To Miss Howard.
Wednesday Aug. 11th.
MY Emily, your friend, your unhappy
Julia, is undone. He knows the
tenderness which I have so long endeavoured
to conceal. The trial was too great for
the softness of a heart like mine; I had
almost conquered my own passion, when I
became a victim to his: I could not see
his love, his despair, without emotions
which discovered all my soul. I ;am not
formed for deceit: artless as the village
maid, every sentiment of my soul is in
my eyes; I have not learnt, I will never
learn, to disguise their expressive language.
With what pain did I affect a coldness to
which I was indeed a stranger! But why
do I wrong my own heart? I did not affect
it. The native modesty of my sex
gave a reserve to my behaviour, on the first
discovery of his passion, which his fears
magnified into hate. Oh! Emily! do I indeed
hate him! you, to whose dear bosom
your Julia confides her every thought, tell
me if I hate this most amiable of mankind?
You know by what imperceptible steps
my inexperienced heart has been seduced
to love: you know how deceived by the
sacred name of friendship — But why
do I seek to excuse my sensibility? is he
not worthy all my tenderness? are we not
equal in all but wealth, a consideration
below my care? is not his merit above
titles and riches? How shall I paint his
delicacy, his respectful fondness? Too
plainly convinced of his power over my
heart, he disdains to use that power to my
disadvantage: he declares he will never
receive me but from my father; he consents
to leave me till a happier fortune
enables him to avow his love to all the
world; he goes without asking the least
promise in his favour. Heaven sure will
prosper his designs, will reward a heart
like his. Oh! my Emily, did my father see
with my eyes! what is fortune in the
balance with such virtue! Had I worlds
in my own power, I should value them
only as they enabled me to show more
strongly the disinterestedness of my affection.
Born with a too tender heart, which never
before found an object worthy its attachment,
the excess of my affection is unspeakable.
Delicate in my choice even of
friends, it was not easy to find a lover equal
to that idea of perfection my imagination
had formed; he alone of all mankind rises
up to it; the speaking grace, the easy
dignity of his air, are the natural consequences
of the superiority of his soul. He
looks as if born to command the world.
I am interrupted. Adieu.
August 15th.
