LETTER I. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

AFTER a dreadful interval of four diſmal weeks, I am once more enabled to reſume my pen. Your friendly letter of condolence reached me laſt night. How ſoothing, my Sophia, is the balm of ſympathy to a mind wounded by af⯑fliction. Your kind expreſſions made me diſſolve into tears; but they were tears of ſoftneſs and relief, far different from thoſe of bitterneſs and deſpair, of which lately I have ſhed ſo many.

I admit of all you ſay, my dear; but reaſoning, however ſolid and convincing, rarely makes any impreſſion in the firſt [2] ſtages of immoderate ſorrow, and I ac⯑knowledge the juſtice without feeling the force of the conſolation you would inſpire. I know we have enjoyed our beloved parent to a more advanced pe⯑riod than, from his feeble conſtitution and emaciated frame, we had cauſe to hope, and that we ought not now to repine that it has pleaſed the Almighty to take him from us; ſince every year of the laſt three of his life, has appeared in the light of a leaſe from heaven hardly to be expected, and at certain ſeaſons, almoſt hardly to be wiſhed; but for ſome months previous to his death, he had been bleſſed with ſuch unuſual good health, that all our former fears were lulled into fatal ſecurity, and I cheriſhed with delight the pleaſing idea of poſ⯑ſeſſing him even in old age, and of de⯑voting my days to render the remainder of his life comfortable and happy.

I do not however give uncontrouled [3] ſcope to my grief, as you tell me you are convinced is the caſe: I do not complain that the ſudden ſhock of this ſad ſtroke made it perhaps overpower us with redoubled violence; on the con⯑trary, I bleſs heaven that the ſufferings were ours not my dear father's, and that his tranſition to a better world ſeemed to all appearance unattended by thoſe painful ſtruggles and agonies which in general render the awful cloſe of life ſtill more dreadful, both to thoſe who endure and to thoſe who behold it.

Oh my beloved friend! it is not his loſs (though God only knows how ſe⯑vere) that lies with ſuch a weight of mi⯑ſery on our minds: ah no, Sophia; to the inevitable ſtroke of death our deareſt intereſts remain every inſtant ex⯑poſed; and dreadful as is the blow, re⯑ſignation, aſſiſted by time, eſpecially in the ſanguine ſeaſon of youth, ſeldom I be⯑lieve fails in reſtoring tranquillity. Long [4] and deeply muſt we have mourned our irreparable misfortune: yet I know I am not formed different from the reſt of mankind, and what millions are doomed to endure, I am conſcious I might have been enabled to ſupport; but our diſ⯑treſſes are accumulated, and beyond meaſure ſevere: not merely have we been deprived of a parent tender and revered, but to this calamity, of itſelf almoſt ſuf⯑ficient to overpower human nature, is ſuperadded the agonizing aggravation of knowing that his beſt days have been overclouded by ſecret and acute ſuffer⯑ings —ſufferings which have corroded his mind, undermined his conſtitution, and to which he has at length yielded himſelf a prey; yes, my Sophia, that ever honoured parent, whom we reve⯑renced with enthuſiaſtic affection, was a victim to remorſe, and died of that moſt painful of all diſtempers—that diſ⯑temper which admits of no cure, and [5] bids defiance to human ſkill—a broken heart.

His death, ever to be lamented, has brought to light a fatal, fatal ſtory; but I ſhall endeavour to enter upon it with what compoſure I can ſummon to my aid; and from the ſoothing relief of con⯑fidential communication, perhaps my ſorrows may derive ſome alleviation.

After being ſeized with the fit which proved, in its conſequences, ſo dreadful, a ſhort interval of eaſe ſucceeded, which my ſiſter and I, unuſed to ſcenes of this alarming nature, vainly regarded as the certain ſymptom of recovery; but my father, who felt himſelf inwardly gone, perceived with pain our deluſive error. My dear girls, ſaid he, in a voice, ah! how exhauſted! you muſt endeavour to recon⯑cile yourſelves to the ſhock which awaits you: the will of heaven muſt not only be obeyed, in that we have neither choice nor merit, but it muſt be obeyed [6] with ſubmiſſion and without a murmur. The Almighty is about to deprive you, as you muſt at preſent imagine, of your only ſurviving parent; but know, ano⯑ther yet remains, who, I truſt, will be pre⯑vailed with, after I am gone, to ſupply the place and fulfil the duties of a father.

To this ſolemn addreſs, which ſeemed to annihilate my ſenſes, I was unable to reply; but Fanny's feelings found vent in tears. She burſt into an agony of grief—oh deareſt papa, cried ſhe, who upon earth can to us ſupply your place? when you leave us, we ſhall be alone in the world; no one cares for us, no one loves us, we have no friend but you.

For the ſake of heaven compoſe your⯑ſelves, my deareſt children, replied my father. I leave you neither unprotected nor unfriended; and ſevere as is the firſt early ſtroke to youthful and ſuſceptible hearts, a little time I hope will abate the poignancy of your regret; but the pre⯑ſent [7] moments, added he, after a ſhort pauſe, are unſpeakably precious. Let Howard be ſent for in all haſte; tell him to make all the expedition in his power, and inform him that I expect, from his faithful attachment, the moſt painful, though moſt neceſſary offices of friend⯑ſhip —that he will cloſe my eyes and re⯑ceive my laſt injunctions. A meſſenger was inſtantly diſpatched. Mr. Howard was at Clarance, whither he had gone but the evening before, having left my father in perfect health. He travelled with the utmoſt haſte; yet the few hours that elapſed before he appeared, to us ſeemed an age. My father, though the dreadful ſymptoms of approaching diſſolution rapidly encreaſed, ſtill retained his ſenſes unimpaired; and on being in⯑formed that his friend was in the houſe, he expreſſed his gratitude to heaven that he had not breathed his laſt ſigh without ſeeing him, and deſired that he might [8] be inſtantly introduced into his bed chamber.

On his entrance, Mr. Howard found my ſiſter, whom no entreaties could per⯑ſuade to leave the room, vainly ſtriving to ſuppreſs ſobs, which the apprehenſion of too violently affecting our dying pa⯑rent obliged her to endeavour, though ineffectually, to reſtrain. My feelings, alas! were ſuch as admitted not of the relief of tears; the ſtupor of deſpair had benumbed every faculty. I was alive only to the ſenſations of miſery; and con⯑cealed by the curtains, I kneeled at the ſide of the bed, offering up ſilent peti⯑tions for that recovery, of which I had now loſt the moſt diſtant hope. My father, after expreſſing his ſatisfaction on ſeeing Mr. Howard, deſired the phy⯑ſician, and all, excepting that worthy friend, my ſiſter and myſelf, ſhould leave the room. This requeſt being inſtantly complied with, he beſought Mr. How⯑ard [9] to open a bureau which ſtood in the chamber: you will there find a manu⯑ſcript, ſaid he, dated ſome years ago, and written by my own hand: this ma⯑nuſcript, my dear girls, (addreſſing him⯑ſelf to us) contains a horrid tale, which I could wiſh were for ever buried with me in the grave; but as it is eſſentially neceſſary that your real ſituation in life ſhould be made known to you at my death, when, expoſed to the dangers and difficulties of a world with which you are totally unacquainted, the protection of your relations muſt be peculiarly important, I have conſidered it as a duty incumbent on me, to leave behind an impartial re⯑lation of that ſeries of misfortunes, that checquered train of evils, which have rendered me an alien from my family, an exile from my country, and have long baniſhed comfort and tranquillity from my boſom. So oppreſſed was his arti⯑culation, and ſo feeble his voice, that our [10] dear father did not finiſh the ſpeech without many interruptions from weak⯑neſs and fatigue, and the laſt words half died upon his lips; but having a little recovered himſelf—you, my dear friend, ſaid he to Mr. Howard, will I hope af⯑ford my girls conſolation and ſupport un⯑der the pain of this ſevere and unex⯑pected communication. To your care I bequeath them. See them ſafe under the protection of Benſley or my father; repreſent to them, when they are able to liſten to comfort, that my penitence has been almoſt proportioned to my crimes; and ah, my dear Howard! if poſſible de⯑teſt not the miſerable author of calami⯑ties, the guilt of which, fifteen long years of remorſe have, I truſt, obliterated from the records of heaven.

Sophia, what were at that moment my ſenſations? Is it in language to ex⯑preſs them? Ah no! they were incon⯑ceivable and unutterable! I felt there [11] was yet an agony ſuperior to that of loſ⯑ing all that is deareſt to us on earth; and while diſtraction drew an exclama⯑tion of deſpair from my ſiſter, horror benumbed my ſenſes; and I ſunk life⯑leſs on the floor.

When my recollection was reſtored, I found myſelf in bed in my own apart⯑ment. The tranſports of Fanny's grief, and the gloomy ſilence of Thêrêſe, and the phyſician who attended me, too evi⯑dently told that all was over with my dear father. Exhauſted with the exer⯑tion of ſpeaking, he had breathed his laſt ſigh almoſt in the inſtant that I was carried out of his chamber.

You, my Sophia, who are happily bleſſed with beloved and indulgent pa⯑rents, may be perhaps enabled to form ſome idea adequate to the diſtraction a loſs like ours muſt have occaſioned: yet, yet, my dear, this was not all; an aw⯑ful obſcurity ſeemed to envelope ſome [12] hidden ſource of unknown and additional miſery. We were filled with horror in⯑conceivable. To part with our deareſt father at that inſtant, ſeemed an evil in⯑ferior to knowing he had lived with a load of anguiſh on his conſcience; and anxiouſly as we wiſhed, we yet dreaded ten thouſand times more to have the fearful myſtery explained.

After a night of acute diſtreſs, ſleep kindly came to our relief, and buried us for about an hour in a bleſſed ſtate of forgetfulneſs; yet even in ſlumber, a melancholy gloom pervaded our repoſe, and we awoke only ſufficiently recruited to be able to weep.

We were then viſited by Mr. Howard, who ſympathized in our ſufferings with a degree of feeling that muſt for ever endear him to our hearts. Ah, Mr. How⯑ard! cried I, the moment I could arti⯑culate for my tears—where, where are thoſe fatal papers of my dear, dear fa⯑ther's, [13] which have been intruſted to your care? have you yourſelf peruſed them? Tell me, for heaven's ſake! are the contents too horrible—are they ſuch as we ſhall be able to read and not expoſe.

I will not attempt to conceal from you, ſaid he, with the tendereſt compaſſion, though not without heſitation, that they are of ſuch a nature as muſt both hurt and affect you; yet there are mingled in this diſtreſſing narrative, ſo many al⯑leviating circumſtances to ſoften cenſure and ſilence condemnation, that I hope the communication will ſhock neither of you too ſeverely, when you are in a ſi⯑tuation to receive the information with more compoſure than it can be ſuppoſed you at preſent poſſeſs.

Oh! cried Fanny, can any thing aug⯑ment our preſent miſery? or if that were indeed poſſible, muſt not ſuſpence more effectually add to it than any intelligence we can now receive? I was in hopes of [14] having time granted me, ſaid he, to ſof⯑ten the communication by degrees; but ſince you are ſo violently alarmed, I be⯑lieve any certainty is almoſt preferable to your preſent ſtate of ſuſpence. I ſhall therefore bring you the packet; I only entreat that you will allow me, before you open it, the favour of one half hour's converſation, that I may be ſatis⯑fied I do not commit too great an im⯑prudence in venturing to intruſt you with it.

This worthy man then began to hint at its contents; but in ſpite of all his en⯑deavours to palliate and ſoften the ſad recital, the ſhock entirely overpowered us; yet I inſiſted on knowing all; and breathleſs with terror, received the dread⯑ful manuſcript from his hands.

Let me make but one obſervation, cried he, on delivering it: the years of ſelf reproach and anguiſh, which ſuc⯑ceeded to your father's errors, ſo pathe⯑tically [15] deſcribed by himſelf, more than atone for his faults. This penitence, his deep felt ſenſe of every breach of duty, and the unerring rectitude of his mind and conduct the inſtant he was awakened from the delirium of paſſion, even con⯑vince me there was inherent in his boſom, a ſecret ſentiment of ſuperior virtue, which, however obſcured and ſuppreſſed by the force of miſguided feelings and the violence of temptation, required but the moment of remorſe to expand and once more fully regain its influence over his actions.

What miſery my ſiſter and I endured from the melancholy narration, and the tears we ſhed over it, you, my Sophia, when you have peruſed the packet tran⯑ſcribed by Mr. Howard, which accom⯑panies this, may be almoſt enabled to conceive: a tedious and ſevere illneſs, from which I am ſtill but feebly reco⯑vered, [16] was the natural and inevitable conſequence of ſuch a conflict of emotions.

It is not, I own, without a ſenſation of repugnance, that I prevail with myſelf to ſend you this diſmal tale; but alas! ſo public has been every circumſtance of my father's misfortunes (thoſe which greatly extenuate his errors excepted) that I have reaſon to believe even you, my dear, have often heard of the miſe⯑rable fate of Lord Linroſe, as a remark⯑able event that took place in a family of diſtinction, and made much noiſe in the world ſome time previous to your birth; but that my father was the unhappy ſource or ſuch a train of calamities, oh! who could have conceived poſſible!— that aſtoniſhing fact never, never could you have divined.

I conſider this confidence, therefore, as a juſtification of his memory; and though the ſad relation itſelf is a ſacred truſt to be repoſed only in the faithful [17] boſom of friendſhip, would to heaven all the world were as well acquainted with his remorſe as with his faults; and that the knowledge of his ſufferings could wholly obliterate the recollection of his errors. Adieu, my deareſt friend.

TO MY DAUGHTERS.

WHEN this packet is delivered to my dear girls, I ſhall not have, to bluſh for its contents: I ſhall be then no more: and as it is eſſentially requiſite that they ſhould one day be made acquainted with their real ſituation in life, I have for two reaſons preferred that awful period for this painful communication: in the firſt place, the information I am about to diſ⯑cloſe, is attended with circumſtances of a [18] nature ſo mortifying, humiliating, and ſevere, that at that ſolemn period only can I ſupport the idea of preſenting my⯑ſelf to the aſtoniſhed view of my children, in a light ſo different from that in which they have ever been accuſtomed to regard me; and ſecondly, when their ſoft and affectionate hearts are ſubdued by afflic⯑tion at their recent loſs, only can I flatter myſelf they will look with candour and indulgence on errors—nay crimes—of which, till that inſtant, they had believed me incapable.

Be not overwhelmed with horror, my beloved children, on peruſing theſe words:—words, of an import ſo dreadful, and which you never could have con⯑ceived connected with your father's name. Heaven has, [...] truſt, accepted the tribute of ſufferings, which heaven alone could have enabled me to endure; and ere theſe lines are ſubmitted to your knowledge, as all my ſorrows will be laid at reſt, let [19] the conſideration of that felicity which I humbly hope will be then my portion, conſole and ſuſtain you under the ſhock your ſenſibility muſt receive from the tale of woe I am about to unfold. You muſt often have regretted, I am convinced, the ſolitude in which I have obliged you to live; and I make no doubt, in ſecret con⯑demned that averſeneſs to all ſocial inter⯑courſe, which I have uniformly teſtified as long as your remembrance can trace back. This, and many other particu⯑lars, which perhaps may have at times proved matter both of ſurprize and con⯑cern, I mean here fully to explain; and in particular that queſtion will at length receive a ſatisfactory reply, which has been hitherto productive only of vague, evaſive, and embarraſſed anſwers, viz.— how I, an Engliſhman, apparently at⯑tached to my own nation, and partial to its cuſtoms, ſhould have voluntarily ex⯑iled myſelf from my country, and ſeclud⯑ing [20] myſelf from my family, my friends, and the world, formed the ſingular reſo⯑lution of terminating my days in a retired ſpot in the South of France.

I haſten therefore to inform you, that even your name has hitherto been a ſecret to you.

My father, though my miſconduct has caſt a cloud over his days, I hope, and believe, is ſtill alive;—at leaſt, I had intelligence of his being in good health, within a few days from this date. He is Earl of Belmont, a nobleman of extenſive intereſt in his own country; and I am the eldeſt of two ſons, which, with one daughter, whoſe birth occa⯑ſioned the death of her mother, is all the family he ever poſſeſſed.

I paſs over the early part of my life, which I ſpent at home, and generally in the country under the direction of a very worthy man, who preſided as tutor over my brother and myſelf. My father, [21] who was violent in prejudice and rigid in principle, allowed us few indulgen⯑cies; and had made choice of our pre⯑ceptor rather for the integrity of his heart, than on account of the ſuperior abilities of his mind, which had been narrowed by the retirement of life, and total ignorance of the world: but my Lord, whoſe knowledge of men and manners had not rendered his notions leſs contracted, imagined we could no where ſo effectually imbibe the firſt ſentiments of virtue, as under the tuition of a man, whoſe purity was ſuch, that he ſeemed to know little difference be⯑tween an error and a crime. The ſyſtem by which we were educated, was of courſe ſtrict in the extreme; but the auſtere principles that had been early im⯑planted in our minds, our companions at College found it no difficult matter to extirpate; and a ſlight acquaintance with ſociety, ſoon convinced us, that [22] we were incapable of adhering to habits, abſurb in themſelves, and of no aſſiſ⯑tance either to religion or morality. Having once deviated from prejudices, however weak, which the mind has been accuſtomed to regard as ſacred, to ſtop exactly at the proper limits of rectitude requires a portion of ſteady fortitude even ſuperior to that which preſerves us firm in our firſt impreſſions; the reformation is indeed but too often followed by a total revolution of principle, and even virtue herſelf is not unfrequently overturned under the appellation of confined ideas.— Such, at leaſt, was in part the change my mind underwent after having reſided ſome time at the univerſity.

When the part of my education to be there attained was completed, I ſet out on my travels; and immediately after my return from the Continent, that buſy period of my life commenced, the bitter recollection of which almoſt [23] incapacitates me from relating the many painful occurrences it produced.

My brother had choſen a military life, and we had not met during three years which I ſpent abroad. We kept up a conſtant correſpondence however; and he was with his regiment in Ireland at the time of my arrival in England. I received a letter from him ſoon after, intimating his having lately married a young lady, of whom he ſeemed paſſio⯑nately enamoured, but who did not poſſeſs any of thoſe advantages, either of family or fortune, likely to reconcile my father to a ſtep in which he had not been conſulted. Conſcious how tena⯑cious my Lord ever had been of his au⯑thority, added to an invincible prepoſ⯑ſeſſion, which he had long entertained againſt the Iriſh nation, my brother, in the height of his nuptial felicity, could not avoid ſuffering the ſevereſt apprehenſions for the conſequences of [24] his imprudence; and beſought me to exert all my influence with my father, to ſoften his wrath at this unexpected intelligence.

My endeavours, however, were on this head ineffectual; my Lord was overwhelmed with a rage that did not evaporate with its violence, but ſubſided into a determined, inflexible reſentment; by which he allowed himſelf to be ſo completely governed, that he reſolved never more to behold his diſobedient ſon; who muſt have found himſelf ex⯑tremely embarraſſed in his finances, had not my purſe ſupplied his neceſſities to the utmoſt extent of my ability. In vain I repreſented to my father that the alliance, though neither ſplendid nor deſirable, was equally removed from what could be deemed diſgraceful: he ſilenced me with vehemence; and ſo⯑lemnly declared, that never more ſhould my brother receive the ſhadow of his [25] countenance.—A reſolution, alas! which my ſuperior miſconduct alone, perſuaded him to relinquiſh.

I paſſed the ſummer after my return at my father's country ſeat; and ſpent great part of my time in hunting—my favourite amuſement. Returning one day from the chaſe, the weather being extremely ſultry, my fatigue occaſioned an extreme thirſt, which induced me to diſmount at the door of a farm-houſe poſſeſſed by one of my father's tenants, not many miles from the caſtle.

As I knocked, the farmer himſelf appeared; and upon mentioning my name, and requeſting a draught of ſomething to refreſh me, he conducted me with the utmoſt hurry of civility into a ſmall ruſtic parlour, where were ſitting his wife and daughter. The latter aſtoniſhed me with her uncommon beauty; which was rendered ſtill more intereſting from having ſurprized her in [26] tears: ſhe allowed me no time however to contemplate her charms, for aſhamed of being caught by a ſtranger in that ſituation, ſhe made no return to my ſalutation, but ran haſtily out of the room.

I made a thouſand apologies to the farmer's wife for my intruſion; and ſo greatly was I ſtruck with the daughter's appearance, that I could not help ex⯑preſſing my regret at beholding her in ſuch affliction; which I intended as the leaſt inquiſitive method I could deviſe of enquiring the cauſe.

Oh, nothing in the world, my Lord, ſaid the farmer, your Lordſhip does her too much honour in obſerving her. It would be very far either from her mo⯑ther's wiſh or mine to vex her, if ſhe would be perſuaded to liſten to her own intereſt; but girls are ſo wilful—

From this I conjectured what I after⯑wards learnt was the caſe—that the old [27] people were teazing their daughter to diſpoſe of her hand contrary to her in⯑clination. But though I felt myſelf unaccountably intereſted in what I had ſeen, it was neceſſary that my enquiries ſhould immediately end, as the good woman came at that inſtant to ſupply me with what I had aſked for, and I was conſtrained unwillingly to depart.

This beautiful girl ran in my head the whole day: though I make no doubt but I ſhould have forgotten that ſhe exiſted in a week, had not my infant paſſion been nouriſhed by ſeveral cir⯑cumſtances which afterwards occurred.

When I returned to dinner, I found a large party of neighbours who were paying viſits of congratulation at the Caſtle on account of my ſiſter Lady Ann's marriage with Mr. Vere, an event that had taken place a few weeks before. In the courſe of converſation at ta⯑ble, I mentioned my little adventure, [28] particularly dwelling on the extreme beauty and diſtreſs of the tenant's daughter.—Yes, cried the curate, who happened to be preſent, Fanny is the prettieſt girl in the pariſh, and one of the beſt; but her parents have carried matters much too far, and have ren⯑dered her quite miſerable, by inſiſting on the poor young woman's diſpoſing of herſelf to fat Robin, your Lordſhip's gamekeeper. They have teazed and tormented her till they had almoſt driven her to venture on a very alarming ſtep, to get rid of their importunities; ſhe had privately determined to leave home, and take her chance of finding a ſervice in town; but my wife ſuſpecting her intention, deterred her from a ſcheme ſo fraught with danger, by repreſenting the hazards attending ſuch an exploit.

The converſation ſhifted to other to⯑picks; but Fanny and her diſtreſs fre⯑quently occurred to my mind. I wiſhed [29] much to deliver her from it; but I diſtruſted myſelf ſo little, as never once to ſuſpect I was actuated in my wiſhes to relieve her by any other motive than that intereſt which youth and beauty, even without having produced any par⯑ticular predeliction, ſeldom fail to excite in hearts of common ſenſibility. She appeared ſo amiable and ſo innocent, that, free as were my notions on certain ſubjects, the idea of deriving any ſiniſter advantage to myſelf by releaſing her from her preſent perſecutions, never entered my imagination.

I contrived, as the beſt method of ſuc⯑ceeding I could deviſe, to intereſt Lady Ann in the affair; who during her walks called at the farmer's, and repreſented ſo ſtrongly to his wife, who had been an old ſervant in the family, the cruelty and injuſtice of forcing her daughter into the arms of a man ſhe deteſted, that the old woman was prevailed on to give up the point [30] herſelf, and faithfully promiſed to uſe all her influence with her huſband to perſuade him to relinquiſh the plan likewiſe. In this viſit my ſiſter was ſo much pleaſed with the bewitching ſim⯑plicity of Fanny's manners and appear⯑ance, and the unbounded gratitude ſhe expreſſed for this obligation, that ſhe made her an offer of ſupplying the place of her maid, who was juſt leaving her. Fanny thankfully accepted the propoſal; and the old people, happy in thinking their daughter ſettled under the pro⯑tection of Lady Ann, conſented with eagerneſs to the meaſure; ſo that on my return from a ſhort excurſion I had made about that time, I found Fanny actually reſiding in the caſtle.

The frequent opportunities I now enjoyed of ſeeing her, in a ſhort time convinced me I was not proof againſt her charms. Far, however, from ſtifling this flame in its progreſs, I allowed it [31] every encouragement and indulgence. Some ſimilar amours abroad, into which bad company and ungoverned paſſions led me, had already blunted, though not eradicated, my firſt feelings of re⯑pugnance at the idea of ſeduction; and I retained merely virtue ſufficient to undergo that penance, which conſcience, except where the heart is hardened in iniquity, never fails to exact from vice upon every new violation of her laws. But theſe tranſient ſcruples were not ſufficiently powerful to enable me to liſten to dictates ſo auſtere; I had little fear of being unſucceſsful with a young country girl who had not as yet, I imagined, formed any attachment, and whoſe heart, I concluded, would eaſily yield to the vanity of having engaged mine. I therefore aſſailed this amiable and unfortunate girl, with all the warmth and force of the moſt perſuaſive paſſion; but I ſoon found that an innate love of [32] virtue, and ſentiments of pride ſuperior to her condition, induced her to reject my offers and advances with horror and diſdain. I was not, however, repulſed: the ſucceſs attending former purſuits made me ſtill confident of prevailing in the end; but the reſiſtance I met with ſo inflamed and augmented my affection, that from an inſinuating inclination, which might have been in its infancy eaſily ſubdued, I found this attachment was become a violent and unmanageable paſſion, that, in its conſequences, in⯑volved both its innocent object and my⯑ſelf in miſery and ruin.

I became at laſt alarmed on perceiving how eſſential this affair was grown to my repoſe; that Fanny was every hour gaining ground in my heart and riſing in my eſtimation, while I ſeemed as far as ever from making any progreſs in hers; and I began to think her worthy of a more honourable flame, and to [33] compaſſionate the uneaſineſs into which my ſolicitations had thrown her.

I ſoon perceived that for my own happineſs as well as hers, my importu⯑nities had been carried greatly too far, and I determined to make one great effort to reſtore my own tranquillity and her peace; but I did not conſider how difficult the taſk would prove; unuſed to conſtraint, accuſtomed to give incli⯑nation full ſwing, to conquer at once a predilection ſo formidable, was an un⯑dertaking much too violent with which to begin my firſt eſſay of ſelf-denial. I reſolved, however, to try the effects of abſence, a medicine of wonderful efficacy in diſeaſes of the heart; and accordingly propoſed to make an excurſion of a few weeks, accompanied by ſome friends who were at that time my father's gueſts.

On the evening previous to our de⯑parture, fatigued with the exertions which the attentions due to a large com⯑pany [34] of ladies exacted, exhauſted by overacted endeavours to appear in ſpirits, and ſick of a frivolous converſation, which amuſed minds at eaſe within them⯑ſelves, and who willingly laid hold for entertainment on every little trifle that occurred, I contrived to ſlip away in the height of their mirth, intending to ſtroll out towards the wood, to ſoothe my un⯑eaſineſs by giving way to reflexions which oppreſſed and overpowered me.

The night was uncommonly delight⯑ful, and the full moon ſhone with a clearneſs which reflected a pleaſing ſere⯑nity on every object around. I gave way to a train of ideas, that filled me not only with anguiſh but alarm; I found that my paſſion for a girl ſo every way beneath me poſſeſſed not only the power of deſtroying my peace, but even in ſome meaſure had weakened my reaſon: for ſo entirely had my heart ſurrendered to its influence, that the [35] thoughts of relinquiſhing every proſpect of preferment and dignity in my future eſtabliſhment, and the certainty of ruin⯑ing myſelf with my father, were leſs dreadful to my apprehenſion than the reſolution of thwarting an attachment, to which ſeemed annexed every hope of hap⯑pineſs and enjoyment: in a word—that the poſſeſſion of Fanny in a legal manner was more than a recompence for the many evils which I knew muſt follow ſuch a ſtep.

I ſtarted from my reverie, when I found how unjuſtifiably far my imagina⯑tion had carried me; and endeavoured to repreſent to myſelf the weakneſs and folly, as well as the danger, attending the indulgence of ſuch reflections. Per⯑ceiving how fatally ſolitude and muſing enfeeble fortitude and nouriſh the foibles of the heart, I was about to return back to the houſe, when a voice which I heard at ſome diſtance, induced me to ſtop for [36] a moment; and inſtantly recollecting it to be my dear Fanny's, my intention of returning was immediately converted into a reſolution of approaching as ſoftly as poſſible to the place where ſhe ſat, in order to overhear her converſation. This I effected with great caution; and found ſhe was enjoying the cool of the evening in company with one of her companions, and that not fearing in⯑terruption from any of the family at that hour, they had ventured to ſeat them⯑ſelves at the ſide of ſome buſhes in the ſhrubbery.

I heard the friend, in a voice of com⯑paſſion, endeavouring to ſoothe Fanny in conſequence of ſome complaint which I concluded ſhe had been confiding to her, and to which the moſt mournful ſighs were on her part the only replies. Her arguments of comfort were not in⯑deed the beſt calculated for conſolation, [37] but they were deſigned for ſympathy and expreſſed with much ſimplicity.

Indeed my dear Fanny, ſaid ſhe, could you have been perſuaded to have accepted of my couſin, you would have eſcaped all this trouble and vexation. Time goes a great way in conquering people's diſlikes. What one likes at one time one can't abide at another; and the contrary is juſt as common. When once Mr. Robert was your huſ⯑band, you would have been obliged to have loved him; and he loves you ſo well, you know, that it muſt have come of courſe. If all this had happened now, and I'm ſure I always told you that you never would do ſo well elſewhere, there would have been no word of his young Lordſhip, and your heart would have been as light as mine is at this inſtant.

Talk not to me of your couſin, cried Fanny in a tone of impatience mixed with deſpondency—I hate and deteſt him. [38] What have I not ſuffered, added ſhe, melting into tears after a ſhort pauſe, within theſe laſt ſix ſad months: tor⯑mented by that hateful man, teized by my mother, terrified by my father; no ſooner had I got rid of that perſecution, than I came hither to endure another a thouſand times more inſupportable; and what courſe can I poſſibly now purſue, which is not loaded with difficulties and attended on all ſides with danger. If I return home, I dread reviving the old ſtory; if I remain here, then certain mi⯑ſery awaits me; and oh! at times, my dear Jenny, at times I am almoſt ter⯑rified for myſelf; for though from my heart I abhor my Lord's inſulting offers and propoſals, yet alas! my heart is weak, and I find it is impoſſible to abhor him.

I often wiſh, continued ſhe, in the ſame mournful accents, that I had either died laſt year, when I was ſo ill and all [39] my friends were weeping round me— ah! what anguiſh had I been ſpared!— or that it had pleaſed God to have placed me in a ſituation leſs beneath the only man who ever made the ſlighteſt im⯑preſſion on my heart. But this is a wiſh which carries me ſo far, and ſoftens me ſo ſadly, that I dare not allow myſelf to dwell upon it. Yet, Jenny, I cannot re⯑ſiſt ſome times indulging the idea of what unſpeakable happineſs muſt have been my lot, had the Almighty leſſened the immenſe diſtance between us, and I had ſtill poſſeſſed the bleſſing of being agree⯑able to him. Had it ſo happened; had I been placed in his ſtation, and he been in mine, I'm certain I ſhould have joy⯑fully overlooked every objection to have made him happy: and I often think, if his Lordſhip profeſſes to love me ſo well now, when I uſe my utmoſt endeavours to conceal my fatal partiality, ſurely he would not have loved me leſs, when all [40] my happineſs centered in the wiſh of being agreeable in his eyes: yet as mat⯑ters go with great people, he will proba⯑bly marry ſome rich lady, continued ſhe, her tears flowing abundantly, who may regard nothing but his fine eſtate and ſplendid titles, and one beſides whom he may not even himſelf love; for great people do not marry as we do.

What a ſad thing it is, that all great gentlemen are ſuch rakes, cried the friend. But could you not contrive to give your lady warning. I'll warrant a few weeks abſence will put all to rights.

That is what I have often thought of, cried the other, and what I am afraid I ſhall be conſtrained to do at laſt; but oh! my dear Jenny! what will not ſuch a ſtep coſt me? ſhall I be able to live, after I quit the caſtle? But to be ſure quit it I muſt, and the ſooner I die the better.

Nay, for my part, I know nothing half ſo frightful as dying, I promiſe you, [41] cried the friend. How can you talk ſo wildly? But you'll think better of that, I truſt, before long: you are not the firſt, God knows, that has been croſſed in love, and people don't always die for all that.

Melted beyond expreſſion by what I overheard, I ſcarce breathed, from the fear of loſing one word of this artleſs, intereſting converſation. When the friend aroſe, and propoſed returning home, I heard Fanny offer to accompany her part of the way to the village, ſay⯑ing ſhe was not afraid, though alone and ſo late, as the moon ſhone bright, and ſhe would return by a private gate which led from the park into the fields, and was a near cut. They immediately walked away, and I remained in a ſtate of mind not to be conceived but in ſimilar cir⯑cumſtances.

The diſcovery I had made of my gen⯑tle Fanny's amiable partiality, in the very moment that I was exhauſting every [42] ſource of fortitude to enable me to re⯑nounce her, threw me into a ſtate little ſhort of diſtraction; and determined me at once to overleap all the ba [...]s that lay in the way, and to offer her my hand and heart in a legal manner. This reſo⯑lution, the offspring of an overheated imagination, and of that impetuoſity of temper which in a thouſand inſtances I have had ſuch cauſe to deplore, I reſolved inſtantly to make known to her, and to wait her return at the little gate, in order to communicate it. During this inter⯑val, inſtead of recalling my reaſon to my aid, and maturely weighing the con⯑ſequences of ſo imprudent a determina⯑tion, I gave way to the delirium, and indulged in a train of the moſt pleaſing and flattering illuſions: I imagined I was beginning to enjoy a foretaſte of that happineſs from which an abſurd prejudice had too long pre⯑cluded me; and I carefully checked [43] every riſing objection to a meaſure which already diffuſed ſuch infinite ſatisfaction over my mind.

I walked backwards and forwards, an⯑ticipating that delight in the poſſeſſion of the dear object of my affections, which with ſuch amiable ſimplicity ſhe herſelf had deſcribed but the moment before, and dwelt with particular pleaſure on the ſoothing idea of the height to which gratitude muſt raiſe her attachment when ſhe came to know what proofs I meant to give her of mine.

At laſt Fanny appeared in ſight, and I flew towards her. I acknowledged the enchanting diſcovery I had made, and the effect that diſcovery had produced upon my heart, till wholly overpowered with my vows and proteſtations, ſhe wept in my arms, and confeſſed that ſhe loved me above all men. We were in this ſituation, when the ſupper bell obliged us to ſeparate. Fanny, agitated [44] and bewildered by this unexpected event, and apprehenſive of detection, at length prevailed with me, though not without difficulty, to leave her, having promiſed to meet me in the wood early next morn⯑ing.

On my return to the company, I found my brother in law had received letters from town which required his immediate attendance there. As my ſiſter of courſe accompanied him, I knew Fanny muſt be of the party; and to leave her now, was as far diſtant from my thoughts as it had been fixed in my determination three hours before. I therefore pre⯑tended to have had diſpatches by the ſame poſt, which obliged me to viſit London likewiſe; and without much difficulty got myſelf excuſed from the excurſion which had originally been planned by myſelf.

When I retired to reſt, I had leiſure to reflect on the events of the day. My [45] mind having time to cool, I began clearly to ſee that I was ſtanding on the threſhold of danger. Fanny's image however, which perpetually preſented itſelf to my view, and the recollection of the ſcene which ſo lately had paſſed be⯑tween us, the vows that had proceeded from my lips, warm from my heart, and the ſoft gratitude ſhe had expreſſed in terms ſo endearing, all fixed me immove⯑ably in my determination; though I per⯑ceived through the cloud which paſſion threw over my reaſon, a ſource of innu⯑merable troubles and objections; but theſe gloomy ſuggeſtions a lively imagi⯑nation and ſanguine hopes, enabled me quickly to chaſe from my thoughts.

I began at laſt to form a ſcheme to which I hoped my dear Fanny would eaſily be induced to conſent: this was, to be united to her privately, and care⯑fully to conceal the connection till my father's death ſhould leave me at liberty [46] to avow my choice; and this, with ex⯑treme caution, I concluded might be effected.

On meeting next morning, I commu⯑nicated my plan, which met with my dear girl's approbation: one circumſtance alone gave her uneaſineſs and held her de⯑termination for ſome time ſuſpended; this was, how ſhe ſhould conduct herſelf with regard to her parents, to whom ſhe was tenderly attached, and who, ſhe ſaid, ſhe well knew muſt receive a mortal wound were they to imagine her capable of conſenting to any ſtep prejudicial to her reputation. It was impoſſible for me to agree to their being informed of our private marriage, as ſo many reaſons required it to be kept an inviolable ſe⯑cret; and there was ſo little probability that two old people of their condition would preſerve concealed, what a due regard to the honour of their only child muſt prompt them to divulge, when her elopement and concealment ſhould call [47] her fame in queſtion. This was ſo ap⯑parent, that Fanny was eaſily convinced of the neceſſity, however diſagreeable, of leaving them in ignorance. The idea however of embittering their days with the belief of her ſeduction drove her al⯑moſt to deſpair: yet it is not ſurprizing that my arguments and endearments, my promiſes and profeſſions, ſhould have gradually reconciled her to inflicting this blow; as I did not fail to ſuggeſt the triumph they would one day experience in the diſcovery of her exaltation and in⯑nocence; beſides that I propoſed to ſof⯑ten their anxiety by dictating a letter, which Fanny actually wrote to her mo⯑ther, acquainting her that for reaſons ſhe was not at liberty to reveal, ſhe was forced to conceal herſelf for a ſeaſon from them and the world, but that a period would certainly arrive when ſhe ſhould again embrace them; adding many aſſurances that when ſhe ſhould have that happineſs, [48] it would be without a bluſh for her paſt conduct, which ever had been, and ever ſhould continue to be, conformable to the principles and inſtructions ſhe had early imbibed from them. Fanny like⯑wiſe promiſed to give them intelligence of her welfare from time to time, if they would have the goodneſs ſtill to intereſt themſelves in their child's hap⯑pineſs, while appearances were ſo unfa⯑vourable to her. This method, together with an annual ſum, which I promiſed to remit to them without a poſſibility of their tracing from whence it came, made my Fanny tolerably eaſy; or rather the ſoftneſs of her nature conſpiring with her tenderneſs, overcame her ſcruples, and ſhe liſtened to a plan ſhe knew not how to improve.

Buſineſs at this time called my brother and ſiſter to viſit an eſtate lately left him in Scotland by a diſtant relation. I im⯑mediately propoſed being of the party, [49] pretending an inclination to viſit that part of the iſland, conſcious that I could there compleat my ſcheme with the moſt ſecurity from ſuſpicion.

We accordingly ſet off; and on our arrival at Edinburgh, Fanny, who was innocence herſelf, allowed me to con⯑duct her to a private part of the town, where a clergyman, whom I had en⯑gaged to ſecrecy both by bribes and the moſt ſolemn oaths, performed the cere⯑mony which united her to me by laws both human and divine.

I will confeſs to you, my children, humiliating as is the avowal, that the confidence placed in me more than once tempted me to betray it; and that the facility with which it was in my power to have deluded my artleſs bride with a falſe marriage, held the execution of my project for ſome time ſuſpended: but though the whole tranſaction confeſſed [50] an unpardonable weakneſs, in this inſtance it was unſtained with guilt.

Our journey down gave me opportuni⯑ties of meeting with Fanny, and con⯑verſing with her more unſuſpectedly than I could otherwiſe have hoped for; yet I could perceive that my ſiſter was not without her ſuſpicions of my partiality for her maid, and very often rallied me on it, though ſhe could not poſſibly have conceived the ſlighteſt idea of the impru⯑dence into which my fatal weakneſs had involved me.

That my wife ſhould continue a mo⯑ment in her preſent humble ſituation about my ſiſter, was what I could by no means brook. Two days therefore after our union, which had taken place on the day of our arrival, by my contrivance ſhe pretended to have received accounts of her mother's being dangerouſly ill, and requeſted leave to return home with all expedition, in order to give her the [51] neceſſary attendance. It was not with⯑out infinite reluctance that the dear girl was prevailed on to adopt this little artifice; and the tears ſhe ſhed at part⯑ing from Lady Ann, to whom ſhe was tenderly attached, muſt inevitably have excited ſome ſuſpicion that ſhe meant to return to her no more, had not the occa⯑ſion of her departure furniſhed an appa⯑rent excuſe for them.

As I had time to digeſt my ſcheme before it was put into execution, I had provided a ſmall houſe in a private ſtreet in London for the reſidence of my wife, under the name of Mrs. Smith. There I hoped to viſit her frequently, unſuſ⯑pected by the world, and thither I was eager to follow her. Prudence however required that I ſhould remain behind with my ſiſter and her huſband; but as they continued only a few weeks at their new eſtate, my impatience was ſoon gra⯑tified by our return to London, where I [52] met my lovely bride with all the ardour and impatience natural to my diſpoſition.

For ſome months my paſſion, far from ſuffering any abatement, rather ſeemed to encreaſe. At this time my father came up to town; and as I lodged with him, I was conſtrained to viſit leſs often in the city, and with redoubled caution; but the difficulties which retarded our meetings, and their conſequent infre⯑quency, gave them an unſpeakable charm—a charm, alas! the warmth of which a ſhort time diminiſhed!

The entire ſolitude in which my wife lived (for I was her only viſitor) made my ſociety and converſation her only happineſs and amuſement. Her educa⯑tion had totally unfitted her for mental entertainments; nor had ſhe been taught thoſe accompliſhments which fill up agreeably the leiſure hours of a woman of faſhion, and from the unavoidable re⯑tirement in which ſhe lived, little variety [53] of converſation was poſſible: when there⯑fore the miſt of paſſion began to diſſipate, I found her ſtill lovely, amiable, and in⯑nocent; but unfortunately perceived that theſe alluring qualities were not in them⯑ſelves ſufficient to retain my wandering affections. Her converſation ſoon be⯑came inſipid to me; and the deſire of embelliſhing her mind by directing her ſtudies (at firſt my moſt pleaſing amuſe⯑ment) now ceaſed to intereſt me. The tenderneſs of her affection long pre⯑vented her from expreſſing even a murmur at my too apparent neglect; although I could not but perceive that her ſpirits were viſibly affected by it: and ſhe always re⯑ceived me, after a fortnight's ſolitary abſence, with the moſt lively expreſſions of joy.

It was not immediately however that this unhappy change took place: and your birth, my Hermione, which hap⯑pened not till three years after our mar⯑riage, [54] ſupplied your mother with a pleaſing ſource of amuſement, ſufficiently inte⯑reſting I hope to prevent her thoughts from brooding over the mortifying and painful alteration in my behaviour.

At this period I became acquainted with a ſet of companions of the moſt diſſipated character. My particular friends were two young men of agreeable and inſinuating, but of profligate manners. In their company I led the moſt irregular life: and ſoon began to conſider the hours I ſpent occaſionally with my wife as a point of duty rather than of inclination, and with regard to the diſcharge of duties which in⯑terfered with my pleaſures, I grew every day leſs ſolicitous: this therefore, among the reſt, became extremely neglected; and I heartily regretted the indiſſoluble knot which had placed your mother in a ſituation that rendered my attentions abſolutely neceſſary to her happineſs: the ſecluſion of her life affected, but it [55] alſo chagrined me; and her dependance, once ſo pleaſing, ſeemed now a burthen that I endeavoured to ſhake off, flatter⯑ing myſelf that her child would amply compenſate for the loſs of my ſociety.

Twelve or fourteen months paſſed on in this manner; till my wife, at length wounded to the ſoul, began to adopt the worſt of all methods for recovering a loſt attachment, by complaining of my cold⯑neſs. This ſhe did with her accuſtomed ſoftneſs, and by tears rather than re⯑proaches; but it was a ſubject which embittered ſo extremely the ſhort inter⯑vals I ſpent with her, that they grew leſs frequent than ever, although the birth of her ſecond child (you, my dear Fanny) ought to have proved an addi⯑tional tie towards cementing my affection.

My father, who regarded himſelf as exceedingly unfortunate in my brother's marriage, often propoſed to me to marry, and had at different periods pointed out [56] ſeveral advantageous connexions, among whom he wiſhed me to chooſe; but as my heart was not intereſted, though the ſubject embarraſſed, it did not wound me, and I evaded it with little difficulty.

My ſiſter, one evening at her houſe, introduced to me a young lady with whom ſhe had been on a footing of the ſtricteſt intimacy whilſt I was on my travels, but whom, till now, I had never ſeen, owing to her having accom⯑panied her father to the Court of Turin, where he reſided in a public character, and from which place ſhe was but juſt returned.

Miſs Marſdon was uncommonly beau⯑tiful; and her manners and addreſs, though highly cultivated, preſerved an intereſting ſimplicity which rendered her perfectly irreſiſtible: her converſation, refined by an admirable underſtanding, embelliſhed by education, and poliſhed by an early introduction into the moſt [57] polite company abroad, poſſeſſed an eaſe and delicacy of good breeding almoſt as ſtriking, at firſt ſight, as the charms of her figure.—I felt the full force of both, and was conquered at once. With the blind impetuoſity which marked my character, inſtead of exerting my utmoſt efforts to reſiſt and avoid a temptation I found too inſinuating, I gave way to this ſeducing paſſion, and ſhut my eyes on its unhappy conſequences, ſo fraught with miſery, remorſe, and guilt. It was then that I curſed my folly, and that infatuation which had before guided me. Ever violent and untractable, I was almoſt driven to deſpair at the re⯑collection of the weakneſs which had placed a bar ſo inſuperable between me and my wiſhes. But there ſoon aroſe in my breaſt a ray of hope; the production of ungoverned paſſions, ſelfiſhneſs and treachery, which firſt ſuggeſted an action that has thrown the gloom of the [58] bittereſt ſelf-reproach on all the ſucceed⯑ing years of my life.

The lovely Miſs Marſdon, an only child, and heireſs to an immenſe fortune, poſſeſſed a conſiderable eſtate which ſhe had inherited from her mother, and which lay contiguous to Belmont Caſtle. This circumſtance, though trivial in itſelf, had induced my father often to expreſs his wiſhes that a marriage between the young lady and myſelf might take place. Her abſence had hitherto entirely fruſta⯑ted this plan, and given birth to other ſchemes; but her unexpected return at this juncture made him directly renew the old topic of matrimony, to which, hitherto, I had never been prevailed on to liſten. Far from being averſe to this match, he ſaid he ſaw with pleaſure it was an union into which I would enter with avidity; and that as the young lady herſelf ſeemed, if he might judge from appearances, to receive my atten⯑tions [59] with all the modeſt approbation I could wiſh, he thought the next ſtep was to apply to his old friend Lord Emb⯑don for his ſanction and conſent.

The mention of ſuch a tranſaction made my blood run cold, and I received it with an embarraſſment which not only aſtoniſhed but extremely diſpleaſed my father; though, at the very moment that I half declined what my heart panted to obtain, I was revolving in my mind the means of bringing ſuch a ſcheme to bear. The ſucceſs hitherto attending my attempt of concealment, encouraged me, and I began to flatter myſelf that my engagements with your mother might remain an eternal ſecret to the world, which would leave me at liberty to form what new ones I pleaſed with the amiable object of my preſent affections; this, I imagined, might for many years remain unknown to my real wife, who ſaw only her own ſervants, [60] none of whom had been informed of my name, and who, being perfectly unac⯑quainted even with the meaning of the word politics, had ever declared that newſpapers were the dulleſt of all read⯑ing; and I knew ſhe received none of the daily prints into her family. All theſe circumſtances induced me to hope that ſhe might long continue in ignorance; and that when the fatal in⯑telligence, that I had connected myſelf with another, ſhould at length reach her ears, and ſhe knew my heart was totally alienated from her, I believed, or rather I forced myſelf to believe, that the gen⯑tleneſs of her nature would never allow her to plunge me at once into infamy and contempt by detection, but that ſhe might without difficulty be perſuaded, as the calamity was without remedy, to reſt ſatisfied in obſcurity, with conſcious innocence and affluence, all that had hitherto been her ſolitary portion. This [61] certainly was a deſign which a thouſand unforeſeen accidents might diſcloſe to the world, and, at beſt, extremely im⯑probable to effect; but I was willingly blind to the future, and ſolicitous only for the gratification of the preſent mo⯑ment. I conſidered alſo, that ſhould your mother's juſt reſentment prompt her to divulge the truth, the meaſures I had taken, though not with that in⯑tention at the time, had all conſpired to prevent any credit from being given to her aſſertions: the ceremony had been performed in Scotland; the clergyman's abode ſhe knew not, nor was ſhe ac⯑quainted with his name but from the certificate of our marriage, which indeed ſtill remained in her hands, and which I regarded as the only bar. I often there⯑fore revolved on the means of getting it into my poſſeſſion; and moſt un⯑doubtedly ſhould one day or other have effected it, but conſcious guilt prevented [62] me at the time from venturing on any ſteps towards this end, terrified to awaken ſuſpicion while my plot was but in agitation.

It was not without extreme anguiſh that I conſidered the felicity I was pur⯑chaſing for myſelf muſt be at the ex⯑pence of an amiable young creature's happineſs, who had once been the object of my warmeſt affections, and who ſtill loved me paſſionately; who regarded me as her guardian and protector, who lived in a manner on my ſmiles, whoſe countenance ever betrayed dejection on the ſlighteſt appearance in mine either of indifference or ill humour, and who had brought me two lovely infants, pledges of her tenderneſs and of my treachery. But I quickly chaſed away thoſe painful ſuggeſtions of conſcience; drowned them in wine, or forgot them entirely at the firſt glance of my beloved Julia.

[63]In a word, I made my addreſſes to Miſs Marſden, and was accepted. My Lord, overjoyed at finding me willing at laſt to cloſe with his wiſhes, haſtened the preliminaries; and Lord Embdon, happy in ſettling his daughter to his ſatisfaction, (as there had ever ſubſiſted the ſtricteſt friendſhip between him and my father) inſiſted on celebrating our marriage at his country ſeat in the moſt ſumptuous manner, where a number of relations on both ſides were to be preſent.

During the preparations, my heart, though ſo near enjoying its utmoſt wiſh, was weighed down with a burthen of guilt, the ſenſation of which let none call themſelves miſerable till they have endured; for perfect miſery cannot ſubſiſt without the feelings of remorſe. As the time approached, my agitation be⯑came more violent; in the preſence of [64] my lovely Julia they were annihilated, but alone they were inſupportable.

Miſs Marſdon and her friends had al⯑ready left town, and I was to follow the next day, and the enſuing one was to determine my fate. On the evening previous to my departure, being uneaſy in my mind, I reſolved to pay your mo⯑ther a viſit, while I had not as yet actu⯑ally injured her: you will imagine this a ſtrange ſtep in ſuch circumſtances, when on the eve of inflicting a wound which muſt for ever deſtroy her tranquillity; but in fact I was ſo oppreſſed with a load of ſecret ſufferings, that it fell to me like the diſcharge of a duty to which was attached ſome degree of merit from the pain it occaſioned me. I found her low ſpirited and indiſpoſed; ſhall I add another circumſtance calculated to have awakened every ſentiment of tenderneſs and compaſſion, had not my heart been hardened and every feeling warped in [65] ſelfiſhneſs—ſhe was with child, and had ſuffered much from the attendant cir⯑cumſtances of her ſituation: this, toge⯑ther with the air of ſombre ſecluſion which every thing wore, and which had never before ſtruck me ſo forcibly, ſoftened and affected me. Your mother was ill and alone; no parents to ſoothe, no friends to attend her; all was gloomy and dejected around her; it was I that was the occaſion of what ſhe now felt, and what ſhe had further to endure; yet —yet—I was villain enough to perſiſt in my intention to deſtroy her! not but that a violent though tranſient remorſe made me heſitate for a moment; but I pre⯑ſently laboured to ſatisfy my conſcience with this ſophiſtry, that I had gone too far now to retract, and that as I had probably engaged the affections both of my wife and of my miſtreſs, and ren⯑dered their felicity dependant on mine, ſince one muſt ſuffer, it was at leaſt al⯑lowable [66] that I ſhould ſpare regret and diſappointment from being the portion of her who had it in her power to con⯑fer unſpeakable happineſs on me.

As to your mother, the joy of ſeeing me, and the unuſual tenderneſs with which her ſituation inſpired me, made her diſſolve into tears that ſilently re⯑proached my perfidy. I pleaded an ex⯑curſion from town in excuſe for my long abſence, and informed her of an unavoid⯑able journey I was on the eve of taking which muſt deprive me of the pleaſure of ſeeing her for a ſtill longer time. She did not utter a complaint; but drying up her tears, you have deprived yourſelf of much pleaſure, my dear Lord, ſaid ſhe; and inſtantly ordering the maid to bring the children to me began, with all the tenderneſs of a mother, to repeat the improvements you had both made ſince my laſt viſit, which was about three months before, with many innocent ex⯑preſſions [67] of anxiety to ſee me, and won⯑der at my abſence, that had fallen from the infant lips of you, my dear Her⯑mione, then ſcarce three years old.

My children are my only conſolation in your abſence, my Lord, ſaid your mo⯑ther, tenderly preſſing my hand; but I thank heaven I have them. To be ſure I cannot expect, in our preſent ſituation, to enjoy much of your company; but I live in the hope that the day will arrive—

The entrance of the maid, with Fanny in her arms and leading in Hermione, left the ſentence unfiniſhed which was a dagger to my heart. I think I was hardly ever more affected than when you, my Hermione, rejected my careſſes, and ſeeing your mother's eyes red with weep⯑ing, aſked me, with a reſentment which was immediately after followed by tears, why I made mama cry? This innocent reproach, under which lurked a meaning conſcious only to myſelf, made me heap [68] expreſſions of tenderneſs on both the mo⯑ther and child, while I was preparing a blow for the former that laid her in the duſt.

I left the houſe in a ſtate of mind not to be expreſſed. I ſpent the firſt part of the night in miſery: but the idea of what next morning was to beſtow, re⯑moved the image of your mother in tears, and preſented to me that of a lovely and beloved bride ready to give herſelf to my wiſhes.

I accordingly ſet out next day with a large ſuite of friends, was married im⯑mediately on my arrival at the Hall, and had all my conſcientious ſcruples ſoon drowned in an intoxication of happineſs.

After ſpending ſome weeks in great gaiety, I carried my amiable bride to my father's country ſeat, to which place we were accompanied by moſt of the party; and here we continued the ſame round of amuſements for a fortnight longer. My [69] ſoul however was ſoon to awaken from this dream of joy, and to receive the due reward of its crime in the ſhame and remorſe which ſucceeded.

The company had juſt returned one evening from an agreeable excurſion on the water, and the ladies being in high ſpirits, had inſiſted on fiddles being ſent for, ſo that a kind of ball was going for⯑ward on the lawn before the houſe, the weather being uncommonly delightful, when my ſervant, calling me aſide, deli⯑vered into my hands a letter, the ſuper⯑ſcription of which made me tremble. I haſtened inſtantly to my own apart⯑ment; where, ſecuring myſelf from in⯑terruption, I found it, as I ſuſpected, from your mother, and the contents as follows:

LETTER II. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

I HAVE received your kind letter, my beloved friend; the moſt agreeable circumſtance that could have befallen me at preſent, when my heart, exhauſted and depreſſed, can imbibe conſolation or relief from the tender ſympathy of friendſhip alone.

How juſt are your reflections, my Sophia, on our dear father's unhappy ſtory. Surely a ſenſe ſo rigorous of his errors, and ſo many years devoted to penitence and remorſe, muſt not only have entirely obliterated his faults in the [134] eyes of infinite juſtice and mercy, but ought to render every candid mind compaſſionate and indulgent to tranſ⯑greſſions which conveyed ſo ſeverely their own puniſhment.

What a number of circumſtances, unheeded at the time, do Fanny and I now recall, that prove how bitterly he ſuffered. The gravity and ſeeming auſterity of his manners, which you uſed to ſay made him appear ſo awful that you never could feel at eaſe in his pre⯑ſence, we concluded merely conſtitu⯑tional: alas! we ſuſpected not that his melancholy had a ſource ſo deep, nor that a weight of painful recollections gave a heavineſs to his heart, which de⯑prived every enjoyment of its true reliſh, and could not fail to throw a gloom over his whole appearance; eſpecially in the eyes of my gay, animated Sophia, bleſſed with a mind at eaſe, and in poſſeſion of [135] all the vivacity which youth, health, and lively ſpirits can produce.

Yet, my dear, religion and reſignation had effected in him a mild thought⯑fulneſs, which, while it repreſſed gaiety, was far from wholly precluding content⯑ment. His temper was indeed ſo ſerene, ſo amiable, ſo free from all caprice or ill humour, and his converſation ſo in⯑ſtructively amuſing, ſo complaiſantly in⯑dulgent to all the little whims and wiſhes of his children, that our affection for him, warm and unbounded, was un⯑tinctured with dread or awe; and we ever regarded him in the light of an agreeable and entertaining companion, while we revered him as that of a con⯑deſcending and reſpectable parent.

Has not the woeful tale drawn tears from you, my dear? As for Fanny and myſelf, I thought the peruſal would have actually killed us. Oh! what a number of dreadful events, unſuſpected and un⯑known, [136] what a ſource of never ceaſing regret, has it opened to our knowledge; and what a period of miſery have the days of our dear father proved! ought we then to weep his releaſe from a world where ſorrow, under various ſhapes, has been his conſtant purſuer, and where, under the baneful form of remorſe, it has conducted him to the grave.

I hope my Sophia has not been uneaſy at the unuſual interval of ſilence, after the laſt diſmal part of my journal, which I think I ſent off about ſix weeks ago. The truth is, I have had a ſevere relapſe ſince that period. Nervous fevers are, you know, extremely liable to return when one concludes the alarm over, and caution unneceſſary; and this fit of ill⯑neſs was not only attended but produced by a dejection of ſpirits ſo depreſſing, that I am aſtoniſhed I have been able to ſurvive what I have ſuffered. This laſt attack was indeed ſo violent, that my [137] phyſicians thought me for ſeveral days in extreme danger, and ſhook their heads in ſilence, while poor Fanny gave me up for loſt.

It has pleaſed the Almighty, however, to reſtore me; though I am yet ſo lan⯑guid that I ſcarce feel as if I had exiſt⯑ence: but I am infinitely better than I could have conceived poſſible in ſo ſhort a ſpace; and the relief Fanny's mind has received from this event, has almoſt wholly recovered her uſual good ſpirits: her terrors on my account, by dividing her attention and engroſſing her anxiety, have abſtracted her thoughts from the paſt, and her eſcape from a ſtill greater calamity, for ſuch undoubtedly my death muſt have proved at this juncture, when we are left in a manner deſerted and alone, has produced a wonderful change in her dejection. Her timidity of tem⯑per, even to helpleſſneſs, renders her ſo dependant on me, and ſo totally unfits [138] her for ſtruggling againſt the difficulties of our unconnected ſituation, that my loſs could be felt at no period ſo ſeverely as the preſent.

I have conſidered ſome points in her temper, however, as very fortunate at this melancholy ſeaſon; when to have endured the burthen both of her ſorrows and my own, would have proved a weight under which my ſpirits muſt have completely ſunk; but though ex⯑ceedingly ſuſceptible of ſtrong agitations in the firſt moments of emotion, Fanny's feelings, probably from their violence, are extremely apt to evaporate, and when diſſolved in tears and melted by afflic⯑tion, the ſoothing of a friend, and a few unavailing arguments of comfort, ſeldom fail to wipe them very ſpeedily away.

The ſenſations of ſixteen, are in gene⯑ral I believe of this nature: acute but tranſient. I perceive my Sophia ſmiles at the important airs of ſeniority which [139] in this laſt ſentence I ſeem to aſſume: but two years difference of age, at our time of life, claims more than will per⯑haps be admitted at any other period; and Fanny's reſidence at the convent, from which ſhe returned but a few months ago, and the ſecluſion that preceded it, have given an inexperienced ſimplicity to her converſation, and an innocent naivetè to her manners, which, though amiable and engaging, beſtow ſometimes an ap⯑pearance of childiſhneſs that might lead one to conclude her ſtill younger than ſhe is.

LETTER III. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

YOU aſk me ſeveral queſtions in your letter, which the number of informations I have had to give you, together with the many conjectures and reflections which our preſent ſituation naturally in⯑ſpires, have, by engroſſing my pen, pre⯑vented me from anſwering: for as I am yet but weak, I am able to write but little at a time, though chatting with you is the only employment that intereſts me. I now ſit down therefore to anſwer your queries.

You aſk me to tell you, in the firſt [171] place, what ſort of man this Mr. Howard is, whom I have dignified ſo often with the epithets of amiable and worthy? you deſire me to acquaint you with the fol⯑lowing particulars, viz. his age, fortune, manners, and appearance; and mean while you tell me you offer up your prayers for his turning out young, hand⯑ſome, rich, and agreeable; and laſt of all that he may poſſeſs un coeur tendre, in which caſe it muſt be out of nature, you ſay, for the youth to have ſpent near three months under the ſame roof with two ſuch girls without becoming a ſlave to the charms of one of them.

I am ſomewhat afraid that Mr. How⯑ard has really proved this ſame unnatural being: although he certainly is bleſſed with a very tender heart, and ſeems be⯑ſides to have been prejudiced in our fa⯑vour from the commencement of our ac⯑quaintance, which was produced by an accident, of which I am going to inform [172] you, ſince I have neglected my accuſ⯑tomed minuteneſs in this particular.

My father one evening, about three years ago, walking in the woods of B—, perceived a very fine horſe, ſad⯑dled, with all its accoutrements, grazing, with the bridle impending from its neck, without any appearance of an owner or attendant being near. Struck with the apprehenſion that he had probably thrown his maſter, my father traverſed the dif⯑ferent paths of the foreſt, in order to give him aſſiſtance in caſe it was re⯑quired, and ſoon was led, by the ſound of diſmal groans, to the ſpot where the unfortunate traveller lay, ſupported by a footman, who was endeavouring, by his maſter's orders, to pull his arm into joint, which had been diſlocated by his fall.

My father addreſſing himſelf to the ſtranger, who proved to be an Engliſh⯑man, (a circumſtance that perhaps gave [173] force to his natural humanity and bene⯑volence) informed him that his houſe was but a quarter of a league diſtant, and requeſted he would ſuffer himſelf to be removed to it, where a ſurgeon could be ſoon procured to ſet the bone.

Mr. Howard, for he it was, after thanking my father for his fortunate aſ⯑ſiſtance, gratefully accepted the offer, and ſent his ſervant, by my father's de⯑ſire, to order a carriage to convey him to the houſe, while another messenger was diſpatched from B— for a neigh⯑bouring ſurgeon. The operation was happily performed, and I exerted myſelf (Fanny being then at the convent) to render the habitation of the poor invalid as comfortable as his ſituation would permit. He was ſoon able to quit his apartment, and loaded us with acknow⯑ledgments for this accidental ſervice; and my father, who rarely admitted com⯑pany at B—, found himſelf inſenſibly [174] attached to our new acquaintance, and forgot his determination of flying the ſight of his own countrymen in favour of Mr. Howard, who on his part ſoon conceived the warmeſt friendſhip for him.

He acquainted us that bad health had obliged him to try the waters of Barrege; and never having viſited the Continent before, he intended, finding himſelf per⯑fectly recovered, to make the tour of France and Italy before his return to England. He politely added, that he never ſhould regret the interruption his plan had received from this accident, ſince it had been productive of an inti⯑macy that had given him ſo much ſatis⯑faction.

My father's perſuaſions prevailed with him to lengthen his ſtay for ſeveral weeks after his confinement was at an end; and indeed he proved a moſt agreeable acqui⯑ſition to our family party. He then de⯑parted, having faithfully promiſed on [175] his return to take B—in his way; and after an abſence of a year and eight months, he fulfilled his intention, and had been for ſome time our gueſt when my dear father was taken from us.

As to his character, our helpleſs ſitua⯑tion has developed it to us in the moſt amiable point of view. Steady and ſin⯑cere in his attachment to my father, it has been productive of kindneſs and at⯑tention to us, beyond what we could have hoped for or claimed from ſo late an acquaintance: yet his friendſhip is teſtified by actions, not by proteſtations; for the modeſty of Mr. Howard's nature is ſuch, that our expreſſions of gratitude never fail to embarraſs and diſtreſs him; and he ſeems to regard the trouble he receives, as a truſt, the faithful diſcharge of which is a duty too indiſpenſible to appear meritorious.

His countenance—(you ſee I go regu⯑larly through the liſt of your interroga⯑tories) [176] —without being what one can pronounce handſome, is ſenſible, manly, and intereſting, with an air of mildneſs which prepoſſeſſes you at firſt ſight in his favour, and an expreſſion which of all others is the moſt deſirable—the look of a worthy honeſt character. He would poſſeſs alſo much the appearance of a man of faſhion, or rather of a man who has been accuſtomed to elegant and poliſhed ſociety, did not a certain degree of diffi⯑dence and modeſty ſhew that he made not the grand tour early enough in life to acquire that eaſe which an introduction into foreign company at a youthful pe⯑riod generally beſtows: but on this head I can only judge from comparing him with ſome of the Pariſian beaux who oc⯑caſionally frequented the chateau de Clarence, and who, however inferior to Mr. Howard in point of underſtanding, I muſt acknowledge were his ſuperiors in addreſs.

[177]Fortune has been, alas! as ſparing as nature ſeems to have been prodigal of her gifts. Her avarice is by no means apparent in the figure Mr. Howard makes in this country; but he confeſſed to my father that frugality alone enabled him to conceal it. As to his age—(pray do you imagine that my father would have conſigned us to the care of a man of five and twenty?) Mr. Howard adds, I dare ſay, twenty years more to that gay ſeaſon of life. Time has not, it is true, imprinted any traces in his face which one could wiſh ſpared, for they denote benevolence rather than years: he looks conſiderably younger than he is; and retains that ſpirit in his eye which in his youth would have been probably termed fire, though blended with infinite ſweet⯑neſs. Thus our guardian, you find, is not a giddy inſinuating youth, who might have one day made Fanny and I pull caps; but in fact a plain, worthy, mid⯑dle-aged [178] man, whoſe attachment is that of a parent not of an admirer.

I will freely confeſs to you however I have ſometimes been led to ſuſpect, from, his behaviour, that he wiſhed to render himſelf particularly agreeable to me, and that he originally diſtinguiſhed me be⯑yond my ſiſter; perhaps this was the mere ſuggeſtions of ſecret vanity: if ſo, it was however an error which I by no means wiſhed realized; for ſo much ap⯑prehenſion did it give me, that I could not help avoiding his company; and when in it, my manner uniformly teſtified coldneſs and reſerve, from the apprehen⯑ſion that my father, (who always con⯑feſſed that he could not inſure the pro⯑tection of his family after his death, tho' all other particulars he carefully centered in his own boſom) might be induced to overlook the difference of years from the partiality he entertained for his friend, and might uſe all his influence to pre⯑vail [179] with me to accept of a legal protec⯑tion in that unfriended ſtate to which his deceaſe was ever liable [...]o reduce us

I now however condemn this abſurd fancy, which I almoſt bluſh to confeſs to you, and which I perceive to have been merely a chimera of my own brain, adopted God knows how, for I think his preference is plainly in my ſiſter's favour, whoſe innocence and ſimplicity of man⯑ners appear to have warmly intereſted him. During my illneſs, on Mr. How⯑ard Fanny naturally relied for ſupport, as ſhe had no other to whom ſhe could fly; and his tender, compaſſionate at⯑tention ſeems to have cemented a ſort of attachment between them; in her mere gratitude alone, and in him the kindneſs of a guardian—a penchant which from that gentleman's time of life and pru⯑dence can never be ſuppoſed to diſturb the tranquillity of either party, but [180] which probably adds ſome ſtrength to his kind activity in our affairs.

As to money matters, about which in your laſt you are so kindly anxious, I really underſtand very little of them; but Mr. Benſeley, who has ever had the ma⯑nagement of all pecuniary buſineſs hi⯑therto, undertakes to continue the charge. There is, I believe, the ſum of twenty thouſand pounds in the Engliſh funds, and above two hundred piſtoles were found in my father's cabinet for preſent uſe. Debts there are none, beyond what a few Louis will diſcharge; ſo that you, ſee we are ſecured in affluence, and inde⯑pendence is my utmoſt wiſh.

You aſk me, Sophia, how Fanny, who was a pretty girl of thirteen when you laſt ſaw her, has turned out in point of beauty? When ſhe uſed to viſit us in the convent ſhe was a ſweet looking child in a ſtay coat, and I believe you have not ſince ſeen her: ſhe is now quite formed; [181] and though not much, grown, for ſhe is not tall, is extremely improved both in face and form. Her little clumſy figure has ſhot up, and ſhe retains only an agreeable degree of en bon point, which it would not perhaps be an advantage for her to loſe even for a finer ſhape. Her complexion is her principal charm, and that is much refined ſince you ſaw her, for her features are more pleaſing than regular. I remember you uſed to ad⯑mire her blue eyes, and cheſnut hair; but if any thing in her face deſerves the pre-eminence, it is her teeth, which are exceedingly beautiful; and ſhe ſtill pre⯑ſerves that expreſſion of ſweetneſs and timidity which renders her appearance feminine and intereſting.

She was extremely admired during our laſt viſit at the chateau, and was not a little gratified with the notice ſhe ex⯑cited from ſeveral young men of faſhion; the firſt time in her life that ſhe had ever [182] been the object of the attentions of the other ſex. After our return home, I could not help remarking that ſhe com⯑plained of our ſecluſion with a vexation which was not however of above one day's continuance, but which had been prompted entirely by the young Chevalier, de Mer⯑ville's converſation, who had repreſented it to her as the height of cruelty and injuſtice in my father, and little better than being buried alive.

Perhaps I myſelf, miſled by vanity ex⯑cited in a ſimilar manner by the flattery of our Pariſian beaux, ſuffered a mo⯑mentary regret for being deprived of ſo many gay amuſements, the attractions of which were painted in glowing colours by all who had enjoyed them. Alas! my heart is now thoroughly ſenſible of the folly of its wiſhes. In the ſeaſon of affliction our eyes are opened to the va⯑nity of ſuch fallacious ideas. What would I now give to be placed in the [183] very ſituation which in thoſe moments I regretted. Bleſſed with my father's ſo⯑ciety, to no other would I aſpire; and delighted would I look forward to the proſpect of ſpending my future days for ever at B—. How wiſely then did our dear parent judge in detaining us ſo conſtantly with him. Our minds, I now perceive, were unequal to the temp⯑tation of mixing with the world untainted by a deſire for its follies, and never ſhould we have felt a regret, tranſient as it was, on returning to a home enli⯑vened with his preſence, had not his indulgence allowed us to join the gay party at the chateau.

I feel my ſtrength ſo greatly amended, that I think of removing to Madame de Clarence's in a few days. It is but two leagues diſtant: and ſevere as leaving B— muſt prove, that event is ever before my eyes; and ſince I am now able for it, the ſooner it is over the bet⯑ter. [184] Mr. Howard will remain ſome time behind us; having kindly undertaken to ſettle every thing previous to our journey, in which he is himſelf to ac⯑company us. How fortunate it is for us that he returns at this juncture to Eng⯑land, and what a bleſſing from Provi⯑dence was this worthy friend's viſit to B—. What elſe could two unpro⯑tected girls have done, totally unac⯑quainted with ſuch tranſactions, ignorant of the world, and unuſed even in trifles to act for themſelves. We muſt have been entirely dependant in this caſe upon Madam de Clarence; who, though ex⯑tremely kind, might have regarded the charge as rather too great a burthen for us to impoſe.

LETTER IV. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

WE have accompliſhed our journey ſo far, though not without having expe⯑rienced the perils and alarms incident to travellers. The weather, till our arrival at Calais, was delightful for the ſeaſon, and our journey on the whole infinitely more agreeable, from the beauty and variety of the ſcenes which ſo rapidly ſhifted before our eyes, than I could poſ⯑ſibly have expected. You may believe, my love, it was not without a bitter pang that we bad adieu to Languedoc, and quitted, probably for ever, the abode [209] of our early days; poor Madame de Cla⯑rence too mingled her tears with ours at parting, and charged us to remember her as a friend who ſhould ever prove warmly and deeply intereſted in our hap⯑pineſs.

When we arrived at Calais, Fanny having been affected with a ſlight cold, attended by a ſore throat, Mr. Howard inſiſted on our remaining a day or two there, before we ventured on the water; and when we were ready to depart, we found no little difficulty in procuring a veſſel, as, owing to adverſe winds, they were all detained on the oppoſite ſhore, one excepted, which with ſome trouble Mr. Howard at length procured. Soon after, as we were preparing to get on board, our landlord entered, and in⯑formed us that a gentleman was that mo⯑ment arrived, who had travelled from Paris with the utmoſt expedition, and was in extreme haſte to get over to Eng⯑land, [210] where buſineſs of real moment re⯑quired his preſence, but that the cir⯑cumſtance before mentioned muſt una⯑voidably detain him at Calais, unleſs we thought proper to offer him a convey⯑ance in our veſſel.

On this information Mr. Howard de⯑ſired the landlord to preſent his beſt reſpects to the gentleman, and to acquaint him that we were about to depart imme⯑diately, and that if it was agreeable to him to accompany us, we ſhould be ex⯑tremely happy to accommodate him and his attendants. The gentleman was then introduced by our hoſt, and ex⯑preſſed his thanks to us in the moſt po⯑lite manner, and without further delay we all went on board.

We had ſcarce quitted Calais, when it began to blow with tremendous vio⯑lence, and from a quarter that equally oppoſed our getting to Dover or regain⯑ing the harbour we had juſt quitted, [211] which the ſeamen anxiouſly, tho' without ſucceſs, laboured to effect. Mr. How⯑ard and our fellow traveller exerted them⯑ſelves to mitigate our apprehenſions; aſſuring us, that as the veſſel was in good condition, and had many able hands on board, our fears greatly magnified the danger. A new alarm however ſoon after occurred which rendered our ſitua⯑tion ſeriouſly critical: ſome part of the apparatus of the pump was found defec⯑tive; and a leak having been diſcovered, the water began to make way very ra⯑pidly. Upon this information, the coun⯑tenances of our comforters betrayed a ſudden though but a momentary anxiety that wholly bereaved us of that ſupport which their apparent eaſe and indifference had hitherto in ſome meaſure afforded us. Fanny, almoſt diſtracted, threw herſelf into the arms of Mr. Howard, as if for protection, and I, whoſe diſmay, though not leſs ſevere was leſs audible, ſat ſi⯑lently [212] offering up my prayers to heaven with a reſolute compoſure, the mere ef⯑fects of hopeleſs deſpair, every moment expecting to be ſwallowed up in one of the frightful waves which were riſing like mountains on all ſides.

Mr. Howard being occupied in vainly endeavouring to moderate Fanny's ter⯑rors, and our ſtranger companion gone to examine into the nature of our alarm, I was in a manner left to my own reflec⯑tions: and at length throwing my arms about my poor Fanny, who reclined her head almoſt lifeleſs upon Mr. Howard's ſhoulder—We are but going to rejoin our dear father, my love, cried I, nor is there any thing ſo very frightful in the idea. The Almighty might have been infinitely leſs merciful in his diſpenſations. We ſhall expire together, and at the ſame inſtant: one miſerable ſurvivor will not be preſerved to mourn in a fo⯑reign country her irreparable loſs; where [213] not a pitying friend might be found to conſole her under the ſeverity of afflic⯑tion.

Affected by theſe words, our fellow traveller, whoſe return I had not per⯑ceived, beſought me in the moſt reſpect⯑ful manner to allow him the honour of aſſiſting me; and throwing his arm round me, ſupported me as I ſat, as far as was in his power, from the diſagreeable ef⯑fects of the inceſſant rolling of the veſſel. Stupified by fear, I attended only to my dear Fanny, who had turned and locked herſelf in my embraces, and whom I la⯑boured by various arguments to inſpire with that fortitude and reſignation which religion can alone diſpenſe in a moment ſo replete with horror. No moment could indeed prove more dreadful. The oaths and execrations of one half of the ſeamen, whoſe profanity ſeemed too ha⯑bitual to deſert them even on this awful occaſion; the utter deſpondency of the [214] other, and the diſmay of all our attend⯑ants, produced on the whole a ſcene of terror and confuſion, on which I cannot reflect without horror inexpreſſible.

Mr. Howard and our fellow traveller were the only perſons on board who at this critical juncture preſerved their uſual compoſure. The danger, however ex⯑treme and immediate, could neither diſ⯑tract their attentions nor wholly abſorb their cares; while the former employed himſelf unceaſingly to ſupport the exhauſt⯑ed ſpirits of my ſiſter, the latter ſeemed to conſider me as his peculiar charge; and his converſation, at once ſoothing, ſpi⯑rited, and inſinuating, inſenſibly fortified my courage, and ſtrengthened my mind.

Gratified by the generous exertions made to ſuſtain my drooping fortitude, I at length turned round to regard the perſon to whom I conſidered myſelf as ſo particularly indebted, and was not a little aſtoniſhed to perceive, in the deport⯑ment [215] of this unknown young man, a ſtriking and peculiar elegance, and in his countenance an intereſting intelli⯑gence, which I was amazed I had not before more particularly diſtinguiſhed.

The ſerenity of his aſpect at that for⯑midable inſtant ſtruck me ſo forcibly, that I involuntarily exclaimed—oh with what ſuperior reſolution muſt God Al⯑mighty have endowed men, if you, Sir, are really as unconcerned as you appear at this tremendous moment.

I believe this ſally made him ſmile. Madam, ſaid he, I have ever been of opinion that in natural courage the la⯑dies are infinitely our ſuperiors. It muſt be owned, perhaps, that men are not quite ſo ingenious in apprehending or in foreſeeing evil at a diſtance; but when it actually arrives, we ſeldom ſupport its bitterneſs with more genuine greatneſs of mind than the gentler ſex often teſtify in the moſt arduous and painful circum⯑ſtances. [216] The compoſure and reſolution, added he, which I have juſt been con⯑templating has but confirmed this idea, and augmented my admiration of female fortitude.

As he pronounced theſe words, the ſailors gave a loud huzza on having at length effected the re-adjuſtment of the pump. Fanny, unuſed to ſuch rude de⯑monſtrations of joy, imagined all was over, and that we were inſtantly going to the bottom; but Mr. Howard and our companion ſoon relieved her fears, by congratulating us on the ſafety which this tranſaction indicated, and as the ſtorm now began to abate conſiderably, our apprehenſions were leſs diſtreſſing. Still however it blew from an unfavoura⯑ble point, and the maſter told us he had no hopes of gaining Dover till next morning; but the ſecurity of which he aſſured us made us conſider that delay as of little moment; and with revived [217] ſpirits my ſiſter and I entered into con⯑verſation with Mr. Howard and our agreeable new acquaintance, to whoſe compaſſionate ſupport I owed in a great meaſure the compoſure for which he ſo eagerly applauded me.

I now had leiſure to obſerve him, and found, that prepoſſeſſing as had been his figure on a curſory view, it loſt nothing of my admiration from being more mi⯑nutely conſidered. He ſeemed about twenty four, and I think I never beheld a countenance that poſſeſſed so large a portion of that expreſſion, to which, from inability otherwiſe to define it, is uſually given the appellation of je ne ſçai quoi.

Mr. Howard was delighted with his converſation, which ſeemed the reſult of a mind cultivated and enlightened, joined to an extenſive knowledge of the world. The circumſtances of our ſituation en⯑tirely diſcarded the formalities of a re⯑cent introduction, and ſeemed to pave [218] the way for intimacy. We converſed as old friends, who had been unexpectedly preſerved by the mercy of Providence: nor did it, I believe, once occur to any of the party, till we had actually landed on ſhore, that this agreeable ſtranger was but the acquaintance of a night, and that we were even ignorant of his name.

Mr. Howard invited him to breakfaſt with us at the inn, where we did not ar⯑rive till eleven in the morning; and he accepted it with evident marks of plea⯑ſure. A ſlight refreſhment was then brought in: of which, exhauſted and fa⯑tigued as we were, my ſiſter and I were unable to partake, and we all ſoon after retired to reſt, which was, you may con⯑jecture, extremely requiſite. A few hours however ſufficed to refreſh us; and awaking about ſix in the evening, we immediately aroſe, and on entering the parlour found the gentlemen impa⯑tiently expecting us to dinner.

[219]After many obliging enquiries, and hoping that we had not ſuffered from our fears and fatigues—I have been acknow⯑ledging to Mr. Howard, ſaid our fellow traveller, both a failure in gallantry and a degree of ſelfiſhneſs which may in all probability ſubject me to the mortification of your cenſure; but it muſt be owned, notwithſtanding the danger you two la⯑dies were expoſed to and the ſevere ap⯑prehenſions you underwent, for which I think none could feel more poignantly than I myſelf did, that it will never be in my power to reflect on that night without experiencing the moſt lively emotions of pleaſure at the recollection; ſince it has procured me the honour of an acquaintance which I ſhall ever re⯑gard as one of the moſt fortunate events of my life.

To this compliment, too flattering for a reply, we could only anſwer by an in⯑clination of our heads. Whether we [220] all prized our exiſtence the more for having been ſo lately on the point of loſing it I know not, but our recent dan⯑ger certainly beſtowed an additional re⯑liſh on our preſent ſecurity, and gave ſuch a lightneſs to our hearts, as put all ceremony and conſtraint at defiance. My mind had not, ever ſince our irrepara⯑ble loſs, felt ſo unburthened either from painful recollections or anticipated evils as it then did, and in bleſſing heaven for our ſafety I did not fail to lift up my ſoul in thankfulneſs that I was ena⯑bled to enjoy it from a flow of ſpirits which have been long a ſtranger to my boſom.

Our agreeable companion partook of our gaiety; and joined in the converſa⯑tion with a polite vivacity which ani⯑mated and ſupported it. Ah! thought I, more than once during the evening, were all the Engliſh as amiable and ac⯑compliſhed as this ſpecimen ſeems to [221] indicate, little ſhould I regret that fate has condemned me to reſide among them.

You may believe, Sophia, we were all not a little deſirous of knowing the name of a perſon whoſe addreſs and ap⯑pearance had prepoſſeſſed us ſo ſtrongly in his favour, and with whom we had been converſing for hours on a footing of intimacy. He had greatly the advan⯑tage of us in this particular, had his cu⯑rioſity been equally excited; for hearing Mr. Howard, my ſiſter, and myſelf, mu⯑tually name each other, he was enabled to give us our proper appellations of diſtinction, while all we could diſcover in regard to him was, what occaſionally dropt from him in the courſe of conver⯑ſation, and that went no further than to inform us that he had been ſeveral years abroad, which time he had ſpent in reſiding at the different courts of Eu⯑rope, where he appeared intimately ac⯑quainted with ſeveral characters of emi⯑nence [222] not wholly unknown to Mr. How⯑ard.

When Fanny and I got up to retire for the night, he approached to take leave of us, ſaying that family affairs required him to haſten his departure; but the happineſs of your company, ſaid he, has made me ſteal a few hours from my journey: but may I be allowed to flatter myſelf that you will permit me the fa⯑vour of enquiring after your healths in town, where I hope to be in a ſhort time. I confeſs the boldneſs of this re⯑queſt may juſtly induce you to accuſe me of temerity; but after the good for⯑tune fate has conferred in this introduc⯑tion, I cannot prevail with myſelf to relinquiſh the unlooked for benefit that has been thrown in my way. May I then flatter myſelf you will favour me ſo far? We aſſured him we ſhould be extremely happy to ſee him; and referred him to Mr. Howard for the knowledge [223] of our abode, which is unknown to our⯑ſelves. We are ſtrangers and foreigners in England, ſaid I, and ſhall certainly be much pleaſed to meet again with our firſt Engliſh acquaintance. We then wiſhed him an agreeable journey, and left the room.

When we had retired, this unknown expreſſed in warm terms to Mr. Howard his wiſhes for improving this accidental acquaintance, made many polite offers of ſervice, and diſcovered his name at parting by preſenting him with a card, on which was written the following ad⯑dreſs—the Honourable Charles Roatſ⯑ley, St. James's Square. He then ſet off in a carriage and four at half paſt two in the morning.

Mr. Howard has perſuaded us to re⯑main all this day at Dover, and perhaps to⯑morrow, in order to recruit our ſpirits af⯑ter our fatigue, and I have acquieſced be⯑cauſe my ſiſter is rather indiſpoſed; but the [224] day after we ſhall certainly purſue our journey. Adieu.

LETTER V. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

OH! my Sophia, how unfortunate have we been! Our friend, good Mr. Benſeley is no more! he expired only two days ago of the gout, which had at⯑tacked his ſtomach, and here are we in London, this immenſe overgrown city, without one ſingle human being, Mr. Howard excepted, who has the moſt diſ⯑tant intereſt in us, or probably knows of our exiſtence.

[225]Oh! what a burthen muſt we prove to that worthy man's mind, and how lit⯑tle claim, except from his friendſhip to my father, have we to give him ſo much trouble.

This unfortunate and unforeſeen cala⯑mity has overwhelmed us with affliction. It has broken all our meaſures, and in⯑terrupted all our plans. We feel as in a deſert. This is indeed ſolitude, to be without friends and without protection, except what we receive from the kind⯑neſs of compaſſion.

Mr. Howard this morning (for we got hither laſt night, but unwilling to diſturb Mr. Benſeley's ſober family at ſo late an hour, procured very good lodgings in a neighbouring ſtreet) went himſelf to in⯑form our worthy guardian of the arrival of his gueſts. You may eaſily conclude how much ſhocked he was on being in⯑formed by the footman who attended at the door that Mr. Benſeley had expired [226] on Monday laſt: he returned inſtantly in great perturbation to inform us of this diſmal intelligence.

This is an accident extremely unfor⯑tunate, ſaid he, as Mr. Benſeley was undoubtedly the propereſt perſon to me⯑diate between you and your grand fa⯑ther; but I hope natural affection will plead for his ſon's offspring ſo power⯑fully as to induce him immediately to take you under his own protection, in which caſe no material inconvenience will accrue from the loſs.

Oh! in what unavoidable difficulties did your friendly kindneſs involve you, my dear Sir, cried I, when you under⯑took ſo troubleſome a charge as we muſt prove.

Talk not to me in this ſtyle, my dear Miſs Seymour, cried he, interrupting me —the trifling aſſiſtance I had it in my power to offer you towards regulating your affairs at B—, was without a com⯑pliment [227] ſo greatly recompenſed by the opportunity with which I was favoured of manifeſting, however feebly, my friendſhip for your father, that it pains me to think you ſhould imagine any thanks due to an occurrence which em⯑ployed agreeably a little idle time that muſt otherwiſe have lain heavy and lan⯑guid on my hands: as to the honour you did me in allowing me to attend you hi⯑ther, it was a favour as well as a grati⯑fication for which my thanks inſtead of yours are due.

I believe that had Mr. Benſeley's death taken place previous to your father's, he would have nominated me your guar⯑dian: as this event has followed, I owe it in duty to my deceaſed friend, as well as from my eſteem for you, to take on me the care of your affairs; and as the firſt proof of your obedience, I exact an eternal ſilence on the ſubject, either of apology or gratitude. Let us conſider [228] then, continued he in the ſame breath, to prevent our again interrupting him with apologies, what ſteps we ought next to purſue. I am of opinion that an application to Lord Belmont cannot too ſoon be made; and if I have your per⯑miſſion, ſhall undertake to write to him this very day.

We inſtantly cloſed with the propoſal, and he directly left us to ſet about the taſk; in the ſucceſs of which he ſeems as anxious, and as deeply intereſted, as if we were his moſt intimate connections and our lives depended on the iſſue. The happineſs of our lives at leaſt cer⯑tainly hang on the event. Oh! my Sophia, think of our critical ſituation, and feel for the agitation of my mind at this moment. A few hours will decide all—will determine whether we are out⯑caſts from our family, deſerted and friend⯑leſs, or received with tender emotion to the boſom of a parent, to whom, though [229] unknown, my heart glows with the warm⯑eſt affection and moſt filial reſpect. My ſoul, melted by an eternal ſeparation from one yet more dearly beloved, diſſolves with the ſoft ideas which ruſh upon my mind. Imagination, never more buſy than in the moments of agitation, perpe⯑tually repreſents ſome future ſcene of affecting delight, and while I weep the bitter loſs of one father, I ſee myſelf every moment encircled in the arms of another —whom heaven yet preſerves.

LETTER VI. TO MISS BEAUMONT.

HAVING diſpatched my laſt packet, Fanny and I were preparing to leave the parlour the other night, it being late, and Mr. Howard having already retired to bed, when the door was ſuddenly opened [270] and two young men, ſeemingly intoxi⯑cated and diſordered, haſtily entered the room, as if quite at home. Upon ſeeing it occupied, they aſked pardon for their intruſion. They did not however at⯑tempt to repair it, by leaving the apart⯑ment, but ſtood ſome minutes endeavour⯑ing to excuſe themſelves on the ſcore of having miſtaken it for another, which it ſeems one of them at preſent inhabits in this houſe.

The wildneſs of their looks, and the elaborate length of their apology, led me inſtantly to ſuſpect that the miſtake was not unintentional, eſpecially as the part of the houſe which we have taken is per⯑fectly diſtinct from that engaged by other lodgers. I recollected beſides that I had more than once remarked, ſince our a⯑bode here, that as we paſſed on the ſtairs a face from the door of one of the rooms uſed to peep out as if anxious to get a ſight of us, and concluded, from the be⯑haviour [271] of theſe gentlemen, that know⯑ing there were two young women under the ſame roof with them, they had been ſeized with curioſity to ſee us, and in a ſtate of intoxication had ventured to in⯑troduce themſelves in this rude and a⯑brupt manner.

Frightened by the bold way in which they ſtared at us, I curtſeyed with a very grave air, and told them the miſtake was of no conſequence, expecting them to depart. This however they had no in⯑tention of doing ſo immediately.

Since Fortune has proved ſo kind, ſaid one of them, who appeared the moſt in⯑toxicated, ſince Fortune, has ſo wonder⯑fully ſavoured us with the knowledge that two ſuch angels exiſt, let us not fail to profit from the bleſt occaſion. Per⯑mit me the honour ladies of introducing this gentleman to the happineſs of your acquaintance, (pulling his friend by the arm, who, half aſhamed of his ſituation, [272] had ſhrunk behind)—Tom Bradſhaw, Ma'am, (bowing,) he is modeſt you may perceive, but as worthy a fellow as lives.

My embarraſſment and aſtoniſhment at this effrontery in an utter ſtranger may eaſily be conjectured. I knew not what reply to make to a ſpeech and behaviour ſo unaccountably forward and preſuming, but ſtood with a ſurpriſe and gravity in my countenance ſufficient I hoped to have confounded them, had they been capable of confuſion after ſuch a frolic.

Come Tom, continued he, do me the ſame favour with the ladies: introduce me to theſe divinities, who have kindly condeſcended to inhabit this our terreſ⯑trial abode.

His companion however, whoſe facul⯑ties were either leſs impaired or who did not naturally poſſeſs that degree of happy aſſurance with which the other ſeemed bleſt, becoming now thoroughly ſenſible of the error he had committed, and hear⯑tily [273] aſhamed of his friend's behaviour, exclaimed—This is too much, Jack; let us be gone. Ladies, I am perfectly athamed—I bluſh—to have—to have in⯑truded ſo rudely; and ſtammering out a very awkward apology, endeavourer to diſengage himſelf from his friend, who held him by the arm, ſwearing that he would not ſuffer him to leave the ladies ſo abruptly.

Terrified at the buſtle they began to create, I haſtily exclaimed, for heaven's ſake gentlemen leave us. Conſider we have not the pleaſure of knowing you. I then looked around in vain for the bell, but perceived there was none in the room, and I was too much intimidated to dare acknowledge my fears, by mak⯑ing an attempt to eſcape, which would probably have proved fruitleſs, as they had ſhut the door and flood themſelves almoſt before it.

[274]Fanny, tho' in general rather timid, could not witneſs this ſcene without feel⯑ing more entertained than frightened. The extreme abſurdity of the two gen⯑tlemen's conduct, and the awkwardneſs of my aſtoniſhment, ſtruck her ſo forci⯑bly, that in ſpite of her apprehenſions ſhe could not reſiſt giving way to a violent and childiſh fit of laughing; the bad con⯑ſequences of which ſoon appeared ſo evi⯑dent, as to put a ſpeedy period to mirth ſo mal apropos.

Nay if you are for a frolic ladies, cried the gentleman who, had hitherto preſerv⯑ed the moſt decorum, ſuddenly turning round and joining heartily in the laugh, I'm your man.

Oh! cried the other, I knew they were dear little kind devils, and advancing to Fanny, was going to throw his arms a⯑round her, when a ſudden emotion of uncontroulable terror made us both utter atone inſtant a loud ſcream and fly to the [275] door, which the gentlemen were too much intimidated to prevent our opening; and the landlady, and Thereſe both appearing, they retired in haſte to their own apart⯑ment, while Fanny and I, breathleſs with fear, did not for an hour recover our uſual compoſure.

Mrs. Brumpton, our landlady, who is a decent, ſenſible looking woman, then informed us that only one of the gentle⯑men lodged in her houſe, and the other, who by our account of his audacity ſhe aſſured us could not be Captain Brad⯑ſhaw, was one of his friends who often viſited him.

Her lodger, ſhe ſaid, was a gentleman of the belt character, ſweet tempered, and extremely generous, and had never been, guilty of ſuch a riot in her houſe ſince he had lived with her; ſhe therefore imagined his preſent freedom muſt have entirely proceeded from inebriety, as in⯑deed the other gentleman his friend was [276] but too much giVen to that fault, and might have led him into it, and ſhe was certain Captain Bradſhaw would be quite diſtreſſed when he reflected on his miſbe⯑haviour to two ſuch ladies.

She afterwards added, that having got a glympſe of us one day on the ſtairs, he had been ſo much ſtruck, as ſhe called it, that he had often entreated her to contrive ſome means of ſeeing us for a longer time, but that ſhe had told him that was a favour he muſt owe to chance alone, as ſhe could not preſume to intro⯑duce him.

I told Mrs. Brumpton that intoxica⯑tion, (a bad apology for any tranſgreſ⯑ſion,) afforded no ſort of juſtification for rudeneſs like his, and that I ſhould moſt undoubtedly take effectual means to pre⯑vent a repetition of the ſame offence, by applying next day to Mr. Howard, who would talk to the young men on the ſub⯑ject without delay.

[277]This was leſs my intention at the time than meant as a threat to be repeated from Mr. Brumpton's lips to her lodger; tho' I had reſolved, in the heat of my reſentment, not conſidering the conſe⯑quences, to inform Mr. Howard of our affront and to requeſt his interference: but a moment's reflection had changed this reſolution; and the good woman re⯑preſented ſo ſtrongly the riſque attending engaging two gentlemen in a quarrel, that I determined never to mention it to him unleſs I had reaſon to dread the con⯑tinuance of a ſimilar conduct.

Next morning our landlady brought us an apology couched in the moſt re⯑ſpectful terms, from the Captain, entreat⯑ing our forgiveneſs for our laſt night's alarm. As I was ſomewhat afraid of his encroachments after ſuch audacious behaviour, we took no further notice of his meſſage than to tell Mrs. Brumpton that while her lodger made no attempts [278] to force himſelf on our acquaintance we ſhould think of the paſt no more.

All yeſterday and the day before Mrs. Hindon was confined with a bad cold, yet ſhe was ſo kind as to requeſt our com⯑pany; but we declined it, from the idea that politeneſs alone could have induced her when ill to ſolicit it.