To Miſs HOWARD.

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 obedi⯑ence: 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, [2] I am aſhamed of my weakneſs—But I wiſh he wrote leſsoften: 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 wound⯑ed 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 re⯑ſerve; I regard my love as a virtue; I am proud of having diſtinguiſhed his me⯑rit 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 mo⯑ments—Emily, [3] that week of tender con⯑fidence 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 be⯑loved 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 [4] this in a manner, and with a tone of voice—he looks at me with an earneſt⯑neſs—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 pa⯑rents!

I feel a dejection of ſpirits on this ſub⯑ject, 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!

To the Earl of BELMONT.

WITH all my affection for Lord T— I am hourly ſhocked by that moſt unworthy of all faults, his haughtineſs to inferior fortune, however diſtinguiſhed by virtue, talents, or even the more ſhining advantage of birth. Dreſs, equipage, and the over-bearing aſſurance which wealth inſpires, ſtrike him ſo forci⯑bly, that there is no room in his ſoul for that eſteem which is a debt to modeſt merit.

We had yeſterday to dine Mr. Herbert, one of the moſt amiable men I ever ſaw; his perſon was genteel, his countenance at once expreſſive of genius and worth, which were rendered more touching to me, by that penſive look and irreſolute air, which are the conſtant attendants on an adverſe fortune. Lord T— returned his bow [6] almoſt without looking at him, and con⯑tinued talking familiarly to a wretch with whom no gentleman would converſe, were he not maſter of ſix thouſand a year: the whole company, inſtructed in his ſituation by the ſupercilious air of the maſter of the houſe, treated him with the ſame neglect, which I endeavoured to conſole him for by every little civility in my power, and by confining my attention intirely to him; when we parted, he aſked me to his houſe with a look full of ſenſibility; an invita⯑tion I ſhall take the firſt opportunity of ac⯑cepting.

When the company were gone, I aſked Lord T— the character of this ſtranger. Why, really, ſays he, I believe he is in himſelf the moſt eſtimable man in my neighbourhood; of a good family too; but one muſt meaſure one's reception of people by the countenance the world ſhews them; and he is too poor to be greatly ca⯑reſſed [7] there. Beſides I am not fond of be⯑ing acquainted with unhappy people, they are very apt to aſk favours.

Is it poſſible, ſaid I, my Lord, interrupt⯑ing him haſtily, you can avow ſentiments like theſe? Why are you raiſed by Provi⯑dence above others? Why entruſted with that wealth and conſequence which might make you a guardian angel to the unhappy? Where is my chaiſe? I will return to Bel⯑mont, where affliction ever finds a ready audience; where adverſity is ſure of being heard, though pomp and equipage wait.

Lord T— ſmiled at my earneſtneſs, and praiſed the generoſity of my ſenti⯑ments, which he aſſured me were his at my age: he owned he had been to blame; but in the world, ſaid he, Harry, we are carried away by the torrent, and act wrong every moment mechanically meerly by ſeeing others do the ſame. However I [8] ſtand corrected, and you ſhall have no fu⯑ture reaſon to complain of me.

He ſpoke this with an air of good hu⯑mour which reconciled us, and has promiſed to accompany me in my viſit to Mr. Her⯑bert, which I have inſiſted ſhall be the firſt we pay, and that he ſhall beg his pardon for the behaviour of yeſterday.

Is it not ſtrange, my Lord, that men whoſe hearts are not bad, can avoid thoſe whoſe characters do honor to their ſpecies, only becauſe fortune denies them thoſe outward diſtinctions which wealth can give to the loweſt and moſt deſpicable of man⯑kind?

Surely of all human vices, Pride is the moſt deteſtable!

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſquire.

CAN I play with the anxiety of a ten⯑der heart? Certainly, or I ſhould not be what I am, a coquet of the firſt or⯑der: Setting aſide the pleaſure of the thing, and I know few pleaſanter amuſements, Policy dictates this conduct; for there is no poſſibility of keeping any of you with⯑out throwing the charms of dear variety into one's treatment of you: nothing cloys like continual ſweets; a little acid is abſo⯑lutely neceſſary.

I am juſt come from giving Lady Julia ſome excellent advice on the ſubject of her paſſion for you. Really, my dear, ſaid I, you are extremely abſurd to bluſh and look fooliſh about loving ſo pretty a fellow as Harry Mandeville, handſome, well made, lively, elegant; in the true claſſical ſtile, [10] and approved by the connoiſſeurs, by Ma⯑dame le Comteſſe de — herſelf, whom I look upon to be the greateſt judge of male merit on the face of the globe.

It is not for loving him I am angry with you, but for entertaining ſo ridiculous a thought as that of marrying him. You have only one rational ſtep to take; marry Lord Melvin, who has title and fortune, requiſites not to be diſpenſed with in a huſ⯑band, and take Harry Mandeville for your Ceciſbeo. The dear creature was im⯑menſely diſpleaſed, as you, who know the romantic turn of her imagination, will eaſi⯑ly conceive.

O, I had almoſt forgot: yes, indeed, you have great right to give yourſelf jealous airs: we have not heard of your coquetry with Miſs Truman. My cor⯑reſpondent tells me there is no doubt of its being a real paſſion on both ſides, and [11] that the Truman family have been making private enquiries into your fortune. I ſhewed Lady Julia the letter, and you can⯑not conceive how prettily ſhe bluſhed.

But to be grave, I am afraid you have nothing to fear from Lord Melvin. You muſt forgive my making uſe of this ex⯑preſſion; for, as I ſee no poſſibility of ſur⯑mounting the obſtacles which oppoſe your union with Lady Julia, I am too much a friend to both, not to wiſh earneſtly, to break a connexion which has not a ſha⯑dow of hope to ſupport it.

But a truce to this ſubject, which is not a pleaſant one to either of us.

I told you in my laſt I had ſomething to ſay to you. As I am your confidente, you muſt conſent to be mine, having a little preſent occaſion for your ſervices. You are to know, my dear Harry, that with all [12] my conquetry I am as much in love as your⯑ſelf, and with almoſt as little proſpect of ſucceſs: this odious money is abſolutely the bane of us true lovers, and always con⯑trives to ſtand in our way.

My dear ſpouſe then, who in the whole courſe of our acquaintance did but one obliging thing, being kindly determined I ſhould neither be happy with him nor with⯑out him, obligingly, tho' nobody knows this but myſelf, and the Caro Belville, made my jointure what it is, on condition I never married again: on obſervance of which condition it was to be in my power to give the eſtate to whoever I pleaſed at my death; but on a proof of my ſuppoſed future mar⯑riage, it was to go immediately to a niece of his, who at his death was in a convent in France, who is ignorant of this condi⯑tion, and whoſe whole preſent fortune ſcarce amounts to fifteen hundred pounds. She is both in perſon and mind one of the [13] moſt lovely of women, and has an affection for me, which inclines me to think ſhe would come into meaſures for my ſake, which I ſhall make it her intereſt to acqui⯑eſce in for her own.

Belville's fortune is extremely mode⯑rate; and if I marry him at preſent, I ſhall not add a ſhilling to it; his income will re⯑main in ſtatu-quo, with the incumbrance of an indigent woman of quality, whoſe af⯑fairs are a little derange, and amongſt whoſe virtues oeconomy was never one of the moſt obſervable. He would with tranſ⯑port marry me to-morrow, even on theſe hard conditions; but how little ſhould I deſerve ſo generous a paſſion, if I ſuffered it to ſeduce him to his ruin? I have wrote to my niece to come to England, when I ſhall tell her my paſſion for Belville, and pro⯑poſe to her a private agreement to divide the fortune, which will be forfeited to her on my marriage, and which it is in my [14] power by living ſingle to deprive her of for ever. Incapable, however, of injuſtice I have at all events made a will, dividing it equally between her and Belville, if I die unmarried: I have a right to do this for the man I love, as my father left thirty thouſand pounds to Mr. Wilmot, which in equity ought to be regarded as mine, and which is all I deſire, on the diviſion: ſhe, therefore, by my will, has all ſhe ever can expect, even from the ſtricteſt juſtice: and ſhe can ne⯑ver, I think, heſitate between waiting till my death, and at my mercy, and receiving the utmoſt ſhe could hope then, at the preſent.

I have heard from the lady to whom I encloſed my letter, which ſhe has returned, my niece having left France a year ago, to accompany a relation into Italy. What I, therefore, have to aſk of you is, to endea⯑vour to find her out, by your Italian friends, as I will by mine at the ſame time, that I [15] may write to her to return immediately to England, as I will not run the hazard of mentioning the ſubject in a letter. She is the daughter of the late colonel Haſtings, once abroad in a public character, and is well known in Italy.

Belville is not at all in the ſecret of my ſcheme; nor did I ever tell him I would marry him, though I ſometimes give him reaſon to hope.

I am too good a politician in love mat⯑ters ever to put a man out of doubt till half an hour before the ceremony. The moment a woman is weak enough to promiſe, ſhe ſets the heart of her lover at reſt; the chace, and of conſequence the plea⯑ſure, is at an end; and he has nothing to do but to ſeek a new object, and begin the purſuit over again.

[16] I tell you, but I tell it in confidence, that if I find Bell Haſtings, if ſhe comes into my ſcheme, and my mind does not change, I may, perhaps, do Bellville the honor. And yet, when I reflect on the matter; on the condition of the obligation, ‘"ſo long as ye both ſhall live"’—Jeſu Maria! Only think of promiſing to be of the ſame mind as long one lives. My dear Harry, people may talk as they will, but the thing is utterly impoſſible.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

I Have already told you I came hither with a view of engaging Lord T—'s intereſt in ſupport of thoſe views, on which all my hopes of happineſs depend. The friendſhip he has ever profeſſed for me has been warm as that of a father. I was con⯑tinually with him at Rome, and he there [17] preſt me to accept thoſe ſervices I then ne⯑ver expected to have occaſion for. Till now content with my ſituation, love firſt raiſed in me the ſpirit of ambition, and deter⯑mined me to accept thoſe offers. In a for⯑mer letter I told you I was going to follow Lord T— into the garden to communi⯑cate to him my purpoſe of puſhing my for⯑tune in the world, on which I had before given general hints, which he ſeemed to approve, as a kind of ſpirit becoming a young man, warm with hope, and not deſ⯑titute of merit.

On revolving my ſcheme as I approach⯑ed him, it appeared ſo romantic, ſo void of all rational hope, that I had not reſolution to mention it, and determined at leaſt to ſuſpend it till better digeſted, and more fitted to bear the cool eye of impartial reaſon: in theſe ſentiments I ſhould ſtill have remained, had not a letter from Lady Anne Wilmot, by giving me jealouſy, de⯑termined [18] me not to defer one moment a de⯑ſign on which all my happineſs depended.

I, therefore, with ſome heſitation, this morning opened all my heart, and the real ſtate of my circumſtances, to Lord T—, concealing only what related to Lady Julia. He heard me with great coolneſs, careleſsly lolling on a ſettee; his eyes fixed on a new Chineſe ſummer-houſe, oppoſite the window near which he ſat, and made me the following anſwer; ‘"Your views, Mr. Mandeville, ſeem rather ro⯑mantic, for a man who has no party con⯑nexions, and ſo little parliamentary in⯑tereſt. However, you are of a good family, and there are things to be had in time if properly recommended. Have you no friend who would mention you to the miniſter?"’ He then rang the bell haſtily for his valet, and retired to dreſs, leaving me motionleſs with aſtoniſhment and indignation.

[19] We met no more till dinner, when he treated me with a diſtant civility, the meaning of which was eaſily underſtood. He apologized with an air of ceremony on his being forced to go for a fortnight to Scarborough, with a party, who being all ſtrangers, he was afraid would not be agreeable to me; but at his return he ſhould be glad of the honor of ſeeing me again. I bowed coldly, and took no other notice of what he ſaid, than to order my chaiſe immediately; on which he preſſed my ſtay to-night, but in vain. The ſervants leaving the room, he was a little diſconcerted, but obſerved, he was ſorry for me; my caſe was really hard; he always thought my fortune much larger; wondered at my father's indiſcretion in educating me ſo improperly—People ought to con⯑ſider their circumſtances—It was pity I had no friend—Lord Belmont, if he pleaſed, but he was ſo abſurdly fond of his independence.

[20] During this harangue I intirely reco⯑vered my preſence of mind, and with an air of great eaſe and unconcern told his Lordſhip, I was much obliged to him for curing me of a purſuit ſo improper for a man of my temper: that the liberal offers of ſervice he had formerly made me at Rome, had betrayed me into a falſe opi⯑nion of the friendſhip of great men; but that I was now convinced of what value ſuch profeſſions are, and that they are only made where it ſeems certain they will ne⯑ver be accepted. That it was impoſſible his Lordſhip could judge properly of the conduct of a man of my father's character; that I was proud of being ſon to the moſt exalted and generous of mankind; and would not give up that honor to be firſt miniſter to the firſt prince on earth. That I never ſo ſtrongly felt the value of inde⯑pendence as at that moment, and did not wonder at the value Lord Belmont ſet on ſo ineſtimable a bleſſing.

[21] I came away without waiting for an an⯑ſwer, and ſtopped at an inn about ten miles off, where I am now waiting for one of my ſervants, whom I left behind to bring me a letter I expect to-day from Lady Anne Wilmot.

And now, my dear Mordaunt, what will become of your unhappy friend? The flattering hopes I fondly entertained are diſperſed like a flitting cloud. Lord T—'s behaviour has removed the veil which love had ſpread over the wildneſs of my deſign, and convinced me that ſucceſs is impoſſible. Where or to whom ſhall I now apply? Lord T— was him on whoſe friendſhip I moſt depended; whoſe power to ſerve me was greateſt, and whoſe profeſſions gave me moſt right to expect his ſervices.

I here for ever give up all views—Can I then calmly give up the hopes of Lady [22] Julia? I will go back, confeſs my paſſion to Lord Belmont, and throw myſelf on that goodneſs whoſe firſt delight is that of making others happy. Yet can I hope he will give his daughter, the heireſs of ſuch affluence—Diſintereſted and noble as he is, the falſe maxims of the world—Mordaunt, I am born to wretchedneſs—What have I gained by inſpiring the moſt angelic of wo⯑men with pity? I have doomed to miſery her for whoſe happineſs I would ſacrifice my life.

The ſervant I left at Lord T—, is this moment arrived; he has brought me a letter—I know not why, but my hand trembles, I have ſcarce power to break the ſeal.

O Mordaunt! till now I was never truly wretched. I have not even a glimpſe of hope remaining. I muſt give up the only wiſh for which life is worth my care, or embitter the laſt hours of the man, who with unequalled generoſity has pleaded my cauſe againſt himſelf, and declined a noble acquiſition of fortune, that it might give conſequence, and, as he thought, happineſs to me.

But Lady Julia—Heaven is my witneſs, to make her happy, I would this moment give up all my rights in her heart. I would myſelf lead her to the altar, though the ſame hand the next moment—Mordaunt, I will promiſe, if ſhe requeſts [31] it, to conſent to her marriage; but I will not to ſurvive it. My thoughts are all diſtraction—I cannot write to Lady Anne—I will write to the moſt lovely of wo⯑men—She knows not the cruel requeſt of of her friend—Her love diſdains the low conſideration of wealth—Our hearts were formed for each other—She knows every ſentiment of my ſoul—She knows, that were I monarch of the world—O Mordaunt! is it poſſible—Can the gentle, the indulgent Lord Belmont;—but all con⯑ſpires to undo me: the beſt, the moſt mild of mankind is turned a tyrant to make me wretched. I will know from herſelf if ſhe conſents; I will give up my own hopes to her happineſs; but let me firſt be convinced it is indeed her happineſs, not the preju⯑dices of her father, to which I make ſo cruel a ſacrifice.

I have wrote to Lady Julia, and am more calm: I have mentioned Lady Anne's [32] queſt. I have told her, that though with⯑out hope, if I am ſtill bleſt in her affection, I will never reſign her but with life: but if ſhe can be happy with Lord Melvin, if ſhe aſks it, ſhe is this moment free. I have entreated her to conſult her own heart, without a thought of me; that I would die this moment to contribute to her peace; that the firſt purpoſe of my life is her hap⯑pineſs, with which my own ſhall never come in competition; that there is nothing I will ever refuſe her, but to ceaſe to think of her with adoration; that if ſhe wiſhes to marry Lord Melvin (Great Heaven! is it poſſible ſhe can wiſh it) I will return to Italy, and carry far from her a paſſion which can never ceaſe but in the grave.

I will wait here an anſwer, and then de⯑termine where to go.

To Colonel BELVILLE.

To Colonel BELVILLE.

WE have been all extremely buſy to-day, celebrating a harveſt-home; a long proceſſion of our village youths, all dreſt gaily in fine ſhirts, adorned with ribbands, paired with the handſomeſt of the country girls, in white jackets and pet⯑ticoats, garlands of flowers and wheat-ears on their heads, their rakes ſtreaming with various coloured ribbands, which glittered in the ſunbeams, preceded the harveſt cart; on which, in a bower of green boughs, ſtood a beautiful little girl, dreſt in the rural ſtile, with inimitable elegance, by the hands of Lady Julia herſelf. The gay proceſſion walked ſlowly through the vil⯑lage; a tabor and pipe playing before them, till they came before the houſe, where they danced a thouſand little ruſtic dances, the novelty of which charmed me extremely: [38] they then adjourned to the hall, where a plentiful feaſt was provided, and where the whole village were that night my Lord's gueſts.

Lord Belmont is extremely fond of all theſe old cuſtoms, and will ſuffer none of them to be left off on his eſtate. The proſpect of this feſtivity, he ſays, chears them in their labor, and is a laudable tri⯑bute of gladneſs to that beneficent being, to whoſe bounty we owe the full reward of our toil, the plenteous harveſt, and who rejoices in the happineſs of his creatures.

Beſides, ſays my Lord, all theſe amuſe⯑ments encourage a ſpirit of matrimony, and encreaſe the number of my people.

And pray, my dear Lord, do they en⯑courage no other ſpirit!

[39] No, Madam; Lady Belmont's anger and mine would, in ſuch a caſe, they know, contrary to that of the world, fall chiefly where it ought, on the ſeducer, who would be for ever expelled my eſtate, the heavieſt puniſhment I could poſſibly inflict. Then, as I am a declared enemy to intereſted mar⯑riages, the young people are allowed to chuſe for themſelves, which removes the temptation to vice, which is generally cauſed by the ſhameful avarice of parents.

Our example too is of great ſervice, and and allures them to a regular behaviour; they think that muſt be the happieſt life, which we, who have the power of chuſing, prefer; and therefore it is the faſhion amongſt them to be regular, and ſeek their happineſs, as we do, at home.

I believe my Lord is right: I am well pleaſed too, he throws the blame on you he wretches, and excuſes the poor laſſes. [40] In the eye of the world it is to be ſure ‘"toute au contraire;"’ but my Lord and Lady Belmont are ſo ſingular as to ſee with their own eyes.

Adieu! We are all to go down one dance with the villagers, and I hear the ta⯑bor and pipe.

O Heavens! a coach and ſix, the Man⯑deville livery; a running footman; it muſt be Lady Mary; I will enquire; it is her⯑ſelf; my Lord flies to receive her in the court; Lady Belmont and Lady Julia are at the door; ſhe alights; I never ſaw her before; her figure is ſtriking, full of digni⯑ty, and that grace which is almoſt loſt in this generation; ſhe enters the houſe lean⯑ing on my Lord; I am grieved Harry is gone; I wiſhed her to be ſome time with him; ſhe only juſt ſaw him as he came through London in his way to Belmont.

[41] But I muſt go to pay my reſpects. Adieu!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

AS I was ſitting alone this morning at the inn looking out at a window, I ſaw ride into the yard Mr. Herbert, the gentleman to whom I took ſo ſtrong an in⯑clination at Lord T—'s, and for whoſe character I have the higheſt eſteem. He ſaw me, and ſpringing eagerly from his horſe, ſent to know if I would admit him. He came, and after expreſſing ſome ſurprize at ſeeing me there, on my telling him I had left Lord T—'s, and waited there a few days for letters, he inſiſted on my ſpending that time at his houſe, in a man⯑ner which it was impoſſible for me to refuſe. As we rode, he apologized for the entertain⯑ment [42] I ſhould meet with; wiſhed for a larger ſhare of the gifts of fortune that he might receive his friends in a manner more ſuited to his deſires; but ſaid, if he knew me, the heart of the hoſt was all I ſhould care for; and that I ſhould reliſh the home⯑ly meat of chearful friendſhip, as well as the ſplendid profuſion of luxury and pride.

We arrived at a neat houſe, with a little romantic garden behind it, where we were received by Mrs. Herbert with that hoſpi⯑table air which is inſeparable from real be⯑nevolence of heart. Her perſon was ex⯑tremely pleaſing, and her dreſs elegantly plain. She had a little boy ſitting by her, lovely and playful as a Cupid.

Neatneſs and propriety preſided at our frugal meat; and after a little deſert of ex⯑cellent fruit from their garden, Mr. Her⯑bert took me the tour of his eſtate, which conſiſts of about ſeventy acres, which he culti⯑vates [43] himſelf, and has embelliſhed with every thing that can make it lovely: all has the appearance of content and peace: I ob⯑ſerved this to him, and added, that I infi⯑nitely envied his happineſs. He ſtopped and looked earneſtly at me; I am indeed, ſaid he, happy in many things, and though my fortune is greatly below my birth and hopes, I am not in want; things may be better, till then I bear them as I can: my wife, whoſe worth outweighs all praiſe, combats our ill fate with a ſpirit I cannot always imitate; for her, Mr. Mandeville, for her, I feel with double keenneſs the ſtings of adverſity.

I obſerved him too much affected to pur⯑ſue the ſubject farther, I therefore changed it, and returned to the houſe: but I will not leave him till I am inſtructed how to draw the worm of diſcontent from one of the worthieſt of human boſoms.

[44] Write to me here. I ſhall ſtay till I know when my father will be in the coun⯑try. Adieu!

To Colonel BELVILLE.

I AM charmed with Lady Mary; her ad⯑dreſs is eaſy, polite, attentive; ſhe is tall, brown, well made, and perfectly graceful; her air would inſpire awe, if not ſoftened by the utmoſt ſweetneſs and affability of behaviour. She has great vivacity in her looks and manner; her hair is quite white; her eyes have loſt their luſtre; yet it is eaſy to ſee ſhe has been very handſome; her hand and arm are yet lovely, of which ſhe is not a little vain: take her for all in all, ſhe is the fineſt ruin I ever beheld.

She is full of anecdotes of the queen's time, choſe with judgment, and told with ſpi⯑rit, [45] which make her converſation infinitely amuſing. She has been ſaying ſo many fine things of Harry, who by the way ſtrongly reſembles her, that I begin to think the good old lady has a matrimonial deſign upon him : really not amiſs ſuch a ſcheme; fine remains, an affluent fortune, and as to years, eighty is abſolutely the beſt age I know for a wife, except eighteen. She thinks him, what is extremely in his favor, very like her brother, who was killed at the battle of Almanza.

She has the talkativeneſs of age, which, where there is ſenſe and knowledge of the world, I do not diſlike; ſhe is learned in genealogy, and can tell you not only the in⯑termarriages, but the family virtues and vices of every ancient houſe in the king⯑dom; as to the modern ones, ſhe does not think them worth ſtudying. I am high in her favour, becauſe my blood has never been contaminated by a city marriage. She [46] tells me the women of my family have always been famous for a certain eaſe and bon air, which ſhe is glad to ſee is not loſt; and that my grand-mother was the greateſt or⯑nament of Queen Mary's court.

She has a great contempt for the preſent race of beauties, ſays the very idea of grace is almoſt loſt, and that we ſee nothing now but meer pretty women; that ſhe can only account for this, by ſuppoſing the trifling turn of their minds gives an inſignificance to their perſons; and that ſhe would ad⯑viſe them to learn to think and act, in or⯑der to their being able to look and move, with dignity. ‘"You, nephew, ſhe ſays, who remember each bright Churchill of the Galaxy, will readily come into my opi⯑nion."’ She does me the honor, how⯑ever, to ſay I am the moſt graceful wo⯑man ſhe has ſeen ſince the Queen's time.

[47] She is a great politician, and ſomething inclined to be a tory, though ſhe profeſſes perfect impartiality; loves the king, and idolizes the queen, becauſe ſhe thinks ſhe ſees in her the ſweet affability ſo admired in her favourite Queen Mary—For⯑gives the cits for their oppoſition to peace, becauſe they get more money by war, the criterion by which they judge of every thing: but is amazed nobles, born guardians of the juſt rights of the throne, the fountain of all their honors, ſhould join theſe in⯑tereſted Change-alley politicians, and en⯑deavour, from private pique, to weaken the hands of their ſovereign: But adds, with a ſigh, that mankind were always alike, and that it was juſt ſo in the Queen's Time.

‘"But, pray nephew, this Canada;—I remember when Hill was ſent againſt it in the Queen's time, it was thought of great conſequence; and 2 or 3 years ago pamph⯑lets were wrote, I am told, by men very well [48] born, to prove it was the only point we ought to have in view; but a point in which we could ſcarce hope to ſucceed. Is it really ſo trifling an acquiſition? And how comes the nature of it to be ſo changed now we are likely to keep it?"’

‘"The terms of peace talked of, madam, ſaid Lord Belmont, if we conſider them in the only juſt light, their relation to the end for which war was undertaken, are ſuch as wiſdom and equity equally dictate. Canada, conſidered merely as the poſſeſſion of it gives ſecurity to our colonies, is of more national conſequence to us than all the ſugar iſlands on the globe: but if the preſent inhabitants are encouraged to ſtay by the mildneſs of our laws, and that full liberty of conſci⯑ence to which every rational creature has a right; if they are taught by every ho⯑neſt art a love for that conſtitution which makes them free, and a perſonal attach⯑ment [49] to the beſt of princes; if they are allured to our religious worſhip, by ſee⯑ing it in its genuine beauty, equally re⯑mote from their load of trifling ceremo⯑nies, and the unornamented forms of the diſſenters: if population is encouraged; the waſte lands ſettled; and a whale fiſhery ſet on foot, we ſhall find it, conſi⯑dered in every light, an acquiſition be⯑yond our moſt ſanguine hopes."’

O Ciel! I am tired. Adieu!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

I AM ſtill with Mr. Herbert, whoſe ge⯑nius, learning, and goodneſs of heart, make him an honor to human nature itſelf: I ſhall never know peace till I find a way to render his ſituation more worthy of his character.

[50] It was with great difficulty I drew from him the following ſhort account of him⯑ſelf.

There is nothing in my paſt life but what is, I fear, too uſual to be worth re⯑lating. Warmth of temper, and the va⯑nity of youth, ſeduced me into a circle of company not to be kept up by one of my fortune, at a leſs price than ruin; and the ſame vanity, with inexperience, and a falſe opinion of mankind, betrayed me into views not leſs deſtructive.

My father unhappily died when I was about nineteen, leaving me at college, maſ⯑ter of my own actions, of the little eſtate you ſee, and of four thouſand pounds; a ſum I then thought inexhauſtible. The reputa⯑tion of ſuch a ſum in my own power, drew about me all the worthleſs young men of ſaſhion in the univerſity, whoſe perſuaſions and examples led me into a train of expence [51] to which my fortune was far from being equal; they flattered thoſe talents of which I thought but too well myſelf, and eaſily perſuaded me I only wanted to be known in the great world to riſe to what height I pleaſed. I accompanied them to town, full of the idea of raiſing my fortune, to which they aſſured me nothing ſo much contri⯑buted as the appearance of being perfectly at eaſe. To this end I launched into every expence they propoſed, dreſs, equipage, play, and every faſhionable extravagance. I was well received every where, and thought my deſigns in a proſperous way. I found my fortune however decaying at the end of two years, but had not courage to enquire into particulars, till drawing upon my banker for money to pay ſome debts I had unwarily contracted, he told me he had already paid the whole.

It was ſome time before he could con⯑vince me of this; but finding his accounts [52] had all the appearance of exactneſs, I was obliged to acquieſce, and went home in an agony of deſpair. Unable to quit a way of life which was become habitual, and which it was now impoſſible to ſupport without diſhoneſty, there is no deſcribing my feel⯑ings. After revolving a thouſand different ſchemes in my imagination, I determined to conceal the ſituation of my affairs, to ſell my eſtate, and before that money was gone, preſs my great friends to ſerve me.

I applied to my banker, who undertook to ſend me a purchaſer; but before I had compleated my deſign I received by the poſt a bank note of five hundred pounds, the ſum I was indebted in town; with a letter, in a hand unknown to me, repreſenting in the moſt delicate manner, the imprudence of my paſt conduct, the madneſs of my views, and the certain conſequences of my parting with this my laſt ſtake: intreating me by the memory of my parents, to pre⯑ſerve [53] this ſacred depoſit, this little remain of what their tender care had left me.

Melted with this generoſity, ſtruck with the juſt reproof, yet chained down to that world which had undone me; convinced, yet irreſolute; I ſtruggled with my own own heart to determine on retiring into the country; but to poſtpone as long as poſſible a retreat, which I could not bear to think of, reſolved firſt to try my great friends, and be certain of what I had to hope for. I re⯑preſented to them the neceſſity of immedi⯑ately attempting in earneſt to puſh my for⯑tune, and preſſing them cloſely, found their promiſes were air. They talked in general terms of their eſteem for me, of my merit, and each of them expreſſed the warmeſt de⯑ſire of ſeeing me ſerved by any means but his own. As a means to animate their lan⯑guid friendſhip, I diſcovered to them the real ſtate of my affairs; and from that mo⯑ment found myſelf avoided by them all; [54] they dropped me by degrees; were never at home when I called; and at length ceaſed even to bow to me in public; aſhamed of their own baſeneſs in thus cru⯑elly deſerting me, after leading me into ruin, moſt of them ſought to excuſe it by blackening my character; whilſt the beſt of them affected coldly to pity me, as a vain fooliſh fellow, who had undone himſelf by forgetting his own primeval ſituation, and arrogantly preſuming to live with them.

Burning with indignation, I determined at once to break the bands which held me captive; I ſold my equipage, diſcharged my debts, and came down to this place, re⯑ſolved to find out to whom I had been ſo obliged; and, by living on half my income, to repay this generous benefactor.

I took lodgings in a farm-houſe, and ſoon found that peace of mind to which I [55] had long been a ſtranger. I tried every method to find out to whom I was indebted for an act of ſuch exalted friendſhip, but in vain; till one day, a relation being pre⯑ſent, of whom I had ſome ſuſpicion, I re⯑lated the ſtory, as of another, keeping my eyes fixed upon him; he remained perfect⯑ly unmoved; but happening to turn my head, I ſaw a confuſion in the air of a young lady in the room, with whom I had been bred in the greateſt intimacy, which excited all my attention. She ſaw me ob⯑ſerve her, and a bluſh overſpread her cheeks, which convinced me I had found the object of my ſearch. I changed the ſubject; and the next morning made her a viſit, when I with great difficulty drew from her a confeſſion, that having long had a tender eſteem for me, ſhe had, by a friend in a town, watched all my actions: that my banker had applied to that very friend to purchaſe my eſtate; on which, ſeeing me on the brink of abſolute ruin, ſhe [56] had taken what appeared to her the moſt probable means to prevent it; and was ſo happy as to ſee ſhe had ſucceeded.

I dare ſay I need not tell you this noble creature was my dear Mrs. Herbert, the ſmalleſs of whoſe fortune added infinitely to the generoſity of the action, what ſhe had ſent me being within a trifle her all.

I loved, I addreſſed her, and at length, was ſo happy as to call her mine. Bleſt in the moſt exalted paſſion for each other, a paſſion which time has rather encreaſed than abated, the narrowneſs of our circum⯑ſtances is the only ill we have to complain of; even this we have borne with chearful⯑neſs in the hope of happier days. A late accident has, however, broke in upon that tranquillity with which Heaven has hitherto bleſt us. It is now about ſix months ſince a lady, who tenderly eſteemed us both, ſent for me, and acquainted me ſhe had [57] procured for me of a gentleman, whoſe fa⯑mily had been obliged to her, a living of above three hundred pounds a year, in a beautiful ſituation; and deſired I would im⯑mediately take orders. As I was originally educated with a view to the church, I con⯑ſented with inexpreſſible joy, bleſſing that Heaven, which had thus rewarded my Sophia's generous affection, and given us all that was wanting to compleat our hap⯑pineſs. I ſet out for London with an exult⯑ing heart; where, after being ordained, I re⯑ceived the preſentation, and went down to take poſſeſſion. The houſe was large and elegant, and betrayed me into furniſhing it rather better than ſuited my preſent cir⯑cumſtances; but as I determined on the utmoſt frugality for ſome years, I thought this of little conſequence. I ſet men to work in the garden; and wrote my wife an account of our new reſidence, which made her eager to haſten her removal. The day of my coming for my family was fixed, [58] when my patron came down to his ſeat, which was within ſight of the rectory; I waited on him, and found him ſurrounded by wretches, to whom it was ſcarce poſſible to give the name of human; profligate, abandoned, loſt even to the ſenſe of ſhame; their converſation wounded reaſon, virtue, politeneſs, and all that mankind agree to hold ſacred. My patron, the wealthy heir of a Weſt Indian, was raiſed above them, only by fortune, and a ſuperior degree of ignorance and ſavage inſenſibility. He re⯑ceived me with an inſolence, which I found great difficulty in ſubmitting to: and after ſome brutal general reflexions on the cler⯑gy, dared to utter expreſſions relating to the beauty of my wife, which fired my ſoul with indignation; breathleſs with rage, I had not power to reply: when one of the company ſpeaking low to him, he anſwered aloud, Hark, you Herbert, this blockhead thinks a parſon a gentleman; and wonders [59] at my treating, as I pleaſe, a fellow who eats my bread.

I will ſooner want bread, Sir, ſaid I, riſing, than owe it to the moſt contempti⯑ble of mankind. Your living is once more at your diſpoſal; I reſign all right to it be⯑fore this company.

The pleaſure of having acted as I ought, ſwelled my boſom with conſcious delight, and ſupported me till I reached home; when my heart ſunk at the thought of what my Sophia might feel from the diſappoint⯑ment. Our affairs too were a little em⯑baraſſed, from which miſery I had hoped to be ſet free, inſtead of which my debts were encreaſed. Mr. Mandeville, if you never knew the horrors of being in debt, you can form no idea of what it is to breathe the air at the mercy of another; to labor, to ſtruggle to be juſt, whilſt the [60] cruel world are loading you with the guilt of injuſtice.

I entered the houſe, filled with horrors not to be conceived. My wife met me with eager enquiries about our future reſidence; and with repeated thanks to that God who had thus graciouſly beſtowed on us the means of doing juſtice to all the world. You will imagine what I felt at that moment: in⯑ſtead of replying, I related to her the treat⯑ment I had met with, and the character of him to whom we were to be obliged; and aſked her, what ſhe would wiſh me to do? Reſign the living, ſaid ſhe, and truſt to that Heaven whoſe goodneſs is over all his creatures. I embraced her with tears of tender tranſport, and told her I had already done it. We wrote to the lady to whoſe friendſhip we had been obliged for the preſentation; and ſhe had the greatneſs of mind not to diſapprove my conduct. We have ſince practiſed a more ſevere frugality, [61] which we are determined not to relax till what we owe is fully diſcharged: time will, we hope, bring about this end, and re⯑move the load which now oppreſſes my heart. Determined to truſt to Heaven and our own induſtry, and to aim at indepen⯑dence alone, I have avoided all acquaintance which could interfere with this only rational plan: but Lord T— ſeeing me at the houſe of a nobleman, whoſe virtues do honor to his rank; and imagining my fortune eaſy from my cordial reception there, in⯑vited me earneſtly to his ſeat; where, hav⯑ing, as I ſuppoſe, been ſince undeceived as to my ſituation, you were a witneſs of his un⯑worthy treatment of me; of one deſcended from a family noble as his own, liberally educated, with a ſpirit equally above mean⯑neſs and pride, and a heart which feels too ſenſibly to be happy in a world like this.

Oh Mr. Mandeville! What can you think of him, who, inſtead of pouring out his [62] ſoul in thankfulneſs to Heaven for thoſe advantages he enjoys by its goodneſs above his fellow-creatures, makes uſe of them to wound the boſom of the wretched, and add double bitterneſs to the cup of adverſity.

The real evils of a narrow fortune are trifling; its worſt pangs ſpring from the unfeeling cruelty of others; it is not always that philoſophy can raiſe us above the proud man's contumely, or thoſe thouſand inſults

You, Mr. Mandeville, are young, and full of probity; your own heart will miſ⯑lead you, by drawing too flattering a pic⯑ture of others; the world is gay before you; and blinded by proſperity, you have never yet ſeen it as it is. I have heard you with infinite concern hint deſigns too like my own; let me intreat, let me con⯑jure [63] you, to profit by my example; if peace is worth your care, be content with your pa⯑ternal fortune, however ſmall; nor by raſhly launching on the flattering ſea of hope, hazard that ſhipwreck which I have ſuffered.

Mordaunt! Is not this the voice of Hea⯑ven? I will return to the boſom of inde⯑pendence, and give up deſigns in which it is almoſt impoſſible for modeſt worth to ſucceed.

My father is in town; I will go to him when he returns; his advice ſhall deter⯑mine my future conduct.

A letter from Lady Julia: my ſervant has this moment brought it from Lord T—'s, whither I deſired it be directed, not chuſing to let them know I have put an end to my viſit, leſt Lord Belmont ſhould inſiſt on my return.

[66] O Mordaunt! How ſhall I reſtrain the wild tranſports of my heart! Her love, her moſt ardent love—How could I ſuſpect her truth?—No, my friend, I aſk no more, I will not return to Belmont; certain of her tenderneſs, I ſubmit, without repining, to her commands.

Unable, however, to reſiſt the deſire of being near her, I will go privately to a lit⯑tle farm, four miles from Belmont, of which it has a view, which is rented by an old ſer⯑vant of my father's, whoſe ſon is in love with one of Lady Belmont's maids, and from whom I ſhall hear daily accounts of Lady Julia; as it is near the road, I may even have a chance of ſeeing her paſs by.

I ſhall leave my ſervants at the inn, and order all my letters hither: Mr. Herbert will convey them to me, and keep the ſecret of my retreat.

[67] Great heaven! I ſhall to-night be near her, I ſhall behold the turrets of Belmont! It is even poſſible I may ſee the dear object of all my wiſhes. A thouſand ſweet ideas riſe in my mind. My heart dances with pleaſure.

Mordaunt! ſhe loves me, ſhe will never be another's.

This paſſion abſorbs me wholly: I had almoſt forgot my friend; go to my banker's, take a hundred pounds, and ſend it by the poſt to Mr. Herbert, without letting him know from whom it comes. Why is this trifle all that is in my power to do for worth like his? If a happier fate—But let me not encourage the fanguine hopes of youth.

I will introduce him to Lord Belmont, the friend of virtue, the ſupport of the un⯑happy, the delegate of Heaven itſelf.

To Colonel BELVILLE.

A Pretty ſentimental letter your laſt, and would make an admirable figure in a true hiſtory of Celadon and Urania. Abſolutely, though, Belville, for people who have ſenſibility, and ſo little proſpect of coming together in an honorable way, we are a moſt extraordinary pair of lovers. And yet the world—apropos to the world, a French author I am reading, ſays, a wiſe writer, to divert the fury of criticiſm from his works, ſhould throw it now and then an indiſcretion in his conduct to play with, as ſeamen do a tub to the whale.

Do not you think this might be a uſe⯑ful hint to us beauties? If I treat the good old ladies ſometimes with a little impru⯑dence [69] in regard to you, my complexion may eſcape the better for it.

We are juſt returned from a party on the water, which, like moſt concerted parties, turned out exceedingly dull: we had gilded barges, excellent muſick, an elegant repaſt, and all that could invite pleaſure amongſt us; but whether her ladyſhip be a true coquette, flying faſteſt when purſued, or what is the reaſon I know not, but certain it is, one ſeldom finds her when one goes to ſeek her; her viſits are generally ſpon⯑taneous and unexpected; ſhe rejects all in⯑vitations, and comes upon you in her own way, by ſurprize. I ſet off in high ſpirits, my heart beating with expectation, and ne⯑ver paſt a more languid day; I fancied every moment would be pleaſanter, but found the laſt hour as ſpiritleſs as the firſt. I ſaw chagrin and diſappointment in the eyes of half the company, eſpecially the younger part of it. Lady Julia's ſeemed to [70] ſay, ‘"All this would be charming if Har⯑ry Mandeville was here."’ My own ideas were ſomething ſimilar, I could not keep my imagination from wandering a little to Groſvenor-ſtreet; moſt of the miſſes were in the ſame ſituation, whilſt the good old people ſeemed perfectly ſatisfied; which convinces me that at a certain time of life there is no pleaſure without the heart; where that is untouched, and takes no part in your amuſements, all is ſtill life and vege⯑tation: it is in vain to expect enjoyment from outward objects, where the ſoul is from home.

I miſſed my ſweet Harry exceedingly, for though not a lover, he is a divine fel⯑low, and there is ſomething vaſtly amuſing in having ſo agreeable an object before one's eyes.

[71] Whenever I make a party of pleaſure, it ſhall conſiſt all of lovers, who have not met of a twelvemonth.

Who ſhould we meet on our return, but Fondville, in a ſuperb barge, full of compa⯑ny, dying at the feet of the Cittadina, who was ſinging a melting Italian air. Yes, we are to be Lady Viſcounteſs Fondville, all is agreed, the clothes beſpoke, our very garters interwoven with coronets. I ſhall get off before the days of viſitation, for there will be no ſupporting Madame la Viſcomteſſe.

I have been taking half an hour tete à tete with Lady Mary; and have let her into the ſecret of little Weſtbrook's paſſion for Harry: She drew up at the very mention, was aſtoniſhed, that a creature of yeſterday, could think of mixing his blood with that of Mandeville, declared ſhe knew but twen⯑ty houſes in Europe into which ſhe ſhould ever conſent to Harry's marrying.

[72] I took this opportunity of giving a hint of his inclination for Lady Julia, but am doubtful whether ſhe underſtood me. Oh! that he had Lord Melvin's expectations! But why do I wiſh for impoſſibilities? Let me rather wiſh, what is next to impoſſible, that Lord Belmont would overlook the want of them!

Adieu!

To Colonel BELVILLE.

O CIEL! Une avanture! Making uſe of the ſweet liberty of Belmont, which has no rule but that of the Thele⯑mites, ‘"Do what thou wilt,"’ I left them after dinner to ſettle family affairs, and or⯑dered my chariot to take a ſolitary airing: an old cat, however, arriving juſt as it [73] came to the door, who is a famous profici⯑ent in ſcandal, a treat I am abſolutely de⯑prived of at Belmont, I changed my mind, and aſked her to accompany me, that I might be amuſed with the ſecret hiſtory of all the neighbourhood.

She had torn to pieces half a dozen of the prettieſt women about us, when paſſing through a little village about ſix miles from Belmont, I was ſtruck with the extreme neatneſs of a ſmall houſe and garden near the road; there was an elegant plainneſs in the air of it, which pleaſed me ſo much, that I pulled the ſtring, and ordered the coachman to ſtop, that I might examine it more at leiſure. I was going to bid him drive on, when two women came out of an aroor, one of whom inſtantly engaged all my attention.

Imagine to yourſelf in ſuch a place all that is graceful and lovely in woman; an [74] elegance of form and habit; a dignity of deportment; an air of delicate languor and ſenſibility, which won the heart at a look; a complexion inclining to pale; the fineſt dark eyes; with a countenance in which a modeſt ſorrow and dignified dejec⯑tion gave the ſtrongeſt indications of ſuffer⯑ing merit.

My companion ſeeing the apparent par⯑tiality, with which I beheld this amiable object, began to give me a hiſtory of her, embittered by all the virulence of malice; which, however, amounted to no more, than that ſhe was a ſtranger, and that as nobody knew who ſhe was, they generouſly concluded ſhe was one whoſe intereſt it was not to be known.

They now drew nearer to us; and the charming creature raiſing her eyes, and then firſt ſeeing us, exclaimed, Good Hea⯑ven! Lady Anne Wilmot! Is it poſſible! [75] I now regarded her more attentively, and though greatly changed ſince I ſaw her, knew her to be Bell Haſtings, Mr. Wilmot's niece, whom I had been long endeavouring to find. I ſprung from the chariot to meet her, and need not tell you my tranſport at ſo unexpected a rencounter.

After the common enquiries on meeting, I expreſſed my ſurprize at finding her there, with a gentle reproach at her un⯑kindneſs in being in England without letting me know it. She bluſhed, and ſeem⯑ed embarraſſed at what I ſaid; on which I changed the ſubject, and preſſed her to ac⯑company me immediately to Belmont, the place on earth where merit like hers was moſt ſure of finding its beſt reward, eſteem. She declined this propoſal in a manner which convinced me ſhe had ſome particular reaſon for refuſing, which I doubted not her taking a proper time to explain, and therefore gave it up for the [76] preſent. I inſiſted, however, on her pro⯑miſing to go with me to town; and that nothing but a matrimonial engagement ſhould ſeparate her from me. There is no deſcribing the exceſs of her gratitude, tears of tender ſenſibility ſhone in her eyes; and I could ſee her boſom ſwell with ſenſations to which ſhe could not give utterance.

An hour paſſed without my having thought of my meagre companion at the gate. I was not ſorry for having acci⯑dentally mortified the envious wretch for her ſpite to poor Bell. However, as I would not deſignedly be ſhocking, I ſent to her, and apologized for my neglect, which I excuſed from my joy at meeting unex⯑pectedly with a relation for whom I had the tendereſt friendſhip. The creature alighted at my requeſt; and to make amends for the picture ſhe had drawn of my amiable niece, overwhelmed her with civilities and expreſ⯑ſions of eſteem, which would have en⯑creaſed [77] my contempt for her, if any thing in nature could.

After tea we returned, when I related my adventure, and, though ſo late, could ſcarce prevail on Lady Belmont to defer her viſit to Bell till to-morrow. She hopes to be able to prevail on her to accompany us back to Belmont.

Adio, caro.

To GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

I Write this from my new abode, a little ſequeſtered farm, at the ſide of a ro⯑mantic wood: there is an arbor in the thickeſt grove of intermingled jeſſamines and roſes. Here William meditates future happy hours, when joined to his lovely Anna: he has adorned it with every charm of nature, to pleaſe the miſtreſs of his ſoul: here I paſs my ſweeteſt hours: here Wil⯑liam [78] brings me news of Lady Julia; he is this moment returned; he ſaw her walking to the ruſtic temple, leaning on Emily Howard: he tells me ſhe ſighed as ſhe paſt him. O Mordaunt! was that ſigh for me?

Not certain Lady Julia would forgive my being ſo near her, or a concealment which has ſo guilty an air, I have enjoined William ſecrecy even to his Anna, and bribed it by a promiſe of making him hap⯑py. My letters therefore come round by Mr. Herbert's, and it is three days before I receive them. I have not yet heard from Belmont, or my father. I am ſuppoſed to be ſtill at Lord T—'s.

Ever an enthuſiaſt, from warmth of heart and imagination, my whole ſoul is devoted to Lady Julia. I paſs my days in carving that loved name on the rinds of the ſmootheſt trees: and when the good old man retires to his reſt, William and I ſteal [79] forth, and ride to the end of Belmont Park, where having contemplated the dear abode of all that earth contains of lovely, and breathed an ardent prayer to Heaven for her happineſs, I return to my ruſtic re⯑treat, and wait patiently till the next even⯑ing brings back the ſame pleaſing employ⯑ment.

Since I left Belmont, I have never known happineſs like what I now feel. Certain of her tenderneſs, tranquillity is reſtored to my ſoul: for ever employed in thinking of her; that painful reſtraint which company brought is removed; the ſcenes around me, and the dear ſolitude I enjoy, are proper to flatter a love-ſick heart; my paſſion is ſoothed by the artleſs expreſſion of Willi⯑am's; I make him ſit hours talking of his Anna: he brings me every day intelligence of my angel; I ſee every hour the place which ſhe inhabits. Am I not moſt happy? Her idea is perpetually before me; when [80] I walk in theſe ſweet ſhades, ſo reſembling thoſe of Belmont, I look round as if ex⯑pecting to behold her; I ſtart at every ſound, and almoſt fancy her lovely form in my view.

Oh! Mordaunt! what tranſport do I find in this ſweet delirium of love! How ea⯑gerly do I expect the return of evening! Could I but once again behold her! Once again ſwear eternal paſſion—I have a thouſand things to ſay.

To Colonel BELVILLE.

To GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

O Mordaunt! I have ſeen her; have heard the ſound of that enchanting voice; my Lord was in the chaiſe with her; they ſtopped to drink freſh cream; William preſented her a noſegay; ſhe thanked him with an air of ſweetneſs, which would have won the ſoul of a ſavage. My heart beat with unutterable tranſport; it was with difficulty I reſtrained myſelf.

Mordaunt! I muſt return; I can no longer bear this abſence: I will write this moment to Lord Belmont, and own my paſſion for his daughter; I will paint in the moſt lively colors my love and my deſpair: I will tell him I have nothing to hope from the world, and throw myſelf intirely on his friendſhip. I know the indiſcretion of [97] this proceeding; I know I ought not to hope ſucceſs; but I have too long conceal⯑ed my ſentiments, and purſued a conduct unworthy of my heart.

I have wrote; I have ſent away the letter. I have ſaid all that can engage his heart in my favor; to-morrow he will receive my letter; to-morrow—O Mordaunt! how ſoon will my fate be determined! A chill⯑neſs ſeizes me at the thought, my hand trembles, it is with difficulty I hold the pen. I have entreated an immediate an⯑ſwer; it will come incloſed to Mr. Herbert, to whom I have wrote to bring the letter himſelf. On Wedneſday I ſhall be the moſt happy or moſt loſt of mankind. What a dreadful interval will it be! My heart dies within me at the thought.

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſquire.

I AM commiſſioned by Lady Anne, my dear Mr. Mandeville, to inſiſt on your immediate return; ſhe declares ſhe can no longer ſupport the country without you, but ſhall die with chagrin and ennui; even play itſelf has loſt half its charms in your abſence. Lady Mary, my wife and daugh⯑ter join in the ſame requeſt, which I have a thouſand reaſons to preſs your complying with, as ſoon as is conſiſtent with what po⯑liteneſs exacts in regard to Lord T—.

One, and not the weakeſt, is the pleaſure I find in converſation, a pleaſure I never taſte more ſtrongly than with you, and a pleaſure which promiſcuous viſiters have for ſome time ceaſed to give me. I have not loſt my reliſh for ſociety, but it grows, [99] in ſpite of all my endeavors, more delicate; I have as great pleaſure as ever in the con⯑verſation of ſelect friends; but I cannot ſo well bear the common run of company. I look on this delicacy as one of the infirmi⯑ties of age, and as much a ſymptom of de⯑cay, as it would be to loſe-my taſte for roaſt beef, and be able only to reliſh ortolans.

Lord Fondville is next week to marry Miſs Weſtbrook; they have a coach mak⯑ing which is to coſt a thouſand pounds.

I am interrupted by a worthy man, to whom I am ſo happy as to be able to do a ſervice: to you I need make no other apo⯑logy.

Adieu! my amiable friend!

To Lady ANNE WILMOT.

CAN the moſt refined of her ſex, at the very moment when ſhe owns her⯑ſelf ſhocked at Mrs. H—'s malicious inſinuation, refuſe to ſilence her by mak⯑ing me happy? Can ſhe ſubmit to one of the keeneſt evils a ſenſible and delicate mind can feel, only to inflict torment on the man whoſe whole happineſs depends on her, and to whoſe tenderneſs ſhe has owned herſelf not inſenſible?

Seeing your averſeneſs to marriage, I have never preſſed you on a ſubject which ſeemed diſpleaſing to you, but left it to time and my unwearied love, to diſſipate thoſe unjuſt and groundleſs prejudices, which ſtood in the way of all my hopes: but does not this reſpect, this ſubmiſſion, [101] demand that you ſhould ſtrictly examine thoſe prejudices, and be convinced, before you make it, that they deſerve ſuch a ſa⯑crifice?

Why will you, my deareſt Lady Anne, urge your paſt unhappineſs as a reaſon againſt entering into a ſtate of which you cannot be a judge? You were never mar⯑ried; the ſoft conſent of hearts, the tender ſympathy of yielding minds, was wanting: forced by the will of a tyrannic father to take on you an inſupportable yoke, too young to aſſert the rights of humanity; the freedom of your will deſtroyed; the name of marriage is profaned by giving it to ſo deteſtable an union.

You have often ſpoke with pleaſure of thoſe ſweet hours we paſt at Sudley Farm. Can you then refuſe to perpetuate ſuch hap⯑pineſs? Are there no charms in the unre⯑ſerved converſe of the man who adores [102] you? Or can you prefer the unmeaning flattery of fools you deſpiſe, to the animated language of faithful love?

If you are ſtill inſenſible to my happineſs, will not my intereſt prevail on you to re⯑lent? My uncle, who has juſt loſt his only ſon, offers to ſettle his whole eſtate on me, on condition I immediately marry; a con⯑dition it depends on you alone whether I ſhall comply with. If you refuſe, he gives it on the ſame terms to a diſtant relation, whoſe miſtreſs has a leſs cruel heart. Have you ſo little generoſity as to condemn me at once to be poor and miſerable; to loſe the gifts both of love and for⯑tune?

I have wrote to Lady Belmont to inter⯑cede for me, and truſt infinitely more to her eloquence than my own.

[103] The only rational objection to my hap⯑pineſs my uncle's eſtate removes; you will bring me his fortune, and your own will make Bell Haſtings happy: if you now refuſe, you have the heart of a tygreſs, and delight in the miſery of others.

Interrupted: my uncle. May all good angels guard the moſt amiable and love⯑ly of women, and give her to her paſ⯑ſionate

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſquire.

THIS event in Ruſſia is moſt extra⯑ordinary: but theſe ſudden and violent revolutions are the natural conſe⯑quences of that inſtability which muſt ever attend deſpotic forms of government: Hap⯑py Britain! where the laws are equally the guard of prince and people, where liberty and prerogative go hand in hand, and mu⯑tually ſupport each other; where no inva⯑ſion can ever be made on any part of the conſtitution without endangering the whole: where popular clamor, like the thunder⯑ſtorm, by agitating, clears and purifies the air, and, its buſineſs done, ſubſides.

If this letter finds you at Lord T—'s, I would have you return immediately to Belmont, where I ſhall be in a few days. [109] Lady Mary is already there, and intends to execute the deſign Lord Belmont men⯑tioned to you, which makes your preſence there abſolutely neceſſary.

The tide of fortune, my dear Harry, ſeems turning in your favor, but let it not harden your heart to the misfortunes of your fellow-creatures, make you inſolent to me⯑rit in the vale of humbler life, or tempt you to forget that all you poſſeſs is the gift of that beneficent power in whoſe ſight virtue is the only diſtinction.

The knowledge I have of your heart makes theſe cautions perhaps unneceſſary; but you will forgive the exceſſive anxiety of paternal tenderneſs, alarmed at the near proſpect of your taſting the poiſon moſt fatal to youth, the intoxicating cup of pro⯑ſperity.

[110] May Heaven, my deareſt Harry, con⯑tinue you all you are at preſent! Your fa⯑ther has not another wiſh!

Adieu!

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

To Colonel MANDEVILLE.

BY a clauſe in the patent, which has been hitherto kept ſecret in our part of the family, it is provided that on default of heirs male in the younger branch, the title of Earl of Belmont ſhould go to the elder: in favor alſo of this diſpoſition, the greateſt part of the eſtate then in our poſ⯑ſeſſion, which is about half what I now enjoy, is, by a deed, in which, however, my lawyer tells me there is a flaw, which [115] makes it of no effect, annexed to the title for ever. Julia being the only child we ever had, it is very probable the eſtate and title will be yours: Heaven having bleſt you with a ſon, it would be infinitely agreeable to me, and would keep up the ſplendor of our name, to agree on an inter⯑marriage between our children. I would have you educate your ſon with this view, and at an expence becoming the heir of the titles and poſſeſſions of our family: but as it is poſſible I may yet have a ſon, in that caſe, Lady Mary our relation, whoſe heart is greatly ſet on this marriage, will ſettle her eſtate on yours, and I will give him my daughter, with twenty thouſand pounds.

I inſiſt on being at the whole expence of his education as my heir; as the eſtate will probably be his own, it is only anticipating his rents a few years, and does not lay him under the ſhadow of an obligation.

[116] I have mentioned above, that there is a defect in the deed, which puts it in my power to rob you of your right in the eſtate: but, as the deſign of our anceſtor is clear, I take no merit to myſelf from not being the moſt infamous of mankind, which I ſhould be, were I capable of making uſe of ſuch a circumſtance to your diſadvan⯑tage.

But, could I reconcile ſo baſe an action to myſelf in a private light, no conſideration could make it eaſy to me in a public one: I know nothing ſo dangerous to our happy conſtitution as an indigent nobility, chained down to a neceſſity of court dependence, or tempted, by making faction the tool of am⯑bition, to diſturb the internal peace of their country. Men who are at eaſe in their for⯑tunes are generally good ſubjects; the pre⯑ſervation of what they have is a powerful tie of obedience: it is the needy, the diſſolute, the Caeſars, the Catilines of the world, [117] who raiſe the ſtorms which ſhake the foun⯑dation of government.

You will imagine, my dear friend, I only intend this alliance to take place, if their ſentiments, when of age to judge for themſelves, correſpond with our intentions for their happineſs: that this may be the caſe, let us educate them with the utmoſt care, in every accompliſhment of mind and perſon, which can make them lovely in the eyes of each other.

Let me, my dear colonel, hear immedi⯑ately if this propoſal is as agreeable to you as to

To the Earl of BELMONT.

I AM greatly obliged to your Lordſhip for a propoſal which does my ſon ſuch honor; and for a conduct towards us both ſo noble and worthy your character.

The diſpoſition you mention is what I have ſometimes hoped, but knew your Lordſhip's honor and integrity too well to think it neceſſary to make any enquiry; convinced, if a ſettlement was made in my favor, you would in due time make me ac⯑quainted with it: till ſome probability ap⯑peared of its taking place, it was, perhaps, better concealed than diſcloſed.

The alliance your Lordſhip propoſes, if it ever takes place, will make me the hap⯑pieſt of mankind: having, however, ob⯑ſerved marriages made by parents in the [119] childhood of the parties, to be generally diſagreeable to the latter, whether from the perverſeneſs of human nature, or the free ſpirit of love impatient of the leaſt controll, will intreat our deſign may be kept ſecret from all the world, and in particular from the young people themſelves: all we can do, is to give them ſuch an education as will beſt improve the gifts of nature, and render them objects of that lively and deli⯑cate affection which alone can make ſuch a connexion happy. Perhaps it may be beſt to ſeparate them till the time when the heart is moſt ſuſceptible of tenderneſs, leſt an habitual intercourſe ſhould weaken that impreſſion which we wiſh their perfections to make on each other. Both at preſent promiſe to be lovely, and, if we guard againſt other attachments, the charm of novelty, added to what nature has done for them, and thoſe acquired graces which it is our part to endeavour to give them, can [120] ſcarce fail of inſpiring a mutual paſſion, which ones ſeeming to deſire it would pro⯑bably prevent.

If I am ſo happy as to have your Lord⯑ſhip's concurrence in theſe ſentiments, I will remove my ſon immediately from your neighbourhood, and educate him in town; at a proper time he ſhall go, with a private tutor of birth and merit, to the univerſity, and from thence make the tour of Europe, whilſt Lady Julia is advancing in every charm under the eye of the moſt excellent of mothers.

Men, who act a conſpicuous part on the ſtage of life, and who require a certain au⯑dacity and ſelf-poſſeſſion to bring their ta⯑lents into full light, cannot, in my opinion, have too public an education: but women, whoſe lovelieſt charm is the roſy bluſh of native modeſty, whoſe virtues bloſſom faireſt [121] in the vale, ſhould never leave their houſhold gods, the beſt protectors of innocence.

It is alſo my requeſt, that my ſon may be educated in a total ignorance of the ſet⯑tlement in our favor, both becauſe the ef⯑fect of it may poſſibly be deſtroyed by your Lordſhip's having a ſon, and becauſe he will taſte the pleaſures of a diſtinguiſhed ſtation, if he ever arrives at it, with double reliſh, if bred with more moderate expecta⯑tions. He will by this means too eſcape the pernicious ſnares of flattery, the ſervile court of intereſted inferiors, and all the va⯑rious miſchiefs which poiſon the minds of young men bred up as heirs to great eſtates and titles: he will ſee the hatefulneſs of pride and arrogance in others before he is tempted to be guilty of them himſelf; he will learn to eſteem virtue without thoſe trappings of wealth and greatneſs which he will never hope to be poſſeſſed of: he will ſee the world as [122] it is by not being of conſequence enough to be flattered or deceived.

His education, his company, his ex⯑pences, ſhall, however, be ſuited to the rank he may one day poſſibly fill; my ac⯑quaintance with foreign courts enables me to introduce him every where to thoſe of the firſt rank and merit; his equipage and attendance ſhall be ſuch as may ſecure him general reſpect.

Your Lordſhip's generous offer of bear⯑ing the expence of his education, deſerves my ſincereſt gratitude; but oeconomy will enable me to ſupport it without the leaſt in⯑convenience to my affairs: half my income, which I will ſpare to him, with his mother's fortune, which ſhall all be devoted to this purpoſe, will be ſufficient to give him an education becoming the heir of your Lord⯑ſhip's fortune and honors.

[123] May Heaven proſper a deſign which has ſo laudable an end in view, as the future happineſs of our children.

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

To Colonel BELVILLE.

I Really cannot help feeling prodigiouſly fooliſh about this marriage; it is a thouſand to one but I retreat yet: prepare yourſelf for a diſappointment, for I am ex⯑ceedingly on the capricioſo.

O Heavens! I forgot to tell you, an old match-making Lady in the neighbourhood, having taken it into her head I have a paſ⯑ſion for Harry Mandeville, and deſigning to win my heart, by perſuading me to what ſhe ſuppoſes I have a mind to, recom⯑mended [132] him ſtrongly to me laſt night for a huſband. I heard her with the utmoſt at⯑tention; and when ſhe had finiſhed her ha⯑rangue, bluſhed, looked down, heſitated, and denied the thing with ſo pretty a con⯑fuſion, that ſhe is gone away perfectly convinced I am to be Lady Anne Mande⯑ville, and will tell it as a ſecret all round the country. I am not ſorry for this, as it will take away all ſuſpicion of what is really intended, and ſecure that ſecrecy we wiſh on the occaſion. The good old Lady went away infinitely delighted at being poſ⯑ſeſſed of a quality ſecret, which in the country gives no little importance; pleaſed too with her own penetration in diſcovering what nobody elſe has ſuſpected: I can⯑not conceive a happier being than ſhe is at preſent.

I have juſt received from town the moſt divine ſtomacher and ſleeve-knots you ever beheld: ‘"An intereſting event."’ Yes, [133] creature, and what I can plead authority for mentioning; Did not mademoiſelle, princeſs of the blood of France, grand⯑daughter of Henry the Great, write ſome half a dozen volumes to inform poſterity, that on Saturday the 14th of November 1668, ſhe wore her blue ribbands? Surely, you men think nothing of conſequence but ſieges and battles: now in my ſentiments, it would be happy for mankind, if all the heroes who make ſuch havock amongſt their ſpecies, merely becauſe they have no⯑thing to do, would amuſe themſelves with ſorting ſuits of ribbands for their ladies.

I am in the ſweeteſt good humor to-day that can be imagined, ſo mild and gentle you would be amazed, a little impatient indeed for the evening, which is to bring my charming Harry.

I have been aſking my Lord how, with Harry's ſenſibility, they contrived to [134] keep him ſo long free from attachments. In anſwer to which he gave me the encloſed ſketch of a letter, from colonel Mandeville to a lady of his acquaintance at Rome, which he ſaid would give me a general notion of the matter.

Oh! Heavens! whilſt I have been writing, and thinking nothing of it, the pavillion, which it ſeems has been ſome time prepared, is raiſed oppoſite the window of the ſaloon at the end of a walk leading to the houſe; we are to ſup in it this evening: it is char⯑mante; [139] the ſight of it, and the idea of its deſtination, makes my heart palpitate a lit⯑tle. Mon Dieu! that ever I ſhould be ſe⯑duced into matrimony.

Farewel for an hour or two.

You have no notion what divine dreſſes we have making for the maſquerade; I ſhall not tell you particulars, as I would not take off the pleaſure of ſurprize, but they are charming beyond conception.

Do not you doat on a maſquerade, Bell⯑ville? For my own part I think it is the quinteſſence of all ſublunary joys; and without flattering my Lord's taſte I have a ſtrange fancy this will be the moſt agreeable one I ever was at in my life: the ſcenes, the drapery, the whole diſpoſition of it is enchanting.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

To the Earl of BELMONT.

IF my regret for the latedreadful event, an event embittered by the circumſtances your laſt letter communicated to me, could receive any encreaſe, it certainly muſt from the generous behaviour of Mr. Mande⯑ville, whoſe care for my unhappy ſon, when expiring, is a proof his blood was drawn from the ſame ſource as your Lordſhip's. Yes, he was indeed worthy the happineſs you intended him, worthy the honored name of Mandeville.

Relieved by the noble conduct of your lamented kinſman, from the fears I enter⯑tained for my ſon's life, my ſorrows for the [195] miſeries he has occaſioned, is only the more ſevere: I feel with unutterable anguiſh that my ancient friend, the friend of my earlieſt youth, is childleſs by the crime of him who owes his being to me: the blow his hand unwillingly ſtruck, has reached the heart of the incomparable Lady Julia; I think of her angelic perfections, of the untimely fate which has robbed the world of its lovelieſt ornament, and almoſt wiſh never to have been a father.

Lady Rochdale and Louiſa are in tears by me; for ever excluded from Belmont, they look on themſelves as exiles, though at home. The horrors of mind under which my ſon labors are unutterable; he entreats to ſee Colonel Mandeville; to ob⯑tain his pardon for that involuntary crime, which has deſtroyed all the happineſs of his life.

[196] Will you, my friend, once more admit us? Allow us one interview with yourſelf and Colonel Mandeville? I aſk no more, nor will ever repeat the viſit: I could not ſupport the ſight of Lady Belmont.

To the Earl of ROCHDALE.

COnvinced Lord Melvin is more un⯑fortunate than culpable, it would be cruel to treat him as a criminal: I feel a horror I cannot conquer at the idea of ever receiving the viſit your Lordſhip has pro⯑poſed; but conſcious of the injuſtice of in⯑dulging it, I ſacrifice it to our antient friend⯑ſhip, and only poſtpone, not refuſe, the viſit: I will ſtruggle with the reluctance of my heart, to ſee the guiltleſs author of my miſery, as ſoon as he is publicly exculpated from the crime he at preſent ſtands charged with: Colonel Mandeville muſt appear as his accuſer: wretched as his hand has made me, juſtice obliges me to bear witneſs to his innocence: Lady Anne Wilmot, who [198] was preſent at Mr. Mandeville's dying de⯑claration, is ready to confirm my evidence: Lord Melvin therefore has nothing to fear. The trial once paſt, I will endeavor to pre⯑vail on Colonel Mandeville and Lady Bel⯑mont, to make the ſame painful ſacrifice to friendſhip, to which time and reaſon will I hope perfectly reconcile us; but your Lord⯑ſhip will, on a moment's reflexion, be con⯑vinced that, till this is paſt, it would be in⯑decent in me to ſee Lord Melvin.

We are greatly obliged to Lady Roch⯑dale and Lady Louiſa; the time of whoſe viſit their own politeneſs and ſenſibility will regulate; it is a ſevere addition to my wretchedneſs, that the family of my friend is ſo fatally involved in it.

Oh, Lord Rochdale! you are a father, and can pity us: you can judge the an⯑guiſh to which we muſt ever be a prey; never more ſhall we know a chearful hour; [199] our loſt child will be ever at our hearts: when I remember her filial ſweetneſs, her angel virtues, her matchleſs perfections—the only view we had in life was to ſee her happy: that is paſt, and all is now a dreary wild before us; time may blunt the keen edge of ſorrow, and enable us to bear the load of life with patience; but never muſt we hope the return of peace.

The ſhortneſs of life, and the conſidera⯑tion how much of our own is paſt, are the only conſolations we can receive: it cannot be long before we rejoin our beloved child: we have only to pray for that ardently ex⯑pected hour which will re-unite us to all we love.

Why will man lay ſchemes of laſting felicity? By an over ſolicitude to continue my family and name, and ſecure the hap⯑pineſs of my child, I have defeated my own purpoſe, and fatally deſtroyed both.

[200] Humbled in the duſt, I confeſs the hand of Heaven: the pride of birth, the gran⯑deur of my houſe, had too great a ſhare in my reſolves!

Oh, my friend! but I conſider the hand which directed the blow, and ſubmit to the will of my God.

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

I AM deſired by my Lord to aſk you hither, and to beg you will bring my niece with you. Lady Belmont joins in the requeſt; her nobleneſs of ſentiment has conquered the reluctance ſhe had to ſee her; ſhe has even promiſed to endeavor to bear the ſight of Lord Melvin, but I fear this is more than is in her power; ſhe fainted when the requeſt was firſt made. Lady Mary is expected here this evening.

Bellville, you are coming to Belmont, once the ſmiling paradice of friendſhip, Alas! how changed from that once happy abode! Where are thoſe blameleſs pleaſures, that con⯑vivialjoy, thoſe ſweet follies, which once gave ſuch charms to this place? For ever gone, [202] for ever changed to a gloomy ſadneſs, for ever buried with Lady Julia.

Lady Belmont ſtruggles nobly with her grief; ſhe has conſented to ſee her friends, to ſee all who will hear her talk of her child: a tender melancholy has taken place of thoſe horrors, which it was impoſ⯑ſible long to ſupport and live.

Colonel Mandeville is to ſtay at Belmont, they are to indulge in all the voluptuouſ⯑neſs of ſorrow; they are to ſit all day and talk of their matchleſs children, and count the hours till they follow them to the grave. They have invited all who will join in tears with them; the coach is gone to-day for Mr. and Mrs. Herbert.

Emily Howard and I bend our whole thoughts to find out means to ſoften their ſorrows; I hope much from your conver⯑ſation, and the endearing ſenſibility of your ſoul; it is not by reſiſting, but by ſooth⯑ing [203] grief, that we muſt heal the wounded heart.

There is one pleaſure to which they can never be inſenſible, the pleaſure of reliev⯑ing the miſeries of others: to divert their attention from the ſad objects which now engroſs them, we muſt find out the re⯑treats of wretchedneſs; we muſt point out diſtreſs which it is in their power to alleviate.

Oh, Bellville! But in vain does the pride of human wiſdom ſeek to explore the counſels of the Moſt High! Certain of the paternal care of our Creator, our part is ſubmiſſion to his will.