LETTER VI. Julia to Maria. You rally me on the subject of the Count de Montauban, with that vivacity I have so often envied you the possession of. You say, you are "What a sure you should like him vastly. blessing, in a remote province, where one is in danger of dying of ennui, to have this stiff, crusty, honourable Spaniard, to teaze and make a fool of!" I have no thoughts of such amusement, and therefore I do not like him vastly; but I confess, I begin to like him better than I did. He has lost much of that sternness, (dignity, my father calls it,) which used to chill me when I approached him. He can talk of common things in a common way; and but yesterday, he danced with me on the green amidst a troop of honest rustics, whom I wished to make happy at the small expense of sharing their happiness. All this, I allow, at first seemed foreign to the man; but he did not, as I have seen some of your wise people do, take great credit for letting himself so low. He did it with a design of frankness, though some of his native loftiness remained in the execution. We are much in his debt on the score of domestic happiness. He has become so far one of the family as to be welcome at all times, a privilege he makes very frequent use of; and we find ourselves so much at ease with him, that we never think even of talking more than we chuse, to entertain him. He will sit for an hour at the table where I am working, with no other amusement than that of twisting shreds of my catgut into whimsical figures. I think that he also is not the worse for our society; I suppose him the happier for it, from the change in his sentiments of others. He often disputes with my father, and will not allow the world to be altogether so bad as he used to do. My father, who can now be merry at times, jokes him on his apostacy. He appealed to me this morning for the truth of his argument. I told him, I was unable to judge, because I knew "And yet," replied he nothing of the world. gallantly, "it is from you one should learn to think better of it: I never knew, till I came hither, that it contained any thing so valuable as Mademoiselle de Roubigné." I think, he looked foolish when he paid me this compliment. I curtsied with composure enough. It is not from men like Montauban that one blushes at a compliment. Besides the general addition to our good humour, his society is particularly useful to me. His discourse frequently turns on subjects, from the discussion of which, though I am somewhat afraid to engage in it, I always find myself the wiser. Amidst the toils of his military life, Montauban has contrived to find leisure for the pursuit of very extensive and useful knowledge. This, though little solicitous to display, he is always ready to communicate; and, as he finds me willing to be instructed, he seems to find a pleasure in instructing me. My mother takes every opportunity of encouraging this sort of conversation. You have often heard her sentiments on the mutual advantage of such intercourse between the sexes. You will remember her frequent mention of a male friend, who died soon after her marriage, from whom, she has told us, she derived most of the little accomplishment her mind can boast of. "Men, (she used to say,) though they talk much of their friends, are seldom blest with a friend. The nature of that companionship, which they mistake for friendship, is really destructive of its existence; because the delicacy of the last shrinks from the rude touch of the former; and that, however pure in their own sentiments, the society which they see each other hold with third persons, is too gross not to break those tender links, which are absolutely essential to friendship. Girls, (she said,) easily form a connection of a more refined sort; but as it commonly begins with romance, it seldom outlasts the years of childhood, except when it degenerates into cabal and intrigue; but that the friendship of one of each sex, when so circumstanced as to be distant from love, (which she affirmed might be the case,) has that combination of strength and delicacy which is equally formed to improve and delight." There be much reason in her arguments; may but I cannot, notwithstanding my esteem for him, easily think of Montauban as my friend. He has not yet quite obliterated the fears I felt on our first acquaintance. He has, however, done much to conquer them; and, if he goes on as he has begun, I know not what in time he may arrive at. Mean time, I am contented with Maria; our friendship has at least endured beyond the period assigned by my mother. Shall it not always endure? I know the answer which your heart will make-mine throbs while I think of it. species, I enjoy very little of it. I should except that of the family I gave you an account of some time ago. I fear I am too often with them; I frequently resolve to be busy at home; but I have scarce sat down to my table, when the picture of Roubigné's parlour presents itself, and I think that my business may wait till to-morrow. I blush to tell you what a fool I am grown; or is it that I am nearer the truth than formerly? I begin to entertain doubts of my own dignity, and to think that man is not altogether formed for the sublime place I used to allot him. One can be very happy with much less trouble, than very wise: I have discovered this at Roubigne's. It is but conquering the name of trifles, which our pride would give things, and my hours at Roubigne's are as importantly filled up as any employment could make them. After all, what is our boasted philosophy to ourselves, or others? Its consequence is often borrowed, more from the language it speaks, than the object it pursues, and its attainments valued, more from their difficulty than their usefulness. But life takes its complexion from inferior things; and providence has wisely placed its real blessings within the reach of moderate abilities. We look for a station beyond them ; it is fit that we too should have our reward; and it is found in our vanity. It is only from this cause that I sometimes blush, as if I were unworthily employed, when I feel myself happy in doing nothing at Mons. de Roubigné's fire-side. Yet do not suppose that we are always employed in talking of trifles. She has a mind no less capable of important research, of exalted sentiment I am hastily called away;-it saves you the continuation of a very dull letter. I send this, such as it is, more as a title to receive one from you, than that it should stand for any thing of itself. Farewell. LETTER VIII. Julia to Maria. PITY me, Maria, pity me! even that quiet that my letters of late described, which I was contented to call happiness, is denied me. There is a fatality which everywhere attends the family of the unfortunate Roubigné; here, to the abodes of peace, perplexity pursues it; and it is destined to find new distress, from those scanty sources to which it looked for comfort. The Count de Montauban-why did he see me? why did he visit here? why did I listen to his discourse? though heaven knows, I meant not to deceive him!-He has declared himself the lover of your Julia !-I own his virtues, I VOL. V. esteem his character, I know the gratitude too we owe him from all those circumstances, I am doubly distressed at my situation; but it is impossible, it is impossible that I should love him. How could he imagine that I should? or how does he still continue to imagine, that I may be won to love him? I softened my refusal, because I would distress no man; Montauban of all men the least: but surely it was determined enough to cut off all hopes of my ever altering my resolution. Should not his pride teach him to cease such mortifying solicitations? How has it, in this instance alone, forsaken him? Methinks, too, he has acted ungenerously in letting my mother know of his addresses. When I hinted this, he fell at my feet, and intreated me to forgive a passion so earnest as his, for calling in every possible assistance. Cruel! that, in this tenderest concern, that sex, which is naturally feeble, should have other weaknesses to combat besides its own. I know my mother's gentleness too well to have much to fear from her; but the idea of my father's displeasure is terrible. This morning, when I intreated my mother not to mention this matter to him, she informed me of her having already told him. It was an affair, she said, of so much importance to his family, that she durst not venture to conceal it. There was something in the coolness of her words that hurt me; but I stifled the answer which I was about to make, and only observed, that of that family I was the nearest concerned. "You shall judge for yourself, my dear girl," said she, resuming the natural gentleness of her manner; "I will never pretend to controul your affections. Your opinions I always hold it my duty to guide; experience, dearly bought perhaps, has given me some title to guide them. Believe me, there are dreams of romantic affection, which are apt to possess young minds, the reality of which is not to be found in nature. I do not blame you for doubting this at present; but the time will come when you will be convinced of its truth." Is it so, Maria? Shall that period ever arrive, when my present feelings shall be forgotten? But, if it should, are they not now my conscience, and should I not be unjust to Montauban and myself, were I now to act against them ? I have seen my father. He came into my room, in his usual way, and asked me, if I chose to walk with him. His words were the same they were wont to be; but I could discover, that his thoughts were different. He looked on me with a determined countenance, as if he prepared himself for contradiction. I concealed my uneasiness, however, and attended him with that appearance of cheerfulness, which I make it a 2 к point of duty to wear in his presence. He seemed to have expected something different; for I saw he was softened from that hostility, may I call it, of aspect, which he had assumed at first, and, during our walk, he expressed himself to me with unusual tenderness. Alas! too much so, Maria! Why am I obliged to offend him? When he called me the support and solace of his age, when he blessed Heaven, for leaving him, in the worst of his misfortunes, his Julia to comfort him-why could I not then, amidst my filial tears, when my heart should have poured itself out in duty and gratitude, why could I not then assure him of its obedience? Write to me, for pity's sake, write to me speedily. Assist me, counsel me, guide mebut say not that I should listen to Montauban. LETTER IX. Montauban to Segarva. I SIT down to write to Segarva, with the idea of his presence at the time, and the idea was wont to be a pleasant one; it is now mixed with a sort of uneasiness, like that which a man feels, who has offended, and would ask to be forgiven. The consciousness of what I mean by this letter to reveal, hangs like guilt upon my mind; therefore it is that I have so long delayed writing. If you shall think it weakness-Yet I know not how I can bear chiding on this point. But why should I doubt of your approving it? Our conversations on the sex might be just, but they touch not Julia de Roubigné. Could my friend but see, but know her, I should need no other advocate to excuse the change of my sentiments. Let me tell him, then, of my passion for that loveliest of women; that it has prompted me to offer her a hand, which he has sometimes heard me declare should never give away my freedom. This sounded like something manly; but it was, in truth, a littleness of soul. He, who pauses in the exercise of every better affection of the heart, till he calculates the chances of danger or of ridicule, is the veriest of cowards; but the resolution, though frequently made, is seldom or never adhered to: the voice of nature, of wisdom, and of virtue, is against it. To acquire such a friend as Julia de Roubigné--but friend is a word insignificant of the connection-to have one soul, one fate with her; to participate her happiness, to share her griefs! to be that single being to whom, the next to the Divinity, she pours out the feelings of her heart; to whom she speaks the gentlest of her wishes; to whom she sighs the most delicate of her fears! to grant those wishes, to sooth those fears! to have such a woman (like our guardian angel, without his superiority,) to whom we may un bosom our own!-the creation of pleasures is little; this is a creation of soul to enjoy them! Call not mine the language of doating love; I am confident how much reason is on my side, and will now hear Segarva with patience. He will tell me of that fascinating power which women possess when they would win us, which fades at once from the character of wife. But I know Julia de Roubigné well; she has grown up under the eye of the best of parents, unschooled in the practices of her sex; she is ignorant of those arts of delusion, which are taught by the society of women of the world. I have had opportunities of seeing her at all seasons, and in every attitude of mind. Her soul is too gentle for the touch of art; an effort of deceit would wring it even to torture. He will remind me of the disparity of age, and tell me of the danger of her affections wandering from one, whom, on comparison with herself, she will learn to think an old man.-But Julia is of an order of beings superior to those, whom external form, and the trifling language of gallantry, can attract.-Had she the flippancy of mind which those shallow qualities are able to allure, I think, Segarva, she were beneath the election of Montauban. I remember our former conversations on the subject of marriage, when we were both of one side; and that then you observed in me a certain wakeful jealousy of honour, which, you said, the smile of a wife on another man would rouse into disquiet.-Perhaps I have been sometimes too hasty that way, in the sense of affronts from men; but the nicety of a soldier's charac ter, which must ever be out of the reach of question, may excuse it. I think I never shewed suspicion of my friends; and why to this lovely one, the delicacy of whose virtue I would vouch against the world, should I be more unjust than to others?-There is no fiend so malicious as to breathe detraction against my Julia. In short, I have canvassed all your objections, and, I think, I have answered them all. Forgive me for supposing you to make them; and forgive me, when I tell you, that, while I did so, methought I loved you less than I was wont to do. But I am anticipating blessings which may never arrive; for the gentlest of her sex is yet cruel to Montauban. But, I trust, it is only the maiden coyness of a mind naturally fearful. She owned her esteem, her friendship: these are poor to the returns I ask; but they must be exchanged for sentiments more tender, they must yield to the ardour of mine. They must, they shall: I feel my heart expand with a glad foreboding, that tells it of happiness to come. While I enjoy it, I wish for something more: let me hear then that my Segarva enjoys it too. LETTER X. Julia to Maria. You know not the heart of your Julia; yet impute it not to a want of confidence in your friendship. Its perplexity is of a nature so delicate, that I am sometimes afraid even to think on it myself; and often, when I meant to reveal it to you, my utterance failed in the attempt. The character you have heard of the Count de Montauban is just; it is perhaps even less than he merits: for his virtues are of that unbending kind, that does not easily stoop to the opinion of the world; to which the world, therefore, is not profuse of its eulogium. I revere his virtues, I esteem his good qualities;but I cannot love him.-This must be my answer to others: But Maria has a right to something more; she may be told my weakness, for her friendship can pity and support it. Learn then, that I have not a heart to bestow. I blush even while I write this confession. Yet to love merit like Savillon's cannot be criminal.-Why then do I blush again, when I think of revealing it? You have seen him at Belville; alas! you know not his worth; it is not easy to know it. Gentle, modest, retired from notice, it was the lot of your Julia to discover it. She prized it the more, that it was not common to all; and while she looked on it as the child of her own observation, it was vanity to know, it was virtue to cherish,-alas! she was unconscious of that period, when it ceased to be virtue, and grew into passion. But whither am I wandering? I meant only to relate; but our feelings speak for themselves, before we can tell why we feel. Savillon's father and mine were friends; his father was unfortunate, and mine was the friend of his misfortune; hence arose a sort of dependence on the one side, which on the other, I fear, was never entirely forgotten. I have sometimes observed this weakness in my father; but the pride that leads to virtue may be pardoned. He thinks of a man as his inferior, only that he may do him a kindness more freely. Savillon's family, indeed, was not so noble as his mind; my father warmly acknowledged the excellence of the last; but he had been taught, from earliest infancy, to consider a misfortune the want of the former. After the death of old Savillon, my father's friendship and protection were transferred to his son; the time he could spare from study was commonly spent at Belville. He appeared to feel in his situation that dependence I mentioned; in mean souls, this produces servility; in liberal minds, it is the nurse of honourable pride. There was a silent melancholy about Savillon, which disdained the notice of superficial observers, and was never satisfied with superficial acquirements. His endowments did not attract the eye of the world; but they fixed the esteem and admiration of his friends. His friends indeed were few; and he seemed not to wish them many. To know such a man; to see his merit; to regret that yoke which fortune had laid upon him-I am bewildered in sentiment again.-In truth, my story is the story of sentiment. I would tell you how I began to love Savillon; but the trifles, by which I now mark the progress of this attachment, are too little for description. We were frequently together, at that time of life when a boy and a girl are not alarmed at being together. Savillon's superior attainments made him a sort of master for your Julia. He used to teach me ideas; sometimes he flattered me, by saying, that, in his turn, he learned from Our feelings were often equally disgusted with many of the common notions of mankind, and we early began to form a league against them. We began with an alliance of argument; but the heart was always appealed to in the last me. resort. The time at last came, when I began to fear something improper in our friendship; but the fears that should guard, betray us. They make pictures to our fancy, which the reason they call to their assistance cannot overcome. In my rambles through the woods at Belville, I have often turned into a different walk from that I first designed to take, because I suspected Savillon was there!-Alas! Maria, an ideal Savillon attended me, more dangerous than the real. But it was only from his absence I acquired a certain knowledge of myself. I remember, on the eve of his departure, we were walking in the garden; my father was with us. He had been commending some carnation seeds, which he had just received from an eminent florist at Versailles. Savillon was examining some of them, which my father had put into his hand; and soon after, when we came to a small plot, which I used to call my garden, he sowed a few of them in a particular corner of it. I took little notice at the time; but, not long after he was gone, the flowers began to appear. not easily imagine the effect this trifling circumstance had upon me. I used to visit the spot by stealth, for a certain conscious feeling prevented me going openly thither, and watched the growth of those carnations with the care of a parent for a darling child; and when they began to droop, (I blush, Maria, to tell it,) I have often watered them with my tears. You can Such is the account of my own feelings; but who shall tell me those of Savillon? I have seen him look such things!-but, alas! Maria, our wishes are traitors, and give us false intelligence. His soul is too noble to pour itself out in those trivial speeches which the other sex often addresses to ours. Savillon knows not the dence. I have ever thought as you do," that it is not enough for a woman not to swerve from the duty of a wife; that to love another more than a husband, is an adultery of the heart; and not to love a husband with undivided affection, is a virtual breach of the vow that unites us." language of compliment; yet methinks from ture, while she speaks what is required of pruSavillon it would please. May not a sense of his humble fortune prevent him from speaking what he feels? When we were first acquainted, Julia de Roubigné was a name of some consequence; fallen as she now is, it is now her time to be haughty, and Savillon is too generous to think otherwise. In our most exalted estate, my friend, we are not so difficult to win, as we are sometimes imagined to be: it unfortunately happens, that the best men think us the most so. I know I am partial to my own cause; yet I am sensible of all the impropriety with which my conduct is attended. My conduct, did I call it? It is not my conduct, I err but in thought. Yet, I fear, I suffered these thoughts at first without alarm. They have grown up, unchecked, in my bosom, and now I would control them in vain. Should I know myself indifferent to Savillon, would not my pride set me free? I sigh, and dare not say that it would. But there is something tenderer and less tumultuous in that feeling with which I now remember him, than when his presence used to alarm me. Obliged to leave France, where for tune had denied him an inheritance, he is gone to Martinique, on the invitation of an uncle, who has been several years settled in that island. When I think of the tract of ocean which separates us, my head grows dizzy as I think!—that this little heart should have its interests extended so far! that on the other side of the Atlantic, there should exist a being, for whom it swells with imaginary hope, and trembles, alas! much oftener trembles, with imaginary fear! In such a situation, wonder not at my coldness to Montauban. I know not how it is; but, methinks, I esteem him less than I did, from the preposterous reason, that he loves me when I would not have him. I owe him gratitude in return, though I cannot give him love; but I involuntarily refuse him the first, because he asks the latter, which I have not to bestow. Would that he had never seen your Julia! I expect not a life of happiness, but had looked for one of quiet. There is something in the idea even of peaceful sadness, which I could bear without repining; but I am not made for struggling with perplexity. LETTER XI. Julia to Maria. FROM your letters, Maria, I always find comfort and satisfaction; and never did one arrive more scasonably than the last. When the soul is torn by contrary emotions, it is then that we wish for a friend to reconcile us to ourselves: such a friend am I blessed with in you. Advice from my Maria is the language of wisdom without its severity; she can feel what is due to na But I dare not own to my father the attachment from which these arguments are drawn. There is a sternness in his idea of honour, from which I shrink with affright. Images of vengeance and destruction paint themselves to my mind, when I think of his discovering that weakness which I cannot hide from myself. Even before my mother, as his wife, I tremble, and dare not disclose it. How hard is the fate of your Julia! Unhappy from feelings which she cherished as harmless, which still she cannot think criminal, yet denied even the comfort of revealing, except to her Ma ria, the cause of her distress! Amidst the wreck of our family's fortunes, I shared the common calamity; must I now be robbed of the little treasure I had saved, spoiled of my peace of mind, and forbid the native freedom of my affections? I am called to dinner. One of our neighbours is below, a distant relation of Montauban, with his wife and daughter. Another stranger, Lisette says, is also there, a captain of a ship, she thinks, whom she remembers having seen formerly at Belville.-Must I go then, and look unmeaning cheerfulness, and talk indifferent things, while my heart is torn with secret agitation? To feel distress, is painful; but to dissemble it, is torture. I have now time to think, and power to express my thoughts. It is midnight, and the world is hushed around me! After the agitation of this day, I feel something silently sad at my heart, that can pour itself out to my friend. Savillon! cruel Savillon !--but I complain as if it were falsehood to have forgotten her, whom perhaps he never loved. She too must forget him-Maria! he is the hus band of another! That sea-captain, who dined with my father to-day, is just returned from Martinique. With a beating heart, I heard him questioned of Savillon.-With a beating heart, I heard him tell of the riches he is said to have acquired by the death of that relation with whom he lived; but judge of its sensations, when he added, that Savillon was only prevented, by that event, from marrying the daughter of a rich planter, who had been destined for his wife on the very day his uncle died, and whom he was still to marry as soon as decency wouldpermit. "And |