LETTER I. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

ONE of the greateſt pleaſures I propoſed to myſelf, on my return to England, was to meet my dear Euphemia; to bind, if poſſible, in faſter bands, that tender friendſhip which has united us from our earlieſt years; to live in ſweet ſociety together: to ſuffer only ſhort abſences; rendered tolerable by frequent letters, and the dear hope of meeting ſoon again. But how are theſe expectations deſtroyed! You are going to leave me; and, too probably, for ever I [4] Long tracts of land, and an immeaſur⯑able ocean, will ſoon divide us. I ſhall hear from you once or twice in a year, perhaps: my dear Euphemia will be loſt to me; and all that now remains of that friendſhip, which was the pride and happineſs of my life, will be the ſad re⯑membrance of a good I once enjoyed, but which is fled for ever!

HOW ſhall I teach my heart to forget you! How ſhall I bear the converſation of other young women of our age and condition, after being uſed to yours! It was ſome merit to be capable of taſt⯑n g it with ſo high a reliſh, as to render that of my other companions inſipid. There are friendſhips that ſerve only to paſs away the time, and ſoften the te⯑diouſneſs of ſolitude; but yours, be⯑ſides being delightful, was profitable. I never read your letters, but I brought away pleaſures that remained, and ad⯑vantages that did you no hurt. I grew rich by what I took from you, without [5] impoveriſhing you by my gain. In a word, I was happy, and I am ſo no more. I muſt loſe you! there is no remedy! My tears efface my letters as I write! I cannot, I would not, reſtrain them! The wiſe may call theſe tender feelings in⯑firmities of the mind, if they will; I do not wiſh to be without them, and I had rather have my malady than their health.

BUT tell me, my Euphemia, by what ſtrange fatality have all theſe things happened? When I went to France, I left you rich and happy; the reputed heireſs of a large fortune, both your be⯑loved parents alive, and every proſpect brightening before you. What a re⯑verſe, in the ſpace of a few months! An orphan! your inheritance loſt! married; and, in conſequence of that marriage, becoming an exile from your country, doomed to waſte your days in America! I cannot bear to think of it! But you go with a huſband you love. I never [6] thought my Euphemia very ſuſceptible of that paſſion. Mr. Neville undoubted⯑ly muſt poſſeſs an uncommon ſhare of merit, to have ſo ſoon conquered your indifference, your reſerve, and, if I may now venture to ſay ſo, your indiſpoſition to the married ſtate. Oh! had it been otherwiſe, with what pleaſure ſhould I have communicated to you the happy change in my fortune; a fortune which, by ſharing with you, I ſhould have doubly enjoyed! I cannot enter into par⯑ticulars now; my mind is too much agi⯑tated. Write to me ſoon: yet what can you ſay to comfort me? If you cannot ſay that you are not to quit England, it will be the firſt of your letters that I ſhall not receive with tranſport. Adieu, my ever-dear Euphemia.

LETTER II. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

I Cannot let the poſt go away without giving you the particulars of that happy change in my fortune which, while my heart was ſo full of your loſs that I could utter nothing but com⯑plaints, I only hinted at: but you would have reaſon to be offended with me if I was ſilent on this ſubject, knowing ſo well as I do the tender intereſt you take in whatever concerns me.

YOU never could be perſuaded to think that my uncle's marriage with Miſs Fenwick would make any altera⯑tion in his conduct towards me, having brought me up with a tenderneſs and care that ſupplied the loſs of my parents; [8] a loſs which I could only know by re⯑flection, being but an infant when they died, and which the kindneſs of my uncle made it impoſſible for me to feel. But in this you was miſtaken, my dear friend: Lady Harley was a true ſtep-mother, and contrived to alienate my uncle's af⯑fection from me by artifices which im⯑poſed upon us both. I will give you two or three inſtances of her plan of ope⯑rations, as they have been ſince explain⯑ed to me.

MY uncle, who really loved me, and viewed all my actions in a favourable light, was particularly pleaſed with a certain attention which prevented his wiſhes, and made him perceive that I was delighted when I could be uſeful to him. There is nothing ſo neceſſary as to know how to bear tedious moments. My uncle did not poſſeſs this art: he is, as you know, a man of ſenſe, and ſome learning; but having paſſed the greateſt part of his life in the common track of [9] men of fortune and faſhion, his amuſe⯑ments muſt come all from without: he knew not how to ſtrike out any for him⯑ſelf, from reſources which a mind more cultivated might have afforded him.

SOME time after his marriage, the gout began to viſit him with periodical [...] he bore the pain and the confinement with much impatience. Lady Harley, whoſe fondneſs for him always appeared exceſſive, rather tired than relieved him by her importunate careſſes: which, however, he received without any ap⯑parent peeviſhneſs; for, to be ſure, he knew how to value a love ſo tender and paſſionate, with which he had inſpired a woman twenty years younger than himſelf!

MY company was now more accept⯑able than my aunt's. I ſung, I played to him: I gave the rein to my natural vivacity, and endeavoured to divert him by a thouſand lively ſallies of imagina⯑tion. [10] I read to him ſometimes; and per⯑ceived, with great ſatisfaction, that he began to acquire a taſte for this amuſe⯑ment. My voice and manner pleaſed him. He had a well-ſtored library; and he approved my choice of the books which were to furniſh out his entertain⯑ment. You will eaſily imagine how much this taſte for reading increaſed upon him, when I tell you that I read all Plutarch's Lives to him in leſs than a fortnight. Thus this long fit of the gout paſſed away; during which, my aunt had time to make obſervations on her own inſufficiency on ſuch occaſions, and my apparent ſuperiority over her. A ſecond attack of the gout gave her an opportunity to practiſe ſome of thoſe ar⯑tifices which ſhe had imagined, in order to leſſen my uncle's regard for me. She redoubled her cares and aſſiduity; ſhe ſcarce ever left him a moment; ſhe watched his looks, and every turn of his diſtemper, with ſuch an anxious ſolici⯑tude, as if her life depended upon his. [11] She would riſe ſeveral times in the night, and run into his chamber to know if he ſlept, and if the nurſe was attentive. A thouſand things of this kind ſhe did, which left me, fond as I was of my uncle, far behind her in theſe outward teſtimonies of affection.

IT is common for people to judge of friendſhip by the ſhew it makes, without conſidering that ſuperſtition is fuller of ceremonies than true devotion. My at⯑tentions appeared cold and conſtrained, compared with thoſe of my aunt; and were received with indifference. My uncle now ſeldom deſired me to read; and, when I offered to take a book, he would aſk me, if I did not think reading ſo much had hurt me. I ſometimes ſmiled at this: and he would add, with a ſignificant look—‘Reading aloud is not good for one who has weak lungs.’ —'That is not my caſe, Sir', replied I. 'I am glad of it', ſaid he, coldly: ‘but, however, you ſhall not read to [12] me.’ I was quite confounded at this peremptory refuſal, and knew not what to ſay to him; but, though vexed and mortified to the laſt degree, I ſuffered no complaints to eſcape me, becauſe I was not willing to diſcompoſe my uncle, or gratify the malice of Lady Harley, who, I judged, was at the bottom of this peeviſhneſs in him: and I judged right; for this was the manner in which ſhe effected her purpoſe, as my uncle after⯑wards informed me.

ONE day, when he deſired her to bid me come and read to him, ſhe regretted her not having equal talents with me for that employment—'Which if I had', ſaid ſhe, I ſhould not be afraid of fall⯑ing into a conſumption by uſing them'. —'Why, has Mari [...] that notion?' ſaid Sir John. 'She certainly has', ſaid my aunt: ‘but you muſt not mention to her what I tell you. She complains of a pain in her breaſt; of ſhortneſs of breath; and declares, that when ſhe has [13] read to you an hour or two, ſhe feels as if ſhe was ready to expire with a ſtrange oppreſſion and faintneſs. She has carried her apprehenſions ſo far, as to ſend her caſe to an eminent phyſi⯑cian; whoſe anſwer is, that if ſhe con⯑tinues to read aloud, ſhe will fall into a decline.’

MY uncle was amazed and confound⯑ed at hearing this, for I never looked better in my life; and he took notice of that circumſtance. Lady Harley aſſured him I was perfectly well, and in very good ſpirits; 'And therefore', added ſhe, ‘it is the more ſurprizing that ſhe ſhould give way to ſuch ſtrange fan⯑cies.’

MY aunt followed this firſt blow with many others of the ſame kind, which would be tedious to enumerate: ſo that at length my uncle viewing all my actions in an unfavourable light, ſet me down in his mind as a perfect hypocrite; a cha⯑racter [14] which he ever deſpiſed and hated. But although, in conſequence of this opinion, he withdrew his affection from me; yet, as it produced no other altera⯑tion in his behaviour than a certain cold⯑neſs and reſerve, which rather increaſed than leſſened that politeneſs which was ſo natural to him, I knew not on what ground to build a complaint. My ex⯑pences were as liberally ſupplied as be⯑fore; my requeſts as readily granted. My uncle, as he has ſince told me, could never be brought to hate his brother's daughter, though he ceaſed to love me as his own.

BEING in this unfavourable diſpoſition towards me, he was eaſily perſuaded to preſs me to a marriage, in which my in⯑clinations were much leſs conſulted than my intereſt. You know the man I re⯑fuſed, my dear Euphemia; and you did not chide me for my diſobedience. My, however, was offended; and as I was abſolutely incapable of repairing my [15] fault, or even repenting of it, his con⯑tinued diſpleaſure gave me ſo deep a concern, that my ſituation became very miſerable.

MRS. Irwin was about this time pre⯑paring to go to the ſouth of France, for the recovery of her health: as ſhe was a near relation of my mother's, and a very worthy woman, I aſked and obtain⯑ed leave to attend her. I left England without any regret, but parting with you, my ſweet friend; for my uncle ap⯑peared ſo happy in the paſſionate tender⯑neſs of his young wife, and ſo com⯑pleatly eſtranged from me, that I could not ſuppoſe my abſence would give him any uneaſineſs. He provided for my ex⯑pences, however, with his uſual gene⯑roſity. When I took leave of him, my tears, and the ardour with which I kiſſed his hand, ſeemed to awaken ſome tender emotions; for he turned aſide, and wiped his eyes: but immediately afterwards, as if hardened by ſome unfavourable [16] recollection, he relapſed into his former coldneſs, and took a much more cere⯑monious than kind leave of me. My aunt acted her part extremely well; regretted the loſs of my company, and comforted herſelf with the hope of a happy meet⯑ing in a few months. Mrs. Irwin was amazed at the aſcendant Lady Harley had gained over a man of my uncle's good ſenſe: 'This woman', ſaid ſhe, ‘will, as the poet ſays— ‘Mould his paſſions till ſhe makes his will.’ But it is my opinion, that your excur⯑ſion to the Continent will prove leſs favourable to her machinations than your ſtay here. With friends and lovers, abſence is a kind of Death, which ſheds oblivion over faults, and heightens every virtue and amiable quality. Lady Harley will now miſs a thouſand opportunities of hurting you with your uncle, which artifice on her ſide, and innocent ſecurity on yours, would have furniſhed her with [17] if you had ſtaid here.’ It is certain, that the fine fabrick ſhe had raiſed with ſuch an expence of falſhood, was de⯑ſtroyed on a ſudden by means which ſhe could neither foreſee nor prevent.

WITH what pleaſure do I turn from this dark ſide of my fortune, to one in which my dear Euphemia will ſhare in my ſatisfaction! But what do I ſay! My Euphemia is going to leave me! This thought, like the ſtings of a guilty con⯑ſcience, ſaddens all my enjoyments; and, when I ſhould be happy, gives me up to tears and complainings. But you wilt chide me if I continue this ſtrain. Adieu, my dear friend.

IN my next, you ſhall have a full ac⯑count of all that remains for you to know concerning my preſent ſituation. Mean time, pity ray impatience, my anxiety; and explain to me the cauſes of this ſad reverſe of fortune, and all that has happened to you in a ſepara⯑tion [18] of a few months; and which, alas! is ſo ſoon to be followed by one of many years. But I will fly this thought. Adieu!

LETTER III. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

WHY does my dear Maria imagine I would chide her for a ſenſibility ſo amiable in her, ſo flattering to me who am the object of it? Am I qualified to recommend apathy to you, who ſhare ſo deeply with you in an affliction that is common to us both; and while my heart is ſtill ſmarting with a wound which never, never can be healed? You knew my mother, Maria; you knew her excel⯑lence: judge what my grief muſt be for her loſs. But ſhe is happy! her patient-ſuffering virtue has it's juſt reward.

So little do events depend upon the moſt prudent meaſures, that had ſhe lived to ſee the unproſperous event of a mar⯑riage which was her own work; and from which, in her laſt moments, ſhe owed all her conſolation with regard to me; ſhe [20] would have been miſerable. Heaven ſpared her this affliction: and, did not ſelf mingle too frequently in our moſt juſtifiable paſſions, I ſhould not now grieve ſo much for her death, as rejoice in her exemption from an evil which ſhe might not perhaps have borne with her uſual fortitude. But you ſhall have my hiſtory from the time of our ſepara⯑tion; and an eventful one it is, for the time. I have leiſure enough; and to rehearſe the paſt, when the preſent is un⯑happy, and the future preſents only a gloomy proſpect, is not ſo irkſome a taſk as to make me decline obeying you.

SCARCE were my tears dried up for your ſudden and unexpected departure, when a ſurprizing alteration in the tem⯑per and behaviour of my father filled my mother and myſelf with the moſt uneaſy apprehenſions. He became peeviſh, melancholy, ſilent, and reſerv⯑ed: he ſhunned company, ſtaid much [21] at home, and paſſed the greateſt part of his time ſhut up in his cloſet; and was inacceſſible even to my mother, who certainly was not even then wholly ignorant of the cauſe of this great change in him. A ſtroke of the palſy followed theſe firſt ſymptoms, and compleated our diſtreſs. It was but ſlight, however; and by the great ſkill and care of his phyſi⯑cians he was reſtored to ſome degree of health, and able to take a journey to Bath, which they judged neceſſary to his perfect recovery. I never doubted but I ſhould be permitted to attend him thi⯑ther, as well as my mother; but my father had reſolved otherwiſe. I durſt: not diſ⯑pute his will: tender and affectionate as he always ſeemed to me, he exacted, and never failed to receive, an implicit obedience to it. Spare me the deſcrip⯑tion of this ſad parting! My father, as he turned from me, ſhed tears, which he endeavoured to hide. I had thrown my⯑ſelf into the arms of my governeſs; but, raiſing my head to ſnatch a parting glance as he ſtepped into the coach, at [22] that moment he appeared to me more like a corpſe than my living father: I ſhrieked, and fainted away. My dear mother, who had taken every precaution to make this abſence more ſupportable to me, directed my governeſs to carry me immediately to Richmond, where I was impatiently expected by Mrs. High⯑more and her family, with whom I was to reſide till my parents returned from Bath. You know this lady, my dear Maria; you know how greatly ſhe was eſteemed by my mother, whoſe confi⯑dence ſhe had acquired by the appear⯑ance of an uncommon attachment to her. She had daughters of an age fit to be my companions; and their birth and accompliſhments made them very pro⯑per ones.

DURING our little journey, Mrs. Bur⯑ton employed every ſoothing art to alle⯑viatemy grief: but that image, that death⯑like image of my father, filled my imagi⯑nation, and ſwam continually before my [23] ſight. I was for a long time inſenſible to all the careſſes of Mrs. Highmore and the young ladies; which were, in⯑deed, carried to exceſs, particularly on the part of Mrs. Highmore and the eld⯑eſt daughter: but I was more touched with the behaviour of Lucy, the young⯑eſt of theſe ladies, whoſe profeſſions of friendſhip for me had an air of candour and ſweetneſs which won my confidence, and engaged my gratitude.

THE firſt letter I received from my mother, gave me ſo favourable an ac⯑count of my father's health, that my me⯑lancholy apprehenſions began to abate; and I was once more able to mix in ſo⯑ciety, and to ſhare in thoſe amuſements which the family were eager to procure for me. This attention, apparently ſo obliging, would certainly have made an impreſſion upon me, if I had not been diſguſted with the adulation which Mrs. Highmore and her eldeſt daughter were perpetually pouring in my ears. I have [24] heard it ſaid, that it is a mark of gran⯑deur to be hated by thoſe who do not know us, and flattered by thoſe who do: a young woman of fortune has this, in common with royalty, that ſhe ſeldom hears truth. My governeſs would have it, that Mrs. Highmore had ſome de⯑ſign upon me; and her ſuſpicions were ſtrengthened by a viſit made her by her ſon, a youth of nineteen, from college, though it was not vacation-time.

THE young gentleman had probably received orders to be violently in love with me; for he ſeemed to court oppor⯑tunities of ſpeaking to me alone, which I believe were often contrived for him: but he was too baſhful to profit by them as was expected; for, after ſome general converſation about the weather, he uſed to withdraw to a window, and whiſtle a tune. His behaviour might have af⯑forded me ſome diverſion, had my mind been more at caſe: but now every letter from Bath brought me ſtill leſs favour⯑able [25] accounts of my father's health. At length, the fatal news of his death ar⯑rived; which, not with ſtanding the cau⯑tion that was uſed, the melancholy looks of my governeſs, and the reſt of the fa⯑mily, announced to me, before the ten⯑der Lucy, whoſe ſad taſk it was to pre⯑pare me for this ſtroke, could utter a word. 'My father is dead!' cried I, trembling: 'Is it not ſo?' Lucy an⯑ſwered me only by her tears. ‘Then I have ſeen him', ſaid I, 'for the laſt time; and the laſt time I ſaw him, he looked as he is now.’

I CONTINUED ſeveral days in a moſt melancholy ſituation; during which time the family took part in my afflic⯑tion with an appearance of the moſt ten⯑der ſympathy: they ſhut themſelves up with me, and neither paid nor received any viſits; each ſolicitous to outdo the other in endeavouring to calm my grief. On a ſudden, this attention ceaſed; they ſaw company as uſual; and their en⯑gagements, [26] both at home and abroad, took up their time ſo much, that they had ſcarce a few moments to beſtow on me; and I have ſometimes paſſed a whole day without ſeeing them in my apart⯑ment. The young man was ſent back to college, without leaving even a com⯑pliment for me. A ſtrange alteration now took place in their manner of con⯑verſing with me: reſpect and adulation were no more; their kindneſs was diſ⯑guſtingly familiar, their pity humiliat⯑ing, and their civility conſtrained.

ALL this paſſed unnoticed for ſome time: but when the violence of my grief was in ſome degree abated, my at⯑tention was awakened firſt to little neg⯑lects and failures in their uſual polite⯑neſs, that led to a fuller obſervation of their behaviour towards me; which I found ſo changed, that they did not ſeem to be the ſame perſon with whom I had converſed ſo long. Perplexed and aſto⯑niſhed at what I now for the firſt time [27] diſcovered, I aſked my governeſs the meaning of this ſtrange alteration. ‘My dear,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘you now ſee the world as it is: and you will probably,’ added ſhe, ſighing, ‘have but too many op⯑portunities of aſſenting to the truth of that maxim, which ſeems to bear hard upon human nature; but which is ne⯑vertheleſs but too true, That the gene⯑rality are bad.’—'Bu [...], Lucy,' ſaid I, without taking in the full meaning of her words, ‘Lucy is ſtill the ſame; ſhe is not changed’. At that moment the dear girl entered the room. I flew into her arms; and my heart being greatly oppreſſed, I burſt into tears. She look⯑ed at Mrs. Benſon ſignificantly, as I af⯑terwards recollected; and then applied herſelf, with her uſual tender ſolicitude, to conſole me. My governeſs retired upon Mrs. Highmore's coming in: Why, my good girl,' ſaid ſhe to me, ‘will you never have done grieving?’ Struck with the unuſual coarſeneſs of her phraſe, I ſtared at her without mak⯑ing [28] any anſwer. 'Come,' purſued ſhe, ‘you muſt not ſtay moping in the houſe: take an airing in your chariot; you may not always have one.’ Here Lucy, in great agitation, ſtopped her; crying eagerly—'Mamma!' Mrs. Highmore, as if recollecting herſelf, replied—‘You are right. —But, Miſs Lumley,’ ſaid ſhe to me, ‘have you had a letter from your mamma? How is ſhe? does ſhe talk of returning?’—‘Would to Heaven I were with her!’ ſaid I, paſſionately. 'Ah, poor woman!' ſaid Mrs High⯑more, ‘ſhe is in trouble enough; ſhe is greatly to be pitied.’ My tears now flowed afreſh: 'Pray, Madam,' ſaid Lucy, receiving my declining head on her boſom, ‘leave me to comfort Miſs Lumley: ſhe will be more calm when we are alone.’—‘Well, I am going,’ ſaid Mrs. Highmore. ‘Pray, my good girl, moderate your afflic⯑tion. —And, Lucy, do you hear? I can⯑not poſſibly diſpenſe with your din⯑ing at table to-day: I have company, [29] you know. You will hardly have time to dreſs.’ She went out of the room at theſe words; and I, with ſome peeviſhneſs, preſſed Miſs Lucy to go and dreſs: but ſhe declared ſhe would not quit me that day, Mrs. Benſon being obliged to go to town to tranſact ſome buſineſs my mother had charged her with.

I HAVE related this little ſcene cir⯑cumſtantially to you, my dear Maria, that you may have ſome notion of the aſtoniſhment I muſt be in at the altera⯑tion of this woman's ſtile and behaviour, who a few weeks before had carried her reſpects and attentions to me even to ſervility. But the myſtery was ſoon to be unravelled.

Two days after this, Mrs. Benſon told, me I ſhould ſoon ſee my mother, 'When?' cried I impatiently.‘To⯑morrow, perhaps,’ ſaid ſhe, ſmiling; 'and perhaps, to-night.' I roſe from [30] my chair in a tranſport. ‘Ah! ſhe is here,’ ſaid I; 'let me fly to her!'— 'No, my dear,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘ſhe is not here; ſhe would not come here: but ſhe is in London. I have a note from her, ordering me to bring you to her. The chariot is getting ready, and we will ſet out in a few minutes.’ Lucy came running to me all in tears: I took an affectionate leave of her; and re⯑ceived the parting civilities of Mrs. Highmore and her eldeſt daughter with great coolneſs Mrs. Highmore charg⯑ed me to aſſure her good friend, ſo ſhe ſtiled my mother, that it ſhould not be long before ſhe called upon her. As ſupercilious as this ſpeech was, the air that accompanied it was ſtill more ſo I anſwered only by a ſlight bow; and we drove away.

My thoughts, wholly employed on the expected meeting with my dear mother, a meeting at once ſo wiſhed and dread⯑ed, prevented my taking notice of the [31] extreme dejection of Mrs. Benſon, who ſcarce ſpoke to me all the way. Nor was I rouzed from my reverie, till I found myſelf in St. James's Square; when the carriage, inſtead of croſſing into Pall Mall, where our houſe was, drove directly to Charles Street, and ſtop⯑ped at a ſmall houſe, upon the window of which I obſerved a bill for lodgings. 'Have you any buſineſs here?' ſaid I to my governeſs. 'My dear,' replied ſhe, ſighing, ‘we ſhall find your mam⯑ma here.’—'My mamma here!' cried I eagerly; and, ſpringing out of the cha⯑riot, I flew up ſtairs, upon the top of which I ſaw her coming to meet me.

HER deep mourning, her pale and ema⯑ciated countenance, the tranſient gleam of joy which the firſt ſight of me occa⯑ſioned, effaced by a flood of tears, af⯑fected me with ſuch poignant anguiſh, that I ſunk down at her feet; and, claſp⯑ing her knees, remained there ſpeech⯑leſs and drowned in tears. Mrs. Benſon [32] raiſed me, and led us both into the room. My dear mother continued gaz⯑ing on me for ſome time in ſilent ſor⯑row; while I wept, and kiſſed the hand with which ſhe affectionately preſſed mine. 'My dear child,' ſaid ſhe, re⯑covering herſelf, ‘you have, no doubt, paid your juſt tribute of tears to the me⯑mory of your father. The time calls upon us for fortitude. You have, alas! many evils to ſtruggle againſt. Poverty is a more dreadful monſter than any Hercules overcame: and, to bear it with patience, to preſerve our integrity, our independence of mind; in a word, to fall with dignity; is to be a greater hero than he was.’

AT the word Poverty I ſtarted, and gazed on my mother eagerly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ purſued ſhe, ‘we are no longer rich; you are no longer an heireſs to a great fortune. From the ſmall proviſion your father made for me on our marriage, before he ſucceeded to [33] his uncle's great riches, and which will ceaſe at my death, we muſt for the fu⯑ture draw our ſubſiſtence. Mr. Lum⯑ley died inſolvent. Houſes, plate, jewels, furniture, all are ſeized by the creditors! This ſmall apartment in which you now ſee me, is my habitation; and even this I muſt ſoon exchange for one leſs expenſive, and more ſuitable to my circumſtances: for it muſt be my part now to live in ſuch a manner that my dear child may not be wholly deſti⯑tute at my death. Something, I hope, I ſhall be able, by the ſtricteſt parſimony, to leave behind me, to put off the bad day of beggary!’ My mother could not reſtrain her tears at this word. She roſe up, and ſaid ſhe would retire to her bed-chamber for a few moments, and endeavour to compoſe herſelf.

WHEN ſhe was gone, I gave free vent to thoſe emotions which reſpect and tenderneſs for her had hitherto reſtrain⯑ed. Mrs. Benſon endeavoured to com⯑fort [34] me. 'Tell me,' ſaid I, ‘if you know; tell me by what means this ruin was brought about?’—‘Your fa⯑ther,’ replied ſhe, ‘would have been a happy man, if he had continued in that eaſy mediocrity which once bound⯑ed his wiſhes: but no ſooner was he be⯑come poſſeſſed of the great riches your uncle had acquired in the Indies, than he plunged deep into all the faſhion⯑able exceſſes of the age.’ The word All ſhe pronounced with a deep em⯑phaſis, and a meaning look that went to my heart. 'His ſeat in parliament,' continued ſhe, ‘coſt him an immenſe ſum. He played high, and always with ill ſucceſs. In a word, he was ruined, my dear, before the continued diſſipation in which he lived gave him leiſure to look into his affairs. Re⯑flection, which came too late to pre⯑vent the wreck of his fortune, now produced a remorſe that preyed upon his mind, and brought on thoſe diſ⯑orders which put a period to his life.’

[35]MY mother's entrance obliged me to reſtrain thoſe emotions which Mrs. Ben⯑ſon's diſcourſe had excited: I dried my tears; I endeavoured to conſole my mother by every ſoothing power I poſ⯑ſeſſed. Her piety and good ſenſe had already brought her to a ſtate of perfect reſignation in every thing that reſpected herſelf; it was for me only that ſhe felt: and it was to relieve her from that ten⯑der anxiety which preyed upon her ſpi⯑rits, and deſtroyed her health, that I made a ſacrifice which I cannot repent of; though, alas! it proved fruitleſs. But here let me break off for the pre⯑ſent: I will continue my narrative ſome other time. This free communication of my misfortunes to a dear and ſym⯑pathizing friend, ſeems to leſſen their force,

ſays my favourite poet. I will go on, then, and ſpeak to you.—But, my Maria, [36] remember, you muſt give me the re⯑mainder of your little hiſtory as ſoon as poſſible; you will eaſily imagine how much I am intereſted in it. Adieu, my dear friend.

LETTER IV. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I Have almoſt effaced every word of your tender and affecting narrative with my tears. Alas! my ſweet friend, what have you not ſuffered! Why was I not with you during theſe hard trials? Why did you conceal your ſituation from me? I never received but two letters from you while I was in France. In the laſt there were ſome obſcure hints, which greatly perplexed me, and which you have now but too well explained: My uncle expreſſes great tenderneſs and concern for you; and ſpeaks of your mother in terms of the higheſt admira⯑tion. He ſays, he was intimate enough with Mr. Lumley, to uſe the liberty of remonſtrating againſt ſome of thoſe errors in his conduct which have been [38] the ſource of his misfortunes: 'But,' added he very ſententiouſly, ‘there is a wide diſtance between being ſimply perſuaded that a thing is wrong, to the being ſufficiently ſo as to make us fall to action, when we muſt act con⯑trary to our inclinations. Mr. Lum⯑ley acknowledged there was reaſon in what I ſaid; but did not alter his con⯑duct.’ —'How much eaſier,' thought I, ‘it is to be wiſer for others than ourſelves!’ Had your father repreſented to Sir John the imprudence of marry⯑ing, at his years, a gay young girl, he might have made the ſame obſervation: but this truth he was ſoon convinced of by his own experience.

I HAD been near a year in France, when I received a letter from my uncle, very different from any of his former ones; for it was extremely affectionate. He expreſſed great uneaſineſs at my long abſence, and much impatience for my return. This letter was accompanied [39] with a large order upon his banker at Pa⯑ris, whither we were now going, and per⯑miſſion to ſtay there a month: after which, he ſaid, he would expect me; and, if his health permitted, Lady Harley and he would meet me at—. He ſaid not a word of thoſe cauſes of un⯑eaſineſs which he had given me, (for when do men own they are in the wrong?) but concluded with profeſſions of the tendereſt attachment to me. You will eaſily con⯑ceive that, after the receipt of this letter, I paſſed my time very pleaſantly at Paris; when, a few days before our intended de⯑parture, I received another letter from my uncle: it contained but a few lines; and thoſe ſurprized me with an account of the death of Lady Harley. As I have not naturally a hard heart, nor an un⯑forgiving temper, the death of this lady gave me a real concern, particularly on my uncle's account, who, I ſuppoſed, would be greatly afflicted. Mrs. Irwin agreed, that this news ought to haſten our [40] journey, and accordingly we ſet out im⯑mediately upon our return.

MY uncle was ſurprized when he heard of my arrival ſo much ſooner than he ex⯑pected; and, I could perceive, was pleaſed at my readineſs to oblige him. He re⯑ceived me very kindly; and, as I did not obſerve any ſigns of immoderate grief in his countenance, my compliments of condolence were but ſhort. He men⯑tioned my aunt only once, and employed but a few words on the ſubject. ‘Her ill⯑neſs,’ ſaid he, ‘was ſudden, and reached it's height before ſhe was thought to be in any danger. The faculty com⯑plained of her obſtinacy in refuſing to be bled, and attributed her death to the want of that remedy.’ When my uncle took leave of me for the night, he ſaid— ‘I will ſend Martin to you as ſoon as I am in bed; he will inform you of ſome cir⯑cumſtances that have happened during your abſence.’ I believe you have ſeen [41] this man: an old confidential ſervant, who had lived with him many years; and who, by his zeal and attachment, merited the great regard he expreſſed for him.

MY curioſity was ſtrongly excited, as well by my uncle's behaviour as by theſe words, which ſeemed to indicate that ſomething extraordinary had really hap⯑pened. As ſoon as the good old man appeared, he congratulated me on my re⯑turn with tears; and aſſured me the te⯑nants and ſervants had conſtantly prayed for it. 'And they did not ſcruple,' pur⯑ſued he, ‘to tell my lady herſelf how much they all longed to ſee you: and this ſeemed to diſpleaſe her, for my lady was cunning by halves only; and although ſhe perſuaded my maſter that ſhe was grieved for your abſence, ſhe did not take the ſame pains to deceive us.’

'SHE has certainly,' ſaid I, ‘been leſs guarded on ſome occaſion or other [42] than uſual, for my uncle is greatly al⯑tered with reſpect to her; he appears not to regret her death, and ſpeaks of her with little affection.’

'AH, Madam!' ſaid Mr. Martin, ‘there is good reaſon for that. I have a curious hiſtory to relate to you, if you can have the patience to hear it: my maſter ordered me to tell you every circumſtance.’—'Pray ſit down,' ſaid I, 'and let me have it all.' He did ſo: and here is what he told me, and in his own words.

'You may remember, Madam,' ſaid he, ‘how childiſhly fond my lady af⯑fected to be of her huſband; it was much worſe after you was gone. She was continually taking his hand, ſtrok⯑ing his cheek, and would often kiſs him before the ſervants. I was ſorry to ſee my good maſter ſo played upon; and, if I durſt, I would have told him that all was not gold that gliſters. [43] Mr. Greville, who, you know, Ma⯑dam, is a very facetious old gentle⯑man, and has a power of wit, uſed to joke with my maſter about his young wife's prodigious fondneſs for him; and would often ſay very home things, which my maſter would ſometimes take very well, and ſometimes anſwer pee⯑viſhly to; but they had been great friends from their youth, ſo that it was not a little matter would part them. Now it happened that my maſter was taken with another fit of the gout, and griev⯑ous bad he was, ſo that the doctors were afraid that it was getting up into his ſtomach; and then, you know, Ma⯑dam, all would have been over with him. My lady ſat by his bed-ſide al⯑moſt continually, ſighing moſt piteouſ⯑ly, and ſhedding rivers of tears while ſhe was with him: but her maid uſed to ſay that, when ſhe was in her own apartment, ſhe had no need of an handkerchief to dry her eyes. Well, Madam, my poor maſter grew worſe [44] and worſe; and my lady, to be ſure, more and more ſorrowful. And now my maſter reſolved to alter his will: you may gueſs, Madam, who put that into his head. I was ordered to ride to town, and fetch Lawyer Graſp, and ſome more gentlemen of that per⯑ſuaſion. I perceived what was go⯑ing forward: and, to be ſure, Ma⯑dam, I thought a new will, under my lady's direction, would not be favour⯑able to you, and that it was fit ſome friend of yours ſhould be preſent; and no one was more proper than Mr. Gre⯑ville, who loves you ſo dearly, and was, beſides, my maſter's moſt dear friend. So I ventured to ſay to my maſter—‘Does not your honour pleaſe that I ſhould ſend or go for Mr. Greville upon this occaſion?’ My lady look⯑ed as if ſhe could have eat me; and my maſter ſaid weakly—‘Mr. Gre⯑ville is at his feat in— —, that is more than ſeventy miles diſtant: it will be too much trouble for him to [45] come on ſuch ſhort notice.’— "Sir," ſaid I, ‘I am ſure he will not think ſo.’ My maſter ſeemed to pauſe upon it; when my lady, loſing her tem⯑per quite, called me an officious fool; and, burſting into tears, ſaid—‘Do you want to perſuade your maſter that he is dying.—My dear Sir John, the phyſicians aſſure me you are better. Mr. Greville will be here in a week or two. Do not let this blockhead put ſuch ſad thoughts into your head!’ She ſobbed violently while ſhe was ſpeaking, holding my maſter's hand to her lips all the time. My maſter then ſaid—‘Let him go for the law⯑yers, however.’ Upon which my lady, looking very ſpitefully at me, ſaid—"Do as you are ordered!" and I left the room immediately, with my heart full, as well for my dear maſter's danger, as for the injuſtice you were likely to ſuffer, my dear young lady.’

[46]I INTERRUPTED the honeſt man here; to thank him for the affection he had ſhewn for me at a time when ſelfiſh po⯑licy would have pointed out a different conduct; and, I do aſſure you, I thank⯑ed him with an effuſion of heart equal to his own. But I muſt break off here; I am ſummoned to dinner. My uncle has been riding this morning, which has given me leiſure to ſcribble ſo much: he has brought Mr. Greville home to din⯑ner. You cannot imagine how greatly I am obliged to this gentleman; but you ſhall know all in my next. My dear Euphemia, adieu!

THE poſt not being yet gone out, I have time to add a few lines. Some⯑thing that fell from Mr. Greville, relating to you, has alarmed me greatly. I fear, I fear, my ſweet friend, you are not likely to be as happy in the married ſtate as you deſerve to be. Your huſband, forgive [47] my freedom, is thought to be ill-temper⯑ed; you are all ſweetneſs, patience, and condeſcenſion: I foreſee from this con⯑traſt, continual encroachments on one ſide; continual recedings on the other. You are one of thoſe few perſons who ne⯑ver conteſt what they think they cannot obtain. What a dangerous power will ſuch a diſpoſition throw into the hands of one who is diſpoſed to uſe it tyranni⯑cally! Mr. Greville knows your huſ⯑band; and this is what he ſaid upon my telling my uncle, in anſwer to his enquiry how I had been amuſing myſelf all the morning, that I had been writing to you. 'Poor Miſs Lumley!' ſaid he; ‘ſhe is married to Mr. Neville, then! There is nothing’—a friend of mine ſaid of himſelf, and may be applied to her—‘that could perſuade a believer in modern miracles to confeſs that any thing is impoſſible to be done, but her ill fortune, which is unchange⯑able.’—'I hope not,' ſaid my uncle. 'There is no more room for hope,' replied [48] Mr. Greville: ‘ſhe is married to the worſt-tempered man in the world; and that has crowned all her misfortunes.’

You may judge, my dear Euphemia, how I was affected by this diſcourſe: I aſked a thouſand queſtions about Mr. Neville; and every anſwer I received ſerved to convince me that his temper will make you very miſerable. Good Heaven! and is it with this man that you are to croſs the Atlantic! This the pro⯑tector, the friend, the companion, with whom you are to traverſe an immenſe ocean, and live in unknown regions, far from your country and all you love! Surely you can never conſent to it; he cannot be ſo unreaſonable as to deſire it. If his duty calls him hence, his ten⯑derneſs for you ought to make him diſ⯑penſe with your accompanying him. You muſt ſtay with me, my dear Euphemia; my fortune is yours: my uncle will be a father to us both; he offers you his houſe [49] for a retreat, and me for your compa⯑nion till your huſband returns.

I HAVE not time to add more. Pray think on what I have propoſed, and the neceſſity there is for complying with it. Once more adieu, my dear friend!

LETTER V. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

MY uncle is gone to ſpend a day or two with Mr. Greville; ſo I ſhall have full leiſure for my pen, which is never ſo pleaſingly employed as when I am writing to my dear Euphemia. Well, Martin went on with his ſtory, which I ſhall continue to give you in his own words. ‘Finding I was not permitted to ſend for Mr. Greville in my maſter's name, I reſolved, however, to write to him, and let him know what was go⯑ing on; and this I did before I ſet out for the lawyer's, and put my letter my⯑ſelf into the poſt. I was ſorry to find Mr. Graſp at home; ſo there could be no delay on that ſide. He told me he would call upon Counſellor Worden in his way, and bring him with him. [51] With this anſwer I returned. My lady ſeemed not at all ſatisfied with the haſte I had made, and her woman told me ſhe ſhewed great impatience, and was very reſtleſs and uneaſy all the time I was gone.’

"No, certainly," ſaid I, ‘but I long to hear of my uncle's recovery; methinks you leave him too long on this ſick bed, Mr. Martin.’

[53]'WHY, Madam,' replied the honeſt man, ‘he grew better and better every day after this, and was ſoon able to leave his bed, and when Mr. Gre⯑ville came he found him walking about his chamber. I had juſt time to tell Mr. Greville all I knew of the matter, and he was ſorely grieved at it, and lamented his not getting my letter ſooner. My lady complained much of what ſhe had ſuffered during my maſter's illneſs. ‘And yet you never looked better in your life, Madam,’ ſaid he, dryly; ‘if grief is ſuch a friend to your complexion, what will joy be? Why, your ladyſhip looks like May; but I am ſorry,’ ſaid he, turning to my maſter, ‘to ſee my good friend here look ſo much like January.’’

I WAS afraid the old man might have ſported with this idea too far, ſo I thought fit to look very grave; upon which he recollected himſelf, and went on.

I HAVE often obſerved, my dear Eu⯑phemia, let a calumniator be ever ſo artful, all that which does not directly hurt the perſons abuſed, turns to their advantage. This charge of bad tem⯑pers appeared to my uncle ſo ill-found⯑ed, that it led him to weigh thoroughly many other faults ſhe had accuſed me of, and to compare my behaviour with the picture ſhe uſed to draw of my diſ⯑poſition; and the reſult of this can⯑did inveſtigation was ſo favourable for me, that upon my return I had reaſon to believe I ſtood higher in his opinion [57] than ever, as the ſequel of my little Hiſ⯑tory will ſhew you.

BUT here I will conclude for the pre⯑ſent; a Letter from you is this moment brought me; does it or does it not bring an anſwer favourable to my wiſhes? —I break the ſeal with eagerneſs. —Ah, my dear Euphemia, your firſt words deſtroy all my hopes. Adieu.

LETTER VI. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

DESTINED to live under the control of another, I find obedience to be a very neceſſary virtue, and in my caſe it is an indiſpenſable duty. I am a wife; I know to what that ſacred tie obliges me: I am determined, by Heaven's aſ⯑ſiſtance, to fulfil the duties of my ſta⯑tion. My lot is caſt perhaps for miſery here; the future will be like the paſt: ſo my foreboding heart ſuggeſts. I have drawn a blank in the great lottery of life, but there is a ſtate beyond this, in which my hopes aſpire to a prize: to that all my wiſhes, all my endeavours tend. Philoſophy may teach us to bear the paſt and future evils; but it is the Chriſtian only that can endure the pre⯑ſent with fortitude. Oh, my dear Maria, [59] what could have ſupported me under my affliction for the death of my mother, but that active faith which made reſign⯑ation to the will of Heaven at once my duty and my reward? —I perceive all the hardſhips of my ſituation, but I can⯑not avoid them without a crime; it is my duty to follow my huſband; and what in other circumſtances I ſhould certainly have done from inclination, I do now from better motives—from a ſenſe of thoſe ſacred obligations which the ſtate I have entered into lays upon me; and which, whatever mortifica⯑tions I may meet with in the diſcharge of them, are ſtill indiſpenſable.

BUT how ſhall I thank you, my dear friend, for your kind and generous of⯑fers? how ſhall I make you ſenſible of the gratitude that fills, that more than fills, that oppreſſes my heart, for this proof of your friendship? Words here are weak, and deeds, alas! are not in my power, for I am poor in every thing [60] but in will. Do not, however, imagine my leaving this country ſuch a misfortune; except you, I have nothing to regret, for the unfortunate have few friends; here every object reminds me of my former ſtate, and makes the preſent more ſen⯑ſibly felt. Every place where I have ſeen my mother, renews my grief for her loſs. Change of ſcene, new objects, and different cares, may perhaps weaken this ſad idea, and reſtore me ſome degree of tranquillity. Let this conſi⯑deration reconcile you to my departure; and though ſeparated, we will not be wholly abſent—our minds ſhall meet in converſe—a conſtant intercourſe of let⯑ters ſhall bring us within view of each other—ſhall communicate our joys and ſorrows, our hopes and fears, and all the little, as well as conſiderable, events of our lives.

I WILL make it a rule to retire every day to my cloſet, for an hour at leaſt, to talk to you; and every ſhip that ſails [61] for England ſhall bring a packet from your Euphemia, which ſhall leave you ignorant of nothing that concerns her. Tell me, Maria, how you like this ſcheme, and whether you can reſolve to be as punctual in the performance of your part of it, as I propoſe to be of mine: meantime I will continue to give you a relation of ſuch of my affairs as you are yet ignorant of, but not in this letter, which I diſpatch immediately, to bear my warmeſt acknowledgments for your moſt generous offers, to ac⯑quaint you with my reaſons for declining them, and to ſhare with you that com⯑fort I derive from the plan I commu⯑nicate. Preſent my beſt reſpects, and grateful thanks, to your good uncle, for his kind propoſals; and do not let me wait long for the reſt of your Hiſtory. My curioſity is wound up to a very high pitch by what you have already related; and I am charmed with the honeſt zeal and affecting ſimplicity of your humble friend. I wait impatiently for the re⯑mainder [62] of his narration: —my griefs are all ſuſpended while I read your letters; and is not this a ſufficient mo⯑tive to make you haſten them to me? Farewel, my dear and moſt valuable friend.

LETTER VII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

NOTHING can be offered in oppoſi⯑tion to the arguments you uſe in ſupport of your reſolution to leave Eng⯑land with your huſband. My heart murmurs, it is true; but my reaſon ap⯑proves —Approves, did I ſay?—I admire, I love, I almoſt adore you, my excellent friend! —Blame not the warmth of my expreſſions. Muſt we not revere virtue, unleſs it be conſecrated by antiquity? What were the merits of an Arria [...], or a Portia, to your's? —Love produced in them thoſe great actions, for which they are ſo famous. Religion and duty are the nobler motives which influence your's. To die for the man one loves is not an act of ſuch heroiſm, as to chuſe miſery with the man one has no reaſon [64] to love, becauſe we conſider it to be our duty to do ſo.

IT is the fate of the beſt things to be either wholly neglected, or at moſt but little known. Such is this noble con⯑duct of your's; for few will know it, and fewer ſtill admire it. I, who am the greateſt loſer by it, am yet capable of admiring it, and this is a merit you muſt permit me to be vain of, ſince it coſts me ſo dear.

BUT it is time to introduce Mr. Mar⯑tin again. You tell me your griefs are ſuſpended while you read my Letters; and this is ſufficient to make me devote the greateſt part of my time to writing, were I at liberty to follow my inclina⯑tions. But I have no will of my own, my dear Euphemia; I am a ſlave to that of another. Reconcile this, if you can, with what I told you of the happy change in my fortune: or, if you can⯑not, wait patiently for my explanation, [65] which will come in due time. But now hear Mr. Martin, who went on in this manner:

BUT here I muſt drop Mr. Martin and his narration for the preſent, for I have only time to make up my letter, which you muſt acknowledge is of a tolerable length; therefore adieu my dear Euphe⯑mia. Alas, the moment is approach⯑ing when I muſt bid you adieu for a long, an indefinite time. This is a ſad thought; but ſince I have well conſi⯑dered your admirable reaſons for a reſo⯑lution ſo contrary to my hopes and wiſhes, I perceive a ſort of calm ac⯑quieſcence ſteal upon my mind, which gathers ſtrength every moment. Yet you muſt not on this account imagine I love you leſs; I endeavour to imitate [76] your fortitude, and to make myſelf wor⯑thy of your eſteem.

WHY have I not a letter from you? Muſt I charge you with breach of pro⯑miſe in not ſending me the remainder of your affecting ſtory?

LETTER VIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

NO, my dear Maria, I do not think you love me leſs than you did, but that you love me more wiſely. But were it poſſible for me to ſuſpect the ſincerity of your affection, it would be from the extravagant eulogium you be⯑ſtow on me, for what in my opinion is but an ordinary effect of duty and obe⯑dience.

SURELY then you mean to excite me to virtue by a new ſubtilty, and the praiſes you give me are but diſguiſed exhortations. Take notice, this is the conſtruction I ſhall put upon all ſuch language from you; and if you would not be thought rather to dictate than to commend, avoid it for the future.

[78]BUT to ſhew you that I am as little diſpoſed to ſubmit to unjuſt cenſure as to undeſerved praiſe, I will not receive patiently your charge of being a pro⯑miſe-breaker. Every thing that is pro⯑miſed and not done, is not a violation of faith or breaking of promiſe, ſince acci⯑dent has ſo much, to do in the ordering of ſmall events. The large packet that will ſoon follow this letter will convince you that I have been employed in obey⯑ing your commands; and I have given you my Hiſtory, as you call it, down to the preſent moment, without inter⯑ruption, that you may no longer be ig⯑norant of the cauſes and motives of the moſt important tranſaction of my life, and from which that life muſt hereafter take all its colour.

I HAVE been very much entertained with your friend Martin's relation, and like his manner extremely well, which your memory has ſo faithfully preſerved; but I am not quite pleaſed with the me⯑thod [79] Mr. Greville hit upon to realiſe his doubts of Lady Harley's ſincerity. He laid himſelf under the neceſſity of telling a direct falſehood, and of ſupporting that falſehood by many little artifices, not eaſily practiſed by an ingenuous mind. But your men of wit and ridicule have a very relaxed moral on certain occaſions. A man of plain good ſenſe ſtarts at theſe humorous violations of truth, and thinks his reputation would be ruined for ever by ſuch bold flights.

BUT I ought to remember that it is my dear Maria's friend whoſe conduct I am cenſuring, and that it was for her ſervice chiefly he deviſed this ſtratagem: therefore, though I cannot abſolve, yet I am willing to pardon; for I confeſs my integrity is ſcarcely proof againſt ſo high a bribe. My dear friend, adieu.

LETTER IX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

AND do you really reſolve to put ſuch a ſtrange conſtruction upon the juſt tribute paid by a friend to your merit? Muſt my praiſes be conſidered as diſguiſed exhortations? Let me tell you, you avoid preſumption by a con⯑trary extreme, ſince envy itſelf would give you that which your own modeſty takes away.

BUT, notto offend you further by dwell⯑ing on this theme, you ſhall now have the remainder of Mr. Martin's relation; his ſimplicity pleaſes you; and I have been careful to make no alteration in his ſtyle and manner: thus then he went on:—

HERE Mr. Martin ended his narra⯑tion, which took up two or three of my evenings in liſtening to; and I have given it you almoſt in his very words. What more I have to tell you on this ſubject muſt be deferred till my next. But now adieu! my ever dear Euphe⯑mia.

LETTER X. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I SHALL never for the future rank your uncle with men of common underſtanding; his whole conduct with regard to Lady Harley, on the moſt trying occaſion imaginable, diſplays a fund of good ſenſe and philoſophy, rarely to be met with in perſons, who, like him, have ſpent ſo great a part of their lives in the purſuit of pleaſure.

How nicely has he ſteered between two extremes, equally fatal to his re⯑putation. Had he appeared inſenſible of her levities, and indifferent to the ungrateful returns ſhe made to his af⯑fection, he would have paſſed for a dupe: had he avowed his reſentment, he would have authoriſed ſuſpicions that [102] would have ruined her character, and fixed ridicule upon his own; he eſcaped both theſe rocks by the moſt maſterly management imaginable, and neither malice nor ridicule can find a ſhaft to hit him.

I AM not ſurpriſed at the deſpair which Lady Harley ſeems to have fallen into. The moſt common view perſons have, when they commit imprudent actions, is the probability of always finding out ſome reſource or other: but Lady Harley, in this caſe, could have no ſuch hope; ſhe had fixed her huſ⯑band's opinion of her irrevocably, and the very methods he uſed to render her leſs contemptible in the eyes of the world, ſerved only to leſſen her more in her own. But peace be to her aſhes, and oblivion to her memory!

I AM particularly impatient for your next letter, in hopes that it will clear up an ambiguous expreſſion in one of [103] your former ones, that has puzzled me greatly; you ſay, you have no will of your own, and that you are a ſlave to that of another; pray make me under⯑ſtand this. Adieu! my dear Maria.

LETTER XI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I WISH I could with any propriety have ſhewn my uncle ſome part of your laſt letter; even the wiſe might be pardoned for indulging a little vanity at receiving praiſes from judgment and ſincerity like yours; but you will eaſily conceive this would not have been pro⯑per, at leaſt at this time, after what I am going to tell you.

MARTIN having informed him that he had obeyed his commands, and given me a very particular (and you muſt own, my friend, that it was a very particular) account of all that had [105] happened during my abſence, my uncle ſpoke to me in this manner:

‘You have heard from Martin ſome very intereſting circumſtances relat⯑ing to your aunt and me; you have candour and good ſenſe; I doubt not but you will judge rightly of my con⯑duct. I only intreat you never to mention Lady Harley to me in private, and in public be as reſerved on that ſubject as I am. Mr. Greville,’ he added, ‘is certainly your friend; you owe him ſome acknowldgments;’ and theſe, my dear, I did not fail to pay him the very firſt opportunity, with an effuſion of heart which convinced him of my gratitude.

I WAS obliged to liſten to ſome hu⯑mrous ſallies on my aunt's account, and even to ſmile at them, for indeed it would have been very difficult to re⯑frain; however, he always ſpared my uncle, which, conſidering his fondneſs [106] for raillery, was an inſtance of ſelf⯑denial that had ſome merit in it.

MY aunt's woman was ſtill in the houſe; ſhe expected to have made her court to me by throwing out ſome reflections upon her late lady, and by making an ample diſcovery of all ſhe knew; but I ſilenced her by a ſevere look, and an abſolute command never to ſpeak to me on the ſubject.

MY uncle left it to me to do as I pleaſed with regard to her; I had reaſon to think her very deceitful, and incapa⯑ble of being true to any one; I reſolved to diſcharge her immediately; ſo I gave her all her late lady's clothes and linen, with what money ſhe had in her pockets when ſhe died, and diſmiſſed her, to the great joy of the ſervants, who had all of them, at one time or other, experienced her treachery.

[107]You will call Mr. Greville a bold man, when I tell you he would read your laſt letter, notwith ſtanding all I could do to hinder him; he came in when I was writing, and ſaw it lying on my table, and actually read it through; and this is what he ſaid when he returned it to me: ‘No modeſty is able to reſiſt the praiſes that come from your amiable friend; and although I have hitherto thought vanity a ridiculous quality, yet I proteſt I ſhould take a pleaſure in being corrupted by her.’

HE preſt me much to ſhew my uncle what you ſaid of him; but I pleaded his abſolute command not to mention Lady Harley to him; and he agreed that he ought to be obeyed.

THIS unlooked for intruſion of Mr. Greville's will teach me caution; I will always faſten my door for the future when I ſit down to write to you. But I will now explain to you what I meant [108] when I told you my uncle was kinder to me than ever, and yet I had no will of my own, but was a ſlave to that of an⯑other.

IT is that kindneſs of his that has en⯑ſlaved my will, my dear Euphemia, that has loaded me with a debt of gra⯑titude which I can never be able to pay, and has fixed ſhackles upon my mind which it is impoſſible for me ever to unlooſe, Mark the method he took to produce this voluntary ſubjection.

SOME little time after my return from France, Mr. Greville being upon a vi⯑ſit at the Hall, my uncle ſent for me into his ſtudy, where he was ſitting with his friend; they had papers lying upon the table before them, one of which, upon my entrance, my uncle took, and, preſenting it to Mr. Greville, ‘Here, Sir,’ ſaid he, ‘is a deed of gift to my niece of the greateſt part of my per⯑ſonal eſtate, amounting to about twenty [109] thouſand pounds, which, as her guar⯑dian and truſtee, I lodge in your hands. It is all placed on govern⯑ment ſecurities, for the intereſt of which you are to be accountable to her only from the preſent moment, and to pay into her hands for her ſole uſe and benefit.’

'BE not ſurpriſed,' purſued he, 'child,' taking my hand, and leading me, all amazed and ſpeechleſs, to a chair next his own, ‘I believe you have a ſincere affection for me, and I am willing to enjoy the pleaſure this thought gives me, pure and unmixed with the leaſt ſhadow of a doubt. What I in⯑tended to bequeath you at my death I give you now, irrevocably, that you may be free and abſolute miſtreſs of yourſelf, and that having nothing more to hope, or any thing to fear, from me, your actions may be as unconſtrained as your thoughts, and your real affection for me liable to no miſconſtructions.’

[110]IT was eaſy to perceive, by this conduct of my uncle, my dear Euphemia, what an impreſſion Lady Harley's duplicity and artifice had made upon his mind, and how much he apprehended being thought the dupe of female ſubtilty a ſecond time. His favourable opinion of me was alſo evident; and this was the point to which, as I conceived, de⯑licacy obliged me only to anſwer.

MY heart was full, but I endeavoured to ſuppreſs my emotions; and taking his hand, which I reſpectfully kiſſed, while an involuntary tear at the ſame time dropped upon it, ‘I am obliged to you, Sir,’ ſaid I, ‘not ſo much for making me rich, or for making me rich before my time, but for putting it in my power to ſhew you’—‘I un⯑derſtand you, my dear niece,’ ſaid he, haſtily interrupting me,— ‘we under⯑ſtand one another, I believe, and we ſhall both be the happier for it. Would to Heaven,’ added he, with ſome emo⯑tion, [111] ‘that the eſtate of my family, which falls to a collateral branch which I have no reaſon to love, could have been your's likewiſe.’—‘Come, no more of this,’ ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘my fair ward here will have enough of that pelf, which, as Pope ſays, ‘Buys the ſex a tyrant in itſelf.’’

MR. Greville very judiciouſly end ea voured to give the converſation a gayer turn, to r [...]ieve my uncle and me from the very awkward ſituation we found ourſelves in, while he was afraid of hearing acknowledgments, which my full heart left me not the power of ex⯑preſſing. And thus, my friend, has the independence my uncle beſtowed on me been the beginning of my ſlavery, for I cannot, I ought not, to have any will but that of a benefactor who has acted with ſuch uncommon generoſity.

[112]THE power to follow my inclinations is ſecured to me, but my will is fettered by the obligations I lie under. Thus, for inſtance, my heart impels me to fly to you, to ſooth, to comfort, to aſſiſt you in your preſent ſituation; and I ſhould moſt certainly have aſked his permiſ⯑ſion for a ſhort abſence, if he had not, by making me my own miſtreſs, deprived himſelf, as he thinks, of the power of refuſing; and my company being now more neceſſary to him than ever, I cannot give the leaſt hint that I have a wiſh that way, for fear of lay⯑ing him under the neceſſity of doing what may be diſagreeable to him. But perhaps his own good fenſe may ſug⯑geſt to him to offer what I cannot aſk, and then you may depend upon ſeeing me in London.

I HAVE this moment received the long⯑expected packet; but I muſt rein in my impatience, and not open it till I re⯑tire for the night; for this whole day I [113] ſhal1 be employed, in reading to my uncle, who is a little indiſpoſed, and cannot take his uſual ride, My dear Euphemia, adieu.

LETTER XII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

BEFORE I continue my little nar⯑rative, I muſt entreat you, my dear Maria, not to ſuffer theſe papers to be ſeen by any perſon but yourſelf; they will contain a faithful account of my affairs, and give you a juſt picture of my ſituation: and conſequently I ſhall be obliged to touch upon the faults of one who, from the near relation in which he ſtands to me, has claims upon my ten⯑derneſs and reſpect, which even thoſe faults cannot diſpenſe with me from al⯑lowing him. Mine, I know, your friend⯑ſhip would ſpare and conceal; and he, being a part of myſelf, for him I expect the ſame indulgence.

[115] I HAVE already repeated what Mrs. Benſon told me concerning my father's imprudent management of his affairs, the conſequence of which has involved his family in ruin. My mother, always gentle and kind, endeavoured to palliate thoſe errors by which ſhe was ſo great a ſufferer.

THERE is nothing, ſaid ſhe, more com⯑mendable than generoſity, but nothing ought leſs to be ſtretched too far. Mr. Lumley ſerved his friends with too little attention to his own ability, which, to⯑gether with other imprudences, pro⯑duced that bitter remorſe which ſhort⯑ened his days.

HER tears flowed faſt at theſe words; I ſuppreſſed my own emotions that I might comfort her, and endeavoured to detach her thoughts from the melan⯑choly idea, by giving her a detail of the inequality of Mrs. Highmore's beha⯑viour to me during the firſt and the laſt days of my reſidence with her, which [116] the wreck of our fortunes now enabled me to account for.

My mother ſmiled at my ſtory; and taking two letters out of her pocket⯑book, put them into my hand. ‘Here are two letters from Mrs. Highmore,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘of different dates: the firſt is to Mrs. Lumley in affluence; the ſe⯑cond to the ſame Mrs. Lumley in diſ⯑treſs; read them.’ I did ſo, and here is what they contained.

My mother anſwered this extraordinary epiſtle no otherwiſe than by cancelling a [119] note for ſixty pounds, which Mrs. High⯑more had borrowed of her about a year before, and encloſing it in a cover, which contained only theſe words: ‘Mrs. Lumley's compliments, and deſires Mrs. Highmore will accept the en⯑cloſed as payment for her daughter's and her governeſs board for five weeks.’

THIS billet was ſent by a porter to Mrs. Highmore's houſe in town, whi⯑ther we had heard ſhe was come, with orders not to ſtay for an anſwer. She came herſelf a few days afterwards to viſit my mother, who pleaded indiſpo⯑ſition, and refuſed to ſee her.

MRS. Highmore's behaviour was imi⯑tated by many other perſons of our ac⯑quaintance, whoſe cool kindneſs, and conſtrained civility, marked too well the change of our fortunes.

[120]SOME of our relations were of high rank; and theſe kept us at a diſtance by their very ceremonious behaviour, Some were only rich, and to them po⯑verty appeared rather a crime than a misfortune; ſo that in ſtrict morality they were obliged to treat us with great coldneſs and reſerve.

My mother appeared calm and Un⯑ruffled by this general depravity. ‘Per⯑ſons of quicker ſenſibility than my⯑ſelf,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘would, on this occa⯑ſion, complain of the world; but I ſhall content myſelf with forgetting it.’

HAVING ſettled all her affairs in Lon⯑don, we retired to a ſmall houſe, which my mother had taken in a neighbouring town, and furniſhed with a ſimplicity ſuitable to her fortune, and a neatneſs that gave elegance to that ſimplicity.

MRS. Benſon refuſed the part of go⯑verneſs to a young lady of high diſtinc⯑tion, [121] in order to accompany us in this retreat. 'I have an income,' ſaid ſhe, ‘which, though ſmall, is ſufficient to prevent my being an incumbrance to you. I acquired part of it in your ſervice; and, I will never quit you while my attendance can be either uſeful or agreeable to you.’

You will eaſily imagine, my dear Ma⯑ria, how acceptable ſuch an inſtance of faithful attachment muſt be to my mo⯑ther, at a time when ſhe ſeemed forſaken by all the world. She embraced, and thanked her with tears of tenderneſs and joy; yet repreſented to her, that her intereſt required ſhe ſhould accept the advantageous propoſal that was made to her.

'HONOUR, gratitude, and friendſhip,' replied ſhe, ‘impel me to attach my⯑ſelf to you, and my beloved pupil; in doing ſo I find my intereſt.’

[122]WE were ſoon ſettled in our new habitation: one maid-ſervant compoſed our whole equipage. We worked, we read, we dreſſed our little garden—all was peace, friendſhip, and mutual com⯑placency.

'I SEE,' ſaid I one day to my mother, ‘that one may ceaſe to be rich without being unhappy’—‘A life led in tran⯑quillity, and with judgment,’ replied my mother, ‘which is the work of reaſon, is preferable to one half of thoſe ſud⯑den and great ſucceſſes which the world admires, and which are ſcarce ever the rewards of merit, but the mere vagaries of fortune.’

THE privacy my mother ſo earneſtly deſired was not like to be interrupted in a neighbourhood chiefly compoſed of fa⯑milies grown wealthy by the ſucceſsful arts of trade, and had choſen this retreat for their ſummer reſidence, who had no idea of any merit but riches, and allowed no [123] claims to reſpect, but what were derived from the oſtentatious diſplay of them. The name of Lumley ſounded leſs re⯑ſpectable in their ears than that of Jack⯑ſon or Wilſon, becauſe Jackſon or Wil⯑ſon kept coaches, and could afford to fare ſumptuouſly every day.

'NOTHING,' ſays the immortal Bacon, ‘can make that great which nature meant to be little.’ Our ſituation af⯑forded us many opportunities of obſerv⯑ing how fortune and nature were at ſtrife, when the laviſh gifts beſtowed by the one, could not efface the deſpicable ſtamp impreſſed by the other. The Indian plunderer, raiſed from the con⯑dition of a link-boy to princely affluence, in the midſt of his blaze of grandeur, looked like a robber going in mock ſtate to execution; and the foreſtalling trader enjoyed his clumſy magnificence with the ſame aſpect as when he had over-reached a leſs cunning dealer in a bargain.

[124]SUCH were the obſervations of Mrs. Benſon, when theſe ſons and daughters of ſudden opulence rolled in unwieldy ſtate by our humble habitation.

MY mother uſed ſometimes to chide her for the ſeverity of her ſarcaſms; but her ſpleen was often rouſed by the in⯑conveniences which our contiguity to theſe great perſonages expoſed us to: for money, which, as ſhe ſaid, coſt them no⯑thing to acquire, but what they valued as nothing, conſequently, was expended ſo laviſhly, as raiſed the prices of neceſſa⯑ries; and this grievance was ſeverely felt by their leſs opulent neighbours.

[125]beſpoke every day, to furniſh this indiſ⯑penſable article to their afternoon re⯑gale.

SUCH inconveniences as theſe my mo⯑ther bore without murmuring; but ſhe was not ſo eaſy under the difficulty ſhe found of procuring a ſeat in the church, 'which,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘are almoſt all taken up with the worſhippers of Mammon, to whom, as they have erected an altar in their own houſes, they might as well perform their devo⯑tions at home, and let Chriſtians have acceſs to the houſe of God.’

MY mother, however, ſometimes, by the force of bribe, got admiſſion into a pew; and one Sunday, making uſe of the ſame powerful oratory, ſhe was let into a pew where there was only one lady, of a diminutive figure indeed, but a ſoul ſo vaſt, as ſeemed to oe'r-inform her ſmall tenement of clay, and made her fancy herſelf large enough to occupy

[122]

[123]

[124] [...]

[125] [...]

[126]the whole pew; ſo that upon my mother's entrance, ſhe ſpread her flounces and hoop over the whole bench, and, wedg⯑ing my mother cloſe in a corner, looked aſkance upon her, without making the leaſt return to the courteſy ſhe made her after ſhe had riſen from her knees.

WHEN the ſervice was over, the little great lady, being in a hurry to get out, flounced by my mother, and ſaid, loud enough to be heard by her, to the wo⯑man who attended to open the door, ‘I wonder at your aſſurance, to put peo⯑ple that nobody knows into my pew— I ſhall complain to the church-warden, I aſſure you.’

'MADAM,' ſaid the woman, ‘you have a right to but one ſeat in the pew, and the gentlewoman looks as much like a lady as any body.’

THIS ſpeech called forth a contemp⯑tuous ſmile, and a repetition of the word [127] 'lady!' for although my mother was, as you know, my Maria, a moſt elegant figure, and had an air of dignity, which was rendered more intereſting by the gentle ſorrow which ſhaded her features, yet as ſhe had no footman with her, that barrier, in this polite country town, between the high and the low, it was impoſſible to imagine ſhe could have any claim to civility.

SHOCKED, but not mortified, at the ridiculous pride of this daughter of trade, my mother was preparing to go out of the pew, when ſhe was accoſted by a lady, who, by her air and manner, ſeemed to be indeed a gentlewoman; ſhe had heard what had been ſaid to the pew⯑opener, and appeared much affected at it.

'I PERCEIVE, Madam,' ſaid ſhe to my mother, ‘that you are not provided with a ſeat in this church, which in⯑deed is very difficult to procure in the [128] ſummer ſeaſon, but you will be ex⯑tremely welcome to one in my pew; there is room enough, and I ſhall be happy to accommodate you; you need only deſire to be ſhewn to Mrs. How⯑ard's pew, and it will always be open to you.’

THE lady curtſeyed, and paſſed on, giving my mother time to pay her ac⯑knowledgments for this favour, only by a deep curtſey and an expreſſive look.

SHE related this incident to Mrs. Benſon and me when ſhe came home, telling us, at the ſame time, the name of the benevolent lady. ‘I ſhould have been ſurpriſed,’ ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘if any of the plebeian gentry of this lofty place had been capable of ſuch an in⯑ſtance of civility to a ſtranger; from the noble name of Howard one might expect it.’

[129]'IT is true,' replied my mother, ‘that pride and meanneſs are generally found together; but there are perſons, even of high birth, who can ſubmit to to be proud, and whoſe whole great⯑neſs lie in their titles; ſo that if they would have us reſpect them, they muſt ſend a herald before to announce their claims.’

I BELIEVE you and I, my dear Maria, know ſeveral of theſe undignified great ones; and, to my ſorrow, ſome may be found among my own relations.

MY mother did not fail to go to church next Sunday, and the pew⯑opener, who had heard what Mrs. How⯑ard ſaid, immediately conducted her to that lady's pew: Mrs. Howard was al⯑ready there, and received her with ſmiles, that ſhewed the ſatisfaction ſhe felt at ſeeing her offer ſo readily accepted. My mother had now an opportunity of pay⯑ing her acknowledgments, which ſhe did [130] with her uſual politeneſs, and a heart glowing with gratitude.

MRS. HOWARD, judging by the pale⯑neſs of her looks that ſhe was in a weak ſtate of health, deſired, as ſoon as the ſer⯑vice was over, that ſhe would permit her to ſet her down at her own door; which my mother, after a ſhort apology for the trouble it would give her, con⯑ſented to.

MY mother being deſired to tell the ſervant where the coach was to ſtop, directed him to the place, and ſaid he would ſee the name of Lumley upon the door.

'Is your name Lumley, Madam?' ſaid Mrs. Howard haſtily: my mother bowing.

‘THEN you are the widow of the late Mr. Lumley, who died at Bath, I pre⯑ſume?’ ſaid ſhe.

[131]'I AM, Madam,' replied my mother, ſighing.

‘How happy am I to meet with you thus unexpectedly,’ ſaid Mrs. How⯑ard; ‘I have often wiſhed for the plea⯑ſure of your acquaintance; but I know not how it was, I never met you at any of my parties; but you muſt promiſe that we ſhall be good neigh⯑bours now; I generally paſs three or four months every year at a little plea⯑ſant houſe I have about a ſhort mile from hence, before I go to our ſeat in Hertfordſhire. I will not part with you till you have promiſed to ſpend a day with me.’

MY mother aſſured her, ſhe would with great pleaſure. Mrs. Howard in⯑ſiſted upon alighting when the coach ſtopped, that ſhe might be introduced to me, for I ha d haſtened to the door to re⯑ceive my mother. She ſaluted me ten⯑derly;

[132]ſaid ſome very civil things, and took leave of us; having firſt made us promiſe to dine with her the next day, and to name the hour when we choſe the coach ſhould come for us. But little did I imagine the influence this viſit was to have over my future fortunes.

THE coach came for us at the ap⯑pointed time, and carried us to a ſmall, but elegant building. The grounds about it were laid out with a beautiful ſimplicity, and the apartments all fur⯑niſhed in the ſame taſte.

MRS. HOWARD received us with an eaſy politeneſs, which ſoon baniſhed the idea of being but the acquaintance of a day. When we were ſummoned to the dining parlour, we found there no other company but one gentleman, who by his dreſs we knew to be an officer, whom Mr. Howard introduced to us as his kinſman.

[133]THIS was Mr. Neville, my dear Maria, now the huſband of your Euphe⯑mia. His age ſeemed to be about thirty; he was well bred, talked ſenſibly, and had ſomething very gra⯑cious and inſinuating in his manner, which, I know not how it was, had not the ſame effect upon me that it had upon moſt other perſons, on whom it gene⯑rally produced a favourable prepoſſeſſion.

ALTHOUGH I could perceive I had at⯑tracted his notice, his eyes being almoſt conſtantly fixed on me, and following all my motions, yet his attentions were chiefly directed to my mother; he ſat next her at table, and ſerved her with every thing in the moſt polite and oblig⯑ing manner imaginable. We walked in the gardens after dinner; he kept cloſe by my mother, whom he prevailed upon to lean on his arm, and entertained her with all the gallantry of an admirer, yet with all the reſpect and reverence of a ſon. My mother was quite pleaſed with [134] him; he ſeemed ſolicitous to gain hèr good opinion, and frequently threw out ſentiments which did prodigious honour to his heart.

My mother was greatly ſtruck with one thing he ſaid, which ſhe declared was worthy of Socrates himſelf. Hav⯑ing, upon ſome inſtance of his obliging aſſiduity, complimented him upon his politeneſs, Mrs. Howard ſaid, with a ſmile, ‘I do aſſure you, Madam, Mr. Neville is a general favourite.’

'I PROTEST to you, Madam,' replied Mr. Neville, ‘I do not think I have any reaſon to be vain of ſuch a com⯑mendation; the favour of the multi⯑tude is ſeldom procured by honeſt and lawful means. I aſpire indeed to the approbation of the few, for I do not number voices, but weigh them.’

'PRAY,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, when my mother repeated this ſpeech to her, [135] 'how old is this ſententious gentleman?' My mother replied, ‘that ſhe believed he was under thirty.’ 'Ah!' replied ſhe, ‘a philoſopher of that age will al⯑ways be ſuſpected by me; theſe fine ſayings come more from the head than the heart.’

‘YOUR ſatire is too keen, my dear Benſon,’ ſaid my mother, ‘it is eaſy to perceive you are out of humour with the world; but having no reaſon to be ſo on your own account, I muſt place it to your friendſhip for me, who am ſo uneaſily ſituated in it; however, Fortune may juſtify herſelf for having favoured me ſo little, for I am ſure I never courted her.’

'BUT I would fain know,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘what my young pupil here thinks of this grave young gentle⯑man?’

[136]'MY mama thinks well of him,' ſaid I, ‘her judgment ought to be a guide to mine; but if I may be permitted to ſpeak my ſentiments, I think the air of his countenance and the graciouſneſs of his manner, are not of a piece; his ſmiles are rather forbidding than con⯑ciliating, and do not ſeem calculated to invite confidence in the goodneſs of his temper.’

'UPON my word,' ſaid my mother, half ſmiling, ‘Mrs. Benſon ſeems to have infuſed part of her ſpirit in you; but my dear,’ purſued ſhe in a grave tone, ‘I wiſh he were your huſband; I am perſuaded he would make you happy; and to ſee you ſettled, is all the wiſh I have on this ſide heaven.’

'DEAR Madam,' ſaid I, a little diſ⯑concerted, ‘the gentleman has no thought of me.’ 'I do not know that,' replied my mother, ‘I am ſure he took a very particular notice of you; and as [137] he ſeems to be a man of much worth and honour, it would make me happy to leave you under ſuch a protection.’

THIS laſt thought affected me with a tender concern; and made Mrs. Benſon look grave. We changed the diſcourſe; but my mother often mentioned Mr. Neville, ſtill finding ſomething in his manners and behaviour to ground a good opinion of his morals on.

HE called the next day to enquire after our health, but only left his name, with⯑out ſtaying to be aſked in, which af⯑forded my mother new matter for praiſe, as his modeſty ſeemed in this inſtance to be equal to his politeneſs.

IT ſoon became a cuſtom to dine every Sunday with Mrs. Howard, who carried us home with her from church, and we were always ſure to find Mr. Ne⯑ville there. His behaviour to me was now particular enough to be obſerved by [138] every body. Mrs. Howard, railing me on my conqueſt, was pleaſed to ſay, ‘there are few men worthy of you, but, in point of birth or fortune, Mr. Ne⯑ville is no improper match. On the death of his uncle, who is now ſeventy, he will ſucceed to an eſtate of eight hun⯑dred a year; he is likely to riſe in the army, and his own fortune, which is about five thouſand pounds, is, I be⯑lieve, ſtill entire, as I never heard he was addicted to any extravagance.’

MY mother was very well pleaſed with this account of his circumſtances. ‘Such an eſtabliſhment for my daugh⯑ter,’ ſaid ſhe to Mrs. Benſon, ‘is in her ſituation not to be rejected, eſpe⯑cially when the man is ſo worthy.’

MRS. Benſon, who knew how little I was diſpoſed to become a wife, and did not perhaps think ſo highly of Mr. Ne⯑ville's good qualities as my mother did, ſhewed no great ſatisfaction at Mr. Ne⯑ville's [139] addreſſes, and wiſhed the affair not to be hurried on too faſt.

'IT is dangerous,' ſaid ſhe, ‘to en⯑ter the ſtate of marriage raſhly, and by the conduct of fortune; all the eyes that prudence hath, are not too many to ſerve as a guide in this buſineſs; for errors are mortal, where repentance is unprofitable.’

SHE ſometimes expreſſed her ſurpriſe to me at my mother's earneſtneſs to con⯑clude this affair. Alas! the motive ſoon became too obvious; her health was declining faſt, her anxiety for me preyed upon her ſpirits; I could often obſerve her look at me earneſtly for a minute till her eyes filled with tears, and then ſhe would haſtily turn away to con⯑ceal her emotion.

MR. NEVILLE'S behaviour, all this time, was ſo tender, ſo obliging, ſo eager to do us little ſervices, ſo attentive to my [140] mother, ſo paſſionate, yet ſo reſpectful to me, that he even brought over Mrs. Ben⯑ſon, in ſome degree, to his party. She would ſometimes tell me, that ſince I was abſolutely certain his addreſſes to me were not actuated by any motives of in⯑tereſt, I owed him ſome gratitude for the ſincerity of his affection.

MY mother's illneſs now increaſed ſo faſt upon her, as to fill us with the moſt dreadful apprehenſions; the phyſicians acknowledged they thought her caſe dan⯑gerous. I paſſed my days, and the greateſt part of my nights, by her bed⯑ſide, indulging my tears in her inter⯑vals of reſt—for I carefully concealed from her the agonizing fears that filled my mind.

MR. NEVILLE, on this occaſion, ſhewed all the tenderneſs of a ſon, and all the ſympathy of the moſt cordial friend⯑ſhip.

[141]'OH! that you could love this man,' ſaid my mother to me one day, ‘what ſatisfaction would it give me to leave you under his protection; for indeed, my dear child,’ purſued ſhe, ‘I have reaſon to think my anxiety for you is one of the chief ſources of my illneſs.’

I STARTED from the chair where I was ſitting, I threw myſelf on my knees at her bed-ſide, and bathing the dear hand ſhe held out to me with my tears, 'My dear mama,' ſaid I, ‘why, oh! why did you not explain yourſelf be⯑fore? could you doubt my ready obe⯑dience to your will?’

'IN this caſe, my Euphemia,' ſaid ſhe, ‘I would exact nothing from your obedience; my wiſh went no far⯑ther than that you could love Mr. Ne⯑ville. Your good opinion of him I am ſure he has.’

[142]'HE has, Madam,' ſaid I, ‘and I will teach my heart to love him, ſince he is your choice, and ſince the peace of your mind depends upon my being ſettled; ſhould my compliance reſtore you to your health, I ſhall be the hap⯑pieſt of human beings.’

'AND to ſee you happy,' ſaid my mother, ‘is all my wiſh upon earth; I am perſuaded Mr. Neville will make you ſo, provided you have no diſlike to him.’

'How is it poſſible, Madam,' ſaid I, ‘that I can have any diſlike to a per⯑ſon for whom you have ſo great a re⯑gard? Doubt not but I ſhall love Mr. Neville, when it is my duty ſo to do; and I will make it my duty when⯑ever you pleaſe to command me.’

'MY dear child,' ſaid my mother, ‘Heaven will, I doubt not, reward you for this, as well as every other inſtance [143] of your filial piety. From a young woman of your reſerved and delicate turn of mind, I expected no ſudden attachment, no romantic flights of paſſion; but I am well aſſured, that the man whom your judgment ap⯑proves, will, when entitled to your af⯑fection, poſſeſs it entirely.’

FROM that day my mother began to be not only compoſed, but cheerful; the eaſy ſtate of her mind had ſuch a powerful effect upon her health, that in a few days ſhe left her bed, and her re⯑covery ſeemed no longer doubtful.

MR. NEVILLE received my conſent with tranſports that ſeemed to border, I thought, upon madneſs, and rather frighted than pleaſed me. He aſked his uncle's conſent for form's ſake, which was neither granted nor refuſed; for the old gentleman, who was not ſatisfied with his conduct in general, had long ceaſed to trouble himſelf about his af⯑fairs; [144] and it was thought, that his diſ⯑guſt had riſen to ſuch a height, that if he could have diſinherited him, he would certainly have done it.

MR. NEVILLE'S ſecurity on this point was perhaps one cauſe of the little care he took to conciliate him.

MY mother made no reflections to the diſadvantage of Mr. Neville on account of this coolneſs between him and his re⯑lation; for there are times when ſome perſons are always in the right. We were married; and my huſband, in about a fortnight afterwards, carried me to a genteel houſe in Hill-ſtreet, which he had taken ready furniſhed for my re⯑ception.

THE parting with my mother, whoſe ſtate of health did not permit her to live in London, would have been very grie⯑vous to me, if I had not been enabled to viſit her conſtantly every day; for, [145] among other articles of expence which I did not expect, from the very mode⯑rate income my huſband poſſeſſed at preſent, I had a chariot and ſervants in elegant liveries. My mother gently hinted her fears, that his great fondneſs for me would, in the oeconomy of his houſe and appearance, make him conſi⯑der rather the affluence in which I had been bred, than the humble condition to which fortune had reduced me.

I HAVE heard it obſerved, that it is common for perſons who are conſcious that they have done things deſerving of blame, to anſwer their own thoughts, rather than what is ſaid to them. Mr. Neville, therefore, haſtily replied, ‘I have no intention to miſlead my Eu⯑phemia into an opinion that I am richer than I really am. I never deceived her with regard to my preſent circumſtan⯑ces, nor my future proſpects; what you object to was not done to caſt a miſt before her eyes.’

[146]'MY dear ſon,' ſaid my mother, haſtily interrupting him, ‘how vaſtly do you miſtake my meaning. You are incapable of deceit; but you are alſo incapable of reflecting, that your wife having brought you no fortune, has no claim to any increaſe of expence be⯑yond conveniences.’

MY huſband's countenance now cleared up, and this ſhort debate ended with a kind compliment to me, which I was pleaſed with, becauſe it gave her ſatisfaction.

MR. NEVILLE, however, had deceived ſeveral of his friends, and Mrs. Howard in particular, with regard to his circum⯑ſtances, and conſequently my mother; for of his own fortune, which was five thouſand pounds, the greateſt part was ſpent. He had commanded a company of foot in a regiment which was lately reduced, and his half-pay was almoſt all he had to ſubſiſt on. Without reflect⯑ing [147] upon the cauſes of diſguſt he had given his uncle, he hoped that upon his marriage, an event which he had often wiſhed for, he would have made him a decent allowance out of an eſtate which muſt one day be his, and of which he did not ſpend the half upon himſelf; but in this he was diſappointed; after many fruitleſs endeavours to ſoften his uncle, he took a ſudden reſolution (for his re⯑ſolutions are always ſudden) to extricate himſelf from his difficulties by going abroad; and fortune, on this occaſion, favoured his deſigns.

A YOUNG gentleman, who was ap⯑pointed firſt Lieutenant to one of the in⯑dependent companies in New-York, having no inclination to leave England, entered eagerly into a propoſal Mr. Ne⯑ville made him, to exchange this com⯑miſſion for his Captain's half-pay; and having very conſiderable intereſt, the affair was ſoon accompliſhed. Mr. Ne⯑ville, [148] who has very high notions of the prerogatives of a huſband, and doubt⯑leſs ſoreſeeing the oppoſition I ſhould make to this ſcheme, never deigned to conſult me upon it. Little did I expect the ſtorm that was ready to burſt upon my head; when one evening, having ſtaid later than uſual with my mother, on my return I found him at home, very buſy at his eſcrutore looking over papers, and ſettling accounts.

AFTER ſome enquiries concerning my mother's health, he aſked me abruptly, 'if I ſhould like to travel?' I ſaid, ‘I ſhould like it extremely in certain cir⯑cumſtances.’ ‘And pray what are theſe certain circumſtances, my dear?’ ſaid he. 'Why,' replied I, ‘a full purſe, and my mother's company.’ ‘I cannot promiſe for either,’ ſaid he; ‘and yet I believe we muſt travel.’ He ſaid this with ſo grave a look and accent, that although I could hardly think him [149] in earneſt, yet I was ſtrangely alarmed; and I aſked him, with ſome emotion, 'what he meant?'

'I MEAN what I ſay,' replied he, ‘that we muſt go abroad, my dear; it is abſolutely neceſſary.’

'ABSOLUTELY neceſſary to go abroad!' I repeated, trembling, and ſcarce able to ſpeak.

'IT is really as I tell you,' ſaid he, without taking notice of the diſorder I was in. ‘My uncle is incorrigible, he will make no addition to my income, which is too ſmall to ſupport you pro⯑perly. I am beſides incumbered with ſome debts, which, without his aſſiſt⯑ance, I am not able to pay; and he has had the cruelty to refuſe me a few hun⯑dreds, which would have ſet me at eaſe. Fortunately an opportunity of⯑fers, which will enable me to extricate myſelf from theſe difficulties without [150] his help. I have made an advantage⯑ous exchange with an officer who was going to New-York. It is one of the fineſt of our American provinces; the climate is delightful, the air healthy, the people poliſhed; all the luxuries of life are there more eaſily purchaſed than common neceſſaries here. There will be no great hardſhip in paſſing three or four years there. My un⯑cle's death will be the period of our baniſhment, if you will have me call it ſo: his age and infirmities ſcarce make it probable that he can laſt long; we will then return to Eng⯑land.’

ALL the time he was ſpeaking, I ſat with my hands folded, and my eyes fixed on the ground, in an agony of thought. He pauſed, as if expecting me to anſwer him.

'You ſay nothing to me, Euphemia,' ſaid he at length. ‘You think it a [151] hardſhip, no doubt, to follow a huſ⯑band who has given you ſuch uncom⯑mon proofs of his affection.’

'OH! my dear mother,' cried I, ‘am I to be torn from you, at a time when my attendance on you is ſo neceſ⯑ſary?’

'YOUR mother will go with us, per⯑haps,' ſaid he. ‘The voyage is not ſo long a one as you imagine; they often run it in leſs than three weeks.’

'I CHARGE you,' interrupted I, riſing haſtily, and holding him as if he was go⯑ing that inſtant to my mother, ‘I charge you, do not carry this dreadful news to my mother; you will kill her; ſhe will not ſurvive the parting with me. Alas! was it for this’—I pauſed.

'Go on,' ſaid Mr. Neville, ‘was it for this you married? I know to whom I was obliged for your reluctant conſent.’

[152]THIS was a ſad thought.—Agitated as I was with other grieſs, I perceived inſtantly all the inconveniencies this notion, if it took too deep root, would bring upon me: but it was not poſſible for me to eradicate it, without deſcend⯑ing to the meanneſs of falſehood; my ſoul was unacquainted with thoſe emo⯑tions, which, on this occaſion, would have ſuggeſted profeſſions of fondneſs and attachment, ſuch as he perhaps ex⯑pected. I anſwered, therefore, with great ſimplicity, ‘It is true, Sir, you were my mother's choice; I never had any other will but her's, and her choice regulated mine; but I would not have married an emperor, if by that marriage I ſhould have been obliged to leave her.’

'WELL,' anſwered he, careleſsly, ‘I believe your mother will be the only rival I ſhall ever have in your affec⯑tions: we muſt endeavour to prevail upon her to go with us. But pray,’ [153] purſued he, in a kinder accent, ‘com⯑poſe yourſelf; this ſeparation is yet too diſtant to occaſion all this uneaſi⯑neſs.’

'BUT ſtill it is certain,' ſaid I; ‘is it not ſo?’

'I AM afraid it is,' he replied. ‘My affairs are in ſuch perplexity, that it muſt be ſo.’

AT this deciſive word my tears flowed afreſh. His patience (for, alas! he has but a ſmall ſhare of that uſeful qua⯑lity) ſeemed now exhauſted; he roſe up, and taking his hat, told me, he was obliged to go out, and hoped when he returned to find me in a better humour.

I WAS not ſorry to be left alone, that I might give free vent to my tears. But ſcarce had I paſſed a few minutes in this ſad employment, when my ſervant in⯑formed me a gentleman from Lord S. [154] deſired to ſpeak with me. This noble⯑man, my dear Maria, was a relation of my mother's, and was my god-father, as I believe you have heard me ſay. He was but very lately returned from the Continent, where he had ſpent two years in ſearch of health, which, how⯑ever, he had not found; as his let⯑ter, which his gentleman now deli⯑vered to me, informed me. He ex⯑preſſed great concern for my father's death, and the ſituation in which he had left my mother and me; wiſhed me happy in my marriage, and de⯑ſired my acceptance of five hundred pounds as a nuptial preſent, lamenting his inability to do more for me; which indeed I knew to be true, as he had but a ſmall eſtate, and ſeveral children to provide for.

My ſurpriſe at this unexpected piece of good fortune, at a time when I was overwhelmed with deſpair, was ſo great, that the letter fell out of my hands, and [155] the bank-notes encloſed in it were ſcat⯑tered about the room. My ſoul was filled with joy and gratitude; in this pro⯑vidential relief I felt, I acknowledged the gracious hand of Heaven! It was with difficulty I could compoſe myſelf to write a few lines to my kind benefac⯑tor; and, when I ſent for his meſſenger to deliver my billet to him myſelf, the tranſport I was in might eaſily be read in my countenance. Delivered from my fears of being ſeparated from my mother, by being thus enabled to ſupply the neceſſities of my huſband, I felt as if a mountain was removed from my breaſt. I expected his return with in⯑conceivable impatience; and as ſoon as he entered the room I flew eagerly to him.

'My dear Mr. Neville,' ſaid I, deli⯑vering him the letter with the notes, ‘ſee how Providence has interpoſed to prevent a ſeparation, that would have given death to my mother, and made [156] me miſerable. Theſe ſums will, I hope, be ſufficient to ſet you at eaſe, and make it unneceſſary for you to go abroad.’

HE read the letter, and examined the notes. —'It muſt be confeſſed,' ſaid he coldly, ‘this is a fortunate circumſtance, conſidering your great unwillingneſs to leave England. —Well, Euphemia, I hope you will now be eaſy, ſince you have your wiſh’. I ſaw he ex⯑pected I ſhould thank him for his ready acquieſcence to my will; and by this piece of policy he eſcaped what to him would have been a very great morti⯑fication—the appearance of being under any obligation to me or my friends. My anſwer was calculated to pleaſe him, and I left him the next day in very good humour, in order to viſit my mother.

My heart was light, and the inward ſatisfaction I felt gave ſuch an air of [157] cheerfulneſs to my countenance, that upon my entering my mother's apart⯑ment ſhe took notice of it. Holding out her hand to me, which I kiſſed, ‘May I always ſee you,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘with this contented air; and may you never have reaſon to be otherwiſe!’

ALAS! how ſoon was my cheerfulneſs to be overcaſt; I felt her hand intenſely hot. I fixed my eager looks upon her face; the alteration I perceived there froze me with terror. ‘I have had but an indifferent night, but I am better now’, ſaid ſhe, forcing a ſmile to diſ⯑ſipate my apprehenſions.

MRS. Benſon that moment entered the room: in the fixed concern that was viſible in her face I read my impending misfortune. She was followed by the phyſician; but from him I could col⯑lect no comfort: he even acknowledged to me that my mother was in great danger. Shall I attempt to deſcribe my [158] feelings to you on this occaſion? Oh! no, it is impoſſible to give you an idea of my diſtreſs. I had ſent back the carriage to town, which returned again immediately with Mr. Neville, who had been informed, by a billet from Mrs. Benſon, of my mother's ſituation.

THE moſt dutiful, the moſt affection⯑ate of ſons, could not have behaved otherwiſe than he did: and I have the comfort to reflect, that my mother, to the laſt moment of her life, was fully perſuaded that I was perfectly happy in the choice ſhe had made for me.

I LEFT her no more after this day, nor ever parted from her bed-ſide a moment while ſhe lived. I had command enough over myſelf to ſuppreſs my ſighs and tears, that I might not inter⯑rupt that ſaint-like compoſure with which ſhe waited for her diſſolution. All the moments that were not ſpent in her devotions, ſhe employed in conſol⯑ing, [159] fortifying, and inſtructing me. With the moſt pathetic ſweetneſs ſhe recommended me to my huſband's care. She intreated Mrs. Benſon to continue her friendſhip for me; and heard, with great ſatisfaction, her promiſe never to forſake me. She talked ſenſibly, ſhe reaſoned juſtly, to the laſt moment of her life. It was not more than a quar⯑ter of an hour before ſhe died, when, faintly preſſing my hand, which ſhe held in her's, and looking earneſtly on me,— 'It has been ſaid,' ſaid ſhe, ‘with more wit than truth, that virtue was the moſt beautiful and the moſt unprofitable thing in the world. Can that be called unprofitable which, when ſupported by [...], give a calm like this?’ My heart, ſunk as it was with ſorrow, caught the enthu⯑ſiaſm of her words.

'OH!' cried I, lifting up my ſwim⯑ming eyes to Heaven, ‘may I die the death of the righteous, and may my [160] latter end be like their's!’ —A ſmile of joy beamed over her countenance, now beginning to be overſpread with the dark ſhades of death—once more I felt the faint preſſure of her hand, now cold and clammy, and withdrawing from mine. — To the laſt moment ſhe kept her eyes fixed upon me—then, gently cloſing them, her head ſunk upon my boſom, and with one ſoft ſigh ſhe breathed out her pure and innocent ſoul.

HERE let me draw a veil over the ſad ſcene that enſued. —My huſband car⯑ried me in his arms, and put me into the chariot, where I continued without ſenſe or motion till we arrived at our own houſe. I had no reaſon to com⯑plain of his behaviour to me on this occaſion; it was tender, affectionate, and aſſiduous, and filled my heart with the warmeſt ſentiments of gratitude.

MRS. Benſon came in the evening, and ſpent two hours with me; and then [161] returned to watch by the dear remains of her friend and benefactreſs. Lord S. deſired to be at the expence of the fune⯑ral, which was performed in a manner ſuitable to her birth and happier for⯑tunes. —She lies in the family vault at —. Oh, my Maria, I muſt pauſe here for a while; when I can de⯑tach my thoughts from this affecting ſubject, I will continue my narration.

As ſoon as I was recovered from a dangerous fever, with which I was ſeized immediately after the death of my mother, Lord S. inſiſted upon my paſſing a few weeks at his country-ſeat with his lady and daughters. Mr. Ne⯑ville was alſo invited; but he pleaded buſineſs in town that required his at⯑tendance, and contented himſelf with ſometimes coming to paſs a day or two with us.

[162]WHEN I returned to town, I found Mrs. Benſon had, with the concurrence of my huſband, ſettled all my mother's affairs. She had taken lodgings in the ſame ſtreet where I lived, that ſhe might be near me: and, now my mind being a little more compoſed, I thought it neceſſary to repreſent to Mr. Neville, that in the preſent ſtate of our circum⯑ſtances, prudence required we ſhould adopt ſome plan of living leſs expen⯑ſive, and more ſuitable to our income. I took care to avoid giving this diſ⯑courſe the air of advice; I even com⯑plimented his tenderneſs, by aſcribing to that motive the figure we had hitherto made, which I ſaid I was by no means intitled to.

Mr. Neville, as uſual, anſwered his own thoughts— 'I ſuppoſe,' ſays he, ‘you think it ſtrange that I have not yet acquainted you with the manner in which I have diſpoſed of your five [163] hundred pounds; but the time has not been favourable for ſuch diſcuſſions.’

'ALAS! no,' ſaid I, burſting into tears at the ſad remembrance he excited by theſe laſt words. —'And perhaps,' purſued he, ‘I have now introduced this ſubject unſeaſonably; if you pleaſe we will talk no more of it at preſent,’

IT was not long, however, before he renewed it himſelf. —‘I cannot ſubmit to alter my mode of living,’ ſaid he; ‘and I cannot continue it without in⯑volving myſelf in difficulties—there is no help for it—we muſt go abroad. — If your mother had lived, I ſhould. have found it very difficult to have mentioned this to you again; but as it is, I think you can have no objection to changing the ſcene for a few years.’

MY ſurpriſe and confuſion were ſo great at this unexpected declaration, that I continued ſilent for ſome mo⯑ments; [164] during which his countenance was marked with ſo much impatience, that I thought proper to tell him, I would endeavour to overcome the re⯑luctance I had to quit my native coun⯑try, and thoſe few friends which the wreck of my fortunes had left me; but he muſt permit me to ſay, ‘that I wiſh this hard taſk had not been impoſed upon me’.—‘He ſaid, that it was impoſſible for him to break through his engagement, without bringing ſuch a ſtain upon his honour, as could never be wiped off.’—'Since that is the caſe,' I replied, 'I have nothing more to ſay;' and from that moment I have never ſuf⯑fered him to perceive that I had any reluctance to this voyage.

MY dear Mrs. Benſon goes with me. She has nothing dearer, ſhe ſays, than me in the world; and no claims upon her that ſhould hinder her from keeping the promiſe ſhe made to my mother never to forſake me.

[165]Mr. Neville ſeems to approve of her deſign; I ſay ſeems, becauſe he never heartily approves of any thing that he is not the firſt mover of himſelf.

You are now, my dear Maria, in⯑formed of all thoſe circumſtances of my life which led to my preſent ſitua⯑tion. Some particulars I wiſh, indeed, may be known to none but yourſelf; for, when I diſcover ſecrets to you, I think I hide them. Adieu.

LETTER XIII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

WHAT an affecting narrative is your's? If Nature herſelf could ſpeak, ſhe could not make uſe of more ſignificant terms. You are above all praiſe; therefore, without incurring the guilt of making you vain, I may ven⯑ture to tell you how we talk of you here in our ſet. 'She is a woman,' ſaid Mr. Grevilie, ‘either lifted up by her own ſtrength above the paſſions of her ſex, or Nature hath exempted her from them by a peculiar privilege.’—'Miſs Lumley,' ſaid my uncle, ‘is indeed a wonderful young woman; ſhe had an excellent monitreſs in her mother; and ſhe has profited well, both by her [167] leſſons and example. Young as ſhe is, ſhe is ſtrict in the performance of all her duties, yet ſhe affects no pecu⯑liar gravity in her aſpect and manners, but tempers her reſerve with ſo much ſweetneſs, that, without endeavouring to pleaſe any, ſhe pleaſes all the world.’

HAD any perſons been preſent at this diſcourſe, who were ignorant of my ſen⯑timents for you, they might have judged, from my ſilence and diſcontented air, that I was envious of your praiſes. This is the friend, thought I, I muſt loſe; and ſhe, of whom hardly any man can be worthy, muſt follow one, who aſ⯑ſuredly cannot be ranked among the beſt, to the wilds of America.

I AM afraid you will be angry with me, my Euphemia, for theſe impa⯑tient repinings, and for profiting ſo little by the example you ſet me; but you well know, that there are ſome of us of ſuch ſpirits, that neither time nor [168] philoſophy can work upon us; while there are others again, who prevent the work of time and philoſophy by their own natural diſpoſition.

WE are going to ſpend a week at Mr. Greville's: he ſets out to-day, to prepare for our reception, and two days afterwards we are to follow him. My chief pleaſure there, as well as here, will be writing to you. I hope to have a letter from you before we leave the Hall. Adieu, my dear friend.

LETTER XIV.
MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

YESTERDAY Mr. Neville told me he had been to pay his reſpects to Colonel Bellenden, whoſe firſt lieutenant he now is, and who is appointed com⯑mander of the forces ſtationed at New York under the governor, who, it ſeems, is captain-general. The colonel introduced him to his lady and daughters: he was greatly pleaſed with his recep⯑tion; and, having deſired leave to pre⯑ſent me to Mrs. Bellenden, and the young ladies, we received a polite invi⯑tation to dine there to-day, which we accepted.

[170]Mr. Neville is much out of humour that, being ſtill in mourning for my dear mother, I cannot appear with eclat; that is his expreſſion in this my firſt viſit. He takes upon him to judge what ornaments I may wear with pro⯑priety, and has actually laid out my jewels, which, he ſays, will receive additional luſtre from my ſable habit.

IT has been obſerved, that obſtinate perſons are ever moſt obſtinate in error. Unhappily I experience the truth of this obſervation every day, on ſome occaſion or other. When Mr. Neville has once given his opinion, however erroneous it may be, it is impoſſible by argument to ſet him right, for reaſon itſelf would ſeem to be wrong if it is not of his ſide. I was ſadly perplexed; for I ſaw no⯑thing but determined oppoſition would ſave me from an abſurdity, and upon this I could not reſolve; when, fortu⯑nately for me, he took it into his head to make an appeal to Mrs. Benſon, who [171] ſat ſmiling all the time, without med⯑dling in the diſpute. But firſt, he en⯑deavoured, by a long ſpeech, to convince her, that what he propoſed was the fit⯑teſt thing in the world to be done.

'I KNOW not who it is,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, very gravely, ‘who ſays that eloquence is that powerful, efficacious, and dangerous gift, alike capable of perſuading both to what is right and what is wrong. There is no anſwering your arguments, that is certain; but you are too gallant not to yield up this point to Mrs. Neville, ſince the article of dreſs is entirely her own affair.’—'Oh, to be ſure,' ſaid Mr. Neville, ‘ſhe is at liberty to dreſs as ſhe pleaſes; I only wanted to convince her I was right in what I propoſed; —but I am ſatisfied if you think me ſo.’

HE was indeed ſatisfied with the com⯑pliment Mrs. Benſon paid to his elo⯑quence, yet he could not help, now and [172] then, returning to the charge, with— ‘How plainly you are dreſſed, my dear; if you would but add a few ornaments you would look much better.’—I con⯑ſtantly replied with a ſmile, ‘Have you not ſaid I ſhould dreſs as I pleaſe?’—'Oh, to be ſure, to be ſure,' he cried, 'I ſhall never contradict you;'—and the next moment, ‘Certainly, my dear, you might wear diamond ear-rings, at leaſt.’—But I ſee the chariot at the door—my huſband is coming to fetch me. I proteſt he ſurveys me with a look of diſapprobation; I muſt remind him of the compliment Mrs. Benſon paid him to put him in a good humour again. Farewel, my dear Maria, I will give you an account of our new ac⯑quaintance when we return, if we are not kept too late.

LETTER XV. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

IT is ſome comfort to me to reflect, that if you muſt take this hated voy⯑age, the Bellenden family will afford you agreeable companions in it. Mr. Greville is well acquainted with the Co⯑lonel: he ſpeaks of him with a kind of enthuſiaſm. In the language of Pope, he cried out,

'Colonel Bellenden,' ſaid he, ‘is that nobleſt work; and to this truth the candid bear teſtimony by their words, and detractors by their ſilence.’ I aſked him his opinion of the ladies.

[189]'MRS. Bellenden,' he ſaid, ‘by her politeneſs and attention to pleaſe, ſup⯑plies, in ſome degree, the defect of her education; which being confined to mere accompliſhments, as they are called, has left the nobler powers of her mind uncultivated. She ſings well; ſhe dances finely; ſhe performs on the harpſichord with great ſkill; ſhe can carry on the ſmall talk of a tea-table in French; draws prettily; and is al⯑lowed to ſhade her flowers in embroi⯑dery extremely well; but her read⯑ing has been wholly confined to her Pſalter and Bible, a few devotional tracts, and ſome ſermons; and, among profane authors, the Seven Cham⯑pions of Chriſtendom, pamphlets, poems, and ſome other works of the ſame kind. She has a great contempt for what ſhe calls book-learning in women; and thinks chaſtity and good breeding, for ſo ſhe pairs them, the higheſt of female virtues. She is an obedient wife, a tender mother, and [190] an eaſy companion; is gentle in her cenſures of her acquaintance, except when they offend againſt the laws of modeſty, or the rules of ceremony, and then, it muſt be owned, ſhe is very ſevere.’

'YOUR characters,' ſaid I, ‘ſeem to be drawn with ſo much ſkill, that I wiſh to have Miſs Bellenden's by the ſame hand. She will be the companion of my dear friend in a long voyage, and I ſhall be happy to know that ſhe will be an agreeable one.’

'I DO not,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘think Miſs Bellenden qualified to be an agreeable companion to one of your friend's ſolid underſtanding: but ſhe is good-tempered, and will not give offence; ſhe is very handſome, and has no idea of any higher excellence in women than beauty; ſhe is greedy of admiration, and would be a coquet, if ſhe had wit enough to ſecure her [191] conqueſts; but although nature directs her to throw the bait, and the gaudy fry often catch at it, yet ſhe has not ſkill enough to bring her prey to land; and they always eſcape her. Theſe diſ⯑appointments affect her but little; for a conſtant ſucceſſion of new conqueſts keeps her in good humour with her own charms, and leaves her no leiſure to regret, that their effect is not laſting.’

‘HER two ſiſters are too young to have any character yet; but they are both fine girls in their perſons; and Clara, the youngeſt, ſeems, I think, to give the promiſe of being ſuperior to the others, in the endowments of her mind.’ ‘My friend has found that out already,’ ſaid I. 'Then,' replied Mr. Greville, ‘I ſhall have ſome opi⯑nion of my own penetration.’

MY uncle this moment ſends to let me know that he is ready, and the car⯑riage [192] is at the gate. We are to ſpend a week at leaſt at Mr. Greville's, and from thence my next letter will be dated, unleſs I ſhould find leiſure to write to you at the inn where my uncle puts up the firſt night. Ever, ever your's,

LETTER XVI.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

HERE we are, my dear Euphemia, ſomewhat fatigued with our journey, for the roads were very heavy, and the day unpleaſant; and, to complete our diſſatisfaction, we met with ſome diſagreeable occurrences on our arrival at this place, which have had a ſurpriſ⯑ing effect on my uncle's temper, and for which, at preſent, I can by no means account.

WHEN our carriage drove into the inn-yard, a young gentleman, who was talking to Mrs. Deering, the landlady, haſtily advanced, and with great polite⯑neſs offered his hand to help me out: [194] he bowed low to my uncle, and obſerv⯑ing that he deſcended with ſome diffi⯑culty, he aſſiſted him with equal atten⯑tion; my uncle thanked him very cor⯑dially, which the young gentleman an⯑ſwered only by a moſt reſpectful bow, and withdrew. Both my uncle and I thought him extremely handſome; and indeed, my dear Euphemia, he has a moſt engaging countenance, and is one of the fineſt figures I ever ſaw.

MRS. Deering having conducted us to a parlour, appeared to be in ſome confuſion. 'Your honour,' ſaid ſhe, ‘uſed always to give me notice when you intended to come here, and then I prepared every thing for your recep⯑tion.’

'AND have you not had notice,' ſaid my uncle; ‘I ſent Robert before me, early in the morning.’ 'Indeed, Sir,' ſaid ſhe, ‘not a ſoul has been here from you: and I am in the greateſt quan⯑dary [195] in the world; for I have not a bed for your honour, my houſe is ſo full: I can make a ſhift to accommodate the young lady, if ſhe will put up with a little bed in a dark cloſet, and her maid can ſleep with one of mine; but the room your honour uſed al⯑ways to have, is engaged by that young gentleman you ſaw in the yard, and I have not another room in the houſe, but what is taken up.’

MY uncle fretted very much at this diſappointment, and at the negligence of the groom. ‘What is to be done, Maria?’ ſaid he to me; ‘do you think you can bear the fatigue of tra⯑velling to the next ſtage this cold dark night?’

'I CAN bear it very well, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘but I am ſure you cannot; therefore, I muſt entreat that you will accept of the dark room and the little bed Mrs. Deering talks of; and Fanny ſhall ſit up with me in this room: here are two [196] eaſy chairs; and if I can get a book, I ſhall paſs my time well enough.’ ‘I cannot conſent to that,’ ſaid my uncle; then turning to Mrs. Deering, who had uttered a thouſand good lacks all the time, he ordered her to get a boiled chicken forſupper; and in the mean time he would reſolve upon ſomething.

I CONTINUED to preſs my uncle to agree to my propoſal; which he could not prevail upon himſelf to approve.

ALL this time we heard nothing of the groom. The night became wet and ſtormy. I trembled for my uncle's health; for he was immoveable in his reſolution not to let me ſit up all night; but rather to go forward to the next ſtage; when Mrs. Deering entered the room ſmiling, and told us, that the young gentleman, who had engaged the room, hearing of the inconveniences we were likely to ſuffer for want of an apartment, had politely reſigned it to [197] my uncle; and was actually ſet out on horſeback, in the midſt of the ſtorm, in order to reach the houſe of a friend, who lived about ten miles diſtant.

'BLESSINGS on his heart for it!' ſaid Mrs. Deering, ‘it was as good a deed as ever was done; and it was all his own offer.’

MY uncle appeared very much af⯑fected with this young man's civility. 'Who is he?' ſaid he to Mrs. Deering: ‘I hope I ſhall have an opportunity, ſome time or other, of thanking him.’ 'He is your nameſake,' ſaid Mrs. Deer⯑ing.

'HARLEY!' interrupted my uncle, im⯑patiently, 'Who's ſon is he?'

‘He is ſon to the Reverend Doctor Harley,’ anſwered Mrs. Deering; ‘and is juſt returned from Germany. He was ſent to get his learning at a [198] Verſity there; becauſe his father, it ſeems, is not rich, and could not main⯑tain him at one of our own Verſities.’

My uncle had been uſed to this good woman's language, and was able to liſten to her gravely; but it was with ſome difficulty that I could help ſmiling. However, my mirth was immediately clouded, when caſting my eyes upon my uncle, I perceived all the marks of aſtoniſhment, anger and confuſion in his countenance.

'PRAY haſten ſupper,' ſaid he to Mrs. Deering, at the ſame time making a motion to her with his hand to be gone. She left the room; and he continued to walk about in it ſilently, with a haſty un⯑equal ſtep.

My aſtoniſhment at this evident diſ⯑compoſure, kept me ſilent alſo for ſome moments. At length I aſked him, if [199] any thing extraordinary had happened, to make him uneaſy.

'YES,' replied he, throwing himſelf into a chair, ‘I have reaſon to be un⯑eaſy, when, contrary to my intentions, I am laid under obligations to perſons I hate. This young fellow has in⯑ſulted me by his mock-civility. Can⯑not you gueſs who he is?’ ‘Is he not, Sir,’ ſaid I, 'related to us?'

‘HE is ſo, to your and my misfor⯑tune,’ ſaid he. ‘His father is my enemy, my mortal enemy: and upon him, ſince I have no male heir, my eſtates are entailed. Oh! that my brother had left me a ſon inſtead of a daughter!’

'WELL, Sir,' ſaid I, endeavouring to laugh him out of his ill humour, ‘it is always misfortune enough to be a woman, without any aggravation. But I am not avaricious; and you have [200] made me as rich as I deſire to be. I wiſh, indeed, your heir was more wor⯑thy of your regard. But has this young man affronted you, as well as his fa⯑ther?’

'His father is a villain!' cried my uncle, ſtarting from his chair, and pacing again furiouſly about the room; then ſuddenly ſtopping, and graſping my hand eagerly.

'OH! Maria,' ſaid he, ‘I have cauſe for hatred; that baſe man betrayed me! betrayed me in the tendereſt point! betrayed me, who was his kinſ⯑man, his friend, his benefactor!’

HIS voice failed; his eyes filled with tears; he turned from me, and throw⯑ing himſelf again into his chair, fixed his looks, altered as they were from rage to melancholy, ſtedfaſtly upon the fire.

[201]WHILE he continued in this affecting ſilence, I could not refrain from tears; which I endeavoured to conceal, upon Mrs. Deering's entrance with ſupper. Sir John was ſo abſorbed in thought, that he did not perceive ſhe was in the room; I drew near to tell him ſoftly, that ſupper was on the table.

'I HOPE his Honour is not ill!' ſaid Mrs. Deering, coming up officiouſly to⯑wards him. 'Sir John is fatigued,' ſaid I, 'with his journey.' ‘Ah! no doubt of it,’ ſaid ſhe. ‘What a mercy it was, that his honour did not go fur⯑ther to-night. Bleſſings on good young Mr. Harley, for leaving us his bed!’

At that name my uncle ſtarted up in ſome emotion; and then, for the firſt time, perceiving our loquacious land⯑lady, he recollected himſelf, and drew his chair near the table.

[202]'IT is a bitter night,' purſued ſhe; ‘poor heart! I warrant he is drenched through with the rain by this time: but as long as his Honour is ſafe and warm, I am contented.’

SENSIBLE how much my uncle muſt ſuffer in the preſent ſtate of his mind, by this woman's idle talk, I deſired her to get his apartment ready for him as ſoon as poſſible; 'for I ſuppoſe, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘you will chooſe to retire when you have ſupped?’ 'Certainly,' he ſaid: upon which Mrs. Deering with⯑drew.

MY uncle, ſtill penſive and ſilent, carved the chicken, helped me and him⯑ſelf, but ſcarce ate any thing; and my ſupper being finiſhed as ſoon as his, he drank one glaſs of wine; and ordering his valet, who attended, to light him to his room, he wiſhed me a good night, and left me.

[203]I WAS glad to be alone, that I might give free vent to my tears; for the gen⯑tle melancholy my uncle fell into, after the firſt ſallies of his anger were over, af⯑fected me greatly. I could have wiſhed he had opened his heart to me, and ac⯑quainted me with the cauſe of his enmity againſt his kinſman. That there was no cordiality nor correſpondence between them, I knew; but I never imagined their differences were of a nature to ex⯑cite ſuch a ſtrong and laſting enmity. But what has this poor young man done, to deſerve ſo great a ſhare of my uncle's diſlike? for it ſeems he never ſaw him before, and was diſpoſed to like him, till he heard his name: and indeed, it muſt be acknowledged, that he has ſome⯑thing extremely intereſting in his coun⯑tenance, and his perſon and addreſs are engaging to a great degree. Poor youth! his complaiſance may probably coſt him dear; the night is dark and ſtormy, his road lies acroſs the country, and he has ten miles to travel, with no attendant [204] but an old countryman, whom, at a large expence, he hired to ſerve him as a guide.

HERE is Mrs. Deering with her alaſſes! again; ſhe puts a thouſand frightful thoughts into one's head. I have al⯑ways obſerved, that low people take a pleaſure in creating fears, when there is no cauſe for them, and in aggravating them when there is. But I will go to-bed: I am tired, but not ſleepy. I have been writing ever ſince my uncle left me.—Good night, my dear Eu⯑phemia.