To Colonel Bellville.
SHE is come, this redoubtable Emily
Howard; and, I find, I have only
a second place in Lady Julia's friendship:
I would hate her if I could, but it is really
impossible: she is so gentle, she steals one's
affection imperceptibly, and one has the
vexation to be forced to love her in spite of
ones self.
She has been here three days, and in
that short time she has gained amazingly
upon my heart: her person is little, finely
proportioned, and delicate almost to fragility;
her voice and manner soft and timid;
her countenance a mixture of innocence
and sweetness, which would disarm the rage
of a tiger: her heart is tender, kind,
compassionate; and tremblingly awake to
friendship, of which she is universally the
object: Lady Julia doats on her, nor am I
surprized at it: she appears so weak, so
helpless, so exquisitely feminine, it seems
cruelty not to be her friend: no one ever
saw her without wishing her happiness:
the love one has for her seems of a peculiar
species, or most nearly resembles that
instinctive fondness one feels for a beautiful
child: it is independent of esteem, for
one loves her before one knows her. It is
the pleasantest kind of affection that can be
conceived.
Yet, though she is extremely handsome,
or rather, to suit the expression to her form,
extremely pretty, she is very little the taste
of men; her excessive modesty renders both
her beauty and understanding in some degree
useless to her; "not obvious, not
"obtrusive," she escapes the observation of
common eyes; and, tho' infinitely lovely, I
never heard she was beloved.
For this very reason, the women do her
ample justice; she is no woman's rival,
stands in nobody's way, which cannot fail
of exciting a general good will towards her,
in her own sex; they even allow her more
beauty than she really has, and take a
delight in setting her charms in opposition
to every impertinent thing the men
are fond of. "Yes, the girl is very well,
but nothing to Emily Howard," is the
common cry on the appearance of a new
beauty.
There is another strong reason for loving
her; though exact in her own conduct, she
has an indulgence to that of others, which
is a consequence of her excessive gentleness
of temper, and her seeing every action on
the favourable side: one could own one's
greatest weakness to her almost without
blushing; and at this very moment I dare say
Lady Julia is confessing to her her passion
for Harry Mandeville, who is riding out
with my Lord. I dare say she would find an
excuse for my indiscretion in regard to you,
and see only the delicacy of our friendship.
She sings and dances angelically, but she
blushes to death if you tell her so.
Such gentle unassuming characters as
these, make the most agreeable friends in
the world; they are the mild green of the
soul, on which it rests itself from more
glaring objects: one may be absurd, one
may be vain, one may be imprudent, secure
of being heard with indulgence: I know
nothing which would make her more what
I mean but her being a fool: however, the
indulgent sweetness of her temper answers
almost the same purpose.
I am disconsolate that the Caro Enrico is
going to desert us; but the cruel man is inflexible
to all my soft perswasions, and determined
to leave us on Wednesday.
Adieu!
The sweet Emily is gong on Thursday
for ten days to Sir George Martin's, and
then returns to finish the summer here.
Oh! do you know that I am credibly informed,
her favorite Suivante having told
it to one, who told it to another, who told
it to a good old gossiping Lady, who told it
to me, that the Cittadina, who has in vain
wrote Harry a penitential letter, is playing
off the same arts, the same dying airs, to
Fondville, which had such extreme ill success
with him? The siege is at present suspended,
not by his addressing Lady Julia,
which is a profound secret to her and every
body without these walls, but by his mother's
death, which has called him hastily
to town; and which, by the way, adds
2000£. a year to his income. Do you know,
that I think the thing may do, if Lady
Julia continues cruel? They are absolutely
form for each other; and it would be a
thousand pities to part them.
Ever yours,
A. Wilmot.
