LETTER XXXV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I AM ſtill in this delightful ſoli⯑tude; Mrs. Montague, on account of a ſlight indiſpoſition of the governor, could make me but a ſhort viſit: but finding my health ſo much mended ſince I have been here, ſhe very obligingly preſſed me to continue a week longer; and left me the key of a cloſet which contains her books, among which ſhe ſaid I might poſſibly find ſome that would pleaſe me. They are indeed generally well choſen.

[2]New York.

HERE I am, again, in the midſt of balls, concerts, long dinners, late ſup⯑pers, and a perpetual ſucceſſion of viſits. Miſs Bellenden declares it is a charm⯑ing place: ſhe is univerſally admired, but has not made one conqueſt—a cir⯑cumſtance that often attends mere beauty.

IN three days, however, we are to ſet out for Albany. Miſs Bellenden hangs her fair head at this intelligence. That town is remarkable for nothing but the great trade it carries on with the In⯑dians. The inhabitants are chiefly Dutch, and keep up the cuſtoms and manners of their anceſtors—the ancient ſettlers. The officers and their fami⯑lies muſt furniſh all the gay ſociety ſhe is likely to find there. It is true, her pride will be ſoothed. Her father is commandant there, and firſt commiſ⯑ſioner [3] likewiſe in civil affairs. He will live in great ſtate; but ſhe will not be happy. However the Colonel, at his lady's requeſt, has taken a houſe in this city, which he propoſes to viſit once a year; and Miſs Bellenden is a little com⯑forted by this arrangement.

WE are to perform this long voyage, of a hundred and fifty miles, on Hud⯑ſon's river, in one of thoſe little yachts, great numbers of which are continually ſailing between New-York and Albany with the Indian trade. We went on board one of them this morning, in or⯑der to examine the accommodations we are likely to meet with; for calms, or contrary winds, ſometimes lengthen this paſſage to a week or ten days. Theſe veſſels are made extremely con⯑venient for paſſengers. —There are two cabins in each, deſtined for their uſe, one has ſix beds, three on each ſide; the ſpace in the middle, contains a large table, chairs, and other conveniences; [4] the furniture of the beds, chairs, and windows is of delicate figured calico. Nothing can exceed the neatneſs which reigns in every part of theſe little veſ⯑ſels; the boards, even on the deck, are as nice as thoſe of a lady's dreſſing-room.

ALTHOUGH the Colonel has ſent moſt of his ſervants already to Albany, yet our company is ſtill large enough to re⯑quire three of theſe yachts to convey us. It is ſettled, that Mrs. Bellenden, the three young ladies, myſelf, and Mrs. Bellenden's woman, are to go in one ſloop; Mrs. Benſon, with Fanny and ſome female ſervants, will occupy the cabin in another; the Colonel, with Mr. Neville, and ſome officers from New-York, who, out of reſpect, attend him to Albany, will lead the van. To⯑morrow will be devoted to farewel vi⯑ſits; and the next day we ſhall em⯑bark.

LETTER XXXVI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

IT is now five months ſince you left England: time has not leſſened my regrets for our ſeparation, nor weaken⯑ed the ardor of my unavailing wiſhes for the bleſſing of your ſociety. I re⯑member all the arguments your good ſenſe employed to comfort me; I ap⯑prove them all, but I can apply none of them yet. My uncle rallies, reproaches, and even threatens me for the obſtinacy of my grief for your loſs. He tells me it will have a dangerous effect upon Mr. Harley, who has rea⯑ſon [48] to be jealous of a friendſhip that leaves him but the ſecond place in my affection. But, without ſettling the ar⯑ticle of precedence in this caſe, I referred him to what Mr. Harley ſaid a few days after your departure, as it was repeated to me by Mr. Greville.

‘MISS Harley's ſenſibility on this oc⯑caſion,’ ſaid he, ‘is the foundation of all my hopes. From a heart ſo capable of a ſincere attachment, the man who is ſo happy as to be her choice, may expect all the refinements of a delicate paſſion, with all the perma⯑nence of a generous friendſhip.’

THIS young man has, by his amiable qualities, ſo endeared himſelf to my uncle, that he is uneaſy when he is ab⯑ſent, even for a day; but to the claims of a mother, neither his gratitude nor his love can render him in the ſmalleſt degree inattentive. Sir John has obli⯑ged him to fix his reſidence at the Hall; [49] but he never fails to viſit Mrs. Harley three or four times a week, and often ſtays a night at her houſe.

I HAVE been twice to wait on her, and was received with a profuſion of kindneſs. She affected to call me daughter, and the young ladies careſſed me like a ſiſter. With their careſſes indeed I was much pleaſed, and re⯑turned them very affectionately; but, whether I was prejudiced againſt Mrs. Harley's ſincerity by the ac⯑count I had received of the early part of her conduct, or that the profeſſions ſhe made me wanted that ingenuous and cordial air which carries them directly to the heart, I received them with fewer marks of gratitude than were due to them, if ſincere; but I made up in reſpect what I wanted in tenderneſs, and my acknowledgments, ſuch as they were, paſſed current with a heart which ſeemed too little intereſted in them to take the trouble of diſtinguiſhing be⯑tween appearances and reality.

[50]This lady, my dear Euphemia, has been very beautiful; the has one of thoſe miſchief-making faces which have produced much diſorder in the world, and which, but too often, make an effectual apology for the faults of the head and heart. I took notice that ſhe bluſhed when I delivered her a compli⯑ment from my uncle, which at that time I thought I could eaſily account for, but which I have ſince better un⯑derſtood.

WHEN we returned from this viſit, Sir John was very particular in his en⯑quiries concerning the brothers and ſiſters of Mrs. Harley; but in what re⯑garded Mr. Harley he appeared ex⯑tremely cold and indifferent. She ſoon after, at my deſire, received an invitation to ſpend ſome days at the Hall with her young family.

MR. Harley ſet out in my uncle's coach to conduct her, and Mr. Gre⯑ville [51] drove me in the phaeton as far as — to meet them. During our ride, he-was very urgent with me to give him my opinion of Mrs. Harley▪ but in this caſe I kept within a re⯑ſerve, which I thought due to the cha⯑racter in which I was ſhortly to regard this lady.

'COME, come,' ſaid he, ‘I know you have too much ſincerity to deceive the world, and too much underſtand⯑ing to be deceived yourſelf. You will never be a favourite with your mother⯑in-law that is to be—it is impoſſible to be virtuous with the approbation of thoſe who are not ſo themſelves; but you may be very eaſy with her, pro⯑vided you can be contented with ap⯑pearances.’

‘All commerce with the world in general,’ purſued he, ‘is merely amuſe⯑ment, and tends to make one believe that people only meet together to im⯑poſe [52] upon each other: the reaſonable ſew are friends, and ſee each other as they are; the reſt are only ac⯑quaintances, and make up one great maſquerade.’

MR. Greville having gone thus far, which was plainly with an intention to put me upon my guard againſt thoſe natural impulſes of affection and confi⯑dence, which young and innocent minds are apt too freely to indulge towards perſons with whom they are newly connected, and which, when not re⯑turned with equal ſincerity, produce diſcontent, complaints, and ſometimes indecent quarrels and reproaches; chang⯑ed the diſcourſe to ſubjects more agree⯑able, till the coach, with our expected gueſts, appeared in view.

MR. Harley, who rode on horſeback, no ſooner perceived the phaeton, than he galloped up to us with a ſpeed and impetuoſity, which made Mr, Greville [53] look at me, and ſmile. The carriages met, and ſtopped: after a few compli⯑ments had paſſed, I deſired Mrs. Har⯑ley to permit me to accompany her in the coach the reſt of the way. She ap⯑peared to take this as I wiſhed, an in⯑ſtance of reſpect; for which Mr. Harley, in gratitude, I ſuppoſe, thought fit to kiſs my hand with a moſt lover-like ardour, as he helped me into the coach.

THE children were rejoiced to ſee me; and Mrs. Harley ſaid a great many obliging things, and was in high ſpirits. I was ſurpriſed at her deportment; the occaſion indeed ſeemed to call for for⯑titude, which ſhe doubtleſs poſſeſſed in an uncommon degree. She was ſoon to ſee a man whom ſhe had deceived, in⯑jured, and forſaken, yet to whoſe gene⯑roſity ſhe muſt owe her future ſubſiſt⯑ence, and the eſtabliſhment of her children. Theſe circumſtances did not appear to excite any uneaſy reflexions, [54] or produce the leaſt perplexity in her behaviour.

I WATCHED her looks when the coach drove up the avenue; they were per⯑fectly ſerene. My uncle very politely, but not without ſome little diſcompo⯑ſure, came to help her out of the coach. With an unaltered cheek, and an air perfectly eaſy, ſhe gave him her hand; and as he led her up the ſtairs, addreſſ⯑ed ſome indifferent converſation to him, which he anſwered with great gravity.

As ſoon as we entered the room, ſhe preſented her two daughters and her little boy to him. The girls are pretty and genteel. He gave them an oblig⯑ing reception, and careſſed the boy, who is extremely like his brother.

DURING this ceremony Mr. Greville remained ſilent, obſerving all that paſſed with a fixed attention. Mr. Harley had [55] drawn me to a window, to liſten to ſome tender trifles, which, I conſeſs, intereſted me much leſs than the ſcene between Mrs. Harley and my uncle.

SHE had not neglected her dreſs, which, being ſecond mourning, admit⯑ed ſome elegances very advantageous to her perſon; and ſhe ſeemed ſtill con⯑ſcious of its attractions, and to think they had not yet loſt all their force upon a heart which was once enſlaved by them.

SIR John, taken up with the chil⯑dren, had not yet met her looks, which, armed with all their faſcinating powers, were level led full at him, as he now, for the firſt time, railed his eyes to her ſace; but he ſtood the ſhock with ſuch unaffected compoſure and indif⯑ference, as ſeemed to mortify her a little; however, ſhe ſoon recovered her⯑ſelf, and the converſation becoming ge⯑neral [56] my uncle mixed in it with his uſual good humour and politeneſs.

At night, when I left her in her apartment, ſhe embraced me with great tenderneſs, and ſeemed perfectly ſatiſ⯑fied with the progreſs ſhe had made that day in her deſign of pleaſing; for va⯑nity is eaſily fed, and the many little engaging arts ſhe practiſed, to draw my uncle's notice upon her, ſometimes pro⯑duced their effect, and gave to thoſe attentions, which politeneſs demanded of him, a certain gallant air, which ſhe explained as ſhe pleaſed;.

SHE had continued a fortnight at the Hall, without giving the leaſt intima⯑tion when ſhe meant to put an end to her viſit. Her deſign upon my uncle's heart ſeemed apparent; Mr. Greville looked grave upon it.—And one day, after heedfully obſerving her manner, he drew me aſide to a window.

[57]'WHAT can this woman mean,' ſaid he, ‘by the airs ſhe gives herſelf? Har⯑ley had need to look about him; or he may have the ſingular good fortune to be cut out of his ſucceſſion, by the ſelfiſh views of a mother.’

THIS was carrying his ſuſpicions very far. I combated them for the honour of my ſex. But reflecting upon Mrs. Harley's ungenerous conduct in the early part of her life, the thing did not ſeem improbable.

MR. Greville protracted his viſit to an unconſcionable length, as he himſelf obſerved, that he might not leave his friend expoſed without ſuccour to ſuch a dangerous attack. I could perceive that his preſence often checked Mrs. Harley in her career of coquetry, and that ſhe wiſhed his abſcence moſt de⯑voutly; for he watched her motions ſo aſſiduouſly, that ſhe could, never, gain [58] an opportunity of being with Sir John alone.

HE was boaſting of his dexterous ma⯑nagement, on this occaſion, one day as he was ſtanding with me at one of the windows of my dreſſing-room, which overlooked the terrace, when I pointed out to him Mrs. Harley and my uncle walking together, engaged, as it ſeemed, in a very ſerious converſation.

'How could this happen?' ſaid he, with ſome emotion. ‘I left Sir John in his library; and Mrs. Harley, you ſaid, complained of ſome indiſpoſition this morning. Well, I am reſolved to interrupt them, however.’ He took his hat immediately, and croſſing the terrace, as if he meant to go into one of the alleys, my uncle called to him, and he joined them, not greatly to the ſatisfaction of Mrs. Harley, as he told me afterwards, which appeared too plainly by her looks.

[59]THESE tête-à-tête airings became, at length very frequent; and Mr. Har⯑ley, charmed with the good intelligence that ſubſiſted between his mother and Sir John, implored me to conſent to his making uſe of her growing intereſt with him, to preſs the concluſion of our marriage; a ſubject he could not take the liberty to enter upon himſelf. This, for obvious reaſons, I would not conſent to; ſo that there were ſome diſcontented faces among us. I could not approve of Mrs. Harley's behaviour; Mr. Gre⯑ville was enraged at it; and her ſon ſeemed apprehenſive of delays, without knowing why.

THINGS were in this ſtate, when one day, after a long converſation with Mrs. Harley in private, my uncle ſent for me into his library, and immediately afterwards, deſired a ſervant to tell Mr. Greville he wanted to ſpeak with him. Upon his entrance, my uncle ſhutting the door after him, took his hand, and [60] leading him up to the window where I ſtood, wondering what this preparation was to end in.

'I WISHED to conſult you both,' ſaid he, ‘upon a matter which preſſes my thoughts very much. I know not whether what I have reſolved on will meet with your approbation; but I am ſure I mean well; and the world—’

'PRITHEE, my good friend,' ſaid Mr. Greville, interrupting him impa⯑tiently, ‘tell us the matter without any further preface. If you have reſolved, why let the world talk. —It is not the firſt time it has talked, you know.’

'OF what?' replied my uncle, a lit⯑tle ſurpriſed. ‘The world knows no⯑thing of my intentions in this caſe.’

'OH, no,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ſmiling, ‘but the world is very good at gueſſing ſometimes.’

[61]'You are part of this world,' ſaid my uncle, ‘tell me what hae you gueſſed, that I may know whether I have anſwered, or fallen ſhort of your expectations.’

'I GUESS then,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘that in this buſineſs, you have followed your inclinations; and in that re⯑ſpect, I am ſure, you have not fallen ſhort of my expectations.’

My uncle did not perceive that theſe words were ſpoken rather peeviſhly; he took them in a very favourable ſenſe; and with a ſmile of complacency, re⯑plied—

‘IT would be a very ſenſible mortifi⯑cation to me to be condemned by a judgment, which it would lie heavy on my conſcience not to ſubſcribe to. My dear Edward, I am afraid, mur⯑murs in ſecret, that I have delayed his happineſs ſo long.’

[62]'IT is a maxim with me,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘never to be long in doing that which can be done but once. But I can anſwer for your Edward, that, with all the impatience of a lover, he has all the ſubmiſſion and reverence of a ſon. However, I hope he will never be more than your nephew.’

'How is that?' ſaid my uncle, haſtily, ‘I proteſt, I do not underſtand what you drive at, Greville. But if, as Edward's friend, you are chagrined at my delaying his marriage, hear my reaſons. —I was willing, before this event took place, to ſet him entirely at eaſe with regard to the ſituation of his mother and his family; and by mak⯑ing them independent, to prevent any further claims upon him, which, per⯑haps, might not be regulated by reaſon on one ſide, nor prudence on the other.’

[63] ‘FOR this purpoſe, I have ſought op⯑portunities of engaging Mrs. Harley's attention on this ſubject; but it is hard to gueſs at this woman's meaning. An affair of ſuch importance to her ſhe treats with the moſt childiſh carleſſ⯑neſs, and turns the diſcourſe upon ſubjects which have not the leaſt con⯑nexion with it, and triſles in ſo egre⯑gious a manner, that I was almoſt out of patience with her.’

‘THIS morning, however, I de⯑manded her attention, in a deciſive tone, to what I had to ſay to her, on ſubjects of importance to herſelf and her family. I began with telling her, my reſolution to complete the marriage between my niece and her ſon (her worthy ſon I juſtly called him) in a few weeks.’

'BY the way, Maria,' purſued my uncle, looking at me (which this laſt hint had, as you may imagine, thrown me [64] into a little confuſion) ‘I believe you are not ſo great a favourite with her as you might reaſonably expect, for ſhe received this plain declaration of my intentions, with a cold civility that ſurpriſed me.’

I SMILED, and was ſilent; but Mr. Greville ſaid, ‘Aye, aye, this is natural enough; it is ourſelves that we gene⯑rally love in others; but where there is no reſemblance, there is no founda⯑tion for partiality.’

'I BELIEVE you are right,' replied my uncle. ‘However, I paſſed over this circumſtance, and proceeded to tell her, that I had reſolved to ſettle two thouſand pounds on each of her daughters, and, if ſhe had no objec⯑tion, would place them at the ſame boarding-ſchool where my niece was brought up, and take the expence of their education upon myſelf. As for little Charles, who is really a promiſing [65] boy, Greville, I told her, it was my intention to breed him up a ſcholar; that he ſhould be educated in my own houſe, under the tuition of my chap⯑lain, till he was fit for the univerſity; and as I deſigned him, with her con⯑currence, for the church, I would keep the living of—, which his father had poſſeſſed, vacant for him; and for future preferment, he would have all his brother's intereſt.’

'To all this,' purſued my uncle, ‘Mrs. Harley made no other anſwer than to bow her head; which appeared a ſacrifice to politeneſs, rather than an expreſſion of approbation; ſo that being a little embarraſſed by her be⯑haviour, I entered rather abruptly in⯑to an explanation of my intentions with regard to herſelf.’

'YOUR income, Madam,' ſaid I, ‘I propoſe to increaſe, by a ſettlement of two hundred pounds a year, which I [66] hope you will think adequate to your occaſions; and now, theſe neceſſary preliminaries being ſettled, we have nothing to do but to make preparations for the marriage of our children.’

WHILE my uncle was ſpeaking, ſe⯑veral ſelf-accuſing glances paſſed be⯑tween Mr. Greville and me; although we had never explicitly declared to each other the ſuſpicions theſe long and pri⯑vate converſations with Mrs. Harley had ſuggeſted; yet, conſcious that we had really entertained ſuch injuriousthoughts of him, our hearts upbraided us with injuſtice; and my emotions impelled me to caſt myſelf at his feet, to implore his pardon for my offence.

I CHECKED this involuntary tranſport, however; but was delighted to ſee Mr. Greville give way to his ſenſibility; he embraced my uncle eagerly, crying, ‘You have acted like yourſelf, wiſely, nobly, greatly!’

[67]'OH! mighty well,' ſaid my uncle, ‘I am glad you are pleaſed. But what think you was the lady's anſwer? Why truly, ſhe pauſed a little, dropt me a formal curtſey, and ſaid, ſhe would conſider of what I had been ſaying.’

'WHY truly,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘it required ſome time to deliberate, whe⯑ther ſhe would accept a genteel portion for her daughters; a plentiful income for herſelf; and a certain proviſion for her little ſon. —The matter was ſome⯑thing difficult.’

'WELL, I have done my part,' in⯑terrupted my uncle. ‘And now, my dear Greville, find out Edward, and bring him to me; and as for you, niece, I ſhall leave it to your lover to prevail upon you to fix an early day for his, and, I hope, your happineſs.’ —I curtſied in ſilence, and left the room.

[68]RETIRING to my own apartment, I ſaw Mr. Harley croſſing the gallery to go into his mother's chamber. He did not ſee me, and I took no notice of him, being unwilling to interrupt a converſation that was likely to lead to a diſcovery of his mother's ſentiments, which appeared to me to be very miſ⯑terious. I ſat alone till the hour of tea approached; when I went into the drawing-room, where I found Mr. Har⯑ley alone, leaning on the back of a chair, his arms folded and loſt in thought. On my entrance, he ſtarted up, and running to me, took my hand, which he kiſſed with great emotion.

'HAVE you heard, my Maria,' ſaid he, ‘how your generous, your noble uncle, means to provide for my mo⯑ther and her family?’ 'I have,' ſaid I, ‘and I hope Mrs. Harley is quite ſa⯑tisfied with his plan.’ He caſt his eyes down in ſome confuſion, and was [69] ſilent a moment; then dropping my hand with an air of deſpondency—

'HOW will it be poſſible for me,' ex⯑claimed he, ‘to bear her anſwer to Sir John! —Would you think it, my dear Maria, my mother, brought up in the principles of the Roman Catholic religion, is ſo bigoted to her mode of faith, that, rather than not carry her point, ſhe will riſk the diſpleaſure of her benefactor, and the loſs of her children's hopes; and is unkind enough to inſiſt upon my acquainting Sir John with her intentidns.’

'And what are theſe intentions?' ſaid I.

'To retire to France,' replied he, ‘with my brother and ſiſters; and take upon herſelf the care of their education.’

[70] ‘AND ſo ſhe means to make your ſiſters nuns, and your brother a friar,’ ſaid Mr. Greville, who had ſtolen upon us unobſerved, and heard Mr. Harley's laſt words. 'But come,' purſued he, ‘I have been looking for you, Sir John expects you in the library; he has or⯑dered coffee there, ſo we ſhall not at⯑tend your tea-table this afternoon, young lady,’ ſaid he to me.

THEY went away together; and I ſent to let Mrs. Harley know I waited tea for her; ſhe excuſed herſelf on account of ſome indiſpoſition; but her daugh⯑ters, and her little ſon came to me.

THE paſſages of the day gave my thoughts ſuch full employment, that I was but a dull companion for my little viſit⯑ors; ſo I went with them into the gar⯑den, and leaving them to ſtroll about as they pleaſed, retired to an alcove to indulge my meditations. I had not [71] been here more than half an hour, when I ſaw Mr. Harley, joy ſparkling in his eyes, advancing haſtily towards me; I roſe to meet him at the entrance of the alcove; but he prevented my going out; and taking my hand, which he preſſed to his lips, with equal tenderneſs and re⯑ſpect, led me back to my ſeat, at the ſame inſtant throwing himſelf at my feet. I deſired him to riſe, with a ſmile, which he well underſtood.

‘OH! pardon the tranſports of a lover,’ ſaid he, ‘who finding himſelf authoriſed to preſs you to conclude his happineſs, can think no poſture too humble for ſuch a requeſt. Do not, my adored Maria, be leſs favour⯑able to my ardent wiſhes than your uncle. —He bids me bring him your conſent for an early day, to conclude our marriage. Can you, will you not anſwer his generous intentions?’ ‘Me⯑thinks,’ ſaid I, ‘Mrs. Harley ought to decide in this matter—I will be [72] directed by her.’ ‘Say rather by your uncle,’ interrupted he, ‘your more than father, my glorious friend and benefactor, ſay by him.’ 'Well then,' reſumed I, ‘let my uncle determine for me.’

THIS conceſſion produced new tranſ⯑ports; which I checked, by aſking him, how Sir John had received Mrs. Harley's propoſals?

'Mr. Greville,' ſaid he, ‘took upon him to acquaint Sir John with my mother's fatal inſatuation.’ —‘And how,’ ſaid I eagerly, ‘how has he de⯑termined in conſequence of it?’

'LIKE himſelf,' replied he, ‘with equal dignity and juſtice. —He con⯑ſents to my ſiſters going to France with my mother, ſince ſhe will have it ſo; but inſiſts upon her leaving my brother to my care, as my father with his laſt breath directed.’ I foreſee, [73] ſaid he, ſighing, ‘that this will produce ſome conteſt between my mother and me. Having always been uſed to pay her the utmoſt ſubmiſſion and reſpect, it will be a painful taſk to contradict her.’

'But ſurely,' replied I, ‘the con⯑ſideration of her own intereſt, and that of the child, will have ſome weight with her, beſides the will of her late huſband.’

'AH! againſt that,' interrupted Mr. Harley, ‘ſhe pleads the will of Heaven. Her church allows no ſalvation out of its own pale; and ſhe thinks it would be a leſs misfortune to ſee her child poor and dependent, than a heretic.’

'SHE is to be pitied,' ſaid I, ‘ſince her error is founded upon principle.’ He preſſed my hand with ardour, upon my ſaying this.

[74]'HOW excellently good are you,' ſaid he, ‘to view in ſo favourable a light my mother's conduct on this occaſion. I never was ſo happy as to enjoy an equal portion of her affection with any of her other children—but I love her moſt tenderly; and muſt re⯑gret a ſeparation, which being her choice, proves her indifference to⯑wards me.’

I WAS greatly moved with the affecti⯑onate manner in which, he ſpoke theſe words, heightened by a look of extreme ſenſibility. This cloud, however, was ſoon diſperſed by the ſunſhine, as he called it, of his preſent fortune; and, till we joined our little companions, he breathed nothing but the warmeſt eſſu⯑ſions of gratitude, love, and joy.

Mr. Greville, in the mean time, had paid a viſit to Mrs. Harley, in her own apartment; and had diſpoſed her, by arguments which he well knew how to [75] enforce, to an aquieſcence with my uncle's intentions with regard to her little ſon; it was a ſullen acquieſcence, however; for ſhe appeared at ſupper with looks ſo cold and reſerved, as dis⯑concerted us all.

SIR John, in a formal accent, and a look compoſed to great gravity, told her, that if ſhe had no objection, he had fixed upon this day fortnight for the celebration of our marriage. Cer⯑tainly, ſhe ſaid, ſhe could have no ob⯑jection; and turning to me, made me ſome common-place compliments, but delivered with ſurpriſing coolneſs.

MY uncle added, that he intended the ceremony ſhould paſs with great privacy; and that all our parade ſhould be reſerved for our appearance in town, the enſuing winter, whither he propoſed to accompany us.

[76]DEAR generous man! My heart overflowed with gratitude; which was ſufficiently apparent in my looks, I be⯑lieve; for he ſeveral times ſmiled upon me with great complacency. Mr. Har⯑ley's acknowledgments were expreſſed with a fervor which ſeemed to move him much, and were anſwered by a moſt affectionate embrace.

MY uncle ſettles upon Mr. Harley twelve hundred pounds a year. —We are to live with him at the Hall; and it is in our own choice to ſpend the whole, or part, of every winter in London; a permiſſion I ſhall ſeldom make uſe of; becauſe the air of that crowded city does not agree with his health; and it is equally my inclination, and my duty, to be abſent from him as little as poſſible.

WHILE all theſe arrangements were making, Mrs. Harley appeared to take [77] very little intereſt in them, and kept a profound ſilence. Her ſon could with difficulty conceal his confuſion at this behaviour; he often turned his expreſ⯑ſive eyes upon her, full of reſpectful expoſtulation; which ſhe did not, or would nor, underſtand. When we ſe⯑parated for the night, ſhe told Sir John, that as her ſon's marriage was to be ce⯑lebrated ſo ſoon, it would be neceſſary for her to go home for a few days, in order to make ſome preparations for her own and her daughters appearance; and that ſhe propoſed to ſet out early in the morning. My uncle made no op⯑poſition to this deſign, ſo ſuddenly taken up, but gave orders for the coach to attend her at what hour ſhe pleaſed, together with Martin and two of the footmen. She thanked him with a cold politeneſs; and when I waited on her to her chamber, told me, with a forced ſmile, that ſhe hoped I would have no objection to her ſon's accompanying her, at leaſt part of the way.

[78]I BLUSHED, and anſwered with ſome confuſion, ‘Surely, Madam, I can have no objection to Mr. Harley's do⯑ing what his affection and his duty require of him.’

‘OH! you are very obliging, my dear Miſs,’ ſaid ſhe, and curtſeying very ceremoniouſly, wiſhed me a good. night.

I DESIRED to know, at what hour ſhe intended to ſet out in the morning, that I might attend her at breakfaſt. She ſaid, ſhe would ſend to me as ſoon as ſhe was riſen; and we parted.

I ROSE earlier than uſual the next morning, but ſtill not time enough to ſee Mrs. Harley; for my maid informed me, ſhe had been gone half an hour; for as ſoon as I had left her at night, ſhe ſent for her ſon, and deſired him to give directions for the coach to be ready at five o'clock. He had acquainted my [79] uncle with his intentions, of conducting his mother as far, as — in her way home, and promiſed to return by dinner time. Mrs. Harley's behaviour had been ſo extraordinary, that I ex⯑pected my uncle would have taken ſome notice of it to me; but, whatever his thoughts were, he kept them to him⯑ſelf.

MR. Greville told me, that he was convinced, her ſullenneſs was occaſi⯑oned by the diſappointment of her de⯑ſigns upon Sir John. ‘Her confidence in her own charms,’ ſaid he, ‘is pro⯑digiouſly great; and the power they once had over the heart of my friend, perſuaded her, that it would be no difficult matter to revive a paſſion, which the reſentment he had preſerved againſt her huſband, for ſupplanting him, by continuing his whole life, proved that it had never been quite extinguiſhed.’

[80] ‘SELFISH and intereſted, to the laſt degree, a title had allurements ſuffi⯑cient to make her inſenſible to the in⯑jury ſhe was preparing for the moſt amiable and moſt deſerving of ſons, by cutting him, perhaps, out of the ſucceſſion; and, perhaps, the pro⯑ſpect, in caſe ſhe had ſucceeded, of a long minority, had its weight with her. I know,’ purſued he, ‘Sir John views her conduct in the ſame light that I do; but he has too much delicacy to explain himſelf.’

IT was painful to me to feel, for the mother of Mr. Harley, thoſe emotions of contempt and diſlike, which ſuch a conduct naturally inſpired. I could not conceal my aſtoniſhment at it.

'THIS woman,' ſaid he, ‘never had any ſenſibility. They who bluſh not at their faults, but add confidence to their guilt, have no motive left to re⯑ſtore them to the practice of virtue.’

[81]MR. Harley did not return to dinner; at which we were not much ſurpriſed; as it was natural to ſuppoſe, that in con⯑ducting his mother on her way, he might exceed the limits he propoſed to himſelf. But when night came, and he did not appear, my uncle became un⯑eaſy; and I, I own it, was gretly alarmed. I retired to my chamber, to conceal emotions it was not in my power to ſuppreſs. Either he neglects me, thought I, or ſome fatal accident has happened to him.

I PASSED a conſiderable time in this ſtate of anxiety, when one of the foot⯑men came back, and related, that Mr. Harley had been ſddenly taken ill at an inn, where they ſtopped for ſome re⯑freſhment; and that his mother had thought proper to take him home to her own houſe.

As not a ſingle line came from Mr. Harley on this occaſion, we concluded [82] he muſt certainly be in a very danger⯑ous way. The ſervant either could not, or would not, give us any certain ac⯑count, ſo that we all paſſed an uneaſy night.

THE next day, juſt as my uncle was going to ſend one of the grooms to Mrs. Harley's, we ſaw Martin arrive. My uncle and Mr. Greville had not pa⯑tience to wait till he entered the houſe, but haſtened to meet him. I remained in the room where they had left me in great anxiety, and trembling for the event.

MR. Greville returned in a minute— 'Do not be alarmed,' ſaid he, haſtily, ‘our friend is in no danger; though he is indiſpoſed—I flew to tell you this, which is all. I have yet heard.’ He left me inſtantly, to go to my uncle; who had ordered Martin to follow him to his library, where he was giving him an account of what had happened.

[83]THE few words he had uttered, ſeemed to have removed a mountain from my breaſt, I began to breathe again; and for a few minutes enjoyed ſome little compoſure; but doubts and fears re⯑turned, and I was beginning to relapſe into all my former inquietude, when Mr. Greville again entered; and draw⯑ing a chair cloſe to me— 'Now,' ſaid he, ‘you ſhall know all that has paſſed.’

'AH!' ſaid I, with an emotion which I was not aware of, ‘you have deceived me—What is become of Mr. Harley? What fatal accident has happened?’ — He ſmiled. That ſmile relieved my fears; but awakened me to a ſenſe of ſhame, at the tranſport to which I had ſo indiſcreetly given way.

'NOTHING,' ſaid Mr. Greville, gravely, obſerving my confuſion, ‘that we ſuffer, is ſo bad as what we fear. Mr. Har⯑ley is not well enough to be with us [84] to-day, but we ſhall certainly ſee him to-morrow. Martin tells us, that his diſorder was occaſioned by a conteſt he was obliged to ſuſtain with his mother, whoſe violent temper is well known. She obliged him, after they had travelled a few miles, to diſ⯑mount, and come into the coach to her. —There an altercation enſued, ſo very lively, as to be heard diſtinctly by the ſervants, and particularly by Martin, who rode ſometimes very near the coach. The ſubject was, Sir John's ungenerous uſe of the power her dependent ſituation gave him over her, in taking her youngeſt ſon out of her hands. She ſeemed diſpoſed to conteſt this point with him: and upon Mr. Harley modeſtly, yet ſteadily, inſiſting upon his fulfilling the laſt in⯑junctions of his father, with regard to this child, his mother ſet no bounds to her rage, but loaded him with the ſevereſt reproaches.’

[85] ‘MR. Harley finding all his expoſtu⯑lations, intreaties, and ſubmiſſions, were employed in vain to bring her to a better temper, reminded her of his promiſe to return to the Hall to dinner; and ſtopping the coach, or⯑dered the ſervant, who led his horſe, to come up.’

‘A VERY good inn being in ſight; Mrs. Harley peremptorily inſiſted upon his dining with her on the road; which he complied with, in hopes, as it ſhould ſeem, of leaving her more compoſed. But after dinner, the ſtorm began with more violence than before. She ordered him, with an imprious air, to accompany her home. He pleaded his promiſe to Sir John; and aſſured her, if ſhe would permit him to leave her then, he would re⯑turn to her the next day. This me⯑dium ſhe refuſed; and continuing to rail, in the moſt indecent terms, againſt all he moſt loved and revered [86] in the world, a thouſand conflicting paſſions ſeemed to rend his heart; his tongue maintained a reſpectful ſilence, but his inward agitations were apparently very violent.’

‘MRS. Harley now ordered the horſes to be put to the coach, and with an imperious air bid her ſon, as he handed her into it, to come in like⯑wiſe; he begged to be excuſed; and mounting his horſe, rode on before, ſo ſwiftly, that he was preſently out of ſight. A heavy ſhower of rain now fell, and continued ſo long, and with ſuch violence, that it was appre⯑hended Mr. Harley would ſuffer greatly, unleſs he found ſhelter ſome⯑where, which was not likely, as there was no inn upon the road, from thence to the parſonage houſe.’

‘THE coachman drove furioſly, in order to overtake him; and accord⯑ingly they came up with him; but he [87] had alighted, tied his horſe to a tree, under which he ſtood himſelf, drenched through with the rain. In this wet condition, he was prevailed upon to come into the coach; and after an hour's ride they reached the parſonage houſe. Mr. Harley, who had not ut⯑tered a ſingle word all the time he was in the coach, deſired a bed to be pre⯑pared for him; and bowing low to his mother, retired; apparently ſo ill, that ſhe thought it neceſſary to ſend for the apothecary of the village, who, after viſiting him, pronounced him to be feveriſh, and ordered him ſome medicines. Martin, however, rode to the next town to get a phyſician; who thought his ſever rather high, but did not apprehend any dangerous con⯑ſequences from it. He had a tolerable night, it ſeems; and the next morn⯑ing calling Martin to his bed-ſide, directed him what account he was to give to Sir John concerning the ac⯑cident that detained him. Accord⯑ingly [88] Sir John is but half-informed of the truth, added Mr. Greville, and what I have told you, the honeſt and dis;creet old man imparted to me in private.’

MR. Greville accounts very naturally for this violent conduct in Mrs. Harley. —Her pride, mortified by the indiffer⯑ence of Sir John; her ambitious views diſappointed, ſhe propoſed to herſelf a malicious pleaſure in interrupting that happineſs which ſhe could not participate.

I CANNOT help agreeing with Mr. Greville, that a woman ſo raſh, fo ſelfiſh, and imprudent, is not fit to have the guidance of any of her children. But ſhe will never yield to perſuaſions. ‘It is ſuperfluous to employ reaſon with thoſe that have none,’ ſays he; ‘ſhe muſt be forced to comply. Extremes are always dangerous; but they be⯑come wiſe means, when they are ne⯑ceſſary. [89] It is true, indeed, they never work by halves, but will decide the matter one way or other.’

My uncle could not be ſatisfied with the favourable account Martin brought of Mr. Harley's preſent condition; he ſeemed determined to go and ſee him, and to carry his own phyſician with him; but Mr. Greville, apprehenſive that Mrs. Harley might give him ſome diſguſt, prevailed upon him to lay aſide all thoughts of this journey him⯑ſelf, and conſent to his going with the doctor; who was immediately ſent to; and they both went away early in the morning.

This was a melancholy interval. Fear is a great magnifier of evils, —My uncle reaſoned ſo long upon the pro⯑bable conſequences of what had hap⯑pened to Mr. Harley, that he almoſt reduced me to deſpair. The doctor's return reſtored us to ſome degree of [90] tranquillity; he affured us, that Mr. Harley was in no degree of danger, and that we might expecl to ſee him the next day, Mr. Greville ſtaying to ac⯑company him. His arrival was impa⯑tiently expected by my uncle, who obliged me to walk with him ſeveral times down the avenue, in hopes of meeting the carriage.

ALAS! it came not that day, nor the next; but the ſervants, who were diſ⯑patched each day to the parſonage-houſe, always brought us favourable accounts from Mr. Greyille, which, however, contributed but little to the relief of our anxiety; and my uncle, now determined to ſet out himſelf, which I no longer oppoſed. While his poſt-chaiſe was getting ready, we took our uſual melan⯑choly walk, and, to our inexpreſſible joy, the carriage appeared in ſight. — My uncle left me, and, forgetting his gout, actually ran towards it.

[91]MR. Harley got out, and threw him⯑ſelf into his arms. When I came up to them, I was amazed at the alteration I perceived in his countenance. Joy, at the ſight of me, overſpread his face with a faint bluſh, which inſtantly gave place to an aſhy paleneſs. —His eyes had loſt their ſparkling vivacity; but they ſtill retained that melting ſoftneſs with which his partiality always beheld me.

THE ſight of him, thus altered, af⯑fected me ſo much, that I could have, wept like an infant, had not ſhame re⯑ſtrained me. My uncle would needs ſupport him as he walked to the houſe. Mr. Greville, as we followed them, took an opportunity to tell me, that Mrs. Harley was much altered in her behaviour; that ſhe was perfectly com⯑plaiſant, docile, and obliging; and ready to approve of every arrangement, in her own and her children's affairs, which Sir John ſhould think fit to pro⯑poſe.

[92]'WEAK perſons,' he obſerved, ‘never yield at the time they ought to do. It was not poſſible for her to recover the ground ſhe had loſt by her former violence; but as her preſent conduct ſeemed to promiſe no farther oppoſi⯑tion, we had reaſon to be contended.’

SIR John took not the leaſt notice of her behaviour to Mr. Harley, but em⯑ployed all his attention in forwarding his recovery; and, indeed, he mends ſo faſt, that we have reaſon to hope, his health will ſoon be perfectly re-eſta⯑bliſhed.

My dear Euphemia, good fortune, as well as evil accidents, ſeldom come alone. I have this moment your dear, your welcome packet. Sir John's agent in London took care to forward it to me by one of his clerks, who is to take back what letters I have ready.

[93]A SHIP for New-York, he tells me, being to ſail immediately, I have but juſt time to run it over; and, to my inex⯑preſſible ſatisfaction, I find you have had an agreeable voyage, are well, and not unhappy. What a feaſt do you pre⯑pare for me, by writing thus to the mo⯑ment, and making me preſent to all the occurrences of your life. —All, all are of conſequence to me! Heaven grant, that you may never ſend me leſs pleaſing news! You cannot complain, nor be unhappy, by yourſelf alone; I partake of all your good or evil fortune; and feel ſo lively a reflexion of any uneaſi⯑neſs you ſuffer, that there needs but one blow to give two wounds.

My uncle interrupts me, to tell me, the meſſenger waits for my packet. —He ſends a thouſand kind remem⯑brances to you. You know what a favourite you are with Mr. Greville; he forgot, that it is not decent for a wiſe man to be tranſported with joy [94] or grief, on any occaſion whatever, but the news of your health, and ſafe arrival at your deſtined port, threw him ſo much off his guard, that he diſcovered little leſs ſenſibility than myſelf.

MR. Harley would fain have me believe, that he admires and loves you as much as I do; but that is impoſſible, becauſe, he does not know you as well. —But he begs me to tell you, that he joins with me, in every fond and tender wiſh for your health and happineſs. —Adieu, my ever loved and valued friend—Adieu!

P. S. You muſt make me acquainted with your kind and ſenſible friend, Mrs. Benſon, whoſe affectionate attachment to you entitles her to my love and reſpect. Poor Fanny! ſhe has writ⯑ten me a very pretty letter; remem⯑ber [95] me kindly to her. Her lover be⯑wails her abſence with unaffected far⯑row, and, I am perſuaded, will never forget her. — This circumſtance you may either diſcloſe, or conceal from her, as your prudence ſhall judge beſt.

LETTER XXXVII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

WERE it poſſible for me to be leſs intereſted than 1 am in all your concerns, yet your agreeable narrative would have acted very powerfully upon my hopes and fears. When I reflect upon ſome paſſages you have related, I cannot helpſmiling at the blunders which diſtance produces. At the very mo⯑ment when I had reaſon to fear that fortune was preparing ſome obſtacles to your happineſs, that happineſs was al⯑ready ſecured; and I hope and believe, that you were then the wife of that no⯑ble and generous youth who only could deſerve you.

[97]I shall be very glad to hear that Mrs. Harley purſues her intention of retiring to France; a mother-in-law of her complexion will be beſt conciliated at a diſtance. Ceremony between per⯑ſons ſo nearly connected, but ill ſupplies the place of cordiality and friendſhip, and leaves a craving void in the heart, which will ſometimes be filled with peeviſhneſs and diſcontent; and a for⯑mal civility is all that can ſubſiſt between characters ſo oppoſite as yours and hers.

IN Mrs. Bellenden, this acquired qua⯑lity of politeneſs is almoſt a virtue; and indeed it has the ſemblance of many— it makes her patient with abſurdity, gen⯑tle with impertinence, forgiving with rudeneſs, and eaſy with all perſons and on all occaſions. You would admire her pleaſing behaviour, and the grace with which ſhe accommodates herſelf to the booriſh manners of the men, and the awkward ignorance of the women of [98] this place. She has actually taken a great deal of pains to acquire as much knowledge of the Dutch language as to enable her to addreſs ſome trifling con⯑verſation to theſe uncouth viſitants, with whom the young ladies are ſo much diſguſted, that they have contriv⯑ed to keep them out of the aſſembly Mrs. Bellenden holds every fortnight, which is now pretty numerous, from the reſort of many ſtrangers of faſhion to this city.

AMONG theſe Mr. Euſton holds a diſtinguiſhed rank; elegant in his per⯑ſon, polite in his manners, and engag⯑ing in his addreſs: he throws off the philoſopher in the charming circle form⯑ed by the Colonel's daughters. Miſs Bellenden has thought him worthy of her chains, and calls forth all her attrac⯑tions to enſlave him. The dignified Louiſa looks as if his adorations might be endured; and Clara, without ſeem⯑ing to have the leaſt deſign upon his [99] heart, aims only at improving her un⯑derſtanding, by liſtening with the moſt reſpectful attention to all he ſays, when any opportunity offers to engage him in converſation.

Two nights ago Mrs. Bellenden gave a ball and ſupper, on occaſion of the arrival of a young gentleman, ſon to the late governor of New-York, who is ap⯑pointed third lieutenant to the Colonel. We had ſome muſic; all the young la⯑dies ſing and play, and Mrs. Bellenden does both excellently.

MR. Neville and myſelf were among the performers; but nobody thought of aſking the philoſophic Mr. Euſton to make one. Mrs. Bellenden, however, heedfully obſerving him during the per⯑formance of Dryden's Ode on St. Ceci⯑lia's Day, exclaimed— ‘I am ſure Mr. Euſton underſtands muſic!’ — He ſmiled.

[100]'Ah! I thought ſo,' purſued ſhe; ‘come, Sir, I inſiſt upon your joining us.’ Miſs Bellenden roſe immedi⯑ately from the harpſichord, and offered her place; and Mr. Neville preſented his German flute. Mr. Euſton choſe the harpſichord; and ſitting down, ſung that beautiful little ſong of Ben John⯑ſon's in the Silent Woman, which you know I admire ſo much.

THE company were ſo delighted with the long and the performance, that we [101] encored it three times. This little in⯑cident unravelled a myſtery which had hitherto puzzled us all. Mr. Euſton's long ſtay at Albany, and his aſſiduous attendance at the Fort, created ſome⯑thing more than a ſuſpicion, that his heart had been ſurpriſed by the charms of one of the young ladies; but he was ſo much upon his guard, that it was not poſſible to gueſs which was the diſ⯑tinguiſhed fair one.

HE ſung the laſt ſtanza with ſo much feeling, ſuch pointed expreſſion in his eyes, and ſuch particular application to Clara, that his preference of her was no longer a ſecret. The elegant ſimpli⯑city of her dreſs brought her exactly within the poet's deſcription; a white luteſtring robe, ſo fitted to her ſhape, as to diſguiſe nothing of its admirable ſymmetry; the graceful folds, not diſ⯑torted by the Gothic invention of a hoop, ſwept the ground, but with no [102] enormous train, like that of a tragedy queen. A girdle of black velvet, bor⯑dered with ſmall pearls, circled her ſlender waiſt; her hair was looſely tied up behind with a knot of pale pink rib⯑bon, and ſome ſtrings of pearls, of the ſame ſize with thoſe bound round her girdle, confined its ſhining ringlets from fall⯑ing too low over her forehead and temples.

THIS dreſs, in which nothing ſeemed deſigned for ornament, but all for uſe, formed a ſtriking contraſt with that of Miſs Bellenden's, where flowers, fea⯑thers, fringes, ſtreamers, flounces, trimmings, formed an aſſemblage of gay colours and figures, on which, as Young obſerves,

[103]MISS Louiſa was dreſſed with more propriety, but ſhe was fine; and her deportment, like her dreſs, ſtately.

MR. Euſton's manner was too parti⯑cular to eſcape notice—Miſs Bellenden reddened—Clara ſeemed wholly uncon⯑cerned.

‘WHAT an odious old-faſhioned ſong,’ ſaid the mortified beauty, ‘was that the preaching gentleman gave us; and the muſic was as bad as the words.’ I defended both. —Clara was ſilent; but her eyes, which are great talkers, ſpoke ſufficiently plain.

‘I DO not doubt but Clara thinks ſhe has made a conqueſt,’ ſaid Miſs Bellenden, ſpitefully; ‘but I am ſure nobody will envy her.’

'Ah! why,' repeated Clara, look⯑ing earneſtly at her ſiſter,

'A LETTER'D heart!' exclaimed Miſs Bellenden, laughing aloud. ‘For [104] Heaven's ſake! what is a letter'd heart? I proteſt I will aſk Mr. Euſton himſelf; he is ſo wiſe, he knows every thing—he ſhall tell me what a letter'd heart is.’

CLARA, anxious that her ſiſter ſhould not expoſe her ignorance, yet not daring to contradict her, gave me a beſeeching look.

'No, no,' ſaid I, holding her, ‘he will laugh at us.’

'AH!' replied Miſs Bellenden, ‘I thought it was nonſenſe. But pray, dear Clara, let us have no more of your rhimes; indeed they make you appear very ſilly; and you know my mamma cannot endure your reading thoſe books ſo much.’

IT is true, that Clara is fond of quot⯑ing her beloved poets; but ſhe does it ſo aptly, her voice is ſo harmonious, [105] and her expreſſion ſo juſt and beautiful, yet without the leaſt affectation, or even conſciouſneſs of her powers of charming in this way, that every one, except her mother and ſiſter, are de⯑lighted, when ſhe either reads or re⯑peats.

MR. Euſton, though not a declared lover, has the marks ſtrongly on him. —He ſcarce ever loſes ſight of his young charmer. —The ladies are ſure to meet him wherever they go; this hap⯑pens by chance, to be ſure, as he would have it appear. —And chance was very favourable to us on an occaſion, which I am going to acquaint you with. For, ſince I muſt always be writing to you, and the ſimple tenor of my life affords no great and ſtriking events to intereſt your curioſity, you muſt give me leave to entertain you, by ſelecting from thoſe little occurrences, which every day pro⯑duces, ſuch as are more worthy your attention.

[106]You muſt know, then, that among the many contrivances we form, to vary our amuſements in this place, Clara, who is a little romantic, propoſed one, which met with general approbation: — This was, to make an excurſion into the woods, which we beheld ſo beauti⯑ful in proſpect, from the ramparts of the Fort, and to paſs an afternoon amidſt their ſhades.

MRS. Bellenden not oppoſing our ſcheme, we ſet out early after dinner; the young ladies, Mrs. Benſon, and myſelf, attended by Miſs Bellenden's maid, and two men-ſervants, who car⯑ried a large baſket, filled with every thing neceſſary for tea. Clara ſoon found out a proper place. —It was a lit⯑tle valley, ſurrounded with loſty trees. The ſervants filled the tea-kettle at a ſpring of delicate water, with which theſe woods abound; and lighted a fire at a convenient diſtance, while we ſeated [107] ourſelves, as well as we could, and be⯑gan our different employments.

MISS Bellenden produced her net⯑ting, Louiſa her flower-piece, Mrs. Benſon and I our plain-work, and Clara her book. This was a novel, newly publiſhed in your world; and becauſe it has uncommon merit, I ſuppoſe you have read it. Mr. Euſton preſented it to Clara; and told us, that Cecilia is the performance of a young lady, whoſe elegant genius is generally admired.

MANY of the incidents in this very ſenſible novel are extremely affecting, and made me weep like a child. I am not aſhamed to own, that I have been much moved by ſuch agreeable fictions; and that it was not for real evils 1 ſhed tears, but the ingenious fancies of an⯑other perſon, that excited theſe ſtrong emotions. This has been called a ty⯑rannical power, which the ſenſes uſurp over reaſon; and proves, that the [108] neighbourhood of the imagination is extremely contagious to the intellectual part.

CLARA was permitted by Miſs Bel⯑lenden to read to us, while our tea was preparing.

IN the midſt of this pleaſing entertain⯑ment, we were alarmed with a hideous noiſe, which, to our terrified imagina⯑tion ſeemed like the howling of wild beaſts. Miſs Bellenden ſcreamed aloud, her ſiſters echoed her cries, and clung round Mrs. Benſon and me, hiding their faces in our boſoms. We were half dead with fear ourſelves, yet en⯑deavoured to comfort the young ladies.

'THESE are Indians, Madam,' ſaid one of the men-ſervants to me; ‘and by their ſhouting I imagine they are drunk. They will be upon us, pre⯑ſently, I ſuppoſe. For Heaven's ſake! do not diſcover any ſigns of fear; you will enrage them if you do.’

[109]I HAD been told this before; and therefore earneſtly recommended it to our young friends, to appear as com⯑poſed as poſſible.

THEY had juſt raiſed their heads, and dried their eyes, when three ſavages bolted out of the wood, and preſented their hideous figures to our eyes. As ſoon as they perceived us, they ſet up a frightful yell, and ſtood ſtill, gaz⯑ing on us with fixed attention.

LOUISA and Clara, not with standing all their efforts to appear calm, even ſobbed with the violence of their emo⯑tions. Miſs Bellenden, though pale and trembling, adjuſted her hair, and drew herſelf up, with an air that ſhewed her conſciouſneſs of her charms. Such is the force of habit, that even in this moment of terror, her thoughts were not wholly diverted from their uſual courſe, and the deſire of charming was always uppermoſt.

[110]THE two men-ſervants took no notice of the ſavage intruders, but appeared to be very buſy about the tea; and Mrs. Benſon, very complaiſantly, preſented them with ſome cakes, which they ac⯑cepted with a kind of ſurly ſatisfaction. She then offered them ſome tea; they taſted it, and returned the cups, ſhaking their heads; and made ſigns which we did not underſtand; but one of the foot⯑men told us they wanted rum.

I BID him make them comprehend, that we had not any; at which they looked diſpleaſed, and talked to each other. It appeared to us, that they ſuppoſed we had ſome of this darling liquor, and would not part with any to them; and this thought encreaſed our apprehenſions; beſides, we heard one of our ſervants ſay, in a whiſper to his companion, ‘They are deadly drunk, I am afraid they will be miſchie⯑vous.’

[111]WE knew not what to do—to ſtay was dreadful—and if we offered to go, it was probable they would hinder us. However, Mrs. Benſon, in order to ſound their intentions, bid the ſervants put up the tea equipage in the baſ⯑ket.

THE Indians looked angry at this mo⯑tion; and one of them, moving from the place where they had both, till now, ſtood like ſtatues, kicked the baſ⯑ket with his foot, and threw it down, ſeeming mightily pleaſed with the craſh of the china.

THE young ladies, no longer able to reſtrain their fears, ſcreamed aloud. The Indians looked at them with a fierce and menacing air, and moved towards us—We gave ourſelves over for loſt.— When, to our inexpreſſible joy, Mr. Euſton appeared, brought thither by Miſs Bellenden's maid, whom we had [112] not miſſed; and who, upon the firſt ap⯑pearance of the Indians, left us; and ran towards the Fort, in order to pro⯑cure ſome aſſiſtance, if neceſſary.

MR. Euſton, whom the ſcreams he had heard very much alarmed, ap⯑proached us with great anxiety in his looks. He addreſſed his enquiries in general, but his eyes were almoſt always turned upon Clara. Finding, by our anſwers, that the ſavages had behaved peaceably enough, he entered into ſome converſation with them, in their own language; after which he informed us that theſe Indians were ſtragglers from a large party of their friends, a tribe of the Iroquois Indians, who had come down the river to celebrate one of their feſtivals, in the neighbourhood of Al⯑bany. He told us, we had nothing to fear, thoſe nations being our good al⯑lies; that when they were intoxicated with liquor, they were apt to be trouble⯑ſome; [113] but if they had known who we were, they would have behaved with more civility.

WE ſoon found, by their altered looks and manners, that Mr. Euſton had given them ſome information con⯑cerning us. They gathered up the fragments of the china they had broke, and gazed on them with wiſhing eyes; but did not offer to take any, till Mrs. Benſon made ſigns to them, that they might have them; this preſent ſeemed very acceptable; and finding that we were preparing to go, they marched before us, officiouſly clearing our path from the underwood and broken boughs that obſtructed our walk. They accom⯑panied us to the gates of the Fort, and then took leave of us, with many tokens of reverence and reſpect.

WE had now ſo effectually overcome our fears, that when Mr. Euſton pro⯑poſed our going the next day to viſit [114] the Indians little camp, we eagerly ac⯑cepted it. The Colonel, however, choſe to be of the party; this drew in Mrs. Bellenden, and Mr. Neville, and all the officers that were not upon duty, attended us; which, with ſome ſer⯑vants, made up a large train.

THE Indians were aſſembled in a little plain; a great number of huts might be ſeen among the trees. Theſe huts conſiſted of three poles, covered on the top with the bark of trees, and lined with their branches, to keep out the ſun. The women and children ſat at the entrance of the huts. — Their huſ⯑bands and fathers lay indolently along within, ſmoaking or drinking.

THE young men were differently em⯑ployed; ſome in dancing, others in ſhooting at a mark with their arrows, and not a few buſy in preparing the feaſt.

[115]SEVERAL large kettles, full of veni⯑ſon, were ſuſpended by a rope, faſtened to two trees at a convenient diſtance, between which a large fire was kindled. As ſoon as our company appeared, they inſtantly quitted their ſports and em⯑ployments, and crouding together, formed a circle, and continued gazing on us in a profound ſilence.

MR. Euſton approached them, and pointing to Colonel Bellenden, told them who he was. The Indians, con⯑ſidering this viſit from the great chief, as they called him, as a high honour, prepared, in token of reſpect, to enter⯑tain him with a dance. They kindled a large fire in the midſt of the plain, threw their mantles over their ſhoulders, each holding up a large knife in one hand, they danced round the fire in a ring, their feet keeping time to a ſlow and barbarous ſtrain, and their eyes fixed on the ground. This ceremony, which we thought very frightful, but [116] with which we affected to appear ex⯑tremely pleaſed, laſted half an hour.

AS ſoon as the Indians had finiſhed their dance, they reſumed their former ſports, and we mixed among the wo⯑men, ſome of whom were tolerably handſome. We took notice of the children; and were delighted to hear the women ſpeak, though we could not underſtand them, the tone of their voices was ſo exquiſitely ſweet and har⯑monious.

WHILE we were ranging from hut to hut, Miſs Bellenden obſerved two young Indians at a diſtance, leaning againſt a tree with a diſcontented air. — Their figures were pleaſing, and their dreſs mighty ſmart; their heads were adorned with feathers; their ears loaded with ſtrings of wampum, and their mantles trimmed with ſeveral rows of tinſel lace. Theſe young men had neither joined the dance, nor mixed in any of [117] the ſports. Curious to know the cauſe of their excluſion, we went up to them; and Mr. Euſton aſked them, Why they continued apart from the reſt?

WITHOUT changing their poſture, and ſcarce raiſing their eyes to look on us, they told him, that not being of the party, they had no right to eat, and therefore had no inclination to dance.

WE now ſearched our pockets for ſome trifles, to preſent to theſe poor ne⯑glected young ſavages. One of us pro⯑duced a ſmall pen-knife, another a lit⯑tle ſnuff-box, Miſs Bellenden made an offering of her pocket-glaſs, and Louiſa gave a knot of ribbons; Clara bluſhed, becauſe ſhe could find nothing in her pocket but her Paſtor Fido, which, as ſhe was now ſtudying Italian with great application, ſhe always carried about her; not willing, however, to appear leſs liberal than the reſt of the com⯑pany, [118] ſhe preſented her cambric pocket handkerchief with a baſhful air, which the Indian who received it immediately tore in two, tying a piece round each arm. We leſt them extremely de⯑lighted with our civility, and returned to the Fort. Adieu, my dear Maria, I muſt cloſe my letter here — A ſloop is this inſtant going off for New-York, and will take my packet.

LETTER XXXVIII. MRS. BENSON TO MISS HARLEY.

IT ſhall never be laid to my charge that you ſpeak of me favourably, and that I hear of it without gratitude; a good opinion lays one under an obli⯑gation from whomſoever it comes; but when judgment like yours com⯑mends, not to be vain would be to be above human frailty. He who ſaid Socrates was prouder of one word ſpoke by the oracle in his favour, than of all the praiſes the worlds beſtowed upon him, ſpeaks my ſentiments. In return for your making me vain, Ma⯑dam, [120] which, the cauſe conſidered, I can ſcarce allow to be a fault, I will make you happy by informing you, that your valued and amiable friend is a mother, and has given us a lovely boy, who is called after a young gentleman, whom we hope has been for ſome time the happieſt man in the world.

I WRITE this by Mrs. Neville's bed⯑ſide, who is, with ſome little alteration of the old phraſe on this occaſion, bet⯑ter than could be expected.

To explain this I muſt tell you, that when the affair was all over, the lady in bed, and in a ſweet ſleep, I retired to take ſome reſt, having been up the whole night; but was ſoon waked by a loud and confuſed noiſe of many tongues ſpeaking all at once. Among theſe I diſtinguiſhed Mr. Neville's, who by the oaths he threw out in quick ſuc⯑ceſſion, I underſtood to be in a violent rage.

[121]ALARMED and confounded at a cla⯑mour ſo prepoſterous at ſuch a time, I flew down ſtairs: at the entrance of Mrs. Neville's chamber I met Mr. Ne⯑ville, who ſeizing my arm with a dreadful gripe, exclaimed— ‘Oh! Ma⯑dam, come in, ſee what theſe Dutch devils have done, —they have killed my wife!’

I ENTERED the room, trembling, and ſaw one part of it newly ſcoured, and ſtreams of water running over the other, which iſſued from a large pail that had been overturned.

While Mr. Neville continued curſ⯑ing and raving at the nurſe, who, being entitled by her age and her wealth to wear a forehead cloth, a diſtinction which the matrons here are extremely fond of, conſidered herſelf as highly af⯑fronted by his behaviour. I enquired of Fanny, who ſtood by in great agi⯑tation, [122] the meaning of the ſtrange ap⯑pearances I beheld.

SHE told me the nurſe, as ſoon as I was retired, had called up the houſe⯑maid, and ordered the room to be ſcoured. ‘I remonſtrated againſt it in vain,’ purſued Fanny, weeping, ‘and ſaid it would kill my lady—that it was not the cuſtom in our country. But finding that I could not prevail, I called my maſter, who was ſo ſhocked at their having wetted the room, which he ſaid would kill his wife with cold, that he kicked down the pail in a rage, and ſet it all afloat as you ſee.’

I ORDERED a large fire to be made in the room; and, collecting all the carpets in the houſe, laid them one upon another on the floor. Mrs. Ne⯑ville was anxious only for her child. I oppoſed very bad arguments to her rea⯑ſonable fears, but it was abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary [123] to quiet her mind; as for Mr. Neville, he continued to rail and ſwear.

‘DID you ever hear of ſuch a ſavage cuſtom?’ ſaid he; ‘what! ſcour the chamber of a lying-in woman!’

'THE greateſt miſchief,' I replied, ‘is likely to happen from the pail of water that was thrown down.’

'AYE,' ſaid he, ‘that was unfortu⯑nate, to be ſure; but it was very na⯑tural for me to be in, a paſſion you know, when my wife's life was endan⯑gered by that old Dutch woman's ab⯑ſurdity.’

To perſuade Mr. Neville that he can ever be wrong is a talk no human un⯑derſtanding is equal to. I ſuffered him therefore to march off in triumph, at having ſilenced me with ſo complete a defence, and took care to prevent any [124] future blunders of the nurſe, who only followed the cuſtom of her country, to which we were ſtrangers, and therefore could not guard againſt.

MRS. Neville and the child are per⯑fectly well. She makes an admirable nurſe, and loſes none of her delicacy by doing the duty of a mother. This little ſtranger has been received with great joy by the father, who having now an heir to his uncle's eſtate, is not appre⯑henſive of its going out of his line.

MRS. Neville has given you an ac⯑count, Madam, of our adventure in the woods with the two drunken ſavages; her ſituation made me tremble for the conſequences of the fright ſhe muſt ne⯑ceſſarily have been in, which, however, ſhe concealed ſo well, as to make me tolerably eaſy; but our little boy bears under his left breaſt the diſtinct mark of a bow and arrow, the arms born by one [125] of theſe ſavages. This power of the imagination has been denied with ſuch force of argument by ſome learned writers, that nothing but the evidence of my own eyes could force my aſſent to the poſſibility of it.

A TROUBLESOME affair has fallen out within theſe few days, which I have been fortunate enough to conceal from my friend, whoſe keenneſs of obſerva⯑tion it is difficult to elude.

MR. Neville and Lieutenant Blood had a diſpute about ſome trifle, which was managed with ſuch heat on both ſides as to produce a quarrel; and a challenge enſued on the part of Mr. Neville. The day, the hour, and the place of meeting were all ſettled, but happily the colonel was informed of the deſign time enough to prevent it, and put them both under an arreſt.

[126]THE only difficulty now was to recon⯑cile them, that nothing of the kind might be apprehended for the future. The colonel undertook Mr. Blood, who on ſuch occaſions, being endowed with that docility with which the valiant re⯑proach the wife, was prevailed upon by his commander's arguments, enforced by his authority, to lay aſide his wrath. I had more trouble with Mr. Neville, who is paſſionate and obſtinate, but I carried my point at laſt, by reaſons partly ſerious, partly jeſting.

'IF Heaven,' ſaid I, ‘had given you three or four lives, you might at any time venture one, and ſometimes, in a fit of valour, let one go, knowing you have another in ſtore; but to be pro⯑digal in poverty, and to be careleſs of the only head you have, when no art can make you a new one, is unreaſon⯑able to the laſt degree.’ Mr. Neville at length agreed to let the Colonel ſet⯑tle [127] the difference; and all was made up over a bottle of wine at the Fort.

I HAVE now, Madam, acquainted you with every thing that has paſſed here worthy your notice; and have nothing to add, but that I am with the greateſt eſteem and reſpect, your obedient ſer⯑vant,

LETTER XXXIX. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I REMEMBER I once told you, my dear Maria, that I was reſolved to turn philoſopher, and ſo be revenged on Fortune for all her cruelties to me. I am now called to a new trial, which yet is not ſo ſevere as ſome I have al⯑ready ſuſtained; but you, who on all occaſions feel for me, perhaps, more than I do for myſelf, will think it ſuffi⯑ciently mortifying.

I HAD juſt began to taſte ſomething like happineſs. —My dear little boy re⯑pays my care, with every advantage a fond mother can deſire, — health, beauty, ſweetneſs of temper, and early reaſon; [129] a wiſe and faithful friend at home; ſome agreeable companions abroad; and a growing taſte for the climate, and the wild yet not unpleaſing ſcenes around me.

HOW truly has it been ſaid, that the limits of our joy is but the abſence of ſome degree of ſorrow. Within theſe few days Mr. Neville has informed me, that he has obtained a promiſe of Colonel Bellenden, to be appointed to the com⯑mand of a fort in Schonectady.

THIS is a little town, diſtant about thirty miles from Albany, inhabited only by ſome Dutch traders. Seldom viſited by any ſtrangers, but Indians, who ſtraggle hither, not only from the five nations of the Iroquois, our allies, but the ſavages of Canada, and other barbarous nations.

WHETHER impelled by that reſtleſſneſs of temper, which makes every change, [130] even for the worſe, deſireable; or the ſtrange pride, of being greateſt where all is little, I know not, but Mr. Ne⯑ville is fixed in his reſolution; and when he acquainted me with the approaching change in my ſituation, it was not to hear my opinion, to aſk my advice, or to ſooth me into a conſent, but barely to ſignify his will to me; to which I offered no oppoſition, well knowing that it would produce no other effect, but ill humour, and unjuſt reproach.

WHEN Mr. Neville left me, after this unwelcome communication, Mrs. Ben⯑ſon, alarmed at the fullenneſs of his aſ⯑pect as he paſſed by her, came eagerly to my chamber, to enquire the cauſe of his apparent diſſatisfaction; when I told her what had paſſed, the pauſed for a few moments, caſting on me now and then a ſoft and ſympathiſing look — then recollecting herſelf, ſhe took my hand, which ſhe tenderly preſt—

[131]'My dear child,' ſaid the, ‘of evils; the leaſt is the beſt. Your days will paſs leſs unhappily in this, I will ſup⯑poſe, wild ſolitude, than they can poſſibly do here; though here you have ſome agreeable ſociety, and ſome elegant amuſements. Mr. Neville's diſcontent would embitter all; nor would you be free from a little ſelf-accuſation, although you could carry your point, if it cannot be done with⯑out violating that obedience which you have ſolemnly vowed at the al⯑tar.’

'ALL the evil in the world, my dear,' purſued ſhe, ‘conſiſts, as I have ſome⯑where read, in the diſagreement be⯑tween the object and the appetite; as when a perſon has what he deſires not, or deſires what he has nor, or deſires amiſs. He that compoſes his ſpirit to the preſent accident, hath a variety of inſtances for his virtue, but none to [132] trouble him; becauſe his deſires are not at war with his preſent fortune. You have heard the philoſopher,’ went ſhe on, ſmiling, 'now hear the friend.

‘DOUBT not but I will follow you to this ſavage ſolitude; and we ſhall be able to ſtrike out amuſements, which, as they will depend entirely upon our⯑ſelves, will always be within our reach. —We have books, we have muſic, and ideas I hope, to furniſh out an agreeable and profitable converſation. Your little boy will ſoon be of an age to exerciſe you in higher cares than thoſe of a tender and diligent nurſe. Our judgment is formed by experi⯑ence; the principles of truth unfold themſelves by degrees with the na⯑tural progreſs of reaſon. —That pro⯑greſs, in this ſweet plant, you will watch, direct, and improve; and hav⯑ing no temptations to divert your at⯑tention from ſo delightful, ſo laudable [133] an employment, you will with the more eaſe perform the taſk, which God and nature have aſſigned you.’

IT was thus that this worthy woman reaſoned with me, ſoothed me, and re⯑conciled my will to a diſpenſation, which my heart murmured at before; ſo that when Mrs. Bellenden came to condole with me, upon a ſeparation ſo un⯑expected, and offered, if I would conſent to it, to manage matters ſo with the Colonel as to prevent this wild ſcheme, (as ſhe called it,) of my huſband's, taking place, I earneſtly intreated her to form no obſtacle to his deſigns, declaring my voluntary acquieſcence to them.

THIS lady is too good a wife to diſ⯑approve of my conduct on this occaſion. She promiſed me to make my baniſh⯑ment as tolerable as poſſible, by a fre⯑quent intercourſe of viſits. I ſmiled, and pointing to the now dreary proſpect around us, for winter, which in this [134] country ſets in with a ſudden tranſition from extreme heat to intenſe cold, had already covered the ground with ſnow, at leaſt three feet deep. —One pure ex⯑pance of white meets the dazzled eye, as far as its ſight can reach; the branches of the trees, loaded with ſnow, look like enormous plumes of feathers ſpangled with gems, formed by the froſt. That beautiful river, where we uſed to ſee innumerable elegant little hoops, failing to and from New-York, is now become an icy plain, and bears on its frozen boſom deep loaded car⯑riages, called ſledges, drawn by horſes, which ſeem to fly over the glaſſy ſur⯑face.

'SEE, Madam,' ſaid I, ‘what a ſtern appearance Nature has put on; can friendſhip find a way through thoſe pathleſs woods, to viſit the poor exile at Schonectady?’

[135] ‘NEVER doubt it, my dear Mrs. Ne⯑ville,’ replied the good lady, ‘thoſe pathleſs woods ſhall yet afford us a paſſage to you, when we need it, but happily that will not be till ſpring; for Lieutenant G— is not to be relieved till then.’ This was pleaſing news to all, but Mr. Neville, who is impatient to enter upon his new com⯑mand.

ALAS! my dear Maria, you can have no conception of the rigor of a North American winter. We have had a fall of ſnow, which continued three days, which now lies upon the ground, to the depth of five feet, and is frozen ſo hard that it feels like the ſolid earth. We are, it ſeems, to expect no abatement of this extreme rigor theſe five months; but the conſtant ſerenity of a cloudleſs ſky, and the enlivening rays of the ſun, increaſe that cheerfulneſs which we owe to our now well-braced nerves: but it is cold, intenſely cold; I can ſcarce [136] keep myſelf tolerably warm, though I ſit by a fire, where half the foreſt is blazing.

MRS. Benſon looks over my ſhoulder as I am writing, and tells me, laughing, that metaphor is carried very high—But ſeriouſly, although my ſtandiſh is placed upon the ſteel hearth, it is with diffi⯑culty the ink is kept from freezing, and ſlakes of black ice frequently fall out of my pen upon the paper. — This will ac⯑count for ſome of the many blots you meet with.

I WAS interrupted by a viſit from Mr. Euſton. He is much altered—Clara's attractions have proved too powerful for his philoſophy. He reaſons leſs, though he talks more than he uſed to do; but all his diſcourſe bears ſome analogy to the preſent diſpoſition of his heart; and, whatever be the ſubject, it leads him inſenſibly to the object that fills his thoughts. Hitherto he has declared [137] himſelf no otherwiſe, than by aſſidui⯑ties, and the ſilent rhetoric of looks and ſighs. But he has a rival, whom he muſt either ſupplant, or yield to; and this circumſtance will decide the mat⯑ter.

WITH this rival I would fain make you acquainted; if I knew how to deſ⯑cribe a creature, to whom no diſtinction can belong for more than ten minutes together. He is every thing and no⯑thing. —Mrs. Benſon ſays, he is more fool than wiſe, and more a wag than fool. At the very moment, when he has been talking ſo much to the pur⯑poſe that you would. pronounce him a ſenſible young fellow, he throws out ſomething ſo wretchedly ſilly, as to de⯑ſerve the appellation of a fool. One while the ſtupid ſolemnity of his coun⯑tenance excites a laugh, at another, the archneſs of his look and ſatirical ſmiles, make one afraid of him.

[138]HE is ſon to the late Governor, and nephew to the Earl of H —, by whoſe intereſt he was appointed, third lieutenant to Colonel Bellenden; and came from England to take poſſeſſion of his new poſt. He has a fine face, and a figure remarkably elegant; his man⯑ners are often polite, and often clowniſh; his addreſs ſometimes courtly, and ſome⯑times aukward; in a word, he is a per⯑fect contradiction. But you will be better able to form an idea of him, from a few traits, which my memory furniſhes me with for your informa⯑tion.

A FEW days after his arrival, being at the Fort, where a large company was aſſembled, and where the beauty of his perſon, the elegance of his dreſs, and the politenes of his behaviour, engaged every ones attention, Miſs Bellenden happened to drop her glove; he took it up, and preſented it to her with a grace that was infinitely pleaſing, entreating [139] her at the ſame time to permit him the honour of drawing it on; ſhe ſmiled and held out her arm, on which, white as it is, a few freckles appeared.

Mr. C— looked earneſtly on it for a minute, then exclaimed—

‘HEAVENS! why you are ſpotted like a toad.’ She bluſhed, and frowned. Thoſe perſons who were near enough to hear what he ſaid, expreſſed in their looks the utmoſt aſtoniſhment.

CLARA, who ſat next him, laughed; upon which Mr. C—, finding Miſs Bellenden ſat ſullen and ſilent, and would not even look at him, turned to her ſiſter, and with the eaſieſt and moſt gallant air imaginable, entered into a converſation with her full of ſprightlineſs, and of turns, which, if they could not be called witty, were at leaſt very like wit. Clara took occaſion to rally him upon the coarſe ſpeech he had made to [140] her ſiſter, but he defended himſelf with ſuch an arch ſimplicity, as quite con⯑founded her.

COLONEL Bellenden knows not how to treat him; reſpectable on account of his birth and connexions, he has a cer⯑tain air of grandeur diffuſed over his whole perſon, that keeps contempt at a diſtance, in ſpite of all his abſurdities.

ON the day that he was to be pre⯑ſented to the troops, who were drawn up upon the parade, headed by their officers, with colours flying, drums beating, and all the pomp and circum⯑ſtance of military ceremonial, he ap⯑peared, inſtead of regimentals, in white and ſilver, and a plume of feathers in his hat without a cockade. The Colonel perceived him before he came to the gates, and haſtily ran to prevent his entering, and expoſing himſelf to the deriſion of the ſoldiers.

[141] ‘WHAT is the meaning or your ap⯑pearing in this dreſs, Sir,’ ſaid he, with an indignant frown; ‘Do you not know what is to be done to-day?’

‘WE are to have a ball, Sir; are we not?’ replied Mr.C—, with an air highly reſpectful, but not in the leaſt diſconcerted. The Colonel was abſo⯑lutely taken in by the ſteady compoſure of his looks, and the ſeeming ſimplicity of his anſwer.

'WHAT ſtrange miſapprehenſion,' ſaid he, ‘is this! Go, Sir, put on your regimentals, and appear in your pro⯑per character.’ He then deſired Mr. Neville to accompany him, and inform him what was to be done.

Mr. C— retired, making a low obeiſance; and in a ſhort time after⯑wards returned, dreſſed en militaire.

[142]NOTHING could exceed the elegance and dignity of his figure in this dreſs— there was ſomething ſo noble in his air, ſo intereſting in his countenance, that every eye beheld him with pleaſure.

THE deep reſpect with which he re⯑ceived his pike from the colonel was accompanied with equal dignity; and the grace that appeared in his motions and attitude, when he took his poſt, drew a kind look of approbation from his benevolent commander. But what was his confuſion and diſappointment when this young man, forgetting his duty and his ſtation, faint with heat, and fatigued as it ſhould ſeem with holding his pike, gave it into the hand of a ſerjeant, who ſtood neareſt him, and quitting his rank, ran towards the ladies, ſnatched a fan out of Miſs Bel⯑lenden's hand, and began to fan him⯑ſelf with the utmoſt compoſure, amidſt the general aſtoniſhment his extravagant action occaſioned.

[143]AT firſt all eyes were fixed on him with ſilent wonder; then an ill ſup⯑preſſed laugh ran through the ranks; the officers caught the contagion, but quickly recovered themſelves, attentive to the motions of the colonel, who for a moment ſtood gazing on the ſtrange youth with a ſevere and ſteady eye; then advancing towards him—

'Boy,' whiſpered he to him, ‘a fool's cap and bells would better become you than this reſpectable dreſs and manly profeſſion.’ Then calling Mr. Neville, he ſpoke to him in a low voice; and turning again to Mr. C—, who by this time had given Miſs Bellenden her fan with his uſual graceful manner—

'Go, Sir,' ſaid he, ‘follow this of⯑ficer, and learn how ill the behaviour of a buffoon ſits upon a gentleman and a ſoldier.’

Mr.C— either was, or affected an ex⯑treme ſurpriſe in his looks at this repri⯑mand [144] but, ſilent and ſubmiſſive, he bowed profoundly low to the colonel, then to the ladies, and went off the pa⯑rade with Mr. Neville.

THE buſineſs of the day, concluding thus ridiculouſly, afforded us ſufficient matter for diſcourſe. Mr. Neville placed a centinel at the door of Mr. C.'s lodgings, and informed him he was put under an arreſt. After ſome ridiculous enquiries concerning the nature of his offence, and the duration of his confine⯑ment, he ſent his reſpectful compliments to the commandant; and ordering his ſervant to bring his flute, Mr. Neville left him entertaining himſelf very agree⯑ably.

COLONEL Bellenden ſent for him the next day, and they had a private confe⯑rence, that laſted near two hours. I ſup⯑poſe he ſoftened the colonel by his ſub⯑miſſion; for he appeared to be received [145] into ſome degree of favour. The ſol⯑diers, to a man, are loud in his praiſe, for he ordered a noble largeſs to be diſtributed among them; and they can ſee no faults in an officer who is ſo liberal.

HE met with ſome mortifications, however, in Mrs. Bellenden's circle that evening. She looked grave upon him; Miſs Bellenden treated him with con⯑tempt — Louiſa ſhunned him — Clara, moved by the natural ſweetneſs of her diſpoſition, took pity on him, and ſuf⯑fered him to engroſs her converſation the whole night. This kindneſs com⯑pleted the conqueſt of his heart; he is become ſeriouſly in love with her, and much leſs extravagant in his behaviour than uſual. I can perceive that Mr. Euſton is uneaſy, notwithſtanding his endeavours to conceal it.

[146]'OUR new Cymon,' ſaid he to me one day with a forced laugh, ‘improves daily.’ — 'Not ſo much,' replied I, ‘as to give him hopes of obtaining his Iphigenia.’

'WHY not,' ſaid he, ‘the miracle would not be new, though he were to become a wiſe man. Love, which has ſometimes made a philoſopher a fool, may make a fool a philoſopher.’

THE people of this country have be⯑gun their winter amuſements. Nothing is to be ſeen on the river but ſledges full of happy parties:—theſe are the only carriages in uſe in this ſevere ſeaſon.

THERE is an odd cuſtom among the younger and meaner ſort, which it is impoſſible to reconcile with good order and decency.

A COMPANY of a dozen young Dutch⯑men, and as many girls, agree to go [147] out upon a froolick as they call it. Theſe are diſtributed into ſix ſledges, two couples in a ſledge: as they go at a pro⯑digious rate, they ſometimes travel forty and fifty miles in a day, to the differ⯑ent farm-houſes they propoſe to viſit.

As ſoon as they appear, all hands are ſet to work, to provide an entertain⯑ment for them; and great is the ſlaughter among the poultry and pigs to furniſh out the feaſt. They ſit long at table, and conclude the evening with dancing, for they always carry a fidler along with them.

WHEN they are diſpoſed to go to reſt, the largeſt room in the houſe is pre⯑pared for their reception. They ſpread before an enormous fire a quantity of mats and carpets, over which they lay feather beds and coverlets. The company lie down in their clothes, and ſleep as well as they can, till morning, [148] when a plentiful breakfaſt of tea, cream, hot cakes, and hung beef, is provided for them; after which they drive away to their next ſtage, which is generally at a great diſtance, where they meet with the ſame welcome and, equal hos⯑pitality.

IN this manner they traverſe the country, ſpending ſometimes a week, ſometimes a fortnight, in theſe excur⯑ſions; the farmers, wherever they, chuſe to ſtop, being, by an ancient cuſtom, obliged to receive them, and treat them well.

I WENT out yeſterday for the firſt time in our new winter carriage. Mrs. Benſon, Miſs Clara, and Mr. Euſton, made up my party, for Mr. Neville was upon guard. We were well wrapped up in furrs, and our feet defended from the piercing cold by ſeveral bear-ſkins, that were laid at the bottom of the ſledge. [149] Happy was it for us that Mr. Euſton was with us, for an accident happened that might have had the moſt danger⯑ous conſequences.

OUR road lay through the woods: as we flew along, (for ſo the motion of theſe vehicles over the frozen ſnow may be called) ſuddenly I perceived the two fore paws of an animal upon the lower part of the ſledge, on that ſide where I ſat. The driver that inſtant laſhing his horſes, the creature by this increaſed velocity loſt his hold: Mr. Euſton, at the ſame moment, ſeized a loaded horſe-piſtol, which was carried by the ſervant who ſat behind the carriage, and jumped out. We then perceived our danger. The furious bear, for a bear it was, had followed the ſledge, and was come almoſt near enough to ſpring upon us, when our gallant friend, oppoſing himſelf to its aſſault, levelled his piece, [150] and took ſo ſure an aim, as laid the fierce creature weltering in its blood at his feet.

THE exploſion of the gun, repeated by a thouſand echoes, the hideous howl⯑ing of the dying animal, mixed with our ſcreams, filled the wild ſolitude around us with ſounds more dreadful than imagination can conceive. We were by this time at a conſiderable diſtance; for our driver did not ſlacken his pace; and had not the ſledge been overturned, paſſing over the body of a large tree, that lay acroſs the road, which in his terror he did not obſerve, we ſhould have been out of ſight.

NONE of us received the leaſt hurt by this accident; for the overturning of a ſledge is ſeldom attended with any dan⯑ger, being open on each ſide, and hav⯑ing no top.

[151]MR. Euſton now came up to us, and anxiouſly enquired if we were ſafe. We congratulated him upon his victory; and with the moſt heart-felt gratitude thanked him for our preſervation. Clara ſaid little; but that little was accompa⯑nied with a look ſo expreſſive, as ſeem⯑ed to have a powerful effect upon her lover's heart, for he gazed on her for a moment with extreme tenderneſs, and heard not one word that Mrs. Ben⯑ſon and I ſaid to him about his combat.

AT length he helped us into our car⯑riage; and, as he was ſtepping into it himſelf, Clara graſped my hand eagerly and whiſpered—'Ah! Madam, he bleeds.'

'He does indeed,' ſaid I, greatly alarmed, perceiving then, for the firſt time, that one of his legs was covered with blood. — 'You are hurt, Sir,' ſaid I.

[152]'I HAVE got a ſcratch,' replied he, ſmiling; ‘the creature made an at⯑tack upon my leg, but my fire had the good fortune to take place before I received much damage.’

'YOU muſt give us leave, however,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘to bind up your wound with what linen we can col⯑lect.’ We all contributed; Clara, who till then had looked pale as death, now bluſhed exceſſively as ſhe offered her help. Mr. Euſton ſuffered us to do as we pleaſed— his whole at⯑tention was fixed upon my amiable young friend. We ordered the driver to make what haſte he could back to the Fort, where his wound was dreſſed by the ſurgeon of the garriſon, who eaſed us of our fears by declaring that it was not in the leaſt dangerous.

THE colonel and his lady were full of acknowledgments to this gentleman [153] for his gallant defence of us; and in⯑deed we had all reaſon to be grateful; for had he not by ſpringing out of the ſledge expoſed himſelf ſingly to the aſſault of the ferocious animal, it is uncertain which of us might have been ſeized upon.

SUCH accidents as this, however, are very rare ſo near any of the ſettlements, and in the day too. But love, Mrs. Benſon ſays, laughing, was determin⯑ed to favour ſo reſpectable a votary, by affording him an opportunity of ſhewing how well he deſerved the pre⯑ference which Clara, notwithſtanding all her baſhfulneſs and reſerve, ſeems diſpoſed to give him over his young rival. But this rival is countenanced by Mrs. Bellenden, who, ſeduced by the ſplendour of his family, and the large fortune he is likely to inherit, is willing to overlook all his extravagan⯑cies. The colonel, I believe, if left to his own judgment, would favour Mr. [154] Euſton, and prefer an eaſy indepen⯑dence for his daughter, with a man of his character, to the ſuperior advantages of birth and fortune, clogged with the abſurdities of Mr. C—.

I HEARD him ſpeak highly in his praiſe one day to Mrs. Bellenden, who does not ſeem to reliſh his converſation.

‘WHAT was formerly ſaid of a great man,’ ſaid he, ‘to whom I had the honour to be known, may be very well applied to Mr. Euſton. As nature has given him the good qua⯑lities that cannot be acquired by ſtudy, ſo his own ſtudy hath procured him all the good qualities that are not the gifts of nature.’ — This was a fine eulogium, my dear Maria; and I took care the worthy man ſhould not be ignorant of it.

I HAVE a very pretty letter from young Manſel, with one encloſed from [155] his mother, full of the moſt affection⯑ate acknowledgments for my kindneſs to her ſon. She has ſent me ſome very valuable preſents, which prove how much her grateful diſpoſition has over⯑rated the little ſervices I was able to do the amiable youth ſhe is ſo juſtly fond of.

COLONEL Bellenden ſends for my letter to encloſe in his packet, which is this moment ſetting out for New-York. Some ſhips are expected to ſail from thence in a few days. Adieu, then, my dear Maria; my ever loved, my ever valued friend, Adieu!

LETTER XL. MRS. NEVILLE TO MRS. HARLEY.

I WAS almoſt reduced to deſpair, my dear Maria, when I heard that ſeve⯑ral ſhips were come from England; and after waiting three weeks, in anxious expectation, no letter from you appeared. But one¹ has now come to comfort me; and that I got it at length, after ſo long a delay, I owe to the remorſe of a man unknown, who being but half wicked, contented himſelf with only opening it, but would not by any means that I ſhould loſe it.

[157]How do I rejoice, that all your little difficulties are over, and that you have been for ſome months the happy wife of the worthieſt and moſt amiable young man in the world.

I LOVE YOU dearly, for the matronly ſtyle in which you make your enquiries after my little boy; and I do not think I need offer you any apology for enter⯑taining you with nurſery tales—of the perilous adventures we have atchieved againſt the ſmall-pox, meaſles, cutting of teeth, and other rocks and quick-fands, to which the poor little bark of infancy is expoſed. And I have no doubt but you will believe me, when I tell you, that my Edward is very hand⯑ſome, ſurpriſingly witty, and is the moſt agreeable companion in the world. I paſs the greateſt part of my time with him, and never think the time ſo paſſed is tedious.

[158]BUT all is hurry and buſtle now in Albany; the town is full of ſtrangers of faſhion; nothing but balls and en⯑tertainments at the fort. The Gover⯑nor is ſoon expected here, in order to meet in congreſs our good allies, the Iroquois, and pay them the uſual ſub⯑ſidies, in blankets, hatchets, iron-ket⯑tles, glaſs jewels, and the like; a ce⯑remony which is renewed every third year.

GREAT numbers of theſe Indians are already arrived. Already we behold a large town riſing in a plain, behind the fort, conſiſting of houſes made of branches of trees, interwoven with each other, and faſtened to a number of ſtakes. Theſe people ſubſiſt upon the produce of hunting, fiſhing, and ſome ſponta⯑neous fruits. We ſometimes viſit the women and children in their huts, and make them little preſents; but we never go but in large companies, and well at⯑tended; [159] for moſt of the men have a ſa⯑vage fierceneſs in their looks, that is very terrible, though no real danger is to be apprehended.

MRS. Benſon and I are in great, af⯑fliction —Mr. Euſton has left Albany, and will ſoon leave the whole province, as he propoſes to return to England this ſummer. It is no difficult matter to perceive, that he has left his heart be⯑hind him; and although he pleaded preſſing affairs, which demanded his preſence at home, yet it is certain, that the ill ſucceſs of his paſſion for Clara, is the true cauſe of his ſudden departure.

I LEARN, from my young friend, that he had, in the moſt reſpectful manner imaginable, ſolicited Mrs. Bellenden to favour his ſuit, and procure the Colo⯑nel's conſent; giving ſuch an account of his family, his fortune, and character, which, as they knew to be true, by the [160] teſtimony of the firſt perſons in the pro⯑vince, they could form no reaſonable objection to.

MRS. Bellenden, however, received his propoſals with great coldneſs, though with her uſual politeneſs; and being preſſed for a deciſive anſwer, frankly owned, ſhe had other views for Miſs Clara, and begged he would deſiſt from all future pretenſions to her. He bowed, was ſilent, and from that mo⯑ment avoided all occaſions of entertain⯑ing the young lady particularly.

THE evening before he left Albany he ſpent with me; and notwithſtanding an apparent depreſſion of ſpirits, his converſation was ſo agreeable and in⯑ſtructive, as to fill me with the deepeſt regret for the loſs of it.

I WAS at the fort the next morning, when he came to take leave of the fa⯑mily. [161] Miſs Bellenden, when ſhe ſaw him enter the room, whiſpered me ex⯑ultingly—

'THANK Heaven! the Preacher, (ſo ſhe always calls him) ‘is going to leave us.’

THE Colonel preſſed his hand affec⯑tionately, and expreſſed much concern at his leaving Albany; Mrs. Bellenden ſaid the civiliſt things in the world upon the occaſion. He addreſſed himſelf to Miſs Bellenden and Louiſa, with an eaſy po⯑lite air; but his compliment to Clara was confuſed, inarticulate, and accom⯑panied with evident emotion.

SHE curtſied low, with an air of deep reſpect, without once raiſing her eyes, or uttering a word. As ſoon as he was gone, ſhe withdrew, and was followed by a ſarcaſtic laugh from her eldeſt ſiſter, who is very angry that her triumphs are leſſened, by the con⯑queſts [162] made by this little girl, who poſſeſſes the power of pleaſing in a higher degree than any one I ever ſaw.

MR. C— is more pert than ever ſince the departure of Mr. Euſton, in whoſe company he had ſenſibility enough to appear awed and abaſhed. Mrs. Bellenden is continually giving him leſ⯑ſons of decorum, and he promiſes to practice them all, in hopes of pleaſing Miſs Clara, whoſe coldneſs and reſerve to him are increaſed ſince the abſence of his rival. He has made a formal ap⯑plication to the Colonel for his conſent to addreſs his youngeſt daughter; and was told, that he muſt firſt procure the appro⯑bation of his friends. This he immedi⯑ately ſet about, by writing to the Go⯑vernor, under whoſe direction he is placed, intreating him to propoſe the affair to his mother, and the Earl of H—, his uncle.

[163]THE Governor has taken no other notice of his requeſt, than to ſend or⯑ders for his leaving Albany immediately, and returning to New-York.

IN his Excellency's letter to the Co⯑lonel, upon this occaſion, he hints at the reaſon of his ſudden order. The Colo⯑nel anſwered with that noble frankneſs which marks his character; and gave him an account of the young man's ap⯑plication, and the anſwer he had thought proper to give him; treating the mat⯑ter, however, in ſo careleſs a manner, as gave him to underſtand, that he had ſcarce conſidered it as meriting any ſerious attention.

MRS. Bellenden charges the Gover⯑nor with unpoliteneſs on this occaſion, and want of due reſpect to her huſband; whoſe birth, ſhe hints, is equal if not ſuperior to that of the Governor; al⯑though he holds but the ſecond rank in the province.

[164]IT is certain, that the immediate or⯑der he ſent for the young man's leaving Albany, ſeemed ſuggeſted by a very unneceſſary caution, if we conſider the noble principles which influence all the actions, of Colonel Bellenden. His ge⯑nerous character could not be unknown to the Governor; and Mrs. Bellenden is, poſſibly, not much in the wrong, when ſhe inſinuates, that his extreme caution was the reſult of a thorough ac⯑quaintance with his own heart, which would not ſuffer him to be ſcrupulous, if an advantageous offer for one of his daughters was made him.

WHEN Mr. C— received the Governor's letter, he flew to the Fort, and entered Mrs. Bellenden's apartment with it open in his hand. She was be⯑ginning to condole with the diſappointed lover, when he interrupted her by ex⯑claiming, ‘Was there ever any thing ſo mortifying, Madam? here am I commanded to return to New-York; [165] and ſo I ſhall loſe the fine ſight you will have here ſoon. This meeting with the Indians muſt needs be very enter⯑taining, and would have afforded me ſomething to talk of, when I returned to England. I never will forgive the Governor for playing me this trick.’

MRS. Bellenden, amazed and con⯑founded at this new abſurdity, looked at him for a moment with great con⯑tempt.

'I KNOW not,' ſaid ſhe, at laſt, ‘whe⯑ther you will have any thing to talk of when you return to England, but I am ſure, whoever has ſeen and con⯑verſed with you, will have ſomething to talk of as long as they live.’

HE bowed with the moſt ſatisfied air imaginable; then begged permiſſion to wait upon Miſs Clara.

[166] ‘WHY, what have you to ſay to her, Sir?’ ſaid Mrs. Bellenden.

'SAY to her, Madam!' replied he, ‘why ſhe has heard, I ſuppoſe, that I am ordered back to New-York.’

'AND what then?' ſaid Mrs. Bel⯑lenden.

'WHAT then, Madam!' repeated he, ſtaring at her with ſigns of ſurpriſe.—

'THIS order does not affect her,' re⯑ſumed the lady, ‘ſhe will not loſe the fine ſight.’—She ſmiled.—The youth looked a little diſconcerted.

'To be plain with you, Mr. C—,' purſued ſhe, ‘Clara has received orders from her father, to ſee you no more. When your relations think proper to make any propoſals to Mr. Bellenden, it will then be time enough to conſi⯑der [167] whether we will accept them or not.’

SOME company coming in, prevented any further diſcourſe upon the ſubject. Mr. C— being to ſet out that af⯑ternoon, Mrs. Bellenden invited him to dinner; and as I was taking leave of her, ſhe followed me to the door of her apartment, and, in a whiſper, deſired me to take Clara home with me, and to tell her, ſhe was permitted to paſs the day at my houſe. This offer was highly acceptable, both to the young lady and myſelf. The ridiculous character of her lover afforded us great diverſion; and I could perceive ſhe was in tranſports at being thus freed from his addreſſes.

MRS. Bellenden has ſince told me, that Mr. C— had not the leaſt ap⯑pearance of a deſpairing lover all dinner time, where he eat very heartily, and talked a great deal of nothing, as uſual.

[168]THIS young man's volubility is really ſurpriſing. The reaſon Hudibras gives, why thoſe who talk on trifles ſpeak with the greateſt fluency, is, that the tongue is like a race-horſe, which runs the faſ⯑ter the leſs weight it carries; and Mr. C— never fails to diſtance all his opponents.

BUT ſcarce was the cloth removed, and the ſervants retired, when ſuddenly ſtarting up, he, with a melancholy ear⯑neſtneſs in his looks, begged the Colo⯑nel to give him audience for a few mo⯑ments in his cloſet—the Colonel com⯑plied. As ſoon as they were entered, he ſhut the door, and falling down upon his knees, with his hands claſped, and tears in his eyes, he implored the Colo⯑nel to give his conſent, that the chap⯑lain might marry hirn to Miſs Clara, be⯑fore he went away. The Colonel en⯑deavoured to raiſe him, and ſmiling, ſaid, he aſked a thing which his honour would not permit him to grant. But [169] to get rid of his importunities, told him, that if my Lord H— would write to him, and give his free conſent to his marriage with his daughter, he ſhould have liberty to ſee her; but as her free conſent was no leſs neceſſary, he muſt next endeavour to gain that.

THE young man, as if all difficulties were now removed, roſe up in a tranſ⯑port, kiſſed his hand, and returning to the room where he had left Mrs. Bel⯑lenden and her two daughters, took leave of them very politely; the Colo⯑nel accompanying him to the water⯑ſide, where he ſtaid till he ſaw him em⯑bark, on board the ſloop that waited for him.

YESTERDAY the arrival of the Gover⯑nor was announced, by the firing of the cannon of the Fort. The river was covered with the ſloops that carried his train, which was increaſed by a crowd of perſons, whom curioſity induced to [170] join them. Mrs. Bellenden took me in her coach to the water-ſide, to ſee the manner of his reception. His Excel⯑lency had reaſon to be pleaſed with Co⯑lonel Bellenden's attention on this oc⯑caſion; he had never been welcomed, it was ſaid, with equal diſtinction. I was ſtruck with this circumſtance, ſo much to the honour of our commandant. Mrs. Bellenden and her daughters were in raptures, when the Colonel, at the head of the troops, ſaluted the Governor as he paſſed. This ceremony, which is in itſelf very graceful, was performed by the Colonel with peculiar elegance, to which the dignity of his perſon and air greatly contributed.

THE Governor was attended by an immenſe crowd, to the houſe that had been provided for him; for he abſolutely refuſed to accept of an apartment in the Fort, for fear of incommoding the fa⯑mily. He took notice to thoſe about him, of the particularly honourable re⯑ception, [171] Colonel Bellenden had given him. And that he might not be out⯑done in generoſity, took the very extra⯑ordinary reſolution of paying him a viſit that ſame evening; accordingly, he ſlipped away from the obſequious crowd, and attended only by five or ſix gentlemen of his train, took his way on foot to the Fort.

I WAS walking with the ladies upon the ramparts, and the Colonel had juſt joined us, when the centinels at the gate, ſent to inform him, that the Go⯑vernor was coming up the Fort-hill.

THE Colonel immediately ordered the guard to turn out to receive him; but Mr. Blood, the lieutenant who mounted guard that day, was not to be found.

COLONEL Bellenden, who without conſi⯑dering his rank, thought only of paying the Governor the accuſtomed honours, [172] performed the duty of a lieutenant upon guard, headed the men himſelf, and ſaluted the Governor as he entered the gates.

MR. Mountague, ſurpriſed, ran up to him with ſome precipitation; and laying hold of his pike, which he him⯑ſelf gave into the hands of a ſoldier, em⯑braced him with the warmeſt expreſſi⯑ons of kindneſs and reſpect, and arm in arm they walked together into the houſe; where the Colonel introduced him to his wife and family.

THE Governor, who is a very well bred man, ſoon diſperſed, by the po⯑liteneſs of his compliments, the cloud upon Mrs. Bellenden's brow, who re⯑tained ſome reſentment in her heart againſt him, for the ſuppoſed ſlight they had received on Mr. C—'s account. His Excellency looked earneſtly at Clara, and ſingling her out, entered into ſome converſation with her. He [173] afterwards ſaid, to a gentleman in his company, who repeated it to Mr. Ne⯑ville, that he was ſurpriſed C—, who was a blockhead, had taſte enough to fall in love with her.

HE was willing, as it ſhould ſeem, to prove that he did not condemn his taſte; for when Mr. Blood, by the Colonel's orders, went to receive the watch-word from the Governor, the gallant old gen⯑tleman gave this young lady's name for the word; and, by his directions, the lieutenant repeated it aloud to the Colo⯑nel, before all the company, ſaying—

'SIR, the word is—Clara.'

THIS piece of gallantry produced different effects on the company; Mrs. Bellenden looked pleaſed, Miſs Bellen⯑den bit her lips almoſt through with ſpite, Clara bluſhed, all were ſurpriſed, but Mr. Blood thought proper to aſ⯑ſume a diſapproving ſneer.

[174]'YOUR Excellency,' ſaid the Colo⯑nel, ‘has paid a dangerous compliment to the ladies; remember, it was a woman that betrayed the capitol.’

'AYE,' replied Mr. Mountague, wiih a ſide glance at Mr. Blood, whoſe impertinent looks had not eſcaped his notice, ‘but it was a gooſe that ſaved it—You may depend upon your lieu⯑tenant, I ſuppoſe, Colonel?’

MR. Blood left the room, with fury in his countenance; and afterwards de⯑clared to Mr. Neville, that if Mr. Montague had not been commander in chief, he would have challenged him, for calling him, by implication, a gooſe. He continues violently out of humour, bluſters, and talks big.

MRS. Benſon diverts herſelf, and every one elſe, with the ſingularities of this doughty lieutenant. ‘The whole man,’ ſays ſhe, ‘as a wit once ob⯑ſerved [175] of ſuch another Drawcanſir, con⯑ſiſts only of a pair of black menacing brows, and two fierce muſtachios; and, therefore, utterly to defeat him, there needs only three or four clips of a pair of ſciſſars. It is not poſſible to be afraid of him in earneſt, for all his big looks.’ She thinks he hath choler enough, but does not believe he has any heart. She reckons him in the number of beaſts that are ſkittiſh and ruſty, but not furi⯑ous and dangerous. The Colonel told her, he had been often in the field. ‘I believe it,’ ſhe replied, ‘but then it has been rather to feed than to fight.’

LETTER XLI. MRS. NEVILLE TO MRS. HARLEY.

I NEVER go far from home without carrying with me materials for writ⯑ing, that I may ſeize every opportunity of converſing with you in idea, at leaſt; an employment which conſtitutes one of the greateſt pleaſures of my life.

WE arrived here, after a very plea⯑ſant journey, early in the evening. Lieutenant Granger came out to meet us, and conducted us to his little for⯑treſs, which we found a very ſimple ſructure. The town, or rather village, [183] (for ſo it is in appearance) conſiſts of a ſmall number of houſes, built in the Dutch taſte, and inhabited only by per⯑ſons who carry on a trade with our In⯑dian allies. —No language but Dutch is ſpoke here. There are ſome planta⯑tions pleaſantly ſituated, and the country about is romantic and pictureſque.

MRS. Granger is a Dutch woman, a little more poliſhed than her neigh⯑bours; an advantage which ſhe owes to the converſation and inſtructions of her huſband, who is a civil well bred man. She talks Engliſh tolerably well, and gave me all the information I could ex⯑pect concerning the place, the people, and the manner of living here.

OBSERVING that I ſighed two or three times during her diſcourſe, ſhe told me, that to be ſure, it was not ſo fine a place as Albany, and the people were not ſo rich, nor lived ſo grand, but that my huſband might ſave a great [184] deal of money here, and that you know, ſaid ſhe, is the chief thing to be con⯑ſidered in this world.

I COULD not help ſmiling at this re⯑mark, which ſhe took for a ſign that I underſtood the force of her argument perfectly well.

I DO not find that I ſhall be tempted to make any acquaintance here, unleſs it is with an old lady, of whom ſhe gave me this account; that ſhe is an Engliſh woman, the widow of an officer who once commanded here, and whom ſhe has ſurvived near twenty years.

'WHEN her huſband died,' ſaid Mrs. Granger, ‘ſhe reſolved never to leave the place, but to die here herſelf, that ſhe might be buried with him; ſo ſhe built herſelf a pretty little houſe near the ſkirts of the town, and lives upon her penſion and the profits of her negroes work: ſhe has four of them, and they [185] love her ſo well, that they think they can never work hard enough for her. But ſhe is a ſtrange ſort of a woman, for ſhe will take but half of their earn⯑ings; the other half ſhe lodges in ſafe hands, that it may be a proviſion for them when ſhe dies, when ſhe intends they ſhall be free.’

‘SHE has other odd fancies too; for when ſhe ſtands godmother to a child, as ſoon as it is three years old, ſhe takes it, whether boy or girl, and breeds it up till it is ten years old, teaching it Engliſh and French, and writing and accompts, for ſhe is very learned. She is never without one of theſe god⯑children in the houſe with her. My huſband thinks it a great favour when ſhe will allow him to viſit her, which is but ſeldom, for ſhe does not love company, and is never without a book in her hand; and every year ſhe has a cargo of them comes from New-York.’

[186]To meet with a perſon of ſuch a de⯑ſcription in this ſolitary place, is ſurely a fortunate circumſtance. I hope I ſhall not find her difficult of acceſs, for moſt eagerly ſhall I ſolicit her acquaintance.

MRS. Benſon and Mr. Neville are very buſy in projecting alterations and improvements in the houſe and garden. The ſecurity one derives from living in a fortreſs in this wild country, and among theſe ſavage inhabitants, con⯑tribute not a little to reconcile me to my ſituation; and, all things conſidered, my condition will not by the wiſe be thought bad.

WE have been here two days. Our hoſpitable hoſt is very unwilling to part with us, and preſſed us much to viſit the Falls of Cohas in his company. Accordingly, we ſet out the next morn⯑ing in a kind of covered waggon, in which our whole party was very well accommo⯑dated. We had clear uninterrupted [187] ſunſhine, not a cloud appearing above the horizon, and very little wind at all. However, when we came near the Fall, there was a continual drizzling rain, occaſioned by the vapours which roſe from the water during its fall, and was carried about by the wind, ſo that our clothes were wetted as if there had been a ſhower of rain. This cataract, which is in the river Mohawk before it falls into Hudſon's river, is ſaid to be very remarkable. Both above and below are ſolid rocks; the rock there, Mr. Granger told us, is three hundred yards broad. At the fall there is a rock croſſways in the river, running every where equally high, and croſſing in a ſtraight line with that ſide that forms the fall: it repreſents, as it were, a wall towards the other ſide, which is not quite perpendicular. The heighth of this rock over which the water rolls, ap⯑pears to be about four-and-twenty yards. We carried a cold collation with us, and dined very comfortably in [188] a hut, built for the accommodation of travellers, whoſe curioſity induces them to viſit this place; and got home early in the evening, ſufficiently fatigued with our journey.

LETTER XLII. MRS. BENSON TO MRS. HARLEY.

YOUR reproaches for our long ſi⯑lence would be juſt, had any thing but the ſevereſt of all calamities, pro⯑duced this ſeeming neglect. Your ami⯑able, and now unhappy friend, Madam, concluded her laſt letter to you in a ſtrain, not only of content, but joy. — Her will wholly reſigned to her preſent fortune, her heart glowing with the moſt delightful hopes of the future, ſhe was eager to communicate, to her be⯑loved friend, part of the tranſports that filled her breaſt. Ah! what a reverſe, in the ſpace of a few months, did ſhe [200] experience! But take the melancholy tale in order, ſince I have now acquired compoſure enough to give you all the circumſtances of it.

A FRIEND of Mr. Neville's, whom ſome private affairs had brought to New-York, accepted his invitation to ſtay a few days with us at Schonectady. Mr. Neville carried him to every place wor⯑thy his notice; the Falls of Cohas he had not yet ſeen, and a day was fixed upon for this little excurſion. Mrs. Neville would willingly have avoided being of the party, the little Maria not being yet weaned; but Mr. Neville having reſolved to take his ſon with him, the tender anxious mother would not ſtay behind.

ALL our party were in high ſpirits, except Mrs. Neville; her heart ſeemed to labour with ſome unknown oppreſ⯑ſion, her ſpeech was often interrupted with ſighs, an air of melancholy over⯑ſpread her face. I aſked her ſeveral [201] times, if ſhe was well: ſhe aſſured me ſhe felt no other diſorder, but a ſtrange tremor on her ſpirits, for which ſhe could not account.

OBSERVING Mr. Neville to appear diſſatisfied, at her being leſs chearful than uſual, ſhe endeavoured to diſpel the gloom that hung upon her, and met his contracted brow with her wonted ſmile of complacency.

I MARKED the painful effort—I ſaw the ſtarting tears that gliſtened in thoſe eyes, which ſhe turned upon him with an aſſumed chearfulneſs. Uneaſy and apprehenſive, I whiſpered, ‘My dear Euphemia, you are not well.’ ‘I am well, indeed I am,’ ſhe replied; ‘but my ſpirits are uncommonly low to⯑day, that is all.’

OUR gueſt having ſufficiently ſatis⯑fied his curioſity with the view of the cataract, our ſervants ſpread a cloth [202] upon the ruſtic table, in the hut where we had dined before; and a cold col⯑lation being provided, we all ſat down to it. But the keenneſs of that appetite, which I had borrowed from the air, and unuſual exerciſe, was inſtantly checked, when I perceived that Mrs. Neville could not eat, but trifled with her knife and fork, in order to eſcape obſervation.

THE gentlemen drank their wine pretty freely; meantime, my dear Eu⯑phemia, heavy from fatigue, and yet more with the unuſual weight that op⯑preſſed her mind, gave the ſmiling in⯑fant, that hong upon her breaſt, into Fanny's arms, who ſat next her; and reclining her head upon a moſſy pillow, fell into a profound ſleep.

MR. Neville now roſe up, and pro⯑poſed to his friend to walk into the woods, till the ſervants had dined, and the carriages were ready for our depar⯑ture. [203] They took little Edward with them, that his innocent prattle might not interrupt his mother's repoſe; and, attended only by Mr. Neville's own ſer⯑vant, they ſet out upon their walk.

MRS. Neville ſlept ſound and eaſy; I was happy in the hope, that this ſalu⯑tary reſt would reſtore her ſtrength and ſpirits. When Fanny ſaid, ſoftly, ‘Are you not ſurpriſed, Madam, that Mr. Neville ſtays ſo long?’ I had never thought of this circumſtance; I looked at my watch, and was aſtoniſhed to find it ſo late.

THAT inſtant Mr. Neville entered the hut; with wild impatience in his look and accent, he enquired if Edward was with us.

'WITH us!' ſaid I, trembling, ‘did he not go with you?’

[204]'OH! Sutton,' ſaid Mr. Neville to his friend, who had followed him, ‘my boy is not here!’

THIS exclamation was uttered ſo loud, that it awoke Mrs. Neville; her huſ⯑band ſeeing her open her eyes, ruſhed out of the hut, and was followed by his friend. Fanny and I remained mo⯑tionleſs; fear and amazement ſtrongly pictured in her face, and, I ſuppoſe, in mine; for Mrs. Neville, ſurpriſed at her huſband's abrupt departure, turned towards us to aſk the reaſon; but at the firſt glance, ſhe uttered a piercing ſhriek.

'AH! I underſtand thoſe looks,' ſaid ſhe, turning her eyes alternately upon Fanny and me; ‘ſome dreadful acci⯑dent has happened—My dear boy! my Edward! is he dead? Oh! tell me, I conjure you,’ purſued ſhe, claſping her hands together, ‘tell me the truth— is my child dead?’ Her ſupplicating [205] look and action, pierced my heart. 'Heaven forbid!' was all I could ſay. 'Then he is not dead,' ſaid ſhe; ‘Heaven by praiſed! I breathe again; from what agonizing pangs am I re⯑lieved! Oh! if you knew what I felt in that dreadful moment of ſuſpence, which realized all the ſtrange forebod⯑ings that have tortured my imagina⯑tion this day.’

Mr. Neville's ſervant that moment appeared at the door, and rolling his eager enquiring eyes about the place, exclaimed—

‘OH! he is not here! he is loſt! I ſhall go mad!’

MRS. Neville ſtarting up, cried, ‘who is loſt? —My child! tell me—’

'OH! detain me not, Madam,' ſaid he, for ſhe held him by the arm; ‘let me go in ſearch of him, I will find [206] him, or never return.’ He broke from her looſened hold; ſhe ruſhed out after him, with a diſtracted pace. Un⯑able to follow her, I received the ſleep⯑ing infant out of Fanny's arms, who flew after her miſerable miſtreſs, and both were in an inſtant concealed from my ſight by the impervious woods.

THUS deſolate, alone, my heart torn with anguiſh, expecting every moment to hear of ſome new calamity, no crea⯑ture of whom I could make any inqui⯑ries, for all our people had diſperſed themſelves about the foreſt in ſearch of the dear loſt boy; trembling leſt the baby ſhould awake, and preſt by wants I had no means of ſupplying, rent my afflicted heart with its tender wailings, I abandoned myſelf, I own it, I aban⯑doned myſelf, for a few moments, to deſpair.

REFLECTION at length returned, and brought with it ſober councils.

[207]'Is this,' ſaid I to myſelf, ‘the part of a Chriſtian, to ſhrink thus meanly in the hour of trial? where is that confidence in the goodneſs, that reſignation to the will of God, which, till I was called upon to exert, I thought I poſſeſſed? Alas! in health and happy days, it is eaſy to talk of put⯑ting our truſt in God; we readily truſt him for life when we have health, for neceſſaries when we have compe⯑tence, and for deliverance when we have eſcaped from any danger; but when dangers aſſault, when calamities op⯑preſs us, we forget that he is powerful to ſave, and compaſſionate to relieve.’

I PURSUED this train of thought; and every moment, as a pious reſignation gained upon my ſoul, I bleſſed, I adored the ſacred power of religion, that could thus produce good out of evil, and make my preſent affliction the means of attaining eternal happineſs.

[208]THE calm uninterrupted ſleep of the infant, afforded in my altered mind, matter for gratitude and praiſe; for how could I have ſtilled its cries, or procure proper food for it in this deſert, unuſed, as it had hitherto been, to any nouriſh⯑ment but its fond mother's milk. —It ſlept, while I wept over it with tender⯑neſs, and prayed with ſervor.

AT length I heard the ſound of ſteps; I turned my eager eyes, my beloved Eu⯑phemia appeared, Mr. Sutton and her faithful Fanny ſupporting her. Now quick, now ſlow, was her flaultering pace; her countenance pale as death; her eyes, one inſtant raiſed to Heaven with ſupplicating tears, the next in wild deſpondence fixed on the ground; her cloſed hands wringing each other as if ſhe would burſt their ſinews.

SHE threw herſelf on the bank beſide me, without uttering a word; one ten⯑der glance ſhe caſt upon her ſleeping in⯑ſant [209] in my arms, then burſt into a flood of tears.

MR. Sutton begged her to compoſe herſelf if poſſible, ſaying, he would go again into the woods, and never give over his ſearch, till he could bring her ſome news of her ſon. He went away inſtantly; and I took occaſion from his laſt word, to draw ſome motives of con⯑ſolation for her.

‘OH! do not amuſe me with falſe hopes,’ ſaid ſhe; ‘I ſhall never more ſee my child. He is, doubt it not, he is a prey to ſavage beaſts, or ſavage men, ſtill worſe than beaſts. Oh! thou delight of my heart and eyes, was this the fate to which thou wert born? —Mangled—torn—devoured—’

AT this ſad thought ſhe ſhrieked aloud, and ſunk lifeleſs into Fanny's arms. With difficulty we recovered [210] her; but it was but for a moment; ſucceſſive fainting fits made us tremble for her life.

STILL I indulged ſome gleams of hope, that the ſweet boy might yet be found. But when Mr. Neville returned, his frantic looks proclaimed the irremida⯑ble calamity.

'HE is loſt!' groaned he out, ‘he is gone! —for ever gone!’

'AH!' cried I, 'ſee here,' pointing to his wife, who lay pale and motionleſs on Fanny's knees. —He gazed on her for a moment—

'WHAT is to be done?' ſaid he; ‘tell me, adviſe me.’

'BY all means,' ſaid Mr. Sutton, ‘let Mrs. Neville be carried home; place her in the carriage, thus inſenſi⯑ble [211] as ſhe is; believe it, when ſhe re⯑covers ſenſe and thought, it will be difficult to get her from hence.’

THIS, in the ſad extremity to which we were reduced, was the beſt thing that could be done. Fanny got into the coach, and received her, ſtill faint⯑ing, in her arms; I placed myſelf op⯑poſite to them with the child, whoſe ſleep ſeemed, by Providence, to be pro⯑longed for our comfort.

MR. Neville declared he would not leave the place, but continue his ſearch till he found his ſon dead or alive. His friend ſtaid with him, and the unhappy ſervant to whoſe care the child had been entruſted.

THIS man, in his looks and beha⯑viour, expreſſed the moſt poignant re⯑morſe and agonizing grief; accuſing him⯑ſelf, with floods of tears, as being the cauſe of what had happened. It ſeems the [212] little boy, tired with walking, deſired to ſit down under a tree, till his father and Mr. Sutton, who choſe to go further, re⯑turned; William ſat down with him. Overcome with the heat, and lulled by the daſhing ſound of the cataract, which may be heard at a great diſtance, they fell aſleep.

THE man awakening, miſſed the child; and not yet much alarmed, ſup⯑poſing he had only ſtrayed a few paces from him, called him ſeveral times aloud, and ran about in ſearch of him. Not finding him, his fears increaſed; he wandered through the woods, ſtill call⯑ing him in vain: then fondly hoping, that he ſhould meet him, perhaps, in the place where he had ſo unfortunately fallen aſleep, he returned thither; but inſtead of the child, ſaw Mr. Sutton and his maſter, who were looking for them.

[213]MR. Neville ſeeing him alone, ex⯑claimed, with an eager look and tone, 'Where is Edward?' The man, con⯑founded, terrified, amazed, anſwered not a word. Mr. Neville, in a tranſport of fear and rage, ſeized him by the col⯑lar, and giving him a violent ſhake, 'Raſcal,' ſaid he, ‘have you loſt my ſon?’

'OH! Sir,' cried the trembling wretch, ‘the child, tired with walking, fell aſleep upon my knees; unhappily, I dropt aſleep likewiſe, and when I waked, he was gone; I have been in ſearch of him ever ſince.’

MR. Neville, now worked up almoſt to a delirium of fury, drew his ſword, and had not Mr. Sutton held his arm, the poor fellow had fallen a victim to the tempeſt that raged within his ſoul.

'LET us go in ſearch of your child,' ſaid his friend to him; ‘let us take dif⯑ferent ways.’

[214] ‘WHAT, hope of finding him ſafe in theſe wild woods!’ ſaid the ſighing fa⯑ther: ‘Ere this he is become a prey to ſome furious animal, or ſome human ſavage. —My fears diſtract me.’

WITH a furious pace he ruſhed into the thickeſt of the woods, calling his ſon. Mr. Sutton took a different path; as did the weeping ſervant. Alas! all were unſucceſsful.

THE motion of the carriage, aided by ſome drops that Fanny applied, at length brought Mrs. Neville out of her faint⯑ing fit. With her ſenſes, recollection —dreaful recollection! returned. She appeared not to conſider where ſhe was, or whither ſhe was going, but groaned as if in the agonies of death. I begged her not to baniſh hope; that there was at leaſt a poſſibility the child might be ſafe; that Mr. Neville and his friend were ſtill in ſearch of him; that en⯑quiries would be made at every farm⯑houſe [215] for many miles around, and that ſo many perſons would be employed in ſeeking him; that we were ſure of hav⯑ing ſome intelligence.

'COULD you think it poſſible,' ſaid ſhe, ‘that I ſhould ever be ſo tranſ⯑cendently miſerable as to wiſh I may hear my boy is dead by a fall, by a ſudden fit, or that he is drowned; but, oh! to have him torn in pieces by wild beaſts, or mangled by thoſe ſavage hunters of men, who, when hunger preſſes, devour their ſpecies. —Can I think that this is his fate, and not be mad? Talk not to me of hope. —Oh! when I think what my child has ſuffered, and is, perhaps, ſuffering now!’ —Again her ſpirits, her ſenſes forſook her. Scarce did it ſeem charity to uſe any efforts to recover her from this ſtate of inſen⯑ſibility.

[216]IN theſe temporary deaths, from which our cares reſcued her only to fall into them again, was this melancholy journey paſſed. At length we reached the Fort; we carried her up to her chamber, we put her to bed; a violent fever ſeized her; her ravings ſhewed the horrid images that filled her imagi⯑nation.

SOMETIMES ſhe fancied ſhe ſaw her ſon in the paws of a wild beaſt; ſome⯑times ſprawling upon the lance of ſome ferocious Indian, writhing in the ago⯑nies of death. Her cries, her heart⯑rending complaints, filled all who heard her with the deepeſt anguiſh. Mrs. Lawſon ſhared in all my ſorrows and all my fatigue on this ſad event.

FROM the Bellenden family we experienced every effort of tender ſym⯑pathizing friendſhip. A very ſkilful phy⯑ſician was, by their means, brought [217] from New-York. He gave us little hope, and her death was hourly ex⯑pected.

MR. Neville returned, after an ab⯑ſence of eight days, which he had ſpent in inceſſant wanderings, with beating heart. We crouded round him as ſoon. as he appeared:-''Tis all over,' ſaid he; ‘there is no more room for hope or fear—my boy is dead.’

'THE manner,' cried I, almoſt breathleſs with terror— ‘tell us the man⯑ner of his death.’

'HEAVEN be praiſed!' ſaid he, ‘that was not ſo horrid as I feared — he was drowned—he had ſtrayed too near the river, he fell in. A countryman, (for William has not been heard of ſince) ſaw the lifeleſs corſe of the dear in⯑nocent carried away by the ſtream.’ — A burſt of grief here ſtopped his ſpeech for a moment; then recovering— ‘Tell [218] me your tale of horror now,’ ſaid he; 'my wife, where is ſhe?'

MRS. Lawſon with ſome caution in⯑formed him of her condition, and would have prevented him from going into her chamber, but the phyſician was of opi⯑nion that the ſight of him might have an effect very contrary to what we fear⯑ed. She had known none of us for ſe⯑veral days, and ſtill continued to rave, and paint thoſe horrid ſcenes that filled her tortured imagination.

MR. Neville juſt ſhewed himſelf. She ſtarted—ſhe ſcreamed—he retired. She roſe up in her bed, and eagerly drew back the curtain.

'WHERE is he?' ſaid ſhe; ‘did I not ſee him?’

'WHO, my dear Euphemia,' ſaid I, 'who did you ſee?'

[219]'MY huſband,' ſhe replied; ‘where is he gone? why will you not let him come to me?’

TRANSPORTED at this inſtance of her returning reaſon, I called to him to ap⯑proach. She ſeized his hand with an eager preſſure—

‘HAVE you found his mangled limbs?’ ſaid ſhe: ‘have you buried him? Was he, Oh! tell me, was he not devoured?’

MR. Neville was ſilent, not knowing what to ſay to her, when the phyſician interpoſed—

'TELL her the truth,' ſaid he; ‘the truth will be leſs dreadful than the horrid ideas that poſſeſs her fancy.’

'MY dear Euphemia,' ſaid Mr. Ne⯑ville, ‘be patient, be reſigned — our child was drowned.’ — She pauſed a [220] moment; then looking earneſtly at him —

'You ſay he was drowned,' ſaid ſhe; 'are you ſure of it?' The phyſician whiſpered— 'Say you ſaw him dead.'

'ALAS!' ſaid he, ‘I am too ſure of it.’

'Now then I may weep,' ſaid ſhe, after a pauſe of a moment— ‘now I may grieve; it is ſorrow now, before it was diſtraction. Oh! my dear boy, you are dead, I ſhall never ſee you more; but you was not devoured.’ She threw her arms about my neck as I was leaning over her; and hiding her face in my boſom, burſt into tears.

OH! how I bleſt the ſalutary ſhower; and, although I felt that the ſtrong agony of ſorrow ſhook her whole frame as I held her in my arms, yet, while her tears bedewed my boſom, I was chear⯑ed [221] with the hope of a favourable change in her diſtemper.

FATIGUED at length, and almoſt fainting, her head ſunk upon her pil⯑low, ſhe cloſed her eyes, and but for the frequent ſighs that forced their way, we ſhould have thought, her dead.

THE phyſician, who had cauſed a compoſing medicine to be prepared for her, now gave it her himſelf. She ſwallowed it without uttering a word or opening her eyes, and ſoon afterwards fell into a profound ſleep, that laſted ſeveral hours.

THIS firſt ſymptom of her amend⯑ment was followed by others that con⯑firmed our hopes. When ſhe awoke ſhe knew us all; deſired to ſee the little Maria, who had been conſigned to Fanny's care, and was perfectly well. She kiſſed and bleſſed her; ſpoke with great tenderneſs to her huſband, and [222] thanked Mrs. Lawſon for her friendly attention. To me ſhe ſpoke not, but held my hand faſt claſped in hers, and ſometimes preſſed it to her lips. She often ſighed, and I could obſerve tears ſteal down her cheeks continually.

IN this calm ſilent ſorrow ſhe remain⯑ed ſeveral days; meantime her fever abated faſt; the phyſician pronounced her out of danger; and all we had now to do, he ſaid, was to endeavour to recruit her ſtrength and ſpirits. Mrs. Bellen⯑den came herſelf to fetch her to Al⯑bany; and it ſeemed to be the chief bu⯑ſineſs of the whole family to ſoothe, to comfort, and amuſe her.

PATIENT now as ſuffering infancy, and full of devout reſignation, her grief is calm, ſedate, and ſilent; but ſtill ſhe grieves. She has loſt her uſual chear⯑fulneſs, but the ſenſiblity of her heart is increaſed; always tender and com⯑paſſionate, ſhe is now more ſo than [223] ever, and feels for the woes of others as if ſhe had none of her own to lament.

I LOVE, I admire her if poſſible more than ever. Well has it been ſaid, that adverſity is the ſhining time of the wiſe and good. None are more miſerable than thoſe who never experienced cala⯑mity; how can it be known whether they be good or bad? Such virtues as are only faculties and diſpoſitions, de⯑ſerve little praiſe; but every act of vir⯑tue has in itſelf the principles of its own reward.

SUCH arguments as theſe I preſſed upon my dear Euphemia, when I apprehend⯑ed her grief for the loſs of her ſon would exceed the bounds her good ſenſe and piety ſeemed to preſcribe to it. I put her in mind of the noble ſtand ſhe made againſt immoderate ſorrow, when ſhe loſt her excellent mother; a loſs that was followed by many cruel diſappoint⯑ments and mortifications.

[224]'ALAS!' ſhe replied, ‘it is but an accidental fortitude we can boaſt, when we bear misfortunes ſo unequally. I know—I feel my weakneſs, but I am not able to overcome it.’ The ſighs and tears that accompanied this con⯑feſſion, proved its truth.'

'No affliction, my child,' ſaid I, ‘is greater than deſpair; it turns a natural evil into an intolerable one, and con⯑ſtitutes the puniſhment to which the wicked are condemned.’

WHEN I found a calm and ſteady re⯑ſignation take the place of that poignant anguiſh which had ſo long filled her heart: When I ſaw her return to her uſual employments, if not with equal vicacity, yet with an air ſerene and com⯑poſed: When I ſaw her cares for the little Maria give full employment for her maternal tenderneſs, without any of thoſe ſad retroſpective thoughts which uſed to caſt a damp upon the pleaſure [225] ſhe received from the innocent careſſes of this lovely child: then my hopes of her returning peace were confirm⯑ed. I congratulated her upon a change, ſo ardently deſired by her friends, ſo ſalutary for herſelf. Never ſhall I forget her look and accent when ſhe thus anſwered me: —

‘MY dear Mrs. Benſon; thoſe who will not ſuffer their portion of miſery here, deſerve to be ſomething leſs than human, but nothing better.’

THUS, Madam, have I fulfilled the ſad taſk my ſituation impoſed upon me, of giving you this ſad narrative. You will weep—you will mourn for the ſufferings of your amiable friend; but when you have paid that tender tribute to her misfortunes, remember, that ſhe is no longer in the firſt paroxiſms of her grief; that while your imagination repre⯑ſents her ſinking beneath their weight, reaſon and religion have produced that [226] reſignation, which philoſophy teaches, but which true piety alone can reach.

THAT heaven may preſerve you from ſuch ſevere trials, is my firſt and ardent wiſh; that your fortitude and patience may be equal to her's, my next. I am, with great truth, Madam, your faithful humble ſervant,