Emma; or, The Unfortunate Attachment: A Sentimental Novel

111 MISS THORNTON TO MRS. WALPOLE. LETTER 29. THE GROVE. When we act properly, my dearest Emma, we do not require the applause of others to make us happy; a more certain voice than that of shouting multitudes speaks to us: we feel the satisfaction of having performed our duty, and that compensates for all the pain we have endured in bringing ourselves to do it.—You will agree to this, and I make no doubt are ready to confess to me, that your present felicity exceeds in greatness all your past woes.—Who would desire to purchase by a crime the gratification of any passion, when there is such happiness in subduing it? The death of Mr. Egerton has been a dreadful trial to you; but Heaven, in sending us calamities, is always so bountiful as to send consolations with them. Your father’s long illness must, in some degree, have reconciled you to his release; whilst his virtue would make you rejoice in his future prospects. . . . I would not, in the first hours of affliction, offer to console you; that friend has very little sensibility, who pretends to oppose the dictates of nature in such a case.—It is rather by showing that we can be as violently affected, that we should endeavour to render the unfortunate sensible of the unseemliness of immoderate grief; we are more struck with the actions of others, than with our own: the tears of a friend divert our attention from the object which had before engrossed it; and the division once effected, sorrow is soon weakened: we find our tenderness redoubled for the being who has wept with us, and forgetting the dead, we are entirely taken up with him who yet remains to lighten our care by his sympathy. Let the first transports of any wretchedness once abate, and resignation each minute gains new strength. You, Emma, have causes for it, which few have known———you can reflect on having, by your obedience, added joys to your father’s last hours, and robbed Death of his horrors— you have repaid your obligations to the kindest of parents—and your pious care softened the last struggles of expiring nature.—Will you, after this, permit a sigh to escape you? You owe to Mr. Walpole, as to an affectionate partner, the sacrifice of this unavailing sorrow: you are entrusted with his peace, as well as your own; and he may demand an account of it at your hands. Be careful of it then, my dear——— It is incumbent on you to remove his prejudices by a conduct which shall show him, beyond a possibility of doubt, that he is dearer to you than any thing else in this world. Every thing which makes you careless about him, call it Grief, or dignify it by what name you will, is an offence against the duty you owe him; and he may with reason suspect your love. Whether the memory of your father, or of any one besides, interferes with his right, he will be injured. Many 112 Emma; or, The Unfortunate Attachment people ridiculously confine the practice of virtue to some particular act. Thus, for example, the woman, who would not for the universe be unfaithful to her husband’s bed, fancies herself perfectly chaste, though she tries to attract the admiration of every pretty fellow who comes in her way, listens to the flattery he bestows on her; goes home, compares his behaviour with her lord and master’s, whose notice she has not been ambitious of attracting for some time probably : she sighs at the difference, then grows out of humour, repents of the choice she has made, calls herself unhappy; but still plumes herself upon her unsullied virtue. Say, my friend has she much cause for this self-approbation; and is chastity confined to barely refraining from absolute adultery! Is not the wife obliged to be equally pure in thought as well as action; and can she be called so who permits every other to usurp her husband’s place in her wandering imagination ? You will not hesitate about this: remember then, Emma, that he who has so extensive a claim in one point, has the same in all others. The chearless melancholy companion cannot expect to meet with the treatment which a more pleasing one would do. Men naturally inconstant are soon wearied with the dull office of hearing complaints, and of vainly...