To Miss Howard.
Belmont, Tuesday.
O Emily! How inconsistent is a
heart in love! I entreated Mr.
Mandeville not to write to me,
and am chagrined at his too exact obedience:
I think, if he loved as I do, he
could not so easily obey me. He writes
to Lady Anne; and, though by my desire,
I am ashamed of my weakness;–but I wish
he wrote less often: there is an air of gaiety
in his letters which offends me–He talks of
balls, of parties with ladies–Perhaps I am
unjust, but the delicacy of my love is wounded
by his knowing a moment's pleasure in
my absence; to me all places are equal where
he is not; all amusements without him are
dull and tasteless. Have not I an equal
right to expect, Emily! He knows not how
I love him.
Convinced that this mutual passion is
the designation of Heaven to restore him to
that affluence he lost by the partiality of
an ancestor and the generous loyalty of
his family, I give way to it without reserve;
I regard my love as a virtue; I
am proud of having distinguished his merit
without those trappings of wealth,
which alone can attract common eyes. His
idea is for ever before me; I think
with transport of those enchanting moments
–Emily, that week of tender confidence
is all my life, the rest is not worth
numbering in my existence.
My father to-night gives a ball to Lord
Melvin, with whom I am again, unwillingly,
obliged to dance. I wish not to dance at
all; to make this sacrifice to the most beloved
of men: Why have I not courage
to avow my sentiments, to declare he
alone — This Lord Melvin too, I know
not why, but I never see him without
horror.
O Emily! How do all men sink on the
comparison! He seems of a superior rank
of beings. Your Julia will never give her
hand to another; she swears this to the
dear bosom of friendship.
This detested Lord Melvin is at the
door; he will not let me proceed; he tells
me it is to a lover I am writing; he says
this in a manner, and with a tone of voice
–he looks at me with an earnestness–Lady
Anne has alarmed me–Should my father
intend–yet why should I fear the most
cruel of all acts of tyranny from the most
tender and indulgent of parents?
I feel a dejection of spirits on this subject,
which does injury to my father's
goodness: perhaps it is no more than the
natural effects of absence on a tender and
unexperienced heart.
Adieu! I am forced to finish my letter.
All good angels guard and preserve my
Emily!
Yours,
Julia Mandeville.
