LETTER I. Miſs LUCY SELBY, To Miſs HARRIET BYRON.

YOUR reſolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to London, has greatly alarmed your three Lovers. And two of them, at leaſt, will let you know that it has. Such a lovely girl as my Harriet, muſt expect to be more accountable for her ſteps than one leſs excellent and leſs attractive.

Mr. Greville, in his uſual reſolute way, threatens to follow you to London; and there, he ſays, he will watch the motions of every man who approaches you; and, if he find reaſon for it, will early let ſuch man know his pretenſions, and the danger he may run into, if he pretend to be his competitor. But let me not do him injuſtice; though he talks of a rival thus harſhly, he ſpeaks of you more highly than man ever ſpoke of woman. Angel and Goddeſs are phraſes you have been uſed to from him; and tho' ſpoken in [2] his humorous way, yet I am ſure he moſt ſincerely admires you.

Mr. Fenwick, in a leſs determined manner, de⯑clares, that he will follow you to town, if you ſtay there above one fortnight.

The gentle Orme ſighs his apprehenſions, and wiſhes you would change your purpoſe. Tho' hope⯑leſs, he ſays, it is ſome pleaſure to him, that he can think himſelf in the ſame county with you; and much more, that he can tread in your footſteps to and from church every Sunday, and behold you there. He wonders how your grandmamma, your aunt, your uncle, can ſpare you. Your couſin Reeves's ſurely, he ſays, are very happy in their influences over us all.

Each of the gentlemen is afraid, that by increaſing the number of your admirers, you will increaſe his difficulties: But what is that to them, I aſked, when they already know, that you are not inclined to fa⯑vour any of the three?

If you hold your reſolution, and my couſin Reeves's their time of ſetting out, pray let me know, and I will attend you at my uncle Selby's, to wiſh you a good journey, much pleaſure in town, and a re⯑turn with a ſafe and ſound heart. My ſiſter, who, poor dear girl, continues extremely weak and low, will ſpare me for a purpoſe ſo indiſpenſable. I will not have you come to us. I know it would grieve you to ſee her in the way ſhe is in. You too much take to heart the infirmities of your friends which you cannot cure; and as your grandmamma lives upon your ſmiles, and you rejoice all your friends by your chearfulneſs, it would be cruel to make you ſad.

MR. GREVILLE has juſt left us. He dropt in upon us as we were going to dinner. My grand⯑mother Selby you know is always pleaſed with his rat⯑tling. She prevailed on him to alight, and ſit down with us. All his talk was of you. He repeated his [3] former threatenings (as I called them to him) on your going to town. After dinner, he read us a Letter from Lady Frampton relating to you. He read us alſo ſome paſſages from the copy of his anſwer, with deſign, I believe, that I ſhould aſk him to leave it behind him. He is a vain creature, you know, and ſeemed fond of what he had written. I did aſk him. He pretended to make a ſcruple of your ſeeing it; but it was a faint one. However he called for pen and ink; and when it was brought him, ſcratched o⯑ver two paſſages, and that with ſo many little flou⯑riſhes (as you will ſee) that he thought they could not be read. But the ink I furniſhed him with hap⯑pening to be paler than his, you will find he was not cunning enough. I promiſed to return it.

Send me a line by the bearer, to tell me if your reſolution holds as to the day.

Adieu, my deareſt Harriet. May angels protect and guide you whitherſoever you go!

LETTER II. Mr. GREVILLE, To Lady FRAMPTON. Incloſed in the preceding.

YOUR Ladyſhip demands a deſcription of the Perſon of the celebrated Miſs Byron in our neighbourhood; and to know, whether, as report tells you, Love has liſted me in the number of her par⯑ticular admirers?—Particular admirers you well di⯑ſtinguiſh; ſince every one who beholds her admires her.

Your Ladyſhip confines your enquiries to her Per⯑ſon, you tell me; and you own, that women are much more ſolicitous about the beauties of that, than of the Mind. Perhaps it may be ſo; and that their envy is much ſooner excited by the one than by the others [4] But who, madam, can deſcribe the perſon of Miſs Harriet Byron, and her perſon only; animated as every feature is by a mind that beſpeaks all human excellence, and dignifies her in every Air, in every Look, in every Motion?

No man living has a greater paſſion for beauty than I have. Till I knew Miſs Byron, I was one of thoſe who regarded nothing elſe in the Sex. Indeed, I con⯑ſidered all intellectual attainments as either uſeleſs or impertinent in women. Your Ladyſhip knows what were my free notions on this head, and has rebuked me for them. A wiſe and learned Lady, I conſidered as a very unnatural character. I wanted women to be all Love, and nothing elſe. A very little Prudence allow'd I to enter into their compo⯑ſition; juſt enough to diſtinguiſh the Man of Senſe from the Fool; and that for my own ſake: You know I have vanity, madam: But lovely as Miſs By⯑ron's perſon is, I defy the greateſt Senſualiſt on earth not to admire her mind more than her perſon. What a triumph would the devil have, as I have often thought, when I have ſtood contemplating her per⯑fections, eſpecially at church, were he able to raiſe up a man that could lower this Angel into Woman?—Pardon me!—Your Ladyſhip knows my mad way of ſaying every thing that riſes to my thoughts.

Sweetneſs of temper muſt make plain featuresglow: What an effect muſt it then have upon fine ones? Never was there a ſweeter-temper'd woman. Indeed from Sixteen to Twenty, all the Sex (kept in humour by their hopes, and by their attractions) are ſaid to be good-temper'd; but ſhe is remarkably ſo. She is juſt turned of Twenty, but looks not more than Seven⯑teen. Her beauty, hardly yet in its full blow, will laſt longer, I imagine, than in an earlier bloſſom. Yet the prudence viſible in her whole aſpect, gave her a diſtinction, even at Twelve, that promiſed, what ſhe would be at a riper age.

[5] Yet with all this reigning good-nature viſible in her face and manner, there is ſuch a native dignity in all ſhe ſays, in all ſhe does (tho' mingled with a frankneſs that ſhews her mind's ſuperiority to the minds of almoſt all other women) that it damps and ſuppreſſes, in the moſt audacious, all imaginations of bold familiarity.

I know not, by my ſoul, how ſhe does this nei⯑ther: But ſo it is. She jeſts; ſhe rallies: But I can⯑not rally her again. Love, it is ſaid, dignifies the adored object. Perhaps it is that which awes me.

And now will your Ladyſhip doubt of an affirma⯑tive anſwer to your ſecond queſtion, Whether Love has liſted me in the number of her particular admi⯑rers?

He has: And the devil take me if I can help my⯑ſelf: And yet I have no encouragement—Nor any body elſe; that's my conſolation. Fenwick is deeper in, if poſſible, than I. We had at our firſt acquaint⯑ance, as you have heard, a tilting-bout on the occaſi⯑on: But are ſworn friends now; each having agreed to try his fortune by patience and perſeverance; and being aſſured that the one has no more of her favour to boaſt of than the other ^a. ‘"We have indeed bluſtered away between us half a ſcorce more of her admirers. Poor whining Orme, however, per⯑ſeveres. But of him we make no account: He has a watry head, and tho' he finds a way, by his ſiſter, who viſits at Mr. Selby's, and is much eſteemed there, to let Miſs Byron know his paſ⯑ſion for her, notwithſtanding the negative he has received; yet doubt we not, that ſhe is ſafe from a flame that he will quench with his tears, before it can riſe to an head to diſturb us.’

[6] ‘"You Ladies love men ſhould whine after you: But never yet did I find, that where a bluſtering fellow was a competitor, the Lady married the milkſop."’

But let me in this particular do Miſs Byron juſtice: How ſhe manages it, I can't tell; but ſhe is cour⯑teous to all: nor could ever any man charge her either with pride or cruelty. All I fear, is, that ſhe has ſuch an equality in her temper, that ſhe can hardly find room in her heart for a particular Love: Nor will, till ſhe meets with one whoſe mind is near as faultleſs as her own; and the general tenor of whoſe life and actions calls upon her diſcretion to give her leave to love. ‘"This apprehenſion I owe to a con⯑verſation I had with her grandmother Shirley; a Lady that is an ornament to old age; and who hinted to me, that her grand-daughter had excep⯑tions both to Fenwick and me, on the ſcore of a few indulgences that perhaps have been too public; but which all men of faſhion and ſpirit give them⯑ſelves, and all women, but this, allow of, or hate not men the worſe for. But then what is her ob⯑jection to Orme? He is a ſober dog."’

She was but eight years old when her mother died. She alſo was an excellent woman. Her death was brought on by grief for that of her huſband; which happened but ſix months before—A rare inſtance!

The grandmother and aunt, to whom the girl is dutiful to a proverb, will not interfere with her choice. If they are applied to for their intereſt, the anſwer is conſtantly this: The approbation of their Harriet muſt firſt be gained, and then their conſent is ready.

There is a Mr. Deane, a man of an excellent cha⯑racter for a Lawyer; but indeed he left off practice on coming into poſſeſſion of an handſome eſtate: He was the girl's godfather. He is allowed to have great influence over them all. Harriet calls him papa. [7] To him I have applied: But his anſwer is the very ſame: His daughter Harriet muſt chooſe for herſelf: All motions of this kind muſt come firſt from her.

And ought I to deſpair of ſucceeding with the girl herſelf? I, her Greville! not contemptible in perſon; in air—free and eaſy, at leaſt; having a good eſtate in poſſeſſion; fine expectances beſides; dreſſing well, ſinging well, dancing well, and bleſt with a moderate ſhare of confidence; which makes other women think me a clever fellow: She a girl of twenty; her fortune between ten and fifteen thouſand pounds on⯑ly; for her father's conſiderable eſtate, on his demiſe, for want of male heirs, went with the name: Her grandmother's jointure not more than 500l. a year—And what though her uncle Selby has no chil⯑dren, and loves her, yet has he nephews and nieces of his own, whom he alſo loves; for this Harriet is his wife's niece.

I will not deſpair. If reſolution, if perſeverance, will do, and if ſhe be a woman, ſhe ſhall be mine—And ſo I have told her aunt Selby, and her un⯑cle too; and ſo I have told Miſs Lucy Selby, her couſin, as ſhe calls her, who is highly and deſervedly in her favour; and ſo indeed have I more than once told the girl herſelf.

But now to the deſcription of her perſon—Let me die, if I know where to begin. She is all over love⯑lineſs. Does not every body elſe who has ſeen her, tell you ſo? Her Stature; ſhall I begin with her ſta⯑ture? She cannot be ſaid to be tall; but yet is ſome⯑thing above the middling. Her Shape—But what care I for her ſhape? I, who hope to love her ſtill more, tho' poſſeſſion may make me admire her leſs, when ſhe has not that to boaſt of? We young fellows who have been abroad, are above regarding Engliſh ſhapes, and prefer to them the French negligence. By the way, I think the foreign Ladies in the right, that they aim not at what they cannot attain. Whe⯑ther [8] we are ſo much in the right to come into their taſte, is another thing. But be this as it will, there is ſo much eaſe and dignity in the perſon, in the dreſs, and in every air and motion of Miſs Harriet Byron, that fine ſhapes will ever be in faſhion where ſhe is, be either native or foreigner the judge.

Her complexion is admirably fair and clear. I have ſat admiring her complexion, till I have imagined I have ſeen the life-blood ſlowing with equal courſe thro' her tranſlucent veins.

Her Forehead, ſo nobly free and open, ſhews dig⯑nity and modeſty, and ſtrikes into one a kind of awe, ſingly contemplated, that (from the delight which ac⯑companies the awe) I know not how to deſcribe. Every ſingle feature, in ſhort, will bear the niceſt ex⯑amination; and her whole Face, and her Neck, ſo admirably ſet on her finely-proportioned Shoulders—let me periſh, if, taking all together, I do not hold her to be the moſt unexceptionable beauty I ever beheld. But what ſtill is her particular Excellence, and diſtinguiſhes her from all other Engliſh women (for it muſt be acknowleged to be a characteriſtic of the French women of quality) is, the grace which that people call Phyſiognomy, and we may call Ex⯑preſſion: Had not her ſeatures and her complexion been ſo fine as they are, that grace alone, that Soul ſhining out in her lovely aſpect, joined with the eaſe and gracefulneſs of her Motion, would have made her as many admirers, as beholders.

After this, ſhall I deſcend to a more particular de⯑ſcription?—I will.

Her Cheek—I never ſaw a cheek ſo beautifully turn'd; illuſtrated, as it is, by a charming Carmine fluſh, which denotes ſound health. A moſt bewitch⯑ing dimple takes place in each, when ſhe ſmiles; and ſhe has ſo much reaſon to be pleaſed with herſelf, and with all about her (for ſhe is the idol of her rela⯑tions) that I believe from infancy, ſhe never frowned; [9] nor can a frown, it is my opinion, ſit upon her face for a minute. Would to heaven I were conſiderable enough with her to prove the contrary!

Her Mouth—There never was ſo lovely a mouth. But no wonder; ſince ſuch roſy Lips, and ſuch ivory and even Teeth, muſt give beauty to a mouth leſs charming than hers.

Her Noſe adds dignity to her other features. Her Chin is ſweetly turned, and almoſt imperceptibly dimpled.

Her Eyes!—Ay, madam, her Eyes!—Good Hea⯑ven! what a luſtre; yet not a fierce, but a mild luſtre! How have I deſpiſed the romancing Poets for their unnatural deſcriptions of the Eyes of their heroines! But I have thought thoſe deſcriptions, tho' abſurd enough in conſcience, leſs abſurd (allowing ſome⯑thing for poetical licence) ever ſince I beheld thoſe of Miſs Harriet Byron.

Her Hair is a real and unlaboured ornament to her. All natural its curls: Art has no ſhare in the luſtre it gives to her other beauties.

I mentioned her Neck—Here I dare not truſt my⯑ſelf—Inimitable creature! All-attracting lovelineſs!

Her Arm—Your Ladyſhip knows my paſſion for a delicate Arm.—By my Soul, madam, your own does not exceed it.

Her Hands are extremely fine. Such Fingers! And they accuſtomed to the Pen, to the Needle, to the Harpſichord; excelling in all—O madam! wo⯑men have Souls. I am now convinced they have. I dare own to your Ladyſhip, that once I doubted it, on a ſuppoſition that they were given us for tem⯑porary purpoſes only.—And have I not ſeen her dance? Have I not heard her ſing?—But indeed, mind and perſon, ſhe is all harmony.

Then for Reading, for acquired knowledge, what Lady ſo young—But you know the character of her grandfather Shirley. He was a man of univerſal [10] learning, and, from his public employments abroad, as polite as learned. This Girl, from Seven years of age, when he came to ſettle in England, to Fourteen, when ſhe loſt him, was his delight; and her educa⯑tion and inſtruction the amuſement of his vacant hours. This is the Period, he uſed to ſay, in which the foundations of all female goodneſs are to be laid, ſince ſo ſoon after Fourteen they leap into women.

The dead languages he aimed not to teach her, leſt he ſhould overload her young mind: But in the Italian and French he made her an adept.

Nor were the advantages common ones which ſhe received from his Lady, her grandmother, and from her aunt Selby, her father's ſiſter, a woman of equal worthineſs. Her grandmother particularly is one of the moſt pious, yet moſt chearful, of women. She will not permit her daughter Byron, ſhe ſays, to live with her, for both their ſakes—For the Girl's ſake, be⯑cauſe there is a greater reſort of company at Mr. Sel⯑by's, than at Shirley-Manor; and ſhe is afraid, as her grand-child has a ſerious turn, that her own contem⯑plative life may make her more grave than ſhe wiſhes ſo young a woman to be. Youth, ſhe ſays, is the ſea⯑ſon for chearfulneſs—For her own ſake, Becauſe ſhe looks upon her Harriet's company as a cordial too rich to be always at hand; and when ſhe has a mind to re⯑gale, ſhe will either ſend for her, fetch her, or viſit her at Mrs. Selby's. One of her Letters to Mrs. Selby I once ſaw. It ran thus—‘"You muſt ſpare me my Harriet. I am in pain. My ſpirits are not high. I would not have the undecay'd mind yield, for want of uſing the means, to the decaying body. One happy day with our child, the true child of the united minds of her late excellent parents, will, I hope, effect the cure: If it do not, you muſt ſpare her to me two."’

Did I not tell you, madam, that it was very diffi⯑cult to deſcribe the Perſon only of this admirable young [11] Lady?—But I ſtop here. An horrid apprehenſion comes acroſs me! How do I know but I am praiſing another man's future wife, and not my own; Here is a couſin of hers, a Mrs. Reeves, a fine Lady from London, come down, under the curſed influence of my evil ſtars, to carry this Harriet away with her in⯑to the gay world. Woman! Woman!—I beg your Ladyſhip's pardon; but what Angel of Twenty is proof againſt vanity? The firſt hour ſhe appears, ſhe will be a Toaſt; Stars and Titles will croud about her; and who knows how far a paltry coronet may dazle her, who deſerves an imperial crown? But, woe to the man, whoever he be, whoſe pretenſions dare to interfere (and have any aſſurance of ſucceſs) with thoſe of

LETTER III. Miſs HARRITT BYRON, To Miſs LUCY SELBY.

I Return you incloſed, my Lucy, Mr. Greville's ſtrange Letter. As you aſked him for it, he will have no doubt but you ſhewed it to me. It is better therefore, if he make enquiry whether you did or not, to own it. In this caſe he will be curious to know my ſentiments upon it. He is ſenſible that my whole heart is open to you.

Tell him, if you think proper, in ſo many words, that I am far more diſpleaſed with him for his impe⯑tuoſity, than gratified by his flattery.

Tell him, that I think it very hard, that, when my neareſt relations leave me ſo generouſly to my liberty, a man, to whom I never gave cauſe to treat me with diſreſpect, ſhould take upon himſelf to threaten and controul me.

[12] Aſk him, What are his pretences for following me to London, or elſewhere?

If I had not had reaſons before to avoid a more than neighbourly civility to him, he has now furniſhed me with very ſtrong ones. The threatening Lover muſt certainly make a tyrant Huſband. Don't you think ſo, Lucy?—But make not ſuppoſals of Lover, or Huſband to him: Theſe bold men will turn ſhadows into ſubſtance, in their own favour.

A woman who is ſo much exalted above what ſhe can deſerve, has reaſon to be terrified, were ſhe to marry the complimenter (even could ſhe ſuppoſe him ſo blinded by his paſſion as not to be abſolutely in⯑ſincere) to think of the height ſhe muſt fall from, in his opinion, when ſhe has put it into his power to treat her but as what ſhe is.

Indeed I both deſpiſe and fear a very high compli⯑menter.—Deſpiſe him for his deſigning flattery, ſup⯑poſing him not to believe himſelf; or, if he mean what he ſays, for his injudiciouſneſs. I fear him, leſt he ſhould (as in the former caſe he muſt hope) be able to raiſe a vanity in me, that would ſink me be⯑neath his meanneſs, and give him cauſe to triumph over my folly, at the very time that I am full of my own wiſdom.

High-ſtrain'd compliments, in ſhort, always pull me down; always make me ſhrink into myſelf. Have I not ſome vanity to guard againſt? I have no doubt but Mr. Greville wiſhed I ſhould ſee this Letter: And this gives me ſome little indignation againſt my⯑ſelf; for does it not look as if, from ſome faults in my conduct, Mr. Greville had formed hopes of ſuc⯑ceeding, by treating me like a fool?

I hope theſe gentlemen will not follow me to town, as they threaten. If they do, I will not ſee them, if I can any way avoid it. Yet, for me to appear to them ſolicitous on this head, or to deſire them not to go, will be in ſome meaſure to lay myſelf under an obligation to [13] their acquieſcence. It is not therefore for me to hope to influence them in this matter; ſince they expect too much in return for it from me; and ſince they will be ready to found a merit in their paſſion, even for diſ⯑obliging me.

I cannot bear, however, to think of their dangling after me where-ever I go. Theſe men, my dear, were we to give them importance with us, would be greater infringers of our natural freedom than the moſt ſevere Parents; and for their own ſakes: Where⯑as Parents, if ever ſo deſpotic (if not unnatural ones indeed) mean ſolely our good, tho' headſtrong girls do not always think ſo. Yet ſuch, even ſuch, can be teazed out of their wills, at leaſt out of their duty, by the men who ſtile themſelves Lovers, when they are invincible to all the entreaties and commands of their Parents.

O that the next eight or ten years of my life, if I find not in the interim a man, on whom my whole undivided heart can fix, were happily over! As hap⯑pily as the laſt alike important four years! To be able to look down from the elevation of thirty years, my principles fix'd, and to have no capital folly to re⯑proach myſelf with, what an happineſs would that be!

My Couſin Reeves's time of ſetting out holds; the indulgence of my deareſt Friends continues; and my reſolution holds. But I will ſee my Nancy before I ſet out. What! ſhall I enter upon a party of plea⯑ſure, and leave in my heart room to reflect, in the midſt of it, that there is a dear ſuffering friend who had reaſon to think I was afraid of giving myſelf pain, when I might, by the balm of true love and friendly ſoothings, adminiſter comfort to her wounded heart?—No, my Lucy, believe me, if I have not generoſity enough, I have ſelfiſhneſs enough, to make me avoid a ſting ſo ſevere as this would be, to

LETTER IV. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

WE are juſt arrived. We had a very agreeable journey.

I need not tell you that Mr. Greville and Mr. Fen⯑wick attended us to our firſt baiting; and had a gen⯑teel dinner ready provided for us: The gentlemen will tell you this, and all particulars.

They both renewed their menaces of following me to London, if I ſtay'd above one month. They were ſo good as to ſtretch their fortnight to a month.

Mr. Fenwick, in very pathetic terms, as he found an opportunity to engage me alone for a few minutes, beſought me to love him. Mr. Greville was as earneſt with me to declare, that I hated him. Such a de⯑claration, he ſaid, was all he at preſent wiſhed for. It was ſtrange, he told me, that he neither could prevail on me to encourage his Love, nor to declare my Hatred. He is a whimſical creature.

I rallied him with my uſual freedom; and told him, that if there was one perſon in the world that I was capable of hating, I could make the leſs ſcruple to oblige him. He thank'd me for that.

The two gentlemen would fain have proceeded farther: But as they are never out of their way, I dare ſay, they would have gone to London; and there have dangled on till we ſhould not have got rid of them, for my whole time of being in town.

I was very gravely earneſt with them to leave us, when we ſtept into the coach in order to proceed. Fenwick, you dog, ſaid Mr. Greville, we muſt re⯑turn; Miſs Byron looks grave. Gravity, and a riſing colour in the fineſt face in the world, indicates as much as the frowns of other Beauties. And in the moſt reſpectful manner they both took leave of me; [15] inſiſting, however, on my hand, and that I would wiſh them well.

I gave each my hand; I wiſh you very well, gen⯑tlemen, ſaid I: And I am obliged to your civility in ſeeing me ſo far on my journey: Eſpecially as you are ſo kind as to leave me here.

Why, dear Madam, did you not ſpare your Eſpe⯑cially, ſaid Mr. Greville?—Come, Fenwick, let us re⯑tire, and lay our two loggerheads together, and live over again the paſt hour, and then hang ourſelves.

Poor Mr. Orme! The coach, at our firſt ſetting out, paſſed by his Park-gate, you know. There was he—on the very ridge of the highway. I ſaw him not till it was near him. He bowed to the very ground, with ſuch an air of diſconſolateneſs!—Poor Mr. Orme!—I wiſh'd to have ſaid one word to him, when we had paſſed him: But the coach flew—Why did the coach fly?—But I waved my hand, and leaned out of the coach as far as I could, and bowed to him.

O Miſs Byron, ſaid Mrs. Reeves (ſo ſaid Mr. Reeves) Mr. Orme is the happy man. Did I think as you do, ſaid I, I ſhould not be ſo deſirous to have ſpoken to him: But, methinks, I ſhould have been glad to have once ſaid, Adieu, Mr. Orme; for Mr. Orme is a good man.

But, Lucy, my heart was ſoftened at parting with my dear relations and friends; and when the heart is ſoftened, light impreſſions will go deep.

My couſins houſe is ſuitable to their fortune: Very handſome, and furniſhed in taſte. Mrs. Reeves, knowing well what a ſcribbler I am, and am expected to be, has provided me with pen, ink, and paper, in abundance. She readily allowed me to take early poſſeſſion of my apartment, that I might pay punctual obedience to the commands of all my friends on ſet⯑ting out. Theſe, you know, were, to write in the [16] firſt hour of my arrival: And it was allowed to be to you, my dear. But, writing thus early, what can have occurred?

My apartment is extremely elegant. A well-fur⯑niſh'd book-caſe, is, however, to me the moſt attract⯑ing ornament in it—Pardon me, dear Pen and Ink! I muſt not prefer any thing to you, by whoſe means, I hope to ſpend ſome part of every day at Selby-Houſe; and even at this diſtance, amuſe with my prat⯑tle thoſe friends that are always ſo partial to it.

And now, my dear, my revered grandmamma, I aſk your bleſſing—Yours, my ever-indulgent aunt Selby—And yours, my honoured and equally beloved uncle Selby. Who knows but you will, now in abſence, take leſs delight in teazing your ever-dutiful Harriet? But yet I unbeſpeak not my monitor.

Continue to love me, my Lucy, as I ſhall endea⯑vour to deſerve your Love: And let me know how our dear Nancy does.

My heart bleeds for her. I ſhould have held my⯑ſelf utterly inexcuſable, had I accepted of your kind⯑ly-intended diſpenſation, and come to town for three whole months, without repeating to her, by word of mouth, my Love, and my ſympathiſing concern for her. What merit does her patience add to her other merits! How has her calamity endeared her to me! If ever I ſhall be heavily afflicted, God give me her amiable, her almoſt meritorious patience in ſufferings!

To my couſin Holles's, and all my other Relations, Friends, Companions, make the affectionate compli⯑ments of

LETTER V. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

LETTER VI. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

AS to what you ſay of Mr. Greville's concern on my abſence (and, I think, with a little too much feeling for him) and of his declaring himſelf unable to live without ſeeing me; I have but one fear about it; which is, that he is forming a pretence from his Violent Love, to come up after me: And if he does, I will not ſee him, if I can help it.

And do you indeed believe him to be ſo much in Love? By your ſeriouſneſs on the occaſion, you ſeem to think he is. O my Lucy! What a good heart you have! And did he not weep when he told you ſo? Did he not turn his head away, and pull out his handkerchief?—O theſe diſſemblers! The hyaena, my dear, was a male devourer. The men in malice, and to extenuate their own guilt, made the creature [26] a female. And yet there may be male and female of this ſpecies of monſters. But as women have more to loſe with regard to reputation than men, the male hyaena muſt be infinitely the more dangerous creature of the two; ſince he will come to us, even into our very houſes, fawning, cringing, weeping, licking our hands; while the den of the female is by the highway⯑ſide, and wretched youths muſt enter into it, to put it in her power to devour them.

Let me tell you, my dear, that if there be an art⯑ful man in England, with regard to us women (artful equally in his free ſpeaking, and in his ſycophancies) Mr. Greville is the man. And he intends to be ſo too, and values himſelf upon his art. Does he not as boldly as conſtantly inſinuate, That flattery is dearer to a woman than her food? Yet who ſo groſs a flat⯑terer as himſelf, when the humour is upon him? And yet at times he wants to build up a merit for ſinceri⯑ty or plain-dealing, by ſaying free things.

It is not difficult, my dear, to find out theſe men, were we earneſt to detect them. Their chief ſtrength lies in our weakneſs. But however weak we are, I think we ſhould not add to the triumph of thoſe who make our weakneſs the general ſubject of their ſatire. We ſhould not prove the juſtice of their ridicule by our own indiſcretions. But the traitor is within us. If we guard againſt ourſelves, we may bid defiance to all the arts of man.

You know, that my great objection to Mr. Gre⯑ville is for his immoralities. A man of free principles, ſhewn by practices as free, can hardly make a tender huſband, were a woman able to get over conſidera⯑tions that ſhe ought not to get over. Who ſhall truſt for the performance of his ſecond duties, the man who avowedly deſpiſes his firſt? Mr. Greville had a good education: He muſt have taken pains to render vain the pious precepts of his worthy father; and ſtill more, to make a jeſt of them.

[27] Three of his women we have heard of, beſides her whom he brought with him from Wales. You know he has only affected to appear decent, ſince he has caſt his eyes upon me. The man, my dear, muſt be an abandoned man, and muſt have a very hard heart, who can paſs from woman to woman, without any re⯑morſe for a former, whom, as may be ſuppoſed, he has by the moſt ſolemn vows ſeduced. And whoſe leavings is it, my dear, that a virtuous woman takes, who marries a profligate?

Is it not reported, that his Welſhwoman, to whom, at parting, he gave not ſufficient for a twelvemonth's ſcanty ſubſiſtence, is now upon the town? Vile man! He thinks it to his credit, I have heard, to own it a ſeduction, and that ſhe was not a vicious creature till he made her ſo.

One only merit has Mr. Greville to plead in this black tranſaction: It is, That he has, by his whole conduct in it, added a warning to our Sex. And ſhall I, deſpiſing the warning, marry a man, who, ſpecious as he is in his temper, and lively in his converſation, has ſhewn ſo bad a nature?

His fortune, as you ſay, is great. The more inex⯑cuſable therefore is he for his niggardlineſs to his Welſhwoman. On his fortune he preſumes: It will procure him a too eaſy forgiveneſs from others of our Sex: But fortune without merit will never do with me, were the man a prince.

You ſay that if a woman reſolves not to marry till ſhe finds herſelf addreſſed to by a man of ſtrict vir⯑tue, ſhe muſt be for ever ſingle. If this be true, what wicked creatures are men! What a dreadful a⯑buſe of paſſions, given them for the nobleſt purpoſes, are they guilty of!

I have a very high notion of the marriage-ſtate. I remember what my uncle once averred; That a woman out of wedlock is half uſeleſs to the end of her being. How indeed do the duties of a good Wife, [28] of a good mother, and a worthy matron, well per⯑formed, dignify a woman! Let my aunt Selby's ex⯑ample, in her enlarged ſphere, ſet againſt that of any ſingle woman of like years moving in her narrow circle, teſtify the truth of the obſervation. My grandfather uſed to ſay, that families are little com⯑munities; that there are but few ſolid friendſhips out of them; and that they help to make up worthily, and to ſecure, the great community, of which they are ſo many miniatures.

But yet it is my opinion, and I hope, that I never by my practice ſhall diſcredit it, that a woman who, with her eyes open, marries a profligate man, had, generally, much better remain ſingle all her life; ſince it is very likely, that by ſuch a ſtep ſhe defeats, as to herſelf, all the good ends of ſociety. What a dreadful, what a preſumptuous riſque runs ſhe, who marries a wicked man, even hoping to reclaim him, when ſhe cannot be ſure of keeping her own princi⯑ples!—Be not deceived; evil communication corrupts good manners; is a caution truly apoſtolical.

The text you mention of the unbelieving huſband being converted by the believing wife, reſpects, as I take it, the firſt ages of Chriſtianity; and is an in⯑ſtruction to the converted wife to let her unconverted huſband ſee in her behaviour to him, while he beheld her chaſte converſation coupled with fear, the efficacy upon her own heart of the excellent doctrines ſhe had embraced. It could not have in view the woman who, being ſingle, choſe a pagan huſband in hopes of converting him. Nor can it give encourgement for a woman of virtue and religion to marry a profligate in hopes of reclaiming him. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?

As to Mr. Fenwick, I am far from having a better opinion of him than I have of Mr. Greville. You know what is whiſpered of him. He has more de⯑cency however: He avows not free principles, as the [29] other does. But you muſt have obſerved how much he ſeems to enjoy the mad talk and free ſentiments of the other: And that other always brightens up and riſes in his freedoms and impiety, on Mr. Fen⯑wick's ſty applauſes and encouraging countenance. In a word, Mr. Fenwick, not having the ſame lively things to ſay, nor ſo lively an air to carry them off, as Mr. Greville has, tho' he would be thought not to want ſenſe, takes pains to ſhew that he has as corrupt an heart. If I thought anger would not give him con⯑ſequence, I ſhould hardly forbear to ſhew myſelf diſ⯑pleaſed, when he points by a leering eye, and by a broad ſmile, the free jeſt of the other, to the perſon preſent whom he thinks moſt apt to bluſh, as if for fear it ſhould be loſt; and ſtill more, when on the mantling cheek's ſhewing the ſenſibility of the perſon ſo inſulted, he breaks out into a loud laugh, that ſhe may not be able to recover herſelf.

Surely theſe men muſt think us women egregious hypocrites: They muſt believe that we only affect modeſty, and in our hearts approve of their freedom. For can it be ſuppoſed, that ſuch as call themſelves gentlemen, and who have had the education and op⯑portunities that theſe two have had, would give them⯑ſelves liberties of ſpeech on purpoſe to affront us?

I hope I ſhall find the London gentlemen more polite than theſe our neighbours of the Fox-chace. And yet hitherto I have ſeen no great cauſe to prefer them to the others. But about the Court, and at the faſhionable public places, I expect wonders. Pray Heaven, I may not be diſappointed!

Thank Miſs Orme, in my name, for the kind wiſhes ſhe ſends me. Tell her, that her doubts of my affec⯑tion for her are not juſt; and that I do really and in⯑deed love her. Nor ſhould ſhe want the moſt explicit declarations of my Love, were I not more afraid of her in the character of a Siſter to a truly reſpectable man, than doubtful of her in that of a friend to me: [30] In which latter light, I even joy to conſider her. But ſhe is a little naughty, tell her, becauſe ſhe is always leading to one ſubject. And yet, how can I be an⯑gry with her for it, if her good opinion of me in⯑duces her to think it in my power to make the bro⯑ther happy, whom ſhe ſo dearly and deſervedly loves? I cannot but eſteem her for the part ſhe takes.—And this it is that makes me afraid of the artleſly-artful Miſs Orme.

It would look as if I thought my Duty, and Love, and Reſpects, were queſtionable, if in every Letter I repeated them to my equally honoured and beloved benefactors, friends, and favourers. Suppoſe them therefore always included in my ſubſcription to you, my Lucy, when I tell you, that I am, and will be,

LETTER VII. Mr. SELBY, To Miſs BYRON.

WELL! and now there wants but a London Lover or two to enter upon the ſtage, and Vanity-Fair will be proclaimed, and directly opened. Greville every-where magnifying you, in order to juſtify his flame for you: Fenwick exalting you above all women: Orme adoring you, and by his humble ſilence ſaying more than any of them: Propoſals beſides from this man: Letters from that: What ſcenes of ſlattery and nonſenſe have I been witneſs to for theſe paſt three years and half, that young Mr. Elford began the dance? Single! Well may you have remained ſingle till this your twentieth year, when you have ſuch choice of admirers, that you don't know which to have. So in a Mercer's ſhop, the tradeſman has a fine time with you women; when variety of his rich wares diſtract you; and fifty to one at laſt, but [31] as well in men as ſilks, you chooſe the worſt, eſpecially if the beſt is offered at firſt, and refuſed: For women know better how to be ſorry, than to amend.

‘"It is true, ſay you, that we young women are apt to be pleaſed with admiration—"’ O-ho! Are you ſo? And ſo I have gained one point with you at laſt; have I?

‘"But I have always endeavoured" [And I, Harriet, wiſh you had ſucceeded in your endeavours] to keep down any fooliſh pride"’—Then you own that pride you have?—Another point gained! Conſcience, honeſt conſcience, will now-and-then make you wo⯑men ſpeak out. But now I think of it, here is vanity in the very humility. Well ſay you endeavoured, when female pride, like Love, tho' hid under a barrel, will flame out at the bung.

Well, ſaid I, to your aunt Selby, to your grand⯑mamma, and to your couſin Lucy, when we all met to ſit in judgment upon your Letters, now I hope you'll never diſpute with me more on this flagrant love of admiration, which I have ſo often obſerved ſwallows up the hearts and ſouls of you all; ſince your Harriet is not exempt from it; and ſince with all her ſpeciouſneſs, with all her prudence, with all her caution, ſhe (taken with a qualm of conſcience) owns it.

But, no, truly! All is right that you ſay: All is right that you do—Your very confeſſions are brought as ſo many demonſtrations of your diffidence, of your ingenuouſneſs, and I cannot tell what.

Why, I muſt own, that no father ever loved his daughter, as I love my niece: But yet, girl, your faults, your vanities, I do not love. It is my glory, that I think myſelf able to judge of my friends as they deſerve; not as being my friends. Why, the beſt be⯑loved of my heart, your aunt herſelf—you know, I value her now more, now leſs, as ſhe deſerves. But with all thoſe I have named, and with all your rela⯑tions [32] indeed, their Harriet cannot be in fault. And why? Becauſe you are related to them; and becauſe they attribute to themſelves ſome merit from the re⯑lation they ſtand in to you. Supererogatorians all of them (I will make words whenever I pleaſe) with their attributions to you; and becauſe you are of their Sex, forſooth; and becauſe I accuſe you in a point in which you are all concerned, and ſo make a common cauſe of it.

Here one exalts you for your good ſenſe; becauſe you have a knack, by help of an happy memory, of making every thing you read, and every thing that is told you, that you like, your own (your grand⯑father's precepts particularly); and becauſe, I think, you paſs upon us, as your own, what you have borrow⯑ed, if not ſtolen.

Another praiſes you for your good-nature—The duce is in it, if a girl who has crouds of admirers after her, and a new Lover where-ever ſhe ſhews her be⯑witching face; who is bleſt with health and ſpirits; and has every-body for her friend, let her deſerve it or not; can be ill-natur'd. Who can ſuch a one have to quarrel with, trow?

Another extols you for your chearful wit, even when diſplayed, bold girl as you are, upon your uncle; in which indeed you are upheld by the wife of my boſom, whenever I take upon me to tell you what ye all, even the beſt of ye, are.

Yet ſometimes they praiſe your modeſty: And why your modeſty? Becauſe you have a ſkin in a manner tranſparent; and becauſe you can bluſh—I was going to ſay, whenever you pleaſe.

At other times, they will find out, that you have features equally delicate and regular; when I think, and I have examined them jointly and ſeparately, that all your takingneſs is owing to that open and chearful countenance, which gives them a gloſs (or what ſhall I call it?) that we men are apt to be pleaſed with at firſt [33] ſight. A gloſs that takes one, as it were, by ſurprize. But give me the beauty that grows upon us every time we ſee it; that leaves room for ſomething to be found out to its advantage, as we are more and more ac⯑quainted with it.

"Your correcting uncle," you call me. And ſo I will be. But what hope have I of your amendment, when every living ſoul, man, woman, and child, that knows you, puffs you up? There goes Mr. Selby, I have heard ſtrangers ſay—And who is Mr. Selby, another ſtranger has aſk'd? Why, Mr. Selby is un⯑cle to the celebrated Miſs Byron.—Yet I, who have lived fifty years in this county, ſhould think I might be known on my own account; and not as the uncle of a girl of twenty.

"Am I not a ſaucy creature?" in another place you aſk. And you anſwer, "I know I am." I am glad you do. Now may I call you ſo by your own authority, I hope. But with your aunt, it is only the effect of your agree-able vivacity. What abomi⯑nable partiality! E'en do what you will, Harriet, you'll never be in fault. I could almoſt wiſh—But I won't tell you what I wiſh neither. But ſomething muſt betide you, that you little think of; depend upon that. All your days cannot be halcyon ones. I would give a thouſand pounds with all my ſoul, to ſee you heartily in love: Ay, up to the very ears, and unable to help yourſelf! You are not thirty yet, child. And, indeed, you ſeem to think the time of danger is not over. I am glad of your conſciouſneſs, my dear. Shall I tell Greville of your doubts, and of your difficulties, Harriet? As to the ten coming years, I mean? And ſhall I tell him of your prayer to paſs them ſafely?—But is not this wiſh of yours, that ten years of bloom were over-paſt, and that you were ar⯑rived at the thirtieth year of your age, a very ſingular one?—A flight! A mere flight! Aſk ninety-nine of your Sex out of an hundred, if they would adopt it.

[34] In another Letter you aſk Lucy, ‘"If Mr. Greville has not ſaid, that flattery is dearer to a woman than her food."’ Well, niece, and what would you be at? Is it not ſo?—I do averr, that Mr. Greville is a ſenſible man; and makes good obſervations.

‘"Mens chief ſtrength, you ſay, lies in the weak⯑neſs of women."’ Why ſo it does. Where elſe ſhould it lie? And this from their immeaſurable love of admiration and flattery, as here you ſeem to ac⯑knowlege of your own accord, tho' it has been ſo often perverſly diſputed with me. Give you women but rope enough, you'll do your own buſineſs.

However, in many places you have pleaſed me. But no-where more than when you recollect my averr⯑ment (without contradicting it; which is a rarity!) ‘"that a woman out of wedlock is half uſeleſs to the end of her being."’ Good girl! That was an aſſer⯑tion of mine, and I will abide by it. Lucy ſimper'd when we came to this place, and look'd at me. She expected, I ſaw, my notice upon it; ſo did your aunt: But the confeſſion was ſo frank, that I was generous, and only ſaid, True as the goſpel.

I have written a long Letter: Yet have not ſaid one quarter of what I intended to ſay when I began. You will allow that you have given your correcting Uncle, ample ſubject. But you fare ſomething the better for ſaying, "you unbeſpeak not your monitor."

You own, that you have ſome vanity. Be more free in your acknowlegements of this nature (you may; for are you not a woman?) and you'll fare ſome⯑thing the better for your ingenuouineſs; and the ra⯑ther, as your acknowlegements will help me up with your aunt and Lucy, and your grandmamma, in an argument I will not give up.

I have had freſh applications made to me—But I will not ſay from whom: Since we have agreed long ago, not to preſcribe to ſo diſcreet a girl, as, in the main, we all think you, in the articles of Love and Marriage.

[35] With all your faults I muſt love you. I am half aſhamed to ſay how much I miſs you already. We are all naturally chearful folks: Yet, I don't know how it is; your abſence has made a ſtrange chaſm at our table. Let us hear from you every poſt: That will be ſomething. Your doting aunt tells the hours on the day ſhe expects a Letter. Your grandmother is at preſent with us, and in heart I am ſure regrets your abſence: But as your tenderneſs to her has kept you from going to London for ſo many years, ſhe thinks ſhe ought to be eaſy. Her example goes a great way with us all, you know, and particularly with

LETTER VIII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

I AM already, my dear Lucy, quite contrary to my own expectation, enabled to obey the third general injunction laid upon me, at parting, by you, and all my dear friends; ſince a gentleman, not inconſidera⯑ble in his family or fortune, has already beheld your Harriet with partiality.

Not to heighten your impatience by unneceſſary parade, his name is Fowler. He is a young gentle⯑man of an handſome independent fortune, and ſtill larger expectations from a Welſh uncle now in town, Sir Rowland Meredith, knighted in his Sheriffalty, on occaſion of an addreſs which he brought up to the King from his County.

Sir Rowland, it ſeems, requires from his Nephew, on pain of forfeiting his favour for ever, that he mar⯑ries not without his approbation: Which, he declares, he never will give, except the woman be of a good fa⯑mily; has a gentlewoman's fortune; has had the benefit [36] of a religious education; which he conſiders as the beſt ſecurity that can be given for her good behaviour as a wife, and as a mother; ſo forward does the good knight look! Her character unſullied: Acquainted with the theory of the domeſtic duties, and not aſha⯑med, occaſionally, to enter into the direction of the practic. Her fortune, however, as his nephew will have a good one, he declares to be the leaſt thing he ſtands upon; only that he would have her poſſeſſed of from ſix to ten thouſand pounds, that it may not ap⯑pear to be a match of mere Love, and as if his ne⯑phew were taken in, as he calls it, rather by the eyes, than by the underſtanding. Where a woman can have ſuch a fortune given her by her family, tho' no greater, it will be an earneſt, he ſays, that the family ſhe is of, have worth, as he calls it, and want not to owe obligations to that of the man ſhe marries.

Something particular, ſomething that has the look of forecaſt and prudence, you'll ſay, in the old knight.

O but I had like to have forgot; his future niece muſt alſo be handſome. He values himſelf, it ſeems, upon the breed of his horſes and dogs; and makes polite compariſons between the more noble, and the leſs noble animals.

Sir Rowland himſelf, as you will gueſs by his par⯑ticularity, is an old bachelor, and one who wants to have a woman made on purpoſe for his nephew; and who poſitively inſiſts upon qualities, before he knows her, not one of which, perhaps, his future niece will have.

Don't you remember Mr. Tolſon of Derbyſhire? He was determined never to marry a widow. If he did, it ſhould be one, who had a vaſt fortune, and who never had a child. And he had ſtill a more par⯑ticular exception; and that was to a woman who had red hair. He held theſe exceptions till he was forty; and then being looked upon as a determin'd bachelor, no family thought it worth their while to make pro⯑poſals [37] to him: No woman to throw out a net for him (to expreſs myſelf in the ſtile of the gay Mr. Greville); and he at laſt fell in with, and married, the laughing Mrs. Turner: A widow, who had little or no fortune, had one child, a daughter, living, and that child an abſolute idiot; and, to complete the perverſeneſs of his fate, her hair not only red, but the moſt diſagreeable of reds. The honeſt man was grown ſplenetic: diſregarded by every⯑body, he was become diſregardful of himſelf: He hoped for a cure of his gloomineſs, from her chearful vein; and ſeemed to think himſelf under obligation to one who had taken notice of him, when nobody elſe would. Bachelors wives! Maids children! Theſe old ſaws always mean ſomething.

Mr. Fowler ſaw me at my couſin Reeves's the firſt time. I cannot ſay he is diſagreeable in his perſon: But he ſeems to want the mind I would have a man bleſs'd with, to whom I am to vow love and honour. I purpoſe, whenever I marry, to make a very good and even a dutiful wife [Muſt I not vow obedience? And ſhall I break my marriage-vow?]: I would not, therefore, on any conſideration, marry a man, whoſe want of knowlege might make me ſtagger in the per⯑formance of my duty to him; and who would per⯑haps command, from caprice or want of underſtanding, what I ſhould think unreaſonable to be complied with. There is a pleaſure and a credit in yielding up even one's judgment in things indifferent, to a man who is older and wiſer than one's ſelf. But we are apt to doubt in one of a contrary character, what in the other we ſhould have no doubt about: And doubt, you know, of a perſon's merit, is the firſt ſtep to diſre⯑ſpect: And what, but diſobedience, which lets in every evil, is the next?

I ſaw inſtantly that Mr. Fowler beheld me with a diſtinguiſhed regard. We women, you know [Let me for once be aforehand with my uncle] are very quick in making diſcoveries of this nature. But every⯑body [38] at table ſaw it. He came again next day, and beſought Mr. Reeves to give him his intereſt with me, without aſking any queſtions about my fortune; tho' he was even generouſly particular as to his own. He might, ſince he has an unexceptionable one. Who is it in theſe caſes that forgets to ſet foremoſt the advan⯑tages by which he is diſtinguiſhed? While fortune is the laſt thing talk'd of by him who has little or none: And then Love, Love, Love, is all his cry.

Mr. Reeves, who has a good opinion of Mr. Fow⯑ler, in anſwer to his enquiries, told him, that he be⯑lieved I was diſengaged in my affections: Mr. Fow⯑ler rejoiced at that. That I had no queſtions to aſk; but thoſe of duty; which indeed, he ſaid, was a ſtronger tie with me than intereſt. He praiſed my temper, and my frankneſs of heart; the latter at the expence of my Sex; for which I leaſt thank'd him, when he told me what he had ſaid. In ſhort, he acquainted him with every-thing that was neceſſary, and more than was neceſſary, for him to know, of the favour of my family, and of my good Mr. Deane, in referring all propoſals of this kind to myſelf; min⯑gling the detail with commendations, which only could be excuſed by the goodneſs of his own heart, and accounted for by his partiality to his couſin.

Mr. Fowler expreſſed great apprehenſions on my couſin's talking of theſe references of my grand⯑mother, aunt, and Mr. Deane, to myſelf, on occa⯑ſions of this nature; which, he ſaid, he preſumed had been too frequent for his hopes.

If you have any hope, Mr. Fowler, ſaid Mr. Reeves, it muſt be in your good character; and that much preferably to your clear eſtate and great expec⯑tations. Altho' ſhe takes no pride in the number of her admirers, yet is it natural to ſuppoſe, that it has made her more difficult; and her difficulties are en⯑hanced, in proportion to the generous confidence which all her friends have in her diſcretion. And [39] when I told him, proceeded Mr. Reeves, that your fortune exceeded greatly what Sir Rowland required in a wife for him; and that you had, as well from inclination, as education, a ſerious turn; Too much, too much, in one perſon, cried he out. As to fortune, he wiſh'd you had not a ſhilling; and if he could ob⯑tain your favour, he ſhould be the happieſt man in the world.

O my good Mr. Reeves, ſaid I, how have you over-rated my merits! Surely, you have not given Mr. Fowler your intereſt? If you have, ſhould you not, for his ſake, have known ſomething of my mind before you had ſet me out thus, had I even deſerved your high opinion? or Mr. Fowler might have rea⯑ſon to repent the double well-meant kindneſs of his friend, if men in theſe days were uſed to break their hearts for Love.

It is the language I do and muſt talk of you in, to every-body, return'd Mr. Reeves: Is it not the lan⯑guage that thoſe moſt talk who know you beſt?

Where the world is inclined to favour, replied I, it is apt to over-rate, as much as it will under-rate where it disfavours. In this caſe, you ſhould not have proceeded ſo far as to engage a gentleman's hopes. What may be the end of all this, but to make a compaſſionate nature, as mine has been thought to be, if Mr. Fowler ſhould be greatly in earneſt, uneaſy to itſelf, in being obliged to ſhew Pity, where ſhe cannot return Love?

What I have ſaid, I have ſaid, replied Mr. Reeves. Pity is but one remove from Love. Mrs. Reeves (There ſhe ſits) was firſt brought to pity me; for ne⯑ver was man more madly in love than I; and then I thought myſelf ſure of her. And ſo it proved. I can tell you I am no enemy to Mr. Fowler.

And ſo, my dear, Mr. Fowler ſeems to think he has met with a woman who would make a fit wife for him: But your Harriet, I doubt, has not in Mr. [40] Fowler met with a man whom ſhe can think a fit Huſband for her.

The very next morning, Sir Rowland himſelf—

But now, my Lucy, if I proceed to tell you all the fine things that are ſaid of me and to me, what will my uncle Selhy ſay? Will he not attribute all I ſhall repeat of this ſort, to that pride, to that vanity, to that ſond⯑neſs of admiration, which he, as well as Mr. Greville, is continually charging upon all our Sex?

Yet he expects that I ſhall give a minute account of every thing that paſſes, and of every converſation in which I have any part. How ſhall I do to pleaſe him? And yet I know I ſhall beſt pleaſe him, if I give him room to find fault with me. But then ſhould he for my faults blame the whole Sex? Is that juſt?

You will tell me, I know, that if I give ſpeeches and converſations, I ought to give them juſtly: That the humours and characters of perſons cannot be known unleſs I repeat what they ſay, and their manner of ſay⯑ing: That I muſt leave it to the ſpeakers and com⯑plimenters to anſwer for the likeneſs of the pictures they draw: That I know beſt my own heart, and whether I am puffed up by the praiſes given me: That if I am, I ſhall diſcover it by my ſuperciliouſneſs, and be enough puniſhed on the diſcovery, by incurring, from thoſe I love, deſerved blame, if not contempt, inſtead of preſerving their wiſhed-for eſteem.—Let me add to all this, that there is an author (I forget who) who ſays, ‘"It is lawful to repeat thoſe things, tho' ſpoken in our praiſe, that are neceſſary to be known, and cannot otherwiſe be come at."’

And now let me aſk, Will this preamble do, once for all?

It will. And ſo ſays my aunt Selby. And ſo ſays every one but my uncle. Well then, I will proceed, and repeat all that ſhall be ſaid, and that as well to my diſadvantage as advantage; only reſolving not to be exalted with the one, and to do my endeavour to [41] amend by the other. And here, pray tell my uncle, that I do not deſire he will ſpare me; ſince the faults he ſhall find in his Harriet ſhall always put her upon her guard—Not, however, to conceal them from his diſcerning eye; but to amend them.

And now, having, as I ſaid, once for all, prepared you to guard againſt a ſurfeit of ſelf-praiſe, tho' de⯑livered at ſecond or third hand, I will go on with my narrative—But hold—my paper reminds me, that I have written a monſtrous letter—I will therefore, with a new ſheet, begin a new one. Only adding to this, that I am, and ever will be,

P. S. Well, but what ſhall I do now?—I have juſt received my uncle's Letter. And, after his charge upon me of Vanity and Pride, will my parade, as above, ſtand me in any ſtead?—I muſt truſt to it. Only one word to my dear and ever⯑honoured uncle—Don't you, Sir, impute to me a belief of the truth of thoſe extravagant com⯑pliments made by men profeſſing Love to me; and I will not wiſh you to think me one bit the wiſer, the handſomer, the better for them, than I was before.

LETTER IX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

THE very next morning Sir Rowland himſelf paid his reſpects to Mr. Reeves.

The knight, before he would open himſelf very freely as to the buſineſs he came upon, deſired that he might have an opportunity to ſee me. I knew no⯑thing of him, nor of his buſineſs. We were juſt going to breakfaſt. Miſs Alleſtree, Miſs Bramber, and Miſs Dolyns, a young Lady of merit, were with us.

[42] Juſt as we had taken our ſeats, Mr. Reeves intro⯑duced Sir Rowland, but let him not know which was Miſs Byron. He did nothing at firſt ſitting down, but peer in our faces by turns; and fixing his eye upon Miſs Alleſtree, he jogged Mr. Reeves with his elbow—Hay, Sir?—audibly whiſpered he.

Mr. Reeves was ſilent. Sir Rowland, who is ſhort⯑ſighted, then look'd under his bent brows, at Miſs Bramber; then at Miſs Dolyns; and then at me—Fay, Sir? whiſpered he again.

He ſat out the firſt diſh of tea with an impatience equal, as it ſeemed, to his uncertainty. And at laſt taking Mr. Reeves by one of his buttons, deſired a word with him. They withdrew together; and the knight, not quitting hold of Mr. Reeves's button, Ads-my-life, Sir, ſaid he, I hope I am right. I love my Nephew as I love myſelf. I live but for him. He ever was dutiful to me his uncle. If that be Miſs Byron who ſits on the right-hand of your Lady, with the coun⯑tenance of an angel, her eyes ſparkling with good humour, and blooming as a May-morning, the buſi⯑neſs is done. I give my conſent. Altho' I heard not a word paſs from her lips, I am ſure ſhe is all in⯑telligence. My boy ſhall have her. The other young Ladies are agreeable: But if this be the Lady my kinſman is in Love with, he ſhall have her. How will ſhe outſhine all our Caermarthen Ladies; and yet we have charming girls in Caermarthen!—Am I, or am I not right, Mr. Reeves, as to my nephew's flame, as they call it?

The Lady you deſcribe, Sir Rowland, is Miſs Byron.

And then Mr. Reeves, in his uſual partial manner, let his heart overflow at his lips in my favour.

Thank God, thank God! ſaid the knight. Let us return. Let us go in again. I will ſay ſomething to her to make her ſpeak. But not a word to daſh her. I expect her voice to be muſic, if it be as har⯑monious [43] as the reſt of her. By the ſoftneſs or harſh⯑neſs of the voice, let me tell you, Mr. Reeves, I form a judgment of the heart, and ſoul, and manners of a Lady. 'Tis a criterion, as they call it, of my own; and I am hardly ever miſtaken. Let us go in again, I pray ye.

They returned, and took their ſeats; the knight making an aukward apology for taking my couſin out.

Sir Rowland, his forehead ſmoothed, and his face ſhining, ſat ſwelling, as big with meaning, yet not knowing how to begin. Mrs. Reeves and Miſs Alle⯑ſtree were talking at the re-entrance of the gentle⯑men. Sir Rowland thought he muſt ſay ſomething, however diſtant from his main purpoſe. Breaking ſilence therefore; You, Ladies, ſeemed to be deep in diſcourſe when we came in. Whatever were your ſubject, I beg you will reſume it.

They had finiſhed, they aſſured him, what they had to ſay.

Sir Rowland ſeemed ſtill at a loſs. He hemm'd three times; and look'd at me with particular kind⯑neſs. Mr. Reeves then, in pity to his fulneſs, aſked him how long he propoſed to ſtay in town?

He had thought, he ſaid, to have ſet out in a week; but ſomething had happened, which he believed could not be completed under a fortnight. Yet I want to be down, ſaid he; for I had juſt finiſhed, as I came up, the new-built houſe I deſign to preſent to my nephew when he marries. I pretend, plain man as I am, to be a judge, both of taſte and elegance. Sir Rowland was now ſet a going. All I wiſh for is to ſee him happily ſettled. Ah, Ladies! that I need not go further than this table for a wife for my boy?

We all ſmiled, and look'd upon each other.

You young Ladies, proceeded he, have great ad⯑vantages in certain caſes over us men; and this (which I little thought of till it came to be my own caſe) [44] whether we ſpeak for our kindred or for ourſelves. But will you, madam, to Mrs. Reeves, will you, Sir, to Mr. Reeves, anſwer my queſtions—as to theſe Ladies?—I muſt have a niece among them. My ne⯑phew, tho' I ſay it, is one whom any Lady may love. And as for fortune, let me alone to make him, in addition to his own, all clear as the ſun, worthy of any woman's acceptance, tho' ſhe were a Ducheſs.

We were all ſilent, and ſmiled upon one another.

What I would aſk then, is, Which of the Ladies before me—Mercy! I believe by their ſmiling, and by their pretty looks, they are none of them engag⯑ed. I will begin with the young lady on your right⯑hand. She looks ſo lovely, ſo good-natur'd, and ſo condeſcending!—Mercy! what an open forehead!—Hem!—Forgive me, madam; but I believe you would not diſdain to anſwer my queſtion yourſelf.—Are you, madam, are you abſolutely and bona fide, diſengaged? or are you not?

As this, Sir Rowland, anſwer'd I, is a queſtion I can beſt reſolve, I frankly own, that I am diſengaged.

Charming! charming!—Mercy! Why now what a noble frankneſs in that anſwer!—No jeſting mat⯑ter! You may ſmile, Ladies.—I hope, madam, you ſay true. I hope I may rely upon it, that your affec⯑tions are not engaged.

You may, Sir Rowland. I do not love, even in jeſt, to be guilty of an untruth.

Admirable!—But let me tell you, madam, that I hope you will not many days have this to ſay. Ad's-my-life! ſweet ſoul! how I rejoice to ſee that charm⯑ing fluſh in the fineſt cheek in the world! But heaven forbid that I ſhould daſh ſo ſweet a creature!—Well, but now there is no going further. Excuſe me, Ladies; I mean not a ſlight to any of you: But now, you know, there is no going further:—And will you, madam, permit me to introduce to you, as a Lover, as an humble Servant, a very proper and [45] agreeable young man? Let me introduce him: He is my nephew. Your looks are all graciouſneſs. Per⯑haps you have ſeen him: And if you are really diſen⯑gaged, you can have no objection to him; of that I am confident. And I am told, that you have nobody that either can or will controul you.

The more controulable for that very reaſon, Sir Rowland.

Ad's-my-life, I like your anſwer. Why, madam, you muſt be full as good as you look to be. I wiſh I were a young man myſelf for your ſake! But tell me, madam, will you permit a viſit from my nephew this afternoon?—Come, come, dear young lady, be as gracious as you look to be. Fortune muſt do. Had you not a ſhilling, I ſhould rejoice in ſuch a niece: And that is more than I ever ſaid in my life before. My nephew is a ſober man, a modeſt man. He has a good eſtate of his own: A clear 2000 l. a year. I will add to it in my life-time as much more. Be all this good company witneſſes for me. I am no flincher. It is well known that the word of Sir Rowland Mere⯑dith is as good as his bond at all times. I love theſe open doings. I love to be above-board. What ſig⯑nifies ſhilly-ſhally? What ſays the old proverb?

But, Sir Rowland, ſaid I, there are proverbs that may be ſet againſt your proverb. You hint that I have ſeen the gentleman: Now I have never yet ſeen the man whoſe addreſſes I could encourage.

O, I like you the better for that. None but the giddy love at firſt ſight. Ad's-my-life, you would have been ſnapt up before now, young as you are, could you eaſily have returned love for love. Why, madam, you cannot be above ſixteen?

O, Sir Rowland, you are miſtaken. Chearfulneſs, and a contented mind, make a difference to advan⯑tage [46] of half a dozen years at any time. I am much nearer twenty-one than nineteen, I aſſure you.

Nearer to twenty-one than nineteen, and yet ſo free⯑ly tell your age without aſking!

Miſs Byron, Sir Rowland, ſaid Mrs. Reeves, is young enough at twenty, ſurely, to own her age.

True, madam; but at twenty, if not before, time always ſtands ſtill with women. A Lady's age once known, will be always remembred; and that more for Spite than Love. At twenty-eight or thirty, I be⯑lieve moſt Ladies are willing to ſtrike off half a dozen years at leaſt—And yet, and yet (ſmiling, and looking arch) I have always ſaid (pardon me, Ladies) that it is a ſign, when women are ſo deſirous to conceal their age, that they think they ſhall be good for-nothing when in years. Ah, Ladies! ſhaking his head, and laughing, women don't think of that. But how I admire you, madam, for your frankneſs! Would to the Lord you were twenty-four!—I would have no woman marry under twenty-four: And that, let me tell you, Ladies, for the following reaſons—ſtand⯑ing up, and putting the fore-finger of his right-hand, extended with a flouriſh, upon the thumb of his left.

O, Sir Rowland! I doubt not but you can give very good reaſons. And I aſſure you, I intend not to marry on the wrong ſide, as I call it, of twenty-four.

Admirable, by Mercy! but that won't do neither. The man lives not, young Lady, who will ſtay your time, if he can have you at his. I love your noble frankneſs. Then ſuch ſweetneſs of countenance (ſitting down, and audibly whiſpering, and jogging my couſin with his elbow) ſuch dove-like eyes, daring to tell all that is in the honeſt heart!—I am a phyſiognomiſt, madam (raiſing his voice to me). Ad's-my-life, you are a perfect paragon! Say you will encourage my boy, or you'll be worſe off; for (ſtanding up again) I will come and court you myſelf. A good eſtate gives [47] a man confidence; and, when I ſet about it—Hum!—(one hand ſtuck in his ſide; flouriſhing with the other) no woman yet, I do aſſure you,—ever won my heart as you have done.

O, Sir Rowland, I thought you were too wiſe to be ſwayed by firſt impreſſions: None but the giddy, you know, love at firſt ſight.

Admirable! admirable indeed! I knew you had wit at will; and I am ſure you have wiſdom. Know you, Ladies, that wit and wiſdom are two different things, and are very rarely ſeen together? Plain man, as I appear to be (looking on himſelf firſt on one ſide, then on the other, and unbuttoning his coat two but⯑tons to let a gold braid appear upon his waiſtcoat) I can tell ye, I have not lived all this time for nothing. I am conſidered in Wales—Hem!—But I will not praiſe myſelf.—Ad's-my-life! how do this young Lady's perfections run me all into tongue!—But I ſee you all reſpect her as well as I; ſo I need not make apology to the reſt of you young Ladies, for the diſtin⯑ction paid to her. I wiſh I had as many nephews as there are Ladies of ye diſengaged: By Mercy, we would be all of kin.

Thank you, Sir Rowland, ſaid each of the young Ladies, ſmiling, and diverted at his oddity.

But as to my obſervation, continued the knight, that none but the giddy love at firſt ſight: There is no general rule, without exception, you know: Every man muſt love you at firſt ſight. Do I not love you myſelf? and yet never did I ſee you before, nor any body like you.

You know not what you do, Sir Rowland, to raiſe thus the vanity of a poor girl. How may you make conceit and pride run away with her, till ſhe become contemptible for both in the eye of every perſon whoſe good opinion is worth cultivating?

Ad's-my-life, that's prettily ſaid! But let me tell you, that the ſhe who can give this caution in the [48] midſt of her praiſings, can be in no danger of being run away with by her vanity. Why, madam! you extort praiſes from me! I never ran on ſo glibly in praiſe of mortal woman before. You muſt ceaſe to look, to ſmile, to ſpeak, I can toll you, if you would have me ceaſe to praiſe you.

'Tis well you are not a young man, Sir Rowland, ſaid Miſs Alleſtree. You ſeem to have the art of en⯑gaging a woman's attention. You ſeem to know how to turn her own artillery againſt her; and as your ſex generally do, exalt her in courtſhip, that you may have it in your power to abaſe her afterwards.

Why, madam, I muſt own, that we men live to ſixty, before we know how to deal with you Ladies, or with the world either; and then we are not fit to engage with the one, and are ready to quit the other. An old head upon a young pair of ſhoulders would make rare work among ye. But to the main point (looking very kindly on me) I aſk no queſtions about you, madam. Fortune is not to be mentioned. I want you not to have any. Not that the Lady is the worſe for having a fortune: And a man may ſtand a chance for as good a wife among thoſe who have fortunes, as among thoſe who have none. I adore you for your frankneſs of heart. Be all of a piece now, I beſeech you. You are diſengaged, you ſay: Will you admit of a viſit from my nephew? My boy may be baſhful. True Love is always modeſt and diffident. You don't look as if you would diſlike a man for being modeſt. And I will come along with him myſelf.

And then the old knight look'd important, as one who, if he lent his head to his nephew's ſhoulders, had no doubt of ſucceeding.

What, Sir Rowland! admit of a viſit from your nephew, in order to engage him in a three years courtſhip? I have told you that I intend not to mar⯑ry till I am twenty-four.

[49] Twenty-four, I muſt own, is the age of marriage I ſhould chooſe for a Lady; and for the reaſons afore⯑ſaid.—But, now I think of it, I did not tell you my reaſons—Theſe be they—Down went his cup and ſawcer; up went his left-hand ready ſpread, and his crooked finger of his right-hand, as ready to enume⯑rate.

No doubt, Sir Rowland, you have very good rea⯑ſons.

But, madam, you muſt hear them—And I ſhall prove—

I am convinced, Sir Rowland, that twenty-four is an age early enough.

But I ſhall prove, madam, that you at twenty, or at twenty-one—

Enough! enough! Sir Rowland: What need of proof when one is convinc'd?

But you know not, madam, what I was driving at—

Well but, Sir Rowland, ſaid Miſs Bramber, will not the reaſons you could give for the proper age at twenty-four, make againſt your wiſhes in this caſe?

They will make againſt them, madam, in general caſes. But in this particular caſe they will make for me. For the Lady before me is—

Not in my opinion, perhaps, Sir Rowland, will your reaſons make for you: And then your exception in my favour will ſignify nothing. And beſides, you muſt know, that I never can accept of any compli⯑ment that is made me at the expence of my Sex.

Well then, madam, I hope you forbid me in fa⯑vour to my plea. You are loth to hear any thing for twenty-four againſt twenty-one, I hope?

That is another point, Sir Rowland.

Why, madam, you ſeem to be afraid of hearing my reaſons. No man living knows better than I, how to behave in Ladies company. I believe I ſhould not be ſo little of a gentleman, as to offend the niceſt [50] ear. No need indeed! no need indeed! looking archly; Ladies on certain ſubjects are very quick.

That is to ſay, Sir Rowland, interrupted Mrs. Reeves, that modeſty is eaſily alarmed.

If any thing is ſaid, or implied, upon certain ſubjects that you would not be thought to underſtand, Ladies know how to be ignorant. And then he laughed.

Undoubtedly, Sir Rowland, ſaid I, ſuch company as this, need not be apprehenſive, that a gentleman, like you, ſhould ſay any thing unſuitable to it. But do you really think affected ignorance can be ever graceful, or a proof of true delicacy? Let me rather ſay, That a woman of virtue would be wanting to her character, if ſhe had not courage enough to ex⯑preſs her reſentment of any diſcourſe, that is meant as an inſult upon modeſty.

Admirably ſaid again! But men will ſometimes forget, that there are Ladies in company.

Very favourably put for the men, Sir Rowland. But pardon me, if I own, that I ſhould have a mean opinion of a man, who allowed himſelf to talk even to men what a woman might not hear. A pure heart, whether in man or woman, will be always, in every company, on every occaſion, pure.

Ad's-my-life, you have excellent notions, madam! I wanted to hear you ſpeak juſt now: And now you make me, and every one elſe, ſilent—Twenty-one! why what you ſay would ſhame Sixty-one. You muſt have kept excellent company all your life!—Mercy! if ever I heard the like from a Lady ſo young!—What a glory do you reflect back upon all who had any hand in your education! Why was I not born within the paſt thirty years? I might then have had ſome hopes of you myſelf.—And this brings me to my for⯑mer ſubject, of my nephew—But, Mr. Reeves, one word with you, Mr. Reeves. I beg your pardon, Ladies. But the importance of the matter will excuſe [51] me: And I muſt get out of town as ſoon as I can.—One word with you, Mr. Reeves.

The gentlemen withdrew together: For breakfaſt by this time was over. And then the knight open'd all his heart to Mr. Reeves, and beſought his intereſt. He would afterwards have obtained an audience, as he called it, of me: But the three young Ladies have⯑ing taken leave of us, and Mrs. Reeves and I being retired to dreſs, I deſired to be excuſed.

He then requeſted leave to attend me to-morrow evening: But Mr. Reeves pleading engagements till Monday evening, he beſought him to indulge him with his intereſt in that long gap of time, as he called it, and for my being then in the way.

And thus, Lucy, have I given you an ample ac⯑count of what has paſſed with regard to this new ſervant, as gentlemen call themſelves, in order to become our maſters.

'Tis now Friday morning. We are juſt ſetting out to dine with Lady Betty. If the day furniſhes me with any amuſing materials for my next pacquet, its agreeableneſs will be doubled to

LETTER X. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

SOME amuſement, my Lucy, the day has afford⯑ed: Indeed more than I could have wiſhed. A large pacquet, however, for Selby-Houſe.

Lady Betty received us moſt politely. She had company with her, to whom ſhe introduced us, and preſented me in a very advantageous character.

Shall I tell you how their firſt appearance ſtruck me, and what I have ſince heard and obſerved of them?

[52] The firſt I ſhall mention was Miſs Cantillon; very pretty; but viſibly proud, affected, and conceited.

The ſecond Miſs Clements; plain; but of a fine underſtanding, improved by reading; and who have⯑ing no perſonal advantages to be vain of, has, by the cultivation of her mind, obtained a preference in e⯑very one's opinion over the fair Cantillon.

The third was Miſs Barnevelt, a Lady of maſculine features, and whoſe mind belied not thoſe features; for ſhe has the character of being loud, bold, free, even fierce when oppoſed; and affects at all times ſuch airs of contempt of her own Sex, that one almoſt wonders at her condeſcending to wear petticoats.

The gentlemens names were Walden and Single⯑ton; the firſt, an Oxford ſcholar of family and for⯑tune; but quaint and opinionated, deſpiſing every one who has not had the benefit of an Univerſity education.

Mr. Singleton is an harmleſs man; who is, it ſeems, the object of more ridicule, even down to his very name, among all his acquaintance, than I think he by any means ought, conſidering the apparent in⯑offenſiveneſs of the man, who did not give himſelf his intellects; and his conſtant good humour, which might intitle him to better quarter; the rather too as he has one point of knowlege, which thoſe who think themſelves his ſuperiors in underſtanding, do not al⯑ways attain, the knowlege of himſelf; for he is hum⯑ble, modeſt, ready to confeſs an inferiority to every one: And as laughing at a jeſt is by ſome taken for high applauſe, he is ever the firſt to beſtow that com⯑mendation on what others ſay; tho' it muſt be own⯑ed, he now-and-then miſtakes for a jeſt, what is none: Which, however, may be generally more the fault of the ſpeakers than of Mr. Singleton; ſince he takes his cue from their ſmiles, eſpecially when thoſe are ſeconded by the laugh of one of whom he has a good opinion.

[53] Mr. Singleton is in poſſeſſion of a good eſtate which makes amends for many defects: He has a turn, it is ſaid, to the well-managing of it; and no⯑body underſtands his own intereſt better than he; by which knowlege, he has opportunities to lay obliga⯑tions upon many of thoſe, who behind his back think themſelves intitled, by their ſuppoſed ſuperior ſenſe, to deride him: And he is ready enough to ob⯑lige in this way: But it is always on ſuch ſecurities, that he has never given cauſe for ſpendthrifts to laugh at him on that account.

It is thought that the friends of the fair Cantillon would not be averſe to an alliance with this gentle⯑man: While I, were I his ſiſter, ſhould rather wiſh, that he had ſo much wiſdom in his weakneſs, as to de⯑vote himſelf to the worthier Pulcheria Clements (La⯑dy Betty's wiſh as well as mine) whoſe fortune, tho' not deſpicable, and whoſe humbler views, would make her think herſelf repaid the obligation ſhe would lay him under, by her acceptance of him.

No-body, it ſeems, thinks of an husband for Miſs Barnevelt. She is ſneeringly ſpoken of rather as a young fellow, than as a woman; and who will one day look out for a wife for herſelf. One reaſon in⯑deed, ſhe every-where gives, for being ſatisfied with being a woman; which is, that ſhe cannot be married to a WOMAN.

An odd creature, my dear. But ſee what women get by going out of character. Like the Bats in the fable, they are look'd upon as mortals of a doubtful ſpecies, hardly owned by either, and laugh'd at by both.

This was the company, and all the company, be⯑ſides us, that Lady Betty expected. But mutual civi⯑lities had hardly paſſed, when Lady Betty, having been called out, return'd, introducing, as a gentle⯑man, who would be acceptable to every one, Sir Har⯑grave Pollexfen. He is, whiſper'd ſhe to me, as he [54] ſaluted the reſt of the company, in a very gallant manner, a young Baronet of a very large eſtate, the greateſt part of which has lately come to him by the death of a grandmother, and two uncles, all very rich.

When he was preſented to me, by name, and I to him, I think myſelf very happy, ſaid he, in being ad⯑mitted to the preſence of a young Lady, ſo celebrated for her graces of perſon and mind. Then, addreſſing himſelf to Lady Betty, Much did I hear, when I was at the laſt Northampton races, of Miſs Byron: But lit⯑tle did I expect to find report fall ſo ſhort of what I ſee.

Miſs Cantillon bridled, play'd with her fan, and look'd as if ſhe thought herſelf ſlighted; a little ſcorn intermingled with the airs ſhe gave herſelf.

Miſs Clements ſmiled, and look'd pleaſed, as if ſhe enjoyed, good-naturedly, a compliment made to one of the Sex which ſhe adorns, by the goodneſs of her heart.

Miſs Barnevelt ſaid, ſhe had, from the moment I firſt entered, beheld me with the eye of a Lover. And freely taking my hand, ſqueezed it.—Charming crea⯑ture! ſaid ſhe, as if addreſſing to a country innocent, and perhaps expecting me to be cover'd with bluſhes and confuſion.

The Baronet, excuſing himſelf to Lady Betty, aſ⯑ſured her, that ſhe muſt place this his bold intruſion to the account of Miſs Byron; he having been told that ſhe was to be there.

Whatever were his motive, Lady Betty ſaid, he did her favour; and ſhe was ſure the whole company would think themſelves doubly obliged to Miſs Byron.

The Student look'd as if he thought himſelf eclipſed by Sir Hargrave, and as if, in revenge, he was putting his fine ſpeeches into Latin, and trying them by the rules of grammar; a broken ſentence from a claſſic author burſting from his lips; and at laſt, ſtanding up, half on tip-toe (as if he wanted to look down upon [55] the Baronet) he ſtuck one hand in his ſide, and paſſed by him, caſting a contemptuous eye on his gaudy dreſs.

Mr. Singleton ſmiled, and look'd as if delighted with all he ſaw and heard. Once, indeed, he try'd to ſpeak: His mouth actually open'd, to give paſſage to his words; as ſometimes ſeems to be his way before the words are quite ready: But he ſat down ſatisfied with the effort.

It is true, people who do not make themſelves con⯑temptible by affectation ſhould not be deſpiſed. Poor and rich, wiſe and unwiſe, we are all links of the ſame great chain. And you muſt tell me, my dear, if I, in endeavouring to give true deſcriptions of the per⯑ſons I ſee, incur the cenſure I beſtow on others who deſpiſe any-one for defects they cannot help.

Will you forgive me, my dear, if I make this Let⯑ter as long as my laſt?

No, ſay.

Well then, I thank you for a freedom ſo conſiſtent with our friendſhip: And I will conclude with aſſure⯑ances, that I am, and ever will be,

LETTER XI. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

IT was convenient to me, Lucy, to break off juſt where I did in my laſt; elſe I ſhould not have been ſo very ſelf-denying as to ſuppoſe you had no curioſity to hear, what undoubtedly I wanted to tell. Two girls talking over a new ſet of company, would my uncle Selby ſay, are not apt to break off very abrupt⯑ly; not ſhe eſpecially of the two, who has found out a fair excuſe to repeat every compliment made to her⯑ſelf; and when perhaps there may be a new admirer in the caſe.

[56] May there ſo, my uncle? And which of the gen⯑tlemen do you think the man? The Baronet, I war⯑rant, you gueſs.—And ſo he is.

Well then, let me give you, Lucy, a ſketch of him. But conſider; I form my accounts from what I have ſince been told, as well as from what I obſerv⯑ed at the time.

Sir Hargrave Pollexfen is handſome and genteel; pretty tall; about twenty-eight or thirty. His com⯑plexion is a little of the faireſt for a man, and a little of the paleſt. He has remarkably bold eyes; rather approaching to what we would call goggling; and he gives himſelf airs with them as if he wiſh'd to have them thought rakiſh: Perhaps as a recommendation, in his opinion, to the Ladies. Miſs Cantillon, on his back being turned, Lady Betty praiſing his perſon, ſaid, Sir Hargrave had the fineſt eyes ſhe ever ſaw in a man. They were manly, meaning ones.

He is very voluble in ſpeech; but ſeems to owe his volubility more to his want of doubt, than to the ex⯑traordinary merit of what he ſays. Yet he is thought to have ſenſe; and if he could prevail upon himſelf to hear more, and ſpeak leſs, he would better deſerve the good opinion he thinks himſelf ſure of. But as he can ſay any-thing without heſitation, and excites a laugh by laughing himſelf at all he is going to ſay, as well as at what he has juſt ſaid, he is thought in⯑finitely agreeable by the gay, and by thoſe who wiſh to drown thought in merriment.

Sir Hargrave, it ſeems, has travelled: But he muſt have carried abroad with him a great number of fol⯑lies, and a great deal of affectation, if he has left any of them behind him.

But, with all his foibles, he is ſaid to be a man of enterprize and courage; and young Ladies, it ſeems, muſt take care how they laugh with him: For he makes ungenerous conſtructions to the diſadvantage of a woman whom he can bring to ſeem pleas'd with [57] his jeſts. I will tell you hereafter, how I came to know this, and even worſe, of him.

The taſte of the preſent age ſeems to be dreſs: No wonder, therefore, that ſuch a man as Sir Hargrave aims to excel in it. What can be miſbeſtowed by a man on his perſon, who values it more than his mind? But he would, in my opinion, better become his dreſs, if the pains he undoubtedly takes before he ventures to come into public, were leſs apparent: This I judge from his ſolicitude to preſerve all in exact order, when in company; for he forgets not to pay his reſpects to himſelf at every glaſs; yet does it with a ſeeming conſciouſneſs, as if he would hide a vanity too appa⯑rent to be concealed; breaking from it, if he finds himſelf obſerved, with an half-careleſs, yet ſeemingly diſſatisfied air, pretending to have diſcovered ſomething amiſs in himſelf. This ſeldom fails to bring him a compliment: Of which he ſhews himſelf very ſenſi⯑ble, by affectedly diſclaiming the merit of it; perhaps with this ſpeech, bowing, with his ſpread hand on his breaſt, waving his head to and fro—By my Soul, Madam (or Sir) you do me too much honour.

Such a man is Sir Hargrave Pollexfen. He placed himſelf next to the country girl; and laid himſelf out in fine ſpeeches to her, running on in ſuch a manner, that I had not for ſome time an opportunity to con⯑vince him that I had been in company of gay people before. He would have it, that I was a perfect beauty, and he ſuppoſed me very young—Very ſilly of courſe: And gave himſelf ſuch airs, as if he were ſure of my admiration.

I viewed him ſteadily ſeveral times; and my eye once falling under his, as I was looking at him, I dare ſay, he at that moment pitied the poor fond heart, which he ſuppoſed was in tumults about him; when, at the very time, I was conſidering, whether, if I were obliged to have the one or the other, as a puniſhment for ſome great fault I had committed, my choice would [58] fall on Mr. Singleton, or on him. I mean, ſuppoſing the former were not a remarkably obſtinate man; ſince obſtinacy in a weak man, I think, muſt be worſe than tyranny in a man of ſenſe—If indeed a man of ſenſe can be a tyrant.

A ſummons to dinner relieved me from his more par⯑ticular addreſſes, and placed him at a diſtance from me.

Sir Hargrave, the whole time of dinner, received advantage from the ſupercilious looks and behaviour of Mr. Walden; who ſeemed, on every-thing the Baronet ſaid, (and he was ſeldom ſilent) half to de⯑ſpiſe him; for he made at times ſo many different mouths of contempt, that I thought it was impoſſible for the ſame features to expreſs them. I have been making mouths in the glaſs for ſeveral minutes, to try to recover ſome of Mr. Walden's, in order to deſcribe them to you, Lucy; but I cannot for my life ſo diſtort my face as to enable me to give you a notion of one of them.

He might perhaps have been better juſtified in ſome of his contempts, had it not been viſible, that the conſequence which he took from the Baronet, he gave to himſelf; and yet was as cenſurable one way, as Sir Hargrave was the other.

Mirth, however inſipid, will occaſion ſmiles; tho' ſometimes to the diſadvantage of the mirthful. But gloom, ſeverity, moroſeneſs, will always diſguſt, tho' in a Solomon. Mr. Walden had not been taught that: And indeed it might ſeem a little ungrateful [Don't you think ſo, Lucy?] if women failed to re⯑ward a man with their ſmiles, who ſcrupled not to make himſelf a—monkey (ſhall I ſay?) to pleaſe them.

Never before did I ſee the difference between the man of the Town, and the man of the College, diſplayed in a light ſo ſtriking as in theſe two gen⯑tlemen in the converſation after dinner. The one [59] ſeemed reſolved not to be pleaſed; while the other laid himſelf out to pleaſe every-body; and that in a manner ſo much at his own expence, as frequently to bring into queſtion his underſtanding. By a ſecond ſilly thing he baniſh'd the remembrance of a firſt; by a third the ſecond; and ſo on: And by continually laughing at his own abſurdities, left us at liberty to ſuppoſe that his folly was his choice; and that, had it not been to divert the company, he could have made a better figure.

Mr. Walden, as was evident by his ſcornſul brow, by the contemptuous motions of his lip, and by his whole face affectedly turn'd from the Baronet, grudged him the ſmile that ſat upon everyone's countenance; and for which, without diſtinguiſhing whether it was a ſmile of approbation or not, he look'd as if he pity'd us all, and as if he thought himſelf caſt into unequal company. Nay, twice or thrice he addreſſed himſelf, in preference to every one elſe, to honeſt ſimpering Mr. Singleton: Who, for his part, as was evident, much better reliſhed the Baronet's flippances, than the dry ſignificance of the Student. For, whenever Sir Hargrave ſpoke, Mr. Singleton's mouth was open: But it was quite otherwiſe with him, when Mr. Wal⯑den ſpoke, even at the time that he paid him the di⯑ſtinction of addreſſing himſelf to him, as if he were the principal perſon in the company.

But one word, by the bye, Lucy—Don't you think it is very happy for us fooliſh women, that the gene⯑rality of the Lords of the creation are not much wiſer than ourſelves? Or, to expreſs myſelf in other words, That over-wiſdom is as fooliſh a thing to the full, as moderate ſolly?—But, huſh! I have done—I know that at this place my Uncle will be ready to riſe againſt me.

After dinner, Mr. Walden, not chuſing to be any longer ſo egregiouſly eclipſed by the man of the Town, put forth the Scholar.

[60] By the way, let me aſk my uncle, if the word ſcholar means not the learner, rather than the learned? If it originally means no more, I would ſuppoſe that formerly the moſt learned men were the moſt modeſt, contenting themſelves with being thought but learners; a modeſty well becoming a learned man; ſince, vaſt is the field of ſcience, as my revered firſt inſtructor uſed to ſay, and the more a man knows, the more he will find he has to know.

Pray, Sir Hargrave, ſaid Mr. Walden, may I aſk you—You had a thought juſt now, ſpeaking of Love and Beauty, which I know you muſt have from Tibullus [And then he repeated the line in an heroic accent; and, pauſing, look'd round upon us women] Which Univerſity had the honour of finiſhing your ſtudies, Sir Hargrave? I preſume you were brought up at one of them.

Not I, ſaid the Baronet: A man, ſurely, may read Tibullus, and Virgil too, without being indebted to either Univerſity for his learning.

No man, Sir Hargrave, in my humble opinion [With a deciſive air he ſpoke the word humble] can be well-grounded in any branch of learning, who has not been at one of our famous Univerſities.

I never yet propoſed, Mr. Walden, to qualify my⯑ſelf for a degree. My Chaplain is a very pretty fel⯑low. He underſtands Tibullus, I believe [Immoderately laughing, and by his eyes caſt in turn upon each per⯑ſon at table, beſpeaking a general ſmile]—And of Oxford, as you are. And again he laughed: But his laugh was then ſuch a one, as rather ſhewed ridicule than mirth; a provoking laugh, ſuch a one as Mr. Greville often affects when he is in a diſputa⯑tious humour, in order to daſh an opponent out of countenance, by getting the laugh, inſtead of the ar⯑gument, on his ſide.

My uncle, you know, will have it ſometimes, that his girl has a ſatirical vein. I am afraid ſhe has— [61] A bold huſſy!—But this I will ſay, I mean no ill-na⯑ture: I love every-body; but not their faults; as my uncle in his Letter tells me: And wiſh not to be ſpared for my own. Nor, very probably, am I, if thoſe who ſee me, write of me to their choſen friends as I do to mine, of them. Shall I tell you what I imagine each perſon of the company I am writing about (writing in character) would ſay of me to their correſpondents?—It would be digreſſing too much, or I would.

Mr. Walden in his heart, I dare ſay, was revenged on the Baronet. He gave him ſuch a look, as would have grieved me the whole day, had it been given me by one whom I valued.

Sir Hargrave had too much buſineſs for his eyes with the Ladies, in order to obtain their countenance, to trouble himſelf about the looks of the men. And indeed he ſeemed to have as great a contempt for Mr. Walden, as Mr. Walden had for him.

But here I ſhall be too late for the poſt. Will this ſtuff go down with you at Selby-houſe, in want of better ſubjects?

Every thing from you, my Harriet—

Thank you! Thank you, all, my indulgent friends! So it ever was. Trifles from thoſe we love, are ac⯑ceptable. May I deſerve your Love!

Adieu, my Lucy!—But tell my Nancy, that ſhe has delighted me by her Letter.

LETTER XII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

WHAT is your opinion, my charming Miſs By⯑ron? ſaid the Baronet: May not a man of for⯑tune, who has not receiv'd his education and poliſh [He pronounced the word poliſh with an emphaſis, and another laugh] at an Univerſity, make as good a figure in ſocial life, and as ardent a Lover, as if he had?

[62] I would have been ſilent: But, ſtaring in my face, he repeated, What ſay you to this, Miſs Byron?

The World, Sir Hargrave, I have heard called an Univerſity: But, in my humble opinion, neither a learned, nor what is called a fine education, has any other value than as each tends to improve the morals of men, and to make them wiſe and good.

The world an Univerſity! repeated Mr. Walden. Why, truly, looking up to Sir Hargrave's face, and then down to his feet, diſdainfully, as if he would meaſure him with his eye, I cannot but ſay, twiſting his head on one ſide, and with a drolling accent, that the world produces very pretty ſcholars—for the Ladies—

The Baronet took fire at being ſo contemptuouſly meaſured by the eye of the Scholar; and I thought it was not amiſs, for fear of high words between them, to put myſelf forward.

And are not women, Mr. Walden, reſumed I, one half in number, tho' not perhaps in value, of the human ſpecies?—Would it not be pity, Sir, if the knowlege that is to be obtained in the leſſer Univer⯑ſity ſhould make a man deſpiſe what is to be acquired in the greater, in which that knowlege was principally intended to make him uſeful?

This diverted the Baronet's anger: Well, Mr. Walden, ſaid he, exultingly rubbing his hands, what ſay you to the young Lady's obſervation? By my Soul it is worth your notice. You may carry it down with you to your Univerſity; and the beſt ſcholars there will not be the worſe for attending to it.

Mr. Walden ſeemed to collect himſelf, as if he were inclined to conſider me with more attention than he had given me before; and waving his hand, as if he would put by the Baronet, as an adverſary he had done with, I am to thank you, madam, ſaid he, it ſeems, for your obſervation. And ſo the leſſer Univerſity—

[63] I have great veneration, Mr. Walden, interrupted I, for learning, and great honour for learned men—But this is a ſubject—

That you muſt not get off from, young Lady.

I am ſorry to hear you ſay ſo, Sir—But indeed I muſt.

The company ſeemed pleaſed to ſee me ſo likely to be drawn in; and this encouraged Mr. Walden to puſh his weak adverſary.

Know you, madam, ſaid he, any-thing of the learned languages?

No, indeed, Sir—Nor do I know which, particu⯑larly, you call ſo.

The Greek, the Latin, madam.

Who, I, a woman, know any thing of Latin and Greek! I know but one Lady who is miſtreſs of both; and ſhe finds herſelf ſo much an owl among the birds, that ſhe wants of all things to be thought to have unlearned them.

Why, Ladies, I cannot but ſay, that I ſhould ra⯑ther chooſe to marry a woman whom I could teach ſomething, than one who would think herſelf quali⯑fied to teach me.

Is it a neceſſary conſequence, Sir, ſaid Miſs Cle⯑ments, that knowlege, which makes a man ſhine, ſhould make a woman vain and pragmatical? May not two perſons, having the ſame taſte, improve each other? Was not this the caſe of Monſieur and Ma⯑dame Dacier, think you?

Flint and ſteel to each other, added Lady Betty.

Turkiſh policy, I doubt, in you men, proceeded Miſs Clements—No ſecond brother near the throne. That empire ſome think the ſafeſt which is founded in ignorance.

We know, Miſs Clements, replied Mr. Walden, that you are a well-read Lady. But I have nothing to ſay to obſervations that are in every-body's mouth—Pardon me, Madam.

[64] Indeed, Sir, ſaid Mr. Reeves, I think Miſs Cle⯑ments ſhould not pardon you. There is, in my opinion, great force in what ſhe hinted.

But I have a mind to talk with this fair Lady, your couſin, Mr. Reeves. She is the very Lady that I wiſh to hold an argument with, on the hints ſhe threw out.

Pardon me, Sir. But I cannot return the compli⯑ment. I cannot argue.

And yet, madam, I will not let you go off ſo eaſily. You ſeem to be very happy in your elocution, and to have ſome pretty notions, for ſo young a Lady.

I cannot argue, Sir—

Dear Miſs Byron, ſaid the Baronet, hear what Mr. Walden has to ſay to you.

Every one made the ſame requeſt. I was ſilent, look'd down, and play'd with my fan.

When Mr. Walden had liberty to ſay what he pleaſed, he ſeemed at a loſs himſelf, for words.

At laſt, I aſked you, madam, I aſked you (heſi⯑tatingly began he) whether you knew any thing of the learned languages? It has been whiſpered to me, that you have had great advantages from a grand⯑father, of whoſe learning and politeneſs we have heard much. He was a ſcholar. He was of Chriſt's, in our Univerſity, if I am not miſtaken—To my queſtion you anſwered, That you knew not particularly which were the languages that I called the learned ones: and you have been pleaſed to throw out hints in rela⯑tion to the leſſer and to the greater Univerſity; by all which you certainly mean ſomething—

Pray, Mr. Walden, ſaid I—

And pray, Miſs Byron—I am afraid of all ſmatterers in learning. Thoſe who know a little—and Ladies cannot know to the bottom—They have not the hap⯑pineſs of an Univerſity education—

Nor is every man at the Univerſity, I preſume, Sir, a Mr. Walden.

[65] He took it for a compliment—Why, as to that, madam—bowing—But this is a misfortune to Ladies, not a fault in them—But, as I was going to ſay, Thoſe who know little, are very ſeldom ſound, are very ſeldom orthodox, as we call it, whether reſpecting religion or learning: And as it ſeems you loſt your Grandfather too early to be well-grounded in the latter (in the for⯑mer Lady Betty, who is my informant, ſays, you are a very good young Lady) I ſhould be glad to put you right if you happen to be a little out of the way.

I thank you, Sir, bowing, and (Simpleton!) ſtill playing with my fan. But, tho' Mr. Reeves ſaid no⯑thing, he did not think me very politely treated. Yet he wanted, he told me afterwards, to have me drawn out. He ſhould not have ſerved me ſo, I told him; eſpecially among ſtrangers, and men.

Now, madam, will you be pleaſed to inform me, ſaid Mr. Walden, Whether you had any particular meaning, when you anſwered, that you knew not which I called the learned languages? You muſt know, that the Latin and Greek are of thoſe ſo called!

I beg, Mr. Walden, that I may not be thus ſingled out—Mr. Reeves—Sir—you have had Univerſity-edu⯑cation. Pray relieve your couſin.

Mr. Reeves ſmiled, bowed his head, but ſaid no⯑thing.

You were pleaſed, madam, proceeded Mr. Wal⯑den, to mention one learned Lady; and ſaid that ſhe looked upon herſelf as an owl among the birds—

And you, Sir, ſaid, that you had rather (and I believe moſt men are of your mind) have a woman you could teach—

Than one who would ſuppoſe ſhe could teach me. I did ſo.

Well, Sir, and would you have me be guilty of an oſtentation that would bring me no credit, if I had had ſome pains taken with me in my education? But indeed, Sir, I know not any-thing of thoſe you call [66] the learned languages. Nor do I take all learning to conſiſt in the knowlege of languages.

All learning!—Nor I, madam—But if you place not learning in language, be ſo good as to tell us what do you place it in?

He nodded his head with an air, as if he had ſaid, This pretty Miſs is got out of her depth. I believe I ſhall have her now.

I would rather, Sir, ſaid I, be an hearer than a ſpeaker; and the one would better become me than the other. I anſwered Sir Hargrave, becauſe he thought proper to apply to me.

And I, madam, apply to you likewiſe.

Then, Sir, I have been taught to think, that a learned man and a linguiſt may very well be two per⯑ſons: In other words, That ſcience, or knowlege, and not language merely, is learning.

Very well. Be pleaſed to proceed, madam.

Languages, I own, Sir, are of uſe, to let us into the knowlege for which ſo many of the antients were famous—But—

Here I ſtopt. Every one's eyes were upon me. I was a little out of countenance.

In what a ſituation, Lucy, are we women?—If we have ſome little genius, and have taken pains to cul⯑tivate it, we muſt be thought guilty of affectation, whether we appear deſirous to conceal it, or ſubmit to have it called forth.

But, what, madam? Pray proceed, eagerly ſaid Mr. Walden—But, what, madam?

But have not the moderns, Sir, if I muſt ſpeak, if they have equal genius's, the ſame heavens, the ſame earth, the ſame works of God, or of nature, as it is called, to contemplate upon, and improve by? The firſt great genius's of all had not human example, had not human precepts—

Nor were the firſt genius's of all (with an emphaſis, replied Mr. Walden) ſo perfect, as the obſervations [67] of the genius's of after-times, which were built upon their foundations, made them; and they others. Learn⯑ing, or knowlege, as you chooſe to call it, was a pro⯑greſſive thing: And it became neceſſary to underſtand the different languages in which the ſages of antiquity wrote, in order to avail ourſelves of their learning.

Very right, Sir, I believe. You conſider ſkill in languages then as a vehicle to knowlege—Not, I pre⯑ſume, as ſcience itſelf.

I was ſorry the Baronet laughed; becauſe his laugh⯑ing made it more difficult for me to get off, as I wanted to do.

Pray, Sir Hargrave, ſaid Mr. Walden, let not every thing that is ſaid be laughed at. I am fond of talking to this young Lady: And a converſation upon this topic may tend as much to edification, perhaps, as moſt of the ſubjects with which we have been hi⯑therto entertained.

Sir Hargrave took an empty glaſs, and with it hu⯑mourouſly rapped his own knuckles, bowed, ſmiled, and was ſilent; by that act of yielding, which had gracefulneſs in it, gaining more honour to himſelf, than Mr. Walden obtained by his rebuke of him, however juſt.

But this humourous acknowlegement hindered not Mr. Walden from ſhewing, by a nod, given with an aſſuming air, that he thought he had obtained a victory over the Baronet: And then he again applied himſelf to me.

Now, madam, if you pleaſe [and he put himſelf into a diſputing attitude] a word or two with you, on your vehicle, and ſo-ſorth.

Pray ſpare me, Sir: I am willing to ſit down quietly. I am unequal to this ſubject. I have done.

But, ſaid the Baronet, you muſt not ſit down quiet⯑ly, madam: Mr. Walden has promiſed us edification; and we all attend the effect of his promiſe.

[68] No, no, madam, ſaid Mr. Walden, you muſt not come off ſo eaſily. You have thrown out ſome ex⯑traordinary things for a Lady, and eſpecially for ſo young a Lady. From you we expect the opinions of your worthy grandfather, as well as your own no⯑tions. He no doubt told you, or you have read, that the competition ſet on foot between the learning of the antients and moderns, has been the ſubject of much debate among the learned in the latter end of the laſt century.

Indeed, Sir, I know nothing of the matter. I am not learned. My grandfather was chiefly intent to make me an Engliſh, and, I may ſay, a Bible ſcholar. I was very young when I had the misfortune to loſe him. My whole endeavour has been ſince, that the pains he took with me, ſhould not be caſt away.

I have diſcovered you, madam, to be a Parthian Lady. You can fight flying, I ſee. You muſt not, I tell you, come off ſo eaſily for what you have thrown out. Let me aſk you, Did you ever read The Tale of a Tub?

The Baronet laughed-out, tho' evidently in the wrong place.

How apt are laughing ſpirits, ſaid Mr. Walden, looking ſolemnly, to laugh, when perhaps they ought—There he ſtopt—[to be laugh'd at, I ſuppoſe he had in his head]. But I will not, however, be laugh'd out of my queſtion—Have you, madam, read Swift's Tale of a Tub?—There is ſuch a book, Sir Hargrave; looking with a leer of contempt at the Baronet.

I know there is, Mr. Walden, replied the Baronet, and again laughed—Have you, madam; to me? Pray let us know, what Mr. Walden drives at.

I have, Sir.

Why then, madam, reſumed Mr. Walden, you no doubt read, bound up with it, The Battle of the Books; a very fine piece, written in favour of the an⯑tients, and againſt the moderns; and thence muſt be [69] acquainted with the famous diſpute I mentioned. And this will ſhew you, that the moderns are but pygmies in ſcience compared to the antients. And, pray, ſhall not the knowlege which enables us, to underſtand and to digeſt the wiſdom of theſe immortal antients, be accounted learning?—Pray, madam, nodding his head, anſwer me that.

O how theſe pedants, whiſpered Sir Hargrave to Mr. Reeves, ſtrut in the livery and braſs buttons of the antients, and call their ſervility, learning!

You are going beyond my learning, or capacity, Sir. I muſt agree, that the knowlege which enables us to comprehend the wiſdom of the antients, and to be improved by it, deſerves to be called learning. Yet the antients may be read, I ſuppoſe, and not under⯑ſtood?—But pray, Sir, let the Parthian fly the field. I promiſe you that ſhe will not return to the charge. Eſcape, not victory, is all ſhe contends for.

All in good time, madam—But who, pray, learns the language but with a view to underſtand the au⯑thor?

No-body, I believe, Sir. But yet ſome who read the antients, may fail of underſtanding them, or at leaſt, of improving by them; for every ſcholar, I preſume, is not, neceſſarily, a man of ſenſe.

The Baronet was wicked here, in pointing by a laugh, as particular ſatire, what I meant but as ge⯑neral obſervation.

But ſuppoſing the knowlege of theſe antients, con⯑tinued I, as great as you pleaſe, is it not to be lament⯑ed; is it not, indeed, ſtrange, that none of the modern learned, notwithſtanding the advantage of their works (moſt of which they have taught to ſpeak our language); notwithſtanding the later important diſcoveries in many branches of ſcience; notwithſtanding a Revela⯑tion from Heaven, to which the religion of the Pagans was fooliſhneſs (and on which fooliſhneſs, however, I am told, moſt of the works of antiquity are founded); [70] ſhould have deſerved a higher conſideration in the compariſon, than as pygmies to giants?

I was going to ſay ſomething farther; but the Ba⯑ronet, by his loud applauſes, diſconcerted me; and I was ſilent.

Proceed, madam.—No triumph, no cauſe of tri⯑umph, here, Sir Hargrave!—Pray, madam, proceed—You have not done, I perceive.

I ſhould be very glad, Sir, to have done. Pray change either the ſubject, or chooſe another diſputant.

Every one called upon me to proceed; and Mr. Walden urged me to ſay what I was going to ſay.

But will you not, my Lucy, be glad of a little re⯑lief from this argument.—Yes, ſay.

Here then I conclude this Letter, to begin another. But it muſt be after I return from the play this night, or early in the morning before I go to church.

LETTER XIII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

URGED thus by every one, What I had further in my thoughts to ſay, reſumed I, was from what I read in my Bible. The firſt man ſeems to have had an intuitive knowlege given him of almoſt all that concerned him to know: And his early deſcendants, while there was but one language, and long before the Greek and Roman ſages exiſted, underſtood Huſband⯑ry and Muſic, were Artificers in Braſs and Iron, built that ſurpriſing naval ſtructure the Ark; attempted a yet greater piece of architecture, the Tower of Babel; and therefore muſt have had ſkill in many other parts of ſcience which are not particularly mentioned.

And ſo, madam, you really ſeem to think, that the knowlege we gather from the great antients is hardly worth the pains we take in acquiring the languages in which they wrote?

[71] Not ſo, Sir. I have great reſpect even for linguiſts: Do we not owe to them the tranſlation of the ſacred Books?—But methinks I could wiſh that ſuch a diſtin⯑ction ſhould be made between language and ſcience, as ſhould convince me, that That confuſion of tongues, which was intended for a puniſhment of preſumption in the early ages of the world, ſhould not be thought to give us our greateſt glory in theſe more enlightened times.

Well, madam, Ladies muſt be treated as Ladies. But I ſhall have great pleaſure, on my return to Ox⯑ford, in being able to acquaint my learned friends, that they muſt all turn fine gentlemen and laughers [Mr. Reeves had ſmiled as well as the Baronet] and deſpiſe the great antients as men of ſtraw, or very ſhortly they will ſtand no chance in the Ladies favour.

Good Mr. Walden! Good Mr. Walden! laughed the Baronet, ſhaking his embroider'd ſides, let me, let me, beg your patience, while I tell you, that the young gentlemen at both Univerſities, are already in more danger of becoming fine gentlemen than fine ſcholars—And then again he laughed; and looking round him, beſpoke, in his uſual way, a laugh from the reſt of the company.

Mr. Reeves, a little touch'd at the ſcholar's reference to him, in the word laughers, ſaid, It were to be wiſh'd, that in all nurſeries of learning, the manners of youth were propoſed as the principal end. It is too known a truth, ſaid he, that the attention paid to lan⯑guages, has too generally ſwallowed up all other and more important conſiderations; inſomuch that ſound morals and good breeding themſelves, are obliged to give way to that which is of little moment, but as it promotes and inculcates thoſe. And learned men, I am perſuaded, if they dared to ſpeak out, would not lay ſo much ſtreſs upon languages as you, Mr. Walden, ſeem to do.

Learning here, reply'd Mr. Walden, a little peeviſh⯑ly, [72] has not a fair tribunal to be try'd at. As it is ſaid of the advantages of birth or degree, ſo it may be ſaid of learning; No one deſpiſes it that has pretenſions to it. But, proceed, Miſs Byron, if you pleaſe.

Very true, I believe, Sir, ſaid I: But, on the other hand, may not thoſe who have either, or both, value themſelves too much on that account? I knew once an excellent ſcholar, who thought, that too great a por⯑tion of life was beſtowed in the learning of languages; and that the works of many of the antients were more to be admired for the ſtamp which antiquity has fixed upon them, and for the ſake of their purity in languages that cannot alter (and whoſe works are therefore be⯑come the ſtandard of thoſe languages) than for the lights obtained from them by men of genius, in ages that we have reaſon to think more enlightened, as well by new diſcoveries as by revelation.

And then I was going to aſk, whether the reputa⯑tion of learning was not oftener acquir'd by ſkill in thoſe branches of ſcience which principally ſerve for amuſement to inquiſitive and curious minds, than by that in the more uſeful ſort: But Mr. Walden broke in upon me with an air that had ſeverity in it.

I could almoſt wiſh, ſaid he (and but almoſt, as you are a Lady) that you knew the works of the great an⯑tients in their original languages.

Something, ſaid Miſs Clements, ſhould be left for men to excel in. I cannot but approve of Mr. Wal⯑den's word almoſt.

She then whiſper'd me; Pray, Miſs Byron, proceed (for ſhe ſaw me a little out of countenance at Mr. Walden's ſevere air)—Strange, added ſhe, ſtill whiſ⯑pering, that people who know leaſt how to argue, ſhould be moſt diſputatious. Thank Heaven, all ſcholars are not like this.

A little encouraged, Pray, Sir, ſaid I, let me aſk one queſtion—Whether you do not think, that our Milton, in his Paradiſe Loſt, ſhews himſelf to be a [73] very learned man:—And yet that work is written wholly in the language of his own country, as the works of Homer and Virgil were in the language of theirs:—And they, I preſume, will be allowed to be learned men.

Milton, madam, let me tell you, is infinitely ob⯑liged to the great antients; and his very frequent allu⯑ſions to them, and his knowlege of their mythology, ſhew that he is.

His knowlege of their mythology, Sir!—His own ſubject ſo greatly, ſo nobly, ſo divinely, above that mythology!—I have been taught to think, by a very learned man, that it was a condeſcenſion in Milton to the taſte of perſons of more reading than genius, in the age in which he wrote, to introduce, ſo often as he does, his alluſions to the pagan mythology: And that he neither raiſed his ſublime ſubject, nor did credit to his vaſt genius, by it.

Mr. Addiſion, ſaid Mr. Walden, is a writer admired by the Ladies. Mr. Addiſon, madam, as you will find in your Spectators [Sneeringly he ſpoke this] gives but the ſecond place to Milton, on comparing ſome paſſage of his with ſome of Homer.

If Mr. Addiſon, Sir, has not the honour of being admired by the gentlemen, as well as the ladies; I dare ſay Mr. Walden will not allow, that his authority ſhould decide the point in queſtion: And yet, as I remember, he greatly extols Milton.—But I am going out of my depth—Only permit me to ſay one thing more—If Homer is to be preferred to Milton, he muſt be the ſublimeſt of writers; and Mr. Pope, admirable as his tranſlation of the Iliad is ſaid to be, cannot have done him juſtice.

You ſeem, madam, to be a very deep Engliſh ſcho⯑lar. But ſay you this from your own obſervation, or from that of any other?

I readily own, that my lights are borrowed, replied I. I owe the obſervation to my godfather Mr. Deane. [74] He is a ſcholar; but a greater admirer of Milton than of any of the antients. A gentleman, his particular friend, who was as great an admirer of Homer, un⯑dertook from Mr. Pope's tranſlation of the Iliad, to produce paſſages that in ſublimity exceeded any in the Paradiſe Loſt. The gentlemen met at Mr. Deane's houſe, where I then was. They allowed me to be preſent; and this was the iſſue: The gentleman went away convinced, that the Engliſh poet as much ex⯑celled the Grecian in the grandeur of his ſentiments, as his ſubject, founded on the Chriſtian ſyſtem, ſurpaſſes the pagan.

The debate, I have the vanity to think, ſaid Mr. Walden, had I been a party in it, would have taken another turn.

The baronet expreſſed himſelf highly delighted with me, and was running over with the praiſes he had heard given me at laſt Northampton races; when I en⯑deavoured to ſtop him, by ſaying, Surely, Sir, it muſt be your too low opinion of the qualifications of our Sex, that can induce you to think ſuch obvious remarks as I have been drawn in to make, at all conſiderable.

But this hindered not Sir Hargrave from being even noiſy in his applauſes. He would have it, that I muſt know a vaſt deal, becauſe I happened to touch upon ſome things that had not taken his attention. He drowned the voice of Mr. Walden, who two or three times was earneſt to ſpeak; but not finding himſelf heard, drew up his mouth as if to a contemptuous whiſtle, ſhrugg'd his ſhoulders, and ſat collected in his own conſcious worthineſs: His eyes, however, were often caſt upon the pictures that hung round the room, as much better objects than the living ones before him.

But what extremely diſconcerted me, was, a freedom of Miſs Barnevelt's; taken upon what I laſt ſaid, and upon Mr. Walden's heſitation, and Sir Hargrave's ap⯑plauſes: She proſeſſed that I was able to bring her own [75] Sex into reputation with her. Wiſdom, as I call it, ſaid ſhe, notwithſtanding what you have modeſtly alleged to depreciate your own, proceeding thro'teeth of ivory, and lips of coral, give a grace to every word. And then claſping one of her manniſh arms round me, ſhe kiſſed my cheek.

I was ſurpriſed, and offended; and with the more reaſon, as Sir Hargrave, riſing from his ſeat, declared, that ſince merit was to be approved in that manner, he thought himſelf obliged to follow ſo good an ex⯑ample.

I ſtood up, and ſaid, Surely, Sir, my compliance with the requeſt of the company, too much I fear at my own expence, calls rather for civility than freedom, from a gentleman. I beg, Sir Hargrave—There I ſtopt; and I am ſure looked greatly in earneſt.

He ſtood ſuſpended till I had ſpeaking; and then, bowing, ſat down again; but, as Mr. Reeves told me afterwards, he whiſpered a great oath in his ear, and declared, that he beheld with tranſport his future wife; and curſed himſelf if he would ever have another; vowing, in the ſame whiſper, that were a thouſand men to ſtand in his way, he would not ſcruple any means to remove them.

Miſs Barnevelt only laughed at the freedom ſhe had taken with me. She is a loud and fearleſs laugher. She hardly knows how to ſmile: For as ſoon as any⯑thing catches her fancy, her voice immediately burſts her lips, and widens her mouth to its full extent—For⯑give me, Lucy: I believe I am ſpiteful.

Lady Betty and Miſs Clements, in low voices, praiſed me for my preſence of mind, as they called it, in check⯑ing Sir Hargrave's forwardneſs.

Juſt here, Lucy, I laid down my pen, and ſtept to the glaſs, to ſee whether I could not pleaſe myſelf with a wiſe frown or two; at leaſt with a ſolemnity of countenance, that, occaſionally, I might daſh with it my childiſhneſs of look; which certainly encouraged [76] this freedom of Miſs Barnevelt. But I could not pleaſe myſelf. My muſcles have never been uſed to any-thing but ſmiling: So favoured, ſo beloved, by every one of my dear friends; an heart ſo grateful for all their fa⯑vours—How can I learn now to frown; or even long to look grave?

All this time the ſcholar ſat uneaſily-careleſs. Can you connect together, my Lucy, ideas ſo very different as theſe two words joined will give you?

In the mean time Mr. Reeves, having ſent for from his ſtudy, Biſhop Burnet's Hiſtory of his own Times, ſaid he would, by way of moderatorſhip in the pre⯑ſent debate, read them a paſſage, to which he be⯑lieved all parties would ſubſcribe: And then read what I will tranſcribe for you from the concluſion to that performance:

‘'I have often thought it a great error to waſte young gentlemens years ſo long in learning Latin, by ſo tedious a grammar. I know thoſe who are bred to the profeſſion in literature, muſt have the Latin correctly; and for that the rules of grammar are neceſſary: But theſe rules are not at all requiſite to thoſe, who need only ſo much Latin, as thorough⯑ly to underſtand and delight in the Roman authors and poets. But ſuppoſe a youth had, either for want of memory, or of application, an incurable a verſion to Latin, his education is not for that to be deſpair⯑ed of: There is much noble knowlege to be had in the Engliſh and French languages: Geography, Hiſtory, chiefly that of our own country, the know⯑lege of Nature, and the more practical parts of the Mathematics (if he has not a genius for the demon⯑ſtrative) may make a gentleman very knowing, tho' he has not a word of Latin' [And why, I would fain know, ſaid Mr. Reeves, not a gentlewoman?] 'There is a fineneſs of thought, and a nobleneſs of expreſſion, indeed, in the Latin authors' [This makes for your argument, Mr. Walden] 'that will make [77] them the entertainment of a man's whole life, if he once underſtands and reads them with delight' [Very well, ſaid Mr. Walden!]: 'But if this cannot be attained to, I would not have it reckoned that the education of an ill Latin ſcholar is to be given over.'’

Thus far the Biſhop. We all know, proceeded Mr. Reeves, how well Mr. Locke has treated this ſubject. And he is ſo far from diſcouraging the fair Sex from learning languages, that he gives us a me⯑thod in his Treatiſe of Education, by which a mother may not only learn Latin herſelf, but be able to teach it to her ſon. Be not therefore, Ladies, aſhamed either of your talents or acquirements. Only take care, you give not up any knowlege that is more laudable in your Sex, and more uſeful, for learning; and then I am ſure, you will, you muſt, be the more agreeable, the more ſuitable companions to men of ſenſe. Nor let any man have ſo narrow a mind as to be apprehen⯑ſive for his own prerogative, from a learned woman. A woman who does not behave the better the more ſhe knows, will make her huſband uneaſy, and will think as well of herſelf, were ſhe utterly illiterate; nor would any argument convince her of her duty. Do not men marry with their eyes open? And cannot they court whom they pleaſe? A conceited, a vain mind in a woman cannot be hid. Upon the whole, I think it may be fairly concluded, that the more a woman knows, as well as a man, the wiſer ſhe will generally be; and the more regard ſhe will have for a man of ſenſe and learning.

Here ended Mr. Reeves. Mr. Walden was ſilent; yet ſhrugged his ſhoulders, and ſeemed unſatisfied.

The converſation then took a more general turn, in which every one bore a part. Plays, Faſhion, Dreſs, and the Public Entertainments, were the ſubjects.

Miſs Cantillon, who had till now ſat a little uneaſy, ſeemed reſolved to make up for her ſilence: But did not [78] ſhine at all where ſhe thought herſelf moſt intitled to make a figure.

But Miſs Clements really ſhone. Yet in the eye of ſome people, what advantages has folly in a pretty face, over even wiſdom in a plain one? Sir Hargrave was much more ſtruck with the pert things ſpoken, without fear or wit, by Miſs Cantillon, than with the juſt obſervations that fell from the lips of Miſs Cle⯑ments.

Mr. Walden made no great figure on theſe faſhion⯑able ſubjects; no, not on that of Plays: For he would needs force into converſation, with a preference to our Shakeſpeare, his Sophocles, his Euripides, his Terence; of the merits of whoſe performances, except by tranſ⯑lation, no one preſent but Mr. Reeves and himſelf, could judge.

Sir Hargrave ſpoke well on the ſubject of the reign⯑ing faſhions, and on modern dreſs, ſo much the foible of the preſent age.

Lady Betty and Mrs. Reeves ſpoke very properly of the decency of dreſs, and propriety of faſhions, as well as of public entertainments.

Miſs Clements put in here alſo with advantage to herſelf.

Nor would Mr. Walden be excluded this topic. But, as the obſervations he made on it, went no deeper than what it was preſumed he might have had at ſe⯑cond-hand, he made a worſe figure here, than he did on his more favourite ſubject. He was, however, heard, till he was for bringing in his Spartan jacket, I forget what he called it, deſcending only to the knees of the women, in place of hoops; and the Roman toga for the men.

My uncle will be pleaſed to remember, that Mr. Walden has given my letters the learned jaundice. Had not that gentleman been one of the company, not a word of all this jargon would my uncle have had from his Harriet. And yet all I have ſaid is but [79] from common reading. And, let me aſk, why, be⯑cauſe we know but little, we are to be ſuppoſed to know nothing?

Miſs Barnevelt broke in upon the Scholar; but by way of approbation of what he ſaid; and went on with ſubjects of heroiſm, without permitting him to rally and proceed, as he ſeemed inclined to do. After praiſing what he ſaid of the Spartan and Roman dreſſes, ſhe fell to enumerating her heroes, both antient and mo⯑dern. Achilles, the ſavage Achilles, charmed her. Hector was a good clever man, however: Yet ſhe could not bear to think of his being ſo mean as to beg for his life, tho' of her heroic Achilles. He de⯑ſerved for it, ſhe ſaid, to have his corpſe dragged round the Trojan walls at the wheels of the victor's chariot. Alexander the Great was her dear creature; and Julius Caeſar was a very pretty fellow. Theſe were Miſs Barnevelt's antient heroes. Among the moderns, the great Scanderbeg, our Henry V. Henry IV. of France, Charles XII. of Sweden, and the great Czar Peter, who my grandfather uſed to ſay was worth them all, were her favourites.

All this while honeſt Mr. Singleton had a ſmile at the ſervice of every ſpeaker, and a loud laugh always ready at the baronet's.

Sir Hargrave ſeemed not a little pleaſed with the honeſt man's complaiſance; and always directed him⯑ſelf to him, when he was diſpoſed to be merry. Laugh⯑ing, you know, my dear, is almoſt as catching as gaping, be the ſubject ever ſo ſilly: And more than once he ſhewed by his eyes, that he could have devoured Miſs Cantillon, for generally adding her affected Te-he (twiſting and bridling behind her fan) to his louder, Hah, hah, hah, hah.

What a length have I run! How does this narra⯑tive Letter-writing, if one is to enter into minute and characteriſtic deſcriptions and converſations, draw one on! I will leave off for the preſent. Yet have not [80] quite diſmiſſed the company (tho' I have done with the argument) that I thought to have parted with before I concluded this Letter.

But I know I ſhall pleaſe my uncle in the livelier parts of it, by the handle they will give him againſt me. My grandmother and aunt Selby will be pleaſed, and ſo will you, my Lucy, with all I write, for the writer's ſake: Such is their and your partial Love to

LETTER XIV. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

BY the time tea was ready, Lady Betty whiſperingly congratulated me on having made ſo conſiderable a conqueſt, as ſhe was ſure I had, by Sir Hargrave's looks, in which was mingled reverence with admira⯑tion, as ſhe expreſſed herſelf. She took notice alſo of a gallant expreſſion of his, uttered, as ſhe would have it, with an earneſtneſs that gave it a meaning be⯑yond a common compliment. My couſin Reeves had aſked Miſs Clements if ſhe could commend to me an honeſt, modeſt man-ſervant? I, ſaid Sir Hargrave can. I myſelf ſhall be proud to wear Miſs Byron's livery; and that for life.

Miſs Cantillon, who was within hearing of this, and had ſeemed to be highly taken with the baronet, could hardly let her eyes be civil to me; and yet her really pretty mouth, occaſionally, worked itſelf into forced ſmiles, and an affectation of complaiſance.

Sir Hargrave was extremely obſequious to me all the tea-time; and ſeemed in earneſt a little uneaſy in himſelf: And after tea he took my couſin Reeves into the next room; and there made your Harriet the ſub⯑ject of a ſerious converſation; and deſired his intereſt with me.

He prefaced his declaration to Mr. Reeves, with [81] aſſuring him, that he had ſought for an opportunity more than once, to be admitted into my company, when he was laſt at Northampton; and that he had not intruded himſelf then into this company, had he not heard I was to be there. He made proteſtations of his honourable views; which look'd as if he thought they might be doubted, if he had not given ſuch aſſurances. A tacit implication of an imagined ſuperiority, as well in conſequence as fortune.

Mr. Reeves told him, It was a rule which all my relations had ſet themſelves, not to interfere with my choice, let it be placed on whom it would.

Sir Hargrave called himſelf an happy man upon this intelligence. He afterwards, on his return to com⯑pany, found an opportunity, as Mrs. Reeves and I were talking at the furtheſt part of the room, in very ve⯑hement terms, to declare himſelf to me an admirer of perfections of his own creation; for he volubly enumerated many; and begg'd my permiſſion to pay his reſpects to me at Mr. Reeves's.

Mr. Reeves, Sir Hargrave, ſaid I, will receive what viſits he pleaſes in his own houſe. I have no per⯑miſſion to give.

He bowed, and made me a very high compliment, taking what I ſaid for a permiſſion.

What can a woman do with theſe ſelf-flatterers?

Mr. Walden took his leave: Sir Hargrave his: He wanted, I ſaw, to ſpeak to me, at his departure; but I gave him no opportunity.

Mr. Singleton ſeemed alſo inclined to go, but knew not how; and having loſt the benefit of their example by his irreſolution, ſat down.

Lady Betty then repeated her congratulations. How many Ladies, ſaid ſhe, and fine Ladies too, have ſigh'd in ſecret for Sir Hargrave. You will have the glory, Miſs Byron, of fixing the wavering heart of a man who has done, and is capable of doing, a great deal of miſchief.

[82] The Ladies, madam, ſaid I, who can ſigh in ſecret for ſuch a man as Sir Hargrave, muſt either deſerve a great deal of pity, or none at all.

Sir Hargrave, ſaid Miſs Cantillon, is a very fine gentleman; and ſo looked upon, I aſſure you: And he has a noble eſtate.

It is very happy, reply'd I, that we do not all of us like the ſame perſon. I mean not to diſparage Sir Hargrave; but I have compaſſion for the Ladies who ſigh for him in ſecret. One woman only can be his wife; and perhaps ſhe will not be one of thoſe who ſigh for him; eſpecially were he to know that ſhe does.

Perhaps not, reply'd Miſs Cantillon: But I do aſ⯑ſure you, that I am not one of thoſe who ſigh for Sir Hargrave.

The Ladies ſmiled.

I am glad of it, madam, ſaid I. Every woman ſhould have her heart in her own keeping, till ſhe can find a worthy man to beſtow it upon.

Miſs Barnevelt took a tilt in heroics. Well, Ladies, ſaid ſhe, you may talk of Love and Love as much as you pleaſe; but it is my glory, that I never knew what Love was. I, for my part, like a brave man, a gallant man: One in whoſe loud praiſe fame has crack'd half a dozen trumpets. But as to your milk⯑ſops, your dough-baked Lovers, who ſtay at home and ſtrut among the women, when glory is to be gain'd in the martial field; I deſpiſe them with all my heart. I have often wiſh'd that the fooliſh heads of ſuch fellows as theſe, were all cut off in time of war, and ſent over to the heroes to fill their cannon with, when they batter in breach, by way of ſaving ball.

I am afraid, ſaid Lady Betty, humouring this ro⯑mantic ſpeech, that if the heads of ſuch perſons were as ſoft as we are apt ſometimes to think them, they would be of as little ſervice abroad as they are at home.

[83] O, madam, replied Miſs Barnevelt, there is a good deal of lead in the heads of theſe fellows. But were their brains, ſaid the ſhocking creature, if any they have, made to fly about the ears of an enemy, they would ſerve both to blind and terrify him.

Even Mr. Singleton was affected with this horrid ſpeech; for he clapt both his hands to his head, as if he were afraid of his brains.

Lady Betty was very urgent with us to paſs the e⯑vening with her; but we excuſed ourſelves; and when we were in the coach, Mr. Reeves told me, that I ſhould find the Baronet a very troubleſome and reſo⯑lute Lover, if I did not give him countenance.

And ſo, Sir, ſaid I, you would have me do, as I have heard many a good woman has done, marry a man, in order to get rid of his importunity.

And a certain cure too, let me tell you, couſin, ſaid he, ſmiling.

We ſound at home, waiting for Mr. Reeves's re⯑turn, Sir John Alleſtree: A worthy ſenſible man, of plain and unaffected manners, upwards of fifty.

Mr. Reeves mentioning to him our paſt entertain⯑ment and company, Sir John gave us ſuch an account of Sir Hargrave, as helped me not only in the cha⯑racter I have given of him, but let me know that he is a very dangerous and enterpriſing man. He ſays, that laughing and light as he is in company, he is malici⯑ous, ill-natured, and deſigning; and ſticks at nothing to carry a point on which he has once ſet his heart. He has ruined, Sir John ſays, three young creatures already under vows of marriage.

Sir John ſpoke of him as a managing man, as to his fortune: He ſaid, That tho' he would at times be laviſh in the purſuit of his pleaſures; yet that he had ſome narrowneſſes which made him deſpiſed, and that moſt by thoſe for whoſe regard a good man would principally wiſh; his neighbours and tenants.

Could you have thought, my Lucy, that this laugh⯑ing, [84] fine-dreſſing man, could have been a man of malice; of reſentment; of enterprize; a cruel man? Yet Sir John told two very bad ſtories of him, beſides what I have mentioned, which prove him to be all I have ſaid.

But I had no need of theſe ſtories to determine me againſt receiving his addreſſes. What I ſaw of him was ſufficient; though Sir John made no manner of doubt (on being told by Mr. Reeves, in confidence, of his application to him for leave to viſit me) that he was quite in earneſt; and, making me a compliment, added, that he knew Sir Hargrave was inclined to marry; and the more, as one half of his eſtate, on failure of iſſue male, would go at his death to a diſtant relation whom he hated; but for no other reaſon than for admoniſhing him, when a ſchool-boy, on his low and miſchievous pranks.

His eſtate, Sir John told my couſin, is full as con⯑ſiderable as reported. And Mr. Reeves, after Sir John went away, ſaid, What a glory will it be to you, couſin Byron, to reform ſuch a man, and make his great fortune a bleſſing to multitudes; as I am ſure would be your endeavour to do, were you Lady Pol⯑lexfen!

But, my Lucy, were Sir Hargrave king of one half of the globe, I would not go to the altar with him.

But if he be a very troubleſome man, what ſhall I ſay to him? I can deal pretty well with thoſe, who will be kept at arms length; but I own, I ſhould be very much perplex'd with reſolute wretches. The ci⯑vility I think myſelf obliged to pay every one who pro⯑ſeſſes a regard for me, might ſubject me to inconve⯑niencies with violent ſpirits, which, protected as I have been by my uncle Selby, and my good Mr. Deane, I never yet have known. O my Lucy, to what evils, but for that protection, might I not, as a ſole, an in⯑dependent young woman, have been expoſed? Since men, many men, are to be look'd upon as ſavages, [85] as wild beaſts of the deſart; and a ſingle and indepen⯑dent woman they hunt after as their proper prey.

To have done with Sir Hargrave for the preſent, and I wiſh I may be able to ſay, for ever; early in the morning, a billet was brought from him to Mr. Reeves, excuſing himſelf from paying him a viſit that morn⯑ing (as he had intended) by reaſon of the ſudden and deſperate illneſs of a relation, whoſe ſeat was near Reading, with whom he had large concerns, and who was deſirous to ſee him before he died. As it was impoſſible that he could return under three days, which, he ſaid, would appear as three years to him, and he was obliged to ſet out that moment; he could not diſpenſe with himſelf for putting in his claim, as he called it, to Miſs Byron's favour, and confirming his declaration of yeſterday. In very high ſtrains, he profeſſed himſelf her admirer; and begg'd Mr. and Mrs. Reeves's intereſt with her. One felicity, he ſaid, he hoped for from his abſence, which was, that as Miſs Byron, and Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, would have time to conſider of his offers; he preſum'd to hope he ſhould not be ſubjected to a repulſe.

And now, my Lucy, you have before you as good an account as I can give you of my two new Lovers. How I ſhall manage with them, I know not: But I begin to think that thoſe young women are happieſt, whoſe friends take all the trouble of this ſort upon them; only conſulting their daughters inclinations as preliminaries are adjuſting.

My friends indeed pay an high compliment to my diſcretion, when they ſo generouſly allow me to judge for myſelf: And we young women are fond of be⯑ing our own miſtreſſes: But I muſt ſay, that to me this compliment has been, and is a painful one; for two reaſons; That I cannot but conſider their good⯑neſs as a taſk upon me, which requires my utmoſt cir⯑cumſpection, as well as gratitude; and that they have ſhewn more generoſity in diſpenſing with their autho⯑rity, [86] than I have done whenever I have acted ſo as to appear, tho' but to appear, to accept of the diſpenſati⯑on: Let me add beſides, that now, when I find my⯑ſelf likely to be addreſſed to by mere ſtrangers, by men who grew not into my knowlege inſenſibly, as our neighbours Greville, Fenwick, and Orme, did, I cannot but think it has the appearance of confidence, to ſtand out to receive, as a creature uncontroulable, the firſt motions to an addreſs of this awful nature. Awful indeed might it be called, were one's heart to incline towards a particular perſon.

Allow me then for the future, my revered grand⯑mamma, and you, my beloved and equally honoured uncle and aunt Selby, allow me, to refer myſelf to you, if any perſon offers to whom I may happen to have no ſtrong objections. As to Mr. Fowler, and the Baronet, I muſt now do as well as I can with them. It is much eaſier for a young woman to ſay No, than Yes. But for the time to come I will not have the aſſurance to act for myſelf. I know your partiality for your Harriet, too well, to doubt the merit of your recommendation.

As Mr. and Mrs. Reeves require me to ſhew them what I write, they are fond of indulging me in the employment. You will therefore be the leſs ſurpris'd that I write ſo much in ſo little a time. Miſs Byron is in her Cloſet; Miſs Byron is writing; is an excuſe ſufficient, they ſeem to think, to every-body, becauſe they allow it to be one to them: But beſides, I know they believe they oblige you all by the opportunity they ſo kindly give me of ſhewing my Duty and Love, where ſo juſtly due.

I am, however, ſurpris'd at caſting my eye back.—Two ſheets! and ſuch a quantity before! Uncon⯑ſcionable, ſay; and let me, Echo-like, repeat, Un⯑conſcionable

Letters from Northamptonſhire! by Farmer Jen⯑kins. I kiſs the ſeals. What agreeable things, now, has my Lucy to ſay to her Harriet? Diſa⯑greeable ones ſhe cannot write, if all my beloved friends are well.

LETTER XV. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LETTER XVI. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

LETTER XVII. Miſs BYRON, In Continuation.

SIR Hargrave came before ſix o'clock. He was richly dreſſed. He aſked for Mr. Reeves. I was in my cloſet, writing. He was not likely to be the better received for the character Sir John Alleſtree gave of him.

He excuſed himſelf for coming ſo early, on the ſcore of his impatience, and that he might have a lit⯑tle diſcourſe with them, if I ſhould be engaged be⯑fore tea-time.

Was I within?—I was.—Thank heaven!—I was very good.

So he ſeemed to imagine that I was at home, in compliment to him.

Shall I give you, from my couſins, an account of the converſation before I went down? You know Mrs. Reeves is a nice obſerver.

He had had, he told my couſins, a moſt uneaſy time of it, ever ſince he ſaw me. The devil fetch him, if he had had one hour's reſt! He never ſaw a woman before, whom he could love as he loved me. By his ſoul, he had no view, but what was ſtrictly honourable.

He ſometimes ſat down, ſometimes walked about the room, ſtrutting, and now-and-then adjuſting ſome⯑thing in his dreſs that nobody elſe ſaw wanted it. He gloried in the happy proſpects before him: Not but he knew I had a little army of admirers: But as none of them had met with encouragement from me, he hoped there was room for him to flatter himſelf that he might be the happy man.

I told you, Mr. Reeves, ſaid he, that I will give you carte blanche as to ſettlements. What I do for [111] ſo prudent a woman, will be doing for myſelf. I am not uſed, Mr. Reeves, to boaſt of my fortune [Then, it ſeems, he went up to the glaſs, as if his perſon could not fail of being an additional recommendation] but I will lay before you, or before any of Miſs Byron's friends (Mr. Deane, if ſhe pleaſes—) my rent-rolls. There never was a better-conditioned eſtate. She ſhall live in town, or in the country, as ſhe thinks fit; and in the latter, at which of my ſeats ſhe pleaſes. I know I ſhall have no will but hers. I doubt not your friendſhip, Mr. Reeves. I hope for yours, madam. I ſhall have great pleaſure in the al⯑liance I have in view, with every individual of your family—As if he would ſatisfy them of his friend⯑ſhip, in the near relation, as the only matter that could bear a doubt.

Then he ran on upon the part I bore in the conver⯑ſation at Lady Betty Williams's—By his ſoul, only the wiſeſt, the wittieſt, the moſt gracefully modeſt of women—that was all—Then Ha, ha, ha, hah, poor Walden! What a ſilly fellow! He had caught a Tar⯑tar!—Ha, ha, ha, hah—Shaking his head and his gay ſides: Devil take him if ever he ſaw a Prig ſo fairly taken in!—But I was a ſly little rogue!—He ſaw that!—By all that's good, I muſt myſelf ſing ſmall in her company!—I will never meet at hard-edge with her—If I did—(and yet I have been thought to carry a good one) I ſhould be confoundedly gapped, I can ſee that [alluding to two knives, I ſuppoſe, gapping each other; and winking with one eye; and, as Mrs. Reeves deſcribed him, looking as wiſe as if he would make a compliment to his penetration, at the expence of his underſtanding]: But, continued he, as a woman is more an huſband's than a man is a wife's [Have all the men this prerogative-notion, Lucy? You know it is a better man's] I ſhall have a pride worth boaſting of, if I can call ſuch a jewel mine. Poor Walden!—Rot the fellow!—I warrant he would not have ſo [112] knowing a wife for the world.—Ha, ha, ha, hah! He is right: It is certainly right for ſuch narrow pedants to be afraid of learned women!—Methinks, I ſee the fellow, conjurer-like, circumſcribed in a narrow circle, putting into Greek what was better expreſſed in Engliſh; and forbidding every one's approach within the diſtance of his wand!—Hah, hah, hah!—Let me die, if ever I ſaw a tragi-comical fellow better handled!—Then the faces he made—Saw you ever, Mr. Reeves, ſaw you ever in your life ſuch a parcel of diſaſtrous faces made by one man?

Thus did Sir Hargrave, laughingly, run on: Nor left he hardly any-thing for my couſins to ſay, or to do, but to laugh with him, and to ſmile at him.

On a meſſage that tea was near ready, I went down. On my entering the room, he addreſſed me with an air of kindneſs and freedom: Charming Miſs Byron! ſaid he, I hope you are all benignity and compaſſion. You know not what I have ſuffered ſince I had the honour to ſee you laſt; bowing very low; then rear⯑ing himſelf up, holding back his head; and ſeemed the taller for having bowed.

Handſome fop! thought I to myſelf. I took my ſeat; and endeavoured to look eaſy and free, as uſual; finding ſomething to ſay to my couſins, and to him. He begged that tea might be poſtponed for half an hour; and that, before the ſervants were admitted, I would hear him relate the ſubſtance of the converſa⯑tion that had paſſed between him and Mr. and Mrs. Reeves.

Had not Sir Hargrave intended me an honour, and had he not a very high opinion of the efficacy of eight thouſand pounds a year in an addreſs of this kind, I dare ſay, he would have ſuppoſed a little more pre⯑facing neceſſary: But, after he had told me, in few words, how much he was attracted by my character before he ſaw me, he thought fit directly to refer him⯑ſelf to the declaration he had made at Lady Betty Wil⯑liams's, [113] both to Mr. Reeves and myſelf; and then talked of large ſettlements; boaſted of his violent paſſion; and beſought my favour with the utmoſt ear⯑neſtneſs.

I would have played a little female trifling upon him, and affected to take his profeſſions only for polite raillery, which men call making love to young women, who perhaps are frequently but too willing to take in earneſt what the wretches mean but in jeſt; but the fervour with which he renewed (as he called it) his declaration, admitted not of ſooling; and yet his vo⯑lubility might have made queſtionable the ſincerity of his declarations. As therefore I could not think of encouraging his addreſſes, I thought it beſt to anſwer him with openneſs and unreſerve.

To ſeem to queſtion the ſincerity of ſuch profeſſions as you make, Sir Hargrave, might appear to you as if I wanted to be aſſured: But be pleaſed to know that you are directing your diſcourſe to one of the plaineſt⯑hearted women in England; and you may therefore expect from me nothing but the ſimpleſt truth. I thank you, Sir, for your good opinion of me; but I cannot encourage your addreſſes.

You cannot, madam, encourage my addreſſes! And expreſs yourſelf ſo ſeriouſly! Good heaven! [He ſtood ſilent a minute or two, looking upon me, and upon himſelf; as if he had ſaid, fooliſh girl! knows ſhe whom ſhe refuſes?] I have been aſſured, madam, re⯑covering a little from his ſurprize, that your affections are not engaged. But ſurely it muſt be a miſtake; Some happy man—

Is it, interrupted I, a neceſſary conſequence, that the woman who cannot receive the addreſſes of Sir Hargrave Pollexſen, muſt be engaged?

Why, madam—As to that—I know not what to ſay—But a man of my fortune, and I hope, not ab⯑ſolutely diſagreeable either in perſon or temper; of ſome rank in life—He pauſed; then reſuming—What, [114] madam, if you are as much in earneſt as you ſeem, can be your objection? Be ſo good as to name it, that I may know, whether I cannot be ſo happy as to get over it?

We do not, we cannot, all like the ſame perſon. Women, I have heard ſay are very capricious. Per⯑haps I am ſo. But there is a ſomething (we cannot always ſay what) that attracts or diſguſts us.

Diſguſts! madam—Diſguſts! Miſs Byron.

I ſpoke in general, Sir; I dare ſay, nineteen women out of twenty would think themſelves favoured in the addreſſes of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.

But you, madam, are the twentieth that I muſt love: And be ſo good as to let me know—

Pray, Sir, aſk me not a reaſon for a peculiarity. Do you not yourſelf ſhew a peculiarity in making me the twentieth?

Your merit, madam—

It would be vanity in me, Sir, interrupted I, to allow a force to that plea. You, Sir, may have more merit, than perhaps the man I may happen to approve of better; but—ſhall I ſay? (Pardon me, Sir) You do not—You do not, heſitated I—hit my fancy—Pardon me, Sir.

If pardon depends upon my breath, let me die if I do!—Not hit your fancy, madam! [And then he look'd upon himſelf all round] Not hit your fancy, madam!

I told you, Sir, that you muſt not expect any-thing from me but the ſimpleſt truth. You do me an honour in your good opinion; and if my own heart were not, in this caſe, a very determined one, I would anſwer you with more politeneſs. But, Sir, on ſuch an occa⯑ſion as this, I think it would not be honourable, it would not be juſt, to keep a man in an hour's ſuſpenſe, when I am in none myſelf.

And are you then (angrily) ſo determined, Miſs Byron?

[115] I am, Sir,

Confound me!—And yet I am enough confounded!—But I will not take an anſwer ſo contrary to my hopes. Tell me, madam, by the ſincerity which you boaſt; are you not engaged in your affections? Is there not ſome one happy man, whom you prefer to all men?

I am a free perſon, Sir Hargrave. It is no impeach⯑ment of ſincerity, if a free perſon anſwers not every queſtion that may be put to her, by thoſe to whom ſhe is not accountable.

Very true, madam. But as it is no impeachment of your freedom to anſwer this queſtion either negatively or affirmatively, and as you glory in your frankneſs, let me be beſeech you to anſwer it; Are you, madam, or are you not, diſengaged in your affections?

Excuſe me, Sir Hargrave; I don't think you are intitled to an anſwer to this queſtion. Nor, perhaps, would you be determined by the anſwer I ſhould make to it, whether negative or affirmative.

Give me leave to ſay, madam, that I have ſome little knowledge of Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Greville, and of their addreſſes. They have both owned, that no hopes have you given them; yet declare that they will hope. Have you, madam, been as explicit to them, as you are to me?

I have, Sir.

Then they are not the men I have to fear—Mr. Orme, madam—

Is a good man, Sir.

Ah! madam!—But why then will you not ſay that you are engaged?

If I own I am; perhaps it will not avail me: It will much leſs, if I ſay I am not.

Avail you! dear Miſs Byron! I have pride, madam. If I had not, I ſhould not aſpire to your favour: But give me leave to ſay [and he reddened with anger] that my fortune, my deſcent, and my ardent affection [116] for you, conſidered, it may not diſ-avail you. Your relations will at leaſt think ſo, if I may have the ho⯑nour of your conſent for applying to them.

May your fortune, Sir Hargrave, be a bleſſing to you. It will, as you do good with it. But were it twice as much, that alone would have no charms for me. My duties would be increaſed with my power. My fortune is an humble one; but were it leſs, it would ſatisfy my ambition while I am ſingle; and if I marry, I ſhall not deſire to live beyond the eſtate of the man I chooſe.

Upon my ſoul, madam, you muſt be mine. Every word you ſpeak, adds a rivet to my chains.

Then, Sir, let us ſay no more upon this ſubject.

He then laid a title to my gratitude from the paſſion he avowed for me.

That is a very poor plea, Sir, ſaid I, as you yourſelf would think, I believe, were one of our ſex, whom you could not like, to claim a return of love from you upon it.

You are too refined, ſurely, madam.

Refined! what meant the man by the word in this place?

I believe, Sir, we differ very widely in many of our ſentiments.

We will not differ in one, madam, when I know yours; ſuch is the opinion I have of your prudence, that I will adopt them, and make them my own.

This may be ſaid, Sir; but there is hardly a man in the world that, ſaying it, would keep his word: Nor a woman, who ought to expect he ſhould.

But you will allow of my viſits to your couſins, madam?

Not on my account, Sir.

You will not withdraw if I come? You will not refuſe ſeeing me?

As you will be no viſitor of mine, I muſt be allowed to act accordingly. Had I the leaſt thought of encou⯑raging [117] your addreſſes, I would deal with you as openly as is conſiſtent with my notions of modeſty and de⯑corum.

Perhaps, madam, from my gay behaviour at Lady Betty Williams's, you think me too airy a man. You have doubts of my ſincerity: You queſtion my ho⯑nour.

That, Sir, would be to injure myſelf.

Your objections, then, dear madam? Give me, I beſeech you, ſome one material objection.

Why, Sir, ſhould you urge me thus?—When I have no doubt, it is unneceſſary to look into my own mind for the particular reaſons that move me to diſ⯑approve of the addreſſes of a gentleman whoſe pro⯑feſſions of regard for me, notwithſtanding, intitle him to civility and acknowlegement.

By my ſoul, madam, this is very comical:

Such, madam, ſeem to me to be your reaſons.

You are very pleaſant, Sir. But let me ſay, that if you are in earneſt in your profeſſions, you could not have quoted any-thing more againſt you than theſe humorous lines; ſince a diſlike of ſuch a nature as is implied by them, muſt be a diſlike ariſing from ſomething reſembling a natural averſion; whether juſt or not, is little to the purpoſe.

I was not aware of that, replied he: But I hope yours to me is not ſuch a one.

Excuſe me, couſin, ſaid I, turning to Mrs. Reeves: But I believe I have talked away the tea-time.

I think not of tea, ſaid ſhe.

Hang tea, ſaid Mr. Reeves.

The devil fly away with the tea-kettle, ſaid Sir Hargrave; let it not have entrance here, till I have ſaid what I have further to ſay. And let me tell you, [118] Miſs Byron, that tho' you may not have a dying lover, you ſhall have a reſolute one: For I will not ceaſe purſuing you till you are mine, or till you are the wife of ſome other man.

He ſpoke this fiercely, and even rudely. I was diſ⯑guſted as much at his manner, as with his words.

I cannot, replied I, but congratulate myſelf on one felicity, ſince I have been in your company, Sir; and that is, That in this whole converſation, (and I think it much too long) I have not one thing to reproach myſelf with, or be ſorry for.

Your ſervant, madam, bowing:—But I am of the contrary opinion. By heaven, madam [with anger, and an air of inſolence] I think you have pride, madam.—

Pride, Sir!

Cruelty.—

Cruelty, Sir!—

Ingratitude, madam.

I thought it was ſtaying to be inſulted. All that Sir John Alleſtree had ſaid of him came into my head.

Hold, Sir, (for he ſeemed to be going on) Pride, Cruelty, Ingratitude, are crimes black enough. If you think I am guilty of them, excuſe me that I retire for the benefit of recollection.—And, making a low courteſy. I withdrew in haſte. He beſought me to return; and followed me to the ſtairs foot.

He ſhewed his pride, and his ill-nature too, before my couſins, when I was gone. He bit his lip: He walked about the room; then ſitting down, he la⯑mented, defended, accuſed, and re-defended himſelf; and yet beſought their intereſt with me.

He was greatly diſturbed, he owned, that with ſuch honourable intetnions, with ſo much POWER to make me happy, and ſuch a WILL to do ſo, he ſhould be re⯑fuſed; and this without my aſſigning one reaſon for it.

And my couſins (to whom he again referred on that head) anſwering him, that they believed me diſengaged in my affections—D—him, he ſaid, if he could ac⯑count then for my behaviour to him.

[119] He, however, threatned Mr. Orme: Who (if any) he ſaid, was the man I favoured. I had acknowleged, that neither Greville nor Fenwick were. My proud repulſe had ſtung him, he owned. He begged, that they would ſend for me down in their names.

They liked not the humour he ſeemed to be in well enough to comply with his requeſt; and he ſent up in his own name.

But I returned my compliments: I was buſy in writing [And ſo I was—to you, my Lucy]; I hoped Sir Hargrave, and my couſins, would excuſe me. I put them in, to ſoften my refuſal.

This ſtill more diſpleaſed him. He beſought their pardon▪ but he would haunt me like a ghoſt. In ſpite of man and devil I ſhould be his, he had the preſump⯑tion to repeat: And went away with a flaming face.

Don't you think, my dear, that my couſin Reeves was a little too mild in his own houſe; as I am under his guardianſhip? But perhaps he was the more pa⯑tient for that very reaſon; and he is one of the beſt⯑natured men in England. And then 8000l. a year!—Yet why ſhould a man of my couſin's independent fortune—But grandeur will have its charms!

Thus did Sir Hargrave confirm all that Sir John Alleſtree had ſaid of his bad qualities: And I think I am more afraid of him than ever I was of any man before. I remember, that miſchievous is one of the bad qualities Sir John attributed to him: And revenge⯑ful another. Should I ever ſee him again, on the ſame errand, I will be more explicit, as to my being ab⯑ſolutely diſengaged in my affections, if I can be ſo without giving him hope, leſt he ſhould do private miſchief to ſome one on my account. Upon my word, I would not, of all the men I have ever ſeen, be the wife of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.

And ſo much for this firſt viſit of his. I wiſh his pride may be enough piqued to make it the laſt.

But could you have thought he would have ſhewn [120] himſelf ſo ſoon?—Yet he had paraded ſo much, be⯑fore I went down, to my couſins, and ſo little expect⯑ed a direct and determined repulſe, that a man of his ſelf-conſequence might, perhaps, be allowed to be the more eaſily piqued by it.

Lady Betty has ſent us notice, that on Thurſday next, there will be a ball at the Opera-houſe in the Hay-market. My couſins are to chooſe what they will be; but ſhe inſiſts, that my dreſs ſhall be left to her. I am not to know what it is to be, till the day before, or the very day. If I like it not, ſhe will not put me to any expence about it.

You will eaſily imagine, upon ſuch an alternative, I ſhall approve of it, be it what it will. I have only requeſted, that I may not be ſo remarkably dreſſed, as to attract the eyes of the company: If I am, I ſhall not behave with any tolerable preſence of mind.

LETTER XVIII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LETTER XIX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

WHO would have thought that a man of Sir Row⯑land's time of life, and a woman ſo young as I, could have ſo much diſcompoſed each other? I obey'd the ſummons to breakfaſt, and enter'd the room at one door, as he came in at the other. In vain had I made uſe of the ſhort retirement to conceal my emo⯑tion from my couſins. They alſo ſaw Sir Rowland's by his eyes, and looked at him, at me, and at each other.

Mercy! ſaid Sir Rowland, in an accent that ſeem'd between crying and laughing, You, you, you, madam, are a ſurpriſing lady! I, I, I, never was ſo affected in my life. And he drew the back of his hand croſs firſt one eye, then the other.

O Sir Rowland, ſaid I, you are a good man. How affecting are the viſible emotions of a manly heart!

My couſins ſtill looked as if ſurpriz'd; but ſaid no⯑thing.

O my couſins, ſaid I, I have found a father in Sir Rowland; and I acknowlege a brother in Mr. Fowler.

Beſt of women! Moſt excellent of creatures! And do you own me? He ſnatched my hand, and kiſs'd it. What pride do you give me in this open acknowlege⯑ment! If it muſt not be niece, why then I will en⯑deavour to rejoice in my daughter, I think. But yet, [126] my boy, my poor boy—But you are all goodneſs: And with him I ſay, I muſt not teaze you.

What you have been ſaying to each other alone, ſaid Mrs. Reeves, I cannot tell: But I long to know.

Why, madam, I will tell you—if I know how—You muſt know, that I, that I, came as an ambaſſa⯑dor-extraordinary from my ſorrowful boy: Yet not deſired; not ſent; I came of my own accord, in hopes of getting one word of comfort, and to bring matters on before I ſet out for Caermarthen.

The ſervant coming in, and a loud rap, rap, rap, on the footman's muſical inſtrument, the knocker of the door, put a ſtop to Sir Rowland's narrative. In apprehenſion of company, I breathed on my hand, and put it to either eye; and Sir Rowland hemmed twice or thrice, and rubbed his, the better to conceal their redneſs, tho' it made them redder than before. He got up, look'd at the glaſs: Would have ſung. Toll, doll—Hem, ſaid he; as if the muſcles of his face were in the power of his voice. Mercy! All the infant ſtill in my eye—Toll, doll—Hem!—I would ſing it away if I could.

Sir Hargrave enter'd bowing, ſcraping to me, and with an air not ungraceful.

Servant, Sir, ſaid the knight (to Sir Hargrave's ſilent ſalute to him) bowing, and looking at the baronet's genteel morning dreſs, and then at his own—Who the duce is he! whiſpering to Mr. Reeves; Who then preſented each to the other by namé.

The baronet approached me; I have, madam, a thouſand pardons to aſk—

Not one, Sir.

Indeed I have—And moſt heartily do I beg—

You are forgiven, Sir—

But I will not be ſo eaſily forgiven.

Mercy! whiſpered the knight to Mr. Reeves, I don't liken, Ah! my poor boy: No wonder at this rate!—

[127] You have not much to fear, Sir Rowland, (re⯑whiſper'd my couſin) on this gentleman's account.

Thank you, thank you—And yet 'tis a fine figure of a man! whiſper'd again Sir Rowland: Nay, if ſhe can withſtand him—But a word to the wiſe, Mr. Reeves!—Hem!—I am a little eaſier than I was.

He turned from my couſin with ſuch an air, as if from contraſted pleaſure and pain, he would again have ſung Toll, doll.

The ſervant came in with the breakfaſt: And we had no ſooner ſat down, as before, than we were alarmed by another modern rapping. Mr. Reeves was called out, and return'd, introducing Mr. Greville.

Who the duce is he? whiſper'd to me Sir Rowland (as he ſat next me) before Mr. Reeves could name him.

Mr. Greville profoundly bowed to me. I aſked after the health of all our friends in Northampton⯑ſhire.

Have you ſeen Fenwick, madam?—No, Sir.

A dog! I thought he had played me a trick. I miſſed him for three days—But (in a low voice) if you have not ſeen him, I have ſtolen a march upon him!—Well, I had rather aſk his pardon than he ſhould aſk mine. I rejoice to ſee you well, madam! (raiſing his voice)—But what!—looking at my eyes.

Colds are very rife in London, Sir—

I am glad it is no worſe; for your grandmamma, and all friends in the country, are well.

I have found a papa, Mr. Greville (referring to Sir Rowland) ſince I came to town. This good gentle⯑man gives me leave to call him father.

No ſon!—I hope, Sir Rowland, you have no ſon, ſaid Mr. Greville; The relation comes not about that way, I hope. And laughed, as he uſed to do, at his own ſmartneſs.

The very queſtion, I was going to put, by my ſoul, ſaid the baronet.

[128] No!—ſaid the knight: But I have a nephew, gentlemen—A very pretty young fellow! And I have this to ſay before ye all (I am downright Dunſtable) I had much rather call this Lady niece, than daughter. And then the knight forced a laugh, and looked round upon us all.

O Sir Rowland, replied I, I have uncles, more than one—I am a niece: But I have not had for many years till now the happineſs of a father.

And do you own me, madam, before all this gay company?—The firſt time I beheld you, I remember I called you a perfect paragon. Why, madam, you are the moſt excellent of women!

We are ſo much convinced of this, Sir Rowland, ſaid the Baronet, that I don't know, but Miſs Byron's chooſing you for a father, inſtead of an uncle, may have ſaved two or three throats. And then he laugh'd. His laugh was the more ſeaſonable, as it ſoften'd the ſhockingneſs of his expreſſion.

Mr. Greville and the Baronet had been in company twice before in Northamptonſhire at the races: But now-and-then look'd upon each other with envious eyes; and once or twice were at croſs-purpoſes: But my particular notice of the knight made all paſs lightly over.

Sir Rowland went firſt away. He claimed one word with his daughter, in the character of a father.

I withdrew with him to the farther end of the room.

Not one word of comfort? not one word, madam?—to my boy? whiſper'd he.

My compliments (ſpeaking low) to my brother, Sir▪ I wiſh him as well and as happy as I think he deſerves to be.

Well but—Well but—

Only remember, Sir Rowland, that you act in cha⯑racter. I followed you hither, on the ſtrength of your authority, as a father; I beg, Sir, that you will preſerve to me that character.

[129] Why God in heaven bleſs my daughter, if only daughter you can be. Too well do I underſtand you! I will ſee how my poor nephew will take it. If it can be no otherwiſe, I will prevail upon him, I think, to go down with me to Caermarthen for a few months.—But as to thoſe two fine gentlemen, madam—It would grieve me ('tis a folly to deny it) to ſay I have ſeen the man that is to ſupplant my nephew.

I will act in character, Sir Rowland: As your daughter, you have a right to know my ſentiments on this ſubject—You have not yet ſeen the man you ſeem to be afraid of.

You are all goodneſs, madam—my daughter—and I cannot bear it!

He ſpoke this loud enough to be heard; and Mr. Greville and the baronet both, with ſome emotion, roſe, and turned about to us.

Once more, Sir Rowland, ſaid I, my compliments to my brother—Adieu!

God in heaven bleſs you, madam, that's all—Gen⯑tlemen, your ſervant; Mrs. Reeves, your moſt obe⯑dient humble ſervant. Madam, to me, you will allow me, and my nephew too, one more viſit, I hope be⯑fore I ſet out for Caermarthen.

I courteſied, and joined my couſins. Away went the knight, bruſhing the ground with his hat, at his going out. Mr. Reeves waited on him to the outward door.

'Bye, 'bye, to you, Mr. Reeves—with ſome emo⯑tion (as my couſin told me afterwards)—A wonderful creature! By mercy, a wonderful creature!—I go away with my heart full; yet am pleaſed; I know not why, neither, that's the jeſt of it—'Bye, Mrs. Reeves: I can ſtay no longer.

An odd mortal! ſaid the man of the town—But he ſeems to know on which ſide his bread is buttered.

A whimſical old fellow! ſaid the man of the country. But I rejoice that he has not a ſon; that's all.

A good many frothy things paſſed not worth relate⯑ing. [130] I wanted them both to be gone. They ſeemed each to think it time; but looked as if neither cared to leave the other behind him.

At laſt, Mr. Greville, who hinted to me, that he knew I loved not too long an intruſion, bowed, and, politely enough, took his leave. And then the Baronet began, with apoligizing for his behaviour at taking leave on his laſt viſit.

Some gentlemen, I ſaid, had one way, ſome an⯑other, of expreſſing themſelves on particular occaſions. He had thought fit to ſhew me what was his.

He ſeemed a little diſconcerted. But quickly recover⯑ing himſelf, he could not indeed excuſe himſelf, he ſaid, for having then called me cruel—Cruel, he hoped he ſhould not find me—Proud—I knew not what pride was. Ungrateful—I could not be guilty of ingratitude. He begged me to forgive his peremptorineſs—He had hoped (as he had been aſſured, that my affections were abſolutely diſengaged) that the propoſals he had to make, would have been acceptable; and ſo poſitive a reſuſal, without any one reaſon aſſigned, and on his firſt viſit, had indeed hurt his pride (he owned, he ſaid, that he had ſome pride) and made him forget that he was addreſſing himſelf to a woman who de⯑ſerved, and met with, the veneration of every one who approached her. He next expreſſed himſelf with ap⯑prehenſions on Mr. Greville's arrival in town. He ſpoke ſlightly of him. Mr. Greville, I doubt not, will ſpeak as ſlightly of Sir Hargrave. And if I believe them both, I fanſy I ſhall not injure either.

Mr. Greville's arrival, I ſaid, ought not to concern me. He was to do as he thought fit. I was only de⯑ſirous to be allowed the ſame free agency that I was ready to allow to others.

That could not be, he ſaid. Every man who ſaw me muſt wiſh me to be his; and endeavour to obtain his wiſhes.

And then making vehement profeſſions of Love, he [131] offered me large ſettlements; and to put it in my power to do all the good that he knew it was in my heart to do—And that I ſhould preſcribe to him in every thing as to place of reſidence, excurſions, even to the going abroad to France, to Italy, and where⯑ever I pleaſed.

To all which I anſwered as before; and when he inſiſted upon my reaſons for reſuſing him, I frankly told him, tho' I owned it was with ſome reluctance, that I had not the opinion of his morals that I muſt have of thoſe of the man to whom I gave my hand in marriage.

Of my morals, madam! (ſtarting; and his colour went and came) My morals, madam!—I thought he looked with malice: But I was not intimidated: And yet my couſins looked at me with ſome little ſurprize for my plain dealing, tho' not as blaming me.

Be not diſpleaſed, Sir, with my freedom. You call upon me to make objections. I mean not to upbraid you; that is not my buſineſs; but thus called upon, I muſt repeat—I ſtopt.

Proceed, madam; angrily.

Indeed, Sir Hargrave, you muſt pardon me on this occaſion, if I repeat that I have not that opinion of your morals—

Very well, madam—

That I muſt have of thoſe of the man on whoſe worthineſs I muſt build my hopes of preſent happineſs, and to whoſe guidance intruſt my future. This, Sir, is a very material conſideration with me, tho' I am not fond of talking upon it, except on proper occaſions, and to proper perſons: But, Sir, let me add, that I am determined to live longer ſingle. I think it too early to engage in a life of care: And if I do not meet with a man to whom I can give my whole heart, I never will marry at all [O how maliciouſly looked the man!]—You are angry, Sir Hargrave, added I; but you have no right to be ſo. You addreſs me as [132] one who is her own miſtreſs. And tho' I would not be thought rude, I value myſelf on my openneſs of heart.

He aroſe from his ſeat. He walked about the room muttering, "You have no opinion of my morals"—By heaven, madam!—But I will bear it all—Yet, "No opinion of my morals!"—I cannot bear that—

He then clenched his fiſt, and held it up to his head; and ſnatching up his hat, bowing to the ground to us all, his face crimſoned over (as the time before) he withdrew.

Mr. Reeves attended him to the door—"Not like my morals!" ſaid he—I have enemies, Mr. Reeves—"Not like my morals!"—Miſs Byron treats politely every body but me, Sir. Her ſcorn may be repaid—Would to God I could ſay with ſcorn, Mr. Reeves.—Adieu. Excuſe my warmth.—Adieu.

And into his chariot he ſtept, pulling up the glaſſes with violence; and, as Mr. Reeves told us, rearing up his head to the top of it, as he ſat ſwelling. And away it drove.

His menacing airs, and abrupt departure, terrified me. I did not recover myſelf in an hour.

A fine huſband for your Harriet would this half madman make!—O Mr. Fowler, Sir Rowland, Mr. Orme, what good men are you to Sir Hargrave! Should I have known half ſo much as I do of his ill qualities, had I not refuſed him? Drawn in by his profeſſions of Love, and by 8000 l. a year, I might have married him; and, when too late, found myſelf miſerable, yoked with a tyrant and madman, for the remainder of a life begun with happy proſpects, and glorying in every one's Love!

LETTER XX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LETTER XXI. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I Have paſſed an agreeable two hours with Miſs Clements, and am juſt returned. She is extremely ingenious, and perfectly unaffected. I am told, that ſhe writes finely; and is a madame de Sevigne to her correſpondents. I hope to be one of them. But ſhe has not, I find, ſuffered her pen to run away with her needle; nor her reading to interfere with that houſe⯑wifry which the beſt judges hold ſo indiſpenſable in the character of a good woman.

I revere her for this, as her example may be pro⯑duced as one, in anſwer to ſuch as object (I am afraid ſometimes too juſtly, but I hope too generally) againſt learning in women. Methinks, however, I would not have learning the principal diſtinction of the woman I love. And yet, where talents are given, ſhould we wiſh them to be either uncultivated or unacknowleged? Surely, Lucy, we may pronounce, that where no duty is neglected for the acquirement; where modeſty, [141] delicacy, and a teachable ſpirit, are preſerved, as characteriſtics of the Sex, it need not be thought a diſgrace to be ſuppoſed to know ſomething.

Miſs Clements is happy, as well as your Harriet, in an aunt, that loves her. She has a mother living, who is too great a ſelf-lover, to regard any-body elſe as ſhe ought. She lives as far off as York, and was ſo unnatural a parent to this good child, that her aunt was not eaſy till ſhe got her from her. Mrs. Wim⯑burn looks upon her as her daughter, and intends to leave her all ſhe is worth.

The old Lady was not very well; but ſhe obliged us with her agreeable company for half an hour.

We agreed to fall in occaſionally upon each other without ceremony.

I ſhould have told you, that the laſt maſter of the young man, William Wilſon, having given him in writing a very good character, I have entertained him; and his firſt ſervice was attending on me to Miſs Clements.

Lady Betty called here in my abſence. She is, it ſeems, very full of the dreſſes, and mine in particular: But I muſt know nothing about it, as yet. We are to go to her houſe to dreſs, and to proceed from thence in chairs. She is to take care of every-thing. You ſhall know, my Lucy, what figure I am to make, when I know it myſelf.

The baronet alſo called at my couſins while I was out. He ſaw only Mr. Reeves. He ſtaid about a quarter of an hour. He was very moody and ſullen, it ſeems. Quite another man, Mr. Reeves ſaid, than he had ever ſeen him before. Not one laugh; not one ſmile. All that ſell from his lips was Yes or No; or by way of invective againſt the Sex. It was"The devil of a Sex." It was a curſed thing, he ſaid, that a man could be neither happy with them, nor without them. Devil's baits was another of his com⯑pliments to us. He hardly mentioned my name.

[142] Mr. Reeves at laſt began to rally him on his moo⯑dineſs; and plainly ſaw, that to avoid ſhewing more of his petulance (when he had not a right to ſhew any) to a man of Mr. Reeves's conſideration, and in his own houſe, he went away the ſooner. His footmen and coachman, he believed, had an ill time of it; for, without reaſon, he curſed them, ſwore at them, and threatened them.

What does the man haunt us for?—Why brings he ſuch odious humours to Mr. Reeves's?

But no more of ſuch a man, nor of any thing elſe till my next. Only,

Adieu, my Lucy.

LETTER XXII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LETTER XXIII. Mr. REEVES, To GEORGE SELBY, Eſq

NO one, at preſent, but yourſelf, muſt ſee the contents of what I am going to write.

You muſt not be too much ſurpriſed.

But how ſhall I tell you the news; the dreadful news?—My wife has been ſince three this morn⯑ing in violent hyſterics upon it.

You muſt not—But how ſhall I ſay, You muſt not, [161] be too much affected, when we are unable to ſupport ourſelves?

O my couſin Selby!—We know not what is be⯑come of our deareſt Miſs Byron!

I will be as particular as my grief and ſurprize will allow. There is a neceſſity for it, as you will find.

Mr. Greville, as I apprehend—But to particulars firſt.

We were laſt night at the Ball in the Hay-market.

The chairmen who carried the dear creature, and who as well as our chairmen, were engaged for the night, were inveigled away to drink ſomewhere. They promiſed Wilſon, my couſin's ſervant, to re⯑turn in half an hour.

It was then but little more than twelve.

Wilſon waited near two hours, and they not re⯑turning, he hired a chair to ſupply their place.

Between two and three, we all agreed to go home. The dear creature was fatigued with the notice every-body took of her. Every-body admired her. She wanted to go before; but Lady Betty prevailed on her to ſtay a little longer.

I waited on her to her chair, and ſaw her in it be⯑fore I attended Lady Betty and my wife to theirs.

I ſaw that neither the chair, nor the chairmen, were thoſe who brought her. I aſk'd the meaning; and receiv'd the above particulars after ſhe was in the chair.

She hurried into it becauſe of her dreſs, and being warm; and no leſs than four gentlemen following her to the very chair.

It was then near three.

I order'd Wilſon to bid the chairmen ſtop when they had got out of the croud, till Lady Betty's chair, and mine, and my wife's, joined them.

I ſaw her chair move, and Wilſon with his lighted ſlambeaux before it; and the four maſques who fol⯑low'd her to the chair return into the houſe.

[162] When our ſervants could not find that her chair had ſtopt, we ſuppoſed that in the hurry, the fellow heard not my orders; and directed our chairmen to pro⯑ceed; not doubting but we ſhould find her got home before us.

We had before agreed to be carried directly home; declining Lady Betty's invitation to reſume our own dreſſes at her houſe, where we dreſſed for the Ball.

We were very much ſurpriſed at finding her not arrived: But concluding that, by miſtake, ſhe was carried to Lady Betty's, and was there expecting us, we ſent thither immediately.

But, good God! what was our conſternation, when the ſervants brought us word back, that Lady Betty had not either ſeen or heard of her!

Mr. Greville, as I apprehend—

But let me give you all the lights on which I ground my ſurmiſes.

Laſt night Lady Betty Williams had an hint given her, as ſhe informed me at the Maſquerade, that Mr. Greville, who took leave of my couſin on Tueſday evening in order to ſet out for Northamptonſhire the next morning, was neither gone, nor intended to go; being, on the contrary, reſolved to continue in town perdue, in order to watch my couſin's viſitors.

He had indeed told her, that ſhe would have half a dozen ſpies upon her; and threw out ſome hints of jealouſy of two of her viſitors.

Sir Hargrave Pollexfen in an Harlequin dreſs was at the Ball: He ſoon diſcover'd our lovely couſin, and, notwithſtanding his former ill-nature on being reject⯑ed by her, addreſſed her with the politeneſs of a man accuſtomed to public places.

He found me out at the ſide-board a little before we went off; and aſk'd me, if I had not ſeen Mr. Greville there? I ſaid, No.

He aſk'd me, If I had not obſerved a maſk diſtin⯑guiſhed by a broad-brim'd half-ſlouched hat, with a [163] high flat crown, a ſhort black cloak, a dark lantern in his hand, holding it up to every one's maſque; and who, he ſaid, was ſaluted by every-body as Guido Vaux? That perſon he ſaid was Mr. Greville.

I did indeed obſerve this perſon; but recollected not, that he had the air of Mr. Greville; but thought him a much more bulky man. But that, as he in⯑tended to have it ſuppoſed he had left the town, might be eaſily managed.

Mr. Greville, you know, is a man of enterprize.

He came to town, having profeſſedly no other ma⯑terial buſineſs but to give obſtruction to my couſin's viſitors. He ſaw ſhe had two new ones. He talk'd at firſt of ſtaying in town, and partaking of its diver⯑ſions, and even of beſpeaking a new equipage.

But all of a ſudden, tho' expecting Mr. Fenwick would come up, he pretended to leave the town, and to ſet out directly for Northamptonſhire, without hav⯑ing obtained any conceſſion from my couſin in his favour.

Laying all theſe circumſtances together, I think it is hardly to be doubted, but Mr. Greville is at the bottom of this black affair.

You will therefore take ſuch ſteps on theſe lights as your prudence will ſuggeſt to you. If Mr. Greville is not come down—If Mr. Fenwick—What would I ſay?

The leſs noiſe, however, the affair makes, till we can come at certainty, the better.

How I dread what that certainty may be!—Dear creature!

But I am ſure you will think it adviſeable to keep this dreadful affair from her poor grandmother. And I hope your good lady—Yet her prudent advice may be neceſſary.

I have ſix people out at different parts of the town, who are to make enquiries among chairmen, coach⯑men, &c.

[164] Her new ſervant cannot be a villain—What can one ſay?—What can one think?

We have ſent to his ſiſter, who keeps an inn in Smithfield. She has heard nothing of him.

I have ſent after the chairmen who carried her to this curſed Maſquerade. Lady Betty's chairmen, who had provided the chairs, know them, and their number. They are traced with a fare from White's to Berkeley-ſquare.

Something may be diſcovered by means of thoſe fellows, if they were tamper'd with. They are afraid, I ſuppoſe, to come to demand their but half-earned money. Woe be to them if they come out to be raſcals!

I had half a ſuſpicion of Sir Hargrave, as well from the character given us of him by a friend of mine, as becauſe of his unpolite behaviour to the dear creature on her rejecting him: And ſent to his houſe in Ca⯑vendiſh-ſquare, to know if he were at home; and if he were, at what time he returned from the Ball.

Anſwer was brought, that he was in bed, and they ſuppoſed would not be ſtirring till dinner-time; when he expected company: And that he returned not from the Ball till between four and five this morning.

We ſent to Mr. Greville's lodgings. He has actually diſcharged them; and the people think (as he told them ſo) that he is ſet out for the country. But he is maſter of contrivances enough to manage this. There can be no thought that he would give out otherwiſe to them, than he did to us. Happy! had we ſound him not gone.

Mr. Greville muſt be the man!

You will be ſo good, as to diſpatch the bearer in⯑ſtantly with what information can be got about Mr. Greville.

LETTER XXIV. Mr. SELBY, To ARCHIBALD REEVES, Eſq In anſwer to the preceding.

O Mr. Reeves!—Dear ſweet child!—Flower of the world!—

But how could I keep ſuch dreadful tidings within my own breaſt?—

How could I conceal my conſternation!—My wife ſaw it. She would know the cauſe of it.

I could not tell her the fatal news—Fatal news in⯑deed! It will be immediate death to her poor grand⯑mother—

We muſt keep it from her as long as we can!—But keep it from her!—And is the deareſt creature ſpirited away?—O Mr. Reeves!—

I gave my wife your letter. She fainted away, before ſhe had read it thro'.

Maſquerades, I have generally heard ſaid, were more ſilly than wicked: But they are now, I am con⯑vinced, the moſt profligate of all diverſions.

Almoſt diſtracted, couſin!—You may well be ſo: We ſhall all be quite diſtracted—Dear, dear creature! What may ſhe not have ſuffered by this time?

Why parted we with ſuch a Jewel out of your ſight!

You would not be denied: You would have her to that curſed town.

Some damn'd villain, to be ſure!—Greville it is not.

Greville was ſeen late laſt night, alighting at his own houſe from a poſt-chaiſe. He had no-body with him.

In half an hour, late as it was, he ſent his com⯑pliments to us to let us know that he had left the dear child well, and (in his uſual ſtile) happier than ſhe would make him. He knows that our lives are bound up in hers.

[166] Find out where ſhe is: And find her ſafe and well: Or we will never forgive thoſe who were the cauſe of her going to London.

Dear ſoul! She was over-perſuaded!—She was not fond of going!

The ſweeteſt, obliging creature!—What is now become of her!—What by this time may ſhe not have ſuffered!—

Search every-where—But you will, no doubt!—Suſpect every-body—This Lady Betty Williams—Such a plot muſt have a woman in it. Was ſhe not Sir Hargrave's friend?—This Sir Hargrave!—Greville it could not be. Had we not the proof I mention'd, Greville, bad as he is, could not be ſuch a villain.

The firſt moment you have any tidings, bad or good, ſpare no expence—

GREVILLE was this moment here.

We could not ſee him. We did not let him know the matter.

He is gone away, in great ſurprize, on the ſervants telling him that we had received ſome bad news, which made us unfit to ſee any-body. The ſervants could not tell him what: Yet they all gueſs by your livery, and by our grief, that ſomething has befallen their beloved young lady. They are all in tears—And they look at us, when they attend us, with ſuch in⯑quiſitive, yet ſilent grief—We are ſpeechleſs before them; and tell them our wills by motions, and not by words.

Good God!—After ſo many happy years!—Happy in ourſelves! to be at laſt in ſo ſhort a time made the moſt miſerable of wretches!

But this had not been, if—But no more—Good God of heaven, what will become of my poor aunt Shirley!—Lucy, Nancy, will go diſtracted—But no more—Haſten your next—And for give this diſtracted letter. I know not what I have written. But I am

LETTER XXV. Mr. REEVES, To GEORGE SELBY, Eſq In Continuation of Letter XXIII.

LETTER XXVI. Mr. REEVES, To GEORGE SELBY, Eſq

I AM juſt returned from viſiting my beloved couſin. You will be glad of every minute particular, as I can give it to you, relating to this ſhocking affair; and to her protector and his ſiſter. There are not ſuch another brother and ſiſter in England.

I got to the hoſpitable manſion by nine this morning. I enquired after Miſs Byron's health; and, on giving in my name, was ſhewn into a handſome parlour, elegantly furniſhed.

Immediately came down to me a very agreeable young Lady; Miſs Grandiſon. I gave her a thouſand thanks for the honour of her Letter, and the joyful in⯑formation it had given me of the ſafety of one ſo de⯑ſervedly dear to us.

She muſt be an excellent young Lady, anſwered ſhe, I have juſt left her—You muſt not ſee her yet—

Ah, madam, ſaid I, and looked ſurpriſed and grieved, I believe—

Don't affright yourſelf, Sir. Miſs Byron will do very well. But ſhe muſt be kept quiet. She has had a happy deliverance—She—

O madam, interrupted I, your generous, your no⯑ble brother—

Is the beſt of men, Mr. Reeves: His delight is in doing good.—And, as to this adventure, it has made him, I am ſure, a very happy man.

But is my couſin, madam, ſo ill, that I cannot be allowed to ſee her for one moment?

She is but juſt come out of a fit. She fell into it in the relation ſhe would have made of her ſtory, on mentioning the villain's name by whom ſhe has ſuf⯑fered. She could give only broken and imperfect ac⯑counts [182] of herſelf all day yeſterday, or you had heard from me ſooner. When you ſee her, you muſt be very cautious of what you ſay to her. We have a ſkilful phyſician, by whoſe advice we proceed.

God for ever bleſs you, madam!

He has not long left her. He adviſes quiet. She has had a very bad night. Could ſhe compoſe herſelf, could ſhe get a little natural reſt, the cure is per⯑formed. Have you breakfaſted, Sir?

Breakfaſted, madam! My impatience to ſee my couſin allowed me not to think of breakfaſt.

You muſt breakfaſt with me, Sir. And when that is over, if ſhe is tolerable, we will acquaint her with your arrival, and go up together. I read your impa⯑tience, Sir: We will make but a very ſhort break⯑faſting. I was juſt going to breakfaſt.

She rang. It was brought in.

I longed, I ſaid, as we ſat at tea, to be acquainted with the particulars of the happy deliverance.

We avoid aſking any queſtions that may affect her. I know very little of the particulars myſelf. My bro⯑ther was in haſte to get to town. The ſervants that were with him at the time, hardly diſmounted: He doubted not but the Lady (to whom he referred me for the gratifying my curioſity) would be able to tell me every-thing. But ſhe fell into fits, and, as I told you, was ſo ill, on the recollection of what ſhe had ſuffered—

Good God! ſaid I, what muſt the dear creature have ſuffered!

—That we thought fit to reſtrain our curioſity, and ſo muſt you, till we ſee Sir Charles. I expect him before noon.

I am told, madam, that there was a ſkirmiſh. I hope Sir Charles—

I hope ſo too, Mr. Reeves, interrupted ſhe. I long to ſee my brother as much as you can do to ſee your couſin—But on my apprehenſions, he aſſured me [183] upon his honour, that he was but very ſlightly hurt. Sir Charles is no qualifier, Sir, when he ſtakes his honour, be the occaſion either light or ſerious.

I ſaid, I doubted not but ſhe was very much ſur⯑priſed at a Lady's being brought in by Sir Charles, and in a dreſs ſo fantaſtic.

I was, Sir. I had not left my chamber: But haſtened down at the firſt word, to receive and wel⯑come the ſtranger. My maid, out of breath, burſt into my room—Sir Charles, madam, beſeeches you this moment to come down. He has ſaved a Lady from robbers (that was her report) a very fine Lady! and is come back with her. He begs that you will come down this inſtant.

I was too much ſurpriſed at my brother's unexpect⯑ed return, and too much affected with the Lady's viſi⯑ble grief and terror, to attend to her dreſs, when I firſt went down. She was ſitting, dreadfully trem⯑bling, and Sir Charles next her, in a very tender man⯑ner, aſſuring her of his and of his ſiſter's kindeſt pro⯑tection. I ſaluted her, continued the Lady: Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome to this houſe, and to me—

She threw herſelf on one knee to me. Diſtreſs had too much humbled her. Sir Charles and I raiſed her to her ſeat. You ſee before you, madam, ſaid ſhe, a ſtrange creature; and looked at her dreſs: But I hope you will believe I am an innocent one. This vile ap⯑pearance was not my choice. Fie upon me! I muſt be thus dreſſed out for a Maſquerade: Hated diverſion! I never had a notion of it. Think not hardly, Sir, turning to Sir Charles, her hands claſped and held up, of her whom you have ſo generouſly delivered. Think not hardly of me, madam, turning to me: I am not a bad creature. That vile, vile man!—She could ſay no more.

Charlotte, ſaid my brother, you will make it your firſt care to raiſe the ſpirits of this injured beauty: Your next, to take her directions, and inform her [184] friends of her ſafety. Such an admirable young Lady as this, cannot be miſſed an hour, without exciting the fears of all her friends for her. I repeat, madam, that you are in honourable hands. My ſiſter will have pleaſure in obliging you.

She wiſhed to be conveyed to town; but looking at her dreſs, I offered her cloaths of mine; and my brother ſaid, if ſhe were very earneſt, and thought herſelf able to go, he would take horſe, and leave the chariot, and he was ſure that I would attend her thi⯑ther.

But before ſhe could declare her acceptance of this offer, as ſhe ſeemed joyfully ready to do, her ſpirits failed her, and ſhe ſunk down at my feet.

Sir Charles juſt ſtaid to ſee her come to herſelf; and then—Siſter, ſaid he, the Lady cannot be removed. Let Dr. Holmes be ſent for inſtantly. I know you will give her your beſt attendance. I will be with you before noon to-morrow. The Lady is too low, and too weak, to be troubled with queſtions now. Johnſon will be back from Windſor. Let him take her commands to any of her friends. Adieu, dear madam—[Your couſin, Sir, ſeemed likely to faint again] Support yourſelf. Repeating, You are in ſafe and honourable hands; bowing to her, as ſhe bowed in return: but ſpoke not—Adieu, Charlotte: And away went the beſt of brothers.

And God Almighty bleſs him, ſaid I, where-ever he goes!

Miſs Grandiſon then told me, that the houſe I was in belonged to the Earl of L. who had lately mar⯑ried her elder ſiſter: About three months ago, they ſet out, ſhe ſaid, to pay a viſit to my Lord's eſtate and relations in Scotland, for the firſt time, and to ſettle ſome affairs there: They were expected back in a week or fortnight: She came down but laſt Tueſday, and that in order to give directions for every-thing to be prepared for their reception. It was happy for [185] your couſin, ſaid ſhe, that I obtained the favour of my brother's company; and that he was obliged to be in town this morning. He intended to come back to carry me to town this evening. We are a family of love, Mr. Reeves. We are true brothers and ſiſters—But why do I trouble you with theſe things now? We ſhall be better acquainted. I am charmed with Miſs Byron.

She was ſo good as to hurry the breakfaſt; and when it was over, conducted me up ſtairs. She bid me ſtay at the door, and ſtept gently to the bed-ſide and opening the curtain, I heard the voice of our couſin.

Dear madam, what trouble do I give! were her words.

Still talk of trouble, Miſs Byron! anſwered Miſs Grandiſon, with an amiable familiarity; you will not forbear—Will you promiſe me not to be ſurpriſed at the arrival of your couſin Reeves?

I do promiſe—I ſhall rejoice to ſee him.

Miſs Grandiſon called to me. I approached, and catching my couſin's held-out hand, Thank God, thank God, beſt beloved of an hundred hearts! ſaid I, that once more I behold you! that once more I ſee you in ſafe and honourable hands!—I will not tell you what we have all ſuffered.

No, don't, ſaid ſhe—You need not—But, O my couſin! I have fallen into the company of angels.

Forbear, gently patting her hand, forbear theſe high flights, ſaid the kind Lady, or I ſhall beat my charm⯑ing patient. I ſhall not think you in a way to be quite well, till you deſcend.

She whiſpered me, that the doctor had expreſſed fears for her head, if ſhe were not kept quiet. Then raiſing her voice, Your couſin's gratitude, Mr. Revees, is exceſſive. You muſt allow me, ſmiling, to beat her. When ſhe is well, ſhe ſhall talk of angels, and of what ſhe pleaſes.

[186] But, my dear Mr. Selby, we who know how her heart overflows with ſentiments of gratitude, on every common obligation, and even on but intentional ones, can eaſily account for the high ſenſe ſhe muſt have of thoſe ſhe lies under for ſuch a deliverance from the brother, and of ſuch kind treatment from the ſiſter, both abſolute ſtrangers, till her diſtreſſes threw her into their protection.

I will only aſk my dear Miſs Byron one queſtion, ſaid I (forgetting the caution given me below by Miſs Grandiſon) Whether this villain, by his violence—[meant marriage, I was going to ſay] But interrupting me, You ſhall not, Mr. Reeves, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, ſmiling, aſk half a queſtion, that may revive diſagree⯑able remembrances. Is ſhe not alive, and here, and in a way to be well? Have patience till ſhe is able to tell you all.

My couſin was going to ſpeak: My dear, ſaid the Lady, you ſhall not anſwer Mr. Reeves's queſtion, if it be a queſtion that will induce you to look backward. At preſent you muſt look only forward. And are you not in my care, and in Sir Charles Grandiſon's pro⯑tection?

I have done, madam, ſaid I, bowing—The deſire of taking vengeance—

Huſh, Mr. Revees!—Surely!—Smiling, and hold⯑ing her finger to her lip.

It is a patient's duty, ſaid my couſin to ſubmit to the preſcriptions of her kind phyſician: But were I ever to forgive the author of my diſtreſſes, it muſt be for his being the occaſion of bringing me into the knowlege of ſuch a Lady: And yet to lie under the weight of obligations that I never can return—Here ſhe ſtopt.

I took this as a happy indication that the laſt vio⯑lence was not offered: If it had, ſhe would not have mentioned forgiving the author of her diſtreſs.

As to what you ſay of obligation, Miſs Byron, re⯑turned [187] Miſs Grandiſon, let your heart anſwer for mine, had you and I changed ſituation. And if, on ſuch a ſuppoſition, you can think, that your humanity would have been ſo extraordinary a matter, then ſhall you be at liberty, when you are recovered, to ſay a thouſand fine things: Till when, pray be ſilent on this ſubject.

Then turning to me, See how much afraid your couſin Byron is of lying under obligation. I am afraid ſhe has a proud heart: Has ſhe not a very proud heart, Mr. Reeves?

She has a very grateful one, madam, replied I.

She turned to my couſin: Will you, Miſs Byron, be eaſy under the obligations you talk of, or will you not?

I ſubmit to your ſuperiority, madam, in every-thing, replied my couſin; bowing her head.

She then aſked me, if I had let her friends in the country know of this ſhocking affair?

I had ſuſpected Mr. Greville, I ſaid; and had written in confidence to her uncle Selby—

O my poor grandmamma—O my good aunt Selby, and my Lucy—I hope—

Miſs Grandiſon interpoſed, humorouſly interrupt⯑ing—I will have nothing ſaid that begins with O. In⯑deed, Miſs Byron, Mr. Reeves, I will not truſt you together—Cannot you have patience—

We both aſked her pardon. My couſin deſired leave to riſe—But theſe odious cloaths, ſaid ſhe—

If you are well enough, child, replied Miſs Gran⯑diſon, you ſhall riſe, and have no need to ſee thoſe odious cloaths, as you call them. I told them Mrs. Reeves had ſent her ſome of her cloaths. The portmanteau was ordered to be brought up.

Then Miſs Grandiſon, ſitting down on the bed by my couſin, took her hand; and, feeling her pulſe, Are you ſure, my patient, that you ſhall not ſuffer if you are permitted to riſe? Will you be calm, ſerene, eaſy? [188] Will you baniſh curioſity? Will you endeavour to avoid recollection?

I will do my endeavour, anſwered my couſin.

Miſs Grandiſon then rung, and a maid-ſervant coming up, Jenny, ſaid ſhe, pray give your beſt aſſiſtance to my lovely patient. But be ſure don't let her hurry her ſpirits. I will lead Mr. Reeves into my dreſſing-room. And when you are dreſſed, my dear, we will either return to you here, or expect you to join us there, at your pleaſure.

And then ſhe obligingly conducted me into her dreſſing-room; and excuſed herſelf for refuſing to let us talk of intereſting ſubjects. I am rejoiced, ſaid ſhe, to find her more ſedate and compoſed than hitherto ſhe has been. Her head has been greatly in danger. Her talk, for ſome hours, when ſhe did talk, was ſo wild and incoherent, and ſhe was ſo full of terror, on every one's coming in her ſight, that I would not ſuffer any-body to attend her but myſelf.

I left her not, continued Miſs Grandiſon, till ele⯑ven; and the houſekeeper, and my maid, ſat up in her room all the reſt of the night.

I aroſe before my uſual time to attend her. I ſlept not well myſelf. I did nothing but dream of robbers, reſcues, and murders: Such an impreſſion had the diſtreſs of this young Lady made on my mind.

They made me a poor report, proceeded ſhe, of the night ſhe had paſſed. And, as I told you, ſhe fainted away this morning a little before you came, on her endeavouring to give me ſome account of her affecting ſtory.

Let me tell you, Mr. Reeves, I am as curious as you can be, to know the whole of what has befallen her. But her heart is tender and delicate. Her ſpirits are low; and we muſt not pull down with one hand, what we build up with the other: My brother alſo will expect a good account of my charge.

I bleſſed her for her goodneſs. And finding her [189] deſirous of knowing all that I could tell her, of our couſin's character, family, and Lovers, I gave her a brief hiſtory, which extremely pleaſed her. Good God! ſaid ſhe, what a happineſs is it, that ſuch a Lady, in ſuch a diſtreſs, ſhould meet with a man as excellent, and as much admired, as herſelf! My bro⯑ther, Mr. Reeves, can never marry but he muſt break half a ſcore hearts. Forgive me, that I bring him in, whenever any good perſon, or thing, or action, is ſpoken of. Every-body, I believe, who is ſtrongly poſſeſſed of a ſubject, makes every-thing ſeen, heard, or read of, that bears the leaſt reſemblance, turn into and illuſtrate that ſubject.

But here I will conclude this Letter, in order to ſend it by the poſt. Beſides, I have been ſo much fatigued in body and mind, and my wife has alſo been ſo much diſturbed in her mind, that I muſt give way to a call of reſt.

I will purſue the ſubject, the now agreeable ſubject, in the morning; and perhaps ſhall diſpatch what I ſhall farther write, as you muſt be impatient for it, by an eſpecial meſſenger.

Sir Rowland was here twice yeſterday, and once to⯑day. My wife cauſed him to be told, that Miſs Byron, by a ſudden call, has been obliged to go a little way out of town for two or three days.

He propoſes to ſet out for Caermarthen the begin⯑ning of next week. He hoped he ſhould not be denied taking his corporal leave of her.

If our couſin has a good day to-morrow, and no return of her fits, ſhe propoſes to be in town on Mon⯑day. I am to wait on her, and Sir Charles and his ſiſter, at breakfaſt on Monday morning, and to attend her home; where there will be joy indeed, on her arrival.

Pray receive for yourſelf, and make for me to your Lady, and all friends, my compliments of congratu⯑lation.

[190] I have not had either leiſure or inclination to en⯑quire after the villain, who has given us all this diſturb⯑ance.

LETTER XXVII. From Mr. REEVES, To GEORGE SELBY, Eſq In Continuation.

MISS Grandiſon went to my couſin, to ſee how ſhe bore riſing, ſuppoſing her near dreſſed.

She ſoon returned to me. The moſt charming woman, I think, ſaid ſhe, I ever ſaw! But ſhe trem⯑bles ſo, that I have perſuaded her to lie down. I anſwered for you, that you would ſtay dinner.

I muſt beg excuſe, madam. I have an excellent wife. She loves Miſs Byron as her life: She will be impatient to know—

Well, well, well, ſay no more, Mr. Reeves: My brother has redeemed one priſoner, and his ſiſter has taken another: And glad you may be, that it is no worſe.

I bowed, and looked ſilly, I believe.

You may look, and beg, and pray, Mr. Reeves. When you know me better, you'll find me a very whimſical creature: But you muſt ſtay to ſee Sir Charles. Would you go home to your wife with half your errand? She won't thank you for that, I can tell you, let her be as good a woman as the beſt. But, to comfort you, we give not into every modern faſhion, We dine earlier, than moſt people of our condition. My brother, tho' in the main above ſingularity, will, nevertheleſs, in things he thinks right, be govern'd by his own rules, which are the laws of reaſon and con⯑venience. You are on horſeback; and, were I you, ſuch good news as I ſhould have to carry, conſidering [191] what might have happened, would give me wings, and make me fly thro' the air with it.

I was about to ſpeak: Come, come, I will have no denial, interrupted ſhe: I ſhall have a double pleaſure, if you are preſent when Sir Charles comes, on hearing his account of what happened. You are a good man, and have a reaſonable quantity of wonder and gratitude, to heighten a common caſe into the marvellous. So ſit down, and be quiet.

I was equally delighted and ſurpriſed at her hu⯑morous raillery; but could not anſwer a ſingle word. If it be midnight before you will ſuffer me to depart, thought I, I will not make another objection.

While this amiable Lady was thus entertaining me, we heard the trampling of horſes—My brother! ſaid ſhe, I hope!—He comes! pardon the fondneſs of a ſiſter, who ſpeaks from ſenſible effects—A father and a brother in one!

Sir Charles entered the room. He addreſſed him⯑ſelf to me in a moſt polite manner. Mr. Reeves! ſaid he, as I underſtand from below—Then turning to his ſiſter, Excuſe me Charlotte. I heard this worthy gentleman was with you: And I was impatient to know how my fair gueſt—

Miſs Byron is in a good way, I hope, interrupted ſhe, but very weak and low-ſpirited. She aroſe and dreſſed; but I have prevailed on her to lie down again.

Then turning to me, with a noble air, he both welcomed and congratulated me.

Sir Charles Grandiſon is indeed a fine figure. He is in the bloom of youth. I don't know that I have ever ſeen an handſomer or genteeler man. Well might his ſiſter ſay, that if he married, he would break half a ſcore hearts. O this vile Pollexfen! thought I, at the moment; Could he draw upon, has he hurt, ſuch a man as this?

After pouring out my acknowlegements, in the name [192] of ſeveral families, as well as my own, I could not but enquire into the nature of the hurt he had received.

A very trifle!—My coat only was hurt, Mr. Reeves. The ſkin of my left ſhoulder raked a little, putting his hand upon it.

Thank God, ſaid I: Thank God, ſaid Miſs Gran⯑diſon—But ſo near!—O the villain! what might it have been!—

Sir Hargrave, pent up in a chariot, had great diſ⯑advantage. My reflexions on the event of yeſterday, yield me the more pleaſure, as I have, on enquiry, underſtood that he will do well again, if he will be ruled. I would not, on any account, have had his inſtant death to anſwer for. But no more of this juſt now. Give me the particulars of the young Lady's ſtate of health. I left her in a very bad way.—You had advice?

Miſs Grandiſon gave her brother an account of all that had been done; and of every-thing that had paſſed ſince he went away; as alſo of the character and ex⯑cellencies of the Lady whom he had reſcued.

I confirmed what ſhe ſaid in my couſin's favour; and he very gratefully thanked his ſiſter for her care, as a man would do for one the neareſt and deareſt to him.

We then beſought him to give an account of the glorious action, which had reſtored to all that knew her, the darling of our hearts.

I will relate all he ſaid, in the firſt perſon, as nearly in his own words as poſſible; and will try to hit the coolneſs with which he told the agreeable ſtory.

‘'You know, ſiſter, ſaid he, the call I had to town. It was happy, that I yielded to your importunity to attend you hither.’

‘'About two miles on this ſide Hounſlow, I ſaw a chariot-and-ſix driving at a great rate. I alſo had ordered Jerry to drive pretty faſt.’

‘'The coachman ſeemed inclined to diſpute the [193] way with mine. This occaſioned a few moments ſtop to both. I ordered my coachman to break the way. I don't love to ſtand upon triſles. My horſes were freſh: I had not come far.’

‘'The curtain of the chariot we met, was pulled down. I ſaw not who was in it. But on turning out of the way, I knew by the arms it was Sir Har⯑grave Pollexfen's.’

‘'There was in it a gentleman, who immediately pulled up the canvas.’

‘'I ſaw, however, before he drew it up, another perſon, wrapt up in a man's ſcarlet cloak.’

‘'For God's ſake! help, help! cried out the perſon: For God's ſake help!’

‘'I ordered my coachman to ſtop.’

‘'Drive on, ſaid the gentleman; curſing his coach⯑man: Drive on when I bid you.’

‘'Help! again cried ſhe, but with a voice as if her mouth was half ſtopt.’

‘'I called to my ſervants on horſeback to ſtop the poſtition of the other chariot. And I bid Sir Har⯑grave's coachman proceed at his peril.’

‘'Sir Hargrave called out on the contrary ſide of the chariot (his canvas being ſtill up on that next me) with vehement execrations to drive on.’

‘'I alighted, and went round to the other ſide of the chariot.’

‘'Again the Lady endeavoured to cry out. I ſaw Sir Hargrave ſtruggle to pull over her mouth an handkerchief, which was tied round her head. He ſwore outrageouſly.’

‘'The moment ſhe beheld me, ſhe ſpread out both her hands For God's ſake—’

‘'Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, ſaid I, by the arms.—You are engaged, I doubt, in a very bad affair.’

‘'I am Sir Hargrave Pollexfen; and am carrying a fugitive wife—Your own wife, Sir Hargrave!—’

‘'Yes, by G—, ſaid be; and ſhe was going to [194] elope from me at a damn'd Maſquerade—See! draw⯑ing aſide the cloak, detected in the very dreſs!’

‘'O no, no, no! ſaid the Lady—’

‘'Proceed, coachman, ſaid he, and curſed and ſwore—’

‘'Let me aſk the Lady a queſtion, Sir Hargrave.’

‘'You are impertinent, Sir. Who the devil are you?’

‘'Are you, madam, Lady Pollexfen? ſaid I.’

‘'O no! no! no!—was all ſhe could ſay—’

‘'Two of my ſervants came about me; a third held the head of the horſe on which the poſtilion ſat.’

‘'Three of Sir Hargrave's approached on their horſes; but ſeemed as if afraid to come too near, and parley'd together.’

‘'Have an eye to thoſe fellows, ſaid I. Some baſe work is on foot. You'll preſently be aided by paſſen⯑gers. Sirrah, ſaid I to the coachman (forhelaſh'd the horſes on) proceed at your peril.’

‘'Sir Hargrave then, with violent curſes and threat⯑enings, ordered him to drive over every one that op⯑poſed him.’

‘'Coachman, proceed at your peril, ſaid I. Madam, will you—’

‘'O Sir, Sir, Sir, relieve, help me for God's ſake! I am in a villain's hands! Trick'd, vilely trick'd, into a villain's hands. Help, help, for God's ſake!’

‘'Do you, ſaid I, to Frederick, cut the traces, if you cannot otherwiſe ſtop this chariot. Bid Jerry cut the reins; and then ſeize as many of thoſe fel⯑lows as you can. Leave Sir Hargrave to me.’

‘'The lady continued ſcreaming and crying out for help.’

‘'Sir Hargrave drew his ſword, which he had held between his knees in the ſcabbard; and then called upon his ſervants to fire at all that oppoſed his pro⯑greſs.’

‘'My ſervants, Sir, Hargrave, have fire-arms as well [195] as yours. They will not diſpute my orders. Don't provoke me to give the word.’

‘'Then addreſſing the Lady, Will you, madam, put yourſelf into my protection?’

‘'O yes, yes, yes, with my whole heart—Dear good Sir, protect me!’

‘'I opened the chariot-door. Sir Hargrave made a paſs at me. Take that, and be damn'd to you, for your inſolence, ſcoundrel! ſaid he.’

‘'I was aware of his thurſt, and put it by; but his ſword a little raked my ſhoulder.’

‘'My ſword was in my hand; but undrawn.’

‘'The chariot-door remaining open (I was not ſo ceremonious, as to let down the foot-ſtep to take the gentleman out) I ſeized him by the collar before he could recover himſelf from the paſs he had made at me; and with a jerk, and a kind of twiſt, laid him under the hind-wheel of his chariot.’

‘'I wrench'd his ſword from him, and ſnapp'd it, and flung the two pieces over my head.’

‘'His coachman cried out for his maſter. Mine threatened his if he ſtirred. The poſtilion was a boy. My ſervant had made him diſmount, before he joined the other two, whom I had ordered aloud to endeavour to ſeize (but my view was only to ter⯑rify) wretches, who, knowing the badneſs of their cauſe, were before terrified.’

‘'Sir Hargrave's mouth and face were very bloody. I believe I might hurt him with the pommel of my ſword.’

‘'One of his legs, in his ſprawling, had got between the ſpokes of his chariot-wheel. I thought that was a fortunate circumſtance for preventing further miſ⯑chief; and charged his coachman not to ſtir with the chariot for his maſter's ſake.’

‘'He cried out, curſed, and ſwore. I believe he was bruiſed with the fall. The jerk was violent, So little able to ſupport an offence, Sir Hargrave, [196] upon his own principles, ſhould not have been ſo ready to give it.’

‘'I had not drawn my ſword: I hope I never ſhall be provoked to do it in a private quarrel. I ſhould not however, have ſcrupled to draw it, on ſuch an oc⯑caſion as this, had there been an abſolute neceſſity for it.’

‘'The Lady, though greatly terrified, had diſ⯑engaged herſelf from the man's cloak. I had not leiſure to conſider her dreſs; but I was ſtruck with her figure, and more with her terror.’

‘'I offered my hand. I thought not now of the foot-ſtep, any more than I did before: She not of any-thing, as it ſeemed, but her deliverance.’

‘'Have you not read, Mr. Reeves (Pliny, I think, gives the relation) of a frighted bird, that, purſued by an hawk, flew for protection into the boſom of a man paſſing by?’

‘'In like manner your lovely couſin, the moment I returned to the chariot-door, inſtead of accepting of my offered hand, threw herſelf into my arms.—O ſave me! ſave me!—She was ready to faint. She could not, I believe, have ſtood.’

‘'I carried the lovely creature round Sir Hargrave's horſes, and ſeated her in my chariot Be aſſured, madam, ſaid I, that you are in honourable hands. I will convey you to my ſiſter, who is a young Lady of honour and virtue.’

‘'She look'd out at one window, then at the other, in viſible terror, as if fearing ſtill Sir Hargrave. Fear nothing, ſaid I: I will attend you in a moment. I ſhut the chariot-door.’

‘'I then went backward a few paces (keeping, how⯑ever, the Lady in my eye) to ſee what had become of my ſervants.’

‘'It ſeems, that at their firſt coming up pretty near with Sir Hargrave's horſemen, they preſented their piſtols.’

[197] ‘'What ſhall we do, Wilkins, or Wilſon, or ſome ſuch name, ſaid one of Sir Hargrave's men to an⯑other, all three of them on their defence? Fly for it, anſwered the fellow. We may ſwing for this. I ſee our maſter down. There may be murder.’

‘'Their conſciences put them to ſlight.’

‘'My ſervants purſued them a little way; but were returning to ſupport their maſter, juſt as I had put the lady into my chariot.’

‘'I ſaw Sir Hargrave at a diſtance, on his legs, ſup⯑ported by his coachman. He limped, leaned his whole weight upon his ſervant; and ſeemed to be in agonies.’

‘'I bid one of my ſervants tell him who I was.’

‘'He curſed me, and threatened vengeance. He curſed my ſervants; and ſtill more outrageouſly his own ſcoundrels, as he called them.’

‘'I then ſtept back to my chariot.’

‘'Miſs Byron had, thro' terror, ſunk down at the bottom of it; where ſhe lay panting, and could only ſay, on my approach, Save me! Save me!’

‘'I re-aſſured her. I liſted her on the ſeat; and brought her to my ſiſter. And what followed, I ſup⯑poſe, Charlotte, bowing to her, you have told Mr. Reeves.'’

We were both about to break out in grateful ap⯑plauſes; but Sir Charles, as if deſigning to hinder us, proceeded.

‘'You ſee, Mr. Reeves, what an eaſy conqueſt this was. You ſee what a ſmall degree of merit falls to my ſhare. The violator's conſcience was againſt him. The conſciences of his fellows were on my ſide. My own ſervants are honeſt worthy men. They love their maſter. In a good cauſe I would ſet any three of them againſt ſix who were engag'd in a bad one. Vice is the greateſt coward in the world, when it knows it will be reſolutely oppos'd. [198] And what have good men, engaged in a right cauſe, to fear,?'’

What an admirable man is Sir Charles Grandiſon!—Thus thinking! Thus acting!

I explained to Sir Charles who this Wilſon was, whom the others conſulted and were directed by: and what an implement in this black tranſaction.

To what other man's protection in the world, Mr. Selby, could our kinſwoman have been obliged, and ſo little miſchief followed?

Sir Hargrave, it ſeems, returned back to town. What a recreant figure, my dear Mr. Selby, muſt he make, even to himſelf!—A villain!

Sir Charles ſays, that the turnpike-men at Small⯑bury Green told his ſervants, on their attending him to town after the happy reſcue, a formidable ſtory of a robbery committed a little beyond Hounſlow by half a dozen villains on horſeback, upon a gentleman in a chariot and ſix; which had paſſed thro' that turnpike but half an hour before he was a tacked; and that the gentleman, about an hour and half before Sir Charles went thro', returned to town, wounded, for advice; and they heard him groan as he paſſed through the turnpike.

I ſhould add one circumſtance, ſaid Sir Charles: Do you know, Charlotte, that you have a rake for your brother?—A man on horſeback, it ſeems, came to the turnpike-gate, whilſt the turnpike-men were telling my ſervants this ſtory. Nothing in the world, ſaid he, but two young rakes in their chariots-and-ſix, one robbing the other of a lady. I, and two other paſſengers, added the man, ſtood aloof to ſee the iſſue of the affair. We expected miſchief: And ſome there was. One of the by-ſtanders was the better for the fray; for he took up a ſilver-hilted ſword, broken in two pieces, and rode off with it.

Sir Hargrave, ſaid Sir Charles, ſmiling, might well give out that he was robbed; to loſe ſuch a prize as Miſs Byron, and his ſword beſides.

[199] I aſked Sir Charles, If it were not adviſable to take meaſures with the villain?

He thought it beſt, he ſaid, to take as little notice of the affair as poſſible, unleſs the aggreſſor ſtirr'd in it. Maſquerades, added he, are not creditable places for young ladies to be known to be inſulted at them. They are diverſions that fall not in with the genius of the Engliſh commonalty. Scandal will have ſome⯑thing to ſay from that circumſtance, however cauſe⯑leſs. But miſs Byron's ſtory, told by herſelf, will en⯑able you to reſolve upon your future meaſures.

So, Sir Charles ſeems not to be a friend to Maſque⯑rades.

I think, were I to live an hundred years, I never would go to another. Had it not been for Lady Betty—She has, indeed, too gay a turn for a woman of forty, and a mother of children. Miſs Byron, I dare ſay, will be afraid of giving the lead to her for the future. But, excepting my wife and ſelf, nobody in town has ſuffered more than Lady Betty on this occaſion. Indeed ſhe is, I muſt ſay, an obliging, well⯑meaning woman: And ſhe alſo declares (ſo much has ſhe been affected with Miſs Byron's danger, of which ſhe takes herſelf to be the innocent cauſe) that ſhe will never again go to a Maſquerade.

I long to have Miſs Byron's account of this horrid affair.—God grant, that it may not be ſuch a one, as will lay us under a neceſſity—But as our couſin has a great notion of female delicacy—I know not what I would ſay—We muſt have patience a little while longer.

Miſs Grandiſon's eyes ſhone with pleaſure all the time her brother was giving his relation.

I can only ſay, my brother, ſaid ſhe, when he had done, that you have reſcued an angel of a woman; and you have made me as happy by it, as yourſelf.

I have a generous ſiſter, Mr. Reeves, ſaid Sir Charles.

Till I knew my brother, Mr. Reeves, as I now [200] know him, I was an inconſiderate, unreflecting girl. Good and evil which immediately affected not my ſelf, were almoſt alike indifferent to me. But he has awakened in me a capacity to enjoy the true pleaſure that ariſes from a benevolent action.

Depreciate not, my Charlotte, your own worth. Abſence, Mr. Reeves, endears. I have been long abroad. Not much above a year returned: But when you know us better, you will find I have a partial ſiſter.

Mr. Reeves will not then think me ſo. But I will go and ſee how my fair patient does.

She went accordingly to my couſin.

O Sir Charles, ſaid I, what an admirable woman is Miſs Grandiſon!

My ſiſter Charlotte, Mr. Reeves, is indeed, an ex⯑cellent woman. I think myſelf happy in her. But I tell her ſometimes, that I have ſtill a more excellent ſiſter. And it is no ſmall inſtance of Charlotte's greatneſs of mind, that ſhe herſelf will allow me to ſay ſo.

Juſt then came in the ladies: The two charming creatures entered together, Miſs Grandiſon ſupporting my trembling couſin: But ſhe had firſt acquainted her, that ſhe would find Sir Charles in her dreſſing room.

She look'd indeed lovely, tho' wan, at her firſt en⯑trance: But a fine glow overſpread her cheeks, at the ſight of her deliverer.

Sir Charles approached her, with an air of calmneſs and ſerenity, for fear of giving her emotion. She caſt her eyes upon him, with a look of the moſt reſpectful gratitude.

I will not oppreſs my fair gueſt with many words: But permit me to congratulate you, as I hope I may, on your recovered ſpirits—Allow me, madam—

And he took her almoſt motionleſs hand, and con⯑ducted her to an eaſy chair that had been ſet for her. She ſat down, and would have ſaid ſomething; but [201] only bowed to Sir Charles, to Miſs Grandiſon, and me; and reclined her head againſt the check of the chair.

Miſs Grandiſon held her ſalts to her.

She took them into her own hands, and ſmelling to them, raiſed her head a little: Forgive me, madam! Pardon me, Sir!—O my couſin, to me—How can I—So oppreſſed with obligations!—Such goodneſs!—No words!—My gratitude!—My full heart!—

And then ſhe again reclined her head, as giving up hopeleſly the effort ſhe made to expreſs her gratitude.

You muſt not, madam, ſaid Sir Charles, ſitting down by her, over-rate a common benefit.—Dear Miſs Byron (Permit me to addreſs myſelf to you, as of long acquaintance) by what Mr. Reeves has told my ſiſter, and both have told me, I muſt think yeſter⯑day one of the happieſt days of my life. I am ſorry that our acquaintance has begun ſo much at your coſt: But you muſt let us turn this evil appearance into real good. I have two ſiſters: The world produces not more worthy women. Let me henceforth boaſt that I have three: And ſhall I not then have rea [...]on to re⯑joice in the event that has made ſo lovely an addition to my family?

Then taking her paſſive hand with the tenderneſs of a truly affectionate brother, conſoling a ſiſter in cala⯑mity, and taking his ſiſter's, and joining both; Shall I not, madam, preſent my Charlotte to a ſiſter? And will you not permit me to claim as a brother under that relation?—Our Miſs Byron's chriſtian name, Mr. Reeves?

Harriet, Sir.

My ſiſter Harriet, receive and acknowlege your Charlotte. My Charlotte—

Miſs Grandiſon aroſe and ſaluted my couſin; who look'd at Sir Charles with reverence, as well as grati⯑tude; at Miſs Grandiſon with delight; and at me with eyes lifted up. And, after a little ſtruggle for [202] ſpeech; How ſhall I bear this goodneſs! ſaid ſhe—This indeed is bringing good out of evil!—Did I not ſay, my couſin, that I was fallen into the company of angels?

I was afraid ſhe would have fainted.

We muſt endeavour, Mr. Reeves, ſaid Sir Chales to me, to leſſen the ſenſe our Miſs Byron has of her paſt dan⯑ger, in order to bring down to reaſonable limits, the no⯑tion ſhe has of her obligation for a common relief.

Miſs Grandiſon ordered a few drops on Sugar—You muſt be orderly, my ſiſter Harriet, ſaid ſhe. Am I not your elder ſiſter? My elder ſiſter makes me do what ſhe pleaſes.

Oh! Madam! ſaid my couſin—

Call me not Madam; call me your Charlotte. My brother has given me and himſelf a ſiſter—Will you not own me?

How can an heart bowed down by obligation, and goodneſs never to be returned, riſe to that lovely fa⯑miliarity, by which the obligers ſo generouſly diſtin⯑guiſh themſelves? My lips and my heart, I will be ſo bold as to ſay, ever went together: But how—And yet ſo ſweetly invited, My—My—My Charlotte (with⯑drawing her hand from Sir Charles, and claſping both her arms round Miſs Grandiſon's neck, the two wor⯑thi [...] boſoms of the ſex joining as one) take your Harriet, perſon and mind—May I be found worthy, on proof, of all this goodneſs!

LADY Betty has juſt left us. I read to her what I have written ſince my viſit to Colnebrooke. She ſhall not, ſhe ſays, recover her eyes for a week to come.

The women, Mr. Selby, are ever looking forward on certain occaſions. Lady Betty and my wife ex⯑tended their wiſhes ſo far, as that they might be able to call Miſs Grandiſon and our Miſs Byron ſiſters; but by a claim that ſhould exclude Sir Charles as a brother to one of them.

[203] Should Sir Charles—But no more on this ſubject—Yet one word more: When the ladies had mention'd it, I could not help thinking that this graceful and truly fine gentleman ſeems to be the only man, whom our couſin has yet ſeen, that would meet with no great difficulty from her on ſuch an application.

But Sir Charles has a great eſtate, and ſtill greater expectations from my Lord W. His ſiſter ſays, he would break half a ſcore hearts, were he to marry—So for that matter would our Miſs Byron. But once more—Not another word however on this ſubject.

I ſtayed to dine with this amiable brother and ſiſter. My couſin exerted herſelf, to go down, and ſat at ta⯑ble for one half-hour: But changing countenance, once or twice, as ſhe ſat, Miſs Grandiſon would at⯑tend her up, and make her lie down. I took leave of her, at her quitting the table.

On Monday I hope to ſee her once more among us.

If our dear Miſs Byron cannot write, you will per⯑haps have one letter more, my dear Mr. Selby, from

My ſervant is this moment returned with your let⯑ter. Indeed, my dear Mr. Selby, there are two or three paſſages in it, that would have cut me to the heart ^a, had not the dear creature been ſo happily reſtored to our hopes.

LETTER XXVIII. Mr. REEVES. In Continuation.

I WILL write one more letter, my dear couſin Selby, and then I will give up my pen to our be⯑loved couſin.

[204] I got to Colnebrooke by nine this morning. I had the pleaſure to find our Miſs Byron recovered beyond my hopes. She had a very good night on Saturday; and all Sunday, ſhe ſaid, was a cordial day to her from morning till night; and her night was quiet and happy.

Miſs Grandiſon ſtaid at home yeſterday to keep my couſin company. Sir Charles paſſed the greateſt part of the day in the library. The two ladies were hardly ever ſeparated. My couſin expreſſes herſelf in rap⯑tures whenever ſhe ſpeaks of this brother and ſiſter. Miſs Grandiſon, ſhe ſays (and indeed every one muſt ſee it) is one of the frankeſt and moſt communicative of women. Sir Charles appears to be one of the moſt unreſerved of men, as well as one of the moſt polite. He makes not his gueſts uneaſy with his civilities: But you ſee freedom and eaſe in his whole deport⯑ment; and the ſtranger cannot doubt but Sir Charles will be equally pleaſed with freedom and eaſe, in re⯑turn. I had an encouraging proof of the juſtneſs of this obſervation this morning from him, as we ſat at breakfaſt. I had expreſſed myſelf, occaſionally, in ſuch a manner, as ſhewed more reſpect than freedom: My dear Mr. Reeves, ſaid he, kindred minds will be inti⯑mate at firſt ſight. Receive me early into the liſt of your friends; I have already numbered you among mine. I ſhould think amiſs of myſelf, if ſo good a man as I am aſſured Mr. Reeves is, ſhould by his diſtance ſhew a diffidence of me, that would not permit his mind to mingle with mine.

Miſs Grandiſon, my couſin ſays, put her on relate⯑ing to her, her whole hiſtory; and the hiſtories of the ſeveral perſons and families to whom ſhe is related.

Miſs Byron concluding as well as I, that Sir Charles would rather take his place in the coach, than go on horſeback to town; and being ſo happily recovered, as not to give us apprehenſion about her bearing tole⯑rably the little journey, I kept my horſe in our return, [205] and Sir Charles went in the coach. This motion coming from Miſs Byron, I raillied her upon it when I got her home: But ſhe won't forgive me, if ſhe knows that I told you, whoſe the motion was. And yet the dear creature's eyes ſparkled with pleaſure when ſhe had carried her point.

I was at home near half an hour before the coach arrived; and was a welcome gueſt.

My dear Mrs. Reeves told me ſhe had expected our arrival before dinner, and hoped Sir Charles and his ſiſter would dine with us. I hoped ſo too, I told, her.

I found there Lady Betty and Miſs Clements, a fa⯑vourite of us all, both impatiently waiting to ſee my couſin.

Don't be jealous, Mr. Reeves, ſaid my wife, if after what I have heard of Sir Charles Grandiſon, and what he has done for us, I run to him with open arms.

I give you leave my dear to love him, replied I; and to expreſs your love in what manner you pleaſe.

I have no doubt, ſaid Lady Betty, that I ſhall break my heart, if Sir Charles takes not very particular no⯑tice of me.

He ſhall have my prayers as well as my praiſes, ſaid Miſs Clements.

She is acquainted with the whole ſhocking affair.

When the coach ſtopt, and the bell rung, the ſer⯑vants contended who ſhould firſt run to the door. I welcomed them at the coach. Sir Charles handed out Miſs Byron, I Miſs Grandiſon: Sally, ſaid my couſin, to her raptured maid, take care of Mrs. Jenny.

Sir Charles was received by Mrs. Reeves, as I ex⯑pected. She was almoſt ſpeechleſs with joy. He ſaluted her: But I think, as I tell her, the firſt mo⯑tion was hers. He was then obliged to go round; and my couſin, I do aſſure you, looked as if ſhe would not wiſh to have been neglected.

As ſoon as the ladies could ſpeak, they poured out [206] their bleſſings and thanks to him; and to Miſs Gran⯑diſon; whom, with a moſt engaging air, he preſented to each lady; and ſhe, as engagingly, ſaluted her ſiſter Harriet by that tender relation, and congratulated them, and Miſs Byron, and herſelf, upon it; kindly beſpeaking a family relation for herſelf thro' her dear Miſs Byron, were her words.

When we were ſeated, my wife and Lady Betty wanted to enter into the particulars of the happy de⯑liverance, in praiſe of the deliverer; but Sir Charles interrupting them, My dear Mrs. Reeves, ſaid he, you cannot be too careful of this jewel. Every-thing may be truſted to her own diſcretion; but how can we well blame the man who would turn thief for ſo rich a treaſure? I do aſſure you, my ſiſter Harriet (Do you know, Mrs. Reeves, that I have found my third ſiſter? Was ſhe not ſtolen from us in her cradle?) that if Sir Hargrave will repent, I will forgive him for the ſake of the temptation.

Mrs. Reeves was pleaſed with this addreſs, and has talked of it ſince.

I never can forgive him, Sir, ſaid Miſs Byron, were it but—

That he has laid you under ſuch an obligation, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, patting her hand with her fan, as ſhe ſat over-againſt her: But huſh, child! You ſaid that before!—And then turning to Mrs. Reeves, Has not our new-found ſiſter a very proud heart, Mrs. Reeves?

And, deareſt Miſs Grandiſon, reply'd my ſmiling, delighted couſin, did you not aſk that queſtion be⯑fore?

I did, child, I did; but not of Mrs. Reeves—A compromiſe however—Do you talk no more of obli⯑gation, and I'll talk no more of pride.

Charlotte juſtly chides her Harriet, ſaid Sir Charles. What muſt the man have been that had declined his aid in a diſtreſs ſo alarming? Not one word more therefore upon this ſubject.

[207] We were all diſappointed, that this amiable brother and ſiſter excuſed themſelves from dining with us. All I mean of our own family; for Lady Betty and Miſs Clements, not being able to ſtay, were glad they did not.

They took leave, amidſt a thouſand grateful bleſſ⯑ings and acknowlegements; Miſs Grandiſon promiſing to ſee her ſiſter Harriet very ſoon again; and kindly renewing her wiſhes of intimacy.

When they went away, There goes your heart, Miſs Byron, ſaid Mrs. Reeves.

True, anſwered Miſs Byron, if my heart have no place in it for any-thing but gratitude, as I believe it has not.

Miſs Grandiſon, added ſhe, is the moſt agreeable of women—

And Sir Charles, rejoined Mrs. Reeves, archly, is the moſt diſ-agreeable of men.

Forbear, couſin, reply'd Miſs Byron, and bluſh'd.

Well, well, ſaid Lady Betty, you need not, my dear, be aſhamed, if it be ſo.

Indeed you need not, joined in Miſs Clements. I never ſaw a finer man in my life. Such a lover, if one might have him—

If, if—replied Miſs Byron—But till if is out of the queſtion, ſhould there not be ſuch a thing as diſcretion, Miſs Clements?

No doubt of it, returned that young Lady; and if it be to be ſhewn by any woman on earth, where there is ſuch a man as this in the queſtion, and in ſuch circumſtances, it muſt be by Miſs Byron.

Miſs Byron was not ſo thoroughly recovered, but that her ſpirits began to ſtag. We made her retire, and at her requeſt excuſed her coming down to dinner.

I told you I had accepted of the offer made by La⯑dy Betty, when we were in dreadful uncertainty, that her ſteward ſhould make further enquiries about the [208] people at Paddington. Nothing worth mentioning has occurred from thoſe enquiries; except confirming that the widow and her daughters are not people of bad characters. In all likelihood they thought they ſhould intitle themſelves to the thanks of all Miſs Byron's friends, when the marriage was completed with a man of Sir Hargrave's fortune.

The meſſenger that I ſent to enquire after that Ba⯑genhall's character, has informed us, that it is a very profligate one; and that he is an intimate of Sir Har⯑grave: But no more is neceſſary now, God be praiſed, to be ſaid of him.

The vile wretch himſelf, I hear, keeps his room; and it is whiſpered that he is more than half-crazed; inſomuch that his very attendants are afraid to go near him. We know not the nature of his hurt; but hurt he is, tho' in a fair way of recovery. He threatens, it ſeems, deſtruction to Sir Charles the moment he is able to go abroad. God preſerve one of the worthieſt and beſt of men!

Sir Hargrave has turned off all the ſervants, we are told, that attended him on his ſhocking but happily⯑diſappointed enterprize.

Miſs Byron intends to write to her Lucy by to⯑morrow's poſt (if ſhe continue mending,) an ample account of all that ſhe ſuffered from the date of her laſt letter, to the hour of her happy deliverance. I am to give her minutes to the beſt of my recollection of what I have written to you, that ſo the account may be as complete as poſſible, and that ſhe may write no more than is conſiſtent with the ſeries, which ſhe is required to preſerve. She begins this evening, ſhe bids me tell you, that you may be as little a while in ſuppenſe about her as poſſible. But if ſhe cannot finiſh by to-morrow night, ſhe will have an opportu⯑nity to diſpatch her letter on Wedneſday by a ſervant of Mr. Greville's, whom he left in town with ſome commiſſions, and who promiſes to call for any-thing we may have to ſend to Selby-houſe.

[209] Sir Rowland—But let my couſin write to you upon that and other matters. She knows what to ſay on that ſubject better than I do.

Mean time I heartily congratulate every one of the dear family upon the return and ſafety of the darling of ſo many hearts; and remain, dear Mr. Selby,

LETTER XXIX. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

IS it again given me to write to you, my Lucy! and in you, to all my revered friends! To write with chearfulneſs! To call upon you all to rejoice with me!—God be praiſed!

What dangers have I eſcaped! How have my head and my heart been affected! I dare not, as yet, think of the anguiſh you all endured for me.

With what wretched levity did I conclude my laſt Letter! Giddy creature, that I was, vain and fooliſh!

But let me begin my ſad ſtory. Your impatience all this while muſt be too painful. Only let me pre⯑miſe, that gaily as I boaſted, when I wrote to you ſo conceitedly, as it might ſeem, of my dreſs, and of conqueſts, and I know not what nonſenſe, I took no pleaſure at the place, in the ſhoals of fools that ſwam after me. I deſpiſed myſelf and them. Deſpiſed! I was ſhocked at both.

Two Luciſers were among them: But the worſt, the very worſt Lucifer of all, appeared in a Harle⯑quin dreſs. He hopped and ſkipt, and played the fool about me; and at laſt told me, He knew Miſs Byron; and that he was, as he called himſelf, the deſpiſed, the rejected, Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.

[210] He behaved, however, with complaiſance; and I had no apprehenſion of what I was to ſuffer from his villainy.

Mr. Reeves has told you, that he ſaw me into the chair provided for me by my vile new ſervant. O my Lucy! One branch of my vanity is intirely lopt off. I muſt pretend to ſome ſort of ſkill in phyſiognomy! Never more will I, for this fellow's ſake, preſume to depend on my judgment of peoples hearts framed from their countenances.

Mr. Reeves has told you every-thing about the chair, and the chairmen. How can I deſcribe the miſgivings of my heart when I firſt began to ſuſpect treachery! But when I undrew the curtains, and found myſelf further deluded by another falſe heart, whoſe help I implored, and in the midſt of fields, and ſoon after the lights put out, I pierced the night air with my ſcreams, till I could ſcream no more. I was taken out in fits: And when I came a little to my ſenſes, I found myſelf on a bed, three women about me, one at my head, holding a bottle to my noſe, my noſtrils ſore with hartſhorn, and a ſtrong ſmell of burnt fea⯑thers; but no man near me.

Where am I? Who are you, madam? And who are you? Where am I? Were the queſtions I firſt aſked.

The women were a mother and two daughters. The mother anſwered, You are not in bad hands.

God grant you ſay truth! ſaid I.

No harm is intended you; only to make you one of the happieſt of women. We would not be con⯑cerned in a bad action.

I hope not: I hope not: Let me engage your pity, madam. You ſeem to be a mother. Theſe young gentlewomen, I preſume, are your daughters. Save me from ruin; I beſeech you, madam: Save me from ruin, as you would your daughters.

Theſe young women are my daughters. They are ſober and modeſt women. No ruin is intended you. [211] One of the richeſt and nobleſt men in England is your admirer. He dies for you. He aſſures me that he intends honourable marriage to you. You are not engaged, he ſays: And you muſt and you ſhall be his. You may ſave murder, madam, if you conſent. He reſolves to be the death of any Lover whom you encourage.

This muſt be the vile contrivance of Sir Hargrave Pollexſen, immediately cried I out: Is it not? Is it not? Tell me; I beg of you to tell me.

I aroſe, and ſat on the bed-ſide; and at that mo⯑ment in came the vile, vile Sir Hargrave.

I ſcreamed out. He threw himſelf at my feet. I reclined my head on the boſom of the elderly perſon, and by hartſhorn and water they had much ado to keep me out of a fit. Had he not withdrawn; had he kept in my ſight; I ſhould certainly have fainted. But holding up my head, and ſeeing only the women, I revived: And began to pray, to beg, to offer rewards, if they would facilitate my eſcape; or procure my ſafety. But then came in again the hated man.

I beg of you, Miſs Byron, ſaid he, with an air of greater haughtineſs than before, to make yourſelf eaſy, and hear what I have to ſay. It is in your own choice, in your own power, to be what you pleaſe, and to make me what you pleaſe. Do not therefore need⯑leſly terrify yourſelf. You ſee I am a determined man. Ladies, you may withdraw—

Not and leave me here!—And as they went out, I puſhed by the mother, and between the daughters, and followed the foremoſt into the parlour; and then ſunk down on my knees, wrapping my arms about her: O ſave me! ſave me! ſaid I.

The vile wretch entered. I left her, and kneeled to him. I knew not what I did. I remember, I ſaid, wringing my hands, If you have mercy; If you have compaſſion; let me now, now, I beſeech you, Sir, this moment, experience your mercy.

[212] He gave them ſome motion, I ſuppoſe, to with⯑draw (for by that time the widow and the other daughter were in the parlour); and they all three re⯑tired.

I have beſought you, madam, and on my knees too, to ſhew me mercy; but none would you ſhew me, inexorable Miſs Byron! Kneel, if you will; in your turn kneel, ſupplicate, pray; you cannot be more in earneſt, than I was. Now are the tables turned.

Barbarous man! ſaid I, riſing from my knees. My ſpirit was raiſed: But it as inſtantly ſubſided. I be⯑ſeech you, Sir Hargrave, in a quite frantic way, wringing my hands, and coming near him, and then running to the window, and then to the door (with⯑out meaning to go out at either, had they been open; for whither could I go?) and then again to him; Be not, I beſeech you, Sir Hargrave, cruel to me. I never was cruel to any-body. You know I was civil to you; I was very civil—

Yes, yes, and very determined. You called me no names. I call you none, Miſs Byron. You were very civil. Hitherto I have not been uncivil. But remember, madam—But, ſweet and ever-adorable creature, and he claſped his arms about me, your very terror is beautiful! I can enjoy your terror, ma⯑dam—And the ſavage would have kiſſed me. My averted head fruſtrated his intention; and at his feet I beſought him not to treat the poor creature whom he had ſo vilely betrayed, with indignity.

I don't hit your fancy, madam!

Can you be a malicious man, Sir Hargrave?

You don't like my morals, madam!

And is this the way, Sir Hargrave, are theſe the means you take, to convince me that I ought to like them?

Well, madam, you ſhall prove the mercy in me you would not ſhew. You ſhall ſee that I cannot be a malicious man; a revengeful man: And yet you [213] have raiſed my pride. You ſhall find me a moral man.

Then, Sir Hargrave, will I bleſs you from the bot⯑tom of my heart!

But you know what will juſtify me in every eye for the ſteps I have taken. Be mine, madam. Be le⯑gally mine. I offer you my honeſt hand. Conſent to be Lady Pollexfen—No puniſhment, I hope—Or, take the conſequence.

What, Sir! juſtify by ſo poor, ſo very poor a com⯑pliance, ſteps that you have ſo baſely taken!—Take my life, Sir: But my hand and my heart are my own: They never ſhall be ſeparated.

I aroſe from my knees, trembling; and threw my⯑ſelf upon the window-ſeat, and wept bitterly.

He came to me. I looked on this ſide and on that, wiſhing to avoid him.

You cannot fly, madam. You are ſecurely mine: And mine ſtill more ſecurely you ſhall be. Don't provoke me: Don't make me deſperate. By all that's Good and Holy—

He caſt his eyes at my feet; then at my face; then threw himſelf at my feet, and embraced my knees with his odious arms.

I was terrified. I ſcreamed. In ran one of the daughters—Good Sir! Pray, Sir!—Did you not ſay you would be honourable?

Her mother followed her in—Sir, Sir! In my houſe—

Thank God, thought I, the people here are better than I had reaſon to apprehend the were. But, O my Lucy, they ſeemed to believe, that marriage would make amends for every outrage.

Here let me conclude this Letter. I have a great deal more to ſay.

LETTER XXX. Miſs BYRON In Continuation.

WHAT a plague, ſaid the wretch to the women, do you come in for? I thought you knew your own Sex better than to mind a woman's ſqualling. They are always ready, ſaid the odious fellow, to put us in mind of the occaſion we ought to give them for crying out. I have not offered the leaſt rudeneſs—

I hope not, Sir. I hope my houſe—So ſweet a creature—

Dear bleſſed, bleſſed women (frantic with terror, and mingled joy, to find myſelf in better hands than I expected—Standing up, and then ſitting down, I believe at every ſentence) Protect me! Save me! Be my advocate! Indeed I have not deſerved this trea⯑cherous treatment. Indeed I am a good ſort of body (I ſcarce knew what I ſaid): All my friends love me. They will break their hearts, if any miſhap beſal me: They are all good people: You would love them dearly if you knew them: Sir Hargrave may have better and richer wives than I: Pray prevail upon him to ſpare me to my friends, for their ſake. I will forgive him for all he has done.

Nay, dear Lady, if Sir Hargrave will make you his lawful and true wife, there can be no harm done, ſurely.

I will, I will, Mrs. Awberry, ſaid he. I have pro⯑miſed, and I will perform. But if ſhe ſtand in her own light—She expects nothing from my morals—If ſhe ſtand in her own light; and looked fiercely—

God protect me! ſaid I; God protect me!

The gentleman is without, Sir, ſaid the woman. O how my heart at that moment ſeemed to be at my throat! What gentleman! thought I: Some one come to ſave me!—O no!—

[215] And inſtantly entered the moſt horrible-looking clergyman that I ever beh [...]ld.

This, as near as I can recollect, is his deſcription—A vaſt tall, big-boned, ſplay-footed man. A ſhabby gown; as ſhabby a wig; an huge red pimply face; and a noſe that hid half of it, when he looked on one ſide, and he ſeldom looked fore right when I ſaw him. He had a dog's-eared common-prayer book in his hand, which once had been gilt; opened, horrid ſight! at the page of matrimony!

Yet I was ſo intent upon making a friend, when a man, a clergyman, appeared, that I heeded not, at his entrance, his frightful viſage, as I did afterwards. I puſhed by Sir Hargrave, turning him half round with my vehemence, and made Mrs. Awberry totter; and throwing myſelf at the clergyman's feet, Man of God, ſaid I, my hands claſped, and held up; Man of God! Gentleman! Worthy man!—A good clergyman muſt be all this!—If ever you had children! ſave a poor creature! baſely tricked away from all her friends! innocent! thinking no harm to any-body! I would not hurt a worm! I love every-body!—Save me from violence! Give not your aid to ſanctify a baſe action.

The man ſnuffled his anſwer through his noſe. When he opened his pouched mouth, the tobacco hung about his great yellow teeth. He ſquinted upon me, and took my claſped hands▪ which were buried in his huge hand, Riſe, madam! Kneel not to me! No harm is intended you. One queſtion, only: Who is that gen⯑tleman before me, in the ſilver-laced cloaths? What is his name?—

He is Sir Hargrave Pollexſen, Sir: A wicked, a very wicked man, for all he looks ſo!

The vile wretch ſtood ſmiling, and enjoying my diſtreſs.

O madam! A very hon-our-able man! bowing, like a ſycophant, to Sir Hargrave.

[216] And who pray, madam, are you? What is your name?

Harriet Byron, Sir: A poor innocent creature, (looking at my dreſs) though I make ſuch a vile appear⯑ance—Good Sir, your pity! And I ſunk down again at his feet.

Of Northamptonſhire, madam? You are a ſingle woman! Your uncle's name—

Is Selby, Sir. A very good man—I will reward you, Sir, as the moſt grateful heart—

All is fair: All is above-board: All is as it was repreſented. I am above bribes, madam. You will be the happieſt of women before day break—Good people!—The three women advanced.

Then I ſaw what an ugly wretch he was!

Sir Hargrave advanced. The Two horrid creatures raiſed me between them. Sir Hargrave took my ſtruggling hand: And then I ſaw another ill-looking man enter the room, who I ſuppoſe was to give me to the hated man.

Dearly beloved, began to read the ſnuffling mon⯑ſter—

O my Lucy! Does not your heart ake for your Harriet? Mine has ſeemed to turn over and over, round and round, I don't know how, at the recital—It was ready to choak me at the time.

I muſt break off for a few minutes.

LETTER XXXI. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I WAS again like one frantic. Read no more! ſaid I; and in my phrenſy, daſhed the book out of the miniſter's hand, if a miniſter he was. I beg your pardon, Sir, ſaid I; but you muſt read no further. I am baſely betrayed hither. I cannot, I will not, be his.

[217] Proceed, proceed, ſaid Sir Hargrave, taking my hand by force; virago as ſhe is, I will own her for my wife—Are you the gentle, the civil Miſs Byron, madam? looking ſneeringly in my face.

Alas! my Lucy, I was no virago: I was in a perfect phrenſy: But it was not an unhappy phrenſy; ſince in all probability it kept me from falling into fits; and fits, the villain had ſaid, ſhould not ſave me.

Dearly beloved, again ſnuffled the wretch. O my Lu⯑cy! I ſhall never love theſe words. How may odious circumſtances invert the force of the kindeſt words! Sir Hargrave ſtill detained my ſtruggling hand.

I ſtamped, and threw myſelf to the length of my arm, as he held my hand. No dearly beloved's, ſaid I. I was juſt beſide myſelf. What to ſay, what to do, I knew not.

The cruel wretch laughed at me; No dearly be⯑loved's! repeated he: Very comical, faith! and laugh⯑ed again: But proceed, proceed, doctor.

We are gathered together here in the ſight of God, read he on.

This affected me ſtill more. I adjure you, Sir, to the miniſter, by that God in whoſe ſight, you read, we are gathered together, that you proceed no further. I adjure you, Sir Hargrave, in the ſame tremendous Name, that you ſtop further proceedings. My life take: With all my heart, take my life: But my hand never, never, will I join with yours.

Proceed, doctor: Doctor, pray proceed, ſaid the vile Sir Hargrave. When the day dawns, ſhe will be glad to own her marriage.

Proceed at your peril, Sir, ſaid I. If you are really and truly a miniſter of that God whoſe preſence what you have read ſuppoſes, do not proceed: Do not make me deſperate.—Madam, turning to the widow, you are a mother, and have given me room to hope you are a good woman; look upon me as if I were one of thoſe daughters, whom I ſee before me: Could [218] you ſee one of them thus treated? Dear young women, turning to each, can you unconcernedly look on, and ſee a poor creature, tricked, betrayed, and thus vio⯑lently, baſely, treated, and not make my caſe your own? Speak for me! Plead for me! Be my advocate! Each of you, if ye are women, plead for me, as you would yourſelves wiſh to be pleaded for, in my circumſtances, and were thus barbarouſly uſed!

The young women wept. The mother was moved.

I wonder I kept my head. My brain was on fire.

Still, ſtill, the unmoved Sir Hargrave cried out, Pro⯑ceed, proceed, doctor: To-morrow before noon, all will be as it ſhould be.

The man who ſtood aloof (the ſlieſt, ſodden-faced creature I ever ſaw) came nearer—To the queſtion, doctor, and to my part, if you pleaſe!—Am not I her father?—To the queſtion, doctor, if you pleaſe!—The gentlewomen will prepare her for what is to fol⯑low.

O thou man! Of heart the moſt obdurate and vile! And will ye, looking at every perſon, one hand held up (for ſtill the vile man griped the other quite be⯑numbed hand in his iron paw) and adjuring each, Will ye ſee this violence done to a poor young creature?—A ſoul, gentlewomen, you may have to anſwer for. I can die. Never, never, will I be his.

Let us women talk to the Lady by ourſelves, Sir Hargrave. Pray your honour, let us talk to her by ourſelves.

Ay, ay, ay, ſaid the parſon, by all means: Let the Ladies talk to one another, Sir. She may be brought to conſider.

He let go my hand. The widow took it. And was leading me out of the room—Not up ſtairs, I hope, madam, ſaid I.

You ſhan't then, ſaid ſhe. Come, Sally; come, Deb; let us women go out together.

They led me into a little room adjoining to the par⯑lour: [219] And then, my ſpirits ſubſiding, I thought I ſhould have fainted away. I had more hartſhorn and water poured down my throat.

When they had brought me a little to myſelf, they pleaded with me Sir Hargrave's great eſtate.—What are riches to me? Dirt, dirt, dirt▪ I hate them. They cannot purchaſe peace of mind: I want not riches.

They pleaded his honourable Love—I my invinci⯑ble Averſion.

He was a handſome man—The moſt odious in my eyes of the human ſpecies. Never, never, ſhould my conſent be had to ſanctify ſuch a baſeneſs.

My danger! And that they ſhould not be able to ſave me from worſe treatment—

How!—Not able!—Ladies, madam, is not this your own houſe? Cannot you raiſe a neighbourhood? Have you no neighbours? A thouſand pounds will I order to be paid into your hands for a preſent before the week is out; I pledge my honour for the payment▪ if you will but ſave me from a violence, that no worthy woman can ſee offered to a diſtreſſed young creature!—A thouſand pounds!—Dear Ladies! Only to ſave me, and ſee me ſafe to my friends!

The wretches in the next room, no doubt, heard all that paſſed. In at that moment came Sir Hargrave: Mrs. Awberry, ſaid he, with a viſage ſwelled with malice, young Ladies, we keep you up; we diſturb you. Pray retire to your own reſt: Leave me to talk with this perverſe woman. She is mine.

Pray, Sir Hargrave, ſaid Mrs Awberry—

Leave her to me, I ſay:—Miſs Byron, you ſhall be mine. Your Grevilles, madam, your Fenwicks, your Ormes, when they know the pains and the expence I have been at, to ſecure you, ſhall confeſs me their ſu⯑perior—Shall confeſs—

In wickedneſs, in cruelty, Sir, you are every man's ſuperior.

[220] You talk of cruelty, Miſs Byron! triumphing over ſcores of proſtrate Lovers, madam! You remember your treatment of me, madam! Kneeling, like an abject wretch, at your feet! Kneeling for pity! But no pity could touch your heart, madam!—Ungrate⯑ful, proud girl!—Yet am I not humbling you: Take notice of that: I am not humbling you: I am pro⯑proſing to exalt you, madam.

Vile, vile, debaſement! ſaid I.

To exalt Miſs Byron into Lady Pollexfen. And yet if you hold not out your hand to me—

He would have ſnatched my hand. I put it behind me. He would have ſnatched the other: I put that behind me too: And the vile wretch would then have kiſſed my undefended neck: But, with both my hands, I puſhed his audacious forehead from me. Charming creature! he called me, with paſſion in his look and accent: Then, cruel, proud, ungrateful: And ſwore by his Maker, that if I would not give my hand in⯑ſtantly, inſtead of exalting me, he would humble me. Ladies, pray withdraw, ſaid he. Leave her to me: Either Lady Pollexfen, or what I pleaſe; rearing him⯑ſelf proudly up! She may be happy if ſhe will. Leave her to me.

Pray, Sir, ſaid the youngeſt of the two daughters; and wept for me.

Greatly hurt, indeed, to be the wife of a man of my fortune and conſequence! But leave her to me, I ſay.—I will ſoon bring down her pride: What a devil, am I to creep, beg, pray, entreat, and only for a wife? But, madam, ſaid the inſolent wretch, you will be mine upon eaſier terms perhaps.

Madam, pray, madam, ſaid the widow to me, con⯑ſider what you are about, and whom you refuſe. Can you have a handſomer man? Can you have a man of a greater fortune? Sir Hargrave means nothing but what is honourable. You are in his power—

In his power, madam! returned I: I am in yours. [221] You are miſtreſs of this houſe. I claim the protection of it. Have you not neighbours? Your protection I put myſelf under. Then claſping my arms about her, Lock me up from him till you can have help to ſecure to you the privilege of your own houſe? and deliver me ſafe to my friends, and I will ſhare my fortune with your two daughters.

The wicked man took the mother and youngeſt daughter each by her hand, after he had diſengaged the former from my claſping arms, and led them to the door. The elder followed them of her own ac⯑cord. They none of them ſtruggled againſt going. I begged, prayed, beſought them not to go; and, when they did, would have thruſt myſelf out with them. But the wretch, in ſhutting them out, ſqueezed me dreadfully, as I was half in, half out; and my noſe guſhed out with blood.

I ſcreamed: He ſeemed frighted: But inſtantly re⯑covering myſelf—So, ſo, you have done your worſt!—You have killed me, I hope. I was out of breath; my ſtomach was very much preſſed, and one of my arms was bruiſed. I have the marks ſtill; for he clapt to the door with violence, not knowing, to do him juſtice, that I was ſo forward in the door-way.

I was in dreadful pain. I talked half wildly, I re⯑member. I threw myſelf in a chair—So, ſo, you have killed me, I hope—Well, now I hope, now I hope, you are ſatisfied. Now may you moan over the poor creature you have deſtroyed: For he ex⯑preſſed great tenderneſs and conſternation; and I, for my part, felt ſuch pains in my boſom, that having never felt ſuch before, I really thought I was bruiſed to death: Repeating my fooliſh So, ſo.—But I forgive you, ſaid I—Only, Sir, call to the gentlewomen, Sir—Retire, Sir. Let me have my own Sex only about me. My head ſwam; my eyes failed me; and I fainted quite away.

LETTER XXXII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I Underſtood afterwards that he was in the moſt dreadful conſternation. He had faſtened the door upon me and himſelf; and for a few moments was not enough preſent to himſelf to open it. Yet crying out upon his God to have mercy upon him, and running about the room, the women haſtily rapped at the door. Then he ran to it, opened it, curſed himſelf, and be⯑ſought them to recover me, if poſſible.

They ſaid I had death in my face: They lamented over me: My noſe had done bleeding: But, careful of his own ſafety in the midſt of his terror, he took my bloody handkerchief; if I did not recover, he ſaid, that ſhould not appear againſt him; and he haſten'd into the next room, and thruſt it into the fire; by which were ſitting, it ſeems, the miniſter and his hel⯑per, over ſome burnt brandy.

O gentlemen! cried the wretch, nothing can be done to night. Take this; and gave them money. The Lady is in a ſit. I wiſh you well home.

The younger daughter reported this to me after⯑wards, and what follows: They had deſired the maid, it ſeems, to bring them more firing, and a jug of ale; and they would ſit in the chimney-corner, they ſaid, till peep of day: But the ſame young woman who was taken off from her errand, to aſſiſt me, finding me, as they all thought, not likely to recover, ran in to them, and declared, that the Lady was dead, cer⯑tainly dead; and what, ſaid ſhe, will become of us all? This terrified the two men. They ſaid, It was then time for them to be gone. Accordingly, taking each of them another dram, they ſnatched up their hats and ſticks, and away they hurried; hoping, the doctor ſaid, that as they were innocent, and only [223] meant to ſerve the gentleman, their names, whatever happened, would not be called in queſtion.

When I came a little to myſelf, I found the three women only with me. I was in a cold ſweat, all over ſhivering. There was no fire in that room: They led me into the parlour, which the two men had quitted▪ and ſet me down in an elbow chair; for I could hardly ſtand, or ſupport myſelf; and chaſed my temples with Hungary-water.

Wretched creatures, men of this caſt, my Lucy, thus to ſport with the healths and happineſs of poor creatures whom they pretend to love▪ I am afraid I never ſhall be what I was. At times I am very ſenſi⯑ble at my ſtomach of this violent ſqueeze.

The mother and elder ſiſter left me ſoon after, and went to Sir Hargrave. I can only gueſs at the reſult of their deliberations by what followed.

The younger ſiſter, with compaſſionate frankneſs, anſwered all my queſtions, and let me know all the above particulars. Yet ſhe wonder'd that I could refuſe ſo handſome and ſo rich a man as Sir Hargrave.

She boaſted much of their reputation. Her mother would not do an ill thing, ſhe ſaid, for the world: And ſhe had a brother who had a place in the Cuſtom⯑houſe, and was as honeſt a man, tho' ſhe ſaid it, as any in it. She owned that ſhe knew my new vile ſer⯑vant; and praiſed his fidelity to the maſters he had ſerved, in ſuch high terms, as if ſhe thought all du⯑ties were compriſed in that one, of obeying his prin⯑cipal, right or wrong. Mr. William, ſhe ſaid, was a pretty man, a genteel man, and ſhe believed he was worth money; and ſhe was ſure would make an ex⯑cellent huſband. I ſoon found that the ſimple girl was in love with this vile, this ſpecious fellow. She could not bear to hear me hint any-thing in his diſ⯑favour, as, by way of warning to her, I would have done. But ſhe was ſure Mr. William was a down⯑right honeſt man; and that if he were guilty of any [224] bad thing, it was by command of thoſe to whom he owed duty: And they are to be anſwerable for that, you know, madam.

We [...]ere broken in upon, as I was intending to aſk more queſtions (for I find this Wilſon was the prime agent in all this miſchief) when the elder ſiſter called out the younger: And inſtantly came in Sir Har⯑grave.

He took a chair, and ſat down by me, one leg thrown over the knee of the other; his elbow upon that knee, and his hand ſupporting his bow'd-down head; biting his lips; looking at me, then from me, then at me again, five or ſix times, as in malice.

Ill-natured, ſpiteful, moody wretch! thought I, (trembling at his ſtrange ſilence, after ſuch hurt as he had done me, and what I had endur'd, and ſtill felt in my ſtomach and arm) what an odious creature thou art!

At laſt I broke ſilence. I thought I would be as mild as I could, and not provoke him to do me fur⯑ther miſchief. Well have you done, Sir Hargrave, (have you not?) to commit ſuch a violence upon a poor young creature that never did nor thought you evil!

I pauſed. He was ſilent.

What diſtraction have you given to my poor couſin Reeves's! How my heart bleeds for them!

I ſtopt. He was ſtill ſilent.

I hope, Sir, your are ſorry for the miſchief you have done me; and for the pain you have given to my friends!—I hope, Sir—

Curſed! ſaid he.

I ſtopt, thinking he would go on: But he ſaid no more; only changing his poſture; and then reſume⯑ing it.

Theſe people, Sir, ſeem to be honeſt people. I hope you deſigned only to terrify me. Your bringing me into no worſe company is an aſſurance to me that you meant better, than—

Devils all! interrupted he—

[225] I thought he was going on; but he grinned, ſhook his head, and then again reclined it upon his hand.

I forgive you, Sir, the pain you have given me.—But my friends—As ſoon as day breaks (and I hope that is not far off) I will get the women to let my couſin Reeves—

Then up he ſtarted—Miſs Byron, ſaid he, you are a woman; a true woman—And held up his hand, clenched. I knew not what to think of his intention.

Miſs Byron, proceeded he, after a pauſe, you are the moſt conſummate hypocrite that I ever knew in my life: And yet I thought that the beſt of you all could fall into fits and ſwoonings whenever you pleaſed.

I was now ſilent. I trembled.

Damned fool! aſs! blockhead! woman's fool!—I ought to be d—n'd for my credulous folly!—I tell you, Miſs Byron—Then he looked at me as if he were crazy; and walked too or three times about the room.

To be dying one half-hour, and the next to look to provoking—

I was ſtill ſilent.

I could curſe myſelf for ſending away the parſon. I thought I had known ſomething of womens tricks—But yet your arts, your hypocriſy, ſhall not ſerve you, madam. What I failed in here, ſhall be done elſe⯑where. By the great God of Heaven, it ſhall.

I wept. I could not then ſpeak.

Can't you go into fits again? Can't you? ſaid the barbarian; with an air of a piece with his words; and uſing other words of the loweſt reproach.

God deliver me, prayed I to myſelf, from the hands of this madman!

I aroſe, and as the candle ſtood near the glaſs▪ I ſaw in it my vile figure, in this abominable habit, [226] to which, till then, I had paid little attention. O how I ſcorned myſelf!

Pray, Sir Hargrave, ſaid I, let me beg that you will not terrify me further. I will forgive you for all you have hitherto done, and place it to my own account, as a proper puniſhment for conſenting to be thus marked for a vain and fooliſh creature. Your abuſe, Sir, give me leave to ſay, is low and unmanly: But in the light of a puniſhment I will own it to be all deſerved: And let here my puniſhment end, and I will thank you and forgive you with my whole heart.

Your fate is determined, Miſs Byron.

Juſt then came in a ſervant-maid with a capuchin, who whiſpered ſomething to him: To which he an⯑ſwered, That's well—

He took the capuchin; the maid withdrew; and approached me with it. I ſtarted, trembled, and was ready to ſaint. I caught hold of the back of the el⯑bow chair.

Your fate is determined, madam, repeated the ſa⯑vage—Here, put this on—Now ſall into fits again—Put this on!

Pray, Sir Hargrave—

And pray, Miſs Byron: What has not been com⯑pleted here, ſhall be completed in a ſafer place; and that in my own way—Put this on, I tell you. Your compliance may yet befriend you.

Where are the gentlewomen?—Where are—

Gene to reſt, madam,—John, Frank, called he out.

In came two men-ſervants.

Pray, Sir Hargrave—Lord protect me—Pray, Sir Hargrave—Where are the gentlewomen?—Lord protect me.

Then running to the door, againſt which one of the men ſtood—Man, ſtand out of the way, ſaid I. But he did not. He only bowed.

I cried out Mrs.—I forget your name: Miſs— [227] And t'other Miſs—I forget your names—If you a e good creatures, as I hoped you were—

I called as loud as my fears would let me.

At laſt came in the elder ſiſter—O madam! good young gentlewoman! I am glad you are come, ſaid I.

And ſo am I, ſaid the wicked man.—Pray, Miſs Sally, put on this Lady's capuchin!

Lord bleſs me, for why? for what? I have no capuchin!

I would not permit her to put it on, as ſhe would have done.

The ſavage then wrapt his arms about mine, and made me ſo very ſenſible by his force, of the pain I had had by the ſqueeze of the door, that I could not help crying out. The young woman put on the ca⯑puchin whether I would or not.

Now, Miſs Byron, ſaid he, make yourſelf eaſy▪ or command a fit, it is all one: My end will be better ſerved by the latter—Miſs Sally, give orders.

She ran out with the candle. Frank, give me the cloak, ſaid Sir Hargrave.

The fellow had a red cloak on his arm. His bar⯑barous maſter took it from him. To your poſts, ſaid he.

The two men withdrew in haſte. Now, my deareſt life, ſaid he, with an air of inſult, as I thought, you command your fate, if you are eaſy.

He threw the cloak about me.

I begged, prayed, would have kneeled to him: But all was in vain: The tyger-hearted man, as Mr. Greville had truly called him, muffled me up in it, and by force carried me thro' a long entry to the fore⯑door. There was ready a chariot-and-ſix; and that Sally was at the door with a lighted candle.

I called out to her. I called out for her mother; for the other ſiſter. I beſought him to let me ſay but ſix words to the widow.

[228] But no widow was to appear; no younger ſiſter: She was perhaps more tender-hearted than the elder: And in ſpite of all my ſtruggles, prayers, reſiſtance, he lifted me into the chariot.

Men on horſeback were about it. I thought that Wilſon was one of them; and ſo it proved. Sir Hargrave ſaid to that fellow, You know what tale to tell, if you meet with impertinents. And in, he came himſelf.

I ſcream'd. Scream on, my dear, upbraidingly ſaid he; and barbarouſly mocked me, imitating, low wretch! the bleating of a ſheep [Could you not have killed him for this, my Lucy?] Then rearing himſelf up, Now am I Lord of Miſs Byron! exulted he.

Still I ſcreamed for help; and he put his hand before my mouth, tho' vowing honour, and ſuch ſort of ſtuff; and, with his unmanly roughneſs, made me bite my lip. And away laſhed the coachman with your poor Harriet.

LETTER XXXIII. Miſs BYRON In Continuation.

AS the chariot drove by houſes, I cried out for help once or twice, at ſetting out. But under pretence of preventing my taking cold, he tied an handkechief over my face, head, and mouth, having firſt muffled me up in the cloak; preſſing againſt my arm with his whole weight, ſo that I had not my hands at liberty. And when he had done, he ſeized them, and held them both in his left hand, while his right-arm thrown round me, kept me faſt on the ſeat. And except that now-and-then my ſtruggling head gave me a little opening, I was blinded.

But at one place on the road, juſt after I had ſcream⯑ed, and made another effort to get my hands free, I heard voices, and immediately the chariot ſtopt. Then [229] how my heart was filled with hope! But, alas! it was but momentary. I heard one of his men ſay (that Wilſon I believe) The beſt of huſband's, I aſſure you, Sir, and ſhe is the worſt of wives.

I ſcreamed again. Ay, ſcream and be d—n'd, I heard ſaid in a ſtranger's voice, if that be the caſe. Poor gentleman! I pity him with all my heart. And immediately the coachman drove on again.

The vile wretch laughed; That's you, my dear, and hugged me round. You are the d—n'd wife. And again he laughed: By my ſoul I am a charming contriver! Greville, Fenwick, Orme, where are you now?—By my ſoul, this will be a pretty ſtory to tell when all your fears are over, my Byron!

I was ready to faint ſeveral times. I begged for air: And when we were in an open road, and I ſuppoſe there was nobody in ſight, he vouchſafed to pull down the blinding handkerchief, but kept it over my mou [...]h; ſo that except now-and-then, that I ſtruggled it aſide with my head (and my neck is ſtill, my dear, very ſtiff with my efforts to free my face) I could only make a murmuring kind of noiſe.

The curtain of the fore-glaſs was pulled down, and generally the canvas on both ſides drawn up. But I was ſure to be made acquainted when we came near houſes, by his care again to blind and ſtifle me up.

A little before we were met by my deliverer, I had, by getting one hand free, unmuffled myſelf ſo far as to ſee (as I had gueſſed once or twice before by the ſtone pavements) that we were going thro' a town; and then I again vehemently ſcreamed. But he had the cruelty to thruſt an handkerchief into my mouth, ſo that I was almoſt ſtran [...]led; and my mouth was hurt, and is ſtill ſore, with that and his former violence of the like nature.

Indeed, he now-and-then made apologies for the cruelty, to which, he ſaid▪ he was compelled, by my invincible obſtinacy, to have recourſe. I was ſorely [230] hurt, he ſaid, to be the wife of a man of his conſider⯑ation! But I ſhould be that, or worſe. He was in for it (he ſaid more than once) and muſt proceed. I might ſee that all my reſiſtance was in vain. He had me in his net: And d—n him, if he were not revenged for all the trouble I had given him. You keep no terms with me, my Byron, ſaid he once; and d—n me, if I keep any with you!

I doubted not his malice: His Love had no tender⯑neſs in it: But how could I think of being conſenting, as I may ſay, to ſuch barbarous uſage, and by a man ſo truly odious to me? What a ſlave had I been in ſpirit, could I have qualified on ſuch villainous treatment as I had met with! or had I been able to deſert myſelf!

At one place the chariot drove out of the road, over rough ways, and little hillocks, as I thought by its rocking; and then, it ſtopping, he let go my hands, and endeavoured to footh me. He begged I would be pacified, and offered, if I would forbear crying out for help, to leave my eyes unmuffled all the reſt of the way. But I would not, I told him, give ſuch a ſanc⯑tion to his barbarous violence.

On the chariot's ſtopping, one of his men came up, and put an handkerchief into his maſter's hands, in which were ſome cakes and ſweet-meats; and gave him alſo a bottle of ſack, with a glaſs. Sir Hargrave was very urgent with me to take ſome of the ſweet-meats, and to drink a glaſs of the wine: But I had neither ſtomach nor will to touch either.

He eat himſelf very cordia [...]ly God forgive me, I wiſhed in my heart, there were pins and needles in every bit he put in his mouth.

He drank two glaſſes of the wine. Again he urged me. I ſaid, I hoped I had cat and drank my laſt.

You have no dependence upon my honour, madam, ſaid the villain; ſo cannot be diſappointed mach, do what I will. Ungrateful, proud, vain, obſtinate, he called me.

[231] What ſignifies, ſays he, ſhewing politeneſs to a wo⯑man who has ſhewn none to me, tho' ſhe was civil to every other man? Ha, ha, ha, hah! What, my ſweet Byron, I don't hit your fancy! You don▪t like my morals! Laughing again. My lovely fly, ſaid the inſulting wretch, hugging me round in the cloak▪ how prettily have I wrapped you about in my web!—

Such a provoking, low wretch!—I ſtruggled to free myſelf; and unhooked the curtain of the fore-glaſs: But he wrapt me about the cloſer, and ſaid he would give me his garter for my girdle, if I would not ſit ſtill, and be orderly. Ah. my charming Byron, ſaid he, your opportunity is over—All your ſtruggles will not avail you—Will not avail you. That's a word of your own you know. I will, however, forgive you, if you promiſe to love me now. But if you ſtay till I get you to the allotted place; then, madam, take what follows.

I ſaw that I was upon a large, wild, heath-like place, between two roads, as it ſeemed. I aſked nothing about my journey's end. All I had to hope for as to an eſcape (tho' then I began to deſpair of it) was upon the road, or in ſome town. My journey's end, I knew, muſt be the beginning of new dials; for I was reſolved to ſuffer death, rather than to marry him. What I now was moſt apprehenſi [...]e about, was, of fail⯑ing into fits; and I anſwered to his barbarous inſults as little as poſſible, that I might not be provoked be⯑yond the little ſtrength I had left me.

Three or four times he offered to kiſs me; and curſed my pride for reſiſting him; making him claſp a cloud, was his ſpeech (aiming at wit) inſtead of his Juno; calling the cloak a cloud.

And now, my dear Byron, ſaid he, if you will not come to a compromiſe with me, I muſt dreſs you again for the journey. We will ſtop at a town a little further (beckoning to one of his men and on his ap⯑proaching, whiſpering to him, his whole body out of [232] the chariot) and there you ſhall alight; and a very worthy woman, to whom I ſhall introduce you, will perſuade you, perhaps to take refreſhment, though I cannot.

You are a very barbarous man, Sir Hargrave. I have the misfortune to be in your power. You may dearly repent the uſage I have already received from you. You have made my life of no eſtimation with me. I will not contend.

And tears ran down my cheeks. Indeed, I thought my heart was broke.

He wrapt me up cloſe, and tied the handkerchief about my mouth and head. I was quite paſſive.

The chariot had not many minutes got into the great road again, over the like rough and ſometimes plaſhy ground, when it ſtopt on a diſpute be [...]ween the coachman, and the coachman of another chariot-and-ſix, as it proved.

Sir Hargrave had but juſt drawn my handkerchief cloſer to my eyes, when this happened. Hinder not my tears from flowing, ſaid I; ſtruggling to keep my eyes free, the cloak enough muffling me, and the hand⯑kerchief being over my mouth; ſo that my voice could be but juſt heard by him, as I imagine.

He looked out of his chariot, to ſee the occaſion of this ſtop; and then I found means to diſengage one hand.

I heard a gentleman's voice directing his own coach⯑man to give way.

I then puſhed up the handkerchief with my diſen⯑gaged hand, from my mouth, and pulled it down from over my eyes, and cried out for help: Help for God's ſake.

A man▪s voice (it was my deliverer's, as it happily proved) bid Sir Hargrave's coachman proceed at his peril.

Sir Hargrave, with terrible oaths and curſes, ordered him to proceed, and to drive thro' all oppoſition.

[233] The gentleman called Sir Hargrave by his name; and charged him with being upon a bad deſign.

The vile wretch ſaid, he had only ſecur [...]d a runaway wife, eloped to, and intended to elope from, a maſ⯑querade, to her adultere [...] [...]or [...]d!]: He put aſide the cloak, and appealed [...] dreſs.

I cried out, No, no, no, five or ſix times repeated; but could ſay no more at that [...], holding up then both my diſengaged hands for protection.

The wicked man endeavoured to muſſle me up again, and to force the handkerchief, which I had then got under my chin, over my mouth; and brutally curſed me.

The gentleman would not be ſatisfied with Sir Har⯑grave's ſtory. He would ſpeak to me. Sir Hargrave called him impertinent, and other names, and aſked, Who the devil he was? with rage and contempt.—The gentleman, however, aſked me, and with an air that promiſed deliverance, if I were Sir Hargrave's wife.

No, no, no, no,—I could only ſay.

For my own part, I could have no ſcruple, diſtreſſed as I was, and made deſperate, to throw myſelf into the protection, and even into the arms, of my deli⯑verer; tho' a very fine young gentleman. It would have been very hard, had I fallen from bad to bad; had the ſacred name of protector been abuſed by an⯑other Sir Hargrave, who, would have had the ad⯑ditional crime of betraying a confidence to anſwer for. But, however this had proved, an eſcape from the preſent evil was all I had in my head at the time.

But you may better conceive, than I can expreſs, the terror I was in, when Sir Hargrave drew his ſword, and puſhed at the gentleman with ſuch words as de⯑noted (for I could not look that way) he had done him miſchief. But when I found my oppreſſor, my low⯑meaning, and ſoon after low-laid oppreſſor, pulled out of the chariot, by the brave, the gallant man (which [234] was done with ſuch force, as made the chariot rock) and my protector ſafe; I was near fainting with joy, as before I had been with terror. I had ſhaken off the cloak, and united the handkerchief.

He carried me in his arms (I could not walk) to his own chariot.

I heard Sir Hargrave curſe, ſwear, and threaten. I was glad however, he was not dead.

Mind him not, madam, fear him not, ſaid Sir Charles Grandiſon [You know his noble name, my Lucy▪] coachman, drive not over your maſter: Take care of your maſter; or ſome ſuch words he ſaid, as he lifted me into his own chariot. He came not in, but ſhut the chariot-door, as ſoon as he had ſeated me.

He juſt ſurveyed, as it were, the ſpot, and bid a ſervant let Sir Hargrave know who he was; and then came back to me.

Partly thro' terror, partly thro' weakneſs, I had ſunk to the bottom of the chariot. He opened the door, entered, and, with all the tenderneſs of a brother, ſoothed me, and lifted me on the ſeat once more. He ordered his coachman to drive back to Colnebrooke. In accents of kindneſs, he told me, that he had there at preſent the moſt virtuous and prudent of ſiſters, to whoſe care he would commit me, and then proceed on his journey to town.

How irreſiſtably welcome to me was his ſupporting arm, thrown round me, as we flew back, compared to that of the vile Sir Hargrave!

Mr. Reeves has given you an account, from the angelic ſiſter—O my Lucy, they are a pair of an⯑gels!

I have written a long, long Letter, or rather five Letters in one, of my diſtreſſes, of my deliverance: And, when my heart is ſtronger, I will ſay more of the perſons, as well as minds, of this excellent brother and his ſiſter.

But what ſhall I do with my gratitude? O my dear, [235] I am overwhelmed with my gratitude: I can only ex⯑preſs it in ſilence before them. Every look, if it be honeſt to my heart, however, tells it: Reverence mingles with my gratitude—Yet there is ſo much eaſe, ſo much ſweetneſs, in the behaviour of both—O my Lucy! Did I not find that my veneration of both is equal; did I not, on examination, find, that the amiable ſiſter is as dear to me, from her experi⯑enced tenderneſs, as her brother from his remembered bravery (which muſt needs mingle awe with my eſteem); in ſhort, that I love the ſiſter, and revere the brother; I ſhould be afraid of my gratitude.

I have over-written myſelf. I am tired. O my grandmamma, you have never yet, while I have been in London, ſent me your over-valued bleſſing under your own hand: Yet, I am ſure I had it; and your bleſſings, my dear uncle and aunt Selby; and your prayers my Lucy, my Nancy, and all my Loves; elſe my deliverance had not perhaps followed my pre⯑ſumptuous folly, in going dreſſed out like the fantaſ⯑tic wretch I appeared to be, at a vile, a fooliſh maſ⯑querade.—How often, throughout the ſeveral ſtages of my diſtreſs, and even in my deliverance, did I turn my eye to myſelf, and from myſelf, with the diſguſt that made a part, and that not a light one, of my puniſhment!

And ſo much, my Lucy, for maſquerades, and maſquerade-dreſſes, for ever!

Pray let not any-body unneceſſarily be acquainted with this ſhocking affair; particularly neither Mr. Gre⯑ville, nor Mr. Fenwick. It is very probable, that they (eſpecially Mr. Greville) would be for challenging Sir Hargrave, were it only on a ſuppoſition that it would give him an intereſt in me in the eye of the world. You know that Mr. Greville watches for all opportunities to give himſelf conſequence with me.

Were any farther miſchief to happen to any-body, I ſhould be grieved beyond meaſure. Hitherto I have [236] reaſon to think, that a tranſaction ſo ſhocking is not very unhappily concluded. May the vile man ſit him⯑ſelf down ſatisfied, and I ſhall be willing to do ſo too; provided I never more behold his face.

MR. Reeves will ſend you with the above paccuet, a Letter from Sir Charles Grandiſon, incloſing one from that vile Wilſon. I can write no more juſt now, and they will ſufficiently explain themſelves.

Adieu, my deareſt Lucy. I need not ſay how much I am, and will ever be,

LETTER XXXIV. Sir CHA. GRANDISON To ARCHIB. REEVES, Eſq

THE incloſed long Letter is juſt now brought to me. I pretend not to judge of the writer's peni⯑tence. Yet his confeſſions ſeem ingenuous; and he was not under any obligation to put them on paper.

As I preſume that you will not think it adviſeable to make the ineffectual attempt upon Miſs Byron public by a proſecution, perhaps your condeſcending to let the man's ſiſter know, that her brother, if in earneſt, may ſecurely purſue the honeſt purpoſes he mentions, may ſave the poor wretch from taking ſuch courſes as might be fatal, not only to himſelf, but to innocent perſons, who otherwiſe may ſuffer by his being made deſperate.

The man, as you will ſee by his Letter, if you had not a ſtill ſtronger proof, has abilities to do miſchief. He has been in bad hands, as he tells us, from his youth upwards, or he might have been an uſeful mem⯑ber of ſociety. He is a young man; and if yet he could be made ſo, his reformation will take from the [237] number of the profligate, and add to that of the hope⯑ful; and who knows how wide the circle of his ac⯑quaintance is, and how many of them may be influ⯑enced by his example either way? If he marry the not-diſhoneſt young woman, to whom he ſeems to be contracted, may not your lenity be a means of ſecuring a whole future family on the ſide of moral honeſty?

His crime, as the attempt was fruſtrated, is not capital: And, not to metion the ſervice of ſuch an evidence as this, ſhould Sir Hargrave ſeek for a legal redreſs, as he ſometimes weakly threatens, my hope makes me ſee a further good that may be brought about by this man's reformation: Wicked maſters cannot execute their baſe views upon the perſons of the innocent, without the aſſiſtance of wicked ſervants. What a neſt of vipers may be cruſhed at once, or, at leaſt, rendered unhurtful, by depriving the three mon⯑ſters he names of the aid of ſuch an agent? Men who want to ſave appearances, and have eſtates to forfeit, will ſometimes be honoſt of neceſſity, rather than put themſelves into the power of untried villains.

You will be ſo good as to make my compliments to your Lady, and to our lovely ward. You ſee, Sir, that I join myſelf with you in the honour of that agreeable relation.

I hope the dear Lady has perfectly recovered her health and ſpirits. I am, good Mr. Reeves,

LETTER XXXV. To the Honourable Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, Bart.

IN what an odious light muſt that wretch appear be⯑fore the worthieſt of men, who cannot but abhor himſelf!

[238] I am the unhappy man who was hired into the ſer⯑vice of the beſt of young Ladies: Whom I was the means of betraying into the power of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, from the Ball in the Hay-market on Thurſ⯑day night laſt.

Your honour has made yourſelf an intereſt in Miſs Byron's fate, as I may ſay, by your powerful protec⯑tion. Pardon me if I give you ſome account of my⯑ſelf, and of tranſactions which perhaps will otherwiſe never be known: And this in juſtice to all round.

My parentage was honeſt: My education was above my parentage. I ſet out with good principles: But I fell into a bad ſervice. I was young, and of a good natural diſpoſition; but had not virtue enough to reſiſt a temptation: I could not ſay No, to an unlawful thing, when my principles commanded my aſſent.

I was, at firſt ſetting out, by favour of friends, taken as clerk to a merchant. In profeſs of time I tranſacted his buſineſs at the Cuſtom-houſe. He taught me to make light of oaths of office; and this by degrees made me think light of all moral obliga⯑tions, and laid the foundation of my ruin.

My maſter's name was Bagenhall. He died; and I was to ſeek. His brother ſucceeded to his fortune, which was very large: He was brought up to no bu⯑ſineſs: He was a gentleman: His ſeat is near Read⯑ing. I was recommended by him to the ſervice of a gentleman who was nominated to go abroad on a fo⯑reign embaſſy. I will name his name, leſt your ho⯑nour ſhould imagine I have any deſign to evade the ſtricteſt truth; Sir Chriſtopher Lucas. I was to be this gentleman's maſter of the horſe abroad.

The firſt ſervice my new maſter employed me in, was to try to get for him the pretty daughter of an honeſt farmer.

I had been out of place for a twelvemonth. Had I had twenty ſhillings aforehand in the world, I would, I think, have ſaid No. Nevertheleſs I conſulted, in [239] confidence, my late maſter's brother upon it. The advice he gave me was, not to boggle at it: But if, he ſaid, I could manage the matter ſo, as to cheat Sir Chriſtopher, and get the girl for him, and keep the ſecret, he would give me 50 l. I abhorred the double treachery of young Mr. Bagenhall: But undertook to ſerve Sir Chriſtopher; and carried on a treaty with the farmer for his daughter; as if ſhe were to be the wife of Sir Chriſtopher; but not to be owned till he re⯑turned from abroad; no, not even if ſhe ſhould prove with child.

I found, in the courſe of my viſits at the farmer's, ſo much honeſty both in father and mother, and ſo much innocence in the daughter, that my heart relented; and I took an opportunity to reveal Sir Chriſtopher's baſe deſign to them; for the girl was deſigned to be ruined the very firſt moment that Sir Chriſtopher could be alone with her. Your honour may belive, that I injoined all three ſtrict ſecrecy.

Nevertheleſs this contriving devil of a maſter found a way to get the young woman by other means; and, in amorous dalliance, ſhe told him to whom he was obliged for not ſucceeding before.

In rage he turned me out of his ſervice, in the moſt diſgraceful manner; but without giving any other reaſons, than that he knew me to be a villain; and that I knew myſelf to be one: Nor would he give me a character: So I was quite reduced; and but for the kindneſs of a ſiſter, who keeps an inn in Smithfield, I ſhould have ſtarved, or been obliged to do worſe.

I ſhould have told your honour, that the poor farmer and his wife both died of grief in half a year. An ho⯑neſt young man, who dearly loved the young woman, was found drowned ſoon after: It is feared he was his own executioner. Sir Chriſtopher went not on his embaſſy. His preparations for it, and his expenſive way of life, before and after, reduced him: And he has been long a beggar, as I may ſay. The poor [240] young woman is now, if living, on the town. I ſaw her about half a year ago in St. Martin's Round-houſe, taken up as a common proſtitute, and charged with picking a pocket. She was a pretty creature, and had a very pious turn, when I knew her firſt. Her father had gone beyond himſelf in her education: And this was the fruit. What has ſuch a man as Sir Chriſto⯑pher to anſwer for!—But it is come home to him. I re⯑joice that this wickedneſs was not added to my ſcore.

But heavy ſcenes I had enough afterwards. Being utterly deſtitute, except what my ſiſter did for me, and not enduring to be a burden to her, I threw my⯑ſelf on my maſter Bagenhall. He employed me in mean offices, till his pander died (he is a very profli⯑gate man, Sir!); and then he promoted me to a ſtill meaner.

In this way, I grew a ſhameleſs contriver. He in⯑troduced me to Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, and to Mr. Merceda, a Portuguſe Jew. In the ſervice of theſe three maſters, good heaven forgive me! what villainies was I not the means of perpetrating! Yet I never was ſo hardened, but I had temporary remorſes. But theſe three gentlemen would never let me reſt from wicked⯑neſs: Yet they kept me poor and neceſſitous, as the only means to keep me what they called honeſt; for they had often reaſon to think, that had I had any other means of ſubſiſtence, I would have been really honeſt.

I was now Mr. Bagenhall's conſtant ſervant. Sir Hargrave and Mr. Merceda uſed to borrow me: But I muſt ſay Sir Hargrave is an innocent man to the other two. They careſſed me, I ſpeak it to my ſhame, as a man fit for their turn. I had contrivance; tem⯑per; I knew ſomething of every-body. But my ſiſter knows my frequent compunctions; and that I hated the vile courſe I was in. She uſed to lecture me enough. She is a good woman.

Will your honour have patience with me a little longer?

[241] Sir Hargrave on the ſeventh of this month came to my maſter Bagenhall at Reading, with whom he had double buſineſs: One was to take a bond and judg⯑ment of him (Sir Hargrave is no better than an uſurer): Mr. Bagenhall has lived a moſt extravagant life: The other was to borrow me. Mr. Merceda had a ſcheme on foot at the ſame time, which he was earneſt to engage me in; but it was too ſhocking; and Mr. Ba⯑genhall came into Sir Hargrave's.

Sir Hargrave told them, he deſigned nothing more than a violation, if he could get my aſſiſtance, of the moſt beautiful woman in the world. And, Sir, to ſee the villainy of the other two; they both, unknown to each other, made propoſals to me, to trick Sir Hargrave, and to get the Lady, each for himſelf.

But to me, Sir Hargave ſwore, that he was fully r [...]ſolved to leave this wicked courſe of life. Bagen⯑hall and Merceda, he ſaid, were devils; and he would marry, and have no more to ſay to them. All that was in his view was honeſt marriage. He ſaid he had never been in the Lady's company but once, and that was the day before at Lady Betty Williams's. He ſaid he went thither, knowing ſhe was to be there; for having for ſome time had it in his head to marry, this was the Lady he had pitch'd upon in his mind, from the character he had of her from every mouth at the Northampton races.

Now, ſaid he, I ſhall have ſome difficulty to ob⯑tain her, notwithſtanding my fortune is ſo great; for every one who ſees her is in love with her: And he named ſeveral gentlemen who laid cloſe ſiege to her.

She brought a ſervant up with her, ſaid he, who hones after the country, and is actually gone, or ſoon will. Her couſin enquires of every one after a proper ſer⯑vant for her. You, Wilſon, ſaid he, are handſome and genteel: He was pleaſed to ſay ſo. You have a modeſt humble look: You know all the duties of a ſervant: Get yourſelf entertain'd, and your fortune is [242] made for life, if by your means I obtain the Lady. I have already tender'd myſelf, ſaid he. Perhaps ſhe will have me in a few days. I don't expect to be de⯑nied, if ſhe be diſengaged, as it is ſaid ſhe is. If you can get into her ſervice, you will find out every thing. This is all that is to be done: But you muſt never mention my name, nor ever know any-thing of me, as I go and come.

Sir Hargrave declared, that his heart was burnt up with the Love of the Lady: And if he ſucceeded (as he had little doubt even without my help, had I been ac⯑tually in Merceda's ſervice) you will, ſaid he, as my Lady's ſervant, be mine of courſe; you ſhall never wear a livery; and you ſhall be my gentleman, till I can get a place for you in the Cuſtoms. This, may it pleaſe your honour, he knew I had long aimed at, and it had been often promiſed by himſelf, and my other two maſters; and was their firſt promiſe when they wanted to engage me in any of their ſchemes; tho' they never thought more of it when the ſervice was over. If I got but myſelf engaged, I was, on the day I entered into my Lady's ſervice, to have as an earneſt ten guineas.

Encouraged by ſuch promiſes, (and the project be⯑ing an honeſter one than ever Sir Hargrave, or either of the other two, had ſought to engage me in) I of⯑fered my ſervice to my Lady; and, on Mr. Bagen⯑hall's writing a good character of me, was accepted.

I could have been happy in the ſervice of this Lady, all the days of my life. She is all goodneſs: All the ſervants, every-body, gentle and ſimple, adored her: But ſhe, unexpectedly, refuſing to have Sir Hargrave, and he being afraid that one of her three or four Lovers would cut him out, he reſolved to take more violent meaſures than he had at firſt intended.

If any man was ever mad in Love, it was Sir Hargrave. But then he was as mad with anger to be refuſed. Sir Hargrave was ever thought to be one of the proudeſt [243] men in England: And he complained that my lady uſed him worſe than ſhe did any-body elſe. But it was not her way to uſe any-body ill, I ſaw that.

Nevertheleſs he was reſolved to ſtrike a bold ſtroke for a wife, as were his words from the title of a play: And between us we ſettled the matter in one night: For I had found means to get out unknown to the family.

It will be treſpaſſing too much upon your honour's patience, to be very particular in our contrivances. I will be as brief as poſſible.

My Lady was to go to a Maſquerade. I got into the knowledge of every thing how and about it. The maids were as full of the matter as their maſter and miſtreſſes.

It was agreed to make the chairmen fuddled. Two of Mr. Merceda's footmen were to undertake the taſk. Brandy was put into their liquor to haſten them.

They were ſoon overcome. The weather was cold: They drank briſkly, and were laid up ſafe. I then hired two chance chairmen and gave them orders as had been contrived.

I had twenty guineas given me in hand for my en⯑couragement; in which were included the promiſed ten.

I had, when I was my firſt maſter Bagenhall's clerk, made acquaintance with ſeveral clerks of the Cuſtum⯑houſe, particularly with one Awberry, a ſober modeſt man; who has two ſiſters; to one of whom I am con⯑tracted, and always for two years paſt, intended to make my wife, as ſoon as I ſhould be in any way to maintain her. The mother is a widow. All of them are very honeſt people.

Mr. Awberry the brother being aſſured by me (and I was well aſſured of it myſelf, and had no doubt about it) that marriage was intended; and knowing Sir Hargrave's great eſtate (and having indeed ſeen Sir Hargrave on the occaſion, and received his proteſta⯑tions [244] of honour) engaged his mother and ſiſter in it; and the reſult, as to them and me, was, that I was to receive, as ſoon as the knot was tied, an hundred guineas beſides the twenty; and moreover an abſolute promiſe of a place; and twenty pounds a year till I got it; and then my marriage with young Mrs. Aw⯑berry was to follow.

The widow has an annuity of thirty pounds, which, with their ſon's ſalary, keeps them above want.

She lives at Paddington. There is a back-door and garden, as it happens, convenient to bring any-body in, or carry any-body out, ſecretly; and hither it was reſolved, if poſſible, that the lady ſhould be brought, and a Fleet parſon and his clerk ready ſtation'd, to per⯑form the ceremony; and then all that the bridegroom wiſh'd was to follow of courſe.

Sir Hargrave doubted not (tho' he was fruitful in contrivances, and put many others in practice) but he ſhould be detected if he carried the Lady to his own houſe. And as he was afraid that the chairmen (not⯑withſtanding ſeveral other artful contrivances) would be able to find out the place they carried her to, he had ordered his chariot-and-ſix to be at the widow Awberry's by ſix in the morning, with three ſervants on horſeback, armed, and a horſe and piſtols beſides. After marriage and conſummation, he was reſolved to go to his houſe on the foreſt, but not to ſtay there; but to go to Mr. Merceda's houſe near Newberry, where he doubted not but he ſhould be ſecret till he thought fit to produce the lady, as Lady Pollexfen: And often, very often, did he triumph on the victory he ſhould obtain over her other Lovers, and over her own proud heart, as he would have it to be.

The parſon, Sir, came: The clerk was there: But what with fits, prayers, tears, and one thing or other (at one time the Lady being thought irrecover⯑able having received ſome unintended hurt in her ſtruggling to get out of a door, as I heard it was) Sir [245] Hargrave in terror diſmiſſed the parſon; and reſolved to carry the lady (who by that time was recovered) in the chariot to his ſeat at Windſor; and then, ſtay⯑ing there only to marry, go to Newberry: And from thence break out by degrees, as the matter ſhould be taken.

My lady ſcreamed, reſiſted, and did all that woman could do, to get free: And more than once people who heard her cry out for help were put on a wrong ſcent: And had we not met with your honour (who would ſee with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears) the affair had been all over in the way Sir Hargrave wiſhed, and was at ſo much pains and ex⯑pence to effect. For, Sir, the chariot generally drove ſo faſt, that before paſſengers could have reſolved whe⯑ther to interfere or not, we ſhould have been out of ſight or reach.

Sir Hargrave is in the greateſt rage with us all, be⯑cauſe we ſtood not better by him. He refuſes any fa⯑vour to me, and threatens to piſtol me the moment he ſees me. That's to be my reward.

We were four at ſetting out from Paddington; but one of the ſervants was diſpatch'd to prepoſſeſs an old ſervant of Sir Hargrave's mother, at Colnebrooke, who keeps there a kind of haberdaſhery ſhop; and where he propoſed to get ſome refreſhment for the lady, if he could make her take any. For my part I wonder how ſhe kept out of fits on the road. She had enow of them at Paddington.

The two ſervants who ſtaid about Sir Hargrave, are diſcharged with all the marks of indignation that a maſter incenſed by ſuch a diſappointment could ex⯑preſs; and, as I ſaid before, he is reſolved to piſtol me the moment he ſees me. Yet I too well ſerved him for the peace of my conſcience.

A coach-and-four was ordered to carry the widow and her two daughters to Reading, to the New-Inn there, where they were to reſide for a week or ſo, till [246] all was blown over; and that they might be out of the way of anſwering queſtions: And my brother Awberry, as I call him, and hope to make him (for he is a very honeſt man) was to go to them there.

And there, in all probability, had Sir Hargrave ſuc⯑ceeded, and been as good as his word, ſhould I have been the huſband of as tender-hearted a young wo⯑man as any in the pariſh ſhe lives in.

Here is a very long letter, may it pleaſe you, Sir. I have ſhortened it however as much as I could: But in hatred to myſelf, and the vile ways I have, by exceſs of good-nature, and by meeting with wicked maſters, been drawn into—For the clearing of my ſiſter's cha⯑racter, who lives in credit among her neighbours, and of every other perſon who might otherwiſe have been ſuſpected—In juſtice to Mrs. Awberry's, and her two daughters, and her ſon's characters—And in juſtice ſo far to Sir Hargrave's, as that he intended marriage (and had he not, he would have found no friends in his deſigns at Paddington) and ſo far as to clear him of having not offered the leaſt incivility to my lady—[Had he intended, or been provoked ſo to do, he was too well watch'd by the widow, and her daugh⯑ters, to have been permitted; and that by my own re⯑queſt, which was, that they ſhould be ready to run in whenever they heard her cry out, and that they would not leave Sir Hargrave alone with my Lady for ſix mi⯑nutes, till their hands were joined in wedlock]—In juſtice I ſay to all theſe perſons, I thought proper thus to give you, Sir, all that I knew relating to this wicked tranſaction. And if, may it pleaſe your ho⯑nour, I were to be taken up, I could ſay no more be⯑fore a magiſtrate; except this, which I had like to have forgot; which is, that had it not been for me, ſome miſchief might have been done, between Sir Hargrave's ſervants and yours, if not to your honour's perſon.

All that I moſt humbly beg, is, the pardon of ſo [247] ſweet a lady. I have choſen, ever-to-be-honoured Sir, to write to you, whoſe goodneſs is ſo generally talk'd of, and who have ſo nobly redeemed and protected her. Mr. Reeves, I know, has ſuffered too much in his mind to forgive me. He is a worthy gentleman. I am ſorry for the diſturbance I have given him. I have hopes given me, that I ſhall get employment on the Keys, or as a tide-waiter extraordinary.

Pleaſe the Lord, I will never, never more, be the tool of wicked maſters. All I wiſh for is, to be able to do juſtice to the love of an honeſt young woman; and I am reſolved, whether ſo enabled or not, to ſtarve, rather than to go any more, no, not for a ſingle hour, into the ſervice of the iniquitous gentle⯑men I have ſo often named in this long Letter.

If I might be aſſured, that I may purſue unmoleſt⯑ed, any honeſt calling, ſo as that I may not be tempted or driven into unhappy courſes, my heart would be at reſt.

There might have been murder in this affair: That ſhocks me to think of. O Sir, good, excellent, brave, and the moſt worthy of gentlemen, you have given to me as great a deliverance, as you have to the lady: Yea, greater; for mine may be a deliverance, if I make a proper uſe of it, of ſoul as well as body. Which God grant, as alſo your honour's health and proſperity, to the prayers of

I thought I had ſomething elſe to ſay: Something it is of high importance: Your life is threatened, Sir, God preſerve your precious life. Amen!

LETTER XXXVI. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

MY couſin Reeves has given aſſurance to the ſiſter of that Wilſon, that he may, unmoleſted by any of us, purſue the beſt means he can fall upon for the obtaining of an honeſt livelihood.

In every-thing it is determined to follow the advice of my deliverer.

What a letter is that fellow's! What men are there in the world!

Of ſuch we have read: But I hoped, that I might have eſcaped ſuffering by any ſuch.

We are extremely diſturbed at the fellow's poſt⯑ſcript; and the more, as we are told by ſeveral peo⯑ple, that Sir Hargrave will not ſit down quietly; but threatens vengeance upon Sir Charles. I wiſh I had not come to London.

I hope my grandmamma's ſpirits are not affected by what ſhe knows of the matter. It was very good of my aunt Selby to take the meaſures ſhe did, in ſoften⯑ing every circumſtance, and not to let her know any⯑thing till the danger was over. But indeed it was but the natural effect of that prudence which regulates all the actions of my honour'd aunt.

My grandmamma has ſuch ſtrength of mind, that now ſhe knows I am ſafe, and not unhappy, I dare ſay ſhe will by degrees bear to hear my narrations read. She will be more uneaſy if ſhe thinks any-thing is kept from her.

Yet I know that her tenderneſs and her love for her Harriet will coſt her ſome anguiſh, ſome ſighs, ſome tears, as ſhe reads, or hears read, the cruelty her girl has been treated with: Who, ſo tenderly brought up, ſo greatly indulg'd, never before knew what harſh⯑neſs [249] was, and had only read of the words cruelty, bar⯑barity, and ſuch-like words. But then ſhe will have more joy I hope, in my deliverance than ſhe will have pain in my ſufferings. And pray let her know, that I am every day leſs and leſs ſenſible of the pain in my ſtomach, of which I was ſo apprehenſive, as really at the time to think it a mortal blow. My grandmamma has told us girls, you know, my Lucy, twenty and twenty frightful ſtories of the vile enterprizes of men, againſt innocent creatures; and will therefore call to mind ſtories which have concluded much worſe than, bleſſed be God, mine has done.

JUST now I have received a congratulatory pacquet of Letters:

One from my aunt Selby, ſuch a ſweetly kind, ſuch a truly maternal Letter!

One from my deareſt grandmamma. I will put it next my heart, whenever I feel there any of that pain, of which ſhe is ſo kindly apprehenſive.

One from Nancy—Dear girl!—She is very, very generous to forget her own malady to condole and con⯑gratulate me. Your brother James, my Lucy, has written me a very kind Letter. He is a good young man: God keep him ſo! What a miſchievous crea⯑ture is a bad man!

I have a charming Letter, by the poſt, from my god⯑father Deane: He has heard nothing of what has hap⯑pened; and I am ſure is too ſollicitous for my welfare, to take it well, if I do not let him know ſomething about it: I will therefore ſoon write to him.

But your Letter, my Lucy!—What, I warrant, you thought I had forgot your Letter in the enumerati⯑on of the contents of the precious pacquet! If I had, your goodneſs, your love, might have made you for⯑give me: But I never would have forgiven myſelf.

But you and I, my dear, write for all to ſee what we write: And ſo I reſerved yours to be laſt-mention'd. [250] Only I ſlid in my godfather Deane's between; not be⯑cauſe I love him better than I do my Lucy—No, that is impoſſible!—But becauſe I had a mind to ſhew you, that I was haſtening to be quite well, and ſo aſſumed my little ſaucy tricks, and ſurprizes, as if it were poſſi⯑ble for me to be heedleſs, where my love to my Lucy was in the queſtion.

And ſo you expect the particular character and de⯑ſcription of the perſons of this more than amiable brother and ſiſter. Need you to have told me that you do? And could you think that after having waſted ſo many quires of paper in giving you the characters of people, many of whom deſerved not to be drawn out from the common croud of mortals, I would forbear to give you thoſe of perſons who adorn the age in which they live, and even human nature?

You don't queſtion, you ſay, if I begin in their praiſes, but my gratitude will make me write in a ſub⯑lime ſtile; ſo you phraiſe it; and are ready, you pro⯑miſe me, to take with allowance, all the fine things from me, which Mr. Reeves has already taught you to expect.

You may be right, in your expectations, as far as I know; for my grandfather (ſo many years ago) uſed to ſay, that his little Byron was an enthuſiaſt in her gratitude. But, however, when I ſay any-thing of the exalted minds, of the expanded hearts, of the amia⯑able manners, of this happy brother and ſiſter, which ſeems to exceed, in my praiſes, the bounds you will all be willing to ſet me, then let the over flowings be car⯑ried to account of the grateful enthuſiaſm, and only to that.

Which ſhall I begin with? You will have a ſharp look-out upon me, you ſay: Ah, my Lucy! I know what you mean. But I am ſafe from every-thing but my gratitude, I will aſſure you.

And ſo, if I begin with the character of the Bro⯑ther, then will you join with my uncle, ſhake your [251] head, and cry, Ah! my Harriet! If I begin with the ſiſter, will you not ſay, that I ſave my choiceſt ſub⯑ject for the laſt? How difficult is it to avoid cenſure, when there is a reſolution taken to be cenſorious!

Well, but keep a look-out, if you pleaſe, my Lucy: Not the leaſt ſhadow of reſerve ſhall it give to my heart: My pen ſhall be honeſt to that heart; and I ſhall be benefited, I am ſure, by the faithful wounds of ſuch affectionate, and equally-beloved as revered friends—And ſo, Pen, take thy courſe.

Miſs Grandiſon—Yes, my volant, my ſelf-conduct⯑ed quill, begin with the ſiſter, ſay my Lucy what ſhe pleaſes—

Miſs Grandiſon is about twenty-four: Of a fine ſta⯑ture: She has dignity in her aſpect; and a very pene⯑trating black eye, with which ſhe does what ſhe plea⯑ſes: Her hair is black, very fine, and naturally curls: She is not fair, but her complexion is delicate and clear, and promiſes a long duration to her lovelineſs: Her features are generally regular: Her noſe is a little aquiline; but that is ſo far from being a blemiſh, that it gives a kind of majeſty to her other features: Her teeth are white and even: Her mouth is perfectly lovely; and a modeſt archneſs appears in her ſmiles, that makes one both love and fear her, when ſhe begins to ſpeak. She is finely ſhaped; and, in her air and whole appearance, perfectly genteel.

She herſelf ſays, That before her brother came to England, ſhe was thought to be proud, pert, and lof⯑ty: But I hardly believe her; for the man lives not, it is my belief, who in fourteen months time (and Sir Charles has not been longer arrived) could ſo totally eradicate thoſe qualities in a mind of which they had taken▪poſſeſſion, as that they ſhould not occaſionally ſhew themſelves.

She has charming ſpirits. I dare ſay, ſhe ſings well, from the air ſhe now-and-then warbles in the gaiety of her heart, as ſhe goes up and down ſtairs: She is [252] very polite; yet has a vein of raillery, that were ſhe not polite, would give one too much apprehenſion for one's eaſe: But I am ſure ſhe is frank, eaſy, and good-humoured: And, by turning over all the juſt and handſome things which are attributed to herſelf, to her brother's credit, ſhe muſt be equally humble and generous.

She ſays, ſhe has but lately taken a very great like⯑ing to reading: But I am ready to queſtion what ſhe ſays, when ſhe ſpeaks any-thing that ſome would con⯑ſtrue to her diſadvantage. She pretends, that ſhe was too volatile, too gay, too airy, to be confined to ſe⯑dentary amuſements. Her father, however, accord⯑ing to the genteeleſt and moſt laudable modern educa⯑tion for women, had given her a maſter, who taught her Hiſtory and Geography; in both which ſhe acknow⯑ledges ſhe made ſome progreſs. In Muſic, ſhe owns ſhe has ſkill: But I am told by her maid who attended me by her young Lady's direction, and who delights to praiſe her miſtreſs, that ſhe reads and ſpeaks French and Italian; that ſhe writes finely, and is greatly ad⯑mired for her wit, prudence, and obligingneſs. No⯑body, ſaid Jenny (who is a ſenſible young woman a clergyman's daughter, well educated, and very oblige⯑ing) can ſtand againſt her good-natured raillery: Her brother, ſhe ſays, is not ſpared: But he takes delight in her vivacity, and gives way to it; when it is eaſy to ſee, that he could take her down, if he pleaſed. And then, added this good young woman, ſhe is an excellent manager in a family, finely as ſhe is edu⯑cated [I rejoiced to hear that, for the honour of our reading Ladies, as in Miſs Clements's caſe]: She knows every-thing, and how to direct what ſhould be done, from the private family-dinner, to a ſumptuous entertainment: And every day inſpects, and approves, or alters, the bill of fare: By the way, my Lucy, ſhe is an early riſer—Do you mind that? And ſo can do every-thing with eaſe, pleaſure, and without hurry [253] and confuſion: For all her ſervants are early riſers of courſe. What ſervants can for ſhame be in bed, at a reaſonable hour to be up, when they have a maſter or miſtreſs's example for early riſing?

Yet this fine Lady loves to go to the public places, and often goes, and makes a brilliant figure there. She has time for them, and earns her pleaſures by her early riſing?

Miſs Grandiſon, Jenny tells me, has two humble ſervants [I wonder ſhe has not two-and-twenty]: One is Sir Walter Watkyns, a man of a large eſtate in So⯑merſetſhire; the other is Lord G. ſon of the Earl of G.; but neither of them highly approved by her: Yet Jenny ſays, they are both of them handſome men, and admired by the Ladies: This makes me afraid, that they are modern men; and pay their court by the exterior appearance, rather than by interior worth. Who, my Lucy, that has heard what my late grand⯑father has ſaid, and my grandmamma ſtill ſays, of the men in their youthful days, will not ſay, that we have our lots caſt in an age of Petits Maitres, and In⯑ſignificants.

Such an amiable woman is Miſs Charlotte Grandi⯑ſon—May I be found, on further acquaintance, but half as lovely in her eyes, as ſhe is in mine!—Don't be jealous, Lucy, I hope I have a large heart. I hope there is room in it for half a dozen ſweet female friends!—Yes, altho' another Love were to intervene. I could not bear, that even the affection due to the man of my choice, were I to marry, ſhould, like Aaron's rod, ſwallow up all the reſt.

But now for her brother—My deliverer!

But pray now, Lucy, don't you come with your ſharp look-out: I warrant you will expect on this oc⯑caſion to read the tumults of the poor girl's heart in her character and deſcription of a man, to whom ſhe is ſo much obliged!—But what if ſhe diſappoints you, and yet do juſtice to his manifold excellencies? [254] What if ſhe find ſome faults in him, that his ſiſter has not?

Parading Harriet, methinks you ſay! Teazing girl! Go on, go on, leave it to us to find you out: And take care that the very faults you pretend to diſcover, do not paſs for a colour only, and lead to your de⯑tection.

Thank you, Lucy, for your caution: But I will not be obliged to it. My pen ſhall follow the dictates of my heart; and if it be as honeſt to me, as I think it is to every-body elſe, I hope I have nothing to fear either from your look-out, or, which is ſtill a ſharper, my uncle Selby's.

Sir Charles Grandiſon, in his perſon, is really a very fine man. He is tall; rather ſlender than full: His face in ſhape is a fine oval: He ſeems to have florid health; health confirmed by exerciſe.

His complexion ſeems to have been naturally too fine for a man: But as if he were above being regard⯑ful of it, his face is overſpread with a manly ſunnineſs [I want a word] that ſhews he has been in warmer climates than England: And ſo it ſeems he has; ſince the Tour of Europe has not contented him. He has viſited ſome parts of Aſia, and even of Afric, Egypt particularly.

I wonder what buſineſs a man has for ſuch fine teeth, and ſo fine a mouth, as Sir Charles Grandiſon might boaſt of, were he vain.

In his aſpect there is ſomething great and noble, that ſhews him to be of rank. Were kings to be choſen for beauty and majeſty of perſon, Sir Charles Gran⯑diſon would have few competitors. His eye—Indeed, my Lucy, his eye ſhews, if poſſible, more of ſparkling intelligence than that of his ſiſter—

Now pray be quiet, my dear uncle Selby! What is beauty in a man to me? You all know that I never thought beauty a qualification in a man.

And yet, this grandeur in his perſon and air is ac⯑companied [255] companied with ſo much eaſe and freedom of man⯑ners, as engages one's love with one's reverence. His good breeding renders him very acceſſible. His ſiſter ſays, he is always the firſt to break thro' the reſtraints, and to baniſh the diffidences, that will generally at⯑tend perſons on a quite new acquaintance. He may, for he is ſure of being acceptable in whatever he does or ſays.

Very true, Lucy: Shake your head if you pleaſe.

In a word, he has ſuch an eaſy, yet manly polite⯑neſs, as well in his dreſs, as in his addreſs (no ſingu⯑larity appearing in either) that were he not a fine figure of a man, but were even plain and hard-featured, he would be thought (what is far more eligible in a man, than mere beauty) very agreeable.

Sir Charles Grandiſon, my dear, has travelled we may ſay, to ſome purpoſe.

Well might his ſiſter tell Mr. Reeves, that when⯑ever he married, he would break half a ſcore hearts.

Upon my word Lucy, he has too many perſonal ad⯑vantages for a woman who loved him with peculiarity, to be eaſy with, whatever may be his virtue, from the foible our ſex in general love to indulge for hand⯑ſome men. For, O my dear, womens eyes are ſad giddy things; and will run away with their ſenſe, with their underſtandings, beyond the power of being over⯑taken either by ſtop theif, or hue-and-cry.

I know that here you will bid me take care not to increaſe the number of the giddy. And ſo I will, my Lucy.

The good ſenſe of this real fine gentleman is not, as I can find, ruſted over by ſourneſs, by moroſeneſs: He is above quarreling with the world for trifles: But he is ſtill more above making ſuch compliances with it, as would impeach either his honour or conſcience. Once Miſs Grandiſon, ſpeaking of her brother, ſaid, My brother is valued by thoſe who know him beſt, not ſo much for being an handſome man; not ſo [256] much for his birth and fortune; nor for this or that ſingle worthineſs; as for being, in the great and yet comprehenſive ſenſe of the word, a good man. And at another time ſhe ſaid, that he lived to himſelf, and to his own heart; and that tho' he had the happineſs to pleaſe every-body, yet he made the judgement or approbation of the world matter but of ſecond conſi⯑deration. In a word, added ſhe, Sir Charles Grandi⯑ſon, my Brother (and when ſhe looks proud, it is when ſhe ſays, my Brother) is not to be miſled either by falſe glory, or falſe ſhame, which he calls, The great ſnares of virtue.

What a man is this, ſo to act!—What a woman is this, ſo to diſtinguiſh her brother's excellencies!

What a poor creature am I, compared to either of them! And yet I have had my admirers. So perhaps may ſtill more faulty creatures among their inferiors. If, my Lucy, we have ſo much good ſenſe as to make fair compariſons, what have we to do but to look for⯑ward rather than backward, in order to obtain the grace of humility?

But let me tell you, my dear, that Sir Charles does not look to be ſo great a ſelf-denier, as his ſiſter ſeems to think him, when ſhe ſays, he lives to himſelf, and to his own heart, rather than to the opinion of the world.

He dreſſes to the faſhion, rather richly, 'tis true, than gaudily; but ſtill richly: So that he gives his fine perſon its full conſideration. He has a great deal of vivacity in his whole aſpect; as well as in his eye. Mrs. Jenny ſays, that he is a great admirer of hand⯑ſome women. His equipage is perfectly in taſte, tho' not ſo much to the glare of taſte, as if he aimed either to inſpire or ſhew emulation. He ſeldom travels with⯑out a ſet, and ſuitable attendants; and, what I think ſeems a little to favour of ſingularity, his horſes are not docked: Their tails are only tied up when they are on the road. This I took notice of when we came [257] to town. I want, methinks, my dear, to find ſome fault in his outward appearance, were it but to make you think me impartial; my gratitude to him, and my veneration for him, notwithſtanding.

But if he be of opinion that the tails of theſe noble animals are not only a natural ornament, but are of real uſe to defend them from the vexatious inſects that in ſummer are ſo apt to annoy them (as Jenny juſt now told me was thought to be his reaſon for not de⯑priving his cattle of a defence, which nature gave them) how far from a diſpraiſe is this humane conſideration! And how, in the more minute, as well as we may ſup⯑poſe in the greater inſtances, does he deſerve the cha⯑racter of the man of mercy, who will be merciful to his beaſt!

I have met with perſons, who call thoſe men good, that yet allow themſelves in liberties which no good man can take. But I dare ſay, that Miſs Grandiſon means by good, when ſhe calls her brother, with ſo much pride, a good man, what I, and what you, my Lucy, would underſtand by the word.

With ſo much ſpirit, life, and gallantry in the firſt appearance of Sir Charles Grandiſon, you may ſup⯑poſe, that had I not been ſo dreadfully terrified and ill⯑uſed, and ſo juſtly apprehenſive of worſe treatment; and had I been offered another protection; I ſhould hardly have acted the frighted bird flying from the hawk, to which, as Mr. Reeves tells me, Sir Charles (tho' politely, and kindly enough, yet too ſenſibly for my recollection) compared me.

Do you wonder, Lucy, that I cannot hold up my head, when I recollect the figure I muſt make in that odious Maſquerade-habit, hanging by my claſping arms about the neck of ſuch a young gentleman? Can I be more effectually humbled than by ſuch a re⯑collection? And yet is not this an inſtance of that falſe ſhame in me, to which Sir Charles Grandiſon is ſo greatly ſuperior?

[258] Surely, ſurely, I have had my puniſhment for my compliances with this fooliſh world. Falſe glory, and falſe ſhame, the poor Harriet has never been totally above. Why was I ſo much indulged? Why was I allowed to ſtop ſo many miles ſhort of my journey▪s end, and then complimented, as if I had no farther to go?—but ſurely, I was paſt all ſhame, when I gave my conſent to make ſuch an appearance, as I made, among a thouſand ſtrangers, at a Maſquerade!

But now, I think, ſomething offers of blame in the character of this almoſt faultleſs man, as his ſiſter, and her Jenny, repreſent him to be.

I cannot think, from a hint given by Miſs Grandi⯑ſon, that he is quite ſo frank, and ſo unreſerved, as his ſiſter is. Nay, it was more than a hint: I will repeat her very words: She had been mentioning her own openneſs of heart, and yet confeſſing that ſhe would have kept one or two things from him, that affected him not. ‘'But as for my brother, ſaid ſhe, he winds one about, and about, yet ſeems not to have more curioſity than one would wiſh him to have. Led on by his ſmiling benignity, and fond of his attention to my prattle, I have caught myſelf in the midſt of a tale of which I intended not to tell him one ſyllable.’

‘'O Sir Charles, where am I got? have I ſaid; and ſuddenly ſtopt.’

‘'Proceed, my Charlotte! No reſerves to your neareſt friend.’

‘'Yet he has his, and I have winded and winded about him, as he had done about me; but all to no purpoſe.’

‘'Nevertheleſs, he has found means, inſenſibly, to ſet me on again with my own ſtory, till I had told him all I knew of the matter; and all the time I was intending only that my frankneſs ſhould be an exam⯑ple to him; when he, inſtead of anſwering my wiſhes, double-locked the door of his heart, and left [259] not ſo much as the key-hole uncovered, by which I might have peeped into it; and this in one or two points, that I thought it imported me to know. And then have I been ready to ſcold.'’

Now this reſerve to ſuch a ſiſter, and in points that ſhe thinks it imports her to know, is what I do not like in Sir Charles. A friend as well as ſiſter! ought there to be a ſecret on on [...] ſide, when there is none on the other? Very likely, he would be as reſerved to a wife: And is not marriage the higheſt ſtate of friend⯑ſhip that mortals can know? And can friendſhip and reſerve be compatible? Surely, No.

His ſiſter, who cannot think he has one fault, ex⯑cuſes him, and ſays, that her brother has no other view in drawing her on to reveal her own heart, but the better to know how to ſerve and oblige her.

But then, might not the ſame thing be ſaid in be⯑half of the curioſity of ſo generous a ſiſter? Or, is Sir Charles ſo conſcious of his own ſuperiority, as to think he can give advice to her, but wants not hers to him? Or, thinks he meanly of our Sex, and highly of his own? Yet there are but two years difference in their age: And from ſixteen to twenty-four, I be⯑lieve women are generally more than two years afore⯑hand with the men in ripeneſs of underſtanding; tho', after that time, the men may ripen into a ſuperiority.

This obſervation is not my own; for I heard a very wiſe man once ſay, That the intellects of women uſually ripen ſooner than thoſe of men; but that thoſe of men, when ripened, like trees of ſlow growth, generally hold longer, are capable of higher perfec⯑tion, and ſerve to nobler purpoſes.

Sir Charles has ſeen more of the world, it may be ſaid, than his ſiſter has: He has travelled. But is not human nature the ſame in every country, allowing only for different cuſtoms?—Do not Love, hatred, an⯑ger, malice, all the paſſions in ſhort, good or bad, ſhew themſelves by like effects in the faces, hearts, [260] and actions of the people of every country? And let men make ever ſuch ſtrong pretenſions to knowledge, from their far-fetch'd and dear-bought experience, can⯑not a penetrating ſpirit learn as much from the paſſions of a Sir Hargrave Pollexfen in England, as it could from a man of the ſame or the like ill qualities, in Spain, in France, or in Italy? And why is the Gre⯑cian Homer, to this day, ſo much admired, as he is in all theſe nations, and in every other nation where he has been read, and will be, to the world's end, but be⯑cauſe he writes to nature? And is not the language of nature one language throughout the world, tho' there are different modes of ſpeech to expreſs it by?

But I ſhall go out of my depth. All I mean (and, from the frankneſs of my own heart, you will expect from me ſuch a declaration) is, that I do not love that a man ſo nearly perfect, be his motives what they will, ſhould have reſerves to ſuch a ſiſter. Don't you think, Lucy, that this ſeems to be a kind of fault in Sir Charles Grandiſon? Don't you think, that it would mingle ſome fear in a ſiſter's Love of him? And ſhould one's Love of ſo amiable a brother be daſhed or allayed with fear? He is ſaid to be a good man: And a good man I dare ſay he is: What ſecrets can a good man have, that ſuch a ſiſter, living with him in the ſame houſe, and diſdaining not, but, on the contrary, prid⯑ing herſelf in, the title of her brother's houſekeeper, ſhould not be made acquainted with? Will a man ſo generous look upon her as he would upon a mere houſekeeper?—Does not confidence engage confi⯑dence?—And are they not by nature, as well as incli⯑nation, friends?

But I fancy I am acting the world, in its malevo⯑lence, as well as impertinence: That world, which thinks itſelf affronted by great and ſuperior merit; and takes delight to bring down exalted worth to its own level. But, at leaſt, you will collect from what I have written, an inſtance of my impartiality; and [361] ſee, that, tho' bound to Sir Charles by a tie of gra⯑titude which never can be diſſolved, I cannot excuſe him, if he be guilty of a diffidence and reſerve to his generous ſiſter, which ſhe is above ſhewing to him.

If I am allowed to be ſo happy, as to cultivate this deſirable acquaintance [And I hope it is not their way to leave thoſe whom they have relieved and raiſed, in order to ſhine upon, and bleſs only new objects of com⯑paſſion] then will I cloſely watch every ſtep of this excellent man; in hope, however, to find him as per⯑fect as report declares him, that I may fearleſly make him my theme, as I ſhall delight to make his ſiſter my example. And if I were to find any conſiderable faults in him, never fear, my dear, but my gratitude will enlarge my charity in his favour. But I ſhall, at the ſame time, arm my heart with thoſe remembred fail⯑ings, leſt my gratitude ſhould endanger it, and make me a hopeleſs fool.

Now, my uncle, do not be very hard on your niece. I am ſure, very ſure, that I am not in danger as yet: And indeed I will tell you, by my Lucy, whenever, I find out that I am. Spare, therefore, my dear uncle Selby, all your conjectural conſtructions.

And indeed you ſhould in pity ſpare me, my dear Sir, at preſent; for my ſpirits are ſtill weak: I have not yet forgiven myſelf for the maſquerade affair; eſpecially ſince Mr. Reeves has hinted to me, that Sir Charles Grandiſon (as he judges from what he dropt about that fooliſh amuſement) approves not of maſ⯑querades. And yet ſelf-partiality has ſuggeſted ſeveral ſtrong pleas in my favour; indeed by way of extenua⯑tion only. How my judge, CONSCIENCE, will de⯑termine upon thoſe pleas, when counſel has been heard on both ſides, I cannot ſay: Yet I think, that an acquittal from this brother and ſiſter, would go a great way to make my conſcience eaſy.

I have not ſaid one half of what I intended to ſay of this extraordinary man. But having imagined, from [262] the equal Love I have to his admirable ſiſter, that I had found ſomething to blame him for, my impartiality has carried me out of my path; and I know not how to recover it, without going a great way back. Let therefore what I have further to ſay, mingle in with my future narratives, as new occaſions call it forth.

But yet I will not ſuffer any other ſubject to inter⯑fere with that which fills my heart with the praiſes, the due praiſes of this worthy brother and ſiſter; to which I intended to conſecrate this rambling and very imperfect Letter: And which here I will conclude, with aſſurances (however needleſs I hope they are) of duty, Love, and gratitude, where ſo much due from

LETTER XXXVII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

NOW have I near a week to go back, my Lucy, with my current narrative, having been thrown behind-hand by the long Letters I have been obliged to write, to give you an account of my diſtreſs, of my deliverance, of the characters of this noble brother and ſiſter, and a multitude of coincidences and re⯑flexions, which all my dear friends expect, as they fall in, from the pen of their Harriet. And this Letter ſhall therefore be a kind of diary of that week; only that I will not repeat what my couſin Revees has told me he has written.

On Monday I was conducted home in ſafety, by my kind protector, and his amiable ſiſter.

Mrs. Reeves, Lady Betty, and Miſs Clements, are in Love with them both.

My couſin has told you, how much they diſap⯑pointed us, in declining to ſtay dinner. What ſhall we [263] do, if they are not as fond of our company as we are of theirs? We are not uſed to be ſlighted, you know: And to be ſlighted by thoſe we love, there can be no [...]earing of that. But I hope this will not be the caſe.

At tea, the name of Sir Rowland Meredith carried me inſtantly down.

Mr. Reeves had old the good Knight, on his calling on the Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and on this day, b [...]f [...]re we returned from Colnebrooke▪ that I had been over-fatigued at the Maſquerade on Thurſday night [And ſo I was]; and was gone a little way out of town. Ca [...]ried he ſhould have ſaid: I was carried with a w [...]tneſs!

Sir Rowland took notice, that I muſt have had a ſmart illneſs for the time, by my alter'd countenance. You are, and muſt be, ever lovely, Miſs Byron: But I think you look not quite ſo ſerene, you don't look ſo compoſed as you uſed to do. But I was afraid you were denied to my longing ſight. I was afraid you would let your papa go down to Caermarthen, without giving him an opportunity to bleſs his croſs girl. It is in vain, I fear, to urge you—He ſtopt, and look'd full in my face—Pray, Sir Rowland, ſaid I, how does my brother Fowler?

Why, ay, that's the duce of it! Your brother Fowler. But as the honeſt man ſays, ſo ſay I; I will not teaze you. But never, never, will you have—But no more of that—I come to take my leave of you. I ſhould have ſet out this very morning, could I have ſeen you on Saturday or Yeſterday. But I ſhall go to-morrow morning early. You are glad of that, madam, I am ſure.

Indeed, Sir Rowland, I ſhall always reſpect and value you. And I hope I ſhall have your good wiſhes, Sir—

Yes, yes, madam, you need not doubt it. And I will humble all the proud women in Wales, by telling them of Miſs Byron.

[264] You tell me, my Lucy, that you were all moved at one of the converſations I gave you between the Knight, Mr. Fowler, and myſelf.

Were I to be as particular in my account of what paſſed on Sir Rowland's taking leave of me, as I was on that other occaſion, and were you to judge by the effect his honeſt tenderneſs had on me, as I craved his bleſſing, and as he bleſſed me (the big tears, unheeded by himſelf, ſtraying down his reverend cheeks) I think you would have been in like manner affected.

Mr. Fowler is to go down after him—If—if—if, ſaid the Knight, looking fervently in my face—

I ſhould be glad, I ſaid, to ſee, and to wiſh my brother a good journey.

Tueſday morning early I had a kind enquiry after my reſt, from Miſs Grandiſon, in her brother's name, as well as in her own. And about eleven o'clock came the dear Lady herſelf. She would run up ſtairs to me, following Sally—In her dreſſing-room, ſay you?—She ſhall not come down.

She entered with the maid—Writing, my dear! ſaid ſhe. I one day hope, my Harriet, you will ſhew me all you write.—There, there (ſitting down by me) no buſtle. And how does my fair friend?—Well—I ſee very well—To a Lover—or of a Lover—that's the ſame thing.—

Thus, ſweetly familiar, ran ſhe on.

Mrs. Reeves entered: Excuſe me, madam, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon: This is but one of my flying viſits▪ as I call them: My next ſhall be to you. But perhaps I may not make it in form neither: We are relations, you know. How does Mr. Reeves? He is a good man. At home?—

He is, madam, and will be rejoiced—

I know he will—Why, madam, this our Byron, our Harriet, I ſhould ſay, looks charmingly!—You had beſt lock her up. There are many more Sir Har⯑grave's in the world, than there are Miſs Byron's.

[265] She told me, that Sir Charles had ſet out that morn⯑ing early for Canterbury. He will be abſent two or three days, ſaid ſhe. He charged me with his com⯑pliments. He did nothing but talk of his new-found ſiſter, from the time he parted with you. I ſhall pro⯑mote your intereſt with him, in order to ſtrengthen my own. I want to find him out.

Some love-engagements, I ſuppoſe, madam? ſaid Mrs. Reeves—It is impoſſible, but the Ladies—

The Ladies! Ay, that's the thing▪ The duce is in them! They will not ſtay to be aſked. Theſe men, the beſt of them, love nothing but what is attended with difficulty. But all his Love-matters he keeps to himſelf; yet knows all mine—Except one little entan⯑glement—Mr. Reeves hears not what we ſay (looking about her): But you, my dear, ſhall reveal to me your ſneaking paſſion, if you have one, and I will diſcover mine—But not to you, Mrs. Reeves. No married women ſhall I truſt with what lies in the innermoſt fold of my heart. Your huſbands are always the wiſer for what you know; tho' they can keep their own counſel; and then, Harriet, Satan-like, the ungene⯑rous wretches, becoming both tempters and accuſers, laugh at us, and make it wonderful for a woman to keep a ſecret.

The Ladies will not ſtay to be aſked, Lucy!—An odd hint!—Theſe men, the beſt of them, love nothing but what comes to them with difficulty.—He keeps all his Love matters to himſelf. ALL, my Lucy!—But in⯑deed ſhe had ſaid before, that if Sir Charles married, half a dozen hearts would be broken!

This is nothing to me indeed. But, once more, I wonder why a man of a turn ſo laudable, ſhould have any ſecrets? The more a good man permits any one to know of his heart, the more good he might do, by way of example.—And has he, can he have, ſo many Love-ſecrets, and yet will he not let them tran⯑ſpire to ſuch a ſiſter?—Whom (and ſo ſhe once hinted) [266] it imported to know ſomething of them. But, he knows beſt. I am very impertinent to be more con⯑cerned for his ſiſter, than ſhe is for herſelf. But I do love her. And one can no more bear to have thoſe ſlighted whom we love, than one's ſelf.

It is very difficult, Lucy, to know one's ſelf. I am afraid I have a little ſpice of cenſoriouſneſs in my tem⯑per, which I knew nothing of till now: But, no, it is not cenſoriouſneſs neither: I cannot be ſo mean, as to be cenſorious: And yet I can now, methinks (for the firſt time) a little account for thoſe dark ſpirits who may be too much obliged; and who, deſpairing to be able ever to return the obligation, are ready to quarrel with the obliger.

Spiteful men ſay, that we women know not our⯑ſelves; know not our own hearts. I believe there is ſomething of truth in the aſperſion: But as men and women are brothers and ſiſters, as I may ſay, are not the men equally cenſurable? And ſhould not we wo⯑men ſay ſo, were we to be as ſpiteful as they? Muſt it needs be, that a daughter of the ſame father and mo⯑ther muſt be more ſilly, more unſteady, more abſurd, more impertinent, than her brother?—I hope not.

Mrs. Reeves not knowing, as ſhe ſaid afterwards, but Miſs Grandiſon might have ſomething to ſay to me, withdrew.

I believe I told you laſt Sunday, ſaid Miſs Gran⯑diſon, of a couſin that we have: A good-natured young fellow: He ſupped with us laſt night. Sir Charles was ſo full of your praiſes, yet not letting him into your hiſtory, that he is half-wild to ſee you.

God forbid, thought I, when ſhe had gone only thus far, that this couſin ſhould be propoſed—What an eaſy thing is it, my Lucy, to alarm a woman on the ſide of her vanity!

He breakfaſted with me this morning, continued ſhe, after Sir Charles had ſet out; and knowing that I intended to make you a flying viſit, he beſought me [267] to take him with me: But I would not, my dear, bring an inundation of new admirers upon you: He has a great acquaintance; and is very hold, tho' not indecent: He is thought to be a modern wit, you muſt know; and, to ſpeak after an admirable writer, a minute philoſopher; and thinks he has ſomething to ſay for himſelf when his couſin is not preſent. Be⯑fore Sir Charles arrived, and when we were in ex⯑pectation of his coming, being appris'd that Sir Charles had a ſerious turn, he threatened to play upon him, and, as he phraſed it, to bamboozle him; for theſe wits and witlings have a language peculiar to themſelves. But on Sir Charles's arrival, in two con⯑verſations, he drew in his horns, as we ſay; and now reverences thoſe good qualities which, however, he has not the grace to imitate. Now I will not anſwer, but you may have a viſit from him, to ſee the lovelieſt woman in England. If he comes, ſee him, or not, as you pleaſe; and think not yourſelf under any civil obligation to my brother, or me, to go out of your own way: But I hope he will not be ſo impertinent. I don't wiſh you to ſee him out of my brother's com⯑pany; becauſe you will ſee him then to his own ad⯑vantage. And yet he has ſuch a notion that we wo⯑men love to be admired, and to have handſome things ſaid to us, that he imagines, the viſit of a man, made for that purpoſe, will give him as free a welcome to the fineſt woman in the world, as painters give to thoſe who come to ſee their pictures, and for the like reaſon. But no more of Mr. Grandiſon. Yet I thought proper to prepare you, if he ſhould take ſo confident a liberty.

I thanked her.

Well but, my dear, you ſeem to have a long parcel of writing before you: One, two, three, four—Eight leaves—Upon my word!—But Mr. Reeves told me you are a writer; and that you gave an account of all that befel you, to our grandmother Shirley, to our [268] uncle and aunt Selby, to our couſins Lucy and Nancy—You ſee I remember every name: And will you one day let me ſee what you write?

Moſt willingly, madam—

Madam! interrupted ſhe. So formal! Charlotte ſay. With all my heart, my ever-amiable, my ever⯑kind, Charlotte.

So, ſo—Well may the men ſay, we love flattery, when rather than want it, we will flatter one another.

I was going to diſclaim flattery: Huſh, huſh, huſh, my dear, I doubt not your ſincerity. You are a grate⯑ful and good girl: But dare you, will you, ſhew me all and every-thing about that Greville, that Orme, that Fowler, that Fenwick?—You ſee, I forget none of the names that your couſin Reeves told me of on Saturday laſt, and which I made you talk of laſt Sun⯑day.

All and every-thing, Miſs Grandiſon: But will you tell me of your gentleman?

Will I! No doubt of it: How can young women be together one quarter of an hour, and not lead one another into talk of their Lovers! Lord, my dear, thoſe ſecrets, Sir Charles once ſaid, are the cement of young womens friendſhips.

And could Sir Charles—

Could Sir Charles!—Yes, yes, yes. Do you think a man can be a judge of human nature, and leave women out of the queſtion? Why, my dear, he finds us out in a minute. Take care of yourſelf, Har⯑riet—If—

I ſhall be afraid of him—

What if you have a good conſcience, my dear!—She then looked very archly. She made me bluſh. She look'd more archly. I bluſh'd, I believe, a deeper dye.

Did I not tell you, Lucy, that ſhe could do what ſhe pleaſed with her eyes?—But what did ſhe mean by this?

[269] In my conſcience, my Harriet, little or much, I believe we women are all rogues in our hearts.

And does Miſs Grandiſon ſay that from her own conſcience?

I believe I do: But I muſt fly: I have ten more viſits to pay before I go home to dreſs. You will tell me all about your fellows, you ſay?

And you will tell me about your entanglement, as you called it.

Why that's a difficulty upon me: But you muſt encourage me by your freedom, and we will take up our wretches and lay them down again, one by one, as we run them over, and bid them lie ſtill and be quiet till we recal them to our memory.

But I have not one Lover, my Charlotte, to tell you of: I always gave them their diſmiſſion—

And I have but two, that at preſent I care to own; and they won't be diſmiſſed: But then I have half a dozen, I believe, that have ſaid extravagant things to me; and we muſt look upon them as Lovers elect, you know, who, only want to be coquetted with.

Miſs Grandiſon, I hope, cannot think of coquet⯑ting?

Not much: only a little now-and-then, to pay the men in their own coin.

Charming vivacity! ſaid I. I ſhall be undone, if you don't love me.

No fear, no fear of that!—I am a whimſical crea⯑ture; but the ſun is not more conſtant in his courſe than I am ſteady in my friendſhips. And theſe com⯑munications on both ſides will rivet us to each other, if you treat me not with reſerve.

She aroſe to go in a hurry. Abate, my bear Char⯑lotte, of half your other viſits, and favour me with your company a little longer.

Give me ſome chocolate then; and let me ſee your couſin Reeves's: I like them. Of the ten viſits, ſix of the ladies will be gone to ſales, or to plague tradeſmen, [270] and buy nothing: Any-where rather than at home: The devil's at home, is a phraſe: And our modern ladies live as if they thought ſo. Two of the other four called upon me, and hardly alighted: I ſhall do ſo by them. The other two I ſhall have paid my com⯑pliments to in one quarter of an hour.

I rang for chocolate; and to beg my couſins com⯑pany.

They wanted but the word; In they came. My apartment (which the was pleaſed to admire) then be⯑came the ſubject of a few moments converſation: And then a much better took place: Sir Charles, I mean.

I aſked, if her brother had any relations at Can⯑terbury?

I proteſt I don't know, ſaid ſhe: But this I know, That I have none there. Did I not hint to you, that Sir Charles has his ſecrets?—But he ſometimes loves to play with my curioſity: He knows, I have a rea⯑ſonable quantity of that.

Were I his ſiſter—

Then you muſt do as he would have you, Harriet. I know him to be ſteady in his purpoſes: But he is beſides ſo good, that I give up any-thing to oblige him—

Your entanglement, Charlotte? aſked I, ſmiling. Mr. Reeves knows nothing from that word.

Why, yes, my entanglement; and yet I hate to think of it: So no more of that. It is the only ſecret I have kept from him; and that is, becauſe he has no ſuſpicion of the matter: if he had, tho' my life were to be the forfeit, I believe he would have it.

She told us, that ſhe expected us ſoon to dine with her in St. James's Square: But that ſhe muſt fix Sir Charles. I hope, ſaid ſhe, you will often drop in upon me; as I will upon you. From this time, we will have nothing but converſation-viſits between us; and we will leave the modern world to themſelves; and be Queen Elizabeth's women. I am ſorry to tell you—Let me whiſper it.—

[271] And ſhe did; but loud enough for every one to hear: Altho' I follow the faſhion, and make one fool the more for it, I deſpiſe above one half of the wo⯑men I know.

Miſs Grandiſon, affectedly whiſpered I again, ſhould not do ſo; becauſe her example is of weight enough to mend them.

I'll be hang'd if Miſs Byron thinks ſo, re-whiſper'd ſhe. The age is too far gone. Nothing but a national calamity can do it. But let me tell you, that, at the ſame time, I deſpiſe more than one half of the men. But, ſpeaking out, you and I will try to think our⯑ſelves wiſer than any-body elſe; and we ſhall have this comfort, we ſhall not eaſily find any of our ſex, who by their ſuperior wiſdom will give us reaſon to think ourſelves miſtaken.

But adieu, adieu, and adieu, my agreeable friends! Let me ſee you, and you, and you, turning to each of the three, as often as is convenient, without cere⯑mony: And remember we have been acquainted theſe hundred years.

Away ſhe hurried, forbidding me to go out of my apartment. Mrs. Reeves could not overtake her. Mr. Reeves had much ado to be in time to make his com⯑pliments. She was in her chariot before he could offer his hand.

How pretty it was, my Lucy, in Miſs Grandiſon, to remember the names of all my dear friends! She told me indeed, on Sunday, that ſhe ſhould.

If travelling into foreign countries gives eaſe and politeneſs, would not one think that Miſs Grandiſon has viſited every European court, as well as her bro⯑ther? If ſhe has not, was it neceſſary for Sir Charles to go abroad to acquire that freedom and eaſe which his ſiſter has ſo happily attained without ſtirring out of the kingdom?

Theſe men had not beſt deſpiſe us, Lucy. There is not, I hope, ſo much difference in the genius's of [272] the two ſexes as the proud ones among theirs are apt to imagine; eſpecially when you draw compariſons from equal degrees in both.

O Mr. Walden, take care of yourſelf, if ever again you and I meet at Lady Betty's!—But this abominable Sir Hargrave! Not one word more of meeting at Lady Betty's! There ſaw I firſt the wretch that ſtill, on recollection, ſtrikes terror into my heart.

Wedneſday, a viſit from Miſs Clements and Lady Betty took me off my writing about two hours; yet I over-writ myſelf, and was obliged to lie down for about two more. At night we had Sir John Alleſtree, and his nephew, and Miſs Alleſtree, and Miſs Cle⯑ments, and Lady Betty, at ſupper, and cards. But, my ſtomach paining me, about eleven I was permit⯑ted to retire to bed.

On Thurſday I finiſhed my Letters, relating my diſtreſſes, and deliverance. It was a dreadful ſubject. I rejoiced when I had concluded it.

The ſame day Mr. Reeves received Sir Charles's Letter, incloſing that of the wretched Wilſon. I have of⯑ten heard my grandfather obſerve, that men of truly great and brave ſpirits are moſt tender and merciful; and that, on the contrary, men of baſe and low minds are cruel, tyrannical, inſolent, where-ever they have power. What this ſhort Letter, ſo full of lenity, of mercy, of generous and humane care for the future good of a criminal, and extended to unborn families, as well as to all his acquaintance and friends in being, enables one to judge of the truly heroic Sir Charles Grandiſon; and what I have experienced of the low, groveling, unmanly inſults of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen (I a poor defenceleſs ſilly girl, trick'd into his power); are flagrant proofs of the juſtice of the obſervation.

I wiſh, with all my heart, that the beſt woman in the world were queen of a great nation; and that it were in my power, for the ſake of enlarging Sir Charles's ability to do good, to make him her conſort: Then [273] am I morally ſure, that I ſhould be the humble means of making a whole people happy!

But as we had all been informed from other hands, of Sir Hargrave's threatnings of Sir Charles's life, Wil⯑ſon's poſtſcript has faſtened a weight on my heart, that will not be removed till the danger is overblown.

This day I had Miſs Grandiſon's compliments, with tender enquiries, brought me; and a deſire, that as ſhe ſuppoſed my firſt viſit would be one of thankful duty, meaning to Church (for ſo I had told her it ſhould) my next might be to her.

Yeſterday I received the welcome packet, from ſo many kind friends: And I proſecuted with the more vigour, for it, my writing-taſk. How eaſily do we glide into ſubjects that pleaſe us!—How ſwiftly flies the pen!—The characters of Sir Charles and of Miſs Grandiſon were the ſubjects; and I was amazed to find how much I had written in ſo ſhort a time.

Miſs Grandiſon ſent me in the evening of this day her compliments, joined with thoſe of her brother, who was but juſt returned from Canterbury.

I wonder what Sir Charles could do at Canterbury ſo many days, and to have nobody there whom his ſiſter knows.

She would have made me a viſit, ſhe ſent me word; but that as ſhe expected her brother in the morning, ſhe had intended to have brought him with her. She added, that this morning (Saturday) they ſhould both ſet out for Colnebrooke, in hopes of the Earl and Coun⯑teſs of L. arriving there as this night from Scotland.

Do you think, Lucy, it would not have been ge⯑nerous in Sir Charles to have made one viſit, before he ſet out for ſo many days, to that Canterbury, to the creature on whom he had laid ſuch an obligation? I can only mean as to the civility of the thing, you muſt think; ſince he was ſo good to join in, nay, to propoſe, the farther intimacy, as a brother, and friend, and ſo-forth—I wiſh that Sir Charles be as ſincere in [274] his profeſſions as his ſiſter. He may in his travels (poſ⯑ſibly he may) have miſtaken ſome gay weeds for fine flowers, and pick'd them up, and brought them with him to England: And yet, if he has done ſo, he will, even then, be ſuperior to thouſands, who travel, and bring home nothing, but the weeds of foreign cli⯑mates.

He once ſaid, as Miſs Grandiſon told me, that the Counteſs of L. is ſtill a more excellent woman than my Charlotte. Ah! Sir Charles! You can tell fibs, I believe. I will not forgive in you, thoſe ſlighter de⯑viations, which we are too apt to paſs by in other, even tolerable, men.

I wiſh you may be in earneſt, my good Sir, in pro⯑poſing to cultivate an intimate friendſhip with me, as that of a brother to a ſiſter [Shake your head, my Lucy, if you will, I mean no more] that I may be intitled to tell you your faults, as I ſee them. In your ſiſter Harriet, you ſhall find, tho' a reſpectful, yet an open⯑eyed monitor. Our Charlotte thinks you cannot be wrong in any-thing.

All I fear is, that Sir Charles's tenderneſs was deſign⯑ed to be excited, only while my ſpirits were weak. Yet he beſpoke a brotherly relation to me, before Mr. Reeves, when he brought me home, and ſuppoſed me ſtolen from his family in my infancy. That was going farther than was neceſſary, if he thought to drop the fraternal character ſoon.

But might not my own behaviour alarm him? The kind, the conſiderate man, is perhaps compaſſionate in his intention. Not diſtinguiſhing aright my baſh⯑ful gratitude, and down-caſt eye, he might be afraid, leſt I ſhould add one to the half-ſcore, that his ſiſter ſays, will die if he marry.

If this be ſo, what, my dear, will your Harriet de⯑ſerve, if his caution does not teach her ſome?

After all, I believe, theſe men in general, think our hearts are made of ſtrange combuſtible materials. A [275] ſpark ſtruck, a match thrown in—But the beſt of men, this admirable man, will, I hope, find himſelf miſtaken, if he think ſo of your Harriet.

What ails me, that I am grown ſuch a boaſter! Surely, this horrid attempt of Sir Hargrave has not affected my brain. Methinks I am not, ſome how or other, as I uſed to be in my head, or heart, I know not which.

Do you, Lucy, bring me back again, by your reminding Love, if you think there is any alteration in your Harriet, for the worſe: And the rather, as it may prevent my uncle—

But what makes me ſo much more afraid of my uncle, than I uſed to be?—Yet men▪ in their raillery, [Don't, however, read this paragraph to him] are ſo—I don't know how—ſo un-tender—But let me fall into the hands of my indulgent grandmamma, and aunt Selby, and into your gentle hands, and all will be as it ſhould be.

But what was my ſubject, before this laſt ſeized, and ran away with, my pen? I did not uſe to wander thus, when I had a beaten path before me. O this vile, vile Sir Hargrave! if I have a fault in my head, that did not uſe to be there, it is entirely owing to him. I am ſure my heart is not wrong.

But I can write nothing now but of Miſs Grandiſon and her brother. What entirely new ſcenes are opened to me by my diſtreſs?—May I have cauſe, as Sir Charles wiſhed, to reap good from the evil!

I will endeavour to bring Miſs Clements into an acquaintance with theſe worthie [...]; that is to ſay, if I have myſelf the intereſt to preſerve my footing in their favour.

Lady Betty reſolves to recommend herſelf. She will be acquainted with them, ſhe ſays, whether they will or not. And yet I could not bear for Lady Betty that ſhe ſhould be ſlighted by thoſe whom ſhe dotes upon▪ That, ſurely, is one of the heavieſt of evils▪ [276] And yet ſelf-love, where it is evidently inherent, will enable one to get over it, I believe, pretty ſoon; tho' nothing but that and pride can, in ſuch. Of ſome uſe therefore, you'll be apt to ſay, are pride and ſelf-love; Why, yes, and ſo they are, where they are a part of a perſon's habit. But, O my Lucy, will not a native humility render this pride, whoſe genuine offspring are reſentment and ill-will, abſolutely unneceſſary, and procure for us, unmingled with mortification, the eſteem we wiſh for in the hearts of the worthy?

As to the reſt of my new acquaintance in town, who, till I knew this admirable ſiſter and brother, took up ſo much of my paper, tho' ſome of them are doubtleſs very worthy; Adieu—That is to ſay, as choſen ſub⯑jects,—Adieu! ſays

LETTER XXXVIII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

LORD have mercy upon me, my dear!—What ſhall I do?—The vile Sir Hargrave has ſent a challenge to Sir Charles!—What may be the event!—O that I had not come to London!—This is a copy of the letter, that communicates it. It is from that Bagenhall. But this is the copy of the Letter—I will endeavour to tranſcribe it—But, no, I cannot—My Sally ſhall write it over. Lord bleſs me! What ſhall I do?

O MY dear! What a Letter!—Mr. Reeves, Mrs. Reeves, are grieved to the heart. Mr. Reeves ſays, that if Sir Hardgrave inſiſts upon it, Sir Charles is ob⯑liged, in honour, to meet him—Murderous, vile word honour! What, at this rate, is honour! The very oppoſite to duty, goodneſs, piety, religion; and to every thing that is or ought to be ſacred among men.

How ſhall I look Miſs Grandiſon in the face? Miſs Grandiſon will hate me! To be again the occaſion of endangering the life of ſuch a brother!

But, what do you think?—Lady Betty is of opinion—Mr. Reeves has conſulted Lady Betty Williams, in confidence—Lady Betty ſays, that if the matter can be prevented—Lord bleſs me! ſhe ſays, I ought to prevent it!—What! by becoming the wife of ſuch a [279] man as Sir Hargrave! ſo unmanly, ſo malicious, ſo low a wretch!—What does Lady Betty mean?—Yet were it in my power to ſave the life of Sir Charles Grandiſon, and I refuſed to do it; for ſelfiſh reaſons refuſed, for the ſake of my worldly happineſs; when there are thouſands of good wives, who are miſerable with bad huſbands—But will not the ſacrifice of my life be accepted by this ſanguinary man! That, with all my heart, would I make no ſcruple to lay down. If the wretch will plunge a dagger in my boſom, and take that for ſatisfaction, I will not heſitate one mo⯑ment.

But my couſin ſaid, that he was of opinion, that Sir Charles would hardly be brought to aſk pardon. How can I doubt, ſaid I, that the vile man, if he may be induced by this Bagenhall to compromiſe on my being his wife, will diſpenſe with that punctilio, and wreak on me, were I to be his unhappy property, his whole unmanly vengeance? Is he not ſpiteful, mean, malicious?—But, abhorred be the thought of my yeild⯑ing to be the wife of ſuch a man!—Yet, what is the alternative? Were I to die, that wretched alternative would ſtill take place: His malice to the beſt of men would rather be whetted than blunted, by my irrevo⯑cable deſtiny! O my Lucy! violent as my grief was, dreadful as my apprehenſions were, and unmanly as the treatment I met with from the baſe man, I never was diſtreſs'd till now!

But ſhould Miſs Grandiſon adviſe, ſhould ſhe inſiſt upon my compliance with the abhorred condition (and has ſhe not a right to inſiſt upon it, for the ſake of the ſafety of her innocent brother?) can I then refuſe my compliance with it?—Are we not taught, that this world is a ſtate of trial, and of mortification? And is not calamity neceſſary to wean our vain hearts from it? And if my motive be a motive of juſtice and gratitude, and to ſave a life much more valuable to the world than my own; and which, but for me, [280] had not been in danger—Ought I—And yet—Ah! my Lucy, what can I ſay?—How unhappy! that I cannot conſult this dear lady, who has ſuch an intereſt in a life ſo precious, as I might have done, had ſhe been in town?

O Lucy! What an anſwer, as this unwelcome, this wicked mediator gives it, was that which the excel⯑lent man returned to the delivered challenge—‘"I am going to meet dear friends on their return from Scot⯑land!"’ What a meeting of joy will be here ſad⯑dened over, if they know of this ſhocking challenge! And how can his noble heart overflow with pleaſure on the joyful occaſion, as it would otherwiſe have done with ſuch an important event in ſuſpenſe, that may make it the laſt meeting which this affectionate and moſt worthy of families will ever know! How near may be the life of this dear brother to a period, when he congratulates the ſafe arrival of his brother and ſiſter! And who can bear to think of ſeeing, ere one week is over-paſt, the now rejoicing and harmo⯑nious family, clad in mourning for the firſt of brothers, and firſt of men? And I, my Lucy, I, the wretched Harriet Byron, to be the cauſe of all!

And could the true hero ſay, ‘"That the pleaſure he ſhould have on meeting his long abſent friends would not permit him to think of the contents of ſuch a Letter, till Monday; but that then the writer ſhould not fail of ſuch an anſwer—as a gentleman ought to give?"’—O my dear Sir Charles! [on this occaſion, he is, and ought to be, very dear to me] How I dread the anſwer which vile cuſtom, and falſe honour, will oblige you, as a gentleman, to give! And is there no way with honour to avoid giving ſuch an anſwer, as diſtracts me to be told (as Mr. Reeves tells me) muſt be given, if I, your Harriet, interpoſe not, to the ſa⯑crifice of all my happineſs in this life?

But Mr. Reeves aſks, May not this Bagenhall, tho' he ſays Sir Hargrave knows nothing of his writing, [281] have written in concert with him?—What if he has, does not the condition remain? And will not the re⯑ſentment, on the refuſal, take place?—And is not the challenge delivered into Sir Charles's hands? And has he not declared, that he will ſend an anſwer to it on Monday? This is carrying the matter beyond contri⯑vance, or ſtratagem. Sir Charles, ſo challenged, will not let the challenger come off ſo eaſily. He cannot, in real honour, now, make propoſals for qualifying; or accepting of them, if made to him. And is not Monday the next day but one?—Only that day be⯑tween, for which I had been preparing my grateful heart to return my ſilent praiſes to the Almighty, in the place dedicated to his honour, for ſo ſignal a deliver⯑ance! And now is my ſafety to be owing, as it may happen, to a much better perſon's deſtruction!

I was obliged to lay down my pen.—See how the bliſter'd paper—It is too late to ſend away this Letter: If it were not, it would be barbarous to torment you with it, while the dreadful ſuſpenſe holds.

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LETTER XL. Mrs. SELBY, To Miſs HARRIET BYRON.

ALTHO' we have long ago taken a reſolution, ne⯑ver to dictate to your choice; yet we could not excuſe ourſelves, if we did not acquaint you with any propoſal that is made to us, on your account, that you might encourage it, or otherwiſe, as you thought fit.

The dowager Lady D. wrote me a Letter ſome time ago (as you will ſee by the date): But inſiſted, that I [299] ſhould keep the contents a ſecret in my own boſom, till ſhe gave me leave to reveal it. She has now given me that leave, and requeſted that I will propoſe the matter to you. I have ſince ſhewn what has paſſed between her Ladyſhip and me, to your grandmamma, Mr. Selby, and Lucy. They are all ſilent upon it; for the ſame reaſons, that I give you not my opinion; that is to ſay, till you aſk it.

But do we not ſee, my deareſt child, that ſomething has happened, within a very few days paſt, that muſt diſtance the hope of every one of your admirers, as they come to be acquainted with the circumſtances and ſituation you are now in? My dear love, you will never be able to reſiſt the impulſes of that gratitude which always opened and expanded your worthy heart.

Your uncle's tenderneſs for you, on ſuch a proſpect, has made him ſuppreſs his inclination to railly you. He profeſſes to pity you, my dear. While, ſays he, the ſweet girl was vaunting herſelf, and refuſing this man, and diſmiſſing that; and imagining herſelf out of the reach of the deity, to which ſooner or later, all women bow, I ſpared her not: But now, that I ſee ſhe is likely to be over head and ears in the paſſion, and has ſo much to be ſaid for her excuſe if ſhe is caught: and as our ſide muſt perhaps be the hoping ſide, the gentleman's the triumphant; I pitty her too much for what may be the eaſe, to teaze her with my animadverſions; eſpecially after what ſhe has ſuffered from the vile Sir Hargrave.

By ſeveral hints in your Letters, it is impoſſible, my dear, that we can be beforehand with your inclinations. Young women in a beginning Love are always willing to conceal themſelves from themſelves; they are deſi⯑rous to ſmother the fire, before they will call out for help, till it blazes, and frequently becomes too power⯑ful to be extinguiſhed by any help. They will call the paſſion by another name; as, gratitude, ſuppoſe: But, my Harriet, gratitude ſo properly ſounded as yours [300] is, can be but another name for Love. The object ſo worthy, your own heart ſo worthy, conſent of minds muſt bring it to Love on one ſide; perhaps on both, if the half ſcore of Ladies you have heard of, are all of them but mere moderns. But that, my dear, is not to be ſuppoſed; ſince worthy hearts find out, and aſſimilate with, each other. Indeed, thoſe Ladies may be ſuch as are captivated with outward figure. An handſome man need not to have the great qualities of a Sir Charles Grandiſon, to engage the hearts of the generality of our Sex. But a good man, and an hand⯑ſome man, if he has the vivacity that diſtinguiſhes Sir Charles, may marry whom he pleaſes. If we women love an handſome man, for the ſake of our eye, we muſt be poor creatures indeed, if we love not good men, for the ſake of our hearts.

What makes us apprehenſive for you, my Harriet is this: That we every one of us, are in Love ourſelves with this fine young gentleman. Your uncle has fallen in with Mr. Dawſon, an attorney of Notting⯑ham, who acts for Sir Charles in ſome of his affairs; and gives him ſuch a character, reſpecting his goodneſs to his tenants and dependents only, as will render cre⯑dible all that even the fondeſt Love, and warmeſt gra⯑titude, can ſay in his praiſe.

We can hardly ſometimes tell how to regret (tho' your accounts of your ſufferings and danger cut us to the heart as we read them) the baſe attempt of Sir Har⯑grave: Were all to end as we wiſh, we ſhould not regret it: But that, my Harriet, is our fear. What will become of me, ſaid your grandmamma, if, at laſt, the darling of my heart ſhould be entangled in an hopeleſs paſſion?

If this is likely to be the caſe, while the fire I ſpoke of is but ſmothering, and while but here and there a ſpark eſcapes your ſtrugging efforts to keep it down, reſolve, my dear, to throw cold water on it, and quench it quite. And how is this to be done, but [301] by changing your perſonal friendſhip with the amiable family, into a correſpondence by pen and ink, and returning to our longing arms, before the flame gets a head?

When you are with us, you may either give hope to the worthy Orme, or encourage the propoſal I in⯑cloſe, as you pleaſe.

As you are not capable of the mean pride of ſeeing a number of men in your train, and have always been uneaſy at the perſeverance of Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Greville—As you have ſuffered ſo much from the natural goodneſs of your heart, on the urgency of that honeſt man Sir Rowland Meredith in his nephew's favour; and ſtill more from the baſeneſs of that wicked Sir Hargrave—As your good character, and lovely perſon, engage you more and more admirers—And, laſtly, As it would be the higheſt comfort that your grandmamma and your uncle, and I, and all your friends and well-wiſhers, could know, to ſee you hap⯑pily married—We cannot but wiſh for this pleaſure and ſatisfaction: The ſooner you give it to us, the better.

But could there be any hope—You know what I mean—A royal diadem, my dear, would be a deſpi⯑cable thing in the compariſon.

Adieu, my beſt Love. You are called upon, in my opinion, to a greater trial than ever yet you knew, of that prudence for which you have hitherto been ſo much applauded by every one, and particularly by

LETTER XLI. From the Counteſs Dowager of D. To Mrs. SELBY. Incloſed in the preceding.

GIVE me leave, madam, to addreſs myſelf to you, tho' perſonally unknown, on a very particular [302] occaſion; and, at the ſame time, to beg of you to keep ſecret, even from Mr. Selby, and the party to be named as ſtill more immediately concerned in the ſubject, till I give my conſent; as no one creature of my family, not even the Earl of D. my ſon, does, or ſhall from me, till you approve of it.

My Lord has juſt entered into his twenty-fifth year. There are not many better young men among the no⯑bility. His minority gave an opportunity to me, and his other Truſtees, to put him in poſſeſſion, when he came of age, of a very noble and clear eſtate; which he has not impaired. His perſon is not to be found fault with. He has learning, and is allowed to have good ſenſe, which every learned man has not. His conduct, his diſcretion, in his travels, procured him reſpect and reputation abroad. You may make en⯑quiry privately of all theſe matters.

We are, you muſt believe, very ſollicitous to have him happily married. He is far from being an un⯑dutiful ſon. Indeed he was always dutiful. A dutiful ſon gives very promiſing hopes of making a good huſband. He aſſures me that his affections are diſ⯑engaged, and that he will pay the moſt particular re⯑gard to my recommendation.

I have caſt about for a ſuitable wife for him. I look farther than to the perſon of a woman; tho' my Lord will by no means have Beauty left out in the qualifica⯑tions of a wife. I look to the family to whom a Lady owes her education and training-up. Quality, how⯑ever, I ſtand not upon. A man of quality, you know, confers quality on his wife. An antient and good gentleman's family is all I am ſollicitous about in this reſpect. In this light, yours, madam, on all ſides, and for many deſcents, is unexceptionable. I have a de⯑ſire, if all things ſhall be found to be mutually agree⯑able, to be related to it: And your character, as the young Lady has been brought up under your eye, is a great inducement with me.

[303] Your niece Byron's beauty, and merits, as well as ſweetneſs of temper, are talked of by every-body. Not a Day paſſes, but we hear of her to her great ad⯑vantage. Now, madam, will you be pleaſed to anſwer me one quſtion, with that explicitneſs which the importance of the caſe, and my own intended expli⯑citneſs to you, may require from woman to woman? Eſpecially, as I aſk it of you in confidence.

Are then Miſs Byron's affections abſolutely diſen⯑gaged? We are very nice, and muſt not doubt in this matter.

This is the only queſtion I will aſk at preſent. If this can be anſwered as I wiſh, others, in a treaty of this important nature, will come into conſideration on both ſides.

The favour of a line, as ſoon as it will ſuit your con⯑venience, will oblige, madam,

LETTER XLII. Mrs. SELBY, To the Counteſs Dowager of D.

I AM greatly obliged to your Ladyſhip for your good opinion of me, and for the honour you do me, and all our family, in the propoſed alliance.

I will anſwer your Ladyſhip's queſtion with the re⯑quiſite explicitneſs.

Mr. Greville, Mr. Orme, and Mr. Fenwick, all of this county, have reſpectively made application to us for our intereſt, and to Miſs Byron for her favour: But hitherto without effect; tho' the terms each pro⯑poſes might entitle him to conſideration.

Miſs Byron profeſſes to honour the married ſtate, and one day propoſes to make ſome man happy in it, if it be not his own fault: But declares, that ſhe has [304] not yet ſeen the man to whom with her hand ſhe can give her heart.

In truth, madam, we are all neutrals on this oc⯑caſion. We have the higheſt opinion of her diſcre⯑tion. She has read, ſhe has converſed; and yet there is not in the county a better houſewife, or one who would make a more prudent manager in a family. We are all fond of her, even to doting. Were ſhe not our child, we ſhould love her for her good qua⯑lities, and ſweetneſs of manners, and a frankneſs that has few examples among young women.

Permit me, madam, to add one thing; about which Miſs Byron, in her turn, will be very nice. Your Ladyſhip is pleaſed to ſay, that my Lord's af⯑fections are diſengaged. Were his Lordſhip a prince, and hoped to ſucceed with her, they muſt not be ſo, after he had ſeen and converſed with her. Yet the future happineſs, and not pride, would be the conſi⯑deration with her; for ſhe has that diffidence in her own merits, from which the worthy of both Sexes cannot be totally free. This diffidence would increaſe too much for her happineſs, were ſhe to be thought of with indifference by any man on earth, who hoped to be more than indifferent to her.

As to other queſtions, which, as this is anſwered, your Ladyſhip thinks may come to be aſked, I chooſe un-aſked (having no reſerves) to acquaint your Lady⯑ſhip that Miſs Byron has not, in her own power, quite 15,000l. She has, 'tis true, reverſionary expectations: But we none of us wiſh that they ſhould for many years take place; ſince that muſt be by the death of Mrs. Shirley, her grandmother, who is equally revered and beloved by all that know her; and whoſe life is bound up in the happineſs of her grand-daughter.

I will ſtrictly obey your Ladyſhip in the ſecrecy en⯑joined; and am, madam,

LETTER XLIII. From the Counteſs Dowager of D. To Mrs. SELBY.

I SHOULD ſooner have anſwered yours, had I not waited for the return of my ſon, who had taken a little journey into Wales, to look into the condition of a ſmall eſtate he has there; which he finds capable of great improvement; and about which he has given proper orders.

I took the firſt opportunity to queſtion him in rela⯑tion to his inclinations to marriage, and whether he had a regard to any particular woman: And having received an anſwer to my wiſhes, I mentioned Miſs Byron to him, as a young Lady that I ſhould think, from the general good character ſhe bore, would make him an excellent wife.

He ſaid, he had heard her much talked of, and al⯑ways to her advantage. I then ſhewed him, as in confidence, my Letter, and your Anſwer. There can be, ſaid I (on purpoſe to try him) but one objection on your part; and that is fortune: 15000l. to a noble⯑man, who is poſſeſſed of 12000l. a year, and has been offered four times the portion, may be thought very inadequate. The leſs to be ſtood upon, replied he, where the fortune on my ſide is ſo conſiderable. The very anſwer, my dear Mrs. Selby, that I wiſhed him to make.

I aſked him, if I ſhould begin a formal treaty with you, upon what he ſaid. He anſwered, that he had heard from every mouth, ſo much ſaid in praiſe of Miſs Byron's mind, as well as perſon, that he deſired I would; and that I would directly endeavour to ob⯑tain leave for him to viſit the young Lady.

I propoſe it accordingly. I underſtand, that ſhe is at preſent in London. I leave it to your choice, ma⯑dam, [306] and Mrs. Shirley's, and Mr. Selby's (to whom now, as alſo to Miſs Byron, you will be ſo good as to communicate the affair) whether you will ſend for her down to receive my Lord's viſit and mine; or whe⯑ther we ſhall wait on her in town.

I propoſe very high ſatisfaction to myſelf, if the young people approve of each other, in an alliance ſo much to my wiſhes in every reſpect. I ſhall love the Counteſs of D. as well as any of you can do Miſs Byron. And as ſhe has not at preſent a mother, I ſhall with pleaſure ſupply that tender relation to her, for the ſake of ſo many engaging qualities, as com⯑mon fame, as well as good Mrs. Selby, ſays ſhe is miſtreſs of.

You will diſpatch an anſwer as to the interview. I am impatient for it. I depend much upon the frank⯑neſs of the young Lady, which you make a part of her agreeable character. And am, madam,

LETTER XLIV. Miſs BYRON, To Mrs. SELBY.

INDEED, my dear and ever-indulgent aunt Selby, you have given me pain; and yet I am very un⯑grateful, I believe, to ſay ſo: But if I feel the pain (tho' perhaps I ought not) ſhould I not own it?

What circumſtances, what ſituation, am I in, ma⯑dam, that I cannot be miſtreſs of myſelf? That ſhall turn my uncle's half-feared, tho' always agreeable, raillery into pity for me?

"Over head and ears in the paſſion"—"I to be on the hoping ſide; the gentleman on the trium⯑phant"—"It is impoſſible for you my friends to be aforehand with my inclinations"—"A beginning Love to be mentioned, in which one is willing to [307] conceal one's ſelf from one's ſelf!" Fires, Flames, Blazes to follow:—Gratitude and Love to be ſpoken of as ſynonymous terms—Ah! my dear aunt, how could you let my uncle write ſuch a Letter, and then copy it, and ſend it to me as yours?

And yet ſome very tender ſtrokes are in it, that no man, that hardly any-body but you among women, could write.

But what do you do, madam, when you tell your Harriet of your own prepoſſeſſions in favour of a man, who, as you thought, had before in my eye too many advantages? Indeed you ſhould have taken care not to let me know, that his great qualities had impreſſed you all ſo deeply: And my grandmamma to be ſo very apprehenſive too for the entangled girl.

Hopeleſs paſſion, ſaid ſhe? Entangled in an hopeleſs paſſion! O let me die before this ſhall be deſerved to be ſaid of your Harriet!

Then again riſes to your pen, ſmothering and eſcaped ſparks; and I am deſired to hurry myſelf to get cold water to quench the flame—Dear, dear madam, what images are here? And applied—To whom?—And by whom?—Have I written any thing ſo very blazing!—Surely I have not. But you ſhould not ſay you will all forgive me, if this be my ſad ſituation. You ſhould not ſay, How much you are yourſelves, all of you, in love with this excellent man; and talk of Mr. Daw⯑ſon, and of what he ſays of him: But you ſhould have told me, that if I ſuffer my gratitude to grow into Love, you will never forgive me; then ſhould I have had a call of duty to check or controul a paſſion, that you were afraid could not be gratified.

Well, and there is no way left me, it ſeems, but to fly for it! To hurry away to Northamptonſhire, and either to begin a new treaty with Lord D. or to give hope to an old Lover. Poor Harriet Byron! And is it indeed ſo bad with thee? And does thy aunt Selby think it is!

[308] But is there no hope, that the man will take pity of thee? When he ſees thee ſo ſadly entangled, will he not vouchſafe to lend an extricating hand?

Oh, no!—Too much obliged, as thou already art, how canſt thou expect to be further obliged? Obliged in the higheſt degree?

But let me try if I cannot play round this bright, this beamy taper, without ſingeing my wings! I fancy it is not yet quite ſo bad with me! At leaſt, let me ſtand this one viſit of to-morrow: And then if I find reaſon to think I cannot ſtand it, I may take the kind advice, and fly for it; rather than add another hopeleſs girl to the half-ſcore that perhaps have been long ſighing for this beſt of men.

But even then, my aunt, that is to ſay, were I to fly and take ſhelter under your protecting wings, I ſhall not, I hope, think it abſolutely neceſſary, to light up one flame, in order to extinguiſh another. I ſhall always value Mr. Orme as a friend; but indeed I am leſs than ever inclined to think of him in a nearer light.

As to Lady D's propoſal, it admits not with me of half a thought. You know, my deareſt aunt, that I am not yet rejected by one with whom you are all in love—But this ſeriouſly I will own (and yet I hope nothing but my gratitude is engaged, and that indeed is a very powerful tie) that ſince I have ſeen and known Sir Charles Grandiſon, I have not only (as before) an indifference, but a diſlike, to all other men. And I think, if I know my own heart, I had rather con⯑verſe but an hour in a week with him, and with Miſs Grandiſon, than be the wife of any man I have ever ſeen or known.

If this ſhould end at laſt in Love, and if I ſhould be entangled in an hopeleſs paſſion, the object of it would be Sir Charles Grandiſon: He could not inſult me; and, mean as the word pity in ſome caſes founds, I had rather have his pity, than the love of any other man.

[309] You will, upon the ſtrength of what I have ſaid, be ſo good, dear madam, as to let the Counteſs of D. know, that I think myſelf highly obliged to her, for her favourable opinion of me: That ſhe has by it in⯑tereſted all my good wiſhes in her ſon's happineſs; and that I was always of opinion, that equality of fortune and degree, tho' not abſolutely neceſſary to matrimonial felicity, was however a circumſtance not to be ſlighted: But you, madam, can put my mean⯑ing in better, in fitter words, when you are aſſured, that it is my meaning, to give an abſolute, tho' grate⯑ful, negative to this propoſal. And I do aſſure you, that ſuch is my meaning; and that I ſhould deſpiſe myſelf, were I capable of keeping one man in ſuſpenſe, even had I hope of your hope, while I was balancing in favour of another.

I believe, madam, I have been a little petulant, and very ſaucy, in what I have written: But my heart is not at eaſe: And I am vexed with theſe men, one after another, when Sir Hargrave has given me a ſur⯑feit of them; and only that the bad has brought me into the knowledge of the beſt, or I could reſolve never more to hear a man talk to me, no not for one mo⯑ment, upon a ſubject, that is become ſo juſtly painful to one who never took pleaſure in their any adulation.

I know you will, with your uſual goodneſs, and ſo will my grandmamma, and ſo will my uncle Selby, pardon all the imperfections of, deareſt madam,

LETTER XLV. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

MR. Reeves, my dear, is juſt returned from a viſit he made to St. James's-Square. I tranſcribe a paper giving an account of what paſſed between Mr. [310] Bagenhall and Sir Charles, in relation to the ſhocking affair which has filled me with ſo much apprehenſion; and which Sir Charles, at my couſin's requeſt, allowed him to put in his pocket.

Mr. Bagenhall came to Sir Charles yeſterday even⯑ing with a meſſage from Sir Hargrave, demanding a meeting with him, the next morning, at a particular hour, at Kenſington Gravel-pits. Sir Charles took Mr. Bagenhall with him into his Study, and aſking him to ſit down, Mr. Bagenhall ſaid, That he was once concerned in an affair of this nature, which had been very much miſrepreſented afterwards; and that he had been adviſed to take a ſtep which Sir Charles might think extraordinary; which was, that he had brought with him a young gentleman, whom he hoped, for Sir Hargrave's ſatisfaction, as well as to do juſtice to what ſhould paſs between them, Sir Charles would permit to take minutes of their converſation: And that he was in the Hall.

Let not a gentleman be left in the Hall, ſaid Sir Charles; and, ringing, directed him to be ſhewn into the Study to them. Yet, Mr. Bagenhall, ſaid he, I ſee no occaſion for this. Our converſation on the ſub⯑ject you come to talk of, can be but ſhort.

Were it to hold but two minutes, Sir Charles.

What you pleaſe, Mr. Bagenhall.

The young gentleman entered; and pen and ink were ſet before him. He wrote in ſhort-hand: And read it to the gentlemen; and Sir Charles, as it was to be tranſcribed for Sir Hargrave, deſiring a copy of it, it was ſent him the ſame night.

DOES not your heart glow, my Lucy, now you have read (as I ſuppoſe you have) this paper? And do not the countenances of every one of my revered friends round you [Pray look!] ſhine with admiration of this excellent man? And yet you all loved him before: And ſo you all think I did. Well, I can't help your thoughts!—But I hope I ſhall not be un⯑done by a good man!

You will imagine, that my heart was a little agi⯑tated, when I came to read Mr. Bagenhall's queſtion, Whether Sir Charles intended to make court to me himſelf? I am ſorry to tell you, Lucy, that I was a little more affected than I wiſhed to be. Indeed, I ſhall keep a look-out, as you call it, upon myſelf. To ſay truth, I laid down the paper at that place, and was afraid to read the anſwer made to it. When I took it up, and read what followed, I might have ſpared, I ſaw, my fooliſh little tremors. See how frank I continue to be: But if you come not to this para⯑graph [316] before you are aware, you need not read it to my uncle.

Mr. Bagenhall went away ſo much pleaſed with Sir Charles (as he owned) that Mr. Reeves encourages me to hope, ſome way may be found to prevent fur⯑ther miſchief. Yet the condition, which Sir Charles has propoſed for my forgiving the wretch—Upon my word, my dear, I deſire not to ſee Sir Hargrave either upon his knees, or upon his feet: I am ſure I could not ſee him without very violent emotions. His bar⯑barity, his malice, his cruelty, have impreſſed me ſtrongly: Nor can I be glad to ſee the wretch with his disfigured mouth and lip. His lip, it ſeems, has been ſewed up, and he wears a great black-ſilk patch, or plaiſter, upon the place.

I can't find that Sir Charles has heard from the ex⯑aſperated man, ſince Mr. Bagenhall left him yeſter⯑day.

I hope nothing will happen to over-cloud to-mor⯑row. I propoſe to myſelf as happy a day, as, in the preſent ſituation of things, can be given to