my heart lay burning within my bosom, I did not revive the subject, 'till the toast came round to the person who had insulted me. He proposed a lady: I drank her health, and then apologizing to the master of the treat for being unable to stay longer, withdrew.
I retired hastily into a room belonging to the same tavern, and soon found from my landlord, the name and quality of the person which at present employed my thoughts: he was an half pay officer of —'s regiment. Pen and ink being brought, I wrote as follows:
To Lieutenant A—.
SIR,
YOUR profession leaves your courage unsuspected. Without commenting, therefore, on wanting the manners of a British soldier, I have only to hint, that you have
insulted
a gentleman, who is waiting for you where the bearer will privately conduct you. I am stepping out to prepare
properly
for your reception, as I presume neither of us are prepared in that way; but I shall return immediately.
After I had folded up, and sent the waiter with this billet, I went to a gunsmith's in the neighbourhood, and soon provided a brace of pistols, with which I returned. The officer sent a verbal message by the servant, that he should not attend to such kind of engagements 'till the company broke up, and perhaps after that he might be in a humour to correct a stripling, who was hot enough to fight for his w—. Stung beyond measure at this, I ran abruptly into the dining-room, and placed myself opposite to the insulter. He was that minute entering into what he was pleased to suppose the history of our former separation, having heard, as it appeared, some absurd story on that subject. He broke off upon my entrance, and filled his glass: just as he was lifting it to his lip, I rose, and in a whisper told him my contemptible opinion of a
scoundrel,
especially when he happened to disgrace a cockade. The colour of rage immediately rose over our hero's countenance, and he threw the contents of his glass into my face. All measures being now taken between us, I withdrew a second time, and the lieutenant was held by his companions.
My pains, Templeton, are so acute, I must rest a little.
LETTER XLIII. CHARLES, TO H. T.
ESQ
In Continuation
I WENT to a coffee-house, that luckily faced the door of the tavern, so that when the lieutenant came away it would be impossible for him to escape unseen. In about an hour he came out by himself without his hat, as if he had stolen from the company, upon some necessary pretence, and was desirous to find me. I shewed myself.—The lieutenant beckoned to me, and I followed him. With the first opportunity he called a hackney coach, into which we both got, and rode in it sullenly till we came to the apartment of the Lieutenant. Both of us threw down a shilling for the fare, because either disdained the obligation, in such a ease, of being treated. He conducted me into a large well furnished dining-room, where, after having turned the key, he begg'd pardon for not attending me at the first summons, and proposed an immediate accommodation of differences.—We fought —he conquered—I fell.—
I must pause Templeton, a second time: the surgeon knocks at the door. My anguish is severer than ever.
LETTER XLIV. CHARLES to H. T.
Esq
in conclusion.
I AM much more mangled without being more relieved: after near an hour's misery, the ball remains in my body, and I am not able to finish my account of the duel. The surgeon begins to look awful: his eye seems to menace actions still more bloody. He has almost cut into my heart. The next experiment will probably discover it to the spectator: ah, that Charlotte was then present—ah, that she could
see
it throbbing for her—after that I could wish its motion to cease for ever.
But no matter. You are my friend—I shall never acquaint Charlotte with the transaction, its motives, or its consequences—you are my friend: if therefore you wish to see me alive, hasten to
CHARLES.
LETTER XLV. CLEORA to CHARLES.
SIR,
A Correspondence would be inconsistent. I shall most certainly endeavour to keep you and Charlotte asunder. That I have been instrumental in so good a measure is my chief glory, even though I have not the most distant idea of being with you myself: nay, even though you now want the power to please
CLEORA.
P. S.
I shall not trust the child from its mother's protection.
LETTER XLVI. CHARLOTTE to H. T.
Esq
CHARLOTTE intreats Mr. Templeton to be in the bird-cage walk of St. James's park, within fifty paces of Buckingham gate, this evening at seven o'clock, where a relation of Charlotte's, who has the greatest desire to see Charles, will be extremely obliged to Mr. T. if he will conduct him (as he is a stranger) to Charles's lodgings.
Beseeches Mr. T. will not fail to come; and that in the mean time the matter may not be mentioned to Charles, for whose illness Charlotte is truly concerned.
LETTER XLVII. H. T.
Esq
to CHARLOTTE.
MR. T. will certainly observe Charlotte's appointment, and conduct her kinsman to the unhappy Charles, from whose body the ball is this minute dislodged, at the price of such incisions and torments as surely no other man has the fortitude to bear. In the height of the torture, as the blood was flowing from the flesh, he press'd Mr. T.'s hand, and told him in a whisper, even with a smile on his face, that he was suffering in the cause of the vindicated Charlotte.
The injunctions mark'd in the note, will be religiously attended to by Mr. Templeton.
LETTER XLVIII.
From the same to the same.
I DARE not advise at present, either a discovery, or a second experiment. The spirits of poor Charles are in too great a hurry, and as his fever intermits, it might be more dangerous than if it was, as before, perfectly delirious. Depend upon it I will never leave him, and tell you, from time to time, very faithfully, how he goes on.
The Lieutenant who wounded him sends a polite enquiry every day.
His
cure, and
your
felicity, would give the sincerest satisfaction to
H. T.
LETTER XLIX. CHARLOTTE to H. T.
Esq
IT is not romance; it is not a flight of fancy; I must see him again—I must see him instantly— Fear not any discovery; I will thicken my disguise—I will discolour my cheeks—I will stain my complexion—I will do any thing so as you will yourself keep my secret, and let me see him this night. Write directly, and say that you will call upon me by seven o'clock: I will wait even till eight with patience; but if you cruelly exceed that hour —ah! Mr. Templeton— I must—indeed I must see him.
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER L. CHARLOTTE to H. T.
Esq
PARDON my impatience—pardon such perpetual messages and letters. I write now, only to tell you of an expedient—tell me the name, and give me the address of Charles's surgeon. I'll acquaint you of my reasons for this, speedily. I hope no turn for the worse has happened since my last. What an unfortunate creature am I to occasion such complicated mischief to so amiable a man!
The bearer waits for an answer.
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER LI. H. T.
Esq
to CHARLOTTE.
DEAR MADAM.
THE surgeon who has the care of Charles, is named Melbank, and his residence is in St. James's-street. I am very sorry again to acquaint you that our wretched friend is in the delirium of a fever, in its worst state, and calls ravingly, several times in an hour, on his Charlotte. Mr. Melbank is to bring with him in the morning, or perhaps this evening, another surgeon of eminence, and a physician, resolving to proceed no farther without assistance.
I am, Madam,
your humble Servant, H. T.
LETTER LII. CHARLOTTE to Dr. MELBANK.
I AM interested Sir, beyond expression, in the life of your patient Charles, and have been, in some measure, the occasion of his present disorder. There are the most delicate reasons why I would not, just at this crisis, pay him an open visit; but if vou will take me in your hand, under the disguise of a student in physic and surgery, I will provide myself with the dress, and wait upon you in the evening. Oh Sir,—it is vain to attempt these transparent concealments.
I
am the most miserable CHARLOTTE. I am that unhappy girl for whom he fought, for whom he was wounded. Mr. Templeton has, no doubt, made known to you the particulars of your story. If he has —am I not to be pitied? am I not to be justified in taking a step apparently romantic, but truly affectionate, truly innocent, in order to see the man whom I have plunged into blood? Notwithstanding this, I will not call upon you till permitted, and I beg you will on no account reveal this circumstance to any person, unless to Mr. Templeton.
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER LIII. CLEORA to CHARLES.
AND so Sir, I find you have demanded satisfaction of a certain gentleman for only speaking
slightly
of Charlotte's constancy, although you could suffer several licentious young fellows to circulate the most infamous falshood to the dishonour of your wife's character. But this I suppose, in the fine gentleman's calendar, is
gallantry,
and I must set it down to the account of
genteel life.
CLEORA.
LETTER LIV. H. T.
Esq
to CLEORA.
MADAM.
FAR be it from me to interpose a single sentiment betwixt two persons of the same family at variance; but just for the present I am desired by the surgeon to beg you would forbear any severity in your letters; and, indeed, if you knew Charles's present situation, you would at least stay till he is able to defend himself, by holding the pen to answer you.
I am, Madam,
your obedient servant, H. T.
LETTER LV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.
YES, Charles, I confess it. It was Charlotte who took you by the hand: it was she who came into your sick chamber, under the disguise of a man's habit, and smoothed your uneasy pillow! nor do I repent, or blush at it. As I perceive you are pleased at it, I rejoice in the stratagem, and defy the sneers of such as have the heart, in those circumstances, to withstand the best of its impulses. I enjoin you, oh! my dear Charles, to compose yourself, and remember that in your life is involved the life of
CHARLOTTE.
LETTER LVI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
I KNEW it was impossible to be mistaken. I knew it by a thousand circumstances! by the brow of alabaster delicately meander'd by the cerulian of the veins—by the silken eye-lash—by the soft pressure of the hand—by the rosy lip—ah, Charlotte! my very senses returned to welcome you; pain stood suspended, and pleasure advanced! my wound was well for the moment—my heart acknowledged you. Did I not lay your dear hand upon it! did it not bound in gratitude! —
What can I say, Charlotte. I am easier—I am better—I shall soon be well. And is your life indeed wrapt up in mine? be it so. Your wishes will be granted. Heaven will spare Charles for the sake of Charlotte. What wonders have you worked in a moment—a single interview!—
Oh, Charlotte!—I shall live and recover—I shall be happy. The barbarous surgeon commands me to lay aside the pen.
He
never felt the— He takes away my ink-stand.
Adieu. CHARLES.
LETTER LVII. HAMLET TEMPLETON
Esq
to Sir HENRY TEMPLETON.
OH my dear father assist me: the oldest, and best, and most ingenious friend I have in the world, is now on the bed of sickness, and in want of a small supply of cash to answer the exigences of so pathetic a situation. He has been dangerously wounded in a duel, and is now slowly recovering. The loss of a large estate in the court of chancery; a disagreement in his family; and a thousand other severe strokes of hard fortune, attend him. I know your generosity, Sir, and beg leave to invite it on this most interesting occasion. Ah! my dear father, you know not how extensive a happiness I could make, were you to transmit me an order for the trifling sum of fifty pounds! if I cannot obtain it any other way, from your liberality, I entreat that it may be considered as so much in advance of my next year's allowance. I will live the more saving and oeconomical in order to serve my friend. But why do I say this? you will applaud my sentiments: you will encourage the noble feelings of social sympathy, and congratulate yourself and your son. 'Twere unnecessary to observe that my poor friend has been already reduced to part with several things of value, which I have, one by one, carried in the dusk of the evening, to those who lend money to the children of distress, upon depositing the very necessaries of life.
I am, honoured Sir,
your most dutiful, H. T.
LETTER LVIII. Sir HENRY TEMPLETON, to HAMLET TEMPLETON,
Esq
NOW the murder's out I find. I shall forbear henceforward to wonder at your extravagance, or at the various shifts you are driven to, to support it. Upon my word, young gentleman, you are a mighty pretty fellow; a very prince of generosity; a perfect Pilades! and pray who
is
this heroic Orestes? but no matter! and so you want to fleece the old fellow out of fifty pieces, do you? very well pushed, I must confess; but it won't take. I warrant you now, if I should be blockhead enough to send you a draft for this money, you and your friend would be both cured of your sickness and your sorrows, and hug yourselves happily at having humbug'd the old put of a father.
I am mightily tickled with the compliment you pay my generosity, at the expence of my prudence. As much as if you had said to a lady, madam, I admire your eyes, if they were not in the way of your nose, and I am charmed with your teeth, only it is a pity they overhang your lips. — Between you and I, Sir, it is not quite clear to me whether your generosity, as you call it, will not one day or another exalt you above the heads of the people, and give you a preeminent
exit
at Tyburn. Why, you no more mind fifty pounds than fifty flea-bites, or so many snaps of the finger. Do you know Sir, that fifty pounds will buy me a pair of horses for my carriage — that it will equip me in cloaths for two years?—that it is more than you ought to have
per annum,
and find every thing; although I am fool enough to double it?
If I will give you an order for this sum, you will live more
oeconomically
—so you
can
live more oeconomically, can you? why, you are a prodigal by your own confession, and I have a great mind to sink the half of your allowance from this day, till you are pinched into prudence! I can't conceive where the plague you got that cursed talent for lavishing money! none of my family, nor any of your mother's, were ever spendthrifts. We were all upon the saving order. Zounds, sir! I have had three sets of buttons upon one suit of cloaths: but you scorn to set any thing off savingly, and by the way of Cheapside, as I used to express myself. I have absolutely heard you laugh at soling a pair of shoes; you never would suffer my taylor to
turn
cloth of eighteen shillings
per
yard; and I have seen you toss up your nose at a fine-drawn stroke in the elbow! for all this, you can condescend to go skulking with a bundle under your arm, in the dusk of the evening, to a pawn-brokers! Zounds, sir! what a low-spirited dog you must be! to run into such a horrid place, with a coat, a shirt, and an old pair of stockings!
To be plain, young man, I do not expect any good from you while you are so consumedly liberal, and ready to give away your money to every coxcomb or impostor that asks for it. But 'tis as I ever said, "lightly come lightly go." Be that as it may: I will not send you a single shilling to spend in such romantic purposes: and I would rather relieve any wound than that occasioned by a duel. Every fellow that dares to lift up his hand against the life of another, ought to smart for it; and I should be sorry, for any one to escape out of such an infamous encounter without the loss of a limb, or a scar at the least. If the truth was known, I don't doubt but your friend fought for a wench, or because he was drunk, or because he wanted better and wiser employment. Let the fact, however, be what it will, I am very angry that you should be a very great fool yourself, and that you should endeavour to make me a much greater.
I am, your offended father, HENRY TEMPLETON.
LETTER LIX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
I Continue to mend, and yet the inhuman Melbank still denies me the use of pen and paper; but I have bribed my nurse to buy me some, and she keeps it under lock and key. These physical folks are such pedants —Can any thing in nature so soon or so effectually contribute to my recovery as writing to, and hearing from, the amiable Charlotte? Her sense—her elegance—her delicacy— her gentleness—her love — I mean her
friendship,
are all so many cordials to me. I lay them—I lay the letters which contain the marks of them, upon my pillow, and they add softness to the down—I press them upon my bosom, even till they touch my wounds, and they act as the healing balm, or restoratives of life, health, and joy—I then carry them to my heart, and it pants to confess from whence they came. How then can this cruel Melbank tell me that I must stifle such ideas—such actions —how can he say they will agitate me into a relapse? You, Charlotte, are acquainted—you have perhaps some interest with Cleora. If so, intercede with her, I beseech you, for my child. She never sees it herself, and yet she will not allow it the shelter of a father's arms. She is every way unkind. But I must not indulge melancholy reflections. I already feel the effect of them. My spirits are fluttered—my pulses are irregular. Melbank is coming to dress my wound. I wish to heaven I was well enough to discharge him! I had rather die than be denied to correspond with Charlotte. Melbank is at the door. The nurse shall hurry away my writing instruments.
Adieu! CHARLES.
LETTER LX. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.
YOU delay the recovery of your friend's health, madam. Your letters disorder and affect him too much. Every thing that alarms, every thing that excites a tumultuous passion, should be most cautiously avoided in his present state. You cannot conceive what an injury you are doing, and all the endeavours of nature and a surgeon will be ineffectual if you do not desist. I will give you a call this afternoon, and explain the nature of this mischief more explicitly. In the mean time, I hope you will excuse the well-intended advice of
Your obedient servant, ERSKINE MELBANK.
LETTER LXI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
MY friend, Mr. Templeton, is suddenly summoned from my chamber, to attend the funeral of a superannuated cousin, at Sir Henry, his father's seat, in the country; and the close-handed old baronet, only sent him an order for five pounds to carry him almost an hundred miles, though he is heir to near seven thousands a year. As this great consolation is taken from me, let it inspire the benevolence of Charlotte, and then she will charitably employ her pen in forwarding the recovery of
CHARLES.
LETTER LXII. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.
NOtwithstanding, dear madam, what I urged to you, in tenderness to your friend Charles, last night, in regard to the danger of writing pathetic letters before the nervous system could bear such alarming concussions, I would not, on any account, have you take any notice of this friendly hint to my patient. He might misconstrue it. Young men of lively spirits, and animated tempers, are apt to mistake.
You,
however, see my motive, and will take your measures accordingly. I cannot but use this opportunity to applaud the dignity of your resolutions in regard to the separation. 'Tis an effort even superior to the virtue of the Spartan Ladies: 'tis Roman—'tis Christian! How much ought you to be celebrated for so illustrious an action! and how infinitely ought Cleora to sound your praises! at the same time, my good lady, are you not a little too enterprizing to continue the correspondence? was it not a little too much in the novel strain to come in a boy's habit, and display such various beauties to the eye of Charles, in such a situation— softened as he was by sickness, touched as he must be at the discovery? you recollect to what an embarrassment he was reduced: did not he faint? did not he fall lifeless on the pillow? and was it not with great difficulty you yourself could support the conflict? suffer me to say, such trials, if frequent, would stagger the firmest philosophy, and I doubt, it is at best rashness to put too much confidence in our own strength when we oppose it to those passions which too often turn strength into weakness. It is certainly your duty to avoid the temptation as much as possible, and this you can do, only by assiduously avoiding every thing that reminds you of the object. Don't you know, my dear Madam, that in epidemic distempers, we are only secure, while we escape the touch of the contagious person? and with respect to wounds of the mind, they are like those of the body; if we venture abroad too soon, or, thinking ourselves quite cured, if we run hastily into circumstances that hurt us before, we shall, in all human probability, have a return of our complaint; and a relapse, in either case, is often worse than the first attack.
To drop, however, the language of my profession, and speak as a moralist, I must every way, and by every argument, recommend it to you to lay aside the corresponding pen: every line in every letter stirs the embers, which, if not meddled with would go out, till, in the end, the fatal passion which at first kindled the original flame, would be utterly extinguished. But, I beg pardon. I am too hastily assuming the soft authority of friendship. I confess, madam, your merit has greatly interested me in your welfare; and
this,
with the duty I owe to my patient, and the sincere love I bear to virtue, will unite to plead my excuse for the great freedom I have taken.
My sensibility is exceedingly hurt at your offering to settle Charles's account with me, for my attendance. I am well informed, madam, of that young gentleman's misfortunes, and my chief uneasiness upon that subject arises from not knowing
how
I can assure him the visits I have paid him were on the score of a friendship, which his merit hath powerfully excited in the breast of
E. MELBANK.
LETTER LXIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.
TWO days run away, and not
one
letter? but you may be ill—you may be incapable of writing —Oh! heaven forbid that! I would rather find myself neglected, than have you furnished with an apology from real indisposition. Yet, indeed, Charlotte, if you
can,
you
should
write, and write longer letters than ever. There is more necessity for such an indulgence. I am very weak; my wound heals tardily—my friend is absent, and a nurse's officiousness, is by no means like the tender attentions of a lover or a friend. Ah! what a blessing would my Charlotte's society now be! how might she support me with her kind arm as I made gradual efforts to walk across my chamber: from her hand how acceptable would be the bitterest draught, and the most nauseous drugs that could be administered! in the middle of the day, when the sun favoured the attempt, here might Charlotte lead me to the opened window till I revived: the balmy air would be additionally salubrious, the warm beams of noon would be doubly genial, if Charlotte was by my side. But this is impossible — yet surely it is not impossible to give me the only comfort I can now receive! —the innocent comfort of a daily letter! the most rigid enemy could not deny me that! and will Charlotte then deny it? write, I charge you, and gild my solitary sickness with one ray of satisfaction!
CHARLES.
LETTER LXIV.
From the same to the same.
THE date of a card I have this instant received from a person in the city, puts me in mind of a circumstance that brings the tears of tender congratulation into my eyes. It is the 18th of August! my watch, which hangs at the head of the bed, points betwixt the hours of eight and nine! It is the anniversary morning of my Charlotte's birth! it is the returning day of the year, that gave to the world one of the best and loveliest of women! the sun darts chearfully into my chamber: the sky is uncommonly azure! I have opened the casement, and am saluted with a breeze more balmy and serene, than I ever felt in my life. There is a grape-vine runing along the wall, till its tendrils ambitiously twist round my window, and come mantling into my bedroom. The foliage on the outside is uncommonly luxurious! and since I have been confined, a red-breast has nested amongst the leaves. He is this moment in the sweetest thrillings of his domestic song! Even so near the bustle and buildings of the metropolis, I have all the advantages of rural life! Every thing around me seems to compliment my Charlotte! What then must I feel upon the subject? how must I be touched—with what an ardent sincerity must I wish this day, and every revolving one— every eighteenth of August—how —how, I say, must I pray—how supplicate the powers of happiness and health that
This day may be always sacred;
No mourning, no misfortune happen on it;
That it be mark't with triumphs and rejoicings;
That happy lovers still may make it holy
And ever choose it to endear remembrance!
From the bottom of my heart I hail the return of this delightful morning. And yet, Charlotte, how cruelly busy is fancy in the breast and brain of a man under certain influences? what a train of objects now use before me? what a vision is Imagination drawing? how she swells upon the canvass? what a glow in her colouring? what animation in her touches? there is character in every stroke of her pencil; her figures are from the life. She has a hand that throws Raphael into despair. Her exact similitudes captivate the eye, and her resemblances subdue the heart!
Methinks I now see how Charlotte employs the present day; she invites the numerous circles of those that wish her well: the feast is prepared: the lovely entertainer in the bloom of beauty and youth, sits at the head of the table as goddess of the banquet. She delights more by her senses, her wit, and her politeness, than by the delicacies of her board. And yet can it ever Charlotte, ah! can it ever be forgotten, in what Charles used to engage upon this day! will not his attention to the very hour, the minute—the second of her birth, be long remembered? With what a more than bridal vigilance did he watch the returns of this auspicious aera! how did he fondly busy himself in birth-day preparations—love constant, exalted love inspired, his conduct upon these occasions. It was love that invited the sun to shine on that day with a conspicuous lustre: it was love that provided the ornament, and decorating novelties which were then, for the
first time,
to be worn: it was love that wept over the sparkling glass: love it was which gave the congratulating kiss—and it was love which smiled as the day closed, and as the indulging night advanced, to give you, all accomplished, to my embraces.
Surely these recollections will, even in the midst of natal festivity, revive those sentiments in the sympathizing bosom of Charlotte, which will bestow one tender sigh to the memory of affection, and
CHARLES.
END OF VOL. I.