To George Mordaunt, Esq;
Monday.
MORDAUNT, the die is cast, and the
whole happiness of my life hangs
on the present moment. After having kept
the letter confessing my passion two days
without having resolution to deliver it, this
morning in the garden, being a moment
alone with Lady Julia in a summer-house,
the company at some distance, I assumed
courage to lay it on a table whilst she was
looking out at a window which had a prospect
that engaged all her attention: when
I laid it down, I trembled; a chillness seized
my whole frame; my heart dy'd within me;
I withdrew instantly, without even staying
to see if she took it up: I waited at a little
distance hid in a close arbour of woodbines,
my heart throbbing with apprehension, and,
by the time she staid in the summer-house,
had no doubt of her having seen the letter.
When she appeared, I was still more
convinced; she came out with a timid air,
and looked round as if fearful of surprize:
the lively crimson flushed her cheek, and
was succeeded by a dying paleness: I attempted
to follow, but had not courage
to approach her. I suffered her to pass the
arbor where I was, and advance slowly towards
the house: when she was out of sight,
I went back to the summer-house, and
found the letter was gone. I have not seen
her. I am called to dinner: my limbs will
scarce support me: how shall I bear the first
sight of Lady Julia! how be able to meet
her eyes!
I have seen her, but my fate is yet undetermined;
she has avoided my eyes,
which I have scarce dared to raise from the
ground: I once looked at her when she did
not observe me, and saw a melancholy on
her countenance, which stabbed me to the
soul. I have given sorrow to the heart of
her, whom I would wish to be ever most
happy; and to whose good I would sacrifise
the dearest hope of my soul. Yes,
Mordaunt, let me be wretched, but let
every blessing Heaven can bestow, be the
portion of the loveliest of her sex.
How little did I know of love, when I
gave that name to the shameful passion I
felt for the wife of my friend! The extreme
beauty of the Countess Melespini,
that unreserved manner which seldom fails
to give hope, the flattering preference she
seemed to give me above all others, lighted
up in my soul a more violent degree of
youthful inclination, which the esteem i had
for her virtues refined to an appearance of
the noblest of affections, to which it had not
the remotest real resemblance.
Without any view in my pursuit of her
but my own selfish gratification, I would
have sacrifised her honor and happiness to
a transient fondness, which dishonored my
character, and, if successful, might have
corrupted a heart naturally full of probity;
her amiable reproofs, free from that severity
which robs virtue of half her charms,
with the generous behaviour of the most
injured of mankind, recalled my soul to
honor, and stopped me early in the career
of folly; time wore out the impression of
her charms, and left only a cold esteem remaining,
a certain proof that she was never
the object of more than a light desire, since
the wounds which real love inflicts are never
to be intirely healed.
Such was the infamous passion which I
yet remember with horror: but my tenderness
for Lady Julia, more warm, more
animated, more violent, has a delicacy of
which those only who love like me can
form any idea: independent of the charms
of her person, it can never cease but with
life; nor even then, if in another state we
have any sense of what has passed in this;
it is eternal, and incorporated with the
soul. Above every selfish desire, the first
object of my thoughts and wishes is her
happiness, which I would die, or live
wretched, to secure: every action of my
life is directed to the sole purpose of pleasing
her: my noblest ambition is to be
worthy her esteem. My dreams are full
of her; and, when I wake, the first idea
which rises in my mind is the hope of seeing
her, and of seeing her well and happy:
my most ardent prayer to the supreme Giver
of all good is for her welfare.
In true love, my dear Mordaunt, there
is a pleasure abstracted from all hope of
return; and were I certain she would never
be mine, nay, certain I should never
behold her more, I would not, for all the
kingdoms of the world, give up the dear
delight of loving her.
Those who never felt this enlivening
power, this divinity of the soul, may find a
poor insipid pleasure in tranquillity, or
plunge into vicious excesses to animate their
tedious hours; but those who have, can
never give up so sweet, so divine a transport,
but with their existence, or taste any
other joy but in subordination.
Oh! Mordaunt! when I behold her, read
the soft language of those speaking eyes,
hear those harmonious sounds–who that
has a soul can be insensible!–yet there are
men dead to all sense of perfection, who
can regard that angel form without rapture,
can hear the music of that voice without
emotion! I have myself with astonishment
seen them, inanimate as the trees around
them, listen coldly to shoe melting accents
–There is a sweetness in her voice,
Mordaunt, a melodious softness, which fancy
cannot paint: the enchantment of her
conversation is inexpressible.
Four o'Clock.
I am the most wretched of mankind, and
wretched without the right of complaining:
the baseness of my attempt deserves
even the pangs I suffer. Could I, who
made a parade of refusing to meet the advances
of the daughter of almost a stranger,
descend to seduce the heiress of him
on earth to whom I am most obliged? Oh!
Mordaunt! have we indeed two souls?
Can I see so strongly what is right, yet
want power to act up to my own sentiments?
The torrent of passion bears down
all before it. I abhor myself for this weakness.
I would give worlds to recall that
fatal letter: her coldness, her reserve, are
more than I can support. My madness
has undone me.–My assiduity is importunate.
I might have preserved her friendship.
I have thrown away the first happiness
of my life. Her eyes averted shun
me as an object of hatred. I shall not long
offend her by my presence. I will leave
her for ever. I am eager to be gone, that
I ;may carry far from her–Oh! Mordaunt,
who could have thought that cruelty dwelt
in such a form? She hates me, and all my
hopes are destroyed for ever.
Monday Evening.
Belmont.
This day, the first of my life; what a
change has this day produced! These few
flying hours have raised me above mortality.
Yes: I am most happy; she loves me,
Mordaunt: her conscious blushes, her downcast
eyes, her heaving bosom, her sweet
confusion, have told me what her tongue
could not utter: she loves me, and all else
is below my care: she loves me, and I will
pursue her. What are the mean considerations
of fortune to the tender union of
hearts? Can wealth or titles deserve her?
No, Mordaunt, love alone.–She is mine
by the strongest ties, by the sacred bond
of affection. The delicacy of her soul is
my certain pledge of happiness: I can
leave her without fear; she cannot now be
another's.
I told you my despair this morning; my
Lord proposed an airing; chance placed
me in Lady Julia's chaise. I entered it
with a beating heart: a tender fear of
having offended, inseparable from real love,
kept me some time silent; at length, with
some hesitation, I beg'd her to pardon the
effect of passion and despair, vowed I would
rather die than displease her; that I did
not now hope for her love, but could not
support her hate.
I then ventured to look up to the loveliest
of women; her cheeks were suffused
with the deepest blush; her eyes, in
which was the most dying languor, were
cast timidly on the ground, her whole
frame trembled, and with a voice broken
and interrupted, she exclaimed, "Hate
you, Mr. Mandeville! Oh! Heaven!" She
could say no more; nor did she need, the
dear truth broke like a sudden flash of light
on my soul.
Yet think not I will take advantage of
this dear prepossession in my favour, to seduce
her from her duty to the best of parents;
from Lord Belmont only will I receive
her: I will propose no engagements
contrary to the rights of an indulgent father,
to whom she is bound by every tie of
gratitude and filial tenderness: I will pursue
my purpose, and leave the event to
Heaven, to that Heaven which knows the
integrity, the disinterested purity, of my intentions:
I will evince the reality of my
passion by endeavouring to be worthy of
her. The love of such a woman, is the
love of virtue itself: it raises, it refines, it
ennobles every sentiment of the heart;
how different from that fever of selfish desire
I felt for the amiable Countess!
Oh! Mordaunt, had you beheld those
blushes of reluctant sensibility, seen those
charming eyes softened with a tenderness
as refined as that of angels–She loves
me–let me repeat the dear sounds–She
loves me, and I am happier than a god!
I have this moment a letter from my
father: he approves my design, but begs
me for a short time to delay it: my heart
ill bears this delay: I will carry the letter
to Lady Julia.
She approves my father's reasons, yet
begs I will leave Belmont: her will is the
law of my heart; yet a few days I must
give to love. I will go on Tuesday to Lord
T–'s. His friendship will assist me in the
only view which makes life supportable to
me; he will point out, he will lead me to
the path of wealth and greatness.
Expect to hear from me when I arrive at
Lord T — 's. I shall not write sooner: my
moments here are too precious.
Adieu.
Your faithful
H. Mandeville.
