LETTER I. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

YOU deſire me to be very parti⯑cular during my ſtay at Bath, in giving you an account of the gallantries carried on at this celebrated theatre of pleaſure; as if there could be any thing in the cuſtomary round of amour ſufficiently intereſting to a man of ſenſe; or, as if I had nothing in nature to do [2] but to play the impertinent Argus upon all my acquaintance, merely to have the mighty pleaſure of writing inceſſantly to the worſhipful Charles Melmoth, Eſq.—and no other inclination, but to feaſt that philoſophic ſenſualiſt with ſtories of contented cuckolds and perfidious lovers, together with the long liſt of romantic girls, who place the warmth of their conſtitution to the account of deſtiny, and kindly curſe the poor ſtars when their Strephons become ſurfeited.

Indeed, Charles, I have too much buſineſs on my own hands, to trouble myſelf with the affairs of other people—therefore, unleſs you are determined to be ſatisfied with ſuch caſual intrigues as I engage in myſelf—my correſpond⯑ence will be ſcarcely worth reading to a fellow of your eternal curioſity.—That this, however, may not diſpirit you too much, you may recollect what a propenſity I have to be particular with [3] every woman who is fool enough to admit of my familiarity;—therefore, in this precious ſpot, as there is likeli⯑hood enough of employment, you may now and then, probably, receive ſome accounts ſufficiently intereſting to keep you from yawning in your great chair after dinner—a cuſtom which will at laſt make you ſhare the fate of the famous Charles Johnſon, who, if we may credit Mr. Pope, fell an abſolute martyr to obeſity.

I was interrupted in my lettter by a card from lady Haverſham, deſiring me to be at tea in the afternoon; and, inti⯑mating that there were ſome very hand⯑ſome young ladies to paſs the evening with her: an inducement which, ſhe ſaid, would ſecure her the pleaſure of my company; for ſhe juſtly enough obſerved, that the circumſtance of her being my ſiſter might render me other⯑wiſe [4] indifferent about the invitation.—You know well enough, Melmoth, what pains I always take in the decoration of my outſide; and you have a thouſand times ſworn that I am the moſt egre⯑gious coxcomb in the kingdom.—Per⯑haps I am—and yet, between ourſelves, I have always found this coxcombry of infinite ſervice, not only among the women, but among the very men, highly ſoever as the generality of them ſeemed to deſpiſe an attention to the elegance of externals: how often have I chuckled, when you and I walked together in the ſtreets, (you in a ruſty black frock, and I perhaps in a magnificent ſuit of em⯑broidery) to ſee, notwithſtanding all your contempt of dreſs, with what an unceaſing aſſiduity you kept hold of my arm, and endeavoured, upon the merit of your companion's coat, to be thought a man of conſequence by the vulgar—In proportion to the ſhabbineſs of your [5] own appearance, you thought yourſelf obliged to make a benefit of mine; and, how frequently have you ſwelled up with an air of the moſt conſcious im⯑portance, when ſome ſhopkeeper has ob⯑ſerved, with an audible voice, that there was no doubt, for all the ruſtineſs of your coat, but what you were ſomebody, or you would never be ſo familiar with ſo well dreſt a gentleman—Ah Melmoth, Mel⯑moth, you philoſophers are actuated as much by vanity as the moſt mincing fop⯑ling in the univerſe—Your very contempt of appearance is the abſolute reſult of your pride, tho' you would willingly put it down as the conſequence of your ſenſe or the effect of your humility; and I am per⯑fectly ſatisfied that Diogenes in his tub was fifty times a greater coxcomb than Alexander, though the puppy ridiculouſly affected to look down on the conqueror of the world, and miſtook for an exalted emanation of ſoul what was nothing but [6] a deſpicable ſally of impertinence.—All this, Charles, you will poſſibly ſay is very true, but at the ſame time I am rather apprehenſive you will tell me it is very dull alſo.—I ſhall therefore conſult your amuſement in preference to your inſtruction, and for once ſuffer ſober ſen⯑timent to make room for flimſey narra⯑tive.

Well then, about ſeven o'clock I dreſſed myſelf in a very elegant ſuit of blue velvet embroidered with ſilver, and went in a chair to my ſiſter Haver⯑ſham's; where I found a large company of both ſexes; and, in juſtice to the in⯑timation contained in her card, I muſt acknowledge that I never ſaw a group of handſomer women in my life—One in particular engaged my utmoſt atten⯑tion, whom I ſoon found to be LOUISA MILDMAY, of Oxfordſhire,—the cele⯑brated toaſt, who, though no more than [7] twenty-one, has made the whole county a thouſand times drunk; and occaſioned four duels, in which two hot-headed blockheads were actually killed, and a third ſo diſabled, by a wound in his hip, as to be doomed for life to crutches and repentance.

As I had often heard of this young lady's beauty, and was moreover told that ſhe affected an inſenſibility to the moſt engaging efforts of gallantry; I reſolved to exert my utmoſt abili⯑ties in hopes of making ſome little impreſſion on her boſom; as I conſi⯑dered that it would greatly add to my character among the women if I could poſſibly ſucceed with one, who was looked upon by both ſexes with an equal mixture of envy and admiration.—Actuated by this motive, my buſineſs was to work upon her pride without exciting her reſentment; and to ſhew [8] that, irreſiſtible as ſhe had hitherto proved, there was one man who could nevertheleſs behold her with indifference.—I therefore behaved to her with all the politeneſs of the moſt diſtant civi⯑lity, while I ſung, chatted, and romped with little Harriot Townly; and paid, in ſhort, a much greater degree of at⯑tention to every other woman in the room.—The women, all highly delight⯑ed with the preference which was thus given them by a well dreſt young fellow, with a title and a large eſtate, in a manner devoured me; Harriot Townly in particular hung about me the whole evening; and, had it not been for the regard which I entertain for her brother, I do not know how far I might be tempted to carry my civilities.

As I was by much the beſt dreſt, and, without any compliment to myſelf, by much the likelieſt, fellow in the [9] room, Louiſa could not ſee this palpable neglect of her beauty without the moſt ſenſible mortification; accuſtomed to be worſhiped as a kind of divinity where⯑ever ſhe appeared, it was a moſt diſtreſſ⯑ing circumſtance to find her inferiors in beauty treated with a preferable degree of reſpect; and, probably, ſuppoſing that I ſhould have fallen an inſtant con⯑queſt, like a number of others, the diſ⯑appointment doubled her chagrin; and I could eaſily perceive that ſhe caſt ſeveral glances of a mingled anger and con⯑tempt at your poor friend, as if ſhe equally ſaw through my purpoſe and deſpiſed it.—Be this however as it may, I retired early to give the ladies an op⯑portutunity of talking about me; and the next morning went to breakfaſt at lady Haverſham's, on purpoſe to hear from my ſiſter, what was ſaid after my departure the preceding evening.

[10]Being ſhewn up, who ſhould I ſee, to my very great ſurprize, at the tea⯑table, but Miſs Louiſa—ſhe was alone with my ſiſter, and ſeemed ſomewhat confuſed at my appearance; all this, you know, had a very good ſign, and gave me an additional cauſe to purſue a plan of operation which already wore ſo probable a face of ſucceſs.—I therefore bowed with the coldeſt air of re⯑ſpect, and, with an inattention not alto⯑gether the moſt mannerly, entered in⯑to ſome trifling diſcourſe with my ſiſter, ſcarcely ever opening my lips to Louiſa; though ſhe kindly encouraged me, by ſome occaſional ſmiles at what I ſaid, to make her a party in the conver⯑ſation.—Gueſſing pretty clearly that, if I took my leave, I ſhould have ſomething worth liſtening to in the afternoon, I wiſhed the women a good morning, and went away with telling lady Haverſham, [11] that I ſhould poſſibly call in on her be⯑fore I went home to dreſs.

As you have heard ſo much about Miſs Mildmay, Charles, I ſhall now proceed to do what I ought to have done ſomewhat ſooner; that is, to give you a deſcription of her perſon, and an account of her family.—With regard to the firſt, ſhe is to the full as tall as Mrs. Yates of Drury-lane theatre, and has a ſenſibility of countenance, which we hardly ever meet where features are ſurprizingly regular—Her eyes are full, black, and languiſhing—her hair is as black as her eyes; and, from the preſent mode of dreſſing, appears to ſo much advantage, that, was ſhe poſſeſſed of no other perſonal attraction, it would be almoſt ſufficient to procure her a croud of admirers—Her forehead is finely open, and inconceivably white; and the two exquiſite arches which are formed [12] by her brows, give ſuch a dignity to her looks, that none but an impudent fellow like myſelf could poſſibly ſee her with⯑out an inſtant veneration—As to her mouth, I never ſaw any thing ſo raviſh⯑ing—The reſy ripeneſs of the lips, while it captivates the eye, receives additional beauties from the delicious poutingneſs of their formation; ſo that they riſe with an equal charm both to the ſight and touch; and ſeem no leſs calculated to excite emotion, than to reward it—Her teeth are remarkably even—but they have not that milky whiteneſs which I have obſerved in beauties of leſs eminence—They have to me, however, a colour which exceeds it—They have a certain pearlineſs ſo uncommonly clear, that you can in a manner ſee through them; and this I fancy is not only neareſt to the genuine caſt of nature, but the beſt deſigned alſo for duration. Miſs Louiſa is one of thoſe delightfully formed [13] women, whom a Muſſelman in a phrenſy of devotion would ſuppoſe to be a daughter of paradiſe—With the niceſt harmony of proportion, there is a vo⯑luptuous fleſhineſs through her perſon, which keeps the imagination continually on fire, and would kindle the boſom of an anchorite into an inſtant flame of ſenſuality. Some people, when they talk of beauties, prepoſterouſly ſuppoſe that a fine woman muſt be ſcarcely fatter than the figure of Time over the mo⯑nument of general Hargrave—for my own part I am fond of ſome fleſh and blood about the bones Charles, and would even, of the two evils, rather pay my addreſſes to an Egyptian mummy than to an abſolute ſkeleton. Miſs Mildmay, however, ſo far from ſuffering the leaſt diſadvantage through this ple⯑nitude of perſon, acquires new charms from it; it gives a majeſty to her air which beſpeaks your veneration; and [14] blends all the elevation of dignity with all the tenderneſs of love.—Add to this, that there is a ſomething in the very tone of her voice which indicates the woman of condition, and gives you a ſuppoſition of rank before you re⯑ceive the moſt diſtant account of her family.

As to her family, it is not more antient than reſpectable—She reckons among her anceſtors on the father's ſide, the great Sir Philip Sidney; and her mother is deſcended from a branch of the immortal Hampden, who ſo reſo⯑lutely oppoſed the infamous oppreſſions of that rapacious tyrant Charles the Firſt.—Her father poſſeſſes, at preſent, a good four thouſand pounds a year; her only brother has a company in the guards, and is univerſally eſteemed a very fine gentleman.

[15]Notwithſtanding the advantages which Miſs Mildmay derives from family and fortune, her education however has rather been ornamental than uſeful; and ſhe is much better calculated for her preſent character of a toaſt, than for the neceſſary employment of miſtreſs to a family—She ſpeaks French and Italian—plays on the harpſicord and the guittar; and ſings with an exquiſite ſhare of taſte, though ſhe has leſs body to her voice, than you would imagine from the melody and fulneſs of her tones in common converſation.—Theſe accom⯑pliſhments, nevertheleſs, though they are generally as much as our young women of diſtinction poſſeſs now a days, are but very trifling matters when we come to enquire about a well informed mind, and a ſtability of principle.—The men are not, in fact, ſuch fools, my dear Melmoth, as the ladies may ima⯑gine; we love that they ſhould under⯑ſtand [16] French and Italian; and we liſten with pleaſure when they either ſing us a ſong, or favour us with a tune upon an inſtrument.—Yet theſe are all but ſecon⯑dary conſiderations:—After marriage, the ornamental parts of their education, like the beauties of their faces, very quickly leſſen in our eſteem—and nothing maintains its ground but ſterling ſenſe and real virtue.—A woman, therefore, who ſtudies to be the univerſal paſſion, is rather a dangerous character for a wife—Compoſed, in a great meaſure, of affectation and levity, her principal ſtudy is to pleaſe thoſe who are labour⯑ing to deſtroy her; and the only perſon whom ſhe declines to oblige is the un⯑fortunate poor devil who is continually ſolicitous to promote her felicity.—For theſe reaſons, when I marry, I ſhall look out for a woman whoſe mind has been improved in ſome proportion with her perſon—If mere externals were able to [17] captivate me, I do not know a lady in the world whom I would ſooner think of than Miſs Mildmay—But this rage for admiration, which I fear abſorbs all her faculties, forbids me to entertain any thoughts of ſettling with her for life—I could by no means bear the imputation of imaginary infidelity in my wife; and Caeſar himſelf could not be more delicate in this reſpect, when he ſaid That it was not enough for his wife to be virtuous, ſhe muſt be unſuſpected alſo.

When I look back upon the uncon⯑ſcionable length of this letter—I wonder how I found inclination to write ſo much; if, however, you find inclination to read it, I ſhall not think my time miſapplied, ſince I am, dear Melmoth,

LETTER II. Sir ROBERT HAROLD, in Continuation to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

PURSUANT to the intention which I had intimated of calling in upon my ſiſter Haverſham before dinner, I took but a turn or two round the rooms, and then went back to her houſe, where I had the good fortune of finding her alone; a circumſtance which afforded me a proper opportunity of making the neceſſary enquiries after Louiſa. As you know my ſiſter is a woman of great ſentiment and delicacy, I was obliged to begin in a round⯑about manner, and therefore careleſsly obſerved that we had a very agreeable party the preceding evening.

‘Why Bob, ſays ſhe I ſhould ſcarcely ſuppoſe that to be your real [19] opinion, by the hurry in which you took leave of the company—But pray what was the actual reaſon’ (and here ſhe looked with a peculiar ſignificance of feature) ‘that robbed us ſo early of a man devoted to the ſervice of the ladies—I was in hopes your com⯑plaiſance to them would have detained you a little longer, if you were in⯑fluenced by no regard for me—But I can gueſs—I know that conſum⯑mate vanity of your's too well not to think you were laying out ſome freſh baits for the fooliſh women who honoured you with ſo peculiar a di⯑ſtinction—You wanted to give them an opportunity of talking about you after you were gone; and are now come to hear the whole ſubſtance of their converſation, from a ſiſter, who can keep nothing a ſecret from you, notwithſtanding ſhe is acquainted [20] with the licentious turn of your diſ⯑poſition, and heartily laments it.’

"My dear lady Haverſham," return⯑ed I, ‘how can you poſſibly treat me with ſo much ſeverity?—Buſineſs of the moſt preſſing nature forced me from you laſt night; and this morn⯑ing, to convince you, that nothing but the reſult of a brotherly affection induced me to call—.’

"Ah, Bob, Bob," interrupted ſhe, ‘don't I know you?—Or, if I did not—the deſign is too palpable to elude the eye of a common penetration.—But, be that as it may, what do you think of Louiſa Mildmay?’

"Think of her lady Haverſham!—

‘Ay, think of her lady Haverſham—Come, come, I ſaw, under all that [21] gallantry which you threw away on the other ladies laſt night, that your deſign was in a great meaſure to pique her—Had ſhe been wholly in⯑different to you, you would have treated her with common civility—But I ſaw, and I ſaw with pleaſure, that at the very firſt ſight ſhe made an impreſſion, which I hope in a little time will be attended with the moſt ſalutary conſequences.—The truth is, my dear Bob, I can never be happy while you remain unmarried—the continual exceſſes into which you are hurried by an unfortunate ſpirit of gallantry, fill me with a perpetual regret; you know I love you with a tenderneſs, perhaps, as great as ever ſiſter felt for a brother—and am doubly ſenſible of all your accompliſhments.—It therefore cuts me to the ſoul when I ſee a young fellow of your merit proſtituting thoſe talents in the [22] deſtruction, as well as of his own hap⯑pineſs, as the happineſs of other people—which might be rendered equally creditable to himſelf and advantageous to ſociety.—On this account, I have been, for ſome time, looking out for a woman whoſe beauty might be able to ſecure your affection—whoſe merit might be able to engage your eſteem; and whoſe family might be able to give you an encreaſe of conſequence in your country.—Theſe very deſirable requiſites I find will be all anſwered in a union with Louiſa Mildmay—What ſay you then, my dear Bob—can you, for once, turn that fine ſenſe of which I know you maſter, to the certain means of eſtabliſhing your real happineſs; or will you ſtill perſiſt, in oppoſition both to your reaſon and your humanity, to proſecute ſuch courſes as you cannot view without [23] contempt, nor conſider without de⯑teſtation.’

‘Upon my word lady Haverſham,’ replied I ‘you would make an admira⯑ble’—"Come, come, Bob," returned ſhe, ‘don't endeavour to ridicule an argument which you are unable to anſwer; nor, by an untimely affectation of wit, attempt to leſſen the credit of your own underſtanding.—Anſwer me therefore directly to the queſtion—What do you think of Miſs Mild⯑may?’

I do not know how it was, Melmoth, but the good ſenſe, and unaffected tenderneſs, of this amiable ſiſter, at that moment threw me off my guard—By the exertion of an irreſiſtable frankneſs, ſhe rendered me as ingenuous as herſelf; and I candidly told her that I thought Louiſa one of the moſt charming women [24] I had ever ſeen; adding however, at the ſame time, that I fancied ſhe poſſeſſed rather too great a conſciouſneſs of her own accompliſhments to think of do⯑meſticating into the miſtreſs of a fa⯑mily.

Lady Haverſham to this replied, that I was entirely miſtaken—that Louiſa was at the bottom a woman of fine ſenſe, and would make an admirable wife whenever ſhe altered her condition.—"I will not indeed," ſays lady Haver⯑ſham, ‘take upon me to ſay, that a young creature ſo univerſally admired can be entirely exempted from a little female vanity—You men are ſtrange contradictions; you are for ever en⯑deavouring to fill all the ſilly girls of your acquaintance with a thouſand ri⯑diculous notions of their own beauty; and yet the moment you ſee this in⯑fiduous train of flattery take fire, you [25] deſpiſe them for their vanity, with⯑out once good naturedly recollecting that this vanity is principally occaſion⯑ed by yourſelves—As to Miſs Mild-may, if you have no other objection, I promiſe you there is but little to ap⯑prehend on this account—When her affections become once directed to a particular object, her fondneſs for ad⯑miration will naturally ceaſe: ſo that, with her regard for the man ſhe marries, joined to the ſenſe which ſhe muſt en⯑tertain of her duty, there can be no doubt but what ſhe will perform all the offices of a wife with the ſtricteſt pro⯑priety: at leaſt this is my opinion of her, and I dare ſay you are convinced, that, unleſs ſhe ſtood very high in my eſteem, I ſhould not be ſo earneſt in recommending her to your tendereſt conſideration.’

From the ſolicitude which my ſiſter diſcovered in this affair, Charles, I was [26] half inclined to think that the beautiful Louiſa was already actually ſtruck with my perſon and addreſs; and had in⯑ſinuated ſomething to my advantage during her viſit in the morning. I there⯑fore dropt a diſtant hint of this nature, and, with an air half gay and half ſerious, enquired of lady Haverſham, whether ſhe thought there was any hope of Miſs Mildmay's concurrence in caſe a treaty ſhould be opened between the two fa⯑milies.—To this lady Haverſham re⯑plied, that I muſt firſt declare myſelf a lover, before ſhe could think of giving me any ſatisfactory anſwer on this head; that, was ſhe even poſſeſſed of ſecrets, ſhe would not ſacrifice a lady's delicacy to any conſideration; and wondered how I could think of participating in her con⯑fidence while I held her at ſuch a diſtance from mine.—Upon the whole, ſhe believed Miſs Mildmay might perhaps be diſengaged; and that, if I [27] really entertained a paſſion for her, ſhe did not ſee why I had a worſe chance of ſucceeding than any body elſe.

This, Charles, is the preſent ſituation of affairs—I have ſince been twice in company with Louiſa, and find the young baggage every moment growing on my imagination.—I don't know how it is—Matrimony has a frightful ſound with it, and yet I am determined ſome time or other to be married—We are all however for putting the evil day as far off as poſſible—At what parti⯑cular period my knot is to be tyed I know not; but I fancy the period is not very remote, for every time I think of Miſs Mildmay I begin to be more re⯑conciled to the reaſonableneſs of the mar⯑riage ceremony.—By and by, perhaps, I ſhall call it, in my ſiſter's language, a holy inſtitution; and think of beſpeak⯑ing ſome ſuch clumſey varlet as your⯑ſelf [28] to ſtand godfather to one of my children.

Egad, Charles, the plot, as Bays ſays, begins to thicken.—Mr. Mildmay and his lady are juſt come to Bath, with a view of taking their daughter home in a week, ſo that what I do muſt be done ſpeedily—Upon my ſoul I did not con⯑ceive how near this girl was to my heart till I was alarmed with the news of our ſpeedy ſeparation.—Lady Haverſham's whole ſoul, I am ſenſible, is in the affair—and you need not be informed what a tenderneſs I bear for that amiable ſiſter.—You ſee, Charles, how I want to make a merit of following my own in⯑clination.—But adieu, my dear boy—I am preparing to attend the adorable Louiſa to an aſſembly this evening, where I ſhall have her for a partner.—How all the fellows will envy my hap⯑pineſs, [29] Melmoth—eſpecially as I ſhall ſeize ſome favourable opportunities of whiſpering ſuch a ſtory in her ear, as will add conſiderably more than the nature of our entertainment to heighten the beauty of her complexion.

LETTER III. Miſs LOUISA MILDMAY to Miſs HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

THE ſweet fellow, my charming friend, has at laſt declared him⯑ſelf—and in ſuch a manner!—Well, if I was at firſt ſtruck with the elegance of his figure, I am now raviſhed with the beauties of his converſation; and ſhall think myſelf the happieſt of all human beings, if an alliance can be fortunately brought about between our families.

In my laſt letter I told you what a very warm intereſt I have with the counteſs of Haverſham his ſiſter; and that ſhe had ſounded him in relation to his ſentiments of me, without giving him the leaſt intimation of my having any knowledge of her deſign.—The [31] obliging counteſs executed her com⯑miſſion with the utmoſt delicacy and addreſs, and eaſily diſcovered that all the attention which he paid to that Miſs Townly, the firſt night of our ac⯑quaintance, was nothing more than the cuſtomary effects of his vivacity—She alſo diſcovered that he thought me in⯑finitely handſome; (that was his very word) but ſhe feared he would ſtruggle as much as poſſible with his inclina⯑tions, as he ſeemed to think it unlikely I ſhould have ſtill retained my heart, in the midſt of ſuch numberleſs admi⯑rers (her ladyſhip was pleaſed to ſay) as were every day ſoliciting the happineſs of my hand, and applying for the intereſt of my father—However, ſhe was good-naturedly ſtudious to make parties to bring us together, and laſt night he danced with me at a ball, which was given by the French ambaſſador, highly to the mortification, not only of that [32] Miſs Townly, but of ſeveral other ladies, who had flattered themſelves with the hope of engaging him for a partner.

During the whole courſe of the even⯑ing he ſcarcely attended to any thing but the means of obliging me.—In a thouſand little circumſtances he mani⯑feſted both his tenderneſs and his deli⯑cacy; and in a thouſand delightful whiſpers inſinuated ſuch well turned compliments, as nothing but affectation itſelf could poſſibly be offended with—Whenever he touched my hand he was ſeized with ſo exquiſite a tremor as went to my very heart; and the envy which he viſibly excited in the boſom of almoſt every other woman in the room, gave him ſuch an additional charm, that he appeared as much an Oroondates to my fancy, as if I had been a heroine in ſome romance, and was [33] but newly delivered from the dungeon of a mercileſs giant, in conſequence of his proweſs and magnanimity.

I have before told you that the firſt time I ever ſaw Sir Robert Harold, was at the playhouſe here; and that the chaſ⯑tiſement which he there publicly be⯑ſtowed on two young officers, who rude⯑ly puſhed a lady down, and ſeemed rather inclined to defend than to apolo⯑gize for their brutality, was what rivetted him in my affection—Yet Harriot, were you to ſee the dear fellow, you would be charmed with him—In his perſon he is tall—but not ſo tall as to be inelegant in the leaſt, nor ſo much inclined either to the extremes of corpulence or deli⯑cacy, as to be awkward on the one hand, or effeminate on the other; in ſhort, the medium is ſo happy as to give the cleareſt idea imaginable of man⯑lineſs and grace; and his legs are ſo [34] admirably formed—Indeed, Harriot, I don't believe there is a finer made man in the univerſe.

As to his face there is no poſſibility of doing it juſtice in the deſcription.—You may perhaps imagine that I am on this occaſion actuated by the par⯑tiality of a giddy headed girl, who, having once confeſſed herſelf enamour⯑ed of a man, thinks it abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary, for the credit of her taſte, to paint him as the invariable ſtandard of per⯑fection.—Indeed, Harriot, I have no neceſſity to be under ſo ridiculous an influence—Sir Robert is ſo much the every thing I could wiſh him to be, that exaggeration would be as uſeleſs as it is impoſſible; and only betray the exceſs of my weakneſs, without adding in the leaſt to the credit of his attrac⯑tions.—His face, however, my dear, is diſtinguiſhed with a certain energy of [35] expreſſion, that throws out a whole ſoul upon every feature; and darts ſuch an immediate meaning upon your boſom, that, had he been actually born dumb, he might have been ſet down as one of the firſt converſationiſts in the kingdom. Add to this, that there is an inherent ſtamp of condition in his air, which in⯑dicates the man of faſhion, and, at firſt ſight, no leſs engages your eſteem than it excites your admiration—His com⯑plexion is a dark brown—but ſo deli⯑cate.—His eyes are of a deep black; but replete with ſuch ſweetneſs and fire, that, though he kills you in a manner with a glance, he throws an elyſium on the wound, and leſſens every ſuffering of your ſenſibility with an extacy un⯑utterable.—Do, Harriot, laugh at my flight if you pleaſe—but remember the time is arrived, when even my ſweet friend, with all her gravity, can be in over head and ears, and therefore ſhe ſhould [36] allow for the hyperboles of other doat⯑ing girls, by the allowances which are neceſſary for her own.—One word more about externals and I have done.—You know I am a paſſionate admirer of fine teeth—Sir Robert has a moſt ex⯑quiſite ſet; and they are always ſo white—that nothing can equal their beauty, in my opinion, but the lips which encloſe them.

You have thus, my dear Harriot, a faint ſketch of Sir Robert Harold's ex⯑terior accompliſhments.—As to other matters, his education is finiſhed; his fortune is extremely large; his courage approved, and his underſtanding un⯑queſtionable.—He has indeed taken ſome extraordinary liberties among the women; but where a man poſſeſſes ſo many attractions, he muſt frequently meet with extraordinary encouragement—and if women will be fools, it is but [37] reaſonable they ſhould be ſufferers.—There is a part of his character which I know my dear Harriot will be highly taken with; and that is, though he is a great admirer of magnificence, he always makes it a rule to live conſiderably within his fortune, and to diſtribute many ſums towards the advancement of his poor tenants, which the moſt of our modern fine gentlemen injudiciouſly ex⯑pend in horſe-racing, or in ſome other faſhionable amuſement equally inhuman and ridiculous. His benevolence, in this reſpect, joined to the moſt condeſcending affability, has rendered him the idol of all his inferiors in the country; and, for a circuit of twenty miles round his ſeat in Devonſhire, there is ſcarcely a peaſant who would not venture his life for Sir Robert Harold with the utmoſt chearfulneſs.—Before ever I ſaw him, Harriot, I was delighted with his character—ſo that it was no wonder, when I did ſee him, if [38] my heart paid an honeſt tribute to his merit, and paſſionately longed for a ſhare of his regard.—Well, but to the point—

This morning he came, about twelve, to enquire after my health and to pay the cuſtomary compliments; my papa and mamma were fortunately at a concert in the rooms, and the dear man had a whole hour at leaſt to entertain me on a ſubject, which few women, you know, whether they like the lover or not, ever think diſagreeable.—He was in a moſt charming undreſs, and looked ſo ſweet⯑ly!—You may be ſure, my dear, the nature of his converſation did not take, in any great degree, from the force of his perſonal accompliſhments.

After politely repeating his acknow⯑ledgements for the honour I had done him the preceding evening, he drew [39] his chair cloſe to mine, and, with an addreſs inconceivably tender, took up one of my motionleſs hands, preſſed it with an uncommon degree of fervor to his lips, and thus went on, delicately looking down the whole time, to pre⯑vent, as much as poſſible, the confuſion into which I muſt be naturally thrown by the tendency of his declaration.

[43]Well, Harriot, and what do you think now—had not I an aſtoniſhing command of myſelf never once to in⯑terrupt him during ſo long an addreſs?—I really think I had—but, ſome how, he was ſo reſpectful, and ſo manly; ſo deli⯑cately timid, yet ſo generouſly impor⯑tunate; that, for the life of me, I could not ſay a ſyllable by way of reply.—A man of leſs breeding would have been inſolent at ſeeing me ſo confuſed; would have rudely ſtared me in the face, and endeavoured to read the ſentiments of my heart in the various changes of my countenance—perhaps too he would have expected one of my beſt curt'ſies; and imagined that I ought to bid him go, in polite terms, to my father. Sir Robert Harold, my dear Harriot, is a lover of quite a different ſtamp—the more en⯑couragement he meets, the more re⯑ſpectful he appears; and interprets your ſilence into a meaning ſo refined, [44] as prevents the leaſt violence from reaching your ſenſibility.—Pray Heaven, Harriot, I do not prove too fond of him—But, my dear girl, adieu for the preſent—and believe me to be, with the moſt unalterable attachment,

LETTER IV. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

WELL, Charles, I am juſt this inſtant come from the old gen⯑tleman—he and I came to an agreement in a moment; and he was ſo highly delighted with my propoſal, that he even threw in a much greater addition to the girl's fortune than I could in conſcience have expected—He has been a ſaving cloſe fiſted codger, he tells me, theſe thirty years; and has had ſome conſiderable windfalls from his wife's family; he therefore can afford to give his daughter a good forty thouſand pounds, as he has no other child but his ſon, who will be amply provided for by the family eſtate, and other valuable contingencies—and thus, Charles, is your friend in the high road to ma⯑trimony; a month from this day is ſet [46] apart for the celebration of the nuptials—and the old gentleman has inſiſted upon my paſſing the laſt fortnight of that term at his houſe in Oxfordſhire.

When we had thus agreed about ſetting the lawyers immediately to work, and providing the wedding cloaths, I was introduced in form to Louiſa; who, to do her juſtice, was ſcarce a remove from a divinity—Her naturally fine complexion was deepened with a moſt enchanting glow of conſciouſneſs; and the delicious ſenſibility that ſwam in her charming black eyes, gave her, in my opinion, an air which rendered her wholly irreſiſtable.—She received my ſalute with dignity, yet with conde⯑ſcenſion; and the obliging old people, very properly judging their abſence would be infinitely more agreeable than their company, withdrew in a little time, and gave me an opportunity of thank⯑ing [47] her in the moſt paſſionate terms for making me the happieſt of mankind.—She was pleaſed, I could plainly ſee, with my emotion—yet ſhe laboured under all that diſtreſs which a delicate woman is ſure to feel upon the proſpect of ſo important a change in her condition—I therefore took my leave as ſoon as poſſible, to give her an opportunity of recovering her ſpirits, but not before I had previouſly obtained her permiſſion to drink tea with her in the evening.

And now, Charles, that the affair is thus far adjuſted, let me honeſtly open my whole heart to you—I ſcarcely care a ſingle ſixpence whether or no it be ever brought to a concluſion.—My marriage with this young lady is rather the reſult of my conviction than the conſequence of my choice—and I find my vanity infinitely more gratified in running away with ſuch a prize from a [48] crowd of contending admirers, than my happineſs promoted in obtaining it for myſelf. With all my turn for diſſipation, I am nevertheleſs thoroughly ſatisfied that, till a man becomes domeſticated, he never can enjoy an hour of real content.—The pleaſures which ariſe from an unlimitted courſe of amour, even where a man is beſt received, never compen⯑ſates for the trouble he is obliged to un⯑dergo in the proſecution; and he has this conſtant mortification to check the tide of his tranſport, that the woman to whom he is moſt ſtrenuouſly attach⯑ed is frequently entitled to his abhor⯑rence, and always to his contempt—In proportion as ſhe adds to his pleaſure ſhe muſt ſink in his eſteem; for before ſhe can manifeſt a compliance to his wiſhes, ſhe muſt burſt through every reſtraint of decorum and delicacy, and ſacrifice all regard to her own character and the honour of her family.—A [49] woman thus loſt to ſentiment is below the conſideration of any ſenſible man—therefore the ſooner we get out of this uncomfortable track, the ſooner we lay a probable foundation for our own happi⯑neſs.—I am now eight and twenty years old, Melmoth, and it is high time for me to think of getting ſons and daugh⯑ters for myſelf, inſtead of waſting my time to increaſe the families of other people—Beſides, I am weary of ventur⯑ing my life every moment to gratify the licentious diſpoſition of a pack of women, who are more deſpicable in my opinion, and leſs attached to my perſon, than many of the mercenary poor creatures, whom I can purchaſe for a couple of guineas and a trifling treat at the tavern.—All theſe conſiderations put together, induce me to think marriage a very deſirable inſtitution;—and, as I never knew what it was to be heartily in love, I think I have as fair a chance for [50] felicity with this beautiful girl I am en⯑gaged to, as with any body elſe.—My reaſon, to ſay nothing of my vanity, therefore is much more concerned in the affair than my inclination. Before I was ſure of her, I really felt ſome anxi⯑eties on her account—but now I am pretty certain both of her heart and her perſon, I almoſt begin to ſhudder at the approaching alliance, notwithſtand⯑ing my abſolute conviction of its pro⯑priety.—Such unaccountable creatures are we, Melmoth; impatiently burning for what we find it difficult to enjoy; and ſickening with apprehenſion the moment we get the bleſſing in our reach.—There is no deſcribing my preſent ſituation to you; I am the ſtrangeſt compound of contradiction in the whole circuit of creation, and am one minute ready to reject what the next appears moſt eſſential both to my honour and my happineſs.

[51]Lady Haverſham has juſt now done a very obliging thing with her uſual tenderneſs and delicacy; ſhe had pro⯑miſed to drink tea with me in the even⯑ing at Louiſa's—and was to call on me in her chariot at ſeven for that purpoſe—but being prevented by the intruſion of ſome unexpected viſitors, ſhe ſent one of her footmen to me with a little box, ſealed up in a large ſheet of paper, which contained a ſuit of diamonds to the value of five thouſand pounds—they were accompanied by the following note, which I aſſure you gave me every whit as much ſatisfaction as the preſent itſelf.

The jewels, Charles, are elegant to an exceſs—and I purpoſe carrying them to the amiable girl in the evening; I dare ſay we ſhall have a delicious tete a tete—for the old people, as their ſtay is to be ſo ſhort in Bath, have a variety of en⯑gagements on their hands. What a pity it is, my dear friend, that our fancy will not always obey the dictates of our reaſon—Do you know now that I would give a thouſand pounds to be heartily in love with Miſs Mildmay; the match is really ſo deſirable in itſelf, and my ſiſter appears ſo ſtrenuous for its taking place, that I am actually concerned to [53] find myſelf ſo little influenced by inclina⯑tion—Yet I don't know, upon the whole, but that thoſe marriages are the beſt cal⯑culated for felicity which have the leaſt of paſſion in their commencement: I have ſeen a multitude of people venturing their necks to come together, who, a month after their union, would venture their necks for a divorce with an equal degree of alacrity.—One thing I am aſſured of, Charles; which is, that, if I do not make a fond huſband, I ſhall at leaſt make a good natured one.—I flatter myſelf that hitherto I have ſhewn no great want either of humanity or manners; and, let me tell you, that a man of this caſt is much more likely to make a woman happy, than he who ſets out upon a romantic ſtock of rapture, and is much too exalted a lover to be ſatisfied merely with content. The generality of men, by expecting too much in their marriages, ridiculouſly ſacrifice thoſe bleſſings which [54] the ſtate is really capable of affording; inſtead of a rational tranquility they are buoyed up with a continual notion of tumultuary tranſports; and imagine, if they do not find their wives ſomething more than goddeſſes, they muſt be ſomething leſs than women. In like manner the women look for as much courtſhip after the union as before it: accuſtomed to an intoxicating round of fulſome adulation, they really believe themſelves the wonders we repreſent them; and think it ſurprizing that we ſhould relax in the leaſt from that profound adoration with which they have all along been ſo reſpectfully di⯑ſtinguiſhed. Thus both parties being led to expect too much, as I have al⯑ready ſaid, each is unhappily diſappoint⯑ed, and good-naturedly aſcribes to the other thoſe very uneaſineſſes which actually proceed from the folly of its own imagination. Hence a thouſand [55] jealouſies and altercations take their birth; and hence poor matrimony under⯑goes a thouſand cenſures from its want of power to make a couple of fools happier than is conſiſtent with the lot of humanity, or the narrowneſs of their own underſtandings.—But adieu, dear Charles—it is high time to dreſs, and I am determined to be as much as poſſi⯑ble with Louiſa, in hopes that the num⯑berleſs attractions which ſhe poſſeſſes may make me fairly enamoured, againſt the celebration of our nuptials. I am, honeſt Melmoth,

LETTER V. M [...]ſs HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to Miſs LOUISA MILDMAY.

IF poſſible, my charming friend, I ſhall be down with you in Oxfordſhire by the day which I hope will make you the happieſt of women; and I wiſh with all my ſoul I could get my mama's permiſſion to go down ſooner, as I do not at all approve of truſting you ſo much in company with a man of whom you are ſo paſſionately fond, till the ceremony takes place. You tell me that you and he ſit up for hours together, and enjoy the moſt exquiſite tete a tetes after the family are in bed—Take care, my deareſt Louiſa, take care; theſe tete a tetes are very dangerous things to a woman of your circum⯑ſtances; and an inſidious lover might, in [57] ſome unguarded moment, reap ſuch an advantage from them, as ſhould make my ſweet friend an abſolute dependant on his mercy, both for happineſs and reputation.

Do not imagine, my dear girl, that I am here inſinuating any improper doubts of your diſcretion; I know you have as much prudence as any young woman in England—but, believe me, Louiſa, I ſhould tremble for any young woman in England whom I ſaw in your circumſtances. Your lover is a man endued with every art of perſuaſion and every advantage of perſon—he is in a few days to be your huſband; and, from the nature of his connexion, as well as from the exceſs of your tender⯑neſs, muſt poſſeſs the moſt unlimited ſhare of your confidence. If, therefore, in ſome unhappy moment, he ſhould be uncommonly importunate for an antici⯑pation [58] of his happineſs, my beautiful friend might find it difficult to withſtand his ſolicitations; the tenderneſs of her heart might poſſibly prevail over the force of her underſtanding; and, to eſtabliſh a momentary repoſe in his boſom, ſhe might, perhaps, with a mad⯑neſs of generoſity, deſtroy the everlaſt⯑ing tranquility of her own.

Of all the ſtages in a woman's life, none is ſo dangerous as the period be⯑tween her acknowledgement of a paſſion for a man, and the day ſet apart for her nuptials. Her mind, during that in⯑terval, is ſuſceptible of impreſſions un⯑uſually tender; and the happy lover is admitted to a number of familiarities, which are in themſelves the ſtrongeſt temptations. Without any premeditat⯑ed deſign, he is frequently inflamed by the unreſerved ſoftneſs which his miſtreſs aſſumes in the unſuſpecting confidence [59] of her heart; and, unable, perhaps, to reſiſt the impetuoſity of his wiſhes, he endeavours to make the moſt of his op⯑portunity. Secure of pardon, even if he gives the moſt palpable offence, he pro⯑ceeds with boldneſs to the accompliſh⯑ment of his purpoſe; and too many have been the unhappy young women who found themſelves undone, before they entertained even a diſtant fear of de⯑ſtruction.

It is no uncommon circumſtance among the men, my deareſt Louiſa, to try how far there is a poſſibility of car⯑rying their power over a believing woman; and, greatly as they ſeem to be obliged by the ſacrifice which we make them, I do not imagine there was ever a caſe in which one of them liked us the better for ſo convincing a proof of our affection—whereas, on the contrary, [60] we have numberleſs inſtances where that very proof has excited their diſguſt, and induced them to caſt us off ‘Like a deteſted Sin,’ as poor Monimia ſays, to the irreparable injury both of our peace and our charac⯑ters. Even where our permitting a lover to anticipate the rights of a huſband no way interrupts the treaty of marriage, ſtill it leſſens us ſo much in his opinion, that he ever after ſuſpects our fidelity, and imagines that what proceeded en⯑tirely from a paſſionate regard for him⯑ſelf, was the actual reſult either of le⯑vity or conſtitution. This ſingle ſuppo⯑ſition is of itſelf ſufficient to imbitter all the ſweets of the hymenaeal union; to blaſt all the roſes round the pillows of love, and to plant perpetual thorns in their ſtead.

[61]Excuſe me, my deareſt Louiſa, for my anxiety on this occaſion—By my un⯑eaſineſs judge of my friendſhip, and be aſſured you are no leſs tender than hap⯑pineſs or honour to the boſom of your

LETTER VI. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

‘FINAL deſtruction ſeize on all the world!’ —Perhaps, Melmoth, there is not a fellow this moment exiſt⯑ing ſo compleatly miſerable as I—I have ſucceeded, fatally ſucceeded, with this amiable wretch, and both of us muſt bid adieu to happineſs for ever.

In my laſt letter I told you how this beautiful woman had entirely conquered all my indifference by the ineffable ſweetneſs of her manner; and that I now longed for the day of our mar⯑riage with as much impatience as if I had from the firſt been paſſionate⯑ly ſmitten. The little ſeparation from her after her departure from Bath, gave an inconceiveable ſpur to my inclina⯑tion; [63] and the bewitching air of ſoftneſs with which ſhe received me on my going down to her father's, ſo com⯑pleatly did the buſineſs, that I wondered at my own ſtupidity in being ſo long inſenſible of her perfections.

The good old people, notwithſtand⯑ing they ſeemed highly delighted with my company, nevertheleſs, through an injudicious degree of tenderneſs both to me and their daughter, took every op⯑portunity of leaving us together; na⯑turally enough ſuppoſing that we ſhould be beſt pleaſed to be left to the unin⯑terrupted enjoyment of each other's con⯑verſation; after ſupper, particularly, they withdrew to their own apartment ſo early, that Louiſa and I had at leaſt three or four hours to the good before we could reaſonably think of retiring. I need not tell you, Melmoth, that when two young people are left together for [64] any length of time, that ſome familia⯑rities will paſs, though even both are actuated by the beſt inclinations. Would it not, for inſtance, have been ſurprizing if, circumſtanced as I was with Louiſa, I had ſat with her for two or three hours, without ever raviſhing a kiſs, preſuming to ſink upon her neck, or attempt to claſp her in my arms, when ſhe even condeſcendingly acknowledged how ten⯑derly ſhe loved me? Would it not alſo have been equally ſurprizing had ſhe re⯑pulſed thoſe little effuſions of tranſport at the very inſtant that they were excit⯑ed by her own confeſſion, and, in a manner, authorized by the conſideration of the union which was ſo ſhortly to take place? A contrary behaviour would have been as unnatural as it was impoſſi⯑ble; and virtue neither expected nor re⯑quired more than the reſtriction of our tranſports within ſome ſenſible bounds.

[65]But alas, Melmoth, who can ſtrike a line to the paſſions, or pretend to tell the impetuous tide of youth, ‘go no farther than this’ —For my own part, as I ſhall anſwer it before God, I never in my life was more diveſted of ſiniſter deſigns—I conſidered Louiſa in quite a different light from any of thoſe women with whom I had formerly trifled; and ſet her down as a lady, whoſe reputation was immediately connected with my own—I ſaw her, beſides, the only daughter of an honourable family, which it would be unpardonable to diſgrace; and the friendſhip which my ſiſter entertained for her, was a circumſtance of itſelf ſufficient to have prevented me even from once thinking about the poſſibility of attaining her upon any terms that were not ſtrictly honourable.

You have often, my dear Melmoth, called me the moſt ſentimental libertine [66] you ever knew; and once, in a converſa⯑tion with my ſiſter Haverſham, aſſured her, notwithſtanding all my follies, that I was above laying any unmanly ſchemes for the ſeduction of innocence; in this you did me nothing more than juſtice—You yourſelf know that, in one half of my amours, the advances were ſo palpable on the wrong ſide, that there was no creditable method of getting off, even had I been the moſt ſanctified pu⯑ritan in the kingdom.—You will, there⯑fore, naturally credit my account, and believe that I am infinitely above any diſingenuous attempts either to palliate or diſguiſe my part in this unfortunate tranſaction.

I had been now a full week down at Louiſa's, and company from various places was impatiently expected to attend at the approaching ſolemnity; when, laſt night, ſhe and I ſitting, as uſual, [67] to enjoy all the delicious nonſenſe, which generally makes up the principal part of love converſations, we happened acci⯑dentally to mention a ſuit of night cloaths which ſhe had juſt received from London, and which, ſhe ſaid, became her exceſſively; as I expreſſed a deſire to ſee them on her, ſhe retired immedi⯑ately to her room, and, in about a quarter of an hour, came down ſo irreſiſtably raviſhing, that I was no longer my own maſter. Imagine to yourſelf, Melmoth, with all your boaſted apathy of diſpoſi⯑tion, a woman, ſuch as I have repeated⯑ly deſcribed Miſs Mildmay, dreſſed in a flowing robe of white ſattin, with her fine black hair hanging careleſsly down her neck; and every thing in the moſt volup⯑tuous diſorder—Imagine this, I ſay, and tell me honeſtly whether you could have beheld her without emotion?—If you could, you muſt either be ſomething more or leſs than human—For my part I was [68] mere fleſh and blood—I ſnatched her to my boſom with a phrenzy of the moſt paſſionate admiration, and almoſt ſtifled her with kiſſes—The extatic tender⯑neſs with which ſhe received my em⯑brace entirely deſtroyed my recollection; and a curſed ſopha lying moſt conve⯑niently ready to aſſiſt the purpoſes of my raſhneſs, I proceeded from liberty to li⯑berty till ſhe was actually undone.

The guilty triumph thus compleated, we were both in an inſtant perfectly ſen⯑ſible of our indiſcretion—Louiſa ſtalked to her chair with a mingled air of the moſt fixed aſtoniſhment and diſtreſs, and preſerved a profound ſilence for ſome minutes, till, at laſt, unable to endure the conflict in her boſom any longer, ſhe hid her face in a handkerchief, and gave looſe to a violent flood of tears. For my own part, Melmoth, I was equally tortured by ſhame and regret—for the [69] firſt time in my life, I felt ſuch a morti⯑fication at ſucceeding with a fine woman, that I could not for the ſoul of me ſay a ſyllable of comfort to her. The mi⯑ſeries which I eaſily foreſaw muſt ariſe from this unfortunate lapſe, crouded at once upon my imagination; ſo that that conqueſt which, at another time, perhaps, would have been the higheſt gratification to my vanity, now ſerved only to wound my ſenſibility, and to fill me with the moſt poignant diſtreſs.

The wretched Louiſa ſtill continuing fixed with her elbows on her knees, her head ſupported by her two hands, and her face covered with her handkerchief; I walked over to her chair in a ſtate of united anguiſh and irreſolution—bleed⯑ing for what I ſaw her ſuffer, yet fearing to offer her the ſmalleſt conſolation—However, inſtinctively dropping upon one knee, I begged ſhe would be com⯑poſed, [70] and aſſured her that what had happened rather enhanced than leſſened my affection; and that, as I was her huſband in every thing but the cere⯑mony, there was no offence whatſoever committed againſt virtue—Form, I obſerved, was alone what we had violat⯑ed; and, as the ſecret was entirely con⯑fined to ourſelves, there was little occa⯑ſion either for confuſion or regret.

We are all of us, my dear Melmoth, ready enough to believe what we wiſh may be true; and poor Louiſa, though ſhe could not be convinced by the force of my reaſonings, nevertheleſs attempted to be chearful; ſhe wiped her charming eyes therefore, and ſeemed delighted at the reſpectful attitude in which ſhe be⯑held me, for I ſtill continued on my knee, and endeavoured, by all the little tenderneſſes in my power, to raiſe her [71] into credit with herſelf—I talked fami⯑liarly about the wedding day, called her my wife in the moſt melting accent I could poſſibly aſſume; and, at intervals, took the liberty of chiding her anxiety as an equal doubt of my honour and my love—At laſt, I ſucceeded pretty well in re-aſſuring her: ſhe ventured to look up with an air of ſome confidence, condeſcended to play with my fingers, and even once went ſo far as to honour my hand with her lips—I need ſcarcely inform you what the conſequence was—The tide of paſſion was in an inſtant ſwelled up to the cuſtomary height—and every impulſe of recollection was again ſwept away upon the couch.

Such, Melmoth, is the preſent ſitua⯑tion of affairs between Louiſa and your unfortunate friend; what to do I know not—You are not to be told how ro⯑mantically delicate I am in my notions [72] about women.—It is with me a fixed principle, that the ſame woman who ſuffers even the man ſhe doats upon to diſtraction, to take advantage of an un⯑guarded moment, will have her un⯑guarded moments with other people—Paſſion will, in all probability, often ſupply the want of inclination; and the ſame warmth of conſtitution which ori⯑ginally betrayed her into an indiſcretion with him, is but too likely to make her guilty of indiſcretions with every body elſe. How frequently, Charles, in the keeneſs of appetite, have I, where more agreeable diſhes were not immediately at hand, fallen greedily up⯑on ſuch fare as actually turned my ſtomach when I came to conſider it? Women, like ourſelves, are only fleſh and blood—deſires are as natural to them as to us, and who can take upon him to ſay, when the favourite object of their wiſhes is at any diſtance, but [73] what neceſſity may immediately meta⯑morphoſe a piece of coarſe beef into an abſolute ortolan?

This, you will poſſibly obſerve, is bringing a general charge againſt the ſex, and ſuppoſing that there is no ſuch thing as virtue exiſting in any indivi⯑dual of the whole—An opinion of ſuch a nature is what I am neither baſe enough nor weak enough to adopt—Coxbomb as I may be in ſome reſpects, and greatly as my vanity has been flat⯑tered by ſucceſs among the ladies, ſtill I was never one of thoſe fellows who thought the ſex univerſally depraved—On the contrary, I dare ſay there are thouſands who are capable of reſiſting the deepeſt ſubtleties of the moſt plauſi⯑ble deſign—But where we have ourſelves experienced the frailty of a woman, it is natural enough to form an idea upon what we know; and reaſonable enough [74] to judge, from her behaviour in one or two circumſtances, what her conduct is likely to be in all.

After a declaration of this kind, you may probably imagine that I do not intend marrying Miſs Mildmay, not⯑withſtanding the treaty has been carried ſo far between the two families; you are, however, much miſtaken. Greatly as this unhappy affair has ſunk her in my opinion, I ſhall nevertheleſs pay a rigid attention to the ſanctity of my word—But though I ſhall behave with juſtice, I ſhall alſo act with candour.—I ſhall in⯑form her how utterly impoſſible it will be for her ever to recover my confidence after what has paſt; and if ſhe is weak enough to accept my hand while I make a poſitive avowal of my contempt, why, ſhe muſt abide by the conſequence.

This morning ſhe came down to breakfaſt with an encreaſed degree of [75] beauty, if it is poſſible for ſuch beauty to admit of an encreaſe—The delightful conſciouſneſs that fluſhed upon her cheek, enlighted her com⯑plexion into an abſolute blaze of per⯑fection; while the ſpeaking ſenſibility of a down-caſt eye threw ſuch a modeſty over her features, as rendered her the fineſt picture which fancy could con⯑ceive of the ſofteſt innocence and love. Her father, charmed with her appear⯑ance, turned round to me, and, in a very low whiſper, ſaid, ‘Ah Harold, you ſee the ſweetneſs and delicacy of my poor girl—the day is now ſo near ſhe cannot look at you with any degree of reſolu⯑tion.’ Unhappy old man! little does he imagine what a looſe all that wonder⯑ful ſweetneſs and delicacy can give to the dictates of an unhallowed imagination—Little does he think how ſhe burned in my arms laſt night, and poured out her whole ſoul in the moſt paſſionate ſtorm of a voluptuous inclination. But, alas, Mel⯑moth, [76] why do I harrow up my recol⯑lection with that curſed night—it has given me an eternal averſion to the only woman I can ever look upon with tender⯑neſs; and faſtened all the ſcorpions of an invincible hatred to the boſom of an ex⯑travagant love. You can ſcarcely imagine, my dear Melmoth, what I felt at her approach—My indignation was no leſs excited than my tranſport, and I could not help ſaying to myſelf, ‘how aſto⯑niſhingly is that creature calculated to deceive! This moment, when I know her ſtained and polluted, what an angel-like air ſhe aſſumes; as if ut⯑terly unconſcious of a blot, and no leſs unſullied in her mind, than fault⯑leſs in her perſon.’ In reality, Mel⯑moth, the more innocent ſhe ſeems now, the more I have hereafter to ap⯑prehend; ſince the ſame air of purity which at preſent varniſhes over the crime I am ſenſible of—may, in future, [77] ſerve to conceal a thouſand, which may be neceſſary for my knowledge, though deſtructive to my felicity—A few hours, however, will determine my fate with regard to Miſs Mildmay: this is Monday; and Saturday next the wedding is to be celebrated; none of the company are yet arrived, ſo that the ſooner matters are brought to an eclair⯑ciſſement the better. Dear Melmoth, pity my ſituation, and believe me, with the utmoſt affection,

LETTER VII. Mrs. MILDMAY to the Right Hon. the Counteſs of HAVERSHAM.

O LADY Haverſham, what ſhall I do, or where ſhall I go—your in⯑human brother has broke my heart—and my unfortunate child, that was once the darling of my age, is now caſt out from the arms of her father, and ex⯑poſed as well to the deteſtation as the contempt of all her family. If I can any way ſupport my ſpirits to go through with the ſhocking ſtory you ſhall be ac⯑quainted with all—you have fine ſenſe, lady Haverſham; you have great huma⯑nity—and can allow for the diſtraction of an unhappy mother, torn in a mo⯑ment from the enjoyment of all her hopes, and doomed to languiſh out the little remainder of her days in equal wretchedneſs and diſgrace.

[79]Here my poor Mr. Mildmay and I were felicitating each other at the proſpect of an approaching union between our family and your's; and waiting with im⯑patience for the day which was to ſecure our child in the protection of a worthy huſband—Nothing but your preſence, the preſence of our ſon, and the com⯑pany of a few particular friends, was wanting to complete our happineſs—O that we could have prevailed upon you to accompany your cruel brother down! The irreparable injury which has mur⯑dered all our tranquility, had then never happened; and we ſhould now be ex⯑ulting in felicity, inſtead of ſinking be⯑neath a load of unutterable ſhame and diſtreſs.

I was ſitting in my own parlour this morning, reading my favourite Sherlock upon Death, when Sally, my daughter's maid, ſcreamed out from the top of the [80] ſtairs, that her miſtreſs was dying. Ter⯑rified at this information, as you may naturally imagine, I haſtened to her aſſiſtance, and found the unfortunate girl in a very ſtrong hyſteric, ſtretched upon the floor, and Sally in vain at⯑tempting to raiſe her up. By this time, two or three of the other women ſer⯑vants, joined us, and we lifted her be⯑tween us into an arm chair; where, with a great deal of difficulty, ſhe was brought a little to herſelf—She ſcarcely recover⯑ed, however, when ſhe fell into another fit; and continued in a courſe of ſuc⯑ceſſive faintings for ſeveral hours—ſo that I thought it prudent to ſend a chariot, and ſix of our beſt horſes, for doctor Webley. About five o'clock in the evening ſhe became pretty well compoſed, and the exceſſive fatigue ſhe had undergone threw her into a profound ſleep; in which ſhe lay till very near twelve—During the prin⯑cipal [81] part of this melancholy ſcene, my poor Mr. Mildmay and I were not five minutes abſent from the room. Her father, you know, doated on her, if poſſible, with a degree of tenderneſs more piercingly ſenſible than myſelf—he hung over her continually, in an agony of ſpeechleſs diſtraction; tore the white hair from his temples, or turned up his eyes towards Heaven, as if he meant to expoſtulate with the Divine Being, for viſiting his daughter with ſuch an afflic⯑tion, at a time when he looked for nothing but the moſt perfect content. His diſtreſs you may eaſily conclude was a conſiderable aggravation of what I felt for my wretched child; and, though I endeavoured to conſole him, every effort which I made for that purpoſe, rendered me doubly in need of conſolation myſelf. All this time I was totally ignorant of what occaſioned the unhappy girl's di⯑ſtreſs; and I tortured my imagination [82] inceſſantly, with endeavouring to think upon ſome probable cauſe—But judge, lady Haverſham, of my diſtraction, when the poor deluded creature, ſtruck with the anguiſh into which ſhe ſaw us plung⯑ed, ſeized the firſt opportunity that her perfect recovery to reaſon ſupplied, of informing me that ſhe was totally un⯑worthy of the leaſt regard; that ſhe had fatally ſacrificed the honour of her fa⯑mily; that Sir Robert Harold was irre⯑coverably loſt; and that death was the only thing which could poſſibly put a period to her afflictions. In ſhort, the keeneſs of her ſenſibility would not allow her to keep any thing concealed; ſhe let me into the whole ſtory of her guilty intercourſe with your brother—and the agonies into which the horrid diſcovery naturally threw me, ſweeping away every trace of her recollection, ſhe made no ſcruple, in the fullneſs of her ſoul, to mention the cauſe of my [83] agitation to her father; upbraiding her⯑ſelf at the ſame time as the worſt of parricides, who had not only ſhortened my days, but murdered my reputation.

You know my, dear lady Haverſham, how rigidly refined my poor Mr. Mild⯑may is in every thing which concerns the female delicacy of his family. You know he can ſcarcely allow for the moſt caſual infirmities of human nature in a woman; though he prepoſterouſly thinks the other ſex is entitled to the moſt un⯑limited indulgence—All his pity, there⯑fore, for his miſerable daughter, was in⯑ſtantly turned into an extravagant rage—he ſpurned the wretched girl as ſhe lay at his feet, lamenting her fatal indiſcre⯑tion, in language that would pierce a heart of adamant, and imploring his forgiveneſs with all the forcible rhetoric of ſtreaming eyes, a burſting boſom, and a proſtrate ſupplication. In vain did [84] I kneel with my child, (for, O lady Haverſham, notwithſtanding the great⯑neſs of her crime, I cannot drive the mother from my heart,) and conjure him, by whatever I thought moſt affect⯑ing, to pity her; the more earneſt we were in our ſolicitation, the more inexo⯑rable he became in his reſentment, till at laſt, worked up to a phrenſy of in⯑dignation, he poured out a moſt barbar⯑ous execration on her, and command⯑ed me, in a tone which I never preſum⯑ed to diſpute, to ſee the infamous ſtrumpet (that was his cruel word) turned out of the houſe in leſs than an hour, as I either valued his repoſe, or my own tranquility. My own tranquility, lady Haverſham—Alas, I ſhall never know a moment's happineſs more!—My peace of mind is eternally deſtroyed; and, ſo long as I retain the ſenſe of feeling, I muſt be tremblingly alive to the united wounds both of misfortune and diſgrace.

[85]Mr. Mildmay, after pronouncing this ſentence on his loſt unhappy daughter, flew out of the room, though it was paſt twelve o'clock at night, though the ſeaſon was remarkably ſevere, and though a moſt violent ſtorm of wind and rain was at that very moment abroad—No⯑thing could induce him to delay the execution of his commands till morning—Utterly deaf to my remonſtrances, he inſiſted upon expoſing her to all the fury of the elements; and it was with the utmoſt difficulty that I prevailed upon him, at laſt, to let the chariot take her to farmer Wilſon's, at the end of the avenue; in fact, as well as all parental feeling, he ſeemed to put off all com⯑mon humanity; and to rejoice at the horror of the night in which ſhe was to be driven out, though, but half an hour before, he would have ſhuddered,

[86] O lady Haverſham, how happy are you in a want of children—You have a thou⯑ſand times lamented in my hearing that you never had a child—Yet, was it poſſible for you to imagine but the ſmalleſt part of my diſtreſs, you would own the kindneſs of Providence was never more manifeſted than in the re⯑fuſal of what you think a bleſſing, and what I experience to be the greateſt of all misfortunes.—But to go on:

The ſeverity which Mr. Mildmay thus relentleſsly exerciſed on his miſerable child, in a great meaſure, ſubdued the reſentment which I myſelf ſhould other⯑wiſe have entertained againſt her; I could not therefore reſiſt the moſt ample indulgence of maternal tenderneſs, when the moment of ſeparation came on; I preſſed her to my heart with as much cordiality as if ſhe had never offended, and entirely forgot the nature of her [87] fault, in the apprehenſion of never ſee⯑ing her again. The poor girl was quite unable to ſupport herſelf againſt what ſhe called an exceſs of goodneſs—ſhe fell repeatedly on her knees to kiſs my hands; drenched them with her tears; and departed, leaning on the arm of her Sally, with a deſire that I would forget there ever had been ſuch a creature as herſelf; and a requeſt that I would trans⯑fer all the affection which ſhe had ſo ſhamefully diſgraced, to the advance⯑ment of her brother's happineſs, and the reſtoration of her father's tranquility.

During the ſhort time allowed us to take leave, we agreed that ſhe ſhould go to her couſin Darnel's in London; as Mrs. Darnel is a very grave woman, and has ſome obligations to our family, which muſt render her additionally ſoli⯑citous about Louiſa's accommodation.—There, if her unhappy lapſe ſhould be [88] attended with any conſequences, ſhe will be ſure of tenderneſs and ſecrecy. I have packed up all her cloaths and her little ornaments; and, in one of her trunks, ſhall ſend up, unknown to her father, a bank note of five hundred pounds. This will maintain her till I find whether there is a poſſibility of prevailing on Mr. Mildmay to overlook her fault—If, as I much apprehend, a reconcilation with him will be extremely difficult, I muſt make her what remittances I can, as he will never think thoſe entitled to any inſtances of his bounty whom he makes the objects of his reſentment.

Such, my dear lady Haverſham, is the preſent ſituation of your unfortunate friend. Your cruel, your inhuman bro⯑ther, may, perhaps, triumph in the de⯑ſolation which he has occaſioned; and, like the generality of low minded-liber⯑tines, imagine that, in proportion as ſhe [89] has aggravated the diſtreſſes of a family that ſincerely loved and eſteemed him, he has made a freſh acquiſition to the importance of his character.—You, I know, will heartily ſympathize in our afflictions—You are his ſiſter, but not the abettor of his crimes—and therefore, I am perſuaded, every thing in your power will be done, to procure us the moſt effectual redreſs.

The only redreſs which we can now have, is an inſtant renewal of the late treaty; which your brother ſo cruelly diſturbed. About two hours before I firſt heard of Louiſa's illneſs, it ſeems he rode away from this upon a pretend⯑ed viſit to the earl of A—; but, as he has never been heard of ſince, I ſup⯑poſe he is in London by this time, enter⯑taining his diſſolute companions with the deſtruction of poor Louiſa Mildmay. O, lady Haverſham, don't you wonder [90] that, in ſuch a diſtraction of mind, I am able to write with the leaſt method or propriety? The power of recollection, however, is a faculty which is no way enviable in the wretched; and thoſe who have unhappily loſt their peace of mind, ought, in my opinion, to wiſh for an immediate loſs of underſtanding.

Notwithſtanding my indignation at your brother's barbarity, lady Haver⯑ſham, I am nevertheleſs ready to over⯑look every thing which has happened, if he comes down again and re-eſta⯑bliſhes, as far as he yet can, the repoſe of our family—Louiſa I am ſure muſt doat with the moſt extravagant fondneſs on him, or ſhe never could have made ſuch a ſacrifice—her forgiveneſs, there⯑fore, eſpecially if I intereſt myſelf in the affair, is not very difficult to be obtain⯑ed; and, perhaps, Mr. Mildmay, when he ſees that there is no other courſe to [91] follow, may be brought to abate a little of his reſentment. My reaſon for being thus anxious for an accommodation of this unhappy affair, is a fear, leſt, when my ſon comes to hear of it, he may take ſome deſperate revenge, which will involve us in new calamities—You know he is brave to a fault, and piques himſelf exceſſively on the dignity of his profeſſion, and the reputation of his family. Should he, therefore, think of calling your brother to an account, I may poſſibly be robbed of both my children, and may have the murder of my daughter's honour inconceivably ag⯑gravated by the timeleſs death of my ſon.

The ſame conſideration, lady Haver⯑ſham, which renders me anxious for the preſervation of a ſon, muſt naturally in⯑fluence your conduct for the ſafety of a [92] brother, even admitting that a perſon of your ladyſhip's well known benevolence ſhould, upon ſo affecting an occaſion, be cold to the dictates of juſtice, or the feelings of humanity. You will conſe⯑quently, exert your utmoſt power with your brother to renew the treaty lately carried on, and try all your intereſt with Mr. Mildmay in favour of Louiſa. Who knows, my dear lady Haverſham, but Providence may yet have ſome hours of peace in ſtore for an unhappy mother; and enable her to look once more with chearfulneſs upon her family. This letter have diſpatched by a ſpecial meſſenger, as I wanted to ſend you the jewels, which your brother a few days ago preſented to Louiſa; and which, at part⯑ing, the poor girl left with me for that purpoſe. Your ladyſhip's good ſenſe will immediately ſee the propriety of returning them; and, I dare ſay, do me [93] the juſtice to think that I conſider the enceſſity which has occaſioned that re⯑turn, as the greateſt misfortune that ever yet befel your ladyſhip's

LETTER VIII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

YOU are no doubt impatient, my dear Charles, from the nature of my laſt letter, to hear in what manner I conducted my explanatory interview with Miſs Mildmay—You cannot, however, be more impatient to hear than I am to tell it; yet, ſomehow, I feel a latent kind of repugnance to enter upon the ſubject, as if I was ſenſible of having acted with a manifeſt impropriety—This latent un⯑eaſineſs you have often called the work⯑ing of honeſt conſcience, and told me that I might be ſure I had done ſome unjuſtifiable action whenever I found it buſy with my tranquility. I am half afraid, Melmoth, that you are right—This Miſs Mildmay hangs unac⯑countably upon my heart—and, was I [95] maſter of the univerſe, I would give it, either never to have ſeen her, or to throw an everlaſting oblivion upon one curſed tranſaction.

After breakfaſt on Monday morning, Mr. Mildmay withdrew to his ſtudy, and Mrs. Mildmay retired to her read⯑ing parlour: Louiſa and I were left alone; and neither of us, for a full half hour, ſpoke a ſingle ſyllable, each ex⯑pecting the other would begin the con⯑verſation—My ſilence, as it was indeed my buſineſs to ſpeak firſt, cutting the poor girl to the heart, ſhe burſt into a flood of tears, and, with ſome difficulty, told me, that ſhe plainly ſaw how much ſhe was leſſened in my eſteem; and that ſhe was ſure, after what had happened, it would be much better to think of breaking off the intended connexion than to carry it on where there was ſo ſmall an expectation of happineſs—To [96] this I replied, with an air of tenderneſs, viſibly affected however, that ſhe did the higheſt injuſtice to my love; that I beheld her with more paſſionate admira⯑tion than ever, and that nothing could be more idle than to teize herſelf with the indulgence of a fear that had ſo little foundation in probability: I concluded this cold compliment, with a bow upon her hand, that indicated very little or no emotion, though it contained a great deal of reſpect; and, turning to the window with an air of the moſt mortify⯑ing unconcern, obſerved that we could ſcarcely hope for any of our expected company while the weather continued ſo uncommonly boiſterous.

Louiſa was a woman of too much ſoul to ſtand againſt the attack of a palpable indifference, however ſpeciouſly gloſſed over with a ſmooth civility; and, indeed, I intended my indifference ſhould be [97] ſeen pretty plainly, as I had no other method of bringing matters to an ecclar⯑ciſſement with any tolerable degree of propriety—In proportion therefore, as ſhe ſaw me calm and undiſturbed, ſhe very naturally took the alarm; and con⯑ſidered all the uſeleſs profeſſions of my good breeding, as ſo many indirect de⯑clarations of my diſreſpect. To a fellow of your knowledge, Melmoth, I need not obſerve how extremely we are pro⯑voked by a polite ſerenity, where our hearts are deeply intereſted in the iſſue of a debate—Good breeding, where we want to excite the ſtrongeſt emotions, is the moſt aggravating inſult which we can poſſibly meet; becauſe it equally diſappoints our views, and denies us an opportunity of finding fault; con⯑ſcious that it would effectually anſwer my purpoſe, I continued it till I had wound up Louiſa to the higheſt pitch of paſſion; and madamed her with ſo [98] profound a degree of veneration, as gave me a ſpeedy occaſion of carrying my deſign into execution.

"Very well, Sir Robert (ſays ſhe as I ſtood playing with a chineſe figure on the chimney-piece ſo placid and ſo un⯑diſturbed) ‘You ſee this affair in a very eaſy light, but ſuffer me to aſſure you, before things are carried to the laſt extremity, that if you are actuat⯑ed by any inſolent motives of pity for me, and not influenced entirely by a regard for your own happineſs; far as matters have unfortunately gone between us, I am determined to ſtop where we are—You may perhaps, render me wretched, but it never ſhall be in your power to make me con⯑temptible.’

The mingled air of dignity and diſtreſs with which the beautiful girl pronounced [99] this declaration, went to my very heart—yet that damned, unhappy, facility with which ſhe yielded to my wiſhes, ſtill employ the principal ſhare of my thoughts. I was determined to act agree⯑able to the reſolution which I had pre⯑viouſly made, and therefore replied, ‘that though nothing but the honour of her hand could poſſibly ſecure my felicity, nevertheleſs, ſince ſhe ſeemed ſo deſirous to break off the treaty ſub⯑ſiſting between us, I was ready to make any conceſſion that might be agreeable to her inclinations, however repugnant ſuch a conceſſion might be to my own.’

The cool ſarcaſtic humility of this reply, added greatly to her indignation, but no way got the better of her recol⯑lection.— ‘Sir Robert (ſays ſhe) it is no difficult matter to perceive the whole extent of your deſign—the [100] fatal teſtimony which I have given you of my fondneſs, has leſſened me in your eſteem; and of courſe render⯑ed you diſinclined to the union which was to ſubſiſt between our fa⯑milies: you want, by a cruel ſerenity, a ſtabbing politeleſs of behaviour to force me into ſuch a refuſal of your addreſſes, as may give a colour to your contempt. There is no neceſſity however, Sir Robert, for running to ſo poor, ſo unmanly an artifice—If you are in the leaſt deſirous of avoid⯑ing a match with a wretch, whoſe partiality for yourſelf has alone rendered her culpable, be generous and tell her ſo—She is not yet ſo utterly loſt to ſentiment, as to ſollicit for your compaſſion, ſince it ſeems ſhe is to be no longer entitled to your love.’

"Sir Robert," interrupted ſhe, ‘it is not altogether ſo eaſy to blind the eagle-eyed inſpection of a vehement love—What cauſe, what ground have you given me for theſe unaccountable ſuppoſitions?—The moſt ample cauſe, the moſt indubitable ground.—When I came down this morning, did not your eye induſtriouſly avoid mine?—and all the time of breakfaſt did not you officiouſly force your converſation on my father to avoid ſaying a ſyllable to me?—When we were left alone, inſtead of entertaining me as you uſed to do—did not you ſit a whole hour without ever opening your lips? and when in the fulneſs of my heart I took notice of this indifference, did [102] not you then come out with your dear madams, your profound venerations, and your everlaſting eſteems? Nay, at this moment, when you ſee my poor boſom burſting with the moſt poig⯑nant diſtreſs at your behaviour; have you not the ſame unimpaſſioned coun⯑tenance, the ſame air of unconcern, and the ſame cutting diſtance of civi⯑lity, which firſt of all gave birth to my ſuſpicions, as if you triumphed in your power, and were deſirous of ſee⯑ing how far the abuſe of it was able to plunge me in diſtreſs?’

"Upon my word Miſs Mildmay," replied I, ‘you put a very ſtrange in⯑terpretation upon looks—and I am infinitely ſorry that any unfortunate diſpoſition of my features ſhould give you the ſmalleſt uneaſineſs—I did not, however, imagine that the uſe of a be⯑coming [103] reſpect could be conſtrued into an offence—’

"Reſpect!—Reſpect!" exclaimed ſhe, with a wildneſs of look and elevation of tone, that really ſtartled me. ‘Reſpect!—God give me patience—Inhuman Harold—and do you think that a woman doating like me to diſtraction, can ever put up with a cold un⯑animated reſpect where ſhe has a right to demand the warmeſt returns of a paſſionate love!—Reſpect, after what has paſſed between you and I, is the groſſeſt of all inſults—and if you have nothing elſe to offer me—I ſcorn both you and your reſpect—and here in the preſence of the living God, I ſolemnly ſwear never to be your's; but will rather undergo any load of infamy and misfortune, than give my hand to a man, who, after having blaſted my peace of mind for ever, under the ſpecious [104] appearance of the moſt vehement paſſion, ſhall in a few hours let me ſee I am ſo much leſſened in his eſti⯑mation as to talk of treating me with politeneſs and reſpect!—Go Sir Ro⯑bert Harold’ continued ſhe in a gen⯑tler accent, but with a faltering tone, ‘go leave me—inſtantly—I here give you back all your vows and proteſta⯑tions—and ſhall only ſay that you have eternally deſtroyed the happi⯑neſs of a poor girl, who would die for the preſervation of your's.’ —here the ſtorm found way, for unable any longer to ſuppreſs her emotion, ſhe threw her⯑ſelf into a great chair, and gave way to a violent flood of tears.

All this time, Melmoth, if you do me juſtice, you muſt be ſenſible that my diſtreſs fell little ſhort of Miſs Mild⯑mays—You know I have not naturally an obdurate heart, however reaſon and [105] reflection may on particular occaſions oblige me to reſiſt its emotions—Judge therefore what I muſt have felt, to ſee the woman of my ſoul tortured in a manner, to madneſs, with the coldneſs of my beha⯑viour; yet to ſee alſo an abſolute occaſion for continuing that coldneſs; nay an ab⯑ſolute occaſion of giving her up for ever—A thouſand times was I ready to throw myſelf at her feet, and ſolicit a reconci⯑liation.—My love, joined to my humani⯑ty, pleaded the propriety of ſuch a pro⯑ceeding in terms the moſt forcible; but my reaſon and my pride ſtept conſtantly in to my aſſiſtance, and convinced me that the anguiſh of a ſeparation at that time, was infinitely preferable to a whole life of deſpicable jealouſy, and aching diſcontent—As well for the poor girl's ſake as my own, I ſaw the indiſpenſable neceſſity of perſevering in my plan; and, as the dignity of her ſentiments [106] had made a parting conſiderably more eaſy than I could expect, I exerted all my fortitude to oppoſe the remon⯑ſtrances of my love; being fully con⯑vinced that to loſe the preſent opportu⯑nity would only render a breach more difficult another time, if any other time could even ſupply me with ſo fair an occaſion to break off.

Miſs Mildmay had no ſooner thrown herſelf into the chair, than good man⯑ners neceſſarily obliged me to conſole her as well as I was able, I mean con⯑ſiſtently with my deſign; I went there⯑fore, to the ſide of the chair, and taking hold of her hand, I raiſed it coldly to my lips, and again begged ſhe would moderate a paſſion, which was wholly founded on miſtake.— ‘This exceſs of ſenſibility my dear Miſs Mildmay obſerved I) is an equal injuſtice to my ſentiments and your own underſtand⯑ing. [107] —The exception which you have ſo unfortunately taken to my beha⯑viour this morning, is rather the re⯑ſult of an extraordinary delicacy on your part, than the conſequence of any impropriety on mine—You ſay I am deſirous of diſcontinuing my addreſſes, and that you are conſcious of being leſſened in my eſteem—How cruel, how inequitable a ſuppoſition, when I am here impatiently waiting for the happy day which is to unite us for ever; and ready this inſtant, if you really doubt my ſincerity to anticipate the wiſhes of the two families by a marriage that ſhall ſilence your fears, till I am publicly honoured with your hand in the preſence of all our rela⯑tions—Tell me, is there any greater proof which I can poſſibly give you, either of my love or my eſteem: if there is, be kind enough to name it; for be aſſured I only want to know [108] your inclinations, that I may fly to indulge them.’

Though there was nothing extremely paſſionate in this addreſs, Melmoth, nevertheleſs, had I delivered it with any energy of tone or ſignificance of geſture, it might perhaps, have removed Louiſa's anxiety at once, and all might have been immediately accommodated be⯑tween us; but as I ſpoke it with incon⯑ceiveable phlegm, and kept my eye continually wandering round the room; it was impoſſible for her, without a ma⯑nifeſt deviation from her natural dignity to accept it as an apology; whether ſhe really ſaw into my true motive or not, I ſhall not attempt to determine; but raiſing up her head, and regarding me for ſome time with a look of the moſt earneſt attention, ſhe aſſumed a ſteady articulate tone of voice, and delivered herſelf to the following purport.

As ſhe pauſed in this place, I was about to make a reply—but ſhe ſtopped me in the beginning of my ſpeech, and ſaid, ‘Sir Robert, profeſſions are idle things when contradicted by the inconteſtible evidence of facts.—You have made me miſerable, and you have made me worthleſs; do not there⯑fore by the diſplay of an affected ten⯑derneſs [111] ſeek to load me with an addi⯑tional portion, either of wretchedneſs or diſgrace—I am not altogether the ſimpleton you take me for; your motives I ſaw through from the mo⯑ment you ſpoke upon this ſubject—and though you have ſhewn but little conſideration for me, during the courſe of our debate, I ſhall nevertheleſs ſpare you a world of confuſion and anxiety—In ſhort, Sir, without put⯑ing you to the trouble of any farther arts to break off the treaty between us—I again aſſure you in the moſt ſolemn manner, that it never ſhall take place—And, unhappy as I ſhall freely own this reſolution muſt for ſome time make me, I nevertheleſs think it not a little fortunate that I diſcovered your ſentiments before the intended cere⯑mony (by preventing the poſſibility a of ſeparation,) had faſtened me to [112] a more laſting, as well as to a more aggravated diſtreſs.’

Here Melmoth, was the end of our altercation. Louiſa, on finiſhing this ſpeech roſe haſtily from her chair, and darting up to her room, as I ſup⯑poſe, left me to chew the cud of my own reflections, which to ſpeak honeſtly my dear Charles, was none of the moſt agreeable—However, though I was ſe⯑cretly pleaſed that ſhe had by a very generous effort of ſoul ſpared me the mortification of being more than paſſive in the courſe of this tranſaction; you cannot think how it affected both my pride and my tenderneſs, to ſee her ſo apparently eaſy upon ſuch a trying occaſion—I imagined it would coſt her ſomething more to give me up for ever; and to the diſgrace of my humanity I muſt own, that it would have no way [113] diſpleaſed me had ſhe ſhewn a little ſtronger ſenſibility in our ſeparation.

Being thus left alone, I rang for Ed⯑wards, and ordering him to get the chaiſe ready in an inſtant, I ſet out from Mr. Mildmay's, without taking leave of a ſingle ſoul, leaving only one of the foot⯑men to bring the portmanteau after me, and ordering Ned to diſtribute, agreeable to the inhoſpitable cuſtoms of this coun⯑try, twenty guineas among the ſervants.

The interval from quitting Mr. Mild⯑may's till my arrival at Reading, was one of the moſt diſagreeable paſſages in my whole life—Shame and remorſe harrowed up my boſom alternately; and, when I reflected upon what Louiſa was likely to ſuffer, I was tortured to diſtraction. The pitiful figure I made, thus ſtealing away from a houſe, in which, but the day before, I was abſolutely idolized, [114] gave me the ſevereſt mortification; and, in ſhort, the univerſal diſtreſs which I knew muſt reſult from my behaviour, operated ſo ſtrongly upon my huma⯑nity, that I was a thouſand times ready to turn back, with a reſolution of ſacri⯑ficing my own peace of mind to pre⯑ſerve the quiet of my ever amiable ſiſter; the beautiful Louiſa; and her reſpecta⯑ble family. But when I conſidered what had paſſed; when I conſidered what might probably happen; every thing fell before the arguments of my pride, and I continued invincibly attached to my firſt determination.

O Melmoth, did theſe women but know how we worſhip them for refuſing to gratify our wiſhes—did they but know how me doat upon the indig⯑nation of a fine eye, when fired into a blaze of conſcious virtue, and ſtriking an inſtant confuſion upon the [115] preſumptuous addreſſes of a deſigning lover; how few of them would liſten to an improper ſolicitation?—But, ridicu⯑louſly confident of their own fortitude; or prepoſterouſly imagining that thoſe conceſſions are moſt like to ſecure an admirer, which are moſt apt to excite his contempt, they conſtantly betray their own cauſe, and oblige him in a manner to deſpiſe and deſert them. But a truce with reflections.

When I came to my inn at Reading, the firſt thing I did was to write a ſhort letter to Mr. Mildmay, thanking him for the many civilities which he had ſhewn me; and informing him that it was with inexpreſſible regret I quitted his houſe, at a time when I fondly flat⯑tered myſelf with the hope of ſpeedily becoming ſo near a part of his family; but that, as I had reaſons to believe a union with me, would be no way con⯑ducive [116] to the happineſs of his amiable daughter, I had determined to make a ſacrifice of my own felicity, rather than be the leaſt impediment to her's; and concluded with the cuſtomary round of common-place compliments, that tingle very prettily on the ear, though they ſeldom intereſt either the heart or the underſtanding. This letter I diſpatched by Edwards, for two reaſons; becauſe, in the firſt place, a ſpecial meſſenger car⯑ried an air of greater reſpect, than if I had ſent it by the poſt; and be⯑cauſe, in the ſecond, I knew Edwards would give a ſharp look out, and bring me a pretty exact account of every thing which had happened ſince my de⯑parture.

And now, Melmoth, what ſay you to the part which I have acted in this affair? Don't you think my dexterity in getting off a maſterpiece; and my for⯑titude [117] in reſiſting the importunate re⯑monſtrances of my own heart, an exer⯑tion of philoſophy, which is at leaſt equal to any thing in all antiquity? To be ſerious, however, though I think you will in the main approve both of my prudence and my reſolution, I am ne⯑vertheleſs fearful of hearing your ſenti⯑ments. As to lady Haverſham, I know ſhe will for ſome time be in the pouts, and fancy that I have behaved with the greateſt impropriety; but as there is no likelihood of her ever becoming ac⯑quainted with the real cauſe of my pro⯑ceeding; and as I am conſcious her brother is the perſon on earth who holds the higheſt place in her affections, I am ſatisfied the ſtorm muſt in a little time blow over, and that a few days will reinſtate me perfectly in her eſteem.

Poor Louiſa, was her peace of mind a little eſtabliſhed, I could with the [118] more chearfulneſs ſubmit to my part of the anxiety; but ſome how her diſtreſs is continually preſent to my imagination, and my own feelings are perpetually aggravated by the recollection of her ſufferings. Women, however, though their ſenſibility may be more piercingly exquiſite than ours, are nevertheleſs much readier to conquer the remem⯑brance of misfortune: they feel more deeply indeed at firſt; but from the oſier-like pliability of their minds, the moment the firſt hurry of the tempeſt is ſuſtained, they gradually riſe to their former ſituation; the anguiſh inpercep⯑tibly ſoftens from affliction into melan⯑choly, from melancholy into languor, and from languor into tranquility: whereas, the maſculine mind, like the oak in the fable, is ſhattered in the ſeverity of a conflict, when it might eaſily have re⯑covered the moſt violent ſhock by a happy facility in bending. This re⯑mark, [119] Charles, is not the conſequence of an idle ſpeculation. In the courſe of my own experience, I have frequently found it exiſting in reality: when I firſt commenced life, I have been the moſt uneaſy fellow in the world at the con⯑cluſion of an amour, leſt the diſtraction in which I ſaw the unfortunate fair one abſorbed, ſhould force her into ſome deſperate extremity; yet how have I ſtared with aſtoniſhment, when, in the ſhort circle of a few hours, the ſelf ſame miſerable nymph, who was proſtrate at my feet, and tearing her hair with all the phrenſy of an extravagant paſſion, has appeared in the ſide-box, or the drawing-room, with as perfect a com⯑poſure upon her features, as if her tender boſom had never undergone the ſmalleſt agitation? On this account, therefore, I flatter myſelf, that Miſs Mildmay's un⯑eaſineſs will very ſpeedily wear off, eſpecially as her ſecret will reſt in a [120] manner with herſelf, and as ſhe herſelf alſo has the credit of the rejection.

I ſhall by this day's poſt write to lady Haverſham. That woman, Charles, has a ſoul that ſtrikes againſt the ſtars; and excites, in the midſt of all the brother's familiarity, a ſomething that commands my higheſt admiration. Notwithſtand⯑ing all your peculiarities, you are one of her greateſt favourites; call upon her therefore immediately on the receipt of this, and let me as immediately know what ſhe ſays of my breach with Miſs Mildmay. I ſhall ſtay at this place till I receive your anſwer; where I ſhall go next muſt be a matter of farther con⯑ſideration; though where, would be a matter of no conſequence, as I am heartily weary of myſelf, were it not that I am, in ſpite of all my indifference to the world, your ever faithful

LETTER IX. Mr. CHARLES MELMOTH, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

I Do not know how it is, Harold, but, notwithſtanding my general diſre⯑gard of women, you have intereſted me ſtrangely in favour of Miſs Mild⯑may; and this unaccountable delicacy of your's in breaking off with a lady, merely becauſe ſhe has given you the moſt convincing proof of her affection, is what, in my opinion, ſavours conſiderably more of romance than of real underſtanding. To embrace a certain miſery for fear of a misfortune which is never likely to hap⯑pen, may perhaps, make you the hero of a very pretty novel; but muſt, in actual life, expoſe you to the unremit⯑ing ridicule of every body who is truſt⯑ed with your ſecret: however, as the die [122] is irrecoverably caſt, and as I do not ſee that the generous girl could be pre⯑vailed upon to have you, were you even to ſneak back to her father's houſe in as pitiful a manner as you left it, I ſhall throw away as few of my reflections as poſſible, upon a fellow who acts in ma⯑nifeſt repugnance to the ſentiments both of his reaſon and his honour; and is willing to become a raſcal in the eyes of the wiſe and the worthy, for fear the ignorant or the profligate ſhould ſet him down as a fool.

Agreeable to the deſire of your letter, I had no ſooner looked over the con⯑tents than I ſet out to your ſiſter's; but, inſtead of being immediately uſhered up ſtairs, according to cuſtom, the ſervant told me that his lady had been exceſſive⯑ly ill the whole day, and given orders againſt the admittance of any viſitors: "however, Sir," ſays the honeſt man, ‘[123]as it is you, I'll call Mrs. Harper, her ladyſhip's woman, who will probably give you a more ſatisfactory anſwer’

Harper accordingly came down to me; and, with a look of mingled grief and impatience, aſked me if you were come to town? I replied in the nega⯑tive, and enquired, if I might not ſpeak a word or two with her lady. ‘Yes to be ſure, Sir, anſwered ſhe, though I do not believe ſhe would ſee any other perſon in the kingdom.’ On this ſhe led me up ſtairs, and there I found your ſiſter with a letter before her, which ſhe afterwards informed me came from Mrs. Mildmay. It was eaſy to ſee that lady Haverſham had been weeping much, her eyes were prodigiouſly ſwell⯑ed; and there was an uncommon pale⯑neſs over her whole face, which ſuffi⯑ciently indicated both indiſpoſition and diſtreſs.

[124]You know how little ſhe ſtands upon ceremony with me—ſhe pointed there⯑fore to a chair near her own, and waving with her hand to Harper, as a ſignal to withdraw, ſhe burſt into a violent flood of tears. As I had but too much reaſon to gueſs the cauſe of her perturbation, and was ſenſible that talking in her preſent circumſtances would only add to her affliction, I waited without ever opening my lips till ſhe had ſomewhat recovered herſelf, and was a little able to enter upon a converſation.

After her tears had procured her ſome relief, ſhe turned to me with an air of unſpeakable dejection, and cry'd, ‘O! Mr. Melmoth, this barbarous bro⯑ther will break my heart; he has planted daggers here (putting her hand upon her boſom)—but you know the whole affair I ſuppoſe, as I am [125] ſenſible that, of all his friends, you poſſeſs the higheſt place in his con⯑fidence.’

I bowed, and was ſilent.

"What think you, Sir," ſays ſhe ‘of this new exploit? Can you ſay any thing to defend him now? Would to God that you could! Yet, O! Mr. Melmoth, an attempt to extenuate his guilt would no leſs diſgrace your good ſenſe, than injure your huma⯑nity! But tell me, Sir, has he ſent you an account of particulars, has he made you acquainted with every thing?’

I again bowed, and was ſilent.

"And well, Mr. Melmoth," ſays ſhe, ‘what can we do to ſave his life; to ſave the honour of the dear unhappy [126] girl, and to reſtore the peace of a worthy, innocent family?’

I replied, that you were ſtill at Reading, and would remain there for a day or two; that I was convinced nobody had ſo great an influence over you as her ladyſhip; and adviſed her to exert that influence in ſuch a man⯑ner as ſhe ſhould judge moſt condu⯑cive to thoſe ſalutary purpoſes.

"Ay, but, Sir," interrupted lady Ha⯑verſham, ‘do you know that poor Miſs Mildmay is turned out of doors; that ſhe is now a wanderer, an out⯑caſt from her father's houſe; and that her diſgrace muſt inevitably become public before any letter or meſſage can poſſibly reach him? Her unhappy mother ſends me a bleeding account of particulars. I ſuppoſe, after your cruel friend had quitted the houſe, [127] Miſs Mildmay, between her conſci⯑ouſneſs on account of the paſt, and her deſpair on account of the future, revealed the whole matter to the ve⯑nerable lady. Here, Mr. Melmoth; we keep no ſecrets from you; here is Mrs. Mildmay's letter; and, if you can read it with dry eyes, you have either more philoſophy or leſs feeling than I could wiſh any perſon, whom I really regard, to poſſeſs.’

I took the letter, and ſhall not ſcruple to acknowledge that I cried very hear⯑tily at ſeveral of the paſſages. The elevation of ſentiment, which the young lady ſhews in never once attempting to upbraid you, though ſhe had ſuch an undoubted occaſion for reproach, gives me a very favourable idea of her character; and the generoſity of her ſelf-accuſation, is ſuch an argument in ſup⯑port of her candour, as muſt, I think, entirely remove thoſe unmanly appre⯑henſions [128] upon which you grounded your rejection.

Though I am by many years the oldeſt man, you know the ſex infinitely better than I, and know alſo better than I what is eſſential to the promotion of your own happineſs; yet, in the preſent caſe, my dear Harold, I think you ex⯑ceſſively in fault. Through the whole of Miſs Mildmay's behaviour, there has been much tenderneſs, but no levity; and her error was an exceſs of love, not a vehemence of conſtitution: had it been the latter, like the generality of women, ſhe would have kept her ſecret to herſelf; or meanly crouched under your indignities, in ſuch a manner as had prevented the likelihood of a ſeparation; but ſtill alive to the ſharpeſt nicety of ſentiment, ſhe neither could ſtoop to put up with an inſult to retain you; nor, when a ſeparation took place, at⯑tempt [129] to conceal, by any duplicity of conduct, the fatal occaſion of her loſs. In whatſoever light I view her conduct, I ſee a woman of exalted principle, though I find that woman unhappily in love, and in love with a fellow too, who, inſtead of making any allowances on account of her paſſion, makes uſe of that very paſſion as an argument for in⯑volving her in equal diſtreſs and diſ⯑grace.

I have here, at lady Haverſham's re⯑queſt, encloſed Mrs. Mildmay's letter; as your ſiſter is, in conſequence of this unhappy affair, ſo very much indiſpoſed, that ſhe doubts her own ability to write to day; ſhe has charged me, however, in her name, to tell you, that, with all her tenderneſs for you, if you give up Miſs Mildmay, you muſt give up her alſo: ſhe conſiders herſelf as a partner in the injury, which that unfortunate [130] young lady has ſuſtained; and is, be⯑ſides apprehenſive of thoſe conſequences which naturally reſult from the diſho⯑nour of a conſiderable family—You underſtand me—Colonel Mildmay and you, muſt inevitably have a meeting; and though I know you as ſucceſsful in in your weapons, and am ſenſible you have as much courage, as any man in England, it muſt nevertheleſs be a diſ⯑agreeable circumſtance to a man of your ſenſibility, to expoſe Mr. Mildmay's houſe to freſh misfortunes; when the injury which you have already done it, exceeds the power of reparation.

Before matters, therefore, come to ex⯑tremities, I could wiſh, for your own ſake, for your ſiſter's ſake, for my ſake, for every body's ſake, you would in⯑ſtantly come up to London, and endea⯑vour at a reconciliation with Miſs Mild⯑may: a woman who loves you to di⯑ſtraction, [131] can ſcarcely refuſe you a pardon for any offence, eſpecially as the grant of that pardon will be an eſſential means of promoting her own happineſs, and preſerving the honour of her family. You ſee, by her mother's letter, where ſhe is to be; and, if you have either a paſſion for her, an affection for your ſiſter, a friendſhip for me, or a regard for yourſelf, you will immediately com⯑ply with ſo reaſonable a requeſt.

Were we to weigh the force of your preſent objection to Miſs Mildmay in a proper ſcale, it would appear ſo aſtoniſh⯑ingly trifling, that you yourſelf muſt won⯑der how you ever gave it any conſidera⯑tion. You are only fearful of being miſe⯑rable, you ſay, if you marry Miſs Mild⯑may; yet you prefer the real miſery of giving her up, and involving the beſt of ſiſter's, and a whole innocent family, in the utmoſt diſtreſs, rather than run the [132] chance of an imaginary misfortune: is this a proceeding conſiſtent with that good ſenſe, which, in ſpite of all your faults, I muſt allow you; putting even every motive of generoſity, friendſhip, and humanity entirely out of the queſtion? Indeed, Sir Robert, the anſwer is greatly to your diſadvantage; and, was I leſs acquainted with the extent of your abi⯑lities, I ſhould be apt to form ſuch opinions as would do no great credit to your underſtanding.

I had almoſt forgot to inform you, that Mrs. Mildmay has ſent up the jewels which you preſented to her amia⯑ble daughter, when there was ſuch a likelihood of a happy union between the two families—your ſiſter actually ſobbed when ſhe mentioned them; and, in my hearing, ordered Harper to lock them up in ſome place where ſhe might never have an opportunity of ſeeing them.

[133]This letter, my dear Harold, is very long and very dull; but the anxiety in which I labour on your account, and the long train of evils which I foreſee, ſhould you fooliſhly neglect the advice which I have here given you, totally incapacitates me from attending either to method or connection; but what have I to do with method or connection in letters of friendſhip? Thoſe who write only from the head, regard the beauty of compoſition; while thoſe who ſpeak from the heart, are utterly unmindful of ornament. Believe me therefore to be

LETTER X. Lady HAVERSHAM to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

I DO not know in what form to begin a letter, where I heartily deſpiſe the the perſon to whom I write; nor how to think of calling any body by the tender name of brother, whom reaſon and juſtice oblige me to deteſt as a man; yet the powerful voice of nature ſubdues both my contempt and my in⯑dignation, and leads me on to try what can poſſibly be done to preſerve his life and his character, before a publication of his infamy expoſes him to inevitable danger and diſgrace.

Do not imagine, Sir, that, by inſinuat⯑ing an apprehenſion about your perſonal ſafety, I want to intimidate you into the [135] practice of honour or humanity. I know too well, from the many broils in which you have been already engaged on account of your profligacy, that a man of violence receives additional courage from the appearance of danger; and frequently thinks himſelf obliged to ſilence every dictate both of reaſon and juſtice, leſt his bravery ſhould ſuffer the ſmalleſt imputation; ſuch a man I know you to be; and am ſatisfied that, in the preſent caſe, you will ſooner think of juſtifying the infamy of your conduct, than dream of reparation; yet, Bob, by all the tenderneſs of our near relation, I conjure you to hear me this once with attention, as it is probably the laſt time I ſhall ever trouble you with my cen⯑ſures, or inſult you with my advice.

And tell we really, is it thus I am to be repaid for all my ſolicitude about your happineſs? Is the family I moſt valued, [136] to be diſhonoured—the young lady whom I moſt loved, to be deſtroyed—and my own peace of mind to be eter⯑nally ſacrificed, becauſe I have, with an anxiety which few ſiſters ever felt to ſuch a degree, been attentive to the mi⯑nuteſt circumſtance that could either improve your fortune, or encreaſe your felicity? Is the ſiſter, for whom you profeſs ſo cordial an affection, the chief perſon marked out for the exerciſe of your cruelty; and the friends who were deareſt to her in the world, the princi⯑pal people whom you could think of loading with the moſt aggravating diſ⯑honour, and the moſt piercing diſtreſs? O! Bob—could I have thought this of you!—Wild as I judged you in general, I believed you a man of ſentiment at bottom, and could by no means ſuppoſe that, in the unſuſpecting hour of confi⯑dence, when the reputation of a conſi⯑derable houſe, and my tranquility, were [137] at ſtake, that you would prove the worſt of all aſſaſſins, and ſtab them both to the heart. The day after to-morrow, Bob, I had ſet apart as the moſt for⯑tunate of my life; but, alas! I am now to mark it only with my tears, and to lament it as the primary ſource of all my preſent afflictions.

Your friend, Mr. Melmoth, has juſt left me; and, though I believ'd I ſhould not be able to write in the aggravated diſtreſs of a real indiſpoſition, and an unexpected calamity; nevertheleſs my heart is too full to be ſilent; and, when I conſider not only what has happened but what is likely to reſult from this melan⯑choly affair, I am fearful of loſing a ſingle moment till I try whether there may be not yet a poſſibility of bringing an accommodation about, and prevent⯑ing the preſent misfortune from produc⯑ing any additional cauſe of diſtreſs.

[138]Mr. Melmoth, who loves you with the moſt friendly affection, has ſhewn me what you wrote to him in conſe⯑quence of this unhappy affair; and I find, that, notwithſtanding the infamy of your conduct on one ſide of the queſtion, you are yet candid enough on the other, to aim at no palliations. I am pleaſed to ſee you generous, though I bleed to find you guilty; and am ſtill in hopes that this latent ember of principle may be fanned into ſomething that will yet light us on to happineſs.

In the whole courſe of your narrative you have but one objection to Miſs Mildmay, and that is even grounded upon a ſuppoſition no leſs ungenerous than unjuſt. You men, however, have very contracted notions on theſe occa⯑ſions; and generally give up that very vanity, where a lady has ſhewn any fatal proofs of her regard, which firſt of all [139] leads you to think of gaining her af⯑fections. As long as ſhe keeps you at a diſtance you think yourſelves the only objects whom ſhe can ever honour with her approbation; but if, in the ungard⯑ed fulneſs of heart, ſhe ſhould unfortu⯑nately loſe ſight of her circumſpection, and ſacrifice her honour through an ex⯑travagant tenderneſs, that moment you ſink in your own opinion; that moment you conſtrue what is the conſequence of an unbounded partiality for yourſelves, into a levity of ſentiment, and imagine every body elſe muſt be indulged with an equal degree of familiarity.

You, brother, who have ſo fine a per⯑ſon, and ſo finiſhed an addreſs, would think it ſtrange if any body was to tell you, with a grave face, that you were utterly unable to engage a lady's affec⯑tions; yet why may not you ſuppoſe that it was the influence which you had [140] over Miſs Mildmay's heart, that drew her into this unhappy miſtake—Had ſhe been actuated by any illiberal levity of ſentiment, do you imagine that ſhe would have continued, through the moſt trying ſtages of a young woman's life, from ſixteen up to twenty-one, without mak⯑ing any lapſe injurious to her reputation? Do you ſuppoſe that, ſurrounded with admirers, and every day ſolicited by ſome of the fineſt young fellows in the kingdom, ſhe would not have fallen a victim to a vehemence of conſtitution? Undoubtedly ſhe would; but conſtitu⯑tion had nothing at all to do in her cha⯑racter. You know I have been intimate in her family from her infancy, though you became acquainted with her ſo lately; and my reſidence, during lord Haverſham's life, upon the very ſpot with her, gave me numberleſs opportu⯑nities of knowing her thoroughly—In all this time, there never was a young [141] lady who behaved with a nicer rectitude of conduct, that had ſo many admirers; and you may be ſure, if I had not the beſt opinion in the world, both of her head and her heart, I ſhould not have been ſo deſirous of having her for a ſiſter.

So far, in reality, was Miſs Mildmay from an indiſcreet girl, that I place no inconſiderable ſhare of her ruin down to the account of her virtue. When ſhe grew old enough to be diſtinguiſhed by the addreſſes of the men, ſhe always made me her confidant; and often, upon my aſking her what objection ſhe could have to ſuch or ſuch a perſon, ſhe would reply, ‘My dear lady Haver⯑ſham, the men are well enough to be ſure, and ſo are their eſtates; but I don't find any thing peculiarly ſtriking in their characters.’

[142]As it was impoſſible but what, in the courſe of our intimacy, I ſhould fre⯑quently talk of you, and dwell, with all the partiality of a ſiſter, upon ſuch of your actions as I thought worthy of ap⯑probation; Louiſa would liſten with a fixed attention; would declare you were a charming fellow; and wiſh that her papa could be prevailed upon to truſt her up with me to town, or that the wildneſs of your diſpoſition would per⯑mit you to make a viſit to the country—She longed, ſhe ſaid, to ſee you, and begged I would contrive to bring you together; but I don't know how it was, though I tried ſeveral times, ſome accident or other ſtill happened to defeat my intentions. Matters went on in this manner for ſome time, till the very ge⯑nerous part which you acted by farmer Jenkins, who had been thrown into goal for a conſiderable ſum by his land⯑lord, on account of reſenting an unbe⯑coming [143] liberty with his daughter. As I was really charmed with the action my⯑ſelf, I told it to every body, and firſt of all I believe to Louiſa; when ſhe heard that you were totally unintereſted in the affair, that Jenkins was an honeſt worthy poor man; that he had a large family, and was cruelly oppreſſed; when ſhe heard that you not only paid all his debts, but even portioned out his daughter, and all this without being ever ſeen by any individual of the poor fellow's family; Louiſa could not with⯑ſtand her emotion—She breathed ſhort; ſhifted from one ſide of her ſeat to the other; and, at laſt, exclaiming that there was no poſſibility of bearing any more, ſhe burſt into a flood of tears. Thus totally uninfluenced by paſſion or preju⯑dice, and entirely actuated by real prin⯑ciple and genuine benignity, her very goodneſs of heart became a material ſource of her misfortunes; and laid the [144] original foundation of all her preſent diſhonour and diſtreſs. The contracted eye of a narrow-minded libertiniſm can⯑not, however, diſtinguiſh between thoſe indiſcretions which reſult from an exceſs of tenderneſs, and an exceſs of levity; attentive to one little object it always ſees a woman's actions on the leaſt fa⯑vourable ſide; and, conſcious of its own unworthineſs, ſuppoſes that nothing but an equal unworthineſs can ever honour it ſo far as to commit a capital miſtake.

But, of all the paltry contrivances which were ever deſigned to break off a match, ſurely your mode of parting with Miſs Mildmay was the moſt ridi⯑culouſly contemptible—And ſo you thought it perfectly ſufficient to ſay you were ready to marry her, at the ſame time that by the inſolence and cruelty of your artificial humility and concern, you forced her to the abſolute neceſſity of [145] rejecting you. As a man of honour you thought it requiſite to declare a willingneſs to fulfil your former engage⯑ments; yet what honourable compunc⯑tion did you feel, when, in the baſeſt op⯑poſition to your profeſſions, you worked the unhappy young lady up to the cut⯑ing alternative, either of refuſing you, or of meriting to be refuſed herſelf? What ſignifies the plauſibility of the moſt ſolemn profeſſion, when our actions give the lye to our words; or what ſig⯑nifies the deepeſt air of tenderneſs and veneration, if we ſecretly carry a dagger to ſtab the object of all this tenderneſs and veneration to the heart? In fact, our hypocriſy, ſo far from alleviating the guilt, ſerves only to encreaſe its in⯑famy; and indicates nothing more than our fear, or our ſhame, to perpetrate thoſe crimes from which we are are nei⯑ther detered by the voice of honour nor the ſenſe of humanity: but what has a [146] modern fine gentleman to do with honour or humanity! the mere outſides of either are ſufficient for his purpoſe; and, ſo he obſerves a formal, frigid ſort of defer⯑ence for his word, he becomes equally dead to the ſuggeſtions of his reaſon and the feelings of his heart.

Yet if I am aſtoniſhed at the pitiful contrivance by which you obtained your honourable diſcharge from Louiſa, what muſt I think of that barbarous mortifi⯑cation which you expreſs at finding ſhe could bear the loſs of a worthleſs liber⯑tine, with ſuch an exalted ſhare of for⯑titude? And ſo your pride was wounded becauſe the unhappy young lady did not diſcover a greater ſhare of wretchedneſs, and manifeſt a much keener ſenſibility of diſtreſs?—O! Bob, Bob, how unmanly, how inhuman is this declaration! But why am I ſurprized at partial unmanli⯑neſſes, or particular inhumanities, where [147] the whole conduct has been uniformly deſtitute of manhood and humanity. Your behaviour, Sir, is entirely of a piece; and my contempt is as much ex⯑cited by your pride as my deteſtation is raiſed by your barbarity.

I ſuppoſe, Sir, it would have yielded a moſt delicious feaſt to your vanity, had Miſs Mildmay fallen at your feet; and, in an agony of deſpair, implored you to change your cruel reſolution. I ſuppoſe you would have felt the moſt exquiſite gratification to ſee the unhappy young lady deluged in her own tears, and tearing her fine face in all the extra⯑vagance of united grief and diſtraction—Thank God, you were diſappointed—Thank God, there is one woman who can ſpurn a worthleſs lover from her preſence, even while ſhe acknowledges his poſſeſſion of her heart. What you may think of the behaviour I know not, [148] but, for my own part, her conduct ſince her firſt indiſcretion has actually raiſed her in my opinion; and the generous ſenſibility which ſhe has ſhewn in conſe⯑quence of her error, gives her a prefer⯑ence to millions who have never erred at all.

Pride, inſenſibility, and want of ſoli⯑citation, have given a negative degree of excellence to, and preſerved the purity of numbers, who were neither protected by principle nor reaſon; but a woman, who, on the eve of marriage with a man ſhe paſſionately loves; a woman, whoſe heart, by the conſideration of the approaching union, and the exchange of a thouſand tender vows that naturally antecede the ceremony, is melted into the ſofteſt degree of confidence, and thrown totally off its guard; ſuch a woman, I ſay, if, in the unſuſpecting moment of her ſoul, ſhe even forgets [149] the more rigid, though neceſſary, punc⯑tilioes of behaviour, has infinite extenu⯑ations to offer in her defence: but if, upon her recovery of recollection, ſhe is capable of acting with dignity and ſen⯑timent, the goodneſs of her mind I think ſufficiently removes the imputation of levity, and renders her greatly ſuperior to thoſe who boaſt of their own forti⯑tude, without experiencing the force of the ſame temptation.

Thus, my dear Bob, have I opened my whole heart to you on this ſubject; and, now the only anſwer which I either deſire or expect to this letter is, your immediate preſence in town, to try every poſſible means of a reconciliation with Miſs Mildmay—Don't be afraid of looking mean when you are about the performance of a good action; a bluſh upon ſuch an occaſion will become you mightily; and even in proportion to the [150] greatneſs of your confuſion I ſhall be apt to eſtimate both the benevolence of your heart, and the depth of your un⯑derſtanding: ſhould you, however, ſtill continue attached to your ridiculous de⯑licacy, and, through a romantic prin⯑ciple of pride give up a woman who is in actual poſſeſſion of your heart, you muſt alſo give up a ſiſter who loves you as ſiſter, perhaps, never loved brother before; for, though I candidly own it will give me the greateſt of all di⯑ſtreſſes to diſcontinue ſuch a correſpond⯑ence as ſhould ſubſiſt betweeen two people ſo united by blood, and ſo ce⯑mented by friendſhip; yet I poſitively repeat, that, unleſs you ſhew yourſelf a man of principle on this important occaſion, you will never more hear a ſyllable from your greatly afflicted, yet ſtill affectionate Siſter,

LETTER XI. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

YOU can ſcarcely conceive the anxiety I have laboured under ſince my laſt letter: every moment that I was abſent from Louiſa, I thought would have enabled me to baniſh her from my memory with more readineſs and certainty; but, I don't know how it is, ſhe preſſes with an inceſſant violence to my recollection, and gains every moment an additional ſhare of power in proportion as I flattered myſelf her power would have diminiſhed. What an unaccountable fellow am I, Charles, that I never know my own mind for four and twenty hours together! Before I was ſure of Miſs Mildmay, I was impatient to [152] become maſter of her affections: when I had obtained theſe affections, I in⯑ſtantly ſunk into a ſtate of indifference and apathy; and for ſome time, dread⯑ed the day of marriage as a condemned criminal would dread the day of execu⯑cution. Well, having at laſt worked myſelf up into a real paſſion for her, the intervention of an unexpected cir⯑cumſtance; induced me to give her up and, now that I have given her up, I find I ſhall be as eager as ever to regain her. The only way I ſee, after all, is fairly to marry her; for then, let me change my mind never ſo often, my perſon you know will be bound in ſuch a manner as to keep me from the com⯑miſſion of freſh abſurdities.

I have juſt this moment received your letter, and my ſiſter Haverſham's. By theſe I find you are endeavouring to imitate, as far as you are capable of imi⯑tating, [153] any thing worthy, the character of Belford in Richardſon's Clariſſa Har⯑low—Nay, to render this imitation the more ſtriking, you treat me as if I were juſt ſuch another contemptible block⯑head as Lovelace, who did not imagine there was a modeſt woman exiſting. Now, you know very well, Melmoth, that I am rather vain in affectation than in reality; and, tho' I ſometimes talk away about my perſon, and my addreſs, you muſt acknowledge that, unlike Richard⯑ſon's hero, I never inſinuate that either is irreſiſtable. In ſhort, you know that, even in my wildeſt connection with the ſex, I ſtill retained ſome degree of prin⯑ciple; and have frequently, from motives of humanity, avoided an intercourſe which he would have ſolicited with the utmoſt aſſidulty. Between him and I the compariſon is ſtill more remote, for he was continually endeavouring to un⯑dermine a virtue which he had no [154] reaſon whatſoever to ſuſpect; whereas I never entertained a thought injurious to Miſs Mildmay, but ſucceeded with her entirely from a trivial accident.—This is not all; the arts which Lovelace made uſe of to trepan Clariſſa, were to the laſt degree infamous and unmanly; his car⯑rying her to Sinclair's, a common bro⯑thel, and his introduction of the two ſtrumpets to her in the character of ladies of quality, are more flagrant in⯑ſtances of turpitude than if he had ac⯑tually adminiſtered a ſleeping draught, or forced her, the moment he got her from her father's. In the latter caſes, youth and paſſion might afford his crime ſome ſhadow of palliation; whereas, in the former, his ſchemes are ſo tedious and refined, that they become utterly repugnant to the fire of youth, and the fury of paſſion; and indicate either the moſt palpable villiany of heart, or the moſt palpable want of inclination. [155] His reaſon too for delaying to marry the woman he loves is a pleaſant one; he fears ſhe is actually virtuous. O! Charles, how oppoſite is the motive of my con⯑duct; but huſh, recollection! down buſy devil, down—I have waked a ſcor⯑pion in that retroſpect, which ſtings me to diſtraction.

Your letter, Charles, is, as you juſtly call it, a very dull one; however, you are a happy fellow to make even your ſtupidity a means of ſhewing your un⯑derſtanding. My ſiſter Haverſham, without the advantage of your extenſive erudition, writes fifty times more to the purpoſe, though I dare ſay you think her infinitely your inferior, both as to elegance of ſtile and energy of argu⯑ment. Don't, however, be offended at the juſtice I do her in this place, for you are a mighty favourite with her lady⯑ſhip; [156] and, I dare ſay, may, in time, aſpire at a match with her—Abigail Harper.

Notwithſtanding theſe attempts to be merry, I am fearful my endeavours at a joke will be to the full as unfortunate as your endeavours at letter-writing. I ſhall not, like you, however, make the ridiculous parade of an apology: the buſineſs of this ſcrawl is to beg you will inſtantly go to lady Haverſham's, and inform her I am every thing ſhe could wiſh me—that I ſhall ſet off to-morrow morning for London, and be with her by breakfaſt. In the mean time, if ſhe would contrive to ſee Louiſa, who muſt be in town by this, it would oblige me highly, as I know an interview between them would pave the readieſt way to a reconciliation. Perhaps, Miſs Mildmay, when ſhe finds my ſiſter ſo ſtrenuous, and ſees how ready I am myſelf to heal this unlucky breach, may give herſelf [157] ſome airs, and think of treating me with indifference—If ſhe ſhould, by Heaven—Yet, ſurely, I have deſerved not only her indifference, but her ſcorn; have I not cruelly expoſed her to the ridicule of the whole world, and the reſentment of her whole family!—Have I not equally endangered her reputation and her life, deſtroyed her fortune, and blaſted her felicity!—Yes, Melmoth, I have deſerved not only her ſcorn but her abſolute deteteſtation. I am aſto⯑niſhed, when I review the ſtate of the caſe, how I could be weak enough to prefer a number of the moſt affecting evils, to the precarious hazard at worſt of a ſingle misfortune. Mrs. Mildmay's letter coſt me many tears; and I could not read lady Haverſham's without an equal mixture of ſhame and diſtreſs; that worthieſt, nobleſt of women, Charles, is entitled to every return both of my gratitude and affection; had it not been [158] for her indefatigable induſtry, even in oppoſition to the manifeſt call of her intereſt, and the dictates of her love, my father you know, would have diſinherited me. Her marriage with lord Haverſham, a man three times older than herſelf, was the price of my pardon; and yet, at the ſame time that Theodoſia yielded to this match for my preſervation, I knew her whole ſoul was devoted to my old friend Sir Edward Wilmington. Poor Sir Ed⯑ward fell in the glorious affair of Minden; and, though I never hinted the circumſtance to you before, yet he ſacrificed himſelf on that memorable day, by running into unneceſſary dangers merely through his incapacity to ſurvive the loſs of my ſiſter—And does not this ſiſter, Melmoth, deſerve every thing at my hands?—Go inſtantly to her, when you read this, and tell her, that, for the remainder of my days, I ſhall be entirely guided by her directions; tell her, that, [159] without the continuation of her friend⯑ſhip, I never can be happy; and, that next to the forgiveneſs of the Deity himſelf, her's is the moſt eſſential re⯑quiſite to my felicity. I bluſh, Melmoth, to be outdone in generoſity; but this exalted woman always threw me at a diſtance; and, from my infancy up, con⯑tinually excited both my envy and my admiration. You ſee, that, in all this readineſs of acquieſcence, Charles, I never once inſinuate the pleaſure it will neceſſarily give myſelf to make up mat⯑ters with Louiſa; nevertheleſs, my heart is tranſported at the thought, and I even love my friends the better for thus taking part againſt my pride, in favour of my inclination.

The hints which you inſinuate rela⯑tive to conſequences, Charles, in caſe I do not accommodate with the Mildmay family, would give me but little un⯑eaſineſs, [160] was I ever ſo pitiful a paltroon, and ever ſo much diſinclined to the match. Colonel Mildmay is a young fellow of ſpirit, but he is alſo a man of underſtanding; he muſt therefore ſee how prepoſterous it would be to think of revenging the quarrel of a ſiſter, who, notwithſtanding my behaviour, would, I dare ſay, be much better pleaſ⯑ed at his fall than mine; I have been more than once challenged by the bro⯑thers of young ladies, Charles; and I always found the dear girls thought the fellows extremely impertinent who preſumed to call me to an account. There are few ſiſters, Melmoth, like lady Haverſham; on the contrary, moſt women would much ſooner wiſh to ſee a brother ſtretched dead upon the field of combat, than to hear that an infa⯑mous raſcal, who had deſtroyed both their peace and their reputation, had met with the ſmalleſt accident. For my [161] own part, dearly as I love lady Haver⯑ſham, was it poſſible for her to be ruin⯑ed and deſerted, I ſhould never think of calling the villain to an account—After the laſt intimacy, a woman always eſpouſes the cauſe of her lover, and a brother has of courſe little occaſion to interfere, when, at the very moment he is hazarding his life in the cauſe of a ſiſter, ſhe is ſecretly praying for the ſuc⯑ceſs of his antagoniſt. Colonel Mild⯑may knows the world, and will never dream of expoſing his life in a quarrel where there is no probability even of meeting with thanks. Be eaſy therefore, dear Charles, on this head, and believe me to be your's unalterably.

LETTER XII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

YOU will undoubtedly be ſurprized, (after reading the firm reſolution which I made in my laſt, of going in⯑ſtantly to London, and accommodating the unhappy affair with Miſs Mildmay,) to hear that, inſtead of following that reſolution, I am this moment preparing to quit the kingdom; and ſhall, in all probability, never more ſee Louiſa's face, nor ſet a foot in England. O! Charles, to what a fate am I reſerved; one miſ⯑fortune treads faſt upon the heels of another; and the worthy, though miſ⯑guided, colonel Mildmay, is perhaps, by [163] this time, dead through a raſh indigna⯑tion at the fate of his ſiſter.

I was juſt ſtepping into my chaiſe at the Crown in Reading, when a gentle⯑man in a poſt-chariot and ſix, who was driving at a furious rate, accidentally ſeeing me, ordered his people to ſtop; and coming out of the carriage ſlapped me familiary upon the ſhoulder, and expreſſed no little aſtoniſhment at ſeeing me in Reading; ſaying, he thought I had been conſiderably better employed than in driving round the country. The meeting was an unluckily one, Charles, for the gentleman was no other than co⯑lonel Mildmay; he was going down to his father's to be preſent at my marriage with Louiſa, and now deſired me to ſtep into his carriage, as it would be much more agreeable to ride together than to travel in ſeparate vehicles.

[164]You may be ſure, that, if the unex⯑pected appearance of the colonel diſ⯑concerted me at firſt, my confuſion was no way abated by the propoſal of ac⯑companying him to his father's; I was exceſſively aukward, and made ſome ſtammering ſort of a reply, which I fan⯑cy rendered me curſedly contemptible. The colonel perceiving me ſo much em⯑barraſſed, demanded, with a faltering tone, and a look of the utmoſt appre⯑henſion, if all was right, and if I ſtill continued on a proper footing with Louiſa. This queſtion was a home one, Melmoth; and to evade it would have been the loweſt degree of timidity; I therefore hinted, that a little acccident had intervened, which muſt neceſſarily occaſion a ſhort procraſtination of our nuptials, but that I had no doubt of every thing's being ſettled to the mu⯑tual ſatisfaction of both families.

[165]This reply threw the colonel into the greateſt conſternation; his brows were in an inſtant ſtretched a full inch above their natural ſituation; his eyes were fixed into a ſtare of unutterable aſtoniſh⯑ment; his mouth inſenſibly widened to a horror of diſtention; and his com⯑plexion, which the moment before was remarkably glowing, now aſſumed a white of the moſt deadly kind imagi⯑nable; at laſt, with an accent ſcarce au⯑dible, while a tear imperceptibly ſtole down his cheek, he deſired me to ſtep into the inn with him, and inſinuated that he expected to be made acquainted with the particulars: I accordingly a⯑ſcented to his propoſal; and a private room being ordered, we went up ſtairs together, and for ſome moments ſat in a ſtate of ſilent anxiety, each expecting that the other would open firſt, while each nevertheleſs dreaded to enter upon a converſation.

[166]The colonel, however, finding that I was no way likely to begin the diſ⯑courſe, and naturally recollecting that, as he had been the propoſer of the intended explanation, it became him to break ſilence, he exclaimed with an interrogatory repetition, ‘And ſo, Sir Robert, an affair has happened, which muſt inevitably delay your marriage with Louiſa?’ — ‘Yes, colonel, and I ſincerely lament the occaſion of that delay, as I flattered myſelf with a hope of being the happieſt man in the world a little earlier.’ ‘As you are kind enough to lament the occaſion of this delay,’ replied the colonel, ‘you can have no objection to make me acquainted with it—Shall I therefore beg, Sir Robert, to know the real motive of procraſtinating matters? From the very great expedi⯑tion uſed in the former part of this negotiation, a delay was what I little [167] looked for, and muſt confeſs that it not only ſurprizes but affects me—Louiſa, Sir Robert, is very near my heart, and our's is a family which muſt not be inſulted with impunity.’

You may naturally imagine, Charles, that this menacing ſpeech, together with the air which accompanied it, was not at all calculated to work upon a temper like mine; I therefore ſurveyed the colonel with a look of cold indif⯑ference, and anſwered, that Louiſa was to the full as cloſe to my heart as ſhe could poſſibly be to his; and as for re⯑ſenting any inſult which might be offer⯑ed to the honour of his family, that was a circumſtance which muſt raiſe him in every body's conſideration.

From the viſible coldneſs of my re⯑ply, the colonel, I ſaw, endeavoured to rein in his temper, as well as he was [168] able, till he had more ſubſtantial grounds for indicating a reſentment. ‘Sir Robert,’ ſays he, ‘excuſe my warmth—I love my ſiſter, and I feel for my family—gratify my impatience there⯑fore in one word, and, like the man of honour I believe you to be, like the brother I hope to find you, tell me that neither has been injured by your means and I ſhall be the happieſt man in the univerſe.’

Here, Melmoth, was a lunge which required all my ingenuity to parry; yet, when I conſidered that Louiſa herſelf had publiſhed every thing be⯑tween us, and when I ſaw the colonel muſt neceſſarily hear the whole ſtory in the moſt aggravating light in a few hours, I thought it would look like the rankeſt cowardice to prevaricate, however it might wound my ſenſibility in the tendereſt part to make mention [169] of any thing to the diſadvantage of Louiſa. Putting therefore the beſt face I poſſibly could upon the matter, I candidly told the colonel, that the ex⯑ceſs of my paſſion for his ſiſter had ac⯑tually led me into an indiſcretion which occaſioned ſome uneaſineſs; that Louiſa had, in conſequence, been ſent up to London, and that I was then on my journey after her, to fall at her feet, and to ſolicit a reconciliation.—I added, that I flattered myſelf he would exert his intereſt in my favour, ſince there was no undoing what was done; and ſince that was the only means of reſtoring his ſiſter's tranquility, and ſecuring the ho⯑nour of his family.

There is no poſſibility, Melmoth, of painting the aſtoniſhment in which this relation threw the colonel; the ſurprize which he before manifeſted was nothing to that which now took the entire poſ⯑ſeſſion [170] of his countenance—At length, his wonder giving way to his indigna⯑tion, a kind of fury ſeemed to flaſh from his eyes, and he fiercely leaned acroſs the table, repeating, in a menac⯑ing accent, ‘And ſo, Sir, you have actually ruined Louiſa Mildmay!’

I don't know how it is, Melmoth, but there is ſomething in the nature of guilt which takes away our fortitude, and re⯑duces us to a ſtate of the moſt con⯑temptible timidity. You know I have as much courage as the generality of young fellows, and you know alſo what unhappy inſtances I have given of my knowledge in the weapons; yet, by all that's good, I could ſcarcely ſuſtain the the terror of Mildmay's eye on this occaſion—conſcious how much right he had to be offended. Conſcious of my own guilt, and lady Haverſham's letter ſtill ringing in my years, I ſhrunk in a [171] manner into myſelf, and ſeemed fearful of encountering the ſhock of his indig⯑nation. I ſat dumb—irreſolute—con⯑founded—my vacant eye held rivetted to the floor, and ſuch a viſible agitation in my whole perſon as would have given the colonel but a poor idea of my ſpirit, had he not been already pretty well ac⯑quainted with my character. The co⯑lonel, however, ſoon gave me all my cuſtomary courage, by exclaiming that I was a villain, a cowardly, contemptible villain, who had baſely made uſe of the moſt infamous arts to ſeduce the inexpe⯑rienced innocence of a beautiful young lady, and to blaſt the reputation of a fa⯑mily, with which I was utterly unworthy to be connected. The colonel was pro⯑ceeding in this manner, and giving an unbounded looſe to a ſtorm of incohe⯑rent fury, when I interrupted him,—"Colonel," ſays I, ‘this is language with which I have been totally unac⯑quainted; [172] and it is language which would poſſibly coſt you very dear, was I not ſenſible you have ſome cauſe to be offended with me; and, was I not deſirous of ſhewing every regard which I am now able to manifeſt, both for the honour of your family and the peace of your beautiful ſiſter.—I grant my behaviour has been cul⯑pable, greatly culpable, and it is with infinite concern I reflect on the anxiety which my miſbehaviour has already produced—What more can I either ſay or do? An altercation between you and I is much more likely to en⯑creaſe the general unhappineſs of our friends than to remove it. You know, that, ſhould it even be my lot to fall in this altercation, neither your houſe nor your ſiſter can be benefitted by that circumſtance; whereas, on the contrary, ſhould you be unſucceſsful, both muſt naturally experience an [173] addition of the moſt exquiſite diſtreſs.—Do me the juſtice, colonel Mildmay, to believe, that this expoſtulation is not the reſult of timidity—I have al⯑ready injured your houſe, and it muſt be the moſt preſſing neceſſity indeed which can oblige me to run even the hazard of aggravating my fault.—Do not, therefore, by indulging an injudi⯑cious warmth, either prevent me from the poſſibility of making a reparation, or expoſe your family to the hazard of new misfortunes. Happineſs is yet within our reach, and it muſt be very much your fault if it is ſnatched from our hands.’

This long harangue, Charles, I pro⯑nounced with an uncommon degree of temper; but I could eaſily ſee that it had little effect upon colonel Mildmay; full of that ridiculous ſort of honour which is above liſtening to reaſon, he [174] endeavoured to break in upon me ſeve⯑ral times; and, when I had done, inſtead of moderating his paſſion, he rather ſeemed to give it an additional force; ſwearing that, though a cool hypocritical ſpeech might ſilence the reſentment of his ſiſter, he was not to be duped from his purpoſe by the moſt ſpecious plauſibilities; but would vindicate the honour of his family, and proceed in⯑ſtantly to the neceſſary means of redreſs.

"And pray, colonel," ſays I, ‘how do you purpoſe to obtain this re⯑dreſs?’ "Purpoſe," returned he ſhortly, ‘as a man of honour—Be pleaſed to ſtay for me but two minutes and you ſhall be more fully ſatisfied.’ So ſaying, he ran down ſtairs to his chariot, which was all the time waiting at the door, and took out a caſe of piſtols, (for I could ſee every thing diſtinctly through the window.) Theſe [175] he concealed under a ſurtout, which he had on; and coming up with a light⯑ning-like expedition, to the room in which he left me, entered and bolted the door. Having done thus, he marched up directly to me, and ſwore, with a determined energy of execration, that, unleſs I inſtantly accepted of one, and ſtood upon my defence, he would, without any farther ceremony, ſhoot me through the head. All this time, Charles, I kept my temper with a ſtoiciſm that that was really aſtoniſhing—"Colonel," ſays I, as he pronounced the laſt me⯑nace, ‘conſider that you have a man before you who is not eaſily intimi⯑dated; but who, as he wiſhes to re⯑pair, inſtead of aggravating injuries, is willing to overlook the inſults which you have offered him, and to embrace you as a brother and a friend.—For your ſiſter's ſake, Sir, conſider.’ —"Damnation ſeize my ſiſter," interrupt⯑ed [176] he, wildly, ‘it is not her honour which I want to vindicate, but my own—She is an infamous ſtrumpet, and you are a cowardly, hypocritical ſcoundrel—take the piſtol, Sir,—this moment take it and defend yourſelf; for, by all that's holy, if you heſitate another inſtant, I will anticipate the juſtice of the gibbet, and rid the world of as great a villain as ever diſhonour⯑ed it.’ This language, Charles, was no longer to be borne; the ſcandalous epithet with which he had branded poor Louiſa, and the brutality of inſolence with which he treated all my conceſſions, entirely deſtroyed my fortitude; ſo that now forgetting every conſideration, I ſnatch⯑ed the piſtol out of his hand, and re⯑tiring to a ſpace, which he himſelf had pointed out, I fired, and wounded him ſo dangerouſly in the groin, that he in⯑ſtantly fell upon the floor, diſcharging his piſtol; however, as he fell, the contents [177] of which juſt drew a little blood from my ear, but did me no farther injury, unleſs burning a curl of the ſide hair may be termed an injury to a fellow ſo fond of dreſſing as your humble ſervant.

I ran to the colonel the moment I ſaw him down, and offered him every aſſiſt⯑ance in my power; but he was now in a manner frantic; the anguiſh of his wound, and the mortification of finding I had come off ſo eaſily, threw him into an extravagant paſſion, and he raved at me, his ſiſter, and his own unexecuting hand, with all the fury of an implacable reſentment, and a diſappointed revenge; diſclaiming every conſolation which I was capable of offering, and ſwearing he would ſtill purſue me to the utmoſt con⯑fines of the world till he had ſacrificed me to the manes of his murdered re⯑putation. Finding him in this temper, [178] and knowing that the ſooner I provided for my own ſafety the better, as I found from the nature of his wound that his ſituation was dangerous, I marched down ſtairs to my chaiſe with my hand⯑kerchief to my ear, and drove immedi⯑ately off towards Briſtol, giving previ⯑ous directions, however, to the people of the houſe, who had not yet been alarmed, to take the moſt ſpeedy and effectual care of the colonel.

My firſt care on my arrival at Briſtol, was to ſend Edwards in queſt of ſome veſſel immediately ready to ſail, and in leſs than an hour he came back with intelligence that the captain of a ſhip bound to Rotterdam, was prepar⯑ing to ſet off the next tide. As it was a matter of indifference to me which way I purſued my rout, I ordered him to agree with the Dutchman, and ſat down to give you an account of this [179] unfortunate accident before I left the kingdom. You cannot imagine, Charles, how miſerable it has made me—No leſs in diſappointing the eagerneſs of my wiſhes to be reconciled to Louiſa, than in loading the two families with addi⯑tional diſtreſs; neither lady Haverſham, nor Miſs Mildmay will ever believe but what I have been entirely to blame in this curſt rencounter; and ſhould the colonel even recover, the danger into which I have thrown his life, muſt neceſſa⯑rily impede an accommodation with his ſiſter—Then he is ſo implacable in his reſentments, and his father is ſo carried away by the ridiculous notions of family reputation, that I much queſtion whe⯑ther he would not believe himſelf rather bound in honour to treat me with the groſſeſt indignities, than to think of liſtening to any overtures which I may make towards a reconciliation. How cautiouſly my dear Melmoth, ſhould [180] young fellows of any principle be in their conduct to women of character; ſince a ſingle indiſcretion can be pro⯑ductive of ſuch numberleſs misfortunes. Here have I with as little villainy of intention as ever influenced the boſom of giddy headed youth; with little more in fact to charge myſelf than a mere want of circumſpection, deſtroyed the reputation of a woman whom I paſ⯑ſionately love; converted the ſmiling expectations of her whole family into anguiſh and diſgrace; robbed her bro⯑ther, perhaps, of his life; and ſacrificed not only my own peace of mind for ever, but covered all my friends with confuſion and diſtreſs. How ſome peo⯑ple, Melmoth, can preſerve their tran⯑quility with ſuch a ſcene before them is to me aſtoniſhing. A man not utterly diveſted of feeling, muſt look with horror on himſelf where he has been the cauſe of ſuch a complicated wretchedneſs. [181] For my own part, thoughtleſs as I have been in many connections with the ſex, the conſequences which have reſulted from this affair with Miſs Mildmay, makes me deteſt what I formerly eſteemed the prin⯑cipal ſource of felicity; and convinces me that a man of gallantry is no leſs a contemptible than a dangerous character. O! Charles, could my whole fortune re⯑cover that chearful ſerenity of mind which I poſſeſſed but a week ago, how readily would I think of making the purchaſe; but happineſs is totally in⯑compatible with guilt, and it is but juſt that he who is inſtrumental in the miſery of others ſhould experience the ſharpeſt ſtings of miſery himſelf.

Before I conclude this letter, I muſt, however, mention ſome things to you relative to Miſs Mildmay. By her mother's letter I underſtand, that ſhe is to be ſupplied with money only as the good old lady can conveniently ſpare it, [182] till time can ſo work upon the obſtinate temper of her father, as to obtain ſome regular allowance for her eſtabliſhment; all ſhe has in the world is five hundred pounds; this is but a ſmall ſum for a lady of her faſhion to live upon a whole year, tho' I ſuppoſe, ſhe will not in her preſent circumſtances chooſe to be very public; however, that ſhe may ſuffer as little as poſſible upon my account, con⯑trive through lady Haverſham's means ſome method of making the dear girl receive a thouſand pounds a year to ſupport a carriage, and to purchaſe all the other conveniences which ſhe has been uſed to in her father's houſe: I need not tell you, that the taſk I now impoſe is a difficult one, and that the execution of it will demand the utmoſt delicacy and addreſs; Louiſa is all ſoul; yet nobody knows how to give things a better manner than my ſiſter, and if there is a poſſibility of managing the [183] matter I am ſenſible ſhe will be able to effect it. It is unneceſſary to ſay that I muſt on no account appear in the affair. If Miſs Mildmay could be cheated into an opinion, that the allowance is made privately by her father, who is unwill⯑ing to ſhew how much he ſtill loves her; or if—But damn it, I am all the time for⯑getting that her family would wonder by what method ſhe was enabled to keep an equipage; and, perhaps, from an opinion that it was by ſome ſiniſter means—you underſtand me—become leſs in⯑clined to forgive her—this way there⯑fore will never do—Yet ſtay—I have it.

Suppoſe my ſiſter was ſecretly to make Mrs. Darnel the allowance I have been talking of for Louiſa's eaſe; I have ſome little knowledge of Mrs. Darnel, and I fancy her circumſtances are none of the beſt—Under an affectation of great gravity I am ſure ſhe conceals an [184] inſuperable pride, and ſeems to diſpiſe that glitter from principle, which ſhe is unable to enjoy from the narrowneſs of her fortune; lady Haverſham may therefore ſet up a chariot for Mrs. Darnel; Louiſa you know by reſiding with her will have it at command; and Mrs. Darnel ſhall have it rendered worth her while to preſent her amiable couſin with a ſufficient ſum of money as op⯑portunities occur, for all her other con⯑tingencies. Mrs. Darnel I ſee has obli⯑gations to the Mildmay family; but whatever ſhe loſes by her politeneſs on this occaſion, ſhall be doubled to her by an annuity, or how ſhe pleaſes; ſhe may talk of a ticket in the lottery, you know, or make any other common ex⯑cuſe for the alteration of appearances.

And yet Melmoth, I am ſome how ſorry Louiſa is to be at Mrs. Darnel's, ſhe is a woman of whom I entertain no [185] very great opinion. I have been three or four times in her company at acci⯑dental viſits, and always found her ſo humble, and ſo fawning; ſo religious and ſo ſentimental; that I am fearful my poor Louiſa will have but a diſagreeable companion. An exceſs of humility to thoſe who are our ſuperiors in fortune is always a ſign of a mean mind; the heart is unworthy of reſpect, which never ſeems inclined to aſſert its natural equality; and I would much ſooner com⯑mence a friendſhip with thoſe who are perpetually contradicting me, than with thoſe who have a ſmile for every thing I ſay, and never take the liberty to con⯑tradict me at all.

The maſter of the veſſel has this mo⯑ment called to take me on board—Till I hear from you I ſhall take up my reſi⯑dence at the great marſhal Turene's in Rotterdam—I have uſed the houſe once [186] already, and found the people very care⯑ful of my letters. Pray write imme⯑diately, and let your pacquet be a large one; enquire minutely into the colonel's ſituation, and tell me what is ſaid by lady Haverſham, and Louiſa. O! Charles, adverſity is your only forcible moraliſt; the pangs which I now ſuffer in conſequence of my folly give me a higher veneration for virtue than the works of our moſt celebrated philoſo⯑phers; and I find more wiſdom is to be obtained from a moment's experience than from a whole eternity of idle ſpecu⯑lation—But when reflection comes too late of what ſervice is it to moralize! God bleſs you therefore my dear Mel⯑moth, and believe me to be with an everlaſting attachment