This letter confirmed the suspicions which had been, for a long time, excited in the breast of Mrs. Charles Orme; and though the open avowal of her husband's baseness produced a painful impression, yet it decided the course which necessity compelled her to adopt; and she could not forbear sending him the subjoined letter:—
"My Husband,—I cannot, in justice to myself, remain silent, after reading your letter to my father—a letter which is a very natural sequel to your perfidious conduct. That you should feel at liberty to charge upon me the baseness of suggesting the crime of which you have been guilty, is more than I could have imagined; but it has relieved me from that bitter regret which I should otherwise feel in being separated from you for life. You have betrayed me—you have reproached me—you have insulted me—but this, it appears, is not enough: you now try to disgrace me. Have you lost all sense of honour? Does no feeling of generous sensibility move in your breast? Are you become an alien from every virtuous principle? and do you wish, if possible, to sink me into contempt, after having abandoned me and your child? I feel too indignant to throw back the reproaches which you have cast on me. I have a home, and a peaceful one, and you may rely upon it, that no false professions of attachment shall ever again induce me to leave it. I am unable to judge of your state of mind; but if you have the slightest degree of remorse left, conscience must reproach you bitterly.—Your much injured
"Emma."
I shall now anticipate my narrative a little, and conclude the history of Captain Orme. Soon after sending the preceding letter to Mr. Holmes, he obtained a military appointment in the East Indies, through the influence of Lord ——; and immediately embarked, without making any communication to his wife, or expressing any wish to see his infant child. She knew not the place of his destination for nearly two years after he had left his native country, when she received a letter from him. On opening the letter she very naturally expected to find some relentings for his past unkindness, and some promises of future amendment, but she was disappointed. The influence of time, which generally softens down the asperities of temper, and brings about a cordial reconciliation between the most hostile parties, had only increased the malevolence of his disposition; and as though he had not already inflicted a wound sufficiently deep, he now proceeded to the most heartless and unmanly abuse. He accused her of infidelity; reproached her for her attachment to her own family, whom he reviled in the lowest terms; and concluded by saying, that she might now put on her weeds, as it was not his intention of ever returning to claim her as his wife, or even to acknowledge as his son the child she had borne.
As she still cherished an attachment for him, notwithstanding his cruel treatment, and had indulged the forlorn hope of seeing him reclaimed from the paths of evil, the contents of this letter produced at first a deep melancholy; but as she had now begun to derive consolation from a source of happiness which is concealed from the eye of the gay and the dissipated, she soon regained her composure, though she ceased not to pray for her erring husband. At length the report of his death reached her through the medium of a friend. She wept when she heard of his decease, and expressed a strong anxiety to know the cause of it. Many inquiries were made, but no information could be obtained, till she received a letter from a military officer who had known him in the East. This gentleman spoke in high terms of his courage, and of the important services which he had rendered to the government of India; expressing, at the same time, his regret that he fell a victim, not to the sword, but to his habits of intemperance, which became so inveterate, that neither reason nor authority could subdue them. Thus terminated a union planned by treachery, which a perverse will led Emma Holmes to contract, but which she lived to regret with bitter and unavailing sorrow.
Her husband's cruelty, in first abandoning his wife and child, without bidding them adieu, and then insulting her by his base accusations, was not more flagrant and unjust than his perfidy in first inducing her to become his wife. Though pity could not withhold the sympathy which her sufferings excited, yet every impartial spectator was compelled to acknowledge that she had brought them on herself by her own imprudence. And though such instances of cruelty and treachery are frequently occurring in the history of human life, and though they are held up by the moralist as beacons to warn the incautious female of the danger to which she is exposed, yet how often, alas! do we see such warnings disregarded. Women are too often smitten by external appearances, and too easily imposed upon by the artful tales of the perfidious and the crafty, to listen to the advice of their best friends. Thus braving the opposition of their parents, they plunge themselves into a state of misery, without having, as a melancholy alleviation to their anguish, the solitary consolation that they were not apprized of their danger. I have seen, in my passage through life, many fine characters wrecked on this fatal rock, and wish to guard the thoughtless and inexperienced from a similar catastrophe, and though I cannot suppose that I shall be able to change the purpose, when it is once formed, yet I do not despair of exciting some degree of precaution in the unfettered and uncorrupted mind.
As that union, which is ordained to be the source of the purest felicity, or of the bitterest anguish, and which nothing but death or guilt can dissolve, is the most important that can be formed, no one ought to propose it, or consent to it, till after the most mature deliberation. In some instances it has been known that short courtships have led to happy marriages; but the instances are comparatively few. Two persons accidentally meet—strangers to each other—an offer of marriage is made, and immediately accepted; a few weeks of intercourse, or of correspondence elapse, and they are united for life. Can such a hasty union, which has taken place while the parties have been almost entirely ignorant of each other, be expected to yield much domestic felicity? It may, but the chances are against it; as the history of social life demonstrates this fact, that domestic happiness is less dependent on the agreeableness of each other's persons, than on the harmony of each other's disposition; and though a magic charm often renders us blind to the defects of the beloved object, this blissful dream is soon dissipated when the wedded pair come to seek their happiness in the amiability of each other's tempers, and the goodness of each other's principles. And considering the immense importance of this correspondence in mental taste, tendencies, and inclinations, as a source of permanent domestic happiness, and the amazing diversity of tempers and dispositions which is known to prevail amongst human beings, will a wise man, or will a prudent female, venture to risk their felicity for life by a sudden and precipitate union? What! shall we deem it necessary to institute a severe inquiry respecting the temper, and disposition, and principles of the servants we take into our dwellings, and whom we may dismiss at our pleasure; and think that no such inquiry is necessary in relation to the person to whom we are to be united for life—who is to be our comfort or our torment, the means of elevating us to honour or sinking us into contempt! Would this be an act of wisdom or of discretion?
And is it not to be regretted that the period of courtship, which is intended to give to the parties an opportunity of judging of their fitness for each other, is usually the period in which the greatest degree of duplicity prevails? It may be justly denominated the intermediate state between the two conditions in human life, over which the evil spirit of deception presides—investing the character with imaginary charms—softening down rugged and uncouth tempers into the smoothness of the most subduing tenderness—curbing restless and ungovernable passions with the restraints of a crafty policy—and giving such a fascination to external graces, that they are received as substitutes for the most solid and substantial virtues. This is the fatal period, when suspicion is usually asleep; when a slowness of heart to believe the rumours of report becomes proverbial; and it is not till the parties emerge from this delusion, to the realities of married life, and resume their real character, that they discover the deception they have been practising on each other. Then the work of mutual recrimination and reproach commences. Then it is their eyes are opened to see their folly and their danger, but their repentance, like that of Esau's, comes too late to repair the evil which they have brought upon themselves.
As the period of courtship is the most dangerous in the history of life, because the most deceptive, those who wish to enjoy a state of permanent domestic happiness, cannot, at this period, be too observant of each other's tempers and dispositions, or too inquisitive respecting each other's connections and manners. If they now discover a dissonance in any of these particulars, they would act a wiser part to separate by mutual consent, than to form a union which will inevitably become a fruitful source of misery, and may terminate in disgrace, if not in ruin. Some severe moralists contend, that when an offer of marriage has been given and accepted, no circumstances will justify either party in withdrawing from their pledge, but that it ought to be held as sacred and as obligatory as the marriage vow. Though the writer would not hazard an opinion which would tend to sanction a wanton inconstancy, yet he claims the privilege of differing from such casuists. For what purpose has the unanimous consent of mankind required some period of time to elapse, after the offer has been made, before it is formally, and for life decided? Is it not that the contracting parties may have an opportunity of judging of their relative fitness for each other? If not, they may pass at once to the nuptial altar, after mutually consenting to their union; but if it be, they are invested with a moral right to revise their decision, when fresh discoveries of character are made, which change their opinions, and diminish, if not alienate their affections. Suppose a gentleman makes a lady an offer, and she accepts it, under a firm conviction that he is a man of honour, of integrity, of virtue, and of prudence, whose disposition is amiable, whose circumstances are respectable, and who is capable of maintaining her in the rank in which she has been accustomed to move. Suppose that on a subsequent inquiry, she finds out that these sterling qualities do not adorn his character—that he is violent in his passions—and that his means to support a family are not adequate to its demands. If she is now convinced that by consummating the union, her happiness for life will be sacrificed, ought she to be compelled to do so? She may be censured for giving her consent too hastily; but is a consent given under false impressions, and while in a state of total or partial ignorance, to be binding, when she discovers the delusion which has been practised on her, and sees nothing but misery and wretchedness before her? I think it is not. If Emma Holmes, when she returned the letters and presents to Captain Orme, had never more consented to see him, would any wise or prudent person have passed a sentence of condemnation on her conduct? No! Why not? Because she had given her consent under false impressions of his character; but after her marriage, though that took place under the same false impressions, she was bound by the laws of God and man to remain his wife.
But as there is always some risk of reputation, and sometimes some pecuniary risk, in breaking off an engagement which has been formed, it should not be done hastily, nor for trifling reasons. Though the mutual pledge is less binding than the nuptial vow, yet if it be treated with levity and contempt, society will resent the insult which is offered to its sense of delicacy and of honour. The faithless and inconstant will be marked out as the objects of its censure and reproaches. And no censures can be too severe, nor any reproaches be too bitter, to be directed against the man who gains the affections of a female, and then abandons her from caprice; or against that female, who acts the part of a coquette, by giving pledges she never intends to redeem, and exciting expectations she has resolved to disappoint. And this risk ought to operate as a powerful motive to induce the utmost degree of caution when making or when accepting an offer. As the right of overture is claimed and exercised by man, he is supposed to institute every necessary inquiry before he makes his election, and to be perfectly satisfied that the female whose friendship and whose affection he courts is capable of promoting his happiness; and though on a closer intimacy he may discover some shades of imperfection which were not visible when he first knew her, yet if they are only the ordinary imperfections which belong to the human character, he would act an unwise, if not a criminal part, by making them the ostensible cause of breaking off the connection. We should ever remember, that the nuptial vow always unites two imperfect beings, whose mutual imperfections will call for the exercise of mutual candour; and when pure and ardent love glows in the breast of each, they will bear with each other's failings, and strive to promote each other's happiness.
It is then, in the opinion of the writer, only when some radical defect is discovered in the character—some strong repulsive quality, or some untoward and ungovernable passion—that the male sex, who exercise the prerogative of choice, ought to feel at liberty to disengage themselves, unless the female give her unqualified approbation. In that case the connection may be dissolved at any time, as it cannot be supposed that a marriage between two persons who are willing to separate for life can be productive of happiness.