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

SELF, my dear Lucy, is a very wicked thing; a ſanctifier, if one would give way to its partialities, of actions, which, in others, we ſhould have no doubt to con⯑demn. DELICACY, too, is often a miſleader; an idol at whoſe ſhrine we ſometimes offer up oar Sincerity; but, in that caſe, it ſhould be called In⯑delicacy.

Nothing, ſurely, can be delicate, that is not true, or that gives birth to equivocation: Yet how was I pleaſed with Lord and Lady L. and Miſs Crandiſon, for endeavouring to paſs me off to good Dr. Bartlett in the light I had no title to appear in!—As if my mind, in a certain point, remained to be known; [2] and would ſo remain, till the gentleman had diſco⯑vered his.

And are there ſome ſituations, in which a woman muſt conceal her true ſentiments? In which it would be thought immodeſty to ſpeak out?—Why was I born with an heart ſo open and ſincere? But why, indeed, as Sir Charles has ſaid in his Letter relating to the Danby's, ſhould women be blamed, for owning modeſtly a paſſion for a worthy and ſuitable object? Is it, that they will not ſpeak out, leſt, if their wiſhes ſhould not be crowned with ſucceſs by one man, they ſhould deprive themſelves of a chance to ſucceed with another? Do they not propoſe to make the man they love, happy?—And is it a crime to acknowlege, that they are ſo well diſpoſed to a worthy object? A wor⯑thy object, I repeat; for that is what will warrant the open heart. What a littleneſs is there in the cuſtom that compels us to be inſincere? And ſuppoſe we do not ſucceed with a firſt object, ſhall we cheat a future Lover with the notion that he was the firſt?

Hitherto I had acted with ſome ſelf-approbation: I told Mr. Greville, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Orme, Mr. Fowler, that I had not ſeen the man to whom I could wiſh to give my hand at the altar: But when I found my heart engaged, I was deſirous Lady D. ſhould know that it was. But yet, miſled by this ſame no⯑tion of delicacy, I could think myſelf obliged to the two ſiſters, and my Lord, that they endeavoured to throw a blind over the eyes of good Dr. Bartlett: When the right meaſure, I now think, would have been, not to have endeavoured to obtain lights from him, that we all thought he was not commiſſioned to give; or, if we had, to have related to him the whole truth, and not have put on diſguiſes to him; but to have leſt him wholly a judge of the fit, and the unfit.

And this is LOVE, is it? that puts an honeſt girl upon approving of ſuch tricks?—Begone, Love! I [3] baniſh thee if thou wouldſt corrupt the ſimplicity of that heart, which was taught to glory in truth.

And yet, I had like to have been drawn into a greater fault: For, What do you think?—Miſs Gran⯑diſon had (by ſome means or other; ſhe would not tell me how) in Dr. Bartlett's abſence on a viſit to one of the Canons of Windſor, got at a letter brought early this morning from her brother to that good man, and which he had left opened on his deſk.

Here, Harriet, ſaid ſhe, is the letter ſo lately brought, not perhaps quite honeſtly come at, from my brother to Dr. Bartlett (holding it out to me). You are warmly mentioned in it. Shall I put it where I had it? Or will you ſo far partake of my fault as to read it firſt?

O Miſs Grandiſon! ſaid I: And am I warmly men⯑tioned in it? Pray oblige me with the peruſal of it. And I held out my more than half guilty hand, and took it: But (immediately recollecting myſelf) did you not hint that you came at it by means not ho⯑neſt?—Take it again; I will not partake of your fault.—But, cruel Charlotte! how could you tempt me ſo? And I laid it on a chair.

Read the firſt paragraph, Harriet. She took it up, unfolded it, and pointed to the firſt paragraph.

Tempter! ſaid I, how can you wiſh me to imitate our firſt pattern! And down I ſat, and put both my hands before my eyes. Take it away, take it away, while yet I am innocent! Dear Miſs Grandiſon, don't give me cauſe for ſelf-reproach. I will not par⯑take of your acknowledged fault.

She read a line or two; and then ſaid, Shall I read farther, Harriet? The very next word is your name. I will—

No, no, no, ſaid I, putting my fingers in my ears.—Yet, had you come honeſtly by it, I ſhould have longed to read it—By what means—

[4] Why, if people will leave their cloſet-doors open, let them take the conſequence.

If people will do ſo—But was it ſo?—And yet, if it was, would you be willing to have your letters look⯑ed into?

Well then, I will carry it back—Shall I? (holding it out to me) Shall I, Harriet?—I will put it where I had it—Shall I? And twice or thrice went from me, and came back to me with a provoking archneſs in her looks.

Only tell me, Miſs Grandiſon, is there any-thing in it that you think your brother would not have us ſee?—But I am ſure there is, or the obliging Dr. Bartlett, who has ſhewn us others, would have fa⯑voured us with communicating the contents of this.

I would not but have ſeen this letter for half I am worth! O Harriet! there are ſuch things in it.—Bo⯑logna! Paris! Grandiſon-hall!

Be gone, Siren: Letters are ſacred things. Re⯑place it—Don't you own, that you came not honeſtly by it?—And yet—

Ah! Lucy, I was ready to yield to the curioſity ſhe had raiſed: But, recollecting myſelf, Be gone, ſaid I: Carry back the letter: I am afraid of myſelf.

Why, Harriet, here is one paſſage, the contents of which you muſt be acquainted with in a very little while—

I will not be tempted, Miſs Grandiſon. I will ſtay till it is communicated to me, be it what it will.

But you may be ſurpriſed, Harriet, at the time, and know not what anſwer to give to it.—You had as good read it—Here, take it—Was there ever ſuch a ſcru⯑pulous creature?—It is about you and Emily—

About me and Emily! O Miſs Grandiſon, What can there be about me and Emily?

And where's the difference, Harriet, between aſk⯑ing me a out the contents, and reading them?—But I ll tell you—

[5] No, you ſhall not: I will not hear the contents. I never will aſk you. Can nobody act greatly but your brother? Let you and I, Charlotte, be the better for his example. You ſhall neither read them, nor tell me of them. I would not be ſo uſed myſelf.

Such praiſes did I never hear of woman!—Oh, Harriet!—Such praiſes—

Praiſes, Charlotte!—From your brother?—O this curioſity! the firſt fault of our firſt parent! But I will not be tempted. If you provoke me to aſk queſtions, laugh at me, and welcome: But I beſeech you, an⯑ſwer me not. Dear creature, if you love me, replace the letter; and do not ſeek to make me mean in my own eyes.

How you reflect upon me, Harriet!—But let me aſk you, Are you willing, as a third ſiſter, to take Emily into your guardianſhip, and carry her down with you into Northamptonſhire?—Anſwer me that.

Ah! Miſs Grandiſon! And is there ſuch a propo⯑ſal as that mentioned?—But anſwer me not, I be⯑ſeech you. Whatever propoſal is intended to be made me, let it be made: It will be too ſoon, whenever that is, if it be a diſagreeable one.

But let me ſay, madam (and tears were in my eyes) that I will not be treated with indignity by the beſt man on earth. And while I can refuſe to yield to a thing that I think unworthy of myſelf (you are a ſiſter, madam, and have nothing either to hope or fear) I have a title to act with ſpirit, when occaſions call for it.

My dear, you are ſerious—Twice madam, in one breath! I will not forgive you. You ought now to hear that paſſage read, which relates to you and Emily, if you will not read it yourſelf.

And ſhe was looking for it; I ſuppoſe intending to read it to me.

No, Miſs Grandiſon, ſaid I, laying my ſpread hand upon the letter; I will neither read it, nor hear it [6] read. I begin to apprehend, that there will be oc⯑caſion for me to exert all my fortitude; and while it is yet in my power to do a right or wrong thing, I will not deprive myſelf of the conſciouſneſs of having merited well, whatever may be my lot—Excuſe me, madam.

I went to the door and was opening it—when ſhe ran to me—Dear creature! you are angry with me: But how that pride becomes you! There is a dignity in it that awes me. O Harriet! how infinitely does it become the only woman in the world, that is wor⯑thy of the beſt man in it! Only ſay, you are not an⯑gry with me. Say that you can and do forgive me.

Forgive you, my Charlotte I—I do. But can you ſay, that you came not honeſtly by that letter, and yet forgive yourſelf? But, my dear Miſs Grandiſon, inſtantly replace it; and do you watch over me, like a true friend, if in a future hour of weakneſs you ſhould find me deſirous to know any of the contents of a paper ſo naughtily come at. I own that I had like to have been overcome: And if I had, all the in⯑formation it would have given me, could never have recompenſed me for what I ſhould have ſuffered in my own opinion, when I reflected on the means by which I had obtained it.

Superior creature! how you ſhame me! I will re⯑place the letter. And I promiſe you, that if I cannot forget the contents of it myſelf (and yet they are glo⯑rious to my brother) I will never mention any of them to you; unleſs the letter be fairly communicated to you, and to us all.

I threw my arms about her neck. She fervently returned the ſiſterly embrace. We ſeparated; ſhe retiring at one door, in order to go up to replace the letter; I at the other, to re-conſider all that had paſ⯑ſed on the occaſion. And I hope I ſhall love her the better for taking ſo kindly a behaviour ſo contrary to what her own had been.

[7] Well, but, don't you congratulate me, my dear, on my eſcape from my curioſity? I am ſure my grand⯑mamma, and my aunt, will be pleaſed with their girl. Yet it was an hard ſtruggle, I own: In the ſuſpenſe I am in; a very hard ſtruggle. But tho' wiſhes will play about my heart, that I knew ſuch of the con⯑tents as it might concern me to know; yet I am infi⯑nitely better pleaſed that I yielded not to the temp⯑tation, than I ſhould have been, if I had. And then, methinks, my pride is gratified in the ſuperiority this lady aſcribes to me over herſelf, whom ſo lately I thought greatly my ſuperior.

Yet what merit have I in this? Since if I had con⯑ſidered only rules of policy, I ſhould have been ut⯑terly wrong, had I yielded to the temptation: For what uſe could I have made of any knowlege I might have obtained by this means? If any propoſal is to be made me, of what nature ſoever, it muſt, in that caſe, have appeared to be quite new to me: And what an affectation muſt that have occaſioned, what diſſi⯑mulation, in your Harriet?—And how would a crea⯑ture, educated as I have been, have behaved under ſuch trials as might have ariſen from a knowledge ſo faultily obtained?

And had I been diſcovered; had I given cauſe of ſuſpicion, either to Dr. Bartlett, or Sir Charles; I ſhould have appeared as the principal in the fact: It would have been mean to accuſe Miſs Grandiſon, as the tempter, in a temptation yielded to with my eyes open. And ſhould I not have caſt a ſlur upon that curioſity which Dr. Barlett before had not refuſed to gratify, as well as ſhut myſelf out from all future communications and confidence?

It is very poſſible, beſides, that, unuſed as I have been to artifice and diſguiſe, I ſhould have betrayed myſelf; eſpecially had I found any of the contents of the letter very affecting.

Thus you ſee, Lucy, that policy, as well as recti⯑tude [8] of manners, juſtify me: And in this particular I am an happy girl.

Miſs Grandiſon has juſt now told her ſiſter what paſſed between us. Lady L. ſays, ſhe would not have been Miſs Grandiſon, in taking the letter, by what means ſoever come at; for how, ſaid ſhe, did I know what ſecrets there might be in it, before I read it? But I think verily, when it had been got at, and of⯑fered me, I could not have been Miſs Byron.

And ſhe threw her arms about me, and hugged me to her. Dear creature, ſaid ſhe, you muſt be Lady Grandiſon—Muſt! ſaid Miſs Grandiſon: She ſhall.

Who, Lucy, whether that may ever come to paſs, or not, would not, on reflection (thus approved by both ſiſters) rejoice that ſhe conquered her curioſity, and acted as ſhe did?

Miſs Grandiſon talked to Lady L. of its being likely that her brother would go to Bologna: Of a viſit he is ſoon to make to Grandiſon-hall; and ſhe to go with him: Of his going to Paris, in order to ſettle ſome matters relating to the Will of his late friend Mr. Danby—

Well, Lucy, my time in town is haſtening to its period. Why am I not reminded, that my three al⯑lotted months are near expired? Will you receive the poor girl, who perhaps will not be able to carry down with her the heart ſhe brought up? And yet, to go down to ſuch dear friends without it, what an un⯑grateful ſound has that!

Miſs Grandiſon began to talk of other ſubjects re⯑lating to her brother, and thoſe greatly to his praiſe. I could have heard all ſhe had to ſay with infinite plea⯑ſure. I do love to hear him praiſed. But, as I doubted not but theſe ſubjects aroſe from the letter ſo ſurrep⯑titiouſly obtained, I reſtrained myſelf, and withdrew.

OF what an happy temper is Miſs Grandiſon! She was much affected with the ſcene that paſſed between [9] us, but all is over with her already. One leſſon upon her harpſichord ſets every-thing right with her. She has been raillying Lord L. with as much life and ſpi⯑rit, as if ſhe had done nothing to be vexed at. Had I been induced by her to read the letter which ſhe got at diſhoneſtly, as ſhe owned, what a poor figure ſhould I have made in my own eyes, for a month to come!

But did ſhe not as ſoon overcome the mortification given her by her brother, on the detection of captain Anderſon's affair? How unmercifully did ſhe railly me, within a few hours after!—Yet, ſhe has fine qua⯑lities. One cannot help loving her. I do love her. But is it not a weakneſs to look without abatement of affection on thoſe faults in one perſon, which we ſhould hold utterly inexcuſable in another? In Miſs Gran⯑diſon's caſe, however, don't ſay it is, Lucy. O what a partiality! Yet ſhe has within theſe few minutes owned, that ſhe thought the ſtep ſhe had taken a faulty one, before ſhe came to me with the letter; and hoped to induce me to countenance her in what ſhe had done.

I called her a little Satan on this occaſion. But, after all, what if the dear Charlotte's curioſity was more for my ſake than her own? No motive of friendſhip, you will ſay, can juſtify a wrong action—Why no, Lucy; that is very true; but if you knew Miſs Gran⯑diſon, you would love her dearly.

LETTER II. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT.

I HOPE my Lord L. and my ſiſters will be able to make Colnebrooke ſo agreeable to Miſs Byron [10] that I may have the pleaſure of finding her there in the beginning of the week.

My lord W. is in town. He has invited me to dine with him to-morrow; and muſt not be denied, was a part of his meſſage, brought me by Halden his ſteward, who ſays, That his lordſhip has ſomething of conſequence to conſult me upon.

When, my dear friend, ſhall I find time for my⯑ſelf? Pray make my compliments to my Lord L. and to my three ſiſters; and tell them from me, that when I have the happineſs of being in their company, then it is that I think I give time to myſelf.

I have a letter from Bologna: From the faithful Camilla. The contents of it give me great concern. She urges me to make one more viſit there. She tells me, that the Biſhop ſaid in her hearing, it would be kind if I would. Were ſuch a viſit to be requeſted ge⯑nerally; and it were likely to be of ſervice; you may believe that I would chearfully make it.

I ſhould go, for a fortnight at leaſt, to Grandiſon⯑hall. Burgeſs has let me know, that the workmen have gone almoſt as far as they can go without my further orders. And the churchwardens have ſignified to me, that the church is completely beautified, ac⯑cording to my directions; ſo that it will be ready to be opened on the Sunday after next, at fartheſt; and intreat my preſence, both as patron, and benefactor. I will now haſten my deſigned alterations at the Hall.

I had rather not be preſent at the opening. Yet the propriety of my being there will probably prevail upon me to comply with the intreaties of the church⯑wardens; who in their letter ſignify the expectations of Sir Samuel Clarke, Sir William Turner, and Mr. Barnham, of ſeeing me, and my ſiſter Charlotte. You will be pleaſed to mention this to her.

I wiſh, without putting a ſlight upon good Mr. Dobſon, that you, my dear friend, could oblige us with the firſt ſermon. All then would be decent, and [11] worthy of the occaſion; and the praiſe would be given properly, and not to the agent. But as it would be a little mortifying to Mr. Dobſon (of whoſe praiſe only I am apprehenſive) ſo much as to hint ſuch a wiſh, I will write to him, that he will oblige me if he ſay not one word, that ſhall carry the eyes of the audi⯑ence to my ſeat.

The execution of the orders I gave, that five other pews ſhould be equally diſtinguiſhed and ornamented with mine, carries not with it the appearance of affectation; does it, my good Dr. Bartlett? eſpecially as ſo many conſiderable families have ſeats there? I would not ſeem guilty of a falſe modeſty, which, breaking out into ſingularity, would give the ſuſpicion of a wrong direction, in caſes where it may be of uſe to ſuppoſe a right one.

What can I do in relation to my Emily? She is of the ſtature of woman. She ought, according to the preſent taſte, to be introduced into public life. I am not fond of that life. And what knowlege ſhe will gain by the introduction, ſhe had better be without. Yet I think we ſhould conform ſomething to the taſ e of the times in which we live. Women's minds have generally a lighter turn than thoſe of men. They ſhould be innocently indulged. And on this principle it was, that laſt winter I attended her, and my ſiſters, very often to the places of public entertainment; that ſhe, having ſeen every-thing that was the ge⯑neral ſubject of polite converſation, might judge of ſuch entertainments as they deſerve; and not add ex⯑pectation (which runs very high in young minds, and is ſeldom anſwered) to the ideal ſeenes. This indul⯑gence anſwered as I wiſh. Emily can now hear talk of the emulation of actors and managers, and of the other public diverſions, with tranquillity; and be ſa⯑tisfied, as ſhe reads, with repreſenting over again to herſelf the parts in which the particular actors excelled. And thus a boundary is ſet to her imagination; and [12] that by her own choice; for ſhe thinks lightly of them, when ſhe can be obliged by the company of my two ſiſters and Lord L.

But new ſcenes will ariſe, in an age ſo ſtudious as this, to gratify the eye and the ear. From theſe a young woman of fortune muſt not be totally excluded. I am a young man; and as Emily is ſo well grown for her years, I think I cannot ſo properly be her in⯑troducer to them, as I might, were I fifteen or twen⯑ty years older.

I live to my own heart; and I know (I think I do) that it is not a bad one: But as I cannot intend any⯑thing with regard to my Emily, I muſt, for her ſake, be more obſervant of the world's opinion, than I hope I need to be for my own. You have taught me, that it is not good manners to deſpiſe the world's opinion, tho' we ſhould regard it only in the ſecond place.

Emily has too large a fortune. I have an high opi⯑nion of her diſcretion. But ſhe is but a girl. Wo⯑mens eyes are wanderers: And too often bring home gueſts that are very troubleſome to them, and whom once introduced, they cannot get out of the houſe.

I wiſh ſhe had only ten thouſand pounds. She would then ſtand a better chance for happineſs, than ſhe can do, I doubt, with five times ten; and would have five perſons, to one that ſhe has now, to chooſe out of: For how few are there who can make pro⯑poſals to the father or guardian of a girl who has 50, 000 l.?

Indeed there are not wanting in our ſex forward ſpirits, who will think that ſum not too much for their merits, tho' they may not deſerve 5000 l. nor even one. And hence ariſes the danger of a woman of great fortune from thoſe who will not dare to make propoſals to a guardian. After an introduction (and how eaſy is that now made, at public places!) a wo⯑man of the greateſt fortune is but a woman, and is to be attacked, and prevailed upon, by the ſame me⯑thods [13] which ſucceed with a perſon of the ſlendereſt; and perhaps is won with equal, if not with greater eaſe; ſince, if the lady has a little romance in her head, and her Lover a great deal of art and flattery, ſhe will call that romantic turn generoſity, and, think⯑ing ſhe can lay the man who has obtained her atten⯑tion, under obligation, ſhe will meet him her full half⯑way.

Emily is deſirous to be conſtantly with us. My ſiſter is very obliging. I know ſhe will comply with whatever I ſhall requeſt of her, in relation to Emily. But where the reputation of a lady is concerned, a man ſhould not depend too much upon his own cha⯑racter, eſpecially a young man, be it ever ſo unexcep⯑tionable. Her mother has already given out fooliſh hints. She demands her daughter. The unhappy woman has no regard to truth. Her own character loſt, and ſo deſervedly, will ſhe have any tenderneſs for that of Emily? Who will ſcruple to believe, what a mother, tho' ever ſo wicked, will report of her daughter under twenty, and her guardian under thirty, if they live conſtantly together? Her guardian, at the ſame time, carrying his heart in his countenance, and loving the girl; though with as much innocence as if ſhe were his ſiſter. Once I had thoughts of craving the aſſiſtance of the Court of Chancery for the protection of her perſon and fortune: But an hint of this nature diſtreſſed her for many days, unknown to me. Had I been acquainted that ſhe took it ſo hea⯑vily, I would not have made her unhappy for one day.

I have looked out among the quality for a future huſband for her: But, where can I find one with whom I think ſhe will be happy? There are many who would be glad of her fortune. As I ſaid, her fortune is too large. It is enough to render every man's ad⯑dreſs to her ſuſpected; and to make a guardian ap⯑prehenſive, that her perſon, agreeable as it is, and every day improving, and her mind opening to a [...] ⯑vantage [14] every hour of her life, would be but the ſe⯑cond, if the ſecond, view of a man profeſſing to love her. And were ſhe to marry, what a damp would the ſlights of an huſband give to the genius of a young lady, whoſe native modeſty would always make her want encouragement!

I have alſo caſt an eye over the gentry within my knowledge: But have not met with one whom I could wiſh to be the huſband of my Emily. So tender, ſo gentle, ſo ductile, as ſhe is, a fierce, a raſh, an in⯑delicate, even a careleſs or indifferent man, would either harden her heart, or ſhorten her life: And as the latter would be much more eaſy to be effected than the former, what muſt ſhe ſuffer before ſhe could re⯑turn indifference for diſreſpect; and reach the quiet end of it!

See what a man Sir Walter Warkyns is! My ſiſter only could deal with ſuch an one. A ſuperiority in her ſo viſible, he muſt fear her: Yet a generoſity ſo great, and a dignity ſo conſpicuous, in her whole be⯑haviour, as well as countenance, he muſt love her: Every-body's reſpect to her, would oblige love and reverence from him. But my weak-hearted, diffident Emily, what would ſhe do with ſuch a man?

What would ſhe do with a Sir Hargrave Pollexfen? What with ſuch a man, as Mr. Greville, as Sir Har⯑grave deſcribes him? I mention theſe men; for are not there many ſuch?

I am not apt to run into grave declamations againſt the times: And yet, by what I have ſeen abroad, and now lately ſince my arrival, at home, and have heard from men of greater obſervation, and who have lived longer in the world, than I have, I cannot but think, that Engliſhmen are not what they were. A wretched effeminacy ſeems to prevail among them. Marriage itſelf is every day more and more out of faſhion; and even virtuous women give not the inſtitution ſo much of their countenance, as to diſcourage by their con⯑tempt [15] the free-livers. A good woman, as ſuch, has therefore but few chances for happineſs in marriage. Yet ſhall I not endeavour, the more endeavour, to ſave and ſerve my Emily?

I have one encouragement, ſince my happy ac⯑quaintance with Miſs Byron, to think that the age is not entirely loſt to a ſenſe of virtue and goodneſs. See we not how every-body reveres her? Even a Sir Har⯑grave Pollexfen, a Greville, a Fenwick, men of free lives, adore her. And at the ſame time ſhe meets with the love of all good men, and the reſpect of women, whether gay or ſerious. But I am afraid, that the firſt attraction with men, is her beauty. I am afraid, that few ſee in that admirable young lady what I ſee in her: A mind great and noble: A ſin⯑cerity beyond that of women: A goodneſs unaffected, and which ſhews itſelf in action, and not merely in words, and outward appearance: A wit lively and inoſſenſive: And an underſtanding ſolid and uſeful: All which render her a fit companion, either in the ſocial or contemplative hour: And yet ſhe thinks herſelf not above the knowlege of thoſe duties, the performance of which makes an eſſential of the fe⯑male character.

But I am not giving a character of Miſs Byron to you, my good Dr. Bartlett, who admire her as much as I do.

Do you think it impoſſible for me to procure for my Emily ſuch a guardian and companion as Miſs By⯑ron, on her return to Northamptonſhire, would make her?—Such worthy relations as ſhe would introduce her to, would be a further happineſs to my ward.

I am far from undervaluing my ſiſter's good qualities: But if Emily lives with her, ſhe muſt live alſo with me. Indeed the affairs in which I am engaged for other people (if I may call thoſe who have a claim upon me for every inſtance of my friend⯑ſhip, other people) will occaſion me to be often abſent. [16] But ſtill, while Grandiſon-hall, and St. James's Square, are the viſible places of reſidence equally of the guardian and ward, Emily's mother will tell the world, that we live together.

Miſs Jervois does not chooſe to return to Mrs. Lane; and indeed I don't think, ſhe would be ſafe there in a family of women, tho' very worthy ones, from the attempts of one of the ſex, who, having brought her into the world, calls herſelf her mother; and eſpecially now that the unhappy woman has be⯑gun to be troubleſome there. I beg of you, there⯑fore, my dear Dr. Bartlett, who know more of my heart and ſituation than any one living (my dear Beauchamp excepted) to conſider what I have writ⯑ten, and give me your opinion of that part of it, which relates to Miſs Byron and Emily.

I was inſenſibly drawing myſelf in to enumerate the engagements, which at preſent preſs moſt upon me. Let me add to the ſubject—I muſt ſoon go to Paris, in order finally to ſettle ſuch of the affairs of my late worthy friend, as cannot be ſo well done by any other hand. The three thouſand pounds, which he has directed to be diſpoſed of to charitable uſes, in France as well as in England, at the diſcretion of his executor, is one of them.

Perhaps equity will allow me to add to this limited ſum from what will remain in my hands after the eſtabliſhment of the nephews and niece. As they are young, and brought up with a hope that they will make a figure in the world by their diligence, I would not, by any means, make them independent on that. The whole eſtate, divided among them, would not be ſufficient to anſwer that purpoſe happily, tho' it might be enough to abate the edge of their induſtry.

The charity that I am moſt intent upon promoting in France, and in England too, is, that of giving lit⯑tle fortunes to young maidens in marriage with honeſt men of their own degree, who might, from ſuch an [17] outſetting, begin the world, as it is called, with ſome hope of ſucceſs.

By this time, my dear Dr. Bartlett, you will gueſs that I have a deſign upon you. It is, that you will aſſiſt me in executing the Will of my late friend. Make enquiries after, and reccommend to me, objects worthy of relief. You was very deſirous, ſome time ago, to retire to the Hall: But I knew not how to ſpare you; and I hoped to attend you thither. You ſhall now ſet out for that place as ſoon as you pleaſe. And that neither may be (or as little as poſſible) loſers by the ſeparation, every-thing that we would ſay to each other, were we together, that, as we uſed to do, we will ſay by pen and ink. We will be joint exe⯑cutors, in the firſt place, for this ſum of 3000 l.

Make enquiries then, as ſoon as you get down, for worthy objects—The induſtrious poor, of all per⯑ſuaſions, reduced either by age, infirmity, or acci⯑dent; Thoſe who labour under incurable maladies; Youth, of either ſex, capable of beginning the world to advantage, but deſtitute of the means; Theſe, in particular, are the objects we both think worthy of aſſiſtance. You ſhall take 500 l. down with you, for a beginning.

It is my pride, it is my glory, that I can ſay, Dr. Bartlett and Charles Grandiſon, on all benevolent occaſions, are actuated by one ſoul. My dear friend, adieu.

LETTER. III. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

I HAVE furniſhed the Ladies, and my Lord, with more letters. And ſo they have all my heart be⯑fore them!—I don't care. The man is Sir Charles Grandiſon; and they railly me not ſo much as before, [18] while they thought I affected reſerves to them. Indeed it would be cruel, if they did; and I ſhould have run away from them.

I am glad you all think, that the two ſiſters uſed me ſeverely. They really did. But I have this gra⯑tification of my pride in reflecting upon their treat⯑ment of me—I would not have done ſo by them, had ſituations been exchanged. And I think myſelf nearer an equality with them, than I had thought myſelf before.—But they are good ladies, and my ſincere friends and well-wiſhers; and I forgive them: And ſo muſt my dear grandmamma.

I am ſorry, m [...]thinks, that her delicacy has been offended on the occaſion. And did ſhe weep at the hearing read my account of that attack made upon her girl by the over-lively Charlotte?—O the dear, the in⯑dulgent, parent! How tender was it of my aunt too, to be concerned for the poor Harriet's delicacy, ſo hard put to it as ſhe was! It did indeed (as ſhe di⯑ſtinguiſhes in her uſual charming manner) look, as if they put a great price upon their intended friendſhip to me, with regard to my intereſt in their brother's heart: As if the favour done to the humbled girl, if they could jointly procure for her their brother's countenance, might well allow of their raillery. —Don't, pray don't, my dear grandmamma, call it by a ſeverer name. They did not, I am ſure they did not, mean to hurt me ſo much, as I really was hurt. So let it paſs. Humour and raillery are very difficult things to rein in. They are ever curveting like a prancing horſe; and they will often throw the rider who depends more upon his ſkill in managing them, than he has reaſon to do.

My uncle was charmed with the ſcene; and thinks the two ladies did juſt as he would have done. He means it a compliment to their delicacy, I preſume. But I am of my aunt Selby's opinion, that their gene⯑rous [19] brother would not have given them thanks for their raillery to the poor frighted Harriet. I am very happy, however, that my behaviour and frankneſs on the occaſion are not diſapproved at Selby-houſe, and Shirley-manor, and by you, my Lucy. And here let that matter reſt.

Should I not begin to think of going back to you all, my Lucy? I believe I bluſh ten times a day, when alone, to find myſelf waiting and waiting as if for the gracious motion; yet apprehending that it never will, never can, be made; and all you, my friends, indulging an abſence, that your goodneſs makes painful to you, in the ſame hope. It looks—Don't it, Lucy?—ſo like a deſign upon—I don't know how it looks!—But at times, I can't endure myſelf. And yet while the love of virtue (a little too perſonal, perhaps) is the foundation of theſe deſigns, theſe waitings, theſe emotions, I think, I am not wholly inexcuſable.

I am ſure I ſhould not eſteem him, were he not the good man he is.—Pray, let me aſk you—Do you think he could not be put upon ſaying ſomething af⯑fronting to me; upon doing ſomething unworthy of his character?—O then I am ſure I ſhould hate him: All the other inſtances of his goodneſs would then be as nothing. I will be captious, I think: and ſtudy to be affronted, whether he intends to affront me, or not.—But what a multitude of fooliſh notions comes into the head of a ſilly girl, who, little as ſhe knows, knows more of any-thing, or of any-body, than ſhe knows of herſelf!

I WISH my godfather had not put it in my head, that Emily is cheriſhing (perhaps unknown to herſelf) a flame that will devour her peace. For to be ſure this young creature can have no hope that—Yet 50,000l. is a vaſt fortune. But it can never buy her [20] guardian. Do you think ſuch a man as Sir Charles Grandiſon has a price?—I am ſure he has not.

I watch the countenance, the words, the air of the girl, when he is ſpoken of. And with pity I ſee, that he cannot be named, but her eyes ſparkle. Her eye is taken off her work or book, as ſhe happens to be engaged in either, and ſhe ſeems as if ſhe would look the perſon through who is praiſing her guardian. For the life of her, ſhe cannot work and hear. And then ſhe ſighs—Upon my word, Lucy, there is no ſuch thing as proceeding with his praiſes before her—the girl ſo ſighs—So young a creature!—Yet how can one caution the poor thing?

But what makes me a little more obſervant of her, than I ſhould otherwiſe perhaps have been (additional to my godfather's obſervation) is an hint given me by Lady L. which perhaps ſhe has from Miſs Grandiſon, and ſhe not unlikely from the ſtolen letter: For Miſs Grandiſon hinted at it, but I thought it was only to excite my curioſity [When one is not in good humour, how one's very ſtile is encumbred!]: The hint is this, That it is more than probable, it will be actually propoſed to me, to take down with me to Northamptonſhire this young lady—I, who want a governeſs myſelf, to be—But let it be propoſed.

In a converſation that paſſed juſt now, between us women, on the ſubject of Love (a favourite topic with all girls), this poor thing gave her opinion unaſked; and, for a young girl, was quite alert, I thought. She uſed to be more attentive than talkative.

I whiſpered Miſs Grandiſon once, Don't you think Miſs Jervois talks more than ſhe uſed to do, madam?

I think ſhe does, madam, re-whiſpered the arch lady.

I beg your pardon—Charlotte, then.

You have it, Harriet, then.—But let her prate. She is not often in the humour.

[21] Nay, with all my heart; I love Miſs Jervois: But I can't but watch when habits begin to change. And I am always afraid of young creatures expoſing them⯑ſelves when they are between girls and women.

I don't love whiſpering, ſaid Miſs Jervois, more pertly than ever: But my guardian loves me; and you, ladies, love me; and ſo my heart is eaſy.

Her heart eaſy!—Who thought of her heart? Her guardian loves her!—Emily ſha'n't go down with me, Lucy.

LETTER IV. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT.

I HAVE had a viſit, my dear and reverend friend, from Emily's mother. She will very probably make one alſo at Colnebrooke, before I can be ſo happy as to get thither. I diſpatch this therefore, to appriſe you and Lord L. of ſuch a probability; which is the greater, as ſhe knows Emily to be there, thro' the inadvertence of Saunders, and finds me to be in town. I will give you the particulars of what paſſed between us, for your better information, if ſhe goes to Colnebrooke.

I was preparing to attend Lord W. as by appoint⯑ment, when ſhe ſent in her name to me.

I received her civilly. She had the aſſurance to make up to me with a full expectation that I would ſalute her; but I took, or rather received, her ready hand, and led her to a chair by the fire-ſide. You have never ſeen her. She thinks herſelf ſtill hand⯑ſome; and, did not her vices make her odious, and her whole aſpect ſhew her heart, ſhe would not be much miſtaken.

How does Emily, Sir? gallanting her fan: Is the girl here? Bid her come to me. I will ſee her.

She is not here, madam.

Where is ſhe then? She has not been at Mrs. Lane's for ſome time.

[23] She is in the beſt protection: She is with my two ſiſters.

And pray, Sir Charles Grandiſon, What do you intend to do with her? The girl begins to be wo⯑manly.

She laughed; and her heart ſpoke out at her eyes.

Tell me what you propoſe to do with her? You know, added ſhe, affecting a ſerious air, that ſhe is my child.

If, madam, you deſerve to be thought her mother, you will be ſatisfied with the hands ſhe is in.

Piſh!—I never loved you good men: Where a fine girl comes in their way, I know what I know—

She looked wantonly, and laughed again.

I am not to talk ſeriouſly with you, Mrs. Jervois: But what have you to ſay to my ward?

Say! —Why, you know, Sir, I am her mother: And I have a mind to have the care of her perſon my⯑ſelf. You muſt (ſo her father directed) have the care of her fortune. But I have a mind, for her reputation⯑ſake, to take the girl out of the hands of ſo young a guardian. I hope you will not oppoſe me.

If this be all your buſineſs, madam, I muſt be ex⯑cuſed. I am preparing, as you ſee, to dreſs.

Where is Emily? I will ſee the girl.

If your motive be motherly love, little, madam, as you have acted the mother by her, you ſhall ſee her when ſhe is in town. But her perſon, and repu⯑tation, as well as fortune, muſt be my care.

I am married, Sir: And my huſband is a man of honour.

Your marriage, madam, gives a new reaſon why Emily muſt not be in your care.

Let me tell you, Sir, that my huſband is a man of honour, and as brave a man as yourſelf; and he will ſee me righted.

Be he who he will, he can have no buſineſs with Emily. Did you come to tell me you are married, mama?

[24] I did, Sir, Don't you wiſh me joy?—

Joy, madam! I wiſh you to deſerve joy, and you will then perhaps have it. You'll excuſe me—I ſhall make my friends wait.

I could not reſtrain my indignation. This woman marries, as ſhe calls it, twice or thrice a year.

Well, Sir, then you will find time, perhaps, to talk with Major O Hara. He is of one of the beſt families in Ireland. And he will not let me be robbed of my daughter.

Major O-Hara, madam, has nothing to do with the daughter of my late unhappy friend. Nor have I any-thing to ſay to him. Emily is in my protection; and I am ſorry to ſay, that ſhe never had been ſo, were not the woman who calls herſelf her mother, the perſon leaſt fit to be intruſted with her daughter. Permit me the favour of leading you to your chair.

She then broke out into the language in which ſhe always concludes theſe viſits. She threatened me with the reſentments of Major O-Hara; and told me, He had been a conqueror in half a dozen duels.

I offered my hand. She refuſed it not. I led her to her chair.

I will call again to-morrow afternoon, ſaid ſhe (threatning with her head), perhaps with the major, Sir. And I expect you will produce the little har⯑lotry—

I withdrew in ſilent contempt. Vile woman!

But let nothing of this eſcape you to my Emily. I think ſhe ſhould not ſee her but in my preſence. The poor girl will be terrified into fits, as ſhe was the laſt time ſhe ſaw her, if ſhe comes, and I am not there. But poſſibly I may hear no more of this wicked woman for a month or two. Having a power to make her annuity either one or two hundred pounds, according to her behaviour, at my own diſcretion, the man ſhe has married, who could have no inducement, but the annuity, if he has married her, will not ſuffer her to [25] incur ſuch a reduction of it; for, you know, I have always hitherto paid her two hundred pounds a year. Her threatening to ſee me to-morrow may be to amuſs me while ſhe goes. The woman is a fooliſh woman; but, being accuſtomed to intrigue, ſhe aims at cun⯑ning and contrivance.

I am now haſtening to Lord W. I hope his woman will not be admitted to his table, as the generally is, let who will be preſent; yet, it ſeems, knows not how to be ſilent, whatever be the ſubject. I have never choſen either to dine or ſup with my Lord, that I might not be under a neceſſity of objecting to her company: And were I not to object to it, as I am a near kinſman to my Lord, and know the ſituation ſhe is in with him, my complaiſance might be imputed to motives altogether unworthy of a man of ſpirit.

Yours of this morning was brought me, juſt as I was concluding. There is one paragraph in it, that greatly intereſts me.

You hint to me, that my ſiſters, tho' my abſences are ſhort, would be glad to receive now-and-then a letter from me. You, my dear friend, have engaged me into a kind of habit, which makes me write to you with eaſe and pleaſure.—To you, and to our Beau⯑champ, methinks, I can write any-thing. Uſe, it is true, would make it equally agreeable to me to write to my ſiſters. I would not have them think that there is a brother in the world, that better loves his ſiſters than I do mine: And now, you know, I have three. But why have they not ſignified as much to me? Could I give pleaſure to any whom I love, without giving great pain to myſelf, it would be unpardonable not to do it.

I could eaſily carry on a correſpondence with my ſiſters, were they to be very earneſt about it: But then it muſt be a correſpondence: The writing mu [...]t not be all of one ſide. Do they think I ſhould not be equally pleaſed to hear what they are about, from time [26] to time; and what, occaſionally, their ſentiments are, upon perſons and things? If it fall in your way, and you think it not a mere temporary wiſh (for young Ladies often wiſh, and think no more of the matter); then propoſe the condition.—But caution them, that the moment I diſcover, that they are leſs frank, and more reſerved, than I am, there will be an end of the correſpondence. My three ſiſters are moſt amiably frank, for women—But, thus challenged, dare they enter the liſts, upon honour, with a man, a brother, upon equal terms?—O no! They dare not. It is not in woman to be unreſerved in ſome points; and (to be impartial) perhaps they ſhould not: Yet, ſurely, there is now-and-then a man, a brother, to be met with, who would be the more grateful for the confidence repoſed in him.

Were this propoſal to be accepted, I could write to them many of the things that I communicate to you. I have but few ſecrets. I only wiſh to keep from relations ſo dear to me, things that could not poſſibly yield them pleaſure. I am ſure I could truſt to your judgment, the paſſages that might be read to them from my letters to you.

Sometimes, indeed, I love to divert myſelf with Charlotte's humorous curioſity; for ſhe ſeems, as I told her lately, to love to ſuppoſe ſecrets, where there are none, for a compliment to her own ſagacity, when ſhe thinks ſhe has found them out; and I love at ſuch times to ſee her puzzled, and at a fault, as a puniſhment for her declining to ſpeak out.

You have told me heretofore, in excuſe for the di⯑ſtance, which my two elder ſiſters obſerve to their brother, when I have complained of it to you, that it proceeded from awe, from reverence for him. But why ſhould there be that awe, that reverence? Surely, my dear friend, if this is ſpontaneous, and invincible, in them, there muſt be ſome fault in my behaviour, ſome ſeeming want of freedom in my [27] manner, with which you will not acquaint me: It is otherwiſe impoſſible, that between brothers and ſiſters, where the love is not doubted on either ſide, ſuch a diſtance ſhould ſubſiſt. You muſt conſult them upon it, and get them to explain themſelves on this ſubject to you; and when they have done ſo, tell me of my fault, and I will endeavour to render myſelf more agree⯑able (more familiar, ſhall I ſay?) to them. But I will not by any means excuſe them, if they give me cauſe to think, that the diſtance is owing to the will and the power I have been bleſſed with to do my duty by them. What would this be, but indirectly to declare, that once they expected not juſtice from their brother? But no more of this ſubject at preſent. I am im⯑patient to be with you all at Colnebrooke; you can⯑not think how impatient. Self-denial is a very hard doctrine to be learned, my good Dr. Bartlett. So, in ſome caſes, is it found to be, by

LETTER V. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

POOR Emily! her heart is almoſt broken. This ignoble paſſion, what a mean-ſpirited creature had it like to have made me!—Be quiet, be quiet, Lucy!—I will call it ignoble. Did you ever know me before ſo little?—And had it not like to have put me upon being hard-hearted, envious, and I can't tell what, to a poor fatherleſs girl, juſt ſtarting into woman, and therefore into more danger than ſhe ever was in before; wanting to be protected—from whom? From a mother. —Dreadful circumſtance!—Yet I am ready to grudge the poor girl her guardian, and her innocent prattle!—But let me be deſpiſed by the man I love, if I do not conquer this new-diſcovered envy, [28] jealouſy, littleneſs, at leaſt with regard to this un⯑happy girl, whoſe calamity endears her to me.

Dear child! ſweet Emily! You ſhall go down with me, if it be propoſed. My grandmamma, and uncle, and aunt, will permit me to carry you with me. They are generous: They have no little paſſion to miſlead their beneficence: They are what I hope to be, now I have found myſelf out—And what if her gratitude ſhall make her heart overflow into Love, has ſhe not excuſe for it, if Harriet has any?

Well, but to the occaſion of the poor Emily's di⯑ſtreſs.—About twelve this day, ſoon after Lord L. and the two ſiſters and I, came from church (for Emily happened not to go), a coach and four ſtopped at the gate, and a ſervant in a ſorry livery, alighting from behind it, enquired for Lord L. Two gentlemen, who by their dreſs and appearance were military men, and one Lady, were in it.

My Lord ordered them to be invited to alight, and received them with his uſual politeneſs.

Don't let me call this unhappy woman Emily's mother; O Hara is the name ſhe owns.

She addreſſed herſelf to my Lord: I am the mother of Emily Jervois, my Lord: This gentleman, Major O Hara is my husband.

The Major bowed, ſtrutted, and acknowleged her for his wife: And this gentleman, my Lord, ſaid he, is Captain Salmeret; a very brave man: He is in fo⯑reign ſervice. His Lady is my own ſiſter.

My Lord took notice of each.

I underſtand, my Lord, that my daughter is here. I deſire to ſee her.

One of my Lord's ſervants, at that time, paſſing by the door, which was open, Pray Sir, ſaid ſhe to him, let Miſs Jervois know, that her mamma is come to ſee her. Deſire her to come to me.

Major. I long to ſee my new daughter: I hear ſhe is a charming young Lady. She may depend upon the [...]nd e [...]s of a f [...]her from me.

Capt. De man of honour and good nature be my broder's general cha-ract -er, I do aſſure your Lord⯑ſhip.

He ſpoke Engliſh as a Frenchman, my Lord ſays; but pronounced the word character as an Iriſhman.

Major (bowing). No need of this, my dear friend. My Lord has the cha-ract -er of a fine gentleman himſelf, and knows how to receive a gentleman who waits upon him with due reſpect.

Lord L. I hope I do. But, madam, you know whoſe protection the Lady is in.

Mrs. O-Hara. I do, my Lord. Sir Charles Grandiſon is a very fine gentleman.

Capt. De vineſt cha-ract -er in de vorld. By my ſalvation, every-body ſay ſo.

Mrs. O-Hara. But Sir Charles, my Lord, is a very young gentleman to be guardian to ſo young a creature; eſpecially now that ſhe is growing into woman. I have had ſome few faults, I own. Who lives, that has not? But I have been baſely ſcanda⯑lized. My firſt huſband had his; and much greater than I had. He was ſet againſt me by ſome of his own relations: Vile creatures!—He left me, and went abroad; but he has anſwered for all by this time; and for the ſcanty allowance he made me, his great fortune conſidered: But as long as my child will be the better for it, that I can forgive.—Emily, my dear!—

She ſtepped to the door on hearing the ruſtling of ſilks, ſuppoſing her at hand; but it was Miſs Gran⯑diſon, followed by a ſervant with chocolate, to afford her pretence to ſee the viſitors; and at the ſame time having a mind to hint to them, that they were not to expect to be aſked to ſtay to dinner.

It is to Miſs Grandiſon that I owe the deſcription of each, the account of what paſſed, and the broken dialect.

Mrs. O-Hara has been an handſome woman; but [30] well might Sir Charles be diſguſted with her aſpect. She has a leering, fly, yet confident eye; and a very bold countenance. She is not ungenteel; yet her very dreſs denotes her turn of mind. Her com⯑plexion, ſallowiſh, ſtreaked with red, makes her face (which is not ſo plump as it once has been) look like a withering John-apple that never ripened kindly

Miſs Grandiſon has a way of ſaying ill-natured things in ſuch a good-natured manner, that one can⯑not forbear ſmiling, tho' one ſhould not altogether approve of them; and yet ſometimes one would be ready to wonder how ſhe came by her images.

The Major is pert, bold, vain, and ſeemed parti⯑cularly ſond of his new ſcarlet coat and laced waiſt⯑coat. He is certainly, Miſs Grandiſon ſays, a low man, tho' a ſoldier. Anderſon, added ſhe, is worth fifty of him. His face, fiery and highly pimpled, is ſet off to advantage by an enormous ſolitaire. His bad and ſtraggling teeth are ſhewn continually by an af⯑fected laugh, and his empty diſcourſe is interlarded with eaths; which, with my uncle's leave, I ſhall omit.

Captain Salmonet, ſhe ſays, appeared to her in a middle way between a beau and a Dutch boor; aiming at gentility, with a perſon and ſhape uncom⯑monly clumſy.

They both aſſumed military airs, which not ſitting naturally, gave them what Miſs Grandiſon called, The ſwagger of ſoldierly importance.

Emily was in her own apartment, almoſt fainting with terror: For the ſervant, to whom Mrs. O-Hara had ſpoken, to bid her daughter come to her, had offi⯑ciouſly carried up the meſſage.

To what Mrs. O-Hara had ſaid in defence of her own character, my Lord anſwered, Mr. Jervois had, a right, madam, to do what he pleaſed with a fortune acquired by his own induſtry. A diſagreement in marriage is very unhappy; but in this caſe, as in a duel, the ſurvivor is hardly ever in fault. I have [31] nothing to do in this matter. Miſs Jervois is very happy in Sir Charles Grandiſon's protection. She thinks ſo; and ſo does every-body that knows her. It is your misfortune if you do not.

Mrs. O Hara. My Lord, I make no diſpute of Sir Charles's being the guardian of her fortune; but no father can give away the authority a mother has, as well as himſelf, over her child.

Major. That child a daughter too, my Lord.

Lord L. To all this I have nothing to ſay. You will not be able, I believe, to perſuade my brother Grandiſon to give up his ward's perſon to you, madam.

Mrs. O-Hara. Chancery may, my Lord—

Lord L. I have nothing to ſay to this, madam. No man in England knows better what is to be done, in this caſe, than Sir Charles Grandiſon; and no man will be readier to do what is juſt and fitting, without law: But I enter not into the caſe; you muſt not talk to me on this ſubject.

Miſs Gr. Do you think, madam, that your mar⯑riage intitles you the rather to have the care of Miſs Jervois?

Major (with great quickneſs). I hope, madam, that my honour and my cha-ract -er—

Miſs Gr. Be they ever ſo unqueſtionable, will not intitle you, Sir, to the guardianſhip of Miſs Jervois's perſon.

Major. I do not pretend to it, madam. But I hope that no father's will, no guardian's power, is to ſet aſide the natural authority which a mother has over her child.

Lord L. This is not my affair. I am not inclined to enter into a diſpute with you, madam, on this ſubject.

Mrs. O-Hara. Let Emily be called down to her mother. I hope I may ſee my child. She is in this houſe, my Lord. I hope, I may ſee my child.

Major. Your Lordſhip, and you, madam, will allow, that it would be the greateſt hardſhip in the world, to deny to a mother the ſight of her child.

Capt. De very greateſt hardſhip of all hardſhips. Your Lordſhip will not refuſe to let de daughter come to her moder.

Lord L. Her guardian perhaps will not deny it. You muſt apply to him. He is in town. Miſs Jer⯑vois is here but as a gueſt. She will be ſoon in town. I muſt not have her alarmed. She has very weak ſpirits.

Mrs. O-Hara. Weak ſpirits, my Lord!—A child to have ſpirits too weak to ſee her mother!—And ſhe felt for her handkerchief.

Miſs Gr. It ſounds a little harſhly, I own, to deny to a mother the ſight of her daughter: But unleſs my brother were preſent, I think, my Lord, it cannot be allowed.

Major. Not allowed, madam!

Capt. A moder to be denied to ſee her daughter! Jeſu! And he croſſed himſelf.

Mrs. O-Hara. (putting her handkerchief to hide her eyes, for it ſeems ſhe wept not). I am a very un⯑happy mother indeed—

Major (embracing her). My deareſt life! My beſt love! I muſt not bear theſe tears—Would to God Sir Charles were here, and thought fit—But I came not here to threaten—You, my Lord, are a man of the greateſt honour; ſo is Sir Charles.—But whatever were the miſunderſtandings between huſband and wife, they ſhould not be kept up and propagated between mother and child. My wife at preſent deſires only to ſee her child: That's all, my Lord. Were your brother preſent, madam, he would not deny her this. Then again embracing his wiſe, my dear ſoul, be comforted. You will be allowed to ſee your daughter; no doubt of it. I am able to protect and right you. My dear ſoul, be comforted.

[33] She ſobbed, Miſs Grandiſon ſays; and the good⯑natured Lord L. was moved—Let Miſs Jervois be aſked, ſaid he, If ſhe chooſes to come down.

I will go to her myſelf, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon.

She came down preſently again—

Miſs Byron and Miſs Jervois, ſaid ſhe, are gone out together in the chariot.

Major. Nay, madam—

Capt. Upon my ſalvation this muſt not paſs—And he ſwaggered about the room.

Mrs. O-Hara looked with an air of incredulity.

It was true, however: For the poor girl being ready to ſaint, I was called in to her. Lady L. had been making a viſit in the chariot; and it had juſt brought her back. O ſave me, ſave me, dear madam, ſaid Miſs Emily, to me, wringing her hands. I can⯑not, I cannot ſee my mother out of my guardian's, preſence: And the will make me own her new huſ⯑band. I beſeech you, ſave me; hide me!

I ſaw the chariot from the window, and, without aſking any queſtions, I hurried Miſs Emily down ſtairs, and conducted the trembling dear into it; and whipping in after her, ordered the coachman to drive any-where, except towards London: And then the poor girl threw her arms about my neck, ſmothering me with her kiſſes, and calling me by all the tender names that terror and mingled gratitude could ſug⯑geſt to her.

Miſs Grandiſon told the circumſtances pretty near as above; adding, I think, my Lord, that Miſs Emily wants not apology for her terror on this occaſion. That Lady, in her own heart, knows that the poor girl has reaſon for it.

Madam, ſaid the Major, my wife is cruelly uſed. Your brother—But I ſhall talk to him upon the ſub⯑ect. He is ſaid to be a man of conſcience and ho⯑nour: I hope I ſhall find him ſo. I know how to protect and right my wife.

[34] And I will ſtand by my broder and his lady, ſaid the Captain, to de very laſt drop of my blood.—He looked fierce, and put his hand on his ſword.

Lord L. You don't by theſe airs mean to inſult me, gentlemen—If you do—

Major. No, no, my Lord. But we muſt ſeek our remedy elſewhere. Surpriſing! that a mother is de⯑nied the ſight of her daughter! Very ſurpriſing!

Capt. Very ſurpriſing, indeed!—Ver dis to be done in my country—In France—Engliſh liberty! Begar ver pretty liberty!—A daughter to be ſupported againſt her moder—Whew! Ver pretty liberty, by my ſalvation!—

Mrs. O Hara. And is indeed my vile child run away to avoid ſeeing her mother?—Strange! Does ſhe always intend to do thus?—She muſt ſee me—And dearly ſhall ſhe repent it!

And ſhe looked fierce, and particularly ſpiteful; and then declared, that ſhe would ſtay there till Emily came back, were it midnight.

Lord L. You will have my leave for that, madam?

Major. Had we not beſt go into our coach, and let that drive in queſt of her?—She cannot be far off. It will be eaſy to trace a chariot.

Lord L. Since this matter is carried ſo far, let me tell you, that, in the abſence of her guardian, I will protect her. Since Miſs Jervois is thus averſe, ſhe ſhall be indulged in it. If you ſee her, madam, it muſt be by the conſent, and in the preſence, of her guardian.

Major. Well, my dear, ſince the matter ſtands thus; ſince your child is taught to ſhun you thus: let us ſee what Sir Charles Grandiſon will ſay to it. He is the principal in this affair, and is not privileged. If he thinks fit—And there he ſtopped, and bluſtered; and offered his hand to his bride.—I am able both to protect and right you, madam; and I will. But you have a letter for the girl, written on a ſuppoſition that [35] ſhe was not here.—Little did you think, or I think, that ſhe was in the houſe when we came; and that ſhe ſhould be ſpirited away to avoid paying her duty to her mother.

Very true. Very true. And, Very true, ſaid each; and Mrs. O-Hara pulled out the letter, laying it on one of the chairs; and deſired it might be given to her daughter. And then they all went away, very much diſſatisfied; the two men muttering and threat⯑ning, and reſolving, as they ſaid, to make a viſit to Sir Charles.

I hope we ſhall ſee him here very ſoon. I hope theſe wretches will not inſult him, or endanger a life ſo precious. Poor Emily! I pity her from my heart. She is as much grieved on this occaſion, as I was, in dread of the reſentment of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.

Let me give you ſome account of what paſſed be⯑tween Emily and me: You will be charmed with her beautiful ſimplicity.

When we were in the chariot, ſhe told me, that the laſt time ſhe ſaw her mother, it was at Mrs. Lane's: The bad woman made a pretence of private buſineſs with her daughter, and withdrew with her into an⯑other room, and then inſiſted that ſhe ſhould go off with her, unknown to any-body. And becauſe I de⯑ſired to be excuſed, ſaid ſhe, my mother laid her hands upon me, and ſaid ſhe would trample me under her foot. It is true, (unhappy woman!) ſhe was—[Then the dear girl whiſpered me, tho' no-body was near us—ſweet modeſt creature, loth to reveal this part of her mother's ſhame even to me aloud, and bluſhed as ſhe ſpoke—] ſhe was in her cups.—My mamma is as naughty as ſome men in that reſpect: And I believe ſhe would have been as good as her word; but on my ſcreaming (for I was very much frighted) Mrs. Lane, who had an eye upon us, ran in with two ſervants, and one of her daughters, and reſcued me. She had torn my cap—Yet it was a ſad [36] thing, you know, madam, to ſee one's mother put out of the houſe againſt her will. And then ſhe raiſed the neighbourhood. Lord bleſs me, I thought I ſhould have d [...]ed. I did fall into fits. Then was Mrs. Lane forced to tell every one what a ſad woman my mother was! It was ſuch a diſgrace to me!—It was a month before I eould go to church, or look any-body in the face. But Mrs. Lane's character was of her ſide; and my guardian's goodneſs was a help—Shall I ſay a help againſt my mother?—Poor woman! we heard afterwards, ſhe was dead; but my guardian would not believe it. If it would pleaſe God to take me, I ſhould rejoice. Many a tear does my poor mother, and the trouble I give to the beſt of men, coſt me, when nobody ſees me; and many a time do I cry myſelf to ſleep, when I think it impoſſible I ſhould get ſuch a kind relief.

I was moved at the dear girl's melancholy tale. I claſped my arms about her, and wept on her gentle boſom. Her calamity, which was the greateſt that could happen to a good child, I told her, had en⯑deared her to me: I would love her as my ſiſter.

And ſo I will: Dear child, I will for ever love her. And I am ready to hate myſelf for ſome paſ⯑ſages in my laſt letter. O how deceitful is the heart! I could not have thought it poſſible that mine could have been ſo narrow.

The dear girl rejoiced in my aſſurances, and pro⯑m [...]ſed grateful love to the lateſt hour of her life.

Indeed, madam, I have a grateful heart, ſaid ſhe, for all I am ſo unhappy in a certain relation. I have none of thoſe ſort of faults that give me a reſemblance in any way to my poor mother. But how ſhall I make out what I ſay? You will miſtruſt me, I fear: You will be apt to doubt my principles. But will you promiſe to take my heart in your hand, and guide it as you pleaſe?—Indeed it is an honeſt one. I wiſh you [...]aw it thro' and thro'.—If ever I do a wrong [37] thing, miſtruſt my head, if you pleaſe, but not my heart. But in every-thing I will be directed by you; and then my head will be as right as my heart.

I told her, that good often reſulted from evil. It was an happy thing perhaps for both, that her mo⯑ther's viſit had been made. Look upon me, my dear Emily, as your entire friend: We will have but one heart between us.

Let me add, Lucy, that if you find me capable of drawing this ſweet girl into conſeſſions of her inſant love, and of making ungenerous advantage of them, tho' the event were to be fatal to my peace if I did not; I now call upon all you, my dear friends, to deſpiſe and renounce the treacherous friend in Harriet Byron.

She beſought me to let her write to me; to let her come to me for advice, as often as ſhe wanted it, whether here, in my dreſſing-room or chamber, or at Mr. Reeves's, when I went from Colnebrooke.

I conſented very chearfully, and at her requeſt (for indeed, ſaid ſhe, I would not be an intruder for the world) promiſed by a nod at her entrance, to let her know, if ſhe came when I was buſy, that ſhe muſt retire, and come another time.

You are too young a Lady, added ſhe, to be called my mamma—Alas! I have never a mamma, you know: But I will love you, and obey you, on the holding up of your finger, as I would my mother, were ſhe as good as you.

Does not the beautiful ſimplicity of this charming girl affect you, Lucy? But her eyes ſwimming in tears, her earneſt looks, her throbbing boſom, her hands now claſped about me, now in one another, added ſuch graces to what ſhe ſaid, that it is impoſſible to do juſtice to it: And yet I am affected as I write; but not ſo much, you may believe, as at the time ſhe told her tender tale.

Indeed her calamity has given her an abſolute poſ⯑ſeſſion [4] of my heart. I, who had ſuch good parents, and have had my loſs of them ſo happily alleviated, and even ſupplied, by a grandmamma and an aunt ſo truly maternal, as well as by the love of every one to whom I have the happineſs to be related; how un⯑worthy of ſuch bleſſings ſhould I be, if I did not know how to pity a poor girl who muſt reckon a liv⯑ing mother as her heavieſt misfortune!

Sir Charles, from the time of the diſturbance which this unhappy woman made in Mrs. Lane's neighbour⯑hood, and of her violence to his Emily, not only threatned to take from her that moiety of the an⯑nuity which he is at liberty to withdraw; but gave orders that ſhe ſhould never again be allowed to ſee his ward but in his preſence: And ſhe has been quiet till of late, only threatening and demanding. But now ſhe ſeems, on this her marriage with Major O-Hara, to have meditated new ſchemes, or is aim⯑ing, perhaps, at new methods to bring to bear an old one; of which Sir Charles had private intimation given him by one of the perſons to whom, in her cups, ſhe once boaſted of it: Which was, that as ſoon as Miſs Emily was marriageable, ſhe would endeavour, either by fair means, or foul, to get her into her hands: And if ſhe did, but for one week, ſhe ſhould the next come out the wife of a man ſhe had in view, who would think half the fortune more than ſufficient for himſelf, and make over the other half to her; and then ſhe ſhould come into her right, which ſhe deems to be half of the fortune of which her huſband died poſſeſſed.

This that follows is a copy of the letter left for Emily by this mother; which, tho' not well ſpelled, might have been written by a better woman, who had hardſhips to complain of which might have intitled her to pity:

My Lord thought fit to open this letter: He is ſor⯑ry that he did; becauſe the poor girl is ſo low-ſpirit⯑ed, that he does not chooſe to let her ſee it; but will leave it to her guardian to give it to her, or not, as he pleaſes.

Miſs Grandiſon lifted up her hands and eyes as ſhe read it. Such a wretch as this, ſaid ſhe, to remind Emily of God's judgments; and that line written as even as the reſt! How was it poſſible, if her wicked heart could ſuggeſt ſuch words, that her fingers could ſteadily write them? But indeed ſhe verifies the words of the wiſe man; There is no wickedneſs like the wick⯑edneſs of a woman.

We all long to ſee Sir Charles. Poor Emily, in particular, will be unhappy till he comes.

While we expect a favoured perſon, tho' rich in the company of the friends we are with, what a di⯑minution does it give to enjoyments that would be complete were it not for that expectation? The mind is uneaſy, not content with itſelf, and always looking out for the perſon wanted.

Emily was told, that her mother left a letter for her; but is adviſed not to be ſolicitous to ſee it till her guardian comes. My Lord owned to her, that he had opened it; and pleaſed tenderneſs, as he juſtly might, in excuſe of having taken that liberty. She thanked his Lordſhip, and ſaid, It was for ſuch girls as ſhe to be directed by ſuch good and kind friends.

She has juſt now left me. I was writing, and [41] wanted to cloſe. I gave her a nod, with a ſmile, as agreed upon a little before. Thank you, thank you, dear madam, ſaid ſhe, for this freedom. She ſtopped at the door, and, with it in her hand, in a whiſpering accent, bending forwards, Only tell me, that you love me as well as you did in the chariot.

Indeed, my dear, I do; and better, I think, if poſ⯑ſible: Becauſe I have been putting part of our conver⯑ſation upon paper, and ſo have faſtened your merits on my memory.

God bleſs you, madam, I am gone. And away ſhe tript.

But I will make her amends, before I go to reſt; and confirm all that I ſaid to her in the chariot; for moſt cordially I can.

I am, my dear Lucy, and will be,

LETTER VI. Mr. DEANE, To Mrs. SELBY.

YOU wiſhed me, my dear Mrs. Selby, as I was obliged to go to London on my own affairs, to call at Colnebrooke, and to give you my obſervations on the ſtate of matters there; and whether there were any likelihood of the event we are all ſo deſirous ſhould be brought about; and particularly, if an op⯑portunity offered, that I would at diſtance ſound Sir Charles himſelf on the ſubject. I told you, that you need not be afraid of my regard to our dear child's delicacy; and that ſhe herſelf ſhould not have reaſon to miſtruſt me on this nice ſubject.

It ſeems his great engagements in town, and ſome he has had in Kent, have hindered him from giving Lord L. and his ſiſters much of his company, tho' [42] our Harriet is there; which they all extremely re⯑gret.

I dined at Colnebroke. Lord L. is a very worthy and agreeable man. Lady L. and Miſs Grandiſon are charming women. Miſs Jervois is a pretty young Lady.—But more of her by-and-by.—The couſin Grandiſon you ſpoke of, is gone down to Grandiſon⯑hall: whither Sir Charles himſelf thinks ſhortly of going—But this and other diſtant matters I refer to our Harriet's own account.

My viſit to Sir Charles is moſt in my head, and I will mention that, and give place to other obſerva⯑tions afterwards.

After dinner I purſued my journey to London. As my own buſineſs was likely to engage me for the whole time I had to ſtay in town, I alighted at his houſe in St. James's Square; and was immediately, on ſending in my name, introduced to him.

Let me ſtop to ſay, He is indeed a very fine gentle⯑man. Majeſty and ſweetneſs are mingled in every feature of his face; and the latter, rather than the former, predominates in his whole behaviour. Well may Harriet love him.

I told him, that I hoped, on my coming to town on particular affairs, he would excuſe the intruſion of a man who was perſonally a ſtranger to him; but who had long wiſhed for an opportunity to thank him for the relief he had given to a young lady in whom I claimed an intereſt that was truly paternal. At the ſame time I congratulated him on the noble manner in which he had extricated himſelf, to the confuſion of men, whom he had taught to find out, and to be aſhamed, that they were ſavages.

He received my compliments as a man might be ſuppoſed to do, to whom praiſe is not a new thing; and made me very handſome ones, declaring himſelf acquainted with my character, with my connections with your family, and with one of the moſt excellent of [43] young Ladies. This naturally introduced the praiſes of our Harriet; in which he joined in ſo high and ſo juſt a ſtrain, that I ſaw his heart was touched. I am ſure it is: So ſet yours at reſt. It muſt do. Every⯑thing is moving, and that not ſlowly, to the event ſo deſireable. I led to the graces of her perſon; he to thoſe of her mind▪ He allowed her to be, for both, one of the moſt perfect beauties he had ever ſeen. In ſhort, Mrs. Selby, I am convinced, that the impor⯑tant affair will ripen of itſelf. His ſiſters, Lord L. Dr. Bartlett, all avowedly in our lovely girl's favour, and her merit ſo extraordinary; it muſt do. Don't you remember what the old ſong ſays?

All I want, methinks, is, to have them oftener to⯑gether. Idleneſs, I believe, is a great friend to Love. I wiſh his affairs would let him be a little idle. They muſt be diſpatched ſoon, be they what they will; for Lord L. ſaid, that when he is maſter of a ſubject, his execution is as ſwift as thought, Sir Charles hinted, that he ſhould ſoon be obliged to go to France. Seas are nothing to him. Dr. Bartlett ſaid, that he con⯑ſiders all nations as joined on the ſame continent; and doubted not but if he had a call, he would undertake a journey to Conſtantinople or Pekin, with as little difficulty as ſome others would (he might have named me for one) to the Land's-end. Indeed he appears to be juſt that kind of man. Yet he ſeems not to have any of that ſort of fire in his conſtitution, that goes off with a bounce, and leaves nothing but vapour aod ſmoke behind it.

You are in doubt about our girl's fortune. It is not a deſpicable one. He may, no queſtion, have a woman with a much greater; and ſo may ſhe a man.—What ſay you to Lady D's propoſal, rejected for his ſake; [44] at hap-hazard too, as the ſaying is? But let it once come to that queſtion, and leave it to me to anſwer it.

You bid me remark how Harriet looks. She is as lovely as ever; but I think, not quite ſo lively, and ſomewhat paler; but it is a clear and healthy, not a ſickly paleneſs: And there is a languor in her fine eyes, that I never ſaw in them before. She never was a pert girl; but ſhe has more meekneſs and humility in her countenance, than, methinks, I would wiſh her to have; becauſe it gives to Miſs Grandiſon, who has fine ſpirits, ſome advantages, in converſation, over Harriet, that, if ſhe had, methinks ſhe ſhould not take. But they perfectly underſtand one another.

But now for a word or two about Miſs Jervois. I could not but take notice to our Miſs Byron, of the greedineſs, with which ſhe eats and drinks the praiſes given her guardian; of the glow that overſpreads her cheeks, and of a ſigh that now-and-then ſeems to eſcape even her own obſervation, when he is ſpoken of; ſo like a neice of mine, that drew herſelf in, and was afterwards unhappy; and by theſe ſymptoms I con⯑clude, that this young creature is certainly giving way to Love. She has a very great fortune, is a pretty girl, and an improving beauty. She is tall and womanly. I thought her ſixteen or ſeventeen; but, it ſeems, ſhe is hardly fourteen. There is as much difference in girls, as in fruits, as to their maturing, as I may ſay. My mother, I remember, once ſaid of an early bloom in a neice of her's, that ſuch were born to woe. I hope it won't be ſo with this; for ſhe certainly is a good young creature, but has not had great opportu⯑nities of knowing either the world or herſelf. Brought up in a confined manner in her father's houſe at Leg⯑horn, till twelve or thirteen; whatopportunities could ſhe have? No mother's wings to be ſheltered under; Her mother's wickedneſs giving occaſion the more to ſtreighten her education, and at a time of life ſo young, and in ſo reſtraining a country as Italy, for girls and [45] young maidens; and, ſince brought over, put to board with a retired country gentlewoman—What can ſhe know, poor thing? She has been but a little while with Miſs Grandiſon, and that but as a gueſt: So that the world before her is all new to her: And, indeed, there ſeems to be in her pretty wonder, and honeſt declarations of her whole heart, a ſimplicity that ſometimes borders upon childiſhneſs, tho' at other times a kind of womanly prudence. I am not afraid of her on our Harriet's account; and yet Harriet (Lover-like, perhaps!) was alarmed at my hinting it to her: But I am on her own. I wiſh, as I ſaid before, Sir Charles were more among them: He would ſoon diſcover whoſe Love is fit to be diſcountenanced, and whoſe to be encouraged; and, by that means, give eaſe to twenty hearts. For I cannot believe that ſuch a man as this would be guilty (I will call it) of reſerve to ſuch a young Lady as ours, were he but to have the ſhadow of a thought that he has an intereſt in her heart.

My affairs are more untoward than I expected: But on my return to Peterborough I will call at Shir⯑ley-houſe and Selby-manor—and then (as I hope to ſee Sir Charles again, either in London, or at Colne⯑brooke) I will talk to you of all theſe matters. Mean time, believe me to be

LETTER VII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

AFTER we had taken leave of one another for the night, I tapt at Fmily's chamber-door; which being immediately opened by her maid, Is it you, my dear Miſs Byron? ſaid ſhe, running to me. How good this is!

[46] I am come, my dear, late as it is, to paſs an agree⯑able half-hour with you, if it will not be unſeaſon⯑able.

That it can never be.

You muſt then let your Anne go to bed, ſaid I: Elſe as her time is not her own, I ſhall ſhorten my viſit. I will aſſit you in any little ſervices myſelf. I have diſmiſſed Jenny.

God bleſs you, madam, ſaid ſhe. You conſider every-body. Anne tells me, that the ſervants, through⯑out the houſe, adore you: And I am ſure their prin⯑cipals do.—Anne, you may go to your reſt.

Jenny, who attends me here, has more than once hinted to me, that Miſs Jervois loves to ſit up late, either reading, or being read to, by Anne; who, tho' ſhe reads well, is not fond of the taſk.

Servants, ſaid I, are as ſenſible as their maſters and miſtreſſes. They ſpeak to their feelings. I que⯑ſtion not but they love Miſs Jervois as well as they do me. I ſhould as ſoon chooſe to take my meaſures of the goodneſs of principals by their ſervants love of them, as by any other rule. Don't you ſee, by the ſilent veneration and aſſiduities of the ſervants of Sir Charles Grandiſon, how much they adore their maſter?

I am very fond of being eſteemed by ſervants, ſaid ſhe, from that very obſervation of my guardian's goodneſs, and his ſervants worthineſs, as well as from what my maid tells me, all of them ſay of you. But you and my guardian are ſo much alike in every thing, that you ſeem to be born for one another.

And then ſhe ſighed, involuntarily; yet ſeemed not to endeavour to reſtrain or recal her ſigh.

Why ſighs my dear young friend? Why ſighs my Emily?

That's good of you, to call me you▪ Emily. My guardian calls me his Emily. I am always proud when he calls me ſo—I don't know why I ſigh: But I have lately got a trick of ſighing, I think. Will [47] it do me harm? Anne tells me, it will; and ſays, I muſt break myſelf of it. She ſays, is is not pretty in a young Lady to ſigh: But where is the un-prettineſs of it?

Sighing is ſaid to be a ſign of being in Love; and young Ladies—

Ah! madam! And yet you ſigh, very often—

I felt myſelf bluſh.

I often catch myſelf ſighing, my dear, ſaid I. It is a trick, as you call it, which I would not have you learn.

But I have reaſon for ſighing, madam; which you have not—Such a mother! A mother that I wanted to be good, not ſo much to me, as to herſelf: A mother ſo unhappy, that one muſt be glad to run a⯑way from her. My poor papa! ſo good as he was to every body, and even to her, yet had his heart broken—O madam!—(flinging her arms about me, and hiding her face in my boſom) Have I not cauſe to ſigh?

I wept on her neck; I could not help it: So duti⯑fully ſenſible of her calamity! and for ſuch a cala⯑mity, who could forbear?

Such a diſgrace too! ſaid ſhe, raiſing her head. Poor woman!—Yet ſhe has the worſt of it. Do you think that that is not enough to make one ſigh?

Amiable goodneſs! (kiſſing her cheek) I ſhall love you too well.

You are too good to me: You muſt not be ſo good to me: That, even that, will make me ſigh. My guardian's goodneſs to me gives me pain; and I think verily, I ſigh more ſince laſt I left Mrs. Lane, and have ſeen more of his goodneſs, and how every-body admires, and owns obligation to him, than I did be⯑fore.—To have a ſtranger, as one may ſay, and ſo very fine a gentleman, to be ſo good to one, and to have ſuch an unhappy mother—who gives him ſo much trouble—how can one help ſighing for both reaſons?

[48] Dear girl! ſaid I, my heart overflowing with com⯑paſſion for her, you and I are bound equally, by the tie of gratitude, to eſteem him.

Ah, madam! you will one day be the happieſt of all women—And ſo you deſerve to be.

What means my Emily?

Don't I ſee, don't I hear, what is deſigned to be brought about by Lord and Lady L. and Miſs Gran⯑diſon? And don't I hear from my Anne, what every body expects and wiſhes for?

And does every-body expect and wiſh, my Emily—

I ſtopped. She went on.—And don't I ſee that my guardian himſelf loves you?

Do you think ſo, Emily?

O how he dwells upon your words, when you ſpeak!

You fanſy ſo, my dear.

You have not obſerved his eyes ſo much as I have done, when he is in your company. I have watched your eyes, too; but have not ſeen that you mind him quite ſo much as he does you.—Indeed he loves you dearly.—And then ſhe ſighed again.

But why that ſigh, my Emily?—Were I ſo happy as you think, in the eſteem of this good man, would you envy me, my dear?

Envy you!—I, ſuch a ſimple girl as I, envy you! No, indeed. Why ſhould I envy you?—But tell me now; dear madam, tell me; Don't you love my guardian?

Every body does. You, my Emily, love him.

And ſo I do: But you love him, madam, with a hope that no one elſe will have reaſon to entertain—Dear now, place a little confidence in your Emily: My guardian ſhall never know it from me, by the leaſt hint. I beg you will own it. You can't think how you will oblige me. Your confidence in me will give me importance with myſelf.

[49] Will you, Emily, be as frank-hearted with me, as you would have me be with you?

Indeed I will.

I do, my dear, greatly eſteem your guardian.

Eſteem! Is that the word? Is that the Ladies word for Love? And is not the word Love, a pretty word for women? I mean no harm by it, I am ſure.

And I am ſure you cannot mean harm: I will be ſincere with my Emily. But you muſt not let any one living know what I ſay to you of this nature. I would prefer your guardian, my dear, to a king, in all his glory.

And ſo, madam, would I, if I were you. I ſhould be glad to be thought like you in every-thing.

Amiable innocence! But tell me, Miſs Jervois, Would you not have me eſteem your guardian? You know he was my guardian too, and that at an exigence when I moſt wanted one.

Indeed I would. Would you have me wiſh ſuch a good young Lady, as Miſs Byron, to be ungrateful? No, indeed.—And again ſhe ſighed.

Why then ſighed my Emily? You ſaid you would be frank-hearted.

So I will, madam. But I really can't tell why I ſighed then. I wiſh my guardian to be the happieſt man in the world: I wiſh you, madam, to be the hap⯑pieſt woman: And how can either be ſo, but in one another?—But I am grieved, I believe, that there ſeems to be ſomething in the way of your mutual happineſs—I don't know whether that is all, neither—I don't know what it is—If I did, I would tell you—But I have ſuch throbs ſometimes at my heart, as make me fetch my breath hard—I don't know what it is—Such a weight here, as makes me ſigh; and I have a pleaſure, I think, becauſe I have an eaſe in ſighing—What can it be?—

Go on, my dear: You are a pretty deſcriber.

Why now, if any-body, as Anne did laſt time my [50] guardian came hither, was to run up ſtairs, in an hurry; and to ſay, Miſs, Miſs, Miſs, your guardian is come! I ſhould be in ſuch a flutter! my heart would ſeem to be too big for my boſom! I ſhould ſit down as much out of breath, as if I had ran down an high hill.—And, for half an hour, may be, ſo trem⯑ble, that I ſhould not be able to ſee the dear guardian that perhaps I had wanted to ſee. And to hear him with a voice of gentleneſs, as if he pitied me for having ſo unhappy a mother, call me his Emily.—Don't you think he has a ſweet voice?—And your voice, too, madam, is alſo ſo ſweet—Every-body ſays, that even in your common ſpeech your voice is melody.—Now Anne ſays—

O my agreeable little flatterer!

I don't flatter, madam. Don't call me a flatterer. I am a very ſincere girl: Indeed I am.

I dare ſay you are: But you raiſe my vanity, my dear. It is not your fault to tell me what people ſay of me; but it is mine to be proud of their com⯑mendations—But you were going to tell me what Anne ſays, on your being ſo much affected, when ſhe tolls you in an hurry that your guardian is come?

Why Anne ſays, That all thoſe are ſigns of Love. Fooliſh creature!—And yet ſo they may: But not of ſuch Love as ſhe means.—Such a Love as ſhe as good as owns ſhe had in her days of ſlutteration, as ſhe whimſically calls them; which, as ſhe explains it, were when ſhe was two or three years older than I am. In the firſt place, I am very young, you know, madam; a mere girl: And ſuch a ſimple thing!—I never had a mother, nor ſiſter neither; nor a com⯑panion of my own ſex.—Mrs. Lane's daughters, what were they?—They looked upon me as a child as I was. In the next place, I do love my guardian, that's true: but with as much reverence, as if he were my father. I never had a thought that had not that deep, that profound reverence for him, as I re⯑member I had for my father.

[51] But you had not, my dear, any of thoſe flutters, thoſe throbs, that you ſpoke of, on any returns of your father, after little abſences?

Why, no; I can't ſay I had. Nor, tho' I always rejoiced when my guardian came to ſee me at Mrs. Lane's, had I, as I remember, any ſuch violent emotions, as I have had now of late. I don't know how it is—Can you tell me?

Do you not, Lucy, both love and pity this ſweet girl?

My dear Emily!—Theſe are ſymptoms, I doubt—

Symptoms of what, madam?—Pray tell me ſin⯑cerely. I will not hide a thought of my heart from you.

If encouraged, my dear—

What then, madam?—

It would be Love, I doubt.—That ſort of Love that would make you uneaſy—

No; that cannot be ſurely. Why, madam, at that rate, I ſhould never dare to ſtand in your pre⯑ſence. Upon my word, I wiſh no one in the world, but you, to be lady Grandiſon. I have but one fear—

And what is that?

That my guardian won't love me ſo well, when he marries, as he does now.

Are you afraid that the woman he marries will en⯑deavour to narrow ſo large an heart as his?

No; not if that woman were you.—But, forgive my folly! (and ſhe looked down) he would not take my hand ſo kindly as now he does: He would not look in my face with pleaſure, and with pity on my mother's account, as he does now: He would not call me his Emily: He would not beſpeak ever one's regard for his ward.

My dear, you are now almoſt a woman. He will, if he remain a ſingle man, ſoon draw back into his heart that kindneſs and love for you, which, while you [52] are a girl, he ſuffers to dwell upon his lips. You muſt expect this change of behaviour ſoon, from his pru⯑dence. You yourſelf, my love, will ſet him the ex⯑ample: You will grow more reſerved in your outward behaviour, than hitherto there was reaſon to be—

O, madam! never tell me that! I ſhould break my heart, were I twenty, and he did not treat me with the tenderneſs that he has always treated me with. If, indeed, he find me an incroacher; if he find me for⯑ward, and indiſcreet, and troubleſome; then let him call me any -body's Emily, rather than his.

You will have different notions, my dear, before that time—

Then, I think, I ſha'n't deſire to live to ſee the time. Why, madam, all the comfort I have to ſet againſt my unhappineſs from my mother, is, that ſo good, ſo virtuous, and ſo prudent a man as Sir Charles Grandiſon, calls me his Emily, and loves me as his child. Would you, madam, were you Lady Gran⯑diſon (now, tell me, would you) grudge me theſe in⯑ſtances of his favour and affection?

Indeed, my dear, I would not: If I know my own heart, I would not.

And would you permit me to live with you?—Now it is out—Will you permit me to live with my guardian and you?—This is a queſtion I wanted to put to you; but was both aſhamed and afraid, till you thus kindly emboldened me.

Indeed I would, if your guardian had no objection.

That don't ſatisfy me, madam. Would you be my earneſt, my ſincere advocate, and plead for me? He would not deny you any-thing. And would you (come, madam, I will put you to it—Would you) ſay, ‘'Look you here, Sir Charles Grandiſon; This girl, this Emily, is a good ſort of girl: She has a great fortune. Snares may be laid for her: She has no papa but you: She has, poor thing! (I hope you would call me by names of pity to move him) no [53] mamma; or is more unhappy than if ſhe had none. Where can you diſpoſe of her ſo properly as to let her be with us? I will be her protectreſs, her friend, her mamma'’ [Yes, do, madam, let me chooſe a mamma! Don't let the poor girl be without a mamma, if you can give her one. I am ſure I will ſtudy to give you pleaſure, and not pain]—‘'I inſiſt upon it, Sir Charles. It will make the poor girl's heart eaſy. She is told of the arts and tricks of men where girls have great fortunes: and ſhe is al⯑ways in dread about them, and about her unhappy mother. Who will form plots againſt her, if ſhe is with us?'’—Dear, dear madam! you are moved in my favour—Who could have forborn being affected by her tender prattle? and ſhe threw her arms about me; I ſee you are moved in my favour!—And I will be your attendant: I will be your waiting-maid: I will help to adorn you, and to make you more and more lovely in the eyes of my guardian.

I could not bear this.

No more, no more, my lovely girl, my innocent, my generous, my irreſiſtible girl—Were it come to that [It became me to be unreſerved, for more rea⯑ſons than one, to this ſweet child]—Not one requeſt ſhould my Emily make, that heart and mind I would not comply with: Not one wiſh that I would not en⯑deavour to promote and accompliſh for her.

I folded her to my heart, as ſhe hung about my neck.

I grieve you—I would not, for the world, grieve my young mamma, ſaid ſhe—Henceforth let me call you my mamma.—Mamma, as I have heard the word explained, is a more tender name even than mother —The unhappy Mrs. Jervois ſhall be Mrs. O-Hara, if ſhe pleaſes; and only mother: A child muſt not re⯑nounce her mother, tho' the mother ſhould renounce, or worſe than renounce, her child.

I muſt leave you, Emily.

[54] Say then my Emily.

I muſt leave you my, and more than my Emily.—You have cured me of ſleepineſs for this night!

O then I am ſorry—

No; don't be ſorry. You have given me pain, 'tis true; but I think it is the ſweeteſt pain that ever entered into an human heart. Such goodneſs! ſuch innocence! ſuch generoſity!—I thank God, my love, that there is in my knowledge ſo worthy a young heart as yours.

Now, how good this is! (and again ſhe wrapped her arms about me) And will you go?

I muſt, I muſt, my dear!—I can ſtay no longer.—But take this aſſurance, that my Emily ſhall have a firſt place in my heart for ever. I will ſtudy to pro⯑mote your happineſs; and your wiſhes ſhall be the leaders of mine.

Then I am ſure I ſhall live with my guardian and you for ever, as I may ſay: And God grant, and down on her knees ſhe dropped, with her arms wrapped about mine, that you may be the happieſt of women, and that ſcon, for my ſake, as well as your own, in marriage with the beſt of men—my guardian! (ex⯑ultingly, ſaid ſhe): And ſay, Amen—Do, God bleſs you, madam, ſay Amen to my prayer.

I ſtruggled from her.—O my ſweet girl! I cannot bear you!—I haſtened out at the door, to go to my chamber.

You are not angry, madam? following me, and taking my hand, and kiſſing it with eagerneſs. Say you are not diſpleaſed with me. I will not leave you till you do.

Angry! my love! Who can be angry? How you have diſtreſſed me, by your ſweet goodneſs of heart?

Thank God, I have not offended you. And now ſay, once more, my Emily—Say, Good reſt to you, my Emily—my love—and all thoſe tender names—and ſay, God bleſs you, my child, as if you were my [55] mamma; and I will leave you, and I ſhall in fancy go to ſleep with Angels.

Angels, only, are fit company for my Emily—God bleſs my Emily! Good night! Be your ſlumbers happy!

And I kiſſed her once, twice, thrice, with fervor; and away ſhe tript; but ſtopt at the door, cour⯑teſying low, as I, delighted, yet painfully delighted, looked after her.

Ruminating, in my retirement, on all the dear girl had ſaid, and on what might be my fate; ſo many different thoughts came into my head, that I could not cloſe my eyes: I therefore aroſe before day; and, while my thoughts were agitated with the affecting ſubject, had recourſe to my pen.

Do, my Lucy, and do you, my grandmamma, my aunt, my uncle, more than give me leave, bid me, command me, if it ſhall be propoſed, to bring down with me my Emily: And yet ſhe ſhall not come, if you don't all promiſe to love her as well as you do

LETTER VIII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

THE active, the reſtleſs goodneſs, of this Sir Charles Grandiſon, abſolutely dazles me, Lucy!

The good Dr. Bartlett has obliged us all with the ſight of two letters, which give an account of what he has done for Lord W. his uncle. He has been more than a father to his uncle: Does not that ſound ſtrange? But he is to be the obliger of every-body.

The Doctor ſaid, that ſince Miſs Grandiſon had claimed the benefit of her brother's permiſſion for him to uſe his own diſcretion in communicating to us [56] ſuch of the letters as he was favoured with by Sir Charles, he believed he could not more unexception⯑ably oblige Lord L. and the ſiſters, than by reading to them thoſe two letters, as they were a kind of family ſubject.

After the Doctor had done reading, he withdrew to his cloſet. I ſtole up after him, and obtained his leave to tranſmit them to you.

Lucy, be chary of them, and return them when peruſed.

There is no ſuch thing as pointing out particular paſſages of generoſity, juſtice, prudence, diſintereſt⯑edneſs, beneficence, that ſtrike one in thoſe letters, without tranſcribing every paragraph in them. And, ah Lucy! there are other obſervations to be made; mortifying ones, I fear.

Only let me ſay, That I think, if Sir Charles Grandiſon could and would tender himſelf to my ac⯑ceptance, I ought to decline his hand. Do you think, if I were his, I ſhould not live in continual dread of a ſeparation from him, even by that inevitable ſtroke which, alone, could be the means of completing his exiſtence?

This is the man, ye modeſt, ye tender-hearted fair ones, whom ye ſhould ſeek to entitle to your vows: Not the lewd, the obſcene libertine, ſoul Harpy, ſon of Riot, and of Erebus; glorying in his wickedneſs, triumphing in your weakneſs, and ſeeking by ſtorm to win an heart that ought to ſhrink at his approach. Shall not Like cleave to Like? —Henceforth may it be ſo, wiſhes

LETTER. IX. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT.

AS ſoon as I had ſeen Mrs. Jervois to her chair, I went to attend Lord W.

[57] He received me with great expreſſions of eſteem and affection.

He commanded his attendants to withdraw, and told me, taking my hand, that my character roſe upon him from every mouth. He was in love with me, he ſaid, I was my mother's ſon.

He commended me for my oeconomy, and compli⯑mented into generoſity the juſtice I had done to ſome of my friends.

I frankly own, ſaid he, that at your firſt arrival, and even till now (that I am determined to be the man you, couſin, would wiſh me to be) I had thought it but prudent to hold back. For I imagined, that your father had lived at ſuch a rate, that you would have applied to me, to extricate you from difficulties; and particularly, for money to marry your elder ſiſter, at leaſt. I took notice, young man, proceeded he, and I heard others obſerve, that you had not eyes to ſee any of your father's faults; either when he was living, or departed; and this gave me reaſon to ap⯑prehend, that you had your father's extravagant turn: And I was reſolved, if I were applied to, to wrap my⯑ſelf cloſe about in a general denial. Elſe, all I had been gathering together for ſo many years paſt, might ſoon have been diſſipated; and I ſhould only have taken a thorn out of the foot of another, and put it into my own.

And then he threw out ſome diſagreeable reflexions on my father's ſpirit.

To thoſe I anſwered, That every man had a right to judge for himſelf, in thoſe articles for which he himſelf only is accountable. My father, and your Lordſhip, continued I, had very different ways of thinking. Magnificence was his taſte: Prudence (ſo your Lordſhip muſt account it) is yours. There are people in the world, who would give different names to both taſtes: But would not your Lordſhip think it very preſumptuous in any man to arraign you at the [58] bar of his judgment, as miſtaken in the meaſures of your prudence?

Look you, ne hew, I don't well know what to make of your ſpeech; but I judge, that you mean not to affront me.

I do not, my Lord. While you was apprehenſive that you might be a ſufferer by me, you acted with your uſual prudence to diſcourage an application. My father had, in your Lordſhip's judgment, but one fault; and he was the principal ſufferer by it himſelf: Had he looked into his affairs, he would have avoided the neceſſity of doing ſeveral things that were diſagreeable to him, and muſt ever be, to a man of ſpirit. His very timber, that required, as I may ſay, the ax, would have furniſhed him with all he wanted: And he paid intereſt for a leſs ſum of money than actually was in the hands of his ſtewards, unaccounted for.

But what a glory to you, couſin—

No compliment to me, my Lord, I pray you, to the diſcredit of my father's memory. He had a right to do what he did. Your Lordſhip does what you think fit. I too, now I am my own maſter, do as I pleaſe. My taſte is different from both. I purſue mine, as he did his. If I ſhould happen to be more right than my father in ſome things, he might have the ad⯑vantage of me in others; and in thoſe I happen to do, that are generally thought laudable, what merit have I? Since all this time (directed by a natural bias) I am purſuing my own predominant paſſion; and that, perhaps, with as much ardour, and as little power to reſiſt it as my father had to reſtrain his.

Bravo! bravo! ſaid my Lord—Let me aſk you, nephew—May all young men, if they will, improve by travelling, as you have done?—If they may, by my troth nine parts in ten of thoſe who go abroad, ought to be hanged up at their fathers doors on their return.

Very ſevere, my Lord. But thinking minds will be thoughtful, whether abroad or at home: Unthink⯑ing ones call for our pity.

[59] Well, Sir, I do aſſure you, that I am proud of my nephew, whatever you are of your uncle. And there are two or three things that I want to talk to you about; and one or two that I would conſult you upon.

He rang, and aſked, What time dinner would be ready?

In half an hour, was the anſwer.

Mrs. Giſſard came in. Her face glowed with paſ⯑ſion. My Lord ſeemed affected at her entrance. It was eaſy to ſee, that they were upon ill terms with each other; and that my Lord was more afraid of her, than ſhe was of him.

She endeavoured to aſſume a complaiſant air to me; but it was ſo viſibly ſtruggled for, that it ſat very auk⯑wardly on her countenance; and her lips trembled when ſhe broke ſilence, to aſk officiouſly, as ſhe did, after the health of my ſiſter Charlotte.

I would be alone with my nephew, ſaid my Lord, in a paſſionate tone.

You ſhall be alone, my Lord, impertinently re⯑plied ſhe, with an air that looked as if they had quar⯑relled more then once before, and that ſhe had made it up on her own terms. She pulled the door after her with a rudeneſs that he only could take, and de⯑ſerve, who was conſcious of having degraded himſelf.

Fooliſh woman; Why came ſhe in when I was there, except to ſhew her ſuppoſed conſequence, at the expence of his honour? She knew what my opi⯑nion was of her. She would, by a third hand, once, have made overtures to me of her intereſt with my Lord; but I ſhould have thought meanly of myſelf, had I not, with diſdain, rejected the tender of her ſervices.

A damned woman! ſaid my lord; but looked; fiſt, as if he would be ſure ſhe was out of hearing.

This woman, nephew, and her behaviour, is one of the ſubjects I wanted to conſult you upon.

[60] Defer this ſubject, my Lord, till you have reco⯑vered your temper. You did not deſign to begin with it. You are diſcompoſed.

And ſo I am: And he puffed, and panted, as if out of breath.

I aſked him ſome indifferent queſtions. To have followed him upon the ſubject at that time, whatever reſolutions he had taken; they would probably have gone off, when the paſſion, to which they would have owed their vigour, had ſubſided.

When he had anſwered them, his colour and his wrath went down together.

He then ran out into my praiſes again, and, parti⯑cularly, for my behaviour to Mrs. Oldham; who, he ſaid, lived now very happily, and very exempla⯑rily; and never opened her lips, when ſhe was led to mention me, but with bleſſings heaped upon me.

That woman, my Lord, ſaid I was once good. A recovery, where a perſon is not totally abandoned, is more to be hoped for, than the reformation of one who never was well-principled. All that is wiſhed for, in the latter, is that ſhe may be made unhurtful: Her higheſt good was never more then harmleſſneſs. She that was once good, cannot be eaſy, when ſhe is in a true ſtate of penitence, till ſhe is reſtored to that from which ſhe was induced to depart.

You underſtand theſe matters, couſin: I don't. But if you will favour me with more of your com⯑pany, I ſhall, I believe, be the better for your no⯑tions. But I muſt talk about this woman, nephew. I am calm now. I muſt talk of this woman now—I am reſolved to part with her: I can bear her no longer. Did you n [...] mind how ſhe pulled the door after her, tho' you were preſent?

I did, my Lord. But it was plain, that ſomething diſagreeable had paſſed before; or ſhe could not ſo in⯑tirely have forgot herſelf. But, my Lord, we will poſtpone this ſubject, if you pleaſe. If you yourſelf [61] lead to it after dinner, I will attend to it, with all my heart.

Well, then, be it ſo. But now tell me, Have you, nephew, any thoughts of marriage?

I have great honour for the ſtate; an hope to be one day happy in it.

Well ſaid—And are you at liberty, kinſman, to receive a propoſal of that nature?

And then, without waiting for my anſwer, he pro⯑poſed Lady Frances N. and ſaid, he had been ſpoken to on that ſubject.

I anſwered, that the Lady was very deſerving; but that I ſhould think myſelf under too great obligations to a wife, for my own eaſe, if there were a woman in the world whom I could prefer to her.

Well, what think you of Lady Anne S.? I am told, that ſhe is likely to be the Lady. She has a noble fortune. Your ſiſters, I hear, are friends to Lady Anne.

My ſiſters wiſh me happily married. I have ſuch an opinion of both thoſe Ladies, that it would give me ſome little pain, to imagine each would not, in her turn, refuſe me, were I offered to her, as I cannot, myſelf, make the offer. I cannot bear, my Lord, to think of returning ſlight for reſpect, to my own ſex: But as to Ladies; how can we expect that delicacy and dignity from them, which are the bulwarks of their virtue, if we do not treat them with dignity?

Charming notions! If you had them not abroad, you had them from your mother: She was all that was excellent in woman.

Indeed ſhe was. Excellent woman! She was al⯑ways before my eyes.

And excellent kinſman too! Now I know your reverence for your mother, I will allow of all you ſay of your father; becauſe I ſee it is all from principle. I have known ſome men who have ſpoken with re⯑verence of their mothers, to give themſelves dignity: [62] That is to ſay, for bringing creatures ſo important as themſelves into the world, and who have exacted re⯑ſpect to the good old women who were merely good old women, as we call them, in order to take the in⯑cenſe, offered the parent, into their own noſtrils. This was duty in parade.

The obſervation my good Dr. Barlett, I thought above my Lord W. I think I have heard one like it, made by my father, who ſaw very far into men; but was ſometimes led, by his wit, into ſaying a ſevere thing: And yet, whenever I hear a man praiſed high⯑ly for the performance of common duties, as for be⯑ing a good huſband, a good ſon, or a kind father; tho' each is comparatively praiſe-worthy, I conclude, that there is nothing extraordinary to be ſaid of him. To call a man a good FRIEND, is indeed comprizing all the duties in one word. For friendſhip is the balm, as well as ſeaſoning, of life: And a man cannot be defective in any of the ſocial duties, who is capable of it, when the term is rightly underſtood.

Well, couſin, ſince you cannot think of either of thoſe Ladies, how ſhould you like the rich and beau⯑tiful Counteſs of R.? You know what an excellent character ſhe bears.

I do. But, my Lord, I ſhould not chooſe to mar⯑ry a widow: And yet, generally, I do not diſreſpect widows, nor imagine thoſe men to blame who marry them. But as my circumſtances are not unhappy, and as riches will never be my principal inducement in the choice of a wife, I may be allowed to indulge my peculiarities; eſpecially as I ſhall hope (and I ſhould not deſerve a good wife if I did not) that, when once married, I ſhall be married for my whole life.

The Counteſs once declared, ſaid my Lord, before half a ſcore in company, two of them her particular admirers, That ſhe never would marry any man in the world, except he were juſt ſuch another, in mind and manners, as Sir Charles Grandiſon.

[63] Ladies, my Lord, who in abſence ſpeak favourably of a man that forms not pretenſions upon them, nor is likely to be troubleſome to them, would ſoon con⯑vince that man of his miſtake, were his preſumption to riſe upon their declared good opinions.

I wonder, proceeded my Lord, that every young man is not good. I have heard you, couſin, praiſed in all the circles where you have been mentioned. It was certainly an advantage to you to come back to us a ſtranger, as I may ſay. Many youthful follies may perhaps be over-paſſed, that we ſhall never know any-thing of: But, be that as it will, I can tell you, Sir, that I have heard ſuch praiſes of you, as have made my eyes gliſten, becauſe of my relation to you. I was told, within this month paſt, that no fewer than Five Ladies, out of one circle, declared, that they would ſtand out by conſent, and let you pick and chooſe a wife from among them.

What your Lordſhip has heard of this nature, let me ſay, without affecting to diſclaim a compliment apparently too high for my merits, is much more to the honour of the one ſex, than of the other. I ſhould be glad, that policy, if not principle (principle might take root, and grow from it), would mend us men.

So ſhould I, nephew: But I [Poor man! he hung down his head!] have not been a better man than I ought to be. Do you not deſpiſe me, in your heart, couſin?—You muſt have heard—That curſed wo⯑man—But I begin to repent! And the truly good, I believe, cannot be either cenſorious, or uncharitable. Tell me, however, Do you not deſpiſe me?

Deſpiſe my mother's brother! No, my Lord. Yet were a ſovereign to warrant my freedom, and there was a likelihood that he would be the better for it; I would, with decency, tell him my whole mind. I am ſorry to ſay it; but your Lordſhip, if you have not had virtue to make you worthy of being imitated, [64] has too many examples among the great, as well as among the middling, to cauſe you to be cenſured for ſingularity. But your Lordſhip adds, to a confeſſion that is not an ungenerous one, that you begin to repent.

Indeed I do. And your character, couſin, has made me half-aſhamed of myſelf.

I am not accuſtomed, my Lord, to harangue on theſe ſubjects to men who know their duty: But let me ſay, That your Lordſhip's good reſolutions, to be efficacious, muſt be built upon a better foundation than occaſional diſguſt or diſobligation. But here, again, we are verging to a ſubject that we are both agreed to defer till after dinner.

I am charmed with your treatment of me, couſin. I ſhall, for my own ſake, adore my ſiſter's ſon. Had I conſulted my chaplain, who is a good man too, he would have too roughly treated me.

Divines, my Lord, muſt do their duty.

He then introduced the affair between Sir Hargrave Pollexfen and me, of which, I found, he was more particularly informed, than I could have imagined: And after he had launched out upon that, and upon my refuſal of a duel, he, by a tranſition that was very natural, mentioned the reſcued Lady, as he called her. I have heard, couſin, ſaid he, that ſhe is the moſt beautiful woman in England.

I think her ſo, my Lord, replied I: And ſhe has one excellence, that I never before met with in a Beauty: She is not proud of it.

I then gave my opinion of Miſs Byron in ſuch terms, as made my Lord challenge me, as my ſiſters once did, on the warmth of my deſcription and praiſes of her.

And does your Lordſhip think, that I cannot do juſtice to the merits of ſuch a Lady as Miſs Byron, but with an intereſted view? I do aſſure you, that what I have ſaid, is ſhort of what I think of her. [65] But I can praiſe a Lady, without meaning a com⯑pliment to myſelf. I look upon it, however, as one of the moſt fortunate accidents of my life, that I have been able to ſerve her, and ſave her from a forced marriage with a man whom ſhe diſliked, and who could not deſerve her. There is hardly any-thing gives me more pain, than when I ſee a worthy woman very unequally yoked, if her own choice has not been at firſt conſulted; and who yet, tho' deeply ſenſible of her misfortune, irreproachably ſupports her part of the yoke.

You are a great friend to the ſex, kinſman.

I am. I think the man who is not, muſt have fal⯑len into bad company; and deſerves not to have been favoured with better. Yet to unwomanly faults, to want of morals, and even to want of delicacy, no man is more quickſighted.

I don't know how it is; but I have not, at this rate, fallen into the beſt company: But perhaps it is for want of that delicacy, in my own mind, which you are ſpeaking of.

Were we men, my Lord, to value women (and to let it be known that we do) for thoſe qualities which are principally valuable in the ſex; the leſs eſtimable, if they would not be reformed, would ſhrink out of our company, into company more ſuit⯑able to their taſte; and we ſhould never want objects worthy of our knowledge, and even of our admiration, to aſſociate with. There is a kind of magnetiſm in goodneſs. Bad people will indeed find out bad people, and confederate with them, in order to keep one an⯑other in countenance; but they are bound together by a rope of ſand; while truſt, confidence, love, ſympathy, and a reciprocation of beneficent actions, twiſt a cord which ties good men to good men, and cannot be eaſily broken.

I have never had theſe notions, couſin; and yet they are good ones. I took people as I found them; and [66] to own the truth, meaning to ſerve myſelf, rather than any-body elſe, I never took pains to look out for worthy attachments. The people I had to do with, had the ſame views upon me, as I had upon them; and thus I went on in a ſtate of hoſtility with all men; miſtruſting and guarding, as well as I could, and not doubting that every man I had to do with would im⯑poſe upon me, if I placed a confidence in him: But as to this Miſs Byron, nephew, I ſhall never reſt till I ſee her—Pray what is her fortune? They tell me, it is not above 15000l. —What is that, to the offers you have had made you?

Juſt then we were told, dinner was on the table.

I am wiſhing for an inclination to reſt; but it flies me. The laſt Letter from Beauchamp, dated from Bologna, as well as thoſe from the Biſhop, afflict me. Why have I ſuch a feeling heart? Were the unhappy ſituation of affairs there owing to my own enter⯑prizing ſpirit, I ſhould deſerve the pain it gives me. But I ſhould be too happy, had I not theſe without⯑door perplexities, as I may call them, to torment me. Thank God that they ariſe not from within, tho' they make themſelves too eaſy a paſſage to my heart!

My paper is written out. If I am likely to find a drowſy moment, I ſhall welcome its approach: If not, I will riſe, and continue my ſubject.

LETTER X. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT.

I HAVE had two happy hours of forgetfulneſs. I could not, tho' I tried for it, prevail for more: And I will continue my ſubject.

After dinner, every attendant being diſmiſſed, my Lord, making me firſt ſee that nobody was liſtening n the paſſages, began as follows:

[67] I am determined, nephew, to part with this Gif⯑fard. She is the plague of my life. I would have done it half a year ago, on an occaſion that I will not mention to you, becauſe you would deſpiſe me, if I did, for my weakneſs: And now ſhe wants to bring in upon me, a ſiſter of hers, and her huſband, and to part with two other worthy folks, that I know love me; but of whom, for that reaſon, ſhe is jea⯑lous; and then they would divide me among them: For this man and his wife have ſix children; all of whom, of late, make an appearance that cannot be honeſtly ſupported.

And have you any difficulty, my Lord, in parting with her, but what ariſes from your own want of re⯑ſolution?

The moſt inſolent devil that ever was about a man at one time, and the moſt whining at another. Don't deſpiſe me, nephew; you know I have taken her as—You know what I mean—

I underſtand you, my Lord.

But ſay, you don't deſpiſe me, Sir Charles Gran⯑diſon. As I hope to live, I am half afraid of you.

My pity, my Lord, where I ſee compunction, is ſtronger than my cenſure.

That is well ſaid.—Now I agreed with this woman, in a weak moment, and ſhe has held me to it, to give her an annuity of 150l. for life; which was to be made up 250l. if I parted with her, without her conſent; and here we have been, for ſeveral months, plaguing one another, whether I ſhall turn her out of the houſe, or ſhe will leave me: For ſhe has told me, that ſhe will not ſtay, unleſs I take in her ſiſter and brother; yet will not go, becauſe ſhe will then have no more than the 150l. a year. And that is too much for her deſerts for theſe two years paſt.

Your Lordſhip ſees the inconveniencies of this way of life; and I need not mention to you, how [68] much happier that ſtate is, which binds a man and woman together by intereſt, as well as by affection, if diſcretion be not forgotten in the choice. But let me expreſs my ſurprize, that your Lordſhip, who has ſo ample an eſtate, and no child ſhould ſeem to value your peace of mind at ſo low a rate as 100l. a year.

I will not let her go away with ſuch a triumph. She has not deſerved from me—

Pray, my Lord, was ſhe of reputation when you took her?

She was a widow—

But was her character tolerable in the eye of the world? She might be a greater object of pity for be⯑ing a widow.

My gouty diſorders made me want a woman about me. I hated men-fellows—

Well, my Lord, this regards your motive. But have you any previous or later incontinence to charge her with?

I can't ſay I have. Her curſed temper would frighten, rather than invite, Lovers. I heard, it was no good one; but it broke not out to me till within theſe two years.

Your Lordſhip, ſurely, muſt not diſpute the mat⯑ter with her. If you are determined to part with her, give her the 250l. a year, and let her go.

To reward a curſed woman for miſbehaviour!—I cannot do it.

Give me leave to ſay, that your Lordſhip has de⯑ſerved ſome puniſhment: Give her the annuity, not as a reward to her, but as a puniſhment to yourſelf.

You hurt my ſore place, nephew.

Conſider, my Lord, that 250l. a year for life, or even for ever, is a poor price, for the reputation of a woman with whom a man of your quality and fortune condeſcended to enter into treaty. Every quarterly payment muſt ſtrike her to the heart, if ſhe live to have compunction ſeize her, when ſhe thinks that ſhe [69] is receiving, for ſubſiſtence, the wages of her ſhame. Be that her puniſhment. You intimate, that ſhe has ſo behaved herſelf, that ſhe has but few friends: Part with her, without giving her cauſe of complaint, that may engage pity for her, if not friends, at your ex⯑pence. A woman who has loſt her reputation, will not be regardful of yours. Suppoſe ſhe ſue you for non-performance of covenants: Would your Lord⯑ſhip appear to ſuch a proſecution? You cannot be capable of pleading your privilege on ſuch a proſecu⯑tion as would otherwiſe go againſt you. You cannot be in earneſt to part with this woman, ſhe cannot have offended you beyond forgiveneſs, if you ſcruple 100l. a year to get rid of her.

He ſervently ſwore, that he was in earneſt; and added, I am reſolved, nephew, to marry, and live honeſt.

He looked at me, as if he expected that I ſhould be ſurpriſed.

I believe I could not change countenance, on ſuch an hint as this. You have come to a good reſolution, my Lord; and if you marry a prudent woman, your Lordſhip will find the difference in your own reflex⯑ions, as well as in your reputation and intereſt. And ſhall the difference of 100l. a year—Don't let me ſay, that I am aſhamed for my Lord W.

I knew that you would deſpiſe me, Sir Charles.

I know, my Lord, that I ſhould deſpiſe myſelf, were I not to deal freely with you in this reſpect. In⯑deed, my Lord, you have not had ſo good reaſon (for⯑give me!) to think hardly of my father's ſpirit, as you had to correct your own.

I cannot bear this, nephew. He looked diſpleaſed.

You muſt not be angry, my Lord. I will not bear anger from any man breathing, and keep him com⯑pany, who, conſulting me, ſhall be diſpleaſed with me for ſpeaking my mind with freedom and ſince⯑rity.

[70] What a man am I talking to!—Well, rid me of this torment [You have ſpirit, nephew; and nobody can reproach you with acting contrary to your own principles] and I will for ever love you. But talk to her: I hardly dare. She whimpers and ſobs, and threatens, by turns, and I cannot bear it.—Once ſhe was going to tie herſelf up—Would to God I had not prevented her—And then (O my folly!) we went on again.

My good Dr. Bartlett, I was aſhamed of my uncle. But you ſee what an artful, as well as inſolent woman, this is. What ſolly is there in wickedneſs! Folly en⯑counters with folly, or how could it ſucceed ſo often as it does?—Yet my mother's brother to wiſh he had ſuffered a creature, with whom he had been familiar, to deſtroy herſelf!—I could hardly bear him. Only that I thought it would be ſerving both wretches, and giving both a chance for repentance; or I ſhould not have kept my ſeat—But we ſee in my mother, and in her brother, how habitual wickedneſs debaſes, and how habitual goodneſs exalts, the human mind. In their youth they were ſuppoſed nearer an equality in their underſtandings and attainments, than in their maturity, when occaſion called out into action their reſpective talents. But perhaps the brother was not the better man for the uninterrupted proſperity that attended him, and for having never met with check or controul; whereas the moſt happily married woman in the world muſt have a will to which ſhe muſt ſome⯑times reſign her own. What a glory to a good woman muſt it be, who can not only reſign her will, but make ſo happy an uſe of her reſignation, as my mother did!

My Lord repeated his requeſt, that I would talk with the woman; and that directly.

I withdrew, and ſent for her, accordingly.

She came to me, out of breath with paſſion; and, as I thought, partly with apprehenſion for what her own behaviour might be before me.

[71] I ſee, Mrs. Giffard, ſaid I, that you are in great emotion. I am deſired to talk with you; a taſk I am not very fond of: But you will find nothing but civility, ſuch as is due to you, for your ſex's ſake, from me. Calm, therefore, your mind: I will ſee you again, in a few moments.

I took a turn, and ſoon came back. Her face looked not quite ſo bloated; and ſhe burſt into tears. She began to make a merit of her ſervices; her care; her honeſty; and then inveighed againſt my Lord for the narrowneſs of his ſpirit. She paid ſome compli⯑ments to me, and talked of being aſhamed to appear before me as a guilty creature; introductory to what ſhe was prepared to ſay of her ſacrifices, the loſs of her good name, and the like; on which, with reſpect to my Lord, and his ingratitude to her, as ſhe called it, ſhe laid great ſtreſs.

I am never diſpleaſed, my dear friend, with the teſtimony which the moſt profligate women bear to the honour of virtue, when they come to ſet a value upon their departure from it.

You have it not to ſay, Mrs. Giffard, that my Lord betrayed, ſeduced, or deceived you. I ſay not this ſo much for reproach, as for juſtice-ſake; and not to ſuffer you to deceive yourſelf, and to load him with greater faults than he has been guilty of. You were your own miſtreſs: You had no father, mother, huſband, to queſtion you, or to be offended with you. You knew your duty. You were treated with as a ſole and independent perſon. One hundred and fifty pounds a year, Mrs. Giffard, tho' a ſmall price for the virtue of a good woman, which is indeed above all price, is, nevertheleſs, greatly above the price of common ſervice. I never ſeek to palliate faults of a flagrant nature: tho' it is not my meaning to aſſront, a woman eſpecially, and one who ſuppoſes herſelf in diſtreſs. You muſt know, madam, the frail tenure by which you are likely to hold: You ſtipulated, [72] therefore, for a proviſion, accordingly. The woman who never hoped to be a wife, can have no hardſhips to take the ſtipulation, and once more give herſelf the opportunity to recover her loſt fame. This inde⯑pendence my Lord is deſirous to give you—

What independence, Sir?

One hundred and fifty—

Two hundred and fifty, Sir, if you pleaſe—If my Lord thinks fit to diſmiſs me.

My Lord has told me, that that was indeed the ſti⯑pulation; but he pleads miſbehaviour.

I was willing to make a little difficulty of the 100 l. a year, tho' I thought my Lord ought not—And as to miſbehaviour, Dr. Bartlett, I hardly know how to puniſh a woman for that, to her keeper. Does ſhe not firſt miſbehave to herſelf, and to the laws of God and man? And ought a man, that brings her to vio⯑late her firſt duties, to expect from her a regard to a mere diſcretionary obligation? I would have all theſe moraliſts, as they affect to call themſelves, ſuffer by ſuch libertine principles as cannot be purſued, but in violation of the very firſt laws of morality.

Miſbehaviour! Sir. He makes this plea to cover his own baſeneſs of heart. I never miſbehaved, as he calls it, till I ſaw—

Well, madam, this may lead to a debate that can anſwer no end. I preſume, you are as willing to leave my Lord, as he is to part with you. It muſt be a wretchedneſs beyond what I can well imagine, to live a life of guilt (I muſt not palliate in this caſe) and yet of hatred and animoſity, with the perſon who is a partaker in that guilt.

I am put upon a very unequal taſk, Sir, to talk with you on this ſubject. My Lord will not refuſe to ſee me, I hope. I know what to ſay to him.

He has requeſted me to talk with you, madam. As I told you, I am not fond of the taſk. We have all our faults. God knows what he will pardon, and [73] what he will puniſh. His pardon, however, in a great meaſure depends upon yourſelf. You have health and time, to all appearance, before you: Your future life may be a life of penitence. I am no divine, madam; I would not be thought to preach to you: But you have now a proſpect opened of future hap⯑pineſs, thro' your mutual miſunderſtandings, that you never otherwiſe might have had. And let me make an obſervation to you; That where hate or diſlike have once taken place of liking, the firſt ſepa⯑ration, in ſuch a caſe as this, is always the beſt. Affection or eſteem between man and woman, once forfeited, hardly ever is recovered. Tell me truth—Don't you as heartily diſlike my Lord, as he does you?

I do, Sir—He is—

I will not hear what he is, from the mouth of de⯑clared prejudice. He has his faults. One great fault is, that which you have been joint partakers in—But if you might, would you chooſe to live together to be torments to each other?

I can torment him more than he can me—

Diabolical temper!—Woman! (and I ſtood up, and looked ſternly) Can you forget to whom you ſay this—and of whom?—Is not Lord W. my uncle?

This (as I intended it ſhould) ſtartled her.▪She aſked my pardon.

What a fine hand, proceeded I, has a Peer of the realm made of it! to have this ſaid of him, and per⯑haps, had you been in his preſence, to him, by a woman whoſe courage is founded in his weakneſs?—Let me tell you, madam—

She held up her claſped hands—For God's ſake, for⯑give me, Sir! and ſtand my friend.

An hundred and fifty pounds a year, madam, is rich payment for any conſideration that a woman could give, who has more ſpirit than virtue. Had you kept that, madam, you would, tho' the daughter of cot⯑tagers, [74] have been ſuperior to the greateſtman on earth, who wanted to corrupt you.—But thus far, and as a puniſhment to my Lord for his wilful weakneſs, I will be your friend—Retire from my Lord: You ſhall have 250l. a year: And as you were not brought up to the expectation of one half of the fortune, beſtow the hundred a year, that was in debate, upon young creatures of your ſex, as an encouragement to them to preſerve that chaſtity, which you, with your eyes open, gave up; and, with the reſt, live a life ſuitable to that diſpoſition; and then, as my fellow-creature, I will wiſh you happy.

She begged leave to withdraw: She could not, ſhe ſaid, ſtand in my preſence. I had, indeed, ſpoken with warmth. She withdrew, trembling, courteſying, mortified; and I returned to my Lord.

He was very earneſt to hear my report. I again put it to him, Whether he adhered to his reſolution of parting with his woman? He declared in the affirm⯑ative, with greater earneſtneſs than before; and begged to know, if I could manage it that ſhe ſhould go, and that without ſeeing him? I cannot bear to ſee her, ſaid he.

Bravoes of the Law, cowards and cullies to their paramours, are theſe keepers, generally. I have ever ſuſpected the courage (to magnanimity they muſt be ſtrangers) of men who can deſy the laws of ſociety. I pitied him: And believing that it would not be diffi⯑cult to manage this heroine, who had made her weak Lord afraid of her; I ſaid, Have you a mind, my Lord, that ſhe ſhall quit the houſe this night, and before I leave it? If you have, I think I can under⯑take, that ſhe ſhall.

And can you do this for me? If you can, you ſhall be my great Apollo. That will, indeed, make me happy: For the moment you are gone, ſhe will force herſelf into my preſence, and will throw the gout, per⯑haps, into my ſtomach. She reproaches me, as if ſhe [75] had been an innocent woman, and I the moſt un⯑grateful of men. For God's ſake, nephew, releaſe me from her, and I ſhall be happy. I would have left her behind me in the country, proceeded he, but ſhe would come with me. She was afraid that I would appeal to you: She ſtands in awe of nobody elſe. You will be my guardian Angel, if you will rid me of this plague.

Well, then, my Lord, you will leave it to me to do the beſt I can with her: But it cannot be the beſt on your ſide, for your honour's ſake, if we do her not that juſtice that the law would, or ought to do her. In a word, my Lord, you muſt forgive me for ſaying, that you ſhall not reſume that dignity to di⯑ſtreſs this woman, which you laid aſide when you en⯑tered into treaty with her.

Well, well, I refer myſelf to your management: Only this 100l. a year—Once again, I ſay, it would hurt me to reward a woman for plaguing me: And 150l. a year is two-thirds more than ever ſhe, or any of her family, were intitled to.

The worſt and meaneſt are intitled to juſtice, my Lord; and I hope your Lordſhip will not refuſe to perform engagements that you entered into with your eyes open: You muſt not, if I take any concern in this affair.

Juſt then the woman ſent in, to beg the favour of an audience, as ſhe called it, of me.

She addreſſed me in terms above her education. There is ſomething, ſaid ſhe, in your countenance, Sir, ſo terrible, and yet ſo ſweet, that one muſt fear your anger, and yet hope for your forgiveneſs, when one has offended. I was too free in ſpeaking of my Lord to his nephew—And then ſhe made a compli⯑ment to my character, and told me, She would be determined by my pleaſure, be it what it would.

How ſeldom are violent ſpirits true ſpirits! When over-awed, how tame are they, generally, in their [76] ſubmiſſion! Yet this woman was not without art in hers. She ſaw, that, diſpleaſed as ſhe apprehended I was with her, I had given her hopes of the payment of the hundred pounds a year penalty; and this made her ſo acquieſcent.

I was indeed diſpleaſed with you, Mrs. Giffard; and could not, from what you ſaid, but conclude in your disfavour, in juſtification of my Lord's complaints againſt you.

Will you give me leave, Sir, to lay before you the true ſtate of every-thing between my Lord and me? Indeed, Sir, you don't know—

When two perſons, who have lived in familiarity, differ, the fault is ſeldom wholly on one ſide: But thus far I judge between you, and deſire not to hear particulars: The man who diſpenſes with a known duty, in ſuch a caſe as this before us, muſt render himſelf deſpicable in the eyes of the very perſon whom he raiſes into conſequence by ſinking his own. Chaſtity is the crown and glory of a woman. The moſt profligate of men love modeſty in the ſex, at the very time they are forming plots to deſtroy it in a par⯑ticular object. When a woman has ſubmitted to put a price upon her honour, ſhe muſt appear, at times, deſpicable in the eyes even of her ſeducer; and when theſe two break out into animoſity, ought either to wiſh to live with the other?

Indeed, indeed, Sir, I am ſtruck with remorſe: I ſee my error. And ſhe put her handkerchief to her eyes, and ſeemed to weep.

I proceeded; You, Mrs. Giffard, doubted the con⯑tinuance of my Lord's paſſion: You made your terms, therefore, and propoſed a penalty beſides. My Lord ſubmitted to the terms, and by that means ſe⯑cured his right of diſmiſſing you, at his pleaſure; the only conveniency, that a man diſhonouring himſelf by deſpiſing marriage, can think he has. Between him and you, what remains to be ſaid (tho' you are both [77] anſwerable at a tribunal higher than your own) but that you ſhould have ſeparated long ago? Yet you would not conſent to it: You would not leave him at liberty to aſſert the right he had reſerved to himſelf. Strange weakneſs in him, that he would ſuffer that to depend upon you! But one weakneſs is the parent of another,

She then viſibly wept.

You found it out, that you could torment your Lord in an higher degree, than he could torment you; and how, acting upon ſuch principles, you have lived to⯑gether for ſome time paſt, you have let every one ſee.

She, on her knees, beſought my pardon for the free⯑dom of that expreſſion; not from motives of con⯑trition, as I apprehend; but from thoſe of policy.

She was ſtrong enough to raiſe herſelf, without my aſſiſtance. She did, unbidden, on ſeeing me ſtep backward a pace or two, to give her an opportunity to do ſo; and looked very ſilly; and the more, for having miſſed my aſſiſting hand: By which I ſup⯑poſed, that ſhe had uſually better ſucceſs with my Lord, whenever ſhe had prevailed on herſelf to kneel to him.

It is eaſy, my good Dr. Bartlett, from ſmall cre⯑vices, to diſcover day in an artful woman's heart. No⯑thing can be weaker, in the eye of an obſerver, who himſelf diſdains artifice, than a woman who makes artifice her ſtudy. In ſuch a departure from honeſt nature, there will be ſuch curvings, that the eyes, the countenance, muſt ever betray the heart; while the lips, either breaking out into apologies, or aiming at reſerve, confirm the ſuſpicion, that all is not right in the mind.

I excuſe you, Mrs. Giffard, ſaid I; my Lord has deſervedly brought much of what has diſtreſſed him, upon himſelf: But now it is beſt for you to part. My Lord chooſes not to ſee you. I would adviſe you to remove this very afternoon.

[78] What, Sir, and not have my 250l. a year!

Will you leave the houſe this night, if I give you my word—

For the whole ſum, Sir?—Two hundred and fifty pounds a year, Sir?

Yes, for the whole ſum.

I will, Sir, with all my heart and ſoul. Moſt of my things are in the conntry. My Lord came up in a paſſion, to talk with you, Sir. Two or three band⯑boxes are all I have here. Mr. Halden (he is my Lord's favourite) ſhall go down, and ſee I take no⯑thing but my own—I will truſt to your word of ho⯑nour, Sir—and leave, for ever, the moſt ungrateful—

Huſh, Mrs. Giffard, theſe tears are tears of paſ⯑ſion. There is not a female feature, at this inſtant, in your face—[What a command of countenance! It cleared up in a moment. I expected it from her] A penitent ſpirit is an humble, a broken ſpirit: You ſhew, at preſent, no ſign of it.

She dropt me a courteſy, with ſuch an air (tho' not deſigned, I believe,) as ſhewed that the benefit ſhe was to reap from the advice, would not be ſudden, if ever; and immediately repeated her queſtion, If ſhe had my honour for the payment of the entire ſum—And you don't inſiſt, Sir, (I have poor relations) that I ſhall pay out the hundred a year, as you mentioned?

You are to do with the whole annuity as you pleaſe. If your relations are worthy, you cannot do better than to relieve their neceſſities. But remember, Mrs. Giffard, that every quarter brings you the wages of iniquity, and endeavour at ſome atonement.

The woman could too well bear this ſeverity.

Had a finger been ſufficient to have made her feel, I would not have laid upon her the weight of my whole hand.

She aſſured me, that ſhe would leave the houſe in two hours time; and I returned to my Lord, and told him ſo.

[79] He got up, and embraced me, and called me his good Angel. I adviſed him to give his orders to Halden, or to whom he thought ſit, to do her and himſelf juſtice, as to what belonged to her in the country.

But the terms! the terms! cried my Lord. If you have brought me off for 150 l. I will adore you.

Theſe are the terms (You promiſed to leave them to me): You pay no more than 150 l. a year for her life, till you aſſure me, upon your honour, that you chearfully, and on mature conſideration, make it up 250 l.

How is that! How is that, nephew?—Then I never ſhall pay more, depend upon it.

Nor will I ever aſk you.

He rubbed his hands, forgetting the gout; but was remembered by the pain, and cried, Oh!—

But how did you manage it, kinſman?—I never ſhould have brought her to any-thing. How did you manage it?

Your Lordſhip does not repent her going?

He ſwore, that it was the happieſt event that could have befallen him. I hope, ſaid, he, ſhe will go with⯑out wiſhing to ſee me. Whether ſhe would whine, or curſe, it would be impoſſible for me to ſee her, and be myſelf.

I believe ſhe will go without deſiring to ſee you; perhaps while I am here.

Thank God! a fair riddance! Thank God!

But is it poſſible, kinſman, that you could bring me off for 150 l. a year? Tell me, truly.

It is: And I tell your Lordſhip, that it ſhall coſt you no more, till you ſhall know how to value the comfort and happineſs of your future life at more than 100 l. a year: Till then, the reſpect I pay to my mother's brother, and the regard I have for his ho⯑nour, will make me chearfully pay the 100 l. a year in diſpute, out of my own pocket.

[80] He looked around him, his head turning as if on a pivot; and, at laſt, burſting out into tears and ſpeech together—And is it thus, Is it thus, you ſubdue me? Is it thus you convince me of my ſhameful littleneſs? I cannot bear it: All that this woman has done to me, is nothing to this. I can neither leave you, nor ſtay in your preſence. Leave me, leave me, for ſix mi⯑nutes only—Jeſus? how ſhall I bear my own little⯑neſs?

I aroſe. One word, only, my Lord. When I re⯑enter, ſay not a ſyllable more on this ſubject: Let it paſs as I put it. I would part with a greater ſum than an hundred a year, for the ſatisfaction of giving to my uncle the tranquillity he has ſo long wanted in his own houſe, rather than that a perſon, who has had a de⯑pendence upon him, ſhould think herſelf intitled to complain of injuſtice from him.

He caught my hand, and would have met it with his lips. I withdrew it haſtily, and retired; leaving him to recollect himſelf.

When I returned, he thruſt into my hand a paper, and held it there, and ſwore that I ſhould take it. If the wretch live ten years, nephew, ſaid ſhe, that will reimburſe you; if ſhe die ſooner, the difference is yours: And, for God's ſake, for the ſake of your mother's memory, don't deſpiſe me; that is all the favour I aſk you: No man on earth was ever ſo nobly overcome. By all that's good, you ſhall chalk me out my path. Bleſſed be my ſiſter's memory, for giving me ſuch a kinſman! The name of Grandiſon, that I ever diſliked till now, is the firſt of names: And may it be perpetuated to the end of time!

He held the paper in my hand till he had done ſpeak⯑ing. I then opened it, and found it to be a bank note of 1000 l. I was earneſt to return it; but he ſwore ſo vehemently, that he would have it ſo, that I, at laſt, acquieſced; but declared, that I would pay the whole annuity, as far as the ſum went; and this, [81] as well in juſtice to him, as to ſave him the pain of attending to an affair that muſt be grievous to him: And I inſiſted upon giving him an acknowlegement under my hand, for that ſum; and to be accountable to him for it, as his banker would in the like caſe.

And thus ended this affair. The woman went away before me. She begged the favour, at the door, of one word with me. My Lord ſtarted up, at her voice: His complexion varied: He whipt as nimbly be⯑hind the door, as if he had no gout in his foot. I will not ſee her, ſaid he.

I ſtepped out. She complimented, thanked me, and wept; but, in the height of her concern, would have uttered bitter things againſt my Lord: But I ſtopped her mouth, by telling her, that I was to be her paymaſter, quarterly, of the 250 l. a year. She turned her execrations, againſt her Lord, into bleſſings on me: But, after all, departed with reluctance.

Pride, and not tenderneſs, was viſibly the occaſion. Could ſhe have ſecured her whole annuity, ſhe would have gratified that pride, by leaving her Lord in tri⯑umph while ſhe thought her departure would have given him regret: But to be diſmiſſed, was a diſgrace that affected her, and gave bitterneſs to her inſolent ſpirit.

LETTER XI. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT. In Continuation.

MY Lord, tho' he had acquitted himſelf on the occaſion, in ſuch a manner as darted into my mind a little ray of my beloved mother's ſpirit, could not forbear giving way to his habitual littleneſs, when he was aſſured Giffard was out of the houſe. He called Halden to him, who entered with joy in his counte⯑nance, ariſing, as it came out, from the ſame occa⯑ſion, [82] and ordered him to make all his domeſtics happy for (what he meanly called) his deliverance: Aſking, If there were any-body in the houſe who loved her? Not a ſingle ſoul, ſaid Halden; and I am ſure, that I may venture to congratulate your Lordſhip, in the names of all your ſervants: For ſhe was proud, im⯑perious, and indeed a tyranneſs to all beneath her.

I then, for the firſt time, pitied the woman; and ſhould have pitied her ſtill more (true as this might, in ſome meaſure, be) had ſhe not gone away ſo amply rewarded: For in this little family I looked forward to the family of the State; the Sovereign and his mi⯑niſters. How often has a miniſter, who has made a tyrannical uſe of his power (and even ſome who have not) experienced, on his diſmiſſion, the like treatment, from thoſe who, had they had his power, would per⯑haps have made as bad uſe of it; who, in its pleni⯑tude, were ſawning, creeping ſlaves, as theſe ſer⯑vants might be to this miſtreſs of their Lord! We read but of one grateful Cromwell, in all the ſuperb train of Wolſey, when he had fallen into diſgrace; and yet he had in it hundreds, ſome not ignobly born, and all of them leſs meanly deſcended than their mag⯑nificent maſter.

Halden addreſſed himſelf to me, as having been the means of making his Lord, and his whole houſhold, happy. Let the joy be moderate, Halden, ſaid I: The poor woman might, poſſibly, have numbered among her well-wiſhers (ſhe could not have diſobliged every -body) ſome of thoſe, who now will be moſt forward to load her with obloquy. You muſt not make her too conſiderable: It is beſt for my Lord, as well as for thoſe who loved her not, to forget there ever was ſuch a woman; except to avoid her faults, and to imitate her in what was commendable. She boaſts of her honeſty and management: My Lord charges her not with infidelity, of any kind.

Halden bowed, and withdrew.

[83] My Lord ſwore, by his ſoul, that I had not my good name for nothing. Bleſſed, ſaid he, be the name of the Grandiſons! This laſt plaudit gratified my pride (I need not tell my Dr. Bartlett, that I have pride); the more gratified it, as Lord W.'s animoſity to my father made him out of love with his name.

I did not think, when my Lord began his ſtory to me, that I ſhould ſo ſoon have brought about a ſepa⯑ration of guilt from guilt: But their matual diſguſts had prepared the way; reſentment and pride, ming⯑led with avarice on one ſide, and ſelf-intereſtedneſs, founded (reaſonably) on a ſtipulation made, and not complied with, on the other; were all that hindred it from taking place as from themſelves. A mediator had nothing then to do, but to adviſe an act of juſtice, and ſo to gild it by a precedent of diſintereſtedneſs in himſelf, as ſhould inſpire an emulation in a proud ſpi⯑rit, that, if not then, muſt, when paſſion had ſubſided, have ariſen, to make all end as it ought.

When I found my Lord's joy a little moderated, I drew my chair near him. Well, my Lord, and now as to your hints of marriage—

Bleſſed God!—Why, nephew, you overturn me with your generoſity. Are you not my next of kin? And can you give your conſent, were I to aſk it, that I ſhould marry?

I give you not only my conſent, as you condeſcend⯑ingly phraſe it, but my advice, to marry.

Good God! I could not, in the like caſe, do thus. But, nephew, I am not a young man.

The more need of a prudent, a diſcreet, a tender aſſiſtant. Your Lordſhip hinted, that you liked not men-ſervants about your perſon, in your illneſs. You are often indiſpoſed with the gout: Servants will not always be ſervants when they find themſelves of uſe. Infirmity requires indulgence: In the very nature of the word and thing, indulgence cannot exiſt with ſer⯑vility; between man and wife it may: The ſame in⯑tereſt [84] unites them. Mutual confidence! who can enough value the joy, the tranquillity at leaſt, that reſults from mutual confidence? A man gives his own conſequence to the woman he marries; and he ſees himſelf reſpected in the reſpect paid her: She extends his dignity, and confirms it. There is ſuch a tender⯑neſs, ſuch an helpfulneſs, ſuch a ſympathy in ſuffer⯑ing, in a good woman, that I am always for excuſing men in years, who marry prudently; while I cenſure, for the ſame reaſon, women in years. Male nurſes are unnatural creatures! [There is not ſuch a cha⯑racter that can be reſpectable] Womens ſphere is the houſe, and their ſhining-place the ſick chamber, in which they can exert all their amiable, and, ſhall I ſay, lenient qualities? Marry, my-Lord, by all means. You are hardly Fifty; but were you Se⯑venty, and ſo often indiſpoſed; ſo wealthy; no chil⯑dren to repine at a mother-in-law, and to render your life or hers uncomfortable by their little jealouſies; I would adviſe you to marry. The man or woman de⯑ſerves not to be benefited in the diſpoſition of your affairs, that would wiſh you to continue in the hands of mean people, and to rob you of the joys of confi⯑dence, and the comfort of tender help, [...]rom an equal, or from one who deſerves to be made your equal, in degree. Only, my Lord, marry ſo, as not to defeat your own end: Marry not a gay creature, who will be ſluttering about in public, while you are groaning in your chamber, and wiſhing for her preſence.

Bleſſings on your heart, my nephew! Beſt of men! I can bold no longer. There was no bearing, before, your generoſity: What can I ſay now?—But you muſt be in earneſt.

Have you, my Lord, aſked I, any Lady in your eye?

No, ſaid he; indeed I have not.

I was the better pleaſed with him, that he had not; becauſe I was afraid, that, like our VIIIth Henry, he [85] had ſome other woman in view, which might have made him more uneaſy than he would otherwiſe have been with Giffard: For tho' it was better that he ſhould marry, than live in ſcandal; and a woman of untainted character, rather than one who had let the world ſee that ſhe could take a price for her honour; yet I thought him better juſtified in his complaints of that woman's miſbehaviour, than in the other caſe he would have been: And that it was an happineſs to both (if a right uſe were made of the event) that they had been unable to live on, as they had ſet out.

He told me, that he ſhould think himſelf the hap⯑pieſt of men, if I could find out, and recommend to him, a woman, that I thought worthy of his addreſ⯑ſes; and even would court her for him.

Your Lordſhip ought not to expect fortune.

I do not.

She ſhould be a gentlewoman by birth and edu⯑cation; a woman of a ſerious turn: Such an one is not likely in affluence to run into thoſe ſcenes of life, from which, perhaps, only want of fortune has re⯑ſtrained the gayer creature. I would not have your Lordſhip fix an age, tho' I think you ſhould not marry a girl. Some women, at Thirty, are more diſcreet than others at Forty: And if your Lordſhip ſhould be bleſſed with a child or two to inherit your great eſtate, that happy event would domeſticate the Lady, and make your latter years more happy than your former.

My Lord held up his hands and eyes, and tears ſeemed to make themſelves ſurrows on his cheeks.

He made me look at him, by what he ſaid on this occaſion, and with anger, till he explained himſelf.

By my ſoul, ſaid he, and clapped his two lifted-up hands together, I have your father: I never heartily loved him; but now I hate him more than ever I did in my life.

My Lord!—

[86] Don't be ſurpriſed. I hate him for keeping ſo long abroad a ſon, who would have converted us both. Leſſons of morality, given in ſo noble a manner by regular practice, rather than by preaching theory (thoſe were his words) not only where there is no in⯑tereſt propoſed to be ſerved, but againſt intereſt, muſt have ſubdued us both; and that by our own con⯑ſents. O my ſiſter! and he claſped his hands, and lifted up his eyes, as if he had the dear object of his brotherly addreſs before him; how have you bleſſed me, in your ſon!—

This apoſtrophe to my mother affected me. What a mixture is there in the character of Lord W.! What a good man might he have made, had he been later his own maſter!—His father died before he was of age.

He declared, that I had deſcribed the very wife he wiſhed to have. Find out ſuch an one for me, my dear kinſman, ſaid he; and I give you charte blanche: But let her not be younger than Fifty. Make the ſettlements for me: I am very rich: I will ſign them blindſold. If the Lady be ſuch an one as you ſay I ought to love, I will love her: Only let her ſay, ſhe can be grateful for my love, and for the proviſion you ſhall direct me to make for her; and my firſt in⯑terview with her ſhall be at the altar.

I think, my friend, I have in my eye ſuch a woman as my Lord ought to do very handſome things for, if ſhe condeſcend to have him. I will not tell you, not even you, whom I mean, till I know ſhe will encou⯑rage ſuch a propoſal; and, for her own fortune's ſake, I think ſhe ſhould: But I had her not in my thoughts when I propoſed to my Lord the character of the woman he ſhould wiſh for.

Adieu, my dear friend.

LETTER XII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

DR. Bartlett went to town yeſterday. He returned early enough to breakfaſt with us. He found at dinner with his patron, the whole Danby family and Mr. Sylveſter; as alſo, the two maſters of the young gentlemen, with Mr. Galliard, whoſe ſon is in love with Miſs Danby, and ſhe with him. There all the parties had confirmed to them the generous good⯑neſs of Sir Charleſs, of which he had aſſured Mr. Syl⯑veſter and the two brothers and ſiſter before.

I am ſorry, methinks, the doctor went to town: We ſhould otherwiſe, perhaps, have had the parti⯑culars of all, from the pen of the benevolent man. Such joy, ſuch admiration, ſuch gratitude, the doctor ſays, were expreſſed from every mouth, that his own eyes, as well as Mr. Sylveſter's, and moſt of thoſe preſent, more than once, were ready to overflow.

Every thing was there ſettled, and even a match propoſed by Sir Charles, and the propoſal received with approbation on both ſides, between the elder Miſs Galliard, and that audacious young man the drug-merchant; who recovered, by his behaviour in this meeting, his reputation with Sir Charles, and e⯑very-body.

The doctor ſays, that Mr. Hervey and Mr. Pouſſin, the two maſters of the young gentlemen, are very worthy men; ſo is Mr. Galliard: And they behaved ſo handſomely on the occaſion, that Sir Charles ex⯑preſſed himſelf highly pleaſed with them all. For Mr. Hervey and Mr. Galliard offered to accept of leſs money than Sir Charles made the young people worth; the one for a portion with Miſs Danby; the other for [88] admitting the elder Danby into a partnerſhip with him, on his marriage with his niece: But Sir Charles had no notion, he ſaid, of putting young men, of good characters and abilities, to difficulties at their en⯑trance into the world: The greateſt expences, he ob⯑ſerved, were then incurred. In ſlight or ſcanty be⯑ginnings, ſcanty plans muſt be laid, and purſued. Mr. Galliard then declared, that the younger Danby ſhould have the handſomer fortune with his daughter, if ſhe approved of him, for the very handſome one Miſs Danby would carry to his ſon.

Sir Charles's example, in ſhort, fired every one with emulation; and three marriages, with the happieſt proſpects, are likely very ſoon to follow theſe noble inſtances of generoſity. Mr. Sylveſter propoſed the celebration on one day: In that caſe, the gentlemen joined to hope Sir Charles would honour them with his preſence. He aſſentingly bowed. How many families are here, at once made happy!

Dr. Bartlett, after he had given us this relation, ſaid, on our joining in one general bleſſing of his pa⯑tron, You know not, Ladies, you know not, my Lord, what a general Philanthropiſt your brother is: His whole delight is in doing good. It has always been ſo: And to mend the hearts, as well as fortunes, of men, is his glory.

We could not but congratulate the doctor on his having ſo conſiderable a hand (as Sir Charles always, Lord L. ſaid, delighted to own) in cultivating his innate good principles, at ſo critical a time of life, as that was, in which they became acquainted.

The doctor very modeſty received the compli⯑ment, and, to wave our praiſes, gave us another in⯑ſtance of the great manner in which Sir Charles con⯑ferred benefits, as follows:

He once, ſaid the doctor, when his fortune was not what it now is, lent a very honeſt man, a merchant of Leghorn, when he reſided there (as he did ſome⯑times [89] for a month or two together, for the conveniency of the Engliſh chapel) a conſiderable ſum; and took his bond for it: After a while, things not anſwering to the poor man's expectation, Mr. Grandiſon took notice to me, ſaid the doctor, that he appeared greatly depreſſed and dejected, and occaſionally came into his company with ſuch a ſenſe of obligation in his coun⯑tenance and behaviour, that he could not bear it: And why, ſaid he, ſhould I keep it in my power to diſtreſs a man, whoſe modeſty and diffidence ſhew, that he deſerves to be made eaſy?—I may die ſudden⯑ly: My executors may think it but juſtice to exact payment: And that exaction may involve him in as great difficulties as thoſe were, from which the loan delivered him.—I will make his heart light. Inſtead of ſuffering him to ſigh over his uncertain proſpects at his board, or in his bed, I will make both his board and his bed eaſy to him. His wife and his five children ſhall rejoice with him; they ſhall ſee the good man's countenance, as it uſed to do, ſhine upon them; and occaſionally meet mine with grateful comfort.

He then cancelled the bond: And, at the ſame time, fearing the man's diſtreſs might be deeper than he owned, offered him the loan of a further ſum. But, by his behaviour upon it, I found, ſaid Mr. Grandiſon, that the ſum he owed, and the doubt he had of being able to pay it in time, were the whole of the honeſt man's grievance. He declined, with gratitude, the additional offer, and walked, ever after, erect.

He is now living, and happy, proceeded the doc⯑tor; and, juſt before Mr. Grandiſon left Italy, would have made him ſome part of payment, from the hap⯑pier turn in his affairs; which, probably, was owing to his revived ſpirits. But Mr. Grandiſon aſked, What he thought he meant, when he cancelled the o⯑bligation?—Yet he told him, that it was not wrong in him to make the tender: For free minds, he ſaid, loved not to be ungenerouſly dealt with.

[90] What a man is this, Lucy!

No wonder, thus gloriouſly employed, with my Lord W. and the Danby's, ſaid Lord L. and perhaps in other acts of goodneſs that we know nothing of, be⯑ſides the duties of his executorſhip, that we are de⯑prived of his company! But ſome of theſe, as he has ſo good a friend as Dr. Bartlett, he might transfer to him—and oblige us more with his preſence; and the rather, as he declares it would be obliging himſelf.

Ah, my Lord! ſaid the doctor, and looked round him, his eyes dwelling longeſt on me—You don't know—He ſtopped. We all were ſilent. He pro⯑ceeded—Sir Charles Grandiſon does nothing without reaſon: A good man muſt have difficulties to encoun⯑ter with, that a meer man of the world would not be embarraſſed by.—But how I engage your attention, Ladies!—

The doctor aroſe; for breakfaſt was over—Dear doctor, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, don't leave us—As to that Bologna, that Camilla, that Biſhop—Tell us more of them, dear doctor.

Excuſe me, Ladies; excuſe me, my Lord. He bowed, and withdrew.

How we looked at one another! How the fool, in particular, bluſhed! How her heart throbbed!—At what?—

But, Lucy, give me your opinion—Dr. Bartlett gueſſes, that I am far from being indifferent to Sir Charles Grandiſon: He muſt be aſſured, that my own heart muſt be abſolutely void of benevolence, if I did not more and more eſteem Sir Charles, for his: And would Dr. Bartlett be ſo cruel, as to contribute to a flame, that, perhaps, is with difficulty kept from blazing out, as one hears new inſtances of his ge⯑nerous goodneſs, if he knew that Sir Charles Gran⯑diſon was ſo engaged, as to render it impoſſible—What ſhall I ſay?—O this cruel, cruel ſuſpenſe—What hopes, what fears, what contradictory con⯑jectures! [91] —But all will too ſoon perhaps—Here he is come—Sir Charles Grandiſon is come—

O no!—A falſe alarm!—He is not come: It is only my Lord L. returned from an airing.

I could beat this girl! this Emily!—It was owing to her!—A chit!—How we have fluttered each other!—But ſend for me down to Northamptonſhire, my dear friends, before I am quite a fool.

PRAY—Do you know, Lucy, What is the buſineſs that calls Mr. Deane to town, at this ſeaſon of the year? He has made a viſit to Sir Charles Grandiſon: For Dr. Bartlett told me, as a grateful compliment, that Sir Charles was much pleaſed with him; yet Mr. Deane did not tell me, that he deſigned it. I beſeech you, my dear friends—Do not—But you would not; you could not!—I would be torn in pieces: I would not accept of—I don't know what I would ſay. Only add not diſgrace to diſtreſs.—But I am ſafe, if nothing be done but at the motion of my grandmamma and aunt Selby. They would not per⯑mit Mr. Deane, or any-body, to make improper vi⯑ſits.—But don't you think, that it muſt look parti⯑cular to Sir Charles, to have a viſit paid him by a man expreſſing for me ſo much undeſerved tenderneſs and affection, ſo long after the affair was over which afforded him a motive for it?—I dread, as much for Mr. Dean's ſake as my own, every-thing that may be conſtrued into officiouſneſs or particularity, by ſo nice a diſcerner. Does he not ſay, that no man is more quick-ſighted than himſelf, to thoſe ſaults in women which are owing to want of delicacy?

I have been very earneſt with Lord and Lady L. and Miſs Grandiſon, that they do not ſuffer their friendſhip for me to lay me under any difficulties with their brother. They all took my meaning, and pro⯑miſed to conſult my punctilio, as well as my incli⯑nation. Miſs Grandiſon was more kindly in earneſt, [92] in her aſſurances of this nature, than I was afraid ſhe would be: And my Lord ſaid, It was fit that I ſhould find even niceneſs gratified, in this particular.

[I abſolutely confide in you, Lucy, to place hooks where I forget to put them; and where, in your de⯑licate mind, you think I ought to put them; that they may direct your eye (when you come to read out be⯑fore my uncle) to omit thoſe paſſages which very few men have delicacy or ſeriouſneſs enough to be truſted with. Yet, a mighty piece of ſagacity, to find out a girl of little more than Twenty, in Love, as it is called! and to make a jeſt of her for it!]—[But I am peeviſh, as well as ſaucy.—This alſo goes between hooks.]

Adieu, my Dear.

LETTER XIII. Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, To Dr. BARTLETT.

I AM very much diſſatisfied with myſelf, my dear Dr. Bartlett. What pains have I taken, to con⯑quer thoſe ſudden guſts of paſſion, to which, from my early youth, I have been ſubject, as you have often heard me confeſs! yet to find, at times, that I am unequal—to myſelf, ſhall I ſay?—To myſelf, I will ſay; ſince I have been ſo much amended by your pre⯑cepts, and example. But I will give you the occaſion.

My gueſts, and you, had but juſt left me, when the wretched Jervois, and her O Hara, and another bullying man, deſired to ſpeak with me.

I bid the ſervant ſhew the woman into the drawing⯑room next my ſtudy, and the men into the adjoining parlour; but they both followed her into the draw⯑ing room. I went to her, and, after a little ſtiff ci⯑vility (I could not help it) aſked, If theſe gentlemen had buſineſs with me?

[93] That gentleman is Major O-Hara, Sir: He is my huſband. That gentleman is Captain Salmonet: He is the Major's brother-in-law. He is an officer, of equal worth and bravery.

They gave themſelves airs of importance and fa⯑miliarity; and the Major motioned, as if he would have taken my hand.

I encouraged not the motion. Will you, gentle⯑men, walk this way?

I led the way to my ſtudy. The woman aroſe, and would have come with them.

If you pleaſe to ſtay where you are, madam, I will attend you preſently.

They entered; and, as if they would have me think them connoiſſeurs, began to admire the globes, the orrery, the pictures, and buſts.

I took off that ſort of attention—Pray, gentlemen, what are your commands with me?

I am called Major O-Hara, Sir: I am the huſband of the Lady in the next room, as ſhe told you.

And what, pray, Sir, have I to do, either with you, or your marriage? I pay that Lady, as the widow of Mr. Jervois, 200l. a year: I am not obliged to pay her more then one. She has no demands upon me; much leſs has her huſband.

The men had ſo much the air of bullies, and the woman is ſo very wicked, that my departed friend, and the name by which ſhe ſo lately called the poor Emily, were in my head, and I had too little com⯑mand of my temper.

Look ye, Sir Charles Grandiſon, I would have you to know—

And he put his left hand upon his ſword-handle, preſſing it down, which tilted up the point with an air extremely inſolent.

What am I to underſtand by that motion, Sir?

Nothing at all, Sir Charles—D-n me, if I mean any thing by it—

[94] You are called Major, you ſay, Sir—Do you bear the king's commiſſion, Sir?

I have borne it, Sir, if I do not now.

That, and the houſe you are in, give you a title to civility. But, Sir, I cannot allow, that your mar⯑riage with the Lady in the next room gives you pre⯑tence to buſineſs with me. If you have, on any other account, pray let me know what it is?

The man ſeemed at a loſs what to ſay; but not from baſhfulneſs. He looked about him, as if for his woman; ſet his teeth; bit his lip; and took ſnuff, with an air ſo like defiance, that, for fear I ſhould not be able to forbear taking notice of it, I turned to the other: Pray, Captain Salmonet, ſaid I, what are your commands with me?

He ſpoke in broken Engliſh; and ſaid, He had the honour to be Major O-Hara's brother: He had mar⯑ried the Major's ſiſter.

And why, Sir, might you not have favoured me with the company of all your relations?—Have you any buſineſs with me, Sir, on your own account?

I come, I come, ſaid he, to ſee my brother righted, Sir—

Who has wronged him?—Take care, gentlemen, how—But Mr. O-Hara, what are your pretenſions?

Why look-ye, Sir Charles Grandiſon (throwing open his coat, and ſticking one hand in his ſide, the other thrown out with a flouriſh) Look-ye, Sir, re⯑peated he—

I found my choler riſing. I was afraid of my ſelf.

When I treat you familiarly, Sir, then treat me ſo: Till when, pleaſe to withdraw—

I rang: Frederick came in.

Shew theſe gentleman into the little parlour—You will excuſe me, Sirs; I attend the Lady.

They muttered, and gave themſelves briſk and angry airs; nodding their heads at each other; but followed the ſervant into that parlour.

[95] I went to Mrs. O-Hara, as ſhe calls herſelf.

Well, madam, what is your buſineſs with me, now?

Where are the gentlemen, Sir? Where is my huſband?

They are both in the next room, and within hear⯑ing of all that ſhall paſs between you and me.

And do you hold them unworthy of your preſence, Sir?

Not, madam, while you are before me, and if they had any buſineſs with me, or I with them.

Has not an huſband buſineſs where his wife is?

Neither wife nor huſband has buſineſs with me.

Yes, Sir, I am come to demand my daughter. I come to demand a mother's right.

I anſwer not to ſuch a demand: You know you have no right to make it.

I have been at Colnebrooke: She was kept from me: My child was carried out of the houſe, that I might not ſee her.

And have you then terrified the poor girl?

I have left a Letter for her; and I expect to ſee her upon it.—Her new father, as worthy and as brave a man as yourſelf, Sir, longs to ſee her—

Her new father! madam—You expect to ſee her! madam—What was your behaviour to her? unna⯑tural woman! the laſt time you ſaw her? But if you do ſee her, it muſt be in my preſence, and without your man, if he form pretenſions, on your account, that may give either her or me diſturbance.

You are only, Sir, to take care of her fortune; ſo I am adviſed: I, as her mother, have the natural right over her perſon. The Chancery will give it to me.

Then ſeek your remedy in Chancery: Let me never hear of you again, but by the officers of that cour [...].

I opened the door leading into the room where the two men were.

[96] They are not officers, I dare ſay: Common men of the town, I doubt not, new-dreſſed for the oc⯑caſion. O-Hara, as ſhe calls him, is, probably, one of her temporary huſbands, only.

Pray walk in, gentlemen, ſaid I. This Lady inti⯑mates to me, that ſhe will apply to Chancery againſt me. The Chancery, if ſhe have any grievance, will be a proper recourſe. She can have no buſineſs with me, after ſuch a declaration—Much leſs can either of you.

And opening the drawing-room door that led to the hall, Frederick, ſaid I, attend the lady and the gen⯑tlemen to their coach.

And I turned from them, to go into my ſtudy.

The Major, as he was called, aſked me, with a fierce air, his hand on his ſword, If this were treat⯑ment due to gentlemen?

This houſe, in which, however, you are an in⯑truder, Sir, is your protection; or that motion, and that air, if you mean any-thing by either, would coſt you dear.

I am, Sir, the protector of my wife: You have in⯑ſulted her, Sir—

Have I inſulted your wife, Sir?—And I ſtepped up to him; but juſt in time recovered myſelf, remem⯑bering where I was—Take care, Sir—But you are ſafe, here.—Frederick, wait upon the gentlemen to the door—

Frederick was not in hearing: The well-meaning man, apprehending conſequences, went, it ſeems, into the offices, to get together ſome of his fellow-ſer⯑ſants.

Salmonet, putting himſelf into violent motion▪ ſwore, that he would ſtand by his friend, his brother▪ to the laſt drop of his blood; and, in a poſture of offence, drew his ſword half way.

I wiſh, friend, ſaid I, (but could hardly contain myſelf) that I were in your houſe, inſtead of your [97] being in mine. —But if you would have your ſword broken over your head, draw it quite.

He did, with a vapour. D—n him, he ſaid, if he bore that! My own houſe, on ſuch an inſult as this, ſhould not be my protection; and, retreating, he put himſelf into a poſture of defence.

Now, Major! Now, Major! ſaid the wi [...]ked woman.

Her Major alſo drew, making wretched grimaces.

I was dreſſed. I knew not but the men were aſ⯑ſaſſins. I drew, put by Salmonet's ſword, cloſed with him, diſarmed him, and, by the ſame effort, laid him on the floor.

O-Hara, ſkipping about, as if he watched for an opportunity to make a puſh with ſafety to himſelf, loſt his ſword, by the uſual trick whereby a man, any⯑thing ſkilled in his weapons, knows how ſometimes to diſarm a leſs ſkilful adverſary.

The woman ſcreamed, and ran into the hall.

I turned the two men, firſt one, then the other, out of the room, with a contempt that they deſerved; and Frederick, Richard, and Jerry, who, by that time, were got together in the hall, a little too roughly perhaps, turned them into the Square.

They limped into the coach they came in: The woman, in terror, was already in it. When they were alſo in it, they curſed, ſwore, and threatened.

The pretended Captain, putting his body half-way out of the coach, bid my ſervants tell me, That I was—That I was—And avoiding a worſe name, as it ſeemed No Gentleman; and that he would find an opportunity to make me repent the treatment I had given to men of honour, and to a Lady.

The Major, in eagerneſs to ſay ſomething, by way of reſentment and menace likewiſe—(beginning with damning his blood)—had his intended threatening cut ſhort, by meeting the Captain's head with his, as [...]he other, in a rage, withdrew it, after his ſp [...]ech to the [98] ſervant: And each curſing the other, one rubbing his forehead, the other putting his hand to his head, away drove the coach.

They forgot to aſk for their ſwords; and one of them left his hat behind him.

You cannot imagine, my dear Dr. Bartlett, how much this idle affair has diſturbed me: I cannot for⯑give myſelf—To ſuffer myſelf to be provoked by two ſuch men, to violate the ſanction of my own houſe! Yet they came, no doubt, to bully and provoke me; or to lay a foundation for a demand, that they knew, if perſonally made, muſt do it.

My only excuſe to myſelf is, That there were two of them; and that, tho' I drew, yet I had the com⯑mand of myſelf ſo far as only to defend myſelf, when I might have done any thing with them. I have ge⯑nerally found, that thoſe who are the readieſt to give offence, are the unfitteſt, when brought to the teſt, to ſupport their own inſolence.

But my Emily! my poor Emily! How muſt ſhe be terrified!—I will be with you very ſoon. Let not her know any-thing of this idle affair; nor any-body but Lord L.

LETTER XIV. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

SIR Charles arrived this morning, juſt as we had aſſembled to breakfaſt; for Lady L. is not an early riſer. The moment he entered, ſunſhine broke out in the countenance of every one.

He apologized to all, but me, for his long abſence, eſpecially when they had ſuch a gueſt, were his words, bowing to me; and I thought he ſighed, and looked with tender regard upon me; but I dared not aſk Miſs Grandiſon whether ſhe ſaw any thing particular in his devoirs to me.

It was owing to his politeneſs, I preſume, that he did not include me in his apologies; becauſe that [101] would have been to ſuppoſe, that I had expected him. Indeed I was not diſpleaſed, in the main, that he did not compliment me as a third ſiſter. See, Lucy, what little circumſtances a doubtful mind will ſometimes dwell upon.

I was not pleaſed that he had been ſo long abſent, and had my thoughts to myſelf upon it; inclining once to have gone back to London; and perhaps ſhould, could I have ſanſied myſelf of importance enough to make him uneaſy by it [The ſex! the ſex! Lucy, will my uncle ſay; but I pretend not to be above its little foibles]: But the moment I ſaw him, all my diſguſts were over. After the Anderſon, the Danby, the Lord W. affairs, he appeared to me in a much more ſhining light than an hero would have done, returning in a triumphal car covered with lau⯑rels, and dragging captive princes at its wheels. How much more glorious a character is that of The Friend of Mankind, than that of The Conqueror of Nations!

He told me, that he paid his compliments yeſterday to Mr. and Mrs. Reeves. He mentioned Mr. Deane's viſit to him; and ſaid very kind, but juſt things in his praiſe. I read not any thing in his eyes, or manner, that gave me uneaſineſs on the viſit that other good man made him.

My dear Emily ſat generouſly uneaſy, I ſaw, for the trouble ſhe had been the cauſe of giving to her beſt friend, tho' ſhe knew not of a viſit, that her mother, and O-Hara, and Salmonet, made her guardian on Monday, as the doctor had hinted to us, without giv⯑ing us particulars.

Sir Charles thanked me for my goodneſs, as he called it, in getting the good girl ſo happily out of her mother's way, as his Emily would have been too much terrified to ſee her: And he thanked Lord L. for his tenderneſs to his ward on that occaſion.

My Lord gave him the Letter which Mrs. Jervois had left for her daughter. Sir Charles preſented it to [102] the young Lady, without looking into it: She inſtantly returned it to him, in a very graceful manner. We will read it together by-and-by, my Emily, ſaid he. Dr. Bartlett tells me, there is tenderneſs in it.

The doctor made apologies to him, for having communicated to us ſome of his Letters—Whatever Dr. Bartlett does, ſaid Sir Charles, muſt be right But what ſay my ſiſters to my propoſal of correſpon⯑dence with them?

We ſhould be glad, replied Lady L. to ſee all you write to Dr. Bartlett; but could not undertake to write you Letter for Letter.

Why ſo?

Miſs Byron, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, has put us quite out of heart as to the talent of narrative Letter⯑writing.

I ſhould be greatly honoured with a ſight of ſuch Letters of Miſs Byron as you, my Lord, have ſeen. Will Miſs Byron, applying to me, favour one brother, and exclude another?

Brother! Lucy; I thought he was not at that time, quite ſo handſome a man as when he firſt entered the room.

I was ſilent, and bluſhed. I knew not what anſwer to make; yet thought I ſhould ſay ſomething.

May we, Sir Charles, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, hope for a peru [...]al of your Letters to Dr. Bartlett for the ſame number of weeks paſt, Letter for Letter, if we could prevail on Miſs Byron to conſent to the pro⯑poſal?

Would Miſs Byron conſent, upon that condition?

What ſay you, Miſs Byron, ſaid my Lord?

I anſwered, that I could not preſume to think, that the little chit-chat, which I wrote to pleaſe my partial friends in the country, could appear tolerable in the eye of Sir Charles Grandiſon.

They all anſwered with high encomiums on my pen; and Sir Charles, in the moſt reſpectful manner, [103] inſiſting upon not being denied to ſee what Lord L. had peruſed; and Miſs Grandiſon having ſaid that I had, to oblige them, been favoured with the return of my Letters from the country; I thought it would look like a too meaning particularity, if I refuſed to oblige him, in the light (tho' not a very agreeable one, I own to you, Lucy) of another brother: I told him, that I would ſhew him very willingly, and without condition, all the Letters I had written, of the narrative kind, from my firſt coming to London, down to the dreadful maſquerade affair, and even Sir Har⯑grave's barbarous treatment of me, down to the deli⯑verance he had ſo generouſly given me.

How did he extol me, for what he called my noble frankneſs of heart! In that grace, he ſaid, I excelled all the women he had ever converſed with. He aſſured me, that he would not wiſh to ſee a line that I was not willing he ſhould ſee; and that if he came to a word or paſſage that he could ſuppoſe would be of that nature, it ſhould have no place in his memory.

Miſs Grandiſon called out—But the condition, Sir Charles—

Is only this, replied I (I am ſure of your candor, Sir); that you will correct me, where I am wrong, in any of my notions or ſentiments. I have been very pert and forward in ſome of my Letters; particularly, in a diſpute that was carried on in relation to Learning and Languages. If I could not, for improvement -ſake, more heartily beſpeak your correction than your ap⯑probation, I ſhould be afraid of your eye there.

Excellent Miſs Byron! Beauty ſhall not bribe me on your ſide, if I think you wrong in any point that you ſubmit to my judgment: And if I am Beauty-proof, I am ſure nothing on earth can biaſs me.

Miſs Grandiſon ſaid, ſhe would number the Let⯑ters according to their dates, and then would give them to me, that I might make ſuch conditions with [104] her brother on the loan, as every one might be the b [...]tter for.

BREAKFAST being over, Miſs Grandiſon renewed the talk of the viſit made here by Mrs. O-Hara on Sunday laſt. Miſs Jervois very prettily expreſſed her grief for the trouble given her guardian by her un⯑happy mother. He drew her to him, as he fat, with looks of tenderneſs; and called her his dear Emily; and told her, ſhe was the Child of his compaſſion. You are called upon, my dear, ſaid he, young as you are, to a glorious trial; and hitherto you have ſhone in it: I wiſh the poor woman would be but half as much the mother, as you would be the child! But let us read her Letter.

His goodneſs overwhelmed her. He took her mo⯑ther's Letter out of his pocket: She ſtood before him, drying her eyes, and endeavouring to ſuppreſs her emotion: And when he had unfolded the Letter, he put his arm round her waiſt. Surely, Lucy, he is the tendereſt, as well as braveſt of men! What would I give for a picture drawn but with half the life and love which ſhone out in his looks, as he caſt his eyes, now on the Letter, and now up to his Emily!—Poor woman! ſaid he, two or three times, as he read: And, when he had done, You muſt read it, my dear, ſaid he; there is the mother in it: We will acknow⯑lege the mother, where-ever we can find her.

Why did not the dear girl throw her arms about his neck, juſt then?—She was ready to do ſo. O my beſt of guardians! ſaid ſhe; and, it was plain, was but juſt reſtrained, by virgin modeſty, from doing ſo; her hands caught back, as it were, and reſting for a moment on his ſhoulder: And ſhe looked as much abaſhed, as if ſhe had not checked herſelf.

I took more notice of this her grateful motion, than any-body elſe. I was affected with the beauti⯑ful check, and admired her for it.

[105] And muſt I, Sir, would you have me, read it? I will retire to my chamber with it.

He aroſe, took her hand, and, coming with her to me, put it into mine: Be ſo good, madam, to for⯑tify this worthy child's heart, by your prudence and judgment, while ſhe reads the mother, in the only in⯑ſtance that I have ever known it viſible in this un⯑happy woman.

He bowed, and gave me the Letter. I was proud of his compliment, and Emily and I withdrew into the next room; and there the good girl read the Letter, but it was long in reading; her tears often interrupting her: And more than once, as wanting a refuge, ſhe threw her arms about my neck, in ſilent grief.

I called her twenty tender names; but I could not ſay much: What could I? The Letter in ſome places affected me. It was the Letter of a mother who ſeemed extremely ſenſible of hardſhips. Her guardian had promiſed obſervations upon it: I knew not then all the unhappy woman's wickedneſs: I knew not but the huſband might be in ſome fault.—What could I ſay? I could not think of giving comfort to a daughter at the expence of even a bad mother.

Miſs Grandiſon came to us: She kiſſed the ſobbing girl, and with tenderneſs, calling us her two loves, led us into the next room.

Sir Charles, it ſeems, had owned, in our abſence, that Mr. and Mrs. O-Hara, and Captain Salmonet, had made him a viſit in town, on their return from Colnebrooke, and expreſſed himſelf to be vexed at his own behaviour to them.

Miſs Jervois gave the Letter to her guardian, and went behind his chair, on the back of which ſhe leaned, while he looked into the Letter, and made obſervations upon what he read, as nearly in the fol⯑lowing words as I can remember.

An unhappy mother, whoſe fau ts have been bar⯑barouſly [106] aggravated —My Emily's father was an in⯑dulgent huſband! He forgave this unhappy woman crimes, which very few men would have forgiven: She was the wife of his choice: He doted on her: His firſt forgiveneſs of an atrocious crime hardened her.

When he could not live with her, he removed from place to place, to avoid her: At laſt, afraid of her private machinations, which were of the blackeſt na⯑ture, he went abroad, in order to purſue that traffick in perſon, which he managed to great advantage by his agents and factors; having firſt, however, made an handſome proviſion for his wife.

Thither, after ſome time paſſed in riot and extra⯑vagance, ſhe followed him.

I became acquainted with him at Florence. I found him to be a ſenſible and honeſt man; and every one whom he could ſerve, or aſſiſt, experienced his bene⯑volence. Not a ſingle ſoul who knew him, but loved him, this wife excepted.

She at that time inſiſted upon his giving up to her management, his beloved Emily; and ſolemnly pro⯑miſed reformation, on his compliance. She knew that the child would be a great fortune.

I was with Mr. Jervois, on her firſt viſit to him at Leghorn; and, tho' I had heard her character to be very bad, was inclined to befriend her. She was ſpe⯑cious. I hoped that a mother, whatever wife ſhe made, could not out be a mother; and poor Mr. Jer⯑vois had not been forward to ſay the worſt of her: But ſhe did not long ſave appearances. The whole Engliſh factory at Leghorn were witneſſes to her fla⯑grant enormities. She was addicted to an exceſs that left her no guard, and made her a ſtranger to that grace which is the glory of a woman.

I am told, that ſhe is leſs frequently intoxicated than heretofore. I ſhould be glad of the leaſt ſhadow of reformation in her. That odias vice led her int [107] every other, and hardened her to a ſenſe of ſhame. Other vices, perhaps, at firſt, wanted that to intro⯑duce them; but the moſt flagitious have been long ha⯑bitual to her.

Nothing but the juſtice due to the character of my departed friend, could have induced me to ſay what I have ſaid of this unhappy woman: Forgive me, my Emily. But ſhall I not defend your father?—I have not ſaid the worſt I could ſay of his wiſe.

Yet ſhe writes, That her faults have been barba⯑rouſly aggravated, in order to juſtify the ill uſage of an huſband, who, ſhe ſays, was not ſaultleſs. Ill uſage of an huſband! Wretched woman! She knew I muſt ſee this Letter: How could ſhe write thus? She knows that I have authentic proofs in my cuſtody, of his unexceptionable goodneſs to her; and confeſſions, under her own hand, of her guilt, and ingratitude to him.

But, my Emily—and he aroſe, and took her hand, her face over whelmed with tears, You may rejoice in your father's character: He was a good man, in every ſenſe of the word. With regard to her, he had but one fault; and that was, his indulgence.—Shall I ſay, That after repeated elopements, after other men had caſt her off, he took her back? When ſhe had for⯑feited his love, his pity operated in her favour; and ſhe was hardened enough to deſpiſe the man who could much more eaſily forgive than puniſh her. I am grieved to be obliged to ſay this; but repeat, that the memory of my friend muſt not be unjuſtly loaded. Would to heaven that I could ſuggeſt the ſhadow of a plea that would extenuate any part of her vileneſs, either reſpecting him or herſelf; let whoſe-ſoever cha⯑racter ſuffer by it, I would ſuggeſt it. How often has this worthy huſband wept to me, for thoſe faults of his wife, for which ſhe could not be ſorry!

I diſcourage not theſe tears, my Emily, on what you have heard me ſay; but let me now dry them up.

[108] He took her own handkerchief, and tenderly wiped her cheeks: It is unneceſſary, proceeded he, to ſay any-thing farther, at this time, in defence of your father's character; we come now to other parts of the Letter, that will not, I hope, be ſo affecting to the heart of a good child.

She inſiſts upon your making her a viſit, or receiv⯑ing one from her: She longs, ſhe ſays, to ſee you; to lay you in her boſom. She congratulates you, on your improvements: She very pathetically calls upon you, not to deſpiſe her—

My dear girl! You ſhall receive her viſit: She ſhall name her place for it, provided I am preſent. I ſhall think it a ſign of her amendment, if ſhe is really capable of rejoicing in your improvements. I have always told you, that you muſt diſtinguiſh between the crime and the mother: The one is intitled to your pity; the other calls for your abhorrence—Do you chooſe, my dear, to ſee your mother?—I hope you do. Let not even the faulty have cauſe to complain of unkindneſs from us. There are faults that muſt be left to heaven to puniſh; and againſt the conſequences of which, it behoves us only to guard, for our own ſakes. I hope you are in a ſafe protection, and have nothing to fear from her: You are guarded, therefore. Can my Emily forget the terrors of the laſt interview, and calmly, in my preſence, kneel to her mother?

Whatever you command me to do, I will do.

I would have you anſwer this Letter. Invite her to the houſe of your guardian—I think you ſhould not go to her lodgings: Yet, if you incline to ſee her there, and ſhe inſiſts upon it, I will attend you.

But, Sir, muſt I own her huſband for my father?

Leave that to me, my dear: Little things, puncti⯑lios, are not to be ſtood upon: Pride ſhall have no concern with us. But I muſt firſt be ſatisfied, that the man and ſhe are actually married. Who knows, if they are, but his dependence on her annuity, and the [109] protection ſhe may hope for from him, may make it convenient to both, to live in a more creditable man⯑ner than hitherto ſhe has aimed to do? If ſhe ſave but appearances, for the future, it will be a point gained.

I will in every-thing, Sir, do as you would have me.

One thing, my dear, I think I will adviſe: If they are really married; if there be any proſpect of their living tolerably together; you ſhall, if you pleaſe (your fortune is very large), make them an handſome preſent; and give hope, that it will be an annual one, if the man behave with civility to your mother. She complains, that ſhe is made poor, and dependent. Poor if ſhe be, it is her own fault: She brought not 200l. to your father. Ungrateful woman! he mar⯑ried her, as I hinted, for Love. With 200l. a year, well paid, ſhe ought not to be poor; but dependent, ſhe muſt be. Your father would have given her a larger annuity, had he not known, by experience, that it was but ſtrengthening her hands to do miſchief; and to enable her to be more riotous. I found a de⯑claration of this kind among his papers, after his death. This his intention, if there could have been any hope of a good uſe to be made of it, juſtifies my advice to you, to inlarge her ſtipend: I will put it in ſuch a way, that you, my dear, ſhall have the credit of it; and I will take upon myſelf the advice of re⯑ſtraining it to good behaviour, for their own ſakes, and for yours.

O Sir! how good you are! You now give me courage to wiſh to ſee my poor mother, in hopes that it will be in my power to do her good: Continue to your Emily the bleſſing of your direction, and I ſhall be an happy girl indeed. O that my mother may be married! that ſo ſhe may be entitled to the beſt you ſhall adviſe me to do for her.

I doubt, her man is a man of the town, added he; [110] but he may have lived long enough to ſee his follies. She may be tired of the life ſhe has led. I have made ſeveral efforts to do her ſervice; but had no hope to reclaim her; I wiſh ſhe may now be a wife in earneſt. But this, I think, ſhall be my laſt effort—Write, my dear; but nothing of your intention. If ſhe is not married, things muſt remain as they are.

She haſtened up-ſtairs, and very ſoon returned, with the following lines.

Sir Charles generouſly ſcrupled the laſt paragraph. We will not, I think, Emily, ſaid he, remind a mother, who has written ſuch a Letter as that before us, of a behaviour that ſhe ſhould be glad to forget.

Miſs Grandiſon deſired it might ſtand. Who knows, ſays ſhe, but it may make her aſhamed of her outrageous behaviour at that time?

She deſerves not generous uſage, ſaid Lady L.; ſhe cannot feel it.

Perhaps not, replied Sir Charles; but we ſhould do proper things, for our own ſakes, whether the perſons [111] are capable of feeling them as they ought, or not. What ſay you, Miſs Byron, to this laſt paragraph?

I was entirely in his way of thinking, and for the reaſon he gave; but the two Ladies having given their opinion in a pretty earneſt manner, and my Lord ſay⯑ing he thought it might paſs, I was afraid it would look like beſpeaking his favour at their expence, if I adopted his ſentiments: I therefore declined giving my opinion. But being willing to keep Emily in coun⯑tenance, who ſat ſuſpended in her judgment, as one who feared ſhe had done a wrong thing; I ſaid, it was a very natural paragraph, I thought, from Miſs Jer⯑vois's pen, as it was written, I dared to ſay, rather in apprehenſion of hard treatment, from what ſhe re⯑membered of the laſt, than in a ſpirit of recrimination or reſentment.

The good girl declared, it was. Both Ladies, and my Lord, ſaid, I had diſtinguiſhed well: But Sir Charles, tho' he ſaid no more upon the ſubject, look⯑ed upon each ſiſter with meaning; which I wondered they did not obſerve. Dr. Bartlett was withdrawn, or I believe he would have had the honeſty to ſpeak out, which I had not: But the point was a point of delicacy and generoſity; and I thought I ſhould not ſeem to imagine that I underſtood it better than they: Nor did I think that Sir Charles would have acqui⯑eſced with their opinion.

Miſs Jervois retired, to tranſcribe her letter. We all ſeparated, to dreſs; and I, having ſoon made an alteration in mine, dropt in upon Dr. Bartlett in his cloſet.

I am ſtealing from this good man a little improve⯑ment in my geography: I am delighted with my tutor, and he profeſſes to be pleaſed with his ſcholar; but ſometimes more intereſting articles ſlide in: But now he had juſt began to talk of Miſs Jervois, as if he would have led, I thought, to the propoſal hinted at by Miſs Grandiſon, from the letter ſhe had ſo clan⯑deſtinely [112] ſeen, of my taking her under my care, when Sir Charles entered the doctor's apartment. He would have withdrawn, when he ſaw me; but the doctor, riſing from his chair, beſought him to oblige us with his company.

I was ſilly: I did not expect to be caught there. But why was I ſilly on being found with Dr. Bart⯑lett—But let me tell you, that I thought Sir Charles himſelf, at firſt, addreſſing me, ſeemed a little unpre⯑pared. You invited me in, doctor: Here I am. But if you were upon a ſubject that you do not purſue, I ſhall look upon myſelf as an intruder, and will with⯑draw.

We had juſt concluded one ſubject, and were be⯑ginning another—I had juſt mentioned Miſs Jervois.

Is not Emily a good child, Miſs Byron? ſaid Sir Charles.

Indeed, Sir, ſhe is.

We then had ſome general talk of the unhappy ſituation ſhe is in from ſuch a mother; and I thought ſome hints would have been given of his deſire that ſhe ſhould accompany me down to Northampton⯑ſhire; and my heart throbbed, to think how it would be brought in, and how I ſhould behave upon it: And the more, as I was not to be ſuppoſed to have ſo much as heard of ſuch a deſigned propoſal. What would it have done, had I been prevailed upon to read the letter? But not one word paſſed, leading to that ſub⯑ject.

I now begin to fear, that he has changed his mind, if that was his mind. Methinks I am more fond of having the good girl with us, than I imagined it was poſſible I ever could have been. What a different appearance have things to us, when they are out of our power, to what they had when we believed they were in it?

But I ſee not, that there is the leaſt likelihood that any-thing, on which you had all ſet your hearts, can happen—I can't help it.

[113] Emily, flattering girl! told me, ſhe ſaw great ſigns of attachment to me in his eyes and behaviour; but I ſee no grounds for ſuch a ſurmiſe: His affections are certainly engaged. God bleſs him, whatever his engagements are!—When he was abſent, encouraged by his ſiſters and Lord L. I thought pretty well of myſelf; but, now he is preſent, I ſee ſo many excel⯑lencies ſhining out in his mind, in his air and addreſs, that my humility gets the better of my ambition.

Ambition! did I ſay? Yes, ambition, Lucy. Is it not the nature of the paſſion we are ſo fooliſhly apt to call noble, to exalt the object, and to lower, if not to debaſe, one's ſelf—You ſee how Lord W. depre⯑ciates me on the ſcore of fortune. I was loth to take notice of that before, becauſe I knew, that were ſlen⯑derneſs of fortune the only difficulty, the partiality of all my friends for their Harriet would put them upon making efforts that I would ſooner die than ſuffer to be made.

I forgot the manner in which Lord W.'s objection was permitted to go off—But I remember, Sir Charles made no attempt to anſwer it: And yet he tells my Lord, that fortune is not a principal article with him; and that he has an ample eſtate of his own. No queſtion but a man's duties will riſe with his oppor⯑tunities. A man, therefore, may be as good with a leſs eſtate, as with a larger: And is not goodneſs the eſſential part of happineſs? Be our ſtation what it will, have we any concern but humbly to acquieſce in it, and fulfil our duties?

But who, for ſelfiſh conſiderations, can wiſh to circumſcribe the power of this good man? The greater opportunities he has of doing good, the higher muſt be his enjoyment.—No, Lucy, do not let us flatter ourſelves.

Sir Charles rejoices, on Sir Hargrave's having juſt now, by letter, ſuſpended the appointment till next week, of his dining with him at his houſe on the fo⯑reſt.

LETTER XV. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I Left Sir Charles with Dr. Bartlett. They would both have engaged me to ſtay longer; but I thought the Ladies would miſs me, and think it parti⯑cular to find me with him in the doctor's cloſet.

My Lord, and the two ſiſters, were together in the drawing-room adjoining to the library: On my en⯑trance, Well, Harriet, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, we will now endeavour to find out my brother: You muſt be preſent to yourſelf, and put in a word now-and-then. We ſhall ſee if Dr. Bartlett is right, when he ſays, that my brother is the moſt unreſerved of men.

Juſt then came in Dr. Bartlett—I think, doctor, ſaid Lady L. we will take your advice, and aſk my brother all the queſtions in relation to his engage⯑ments abroad, that come into our heads.

She had not done ſpeaking, when Sir Charles en⯑tered, and drew his chair next me; and juſt then I thought myſelf he looked upon me with equal benig⯑nity and reſpect.

Miſs Grandiſon began with taking notice of the letter from which Dr. Bartlett, ſhe ſaid, had read ſome paſſages, of the happineſs he had procured to Lord W. in ridding him of his woman. She wiſhed, ſhe told him, that ſhe knew who was the Lady he had in his thoughts to commend to my Lord for a wife.

I will have a little talk with her before I name her, even to you, my Lord, and my ſiſters. I am ſure my ſiſters will approve of their aunt, if ſhe accept of my Lord for a huſband: I ſhall pay my compliments to her, in my return from Grandiſon-hall.—Do you, Charlotte, chooſe to accompany me thither? I muſt, I think, be preſent at the opening of the church. I [115] don't aſk you, my Lord, nor you, Lady L. ſo ſhort as my ſtay will be there. I purpoſe to go down on Friday next, and return the Tueſday following.

Miſs Gr. I think, brother, I ſhould wiſh to be ex⯑cuſed. If, indeed, you would ſtay there a week or fortnight, I could like to attend you; and ſo, I dare ſay, would Lord and Lady L.

Sir Cha. I muſt be in town on Wedneſday, next week; but you muſt ſtay the time you mention: You cannot paſs it diſagreeably in the neighbourhood of the Hall; and there you will find your couſin Grandi⯑ſon: He will gallant you from one neighbour to a⯑nother: And, if I judge by your freedoms with him, you have a greater regard for him, than perhaps you know you have.

Miſs Gr. Your ſervant, Sir, bowing—But I will take my revenge—Pray, Sir Charles, may I aſk (we are all brothers and ſiſters)—

Sir Ch. Stop, Charlotte, (pleaſantly). If you are going to aſk any queſtions by way of revenge, I anſwer them not.

Miſs Gr. Revenge!—Not revenge, neither—But when the Lord W. as by the paſſages Dr. Bartlett was ſo good as to read to us, propoſed to you this Lady for a wife, and that Lady; your anſwers gave us appre⯑henſion that you are not inclined to marry—

Lady L. You are very unceremonious, Charlotte—

Indeed, Lucy, ſhe made me tremble. Sure he can have no notion that I have ſeen the whole Letter—ſeen myſelf named in it.

Miſs Gr. What ſignifies ceremony, among relati⯑ons?

Sir Ch. Let Charlotte have her way.

Miſs Gr. Why then, Sir, I would aſk—Don't you intend one day to marry?

Sir. Ch. I do, Charlotte. I ſhall not think myſelf happy till I can obtain the hand of a worthy woman.

I was, I am afraid, Lucy, viſibly affected: I knew [116] not how to ſtay; yet it would have looked worſe to go.

Miſs Gr. Very well, Sir—And pray, Have you not, either abroad or at home, ſeen the woman you could wiſh to call yours?—Don't think me imperti⯑nent, brother.

Sir Ch. You cannot be impertinent, Charlotte. If you want to know any-thing of me, it pleaſe me beſt, when you come directly to the point.

Miſs Gr. Well, then, if I cannot be impertinent; if you are beſt pleaſed when you are moſt freely treat⯑ed; and if you are inclined to marry; pray why did you decline the prpoſals mentioned by Lord W. in behalf of Lady Francis N. of Lady Anne S. and I can⯑not tell how many more?

Sir Ch. The friends of the firſt-named Lady pro⯑ceeded not generouſly with my father, in that affair. The whole family builds too much on the intereſt and title of her father. I wanted not to depend upon any public man: I choſe, as much as poſſible, to fix my happineſs within my own little circle. I have ſtrong paſſions. I am not without ambition. Had I looſened the reins to the latter, young man as I am, my tran⯑quillity would have been pinned to the feather in an⯑other man's cap. Does this ſatisfy you, Charlotte, as to Lady Frances?

Miſs Gr. Why yes: And the eaſier, becauſe there is a Lady whom I could have preferred to Lady Frances.

I ſhould not, thought I, have been preſent at this converſation. Lord L. looked at me. Lord L. ſhould not have looked at me: The Ladies did not.

Sir Ch. Who is ſhe?

Miſs Gr. Lady Anne S. you know, Sir—Pray, may I aſk, why that could not be?

Sir Ch. Lady Anne is, I believe, a deſerving wo⯑man; but her fortune muſt have been my principal inducement, had I made my addreſſes to her. I never [117] yet went ſo low as to that alone, for an inducement to ſee a Lady three times.

Miſs Gr. Then, Sir, you have made your ad⯑dreſſes to Ladies—Abroad, I ſuppoſe?

Sir Ch. I thought, Charlotte, your curioſity ex⯑tended only to the Ladies in England.

Miſs Gr. Yes, Sir, it extends to Ladies in Eng⯑land and out of England, if any there be that have kept my brother a ſingle man, when ſuch offers have been made him as we think would have been unex⯑ceptionable: But you hint, then, Sir, that there are Ladies abroad—

Sir Ch. Take care, Charlotte, that you make as free a reſpondent, when it comes to your turn, as you are a queſtioner.

Miſs Gr. By your anſwers to my queſtions, Sir, teach me how I am to anſwer yours, if you have any to make.

Sir Ch. Very well, Charlotte. Have I not an⯑ſwered ſatisfactorily your queſtions about the Ladies you named?

Miſs Gr. Pretty well. But, Sir, have you not ſeen Ladies abroad whom you like better than either of thoſe I have named?—Anſwer me to that.

Sir Ch. I have, Charlotte, and at home too.

Miſs Gr. I don't know what to ſay to you—But, pray, Sir, Have you not ſeen Ladies abroad whom you have liked better than any you ever ſaw at home?

Sir Ch. No. But tell me, Charlotte, to what does all this tend?

Miſs Gr. Only, brother, that we long to have you happily married; and we are afraid, that your declining this propoſal and that, is owing to ſome previous attachment—And now all is out.

Lord L. And now, my dear brother, all is out—

Lady L. If our brother will gratify our curioſity—

Had I ever before, Lucy, ſo great a call upon me as now, for preſence of mind?

[118] Sir Charles ſighed: He pauſed: And at laſt ſaid—You are very generous, very kind, in your wiſhes to ſee me married. I have ſeen the Lady with whom, of all the women in the world, I think I could be happy.

A fine bluſh overſpread his face, and he looked down. Why, Sir Charles, did you bluſh? Why did you look down? The happy, thrice happy woman, was not preſent, was ſhe?—Ah, No! no! no!—

Sir Ch. And now, Charlotte, what other queſtions have you to aſk, before it comes to your turn to an⯑ſwer ſome that I have to put to you?

Miſs Gr. Only one.—Is the Lady a foreign Lady?

How every-body but I looked at him, expecting his anſwer!—He really heſitated. At laſt, I think, Charlotte, you will excuſe me, if I ſay, that this queſtion gives me ſome pain—Becauſe it leads to an⯑other, that, if made, I cannot at preſent myſelf anſwer [But why ſo, Sir, thought I?]: And if not made, it cannot be of any ſignification to ſpeak to this.

Lord L. We would not give you pain, Sir Charles; And yet—

Sir Ch. What yet, my dear Lord L.?

Lord L. When I was at Florence, there was much talk—

Sir Ch. Of a Lady of that city.—Olivia, my Lord!—There was.—She has fine qualities, but un⯑happily blended with others leſs approveable.—But I have nothing to wiſh for from Olivia: She has done me too much honour. I ſhould not ſo readily have named her now, had ſhe been more ſollicitous to con⯑ceal the diſtinction ſhe honoured me with. But your Lordſhip, I dare hope, never heard even ill-will open its mouth to her diſreputation, only that ſhe deſcended too much in her regard for one object.

Lord L. Your character, Sir Charles, was as much to her reputation, as—

Sir Ch. (interrupting). O my Lord, how brotherly [119] partial! But, this Lady out of the queſtion, my peace has been broken in pieces by a tender fault in my con⯑ſtitution—And yet I would not be without it.

The ſweet Emily aroſe, and, in tears, went to the window. A ſob, endeavoured to be ſuppreſſed, called our attention to her.

Sir Charles went, and took her hand; Why weeps my Emily?

Becauſe you, who ſo well deſerve to be happy, ſeem not to be ſo.

Tender examples, Lucy, are catching: I had much ado to reſtrain my tears.

He kindly conſoled her. My unhappineſs, my dear, ſaid he, ariſes chiefly from that of other people. I ſhould but for that be happy in myſelf, becauſe I endeavour to accommodate my mind to bear inevi⯑table evils, and to make, if poſſible, a virtue of ne⯑ceſſity: But, Charlotte, ſee how grave you have made us all! and yet I muſt enter with you upon a ſubject that poſſibly may be thought as ſerious by you, as that which, at preſent, I wiſh to quit.

‘"Wiſh to quit!" "The queſtion gave him ſome pain, becauſe it led to another, which he cannot himſelf at preſent, anſwer!—"’

What, Lucy, let me aſk you, before I follow him to his next ſubject, can you gather from what paſſed in that already recited? If he is himſelf at an uncer⯑tainty, he may deſerve to be pitied, and not blamed: But don't you think he might have anſwered, whether the Lady is a foreigner, or not?—How could he know what the next queſtion would have been?

I had the aſſurance to ask Miſs Grandiſon after⯑wards, aſide, Whether any-thing could be made out, or gueſſed at, by his eyes, when he ſpoke of having ſeen the woman he could prefer to all others? For he ſat next me; ſhe over-againſt him.

I know not what to make of him, ſaid ſhe: But be the Lady native or foreigner, it is my humble opinion, [120] that my brother is in love. He has all the ſymptoms of it, that I can gueſs by.

I am of Charlotte's opinion, Lucy. Such tender ſentiments; ſuch ſweetneſs of manners; ſuch gen⯑tleneſs of voice!—Love has certainly done all this for him: And the Lady, to be ſure, is a foreigner. It would be ſtrange if ſuch a man ſhould not have en⯑gaged his heart in the ſeven or eight years paſt; and thoſe from Eighteen to Twenty-ſix or ſeven, the moſt ſuſceptible of a man's life.

But what means he by ſaying, ‘"His peace has been broken to pieces by a tender fault in his conſtitu⯑tion?"’—Compaſſion, I ſuppoſe, for ſome unhappy object.—I will ſoon return to town, and there prepare to throw myſelf into the arms of my deareſt relations in Northamptonſhire: I ſhall otherwiſe, perhaps, add to the number of thoſe who have broken his peace.

But it is ſtrange, methinks, that he could not have anſwered, Whether the Lady is a foreigner, or not.

Dr. Bartlett, you are miſtaken: Sir Charles Gran⯑diſon is not ſo very un -reſerved a man as you ſaid he was.

But Oh! my dear little flattering Emily, how could you tell me, that you watched his eyes, and ſaw them always kindly bent on me—Yes, perhaps, when you thought ſo, he was drawing compariſons to the ad⯑vantage of his fair foreigner, from my leſs agreeable features!—

But this Olivia! Lucy. I want to know ſomething more of her. ‘"Nothing," he ſays, to wiſh for from Olivia."’ Poor Lady! Methinks I am very much inclined to pity her.

Well, but I will proceed now to his next ſubject. I wiſh I could find ſome faults in him. It is a cruel thing to be under a kind of neceſſity to be angry with a man whom we cannot blame: And yet, in the next converſation, you will ſee him angry. Don't you long Lucy, to ſee how Sir Charles Grandiſon will behave when he is angry?

LETTER XVI. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

NOW, Charlotte, ſaid he (as if he had fully an⯑ſwered the queſtions put to him—O theſe men!) let me aſk you a queſtion or two—I had a viſit made me yeſterday, by Lord G.. What, my dear, do you intend to do, with regard to him?—But perhaps, you would chooſe to withdraw with me, on this queſtion.

Miſs Gr. I wiſh I had made to you the ſame over⯑ture of withdrawing, Sir Charles, on the queſtions I put to you; I ſhould have had more ſatisfaction given me, I fanſy, than I can boaſt of, if I had.

Sir Ch. I will withdraw with you, if you pleaſe, and hear any other queſtions you have to put to me.

Miſs Gr. You can put no queſtions to me, Sir, that I ſhall have any objection to anſwer before this company.

Sir Ch. You know my queſtion, Charlotte.

Miſs Gr. What would you adviſe me to do in that affair, brother?

Sir Ch. I have only one piece of advice to give you:—It is, That you will either encourage or diſ⯑courage his addreſs, if you know your own mind.

Miſs Gr. I believe, brother, you want to get rid of me.

Sir Ch. Then you intend to encourage Lord G?

Miſs Gr. Does that follow, Sir?

Sir Ch. Or you could not have ſupp [...]ſed, that I wanted to part with you. But, come, Charlotte, let us retire. It is very difficult to get a direct anſwer to ſuch queſtions as theſe, from Ladies, before company, tho' the company be ever ſo nearly related to them.

Miſs Gr. I can anſwer, before this company, any queſtions that relate to Lord G.

Sir Ch. Then you don't intend to encourage him?

Miſs Gr. I don't ſee how that follows, neither, from what I ſaid.

Sir Ch. It does, very clearly. I am not an abſo⯑lute ſtranger to the language of women, Charlotte.

Miſs Gr. I thought my brother too polite to re⯑flect upon the ſex.

Sir Ch. Is it to reflect upon the ſex, to ſay, that I am not an abſolute ſtranger to their language?

Miſs Gr. I proteſt, I think ſo, in the way you ſpoke it.

Sir Ch. Well, then, try if you cannot find a lan⯑guage to ſpeak in, that may not be capable of ſuch an interpretation.

Miſs Gr. I am afraid you are diſpleaſed with me, brother. I will anſwer more directly.

Sir Ch. Do, my Charlotte: I have promiſed Lord G. to procure him an anſwer—

Miſs Gr. Is the queſtion he puts, Sir, a brief one—On, or off?

Sir Ch. Truſt me, Charlotte: You may, even with your punctilio.

Miſs Gr. Will you not adviſe me, Sir?

Sir Ch. I will—To purſue your inclination.

Miſs Gr. Suppoſe, if I knew yours, that that would turn the ſcale?

Sir Ch. Is the balance even?

Miſs Gr. I can't ſay that, neither.

Sir Ch. Then diſmiſs my Lord G.

Miſs Gr. Indeed, brother, you are angry with me.

Sir Ch. (addreſſing himſelf to me) I am ſure, Miſs Byron, that I ſhall find, in ſuch points as this, a very different ſiſter in you, when I come to be favoured with the peruſal of your Letters. Your couſin Reeves once ſaid, That when you knew your own mind, you never kept any one in ſuſpenſe.

Miſs Gr. But I can't ſay that I know my mind, abſolutely.

Sir Ch. That is another thing. I am ſilent. Only when you do, I ſhall take it for a favour, if you will communicate it to me for your ſervice.

Miſs Gr. I am among my beſt friends—Lord L. what is your advice? Sir Charles does not incline to give me his.

Sir Ch. It is owing to my regard to your own in⯑clinations, and not to diſpleaſure or petulance, that I do not.

Lord L. I have a very good opinion of Lord G. What is yours, my dear? to Lady L.

Lady L. I really think very well of my Lord G. What is yours, Miſs Byron?

Harriet. I believe Miſs Grandſon muſt be the ſole determiner, on this occaſion. If ſhe has no ob⯑jection, I preſume to think, that no one elſe can have any.

Miſs Gr. Explain, explain, Harriet—

Sir Ch. Miſs Byron anſwers as ſhe always does: Penetration and prudence, with her, never quit com⯑pany. If I have the honour to explain her ſentiments in giving mine, take both as follow: My Lord G. is a good natured, mild man: He will make a woman happy, who has ſome ſhare of prudence, tho' ſhe has a ſtill greater ſhare of will. Charlotte is very lively: She loves her jeſt almoſt as well as ſhe loves her friend—

Miſs Gr. How, brother!

Sir Ch. And Lord G. will not ſtand in competition with her, in that reſpect: There ſhould not be a ri⯑valry in particular qualities, in marriage. I have known a poet commence an hatred to his wife, on her being complimented with making better verſes than he. Let Charlotte agree upon thoſe qualities in which ſhe will a low her huſband to excel; and he allow, in her, thoſe ſhe has a deſire to monopolize; and all may do well.

Miſs Gr. Then Lord G. muſt not be diſputed [124] with, I preſume, were I to be his wife, on the ſub⯑ject of moths and butterflies.

Sir Ch. Yet Lord G. may give them up, when he has a more conſiderable trifle to amuſe himſelf with. Pardon me, Charlotte—Are you not, as far as we have gone in this converſation, a pretty trifler?

Miſs Gr. (bowing) Thank you, brother. The epithets pretty, and young, and little, are great quali⯑fiers of harſh words.

Sir Ch. But do you like Sir Walter Watkyns bet⯑ter than Lord G.?

Miſs Gr. I think not. He is not, I believe, ſo good-natured a man as the other.

Sir Ch. I am glad you make that diſtinction, Charlotte.

Miſs Gr. You think it a neceſſary one in my caſe, I ſuppoſe, Sir?

Sir Ch. I have a Letter of his to anſwer. He is very urgent with me for my intereſt with you. I am to anſwer it. Will you tell me, my ſiſter (giving her the Letter), what ſhall I ſay?

Miſs Gr. (after peruſing it) Why, ay, poor man! he is very much in love: But I ſhould have ſome trouble to teach him to ſpell. And yet, they ſay, he has both French and Italian at his ſingers ends.

She then began to pull in pieces the Letter.

Sir Ch. I will not permit that, Charlotte. Pray return me the Letter. No woman is intitled to ri⯑dicule a Lover whom ſhe does not intend to encourage. If ſhe has a good opinion of herſelf, ſhe will pity him. Whether ſhe has or not, if ſhe wounds, ſhe ſhould heal. Sir Walter may addreſs himſelf to an hundred women, who, for the ſake of his gay appearance and good eſtate, will forgive him his indifferent ſpelling.

Miſs Gr. The ſluttering ſeaſon is approaching. One wants now and▪then a dangling fellow or two after one in public: Perhaps I have not ſeen enough of either of theſe to determine which to chooſe. Will [125] you not allow one, ſince neither of them have very ſtriking merits, to behold them in different lights, in order to enable one's ſelf to judge which is the moſt tolerable of the two? Or, whether a ſtill more tole⯑rable wretch may not offer?

She ſpoke this in her very archeſt manner, ſerious as the ſubject was; and ſeriouſly as her brother wiſhed to know her inclinations.

Sir Charles turned to Lord L. and gravely ſaid, I wonder how our couſin Everard is amuſing himſelf, at this inſtant, at the Hall.

She was ſenſible of the intended rebuke, and aſked him to forgive her.

Wit, my Lord, continued he, inattentive to the pardon ſhe aſked, is a dangerous weapon: But that ſpecies of it which cannot ſhine without a foil, is not a wit to be proud of. The Lady before me (what is her name?) and I, have been both under a miſtake: I took her for my ſiſter Charlotte: She took me for our couſin Everard.

Every one felt the ſeverity. It ſeemed to pierce me, as if directed to me. So unuſually ſevere from Sir Charles Grandiſon; and delivered with ſuch ſerious unconcern in the manner; I would not, at that mo⯑ment, have been Miſs Grandiſon for the world.

She did not know which way to look. Lady L. (amiable woman!) felt it for her ſiſter: Tears were in the eyes of both.

At laſt▪ Miſs Grandiſon aroſe. I will take away the impoſtor, Sir; and when I can rectify my miſtake, and bring you back your ſiſter, I hope you will re⯑ceive her with your uſual goodneſs.

My Charlotte! my Siſter! (taking her hand) you muſt not be very angry with me. I love to feel the finer edge of your wit: But when I was beſpeaking your attention upon a very ſerious ſubject; a ſubject that concerned the happineſs of your future life, and, if yours, mine; and you could be able to ſay ſome⯑thing [126] that became only the mouth of an unprincipled woman to ſay; how could I forbear to wiſh that ſome other woman, and not my ſiſter, had ſaid it?—Times and occaſions, my dear Charlotte!

No more, I beſeech you, Sir: I am ſenſible of my folly. Let me retire.

I, Charlotte, will retire; don't you; but take the comfort your friends are diſpoſed to give you. Emily, one word with you, my dear. She flew to him, and they went out together.

There, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, has he taken the girl with him, to warn her againſt falling into my folly.

Dr. Bartlett retired in ſilence.

Lady L. expreſſed her concern for her ſiſter; but ſaid, Indeed, Charlotte, I was afraid you would carry the matter too far.

Lord L. blamed her. Indeed, ſiſter, he bore with you a great while; and the affair was a ſerious one. He had engaged very ſeriouſly, and even from prin⯑ciple, in it. O Miſs Byron! he will be delighted with you, when he comes to read your papers, and fees your treatment of the humble ſervants you reſolved not to encourage.

Yes, yes, Harriet will ſhine, at my expence; but may ſhe!—Since I have loſt my brother's favour, I pray to heaven, that ſhe may gain it: But he ſhall ne [...]er again have reaſon to ſay, I take him for my couſin Everard. But was I very wicked, Harriet!—Deal fairly with me: Was I very wicked?

I thought you wrong all the way: I was afraid for you. But for what you laſt ſaid, about encouraging men to dangle after you, and ſeeming to aim at make⯑ing new conqueſts, I could have chidden you, had you not had your brother to hear it. Will you forgive me? (whiſpering her) They were the words of a very coquet, and the air was ſo arch!—Indeed, my Charlotte, you were very much out of the way.

So! Every-body againſt me!—I muſt have been wrong, indeed—

[127] The time, the occaſion, was wrong, ſiſter Charlotte, ſaid Lord L. Had the ſubject been of leſs weight, your brother would have paſſed it off as pleaſantly as he has always before done your vivacities.

Very happy, replied ſhe, to have ſuch a character, that every-body muſt be in fault who differs from him, or offends him.

In the midſt of his diſpleaſure, Charlotte, ſaid Lady L. he forgot not the brother. The ſubject, he told you concerned the happineſs of your future life; and, if yours, his.

One remark, reſumed Lord L. I muſt make, to Sir Charles's honour (take it not amiſs, ſiſter Char⯑lotte): Not the leaſt hint did he give of your error relating to a certain affair; and yet he muſt think of it, ſo lately as he has extricated you from it. His aim, evidently, is, to amend, not to wound.

I think, my Lord, retorted Miſs Grandiſon, with a glow in her cheeks, you might have ſpared your re⯑mark. If the one brother did not recriminate, the other needed not to remind. My Lord, you have not my thanks for your remark.

This affected good Lady L. Pray, ſiſter, blame not my Lord: You will loſe my pity, if you do. Are not we four united in one cauſe? Surely, Char⯑lotte, we are to ſpeak our whole hearts to each other!

So! I have brought man and wife upon me now. Pleaſe the Lord I will be married, in hopes to have ſomebody on my ſide. But, Harriet, ſay, Am I wrong again?

I hope, my dear Miſs Grandiſon, replied I, that what you ſaid to my Lord, was in pleaſantry: And, if ſo, the fault was, that you ſpoke it with too grave an air.

Well, well, let me take hold of your hand, my dear, to help me out of this new difficulty. I am dreadfully out of luck to-day. I am ſorry I ſpoke not my pleaſantry with a pleaſant air—Yet were not you [128] likewiſe guilty of the ſame fault, Lady L.? Did not you correct me with too grave an air?

I am very willing, returned Lady L. it ſhould paſs ſo: But, my dear, you muſt not, by your petulance, rob yourſelf of the ſincerity of one of the beſt hearts in the world; looking with complacency at her Lord.

He bowed to her with an affectionate air.—Happy couple!

As I hope to live, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, I thought you all pitied me, when Sir Charles laid ſo heavy an hand upon me: And ſo he ſeemed to think, by what he ſaid at going out. How did you deceive me, all of you, by your eyes!

I do aſſure you, ſaid my Lord, I did pity you: But had I not thought my ſiſter in fault, I ſhould not.

Your ſervant, my Lord. You are a nice diſtin⯑guiſher.

And a juſt one, Charlotte, rejoined Lady L.

No doubt of it, Lady L. and that was your motive too. I beſeech you, let me not be deprived of your pity. I have yours alſo, Harriet, upon the ſame kind conſideration.

Why now this archneſs becomes you, Charlotte, ſaid I [I was willing it ſhould paſs ſo, Lucy]: This is pretty pleaſantry.

It is a pretty ſpecimen of Charlotte's penitence, ſaid Lady L.

I was glad Lady L. ſpoke this with an air of good humour; but Miſs Grandiſon withdrew upon it, not well pleaſed.

We heard her at her harpſichord, and we all joined her. Emily alſo was drawn to us, by the muſic. Tell me, my dear, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon to her (ſtopping), Have you not had all my faults laid before you, for your caution?

Indeed, madam, my guardian ſaid but one word about you; and this was it: I love my ſiſter: She has amiable qualities: We are none of us right at all [129] times. You ſee, Emily, that I, in chiding her, ſpoke with a little too much petulance.

God for ever bleſs my brother! ſaid Miſs Grandi⯑ſon in a kind of rapture: But now his goodneſs makes my flippancy odious to myſelf—Sit down, my child, and play your Italian air.

This brought in Sir Charles. He entered with a look of ſerenity, as if nothing had paſſed to diſturb him.

When Emily had done playing, and ſinging, Miſs Grandiſon began to make apologies: But he ſaid, Let us forget each other's failings, Charlotte.

Notice being given of dinner, Lord L. took my hand, and Sir Charles complaiſantly led his ſiſter Charlotte to her ſeat at the table; Lady L. being gone into the dining parlour before.

A moſt intolerable ſuperiority!—I wiſh he would do ſomething wrong; ſomething cruel: If he would but bear malice, would but ſtiffen his air by reſentment, it would be ſomething. As a MAN, cannot he be lordly, and aſſuming, and where he is ſo much re⯑garded, I may ſay feared, nod his imperial ſignificance to his vaſſals about him?—Cannot he be imperious to ſervants, to ſhew his diſpleaſure with principals?—No! it is natural to him to be good and juſt. His whole aim, as my Lord obſerved, is, ‘"to convince and amend; and not to wound or hurt."’

After dinner, Miſs Grandiſon put into my hands the parcel of my Letters which I had conſented Sir Charles ſhould ſee. Miſs Byron, Sir, ſaid ſhe, will oblige you with the peruſal of ſome of her Letters. You will in them ſee another ſort of woman than your Charlotte. May I amend, and be but half as good!—When you have read them, you will ſay, Amen; and, if your prayer take place, will be ſatiſ⯑fied with your ſiſter.

He received them from me, ſtanding up, bowing, and kiſſed the papers, with an air of gallantry that I [130] thought greatly became him. [O the vanity of the girl! methinks my uncle ſays, at this place.] He put them in his pocket.

Without conditions, Harriet? ſaid Miſs Grandiſon. Except thoſe of candour, yet correction, anſwered I. Again he bowed to me.

I don't know what to ſay to it, Lucy; but I think Sir Charles looks highly pleaſed to hear me praiſed; and the Ladies and my Lord miſs no opportunity to ſay kind things of me. But could he not have an⯑ſwered Miſs Grandiſon's queſtion, Whether his fa⯑vourite was a foreigner, or not?—Had any other queſtion ariſen afterwards, that he had not cared to anſwer, he could but have declined anſwering it, as he did that.

What a great deal of writing does the reciting of half an hour or an hour's converſation make, when there are three or four ſpeakers in company; and one attempts to write what each ſays in the firſt perſon! I am amazed at the quantity, on looking back. But it will be ſo in narrative Letter-writing. Did not you, Lucy, write as long Letters, when you went with your brother to Paris?—I forget. Only this I remember, that I always was ſorry when I came to the end of them. I am afraid it is quite otherwiſe with mine.

By the way, I am concerned that Lady D. is angry with me: Yet, methinks, ſhe ſhews, by her anger, that ſhe had a value for me. As to what you tell me, of Lord D.'s ſetting his heart on the propoſed alli⯑ance; I am not ſo much concerned at that, becauſe he never ſaw me: And had the affair been in his own power, 'tis likely he would not have been very ſolici⯑tous about his ſucceſs. Many a one, Lucy, I be⯑lieve, has found an ardor, when repulſed, which they would never have known, had they ſucceded.

Lady Betty, and Miſs Clements, were ſo good as to make me a viſit, this afternoon, in their way to [131] Windſor, where they are to paſs two or three days. They lamented my long abſence from town; and Lady Betty kindly regretted for me, the many fine entertainments I had loſt, both public and private, by my country excurſion at this unpropitious ſeaſon of the year, as ſhe called it, ſhrugging her ſhoulders, as it in compaſſion for my ruſtic taſte.

Good Lady! ſhe knew not that I am in company that want not entertainments out of themſelves. They have no time to kill, or to delude: On the contrary, our conſtant complaint is, that time flies too faſt: And I am ſure, for my part, I am forced to be a manager of it; ſince, between converſation and writing, I have not a moment to ſpare: And I never in my life devoted ſo ſew hours to reſt.

I have often wiſhed for Miſs Clements to be with us; and ſo I told her: Sir Charles ſpoke very hand⯑ſomely of her, on occaſion of Miſs Grandiſon's ſay⯑ing, ſhe was a plain, but good young woman. She is not a beauty, ſaid he; but ſhe has qualities that are more admired than mere beauty.

Would ſhe not, aſked Lady L. make a good wife for Lord W.? There is, ſaid Sir Charles, too great a diſparity in years. She has, and muſt have, too many hopes. My Lord W.'s wife will, probably, be confined ſix months, out of twelve, to a gouty man's chamber. She muſt therefore be one who has outlived half her hopes: She muſt have been acquainted with affliction, and known diſappointment. She muſt con⯑ſider her marriage with him, tho' as an act of con⯑deſcenſion, yet partly as a preferment. Her tender⯑neſs will, by this means, be engaged; yet her dignity ſupported: and if ſhe is not too much in years to bring my Lord an heir, he will then be the moſt grateful of men to her.

My dear Brother, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, forgive me all my faults: Your actions, your ſentiments, ſhall [132] be the rule of mine!—But who can come up to you? The Danby's—Lord W.—

Any-body may, Charlotte, interrupted Sir Charles, who will be guided by the well-known rule of Doing to others, as you would they ſhould do unto you. Were you in the ſituation of the Danby's, of Lord W. would you not wiſh to be done by, as I have done, and intend to do, by them? What muſt be thoſe who, with hungry eyes, wait and wiſh for the death of a relation? May they not be compared to ſavages on the ſea-ſhore, who look out impatiently for a wreck, in order to plunder and prey upon the ſpoils of the miſerable? Lord W. has been long an unhappy man from want of principles: I ſhall rojoice, if I can be a means of convincing him, by his own experience, that he was in a wrong courſe, and of making his lat⯑ter days happy. Would I not, in my decline, wiſh for a nephew that had the ſame notions? And can I expect ſuch an one, if I ſet not the example?

Pretty ſoon after ſupper, Sir Charles left us; and Miſs Grandiſon, ſeeing me in a reſverie, ſaid, I will lay my life, Harriet, you fanſy my brother is gone up to read your Letters—Nay, you are in the right; for he whiſpered as much to me, before he withdrew. But do not be apprehenſive, Harriet (for ſhe ſaw me concerned); you have nothing to fear, I am ſure.

Lady L. ſaid, That her brother's notions and mine were exactly alike, on every ſubject: But yet, Lucy, when one knows one's cauſe to be under actual examination, one cannot but have ſome heart-akes.—Yet why?—If his favourite woman is a foreigner, what ſignifies his opinion of my Letters—And yet it does: One would be willing to be well thought of by the worthy.

LETTER XVII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

WE ſat down early to breakfaſt this morning: Miſs Grandiſon diſmiſſed the attendants, as ſoon as Sir Charles entered the room.

He addreſſed himſelf to me, the moment he ſaw me: Admirable Miſs Byron, ſaid he, what an enter⯑tainment have your Letters given me, down to a cer⯑tain period!—How, at, and after that, have they di⯑ſtreſſed me, for your ſufferings from a Savage!—It is well for him, and perhaps for me, that I ſaw not ſooner this latter part of your affecting ſtory: I have read thro' the whole parcel.

He took it from his boſom, and, with a reſpectful air, preſented it to me—Ten thouſand thanks for the favour—I dare not hope for farther indulgence—Yet not to ſay, how deſirous I am—But, forgive me—Think me not too great an incroacher—

I took them.

Surely, brother, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, you cannot already have read the whole!

I have—I could not leave them—I ſat up late—

And ſo, thought I, did your ſiſter Harriet, Sir.

Well, brother, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, and what are the faults?

Faults! Charlotte.—Such a noble heart! ſuch an amiable frankneſs! No prudery! No coquetry! Yet ſo much, and ſo juſtly admired by as many as have had the happineſs to approach her!—Then, turning to me, I adore, madam, the goodneſs, the greatneſs of your heart. Woman is the glory of all created ex⯑iſtence:—But you, madam, are more than woman!

How I bluſhed! how I trembled! How, tho' ſo greatly flattered, was I delighted!

[134] Is Miſs Byron, in thoſe Letters, all perfect, all faultleſs, all excellence, Sir Charles? aſked Miſs Grandiſon: Is there no—But I am ſenſible, tho' you have raiſed my envy, I aſſure you, that Miſs Byron's si another ſort of heart than your poor Charlotte's.

But I hope, Sir, ſaid I, that you will correct—

You called upon me yeſterday, interrupted he, to attend to the debate between you and Mr. Walden: I think I have ſomething to obſerve upon that ſubject. I told you, that beauty ſhould not bribe me. I have very few obſervations to make upon it.

Lady L. Will you give us, brother, your opinion, in writing, of what you have read? ^a

Sir Ch. That would fill a volume: And it would be almoſt all panegyric.

How flattering—But this foreign Lady, Lucy!—

Lady L. began another ſubject.—

Pray, brother, ſaid ſhe, let me revive one of the topics of yeſterday—Concerning Lord G. and Sir Walter Watkyns—And I hope you, Charlotte, will excuſe me.

Miſs Gr. If it can be revived, without reviving the memory of my flippant folly—Not elſe will I ex⯑cuſe you, Lady L. And, caſting her eye baſhfully round her, Dr. Bartlett withdrew; but as if he had buſineſs to do.

Lady L. Then let me manage this article for my ſiſter. You ſaid, brother, that you have engaged to give Lord G. either hope, or otherwiſe—

Sir Ch. Lord G. was very earneſt with me for my intereſt with my ſiſter. I, ſuppoſing that ſhe is now abſolutely diſengaged, did undertake to let him know what room he had for hope, or if any; but told him, That I would not, by any means, endeavour to influ⯑ence her.

Lady L. Charlotte is afraid, that you would not, of yourſelf, from diſpleaſure, have revived the ſubject—Not that ſhe values—

[135] There ſhe ſtopt.

Sir Ch. I might, at the time, be a little petulant: But I ſhould have revived the ſubject, becauſe I had engaged myſelf to procure an anſwer for an abſent perſon, to a queſtion that was of the higheſt import⯑ance to him: But, perhaps, I ſhould have entered in⯑to the ſubject with Charlotte when we were alone.

Lady L. She can have no objection, I believe, to let all of us, who are preſent, know her mind, on this occaſion.

Miſs Gr. To be ſure I have not.

Lady L. What ſignifies mincing the matter? I undertook, at her deſire, to recal the ſubject, becauſe you had ſeemed to intereſt yourſelf in it.

Sir Ch. I think I know as much of Charlotte's mind already, from what you have hinted, Lady L. as I ought to be inquiſitive about.

Lady L. How ſo, brother? What have I ſaid?

Sir Ch. What meant the words you ſtopt at—Not that ſhe values? —Now, tho' I will not endeavour to lead her choice in behalf of a prince; yet would I be earneſt to oppoſe her marriage with a man for whom ſhe declaredly has no value.

Lady L. You are a little ſudden upon me, Sir Charles.

Sir Ch. You muſt not think the words you ſtopt at, Lady L. ſlight words: Principle, and Charlotte's future happineſs, and that of a worthy man, are con⯑cerned here. But perhaps you mean no more, than to give a little ſpecimen of Lady-like pride in thoſe words. It is a very hard matter for women, on ſuch occaſions as theſe, to be abſolutely right.—Dear Miſs Byron, bowing to me, excuſe me—There is one Lady in the world that ought not, from what I have had the honour to ſee, on her own account, to take amiſs my freedom with her ſex, tho' ſhe perhaps will on that of thoſe ſhe loves. But have I not ſome reaſon for what I ſay, when even Lady L. ſpeaking [136] for her ſiſter on this concerning ſubject, cannot help throwing in a ſalvo for the pride of her ſex?

Harriet. I doubt not, Sir, but Lady L. and Miſs Grandiſon will explain themſelves to your ſatisfaction.

Lady L. then called upon her ſiſter.

Miſs Gr. Why, as to value—and all that—To be ſure—Lord G.—is not a man, that—(and ſhe looked round her on each perſon)—that a woman—Hem!—that a woman—But, brother, I think you are a little too ready—to—to—A word and a blow, as the ſaying is, are two things.—Not that—And there ſhe ſtopt.

Sir Ch. (ſmiling) O my dear Lord L.! What ſhall we ſay to theſe Not that's? Were I my couſin Everard, I am not ſure but I ſhould ſuppoſe, when Ladies were ſuſpending unneceſſarily, or with affecta⯑tion, the happineſs of the man they reſolve to marry, that they were reflecting on themſelves by an indirect acknowlegement of ſelf-denial. —

Miſs Gr. Good God! brother.

I was angry at him, in my mind. How came this good man, thought I, by ſuch thoughts as theſe, of our ſex? What, Lucy, could a woman do with ſuch a man, were he to apply to her in courtſhip, whether ſhe denied or accepted of him?

Sir Ch. You will conſider, Lady L. that you and Charlotte have brought this upon yourſelves. That I call female pride, which diſtinguiſhes not either time, company, or occaſion. You will remember, that Lord G. is not here; we are all brothers and ſiſters: And why, Charlotte, do you approve of entering upon the ſubject in this company; yet come with your ex⯑ceptions, as if Lord G. had his father preſent, or plead⯑ing for him? Theſe Not that ſhe values, and ſo-forth, are ſo like the dealings between petty chapmen and common buyers and ſellers, that I love properly (ob⯑ſerve that I ſay properly) to diſcourage them among perſons of ſenſe and honour. But come, Charlotte, enter into your own cauſe: You are an excellent [137] pleader, on occaſion. You know, or at leaſt you ought t [...] know, your own mind. I never am for en⯑couraging agency (Lady L. excuſe me—Will you give up yours?) where principals can be preſent.

Lady L. With all my heart. I ſtumbled at the very threſhold. E'en, Charlotte, be your own ad⯑vocate. The cauſe is on.

Miſs Gr. Why, I don't know what to ſay.—My brother will be ſo peremptory, perhaps—

Sir Ch. A good ſign for ſomebody—Don't you think ſo, madam? to me.—But the ſnail will draw in its horns, if the finger haſtily touch it—Come, no good ſign, perhaps, Charlotte.—I will not be peremp⯑tory. You ſhall be indulged, if you have not already been indulged enough, in all the pretty circummabages cuſtomary on theſe occaſions.

Miſs Gr. This is charming!—But pray, Sir, What is your advice, on this ſubject?

Sir Ch. In our former converſation upon it, I told you what I thought of my Lord's good-humour; what of your vivacity—Can you, Charlotte, were you the wife of Lord G. content yourſelf now-and-then to make him ſtart, by the lancet-like delicacy of your wit, without going deeper than the ſkin? Without expoſing him (and yourſelf for doing ſo) to the ridi⯑cule of others? Can you bear with his ſoibles, if he can bear with yours? And if the forbearance is greater on his ſide, than on yours, can you value him for it, and for his good-humour?

Miſs Gr. Finely run off, upon my word!

Sir Ch. I am afraid only, that you will be able, Charlotte, to do what you will with him. I am ſorry to have cauſe to ſay, that I have ſeen very good women who have not known how to bear indulgence!—Waller was not abſolutely wrong, as to ſuch, when he ſaid, "that women were born to be controuled." If controul is likely to be neceſſary, it will be with women of ſuch charming ſpirits as you know whoſe, [138] Charlotte, who will not confine to time and place their otherwiſe agreeable vivacities.

Miſs Gr. Well, but, Sir, if it ſhould chance to be ſo, and I were Lord G.'s upper ſervant; for con⯑troul implies dominion; what a fine advantage would he have in a brother, who could direct him ſo well (tho' he might ſtill, perhaps, be a bechelor) how to manage a wife ſo flippant!

Sir Ch. Bachelors, Charlotte, are cloſe obſervers. It is not every married couple, if they were ſollicitous to have a bachelor marry, that ſhould admit him into a very cloſe intimacy with themſelves.

Miſs Gr. (archly) Pray, Lord L. Did we not once hear our couſin Everard make an obſervation of this nature?

Sir Ch. Fairly retorted, Charlotte!—But how came your couſin Everard to make this obſervation? I once heard you ſay, that he was but a common ob⯑ſerver. Every married pair is not Lord and Lady L.

Miſs Gr. Well, well, I believe married people muſt do as well as they can. But may I aſk you, brother, Is it owing to ſuch obſervations as thoſe you have been making, that you are now a ſingle man?

Sir Ch. A fair queſtion from you, Charlotte. I anſwer, It is not.

Miſs Gr. I ſhould be glad, with all my heart, to know what is.

Sir Ch. When the ſubject comes fairly on the car⯑pet, your curioſity may perhaps be gratified. But tell me, Do you intend that the ſubject you had engaged Lady L. to introduce, in relation to Lord G. and Sir Walter Watkyns, ſhould be diſmiſſed, at preſent? I mean not to be peremptory, Charlotte: Be not afraid to anſwer.

Miſs Gr. Why that's kind. No, I can't ſay, that I do: And yet I frankly conſeſs, that I had much ra⯑ther aſk, than anſwer queſtions. You know, Sir, that I have a wicked curioſity.

Sir Ch. Well, Charlotte, you will find me, wicked as you call it, very ready, at a proper time, to gratify it. To ſome things that you may want to know, in relation to my ſituation, you needed not now to have been a ſtranger, had I had the pleaſure of being more with you, and had you yourſelf been as explicit as I would have wiſhed you to be. But the criſis is at hand. When I am certain myſelf, you ſhall not be in doubt. I would not ſuppoſe, that my happineſs is a matter of indifference to my ſiſters; and if it be not, I ſhould be ungrateful, not to let them know every⯑thing I know, that is likely to affect it.

See! Lucy. What can be gathered from all this? But yet this ſpeech has a noble ſound with it: Don't you think it has? It is, I think, worthy of Sir Charles Grandiſon. But by what clouds does this ſun ſeem to be obſcured? He ſays, however, that the criſis is at hand —Solemn words, as they ſtrike me. Ah Lucy!—But this is my prayer—May the criſis pro⯑duce happineſs to him, let who will be unhappy!

Miſs Gr. You are always good, noble, uniform—Curioſity, get thee behind me, and lie ſtill!—And yet, brother, like a favoured ſquirrel repulſed, I am afraid it will be ſoon upon my ſhoulder, if the criſis be ſuſ⯑pended.

‘"Criſis is at hand,"’ Lucy!—I cannot get over theſe words; and yet they make my heart ake.

Sir Ch. But now, Charlotte, as to your two ad⯑mirers—

Miſs Gr. Why, Sir, methinks I would not be a petty- [...] if I could help it: And yet, What can I ſay?—I don't think highly of either of the men—But, pray now, what—Lady L. (affecting an audi⯑ble wh [...]per) Will you aſk a queſtion for me?—

Lady L. What is it, Charlotte?

Miſs Gr. whiſpering (but ſtill loud enough for every one to hear). What ſort of a man is Beauchamp?

Lady L. Mad girl!—You heard the queſtion, bro⯑ther.

Miſs Gr. No!—You did not hear it, Sir, if it will diſpleaſe you. The whiſpers in converſation are no more to be heard, than the aſides in a play.

Sir Ch. Both the one and the other are wrong, Charlotte. Whiſperings in converſation are cenſu⯑rable, to a proverb: The aſides, as you call them, and the ſoliloquies, in a play, however frequent, are very poor (becauſe unnatural) ſhifts of bungling authors, to make their performances intelligible to the au⯑dience. But am I to have heard your whiſper, Char⯑lotte, or not?

Miſs Gr. I think the man my brother ſo much eſteems, muſt be worth an hundred of ſuch as thoſe we have juſt now heard named.

Sir Ch. Well, then, I am ſuppoſed to be an⯑ſwered, I preſume, as to the two gentlemen. I will ſhew you the Letter, when written, that I ſhall ſend to Sir Walter Watkyns. I ſhall ſee Lord G. I ſup⯑poſe, the moment he knows I am in town—

Miſs Gr. The Lord bleſs me, brother!—Did you not ſay, you would not be peremptory?

Lord L. Very right. Pray, Sir Charles, don't let my ſiſter part with the two, without being ſure of a third.

Miſs Gr. Pray, Lord L. do you be quiet: Your ſiſter is in no hurry, I do aſſure you.

Sir Ch. The female drawback again, Lady L.—Not that ſhe values.

Harriet. Well, but, Sir Charles, may I, without offence, repeat Miſs Grandiſon's queſtion in relation to Mr. Beauchamp?

Miſs Gr. That's my dear creature!

Sir Ch. It is impoſſible that Miſs Byron can give offence.—Mr. Beauchamp is an excellent young man; about Five-and-twenty, not more: He is brave, learned, ſincere, chearful; gentle in his manners, agreeable in his perſon. Has my good Miſs Byron any farther queſtions to aſk? Your frankneſs of heart, [141] madam, intitles you to equal frankneſs. Not a que⯑ſtion you can aſk, but the anſwer ſhall be ready upon my lips.

Is the Lady, Sir, whom you could prefer to all others, a foreign or an Engliſh Lady?—Ah, Lucy! And do you think I aſked him this queſtion?—O no! but I had a mind to ſtartle you. I could have aſked it, I can tell you: And if it had been proper, it would have been the firſt of queſtions with me. Yet had not the anſwer been ſuch as I had liked, perhaps I ſhould not have been able to ſtay in company.

I only bowed, and I believe bluſhed with compla⯑cency, at the kind manner in which he ſpoke to me: Every one, by their eyes, took notice of it with pleaſure.

Lady L. Well, brother, and what think you of the purport of Charlotte's queſtion? Charlotte ſays, That ſhe does not think highly of either of the other men.

Sir Ch. That at preſent, is all that concerns me to know. I will write to Sir Walter; I will let Lord G. know, that there is a man in the clouds that Char⯑lotte waits for: That Ladies muſt not be eaſily won. Milton juſtifies you, in his account of the behaviour of your common grandmother, on the firſt interview between her and the man for whom ſhe was created. Charming copiers! You, Miſs Byron, are an excep⯑tion. You know nothing of affectation. You—

Miſs Gr. (unſeaſonably interrupting him) Pray, Sir, be pleaſed, ſince we are ſuch fine copiers of the old lady you mentioned, to repeat the lines: I have no remembrance of them.

Sir Ch.

[142] I have looked for the paſſage, ſince, Lucy. He miſſed ſeveral lines.

Now, Charlotte, ſaid Sir Charles, tho' theſe lines are a palpable accommodation to the future practice of daughters of the old lady, as you call her, and perhaps intended for an inſtruction to them, ſince it could not be a natural behaviour in Eve, who was divinely brought to be the wife of Adam, and it being in the ſtate of innocence, could not be conſcious of diſhonour in receiving his addreſs; yet, if you know what is meant by obſequious majeſty, you had as good try for it: And as you are followed, and ſhould not follow, approve of the pleaded reaſon of one or other of your admirers.

Miſs Gr. After hearing the pleaded reaſon of both, ſhould you not ſay? I have the choice of two; that had not Eve. But, hold! I had like to have been drawn in to be flippant, again; and then you would have enquired after my couſin Everard, and-ſo-forth, and been angry.

Sir Ch. Not now, Charlotte: We are now at play together. I ſee there is conſtitution in your fault. The ſubjects we are upon, courtſhip and marriage, cannot, I find, be talked ſeriouſly of by a Lady, before com⯑pany. Shall I retire with you to ſolitude? Make a Lover's Camera Obſcura for you? Or, could I place you upon the moſly bank of a purling ſtream, gliding thro' an enamelled mead; in ſuch a ſcene, a now de⯑ſpiſed Lord G. or a Sir Walter, might find his ac⯑count, ſighing at your feet. No witneſſes but the grazing herd, lowing love around you; the feathered ſongſters from an adjacent grove, contributing to har⯑monize and fan the lambent flame—

Miſs Gr. (interrupting) Upon my word, brother, I knew you had travelled thro' Greece, but dreamt not that you had dwelt long in the fields of Ar-ca-dy! —But, one queſtion let me aſk you, concerning your friend Beauchamp—We women don't love to be [143] ſlighted—Whether do you think him too good, or not good enough, for your ſiſter?

Sir Ch. The friendſhip, Charlotte, that has for ſome years ſubſiſted, and I hope will for ever ſubſiſt, between Mr. Beauchamp and me, wants not the tie of relation to ſtrengthen it.

Lord L. Happy Beauchamp?

Sir Ch. Lord L himſelf is not dearer to me, bro⯑ther, as I have the honour to call him, than my Beau⯑champ. It is one of my pleaſures, my Lord, that I am aſſured you will love him, and he you.

Lord L. bowed, delighted; and if he did, his good Lady, you may be ſure, partook of her Lord's delight. They are an happy pair! They want not ſenſe; they have both fine underſtandings! But O! my Lucy, they are not the ſtriking, dazling qualities in men and women, that make happy, Good ſenſe, and ſolid judgment, a natural complacency of temper, a deſire of obliging, and an eaſineſs to be obliged, procure the ſilent, the ſerene happineſs, to which the fluttering, tumultuous, impetuous, fervors of paſſion can never contribute. Nothing violent can be laſting.

Miſs Gr. Not that I value. —There, brother—You ſee, I am a borrower of Lady L.—

Lady L. Upon m [...] honour, Charlotte, I believe you led me into thoſe words; ſo don't ſay you bor⯑rowed them.

Sir Ch. Far be it from me to endeavour to cure women of affectation on ſuch ſubjects as that which lately was before us—I don't know what is become of it (looking humourouſly round, as if he had loſt ſome⯑thing which he wanted to recover); but that, permit me, Ladies to ſay, may be an affectation in one com⯑pany, that is but a neceſſary reſerve in another—Char⯑lotte has genius enough, I am ſure, to vary her hu⯑mour to the occaſion; and, i [...] ſhe would give herſelf time for reflexion, to know when to be grave, when to be airy.

Miſs Gr. I don't know that, brother: But let me ſay for Charlotte, that I believe you ſometimes think better of her (as in the preſent caſe), ſometimes worſe, than ſhe deſerves. Charlotte has not much reflexion; ſhe is apt to ſpeak as the humour comes upon her, without conſidering much about the fit or the unfit. It is conſtitution, you know, brother; and ſhe cannot eaſily cure it: But ſhe will try.—Only, Sir, be ſo good as to let me have an anſwer to my laſt queſtion, Whether you think your friend too good or not good enough? Becauſe the anſwer will let me know what my brother thinks of me; and that, let me tell you, is of very high importance with me.

Sir Ch. You have no reaſon, Charlotte, to endea⯑vour to come at this your end, by indirect or compa⯑rative means. Your brother loves you—

Miſs Gr. With all my faults, Sir?—

Sir Ch. With all your faults, my dear; and I had almoſt ſaid, for ſome of them. I love you for the pretty playfulneſs, on ſerious ſubjects, with which you puzzle yourſelf, and bewilder me: You ſee I follow your lead. As to the other part of your queſtion (for I would always anſwer directly, when I can), my friend Beauchamp deſerves the beſt of women. You are excellent in my eyes; but I have known two very worthy perſons, who, taken ſeparately, have been ad⯑mired by every one who knew them, and who ad⯑mired each other before marriage, yet not happy in it.

Miſs Gr. Is it poſſible? To what could their un⯑happineſs be owing?—Both, I ſuppoſe, continuing good?

Sir Ch. To an hundred almoſt nameleſs reaſons—Too little conſideration on one ſide; too much on the other: Diverſions different: Too much abroad the man—Too much at home will ſometimes have the ſame effect: Acquaintance approved by the one—Diſapproved by the other: One liking the town; [145] the other the country: Or either preferring town or country in different humours, or at different times of the year. Human nature, Charlotte—

Miſs Gr. No more, no more, I beſeech you, bro⯑ther—Why this human nature, I believe, is a very vile thing! I think, Lady L. I won't marry at all.

Sir Ch. Some ſuch trifles, as theſe I have enume⯑rated, will be likely to make you, Charlotte, with all your excellencies, not ſo happy as I wiſh you to be. If you cannot have a man of whoſe underſtanding you have an higher opinion than of your own, you ſhould think of one who is likely to allow to yours a ſuperi⯑ority. If—

Miſs Grandiſon interrupted him again: I wiſhed ſhe would not ſo often interrupt him: I wanted to find out his notions of our ſex. I am afraid, with all his politeneſs, he thinks us poor creatures. But why ſhould not the character of a good, a prudent woman, be as great as that of a good, a prudent man?

Miſs Gr. Well, but, Sir; I ſuppoſe the gentleman abroad has more underſtanding than I have.

Sir Ch. A good deal will depend upon what you'll think of that: Not what I, or the world, will judge.

Miſs Gr. But the judgment of us women gene⯑rally goes with the world.

Sir Ch. Not generally, in matrimonial inſtances. A wife, in general, may allow of a huſband's ſuperior judgment; but in particular caſes, and as they fall out one by one, the man may find it difficult, to have at allowed in any one inſtance:

Miſs Gr. I think you ſaid, Sir, that batchelors were cloſe obſervers.

Sir Ch. We may in the ſiſter, ſometimes, ſee the wife. I admire you, myſelf, for your vivacity; but I am not ſure that a huſband would not think himſelf hurt by it, eſpecially if it be true, as you ſay, ‘"that Charlotte has not much reflexion, and is apt to [146] ſpeak as the humour comes upon her, without troubling herſelf about the fit or the unfit."’

Miſs Gr. O, Sir, what a memory you have! I hope that the man who is to call me his (that's the dialect, i'n't it?) will not have half your memory.

Sir Ch. For his ſake, or your own, do you hope this, Charlotte?

Miſs Gr. Let me ſee—Why for both our ſakes, I believe.

Sir Ch. You'll tell the man, in courtſhip, I hope, that all this livelineſs is ‘"conſtitution;"’ and ‘"that you know not how to cure it."’

Miſs Gr. No, by no means, Sir: Let him in the miſtreſs, as ſomebody elſe in the ſiſter, gueſs at the wife, and take warning.

Sir Ch. Very well anſwered, Charlotte, in the play we are at; but I am willing to think highly of my ſiſter's prudence, and that ſhe will be happy, and make the man ſo, to whom ſhe may think fit to give her hand at the altar. And now the queſtion recurs, What ſhall I ſay to Lord G.? What to Sir Walter?

Miſs Gr. Why I think you muſt make my com⯑pliments to Sir Walter, if you will be ſo good; and, after the example of my ſiſter Harriet to the men ſhe ſends a grazing, very civilly tell him, he may break his heart as ſoon as he pleaſes; for that I cannot be his.

Sir Ch. Strange girl! But I wiſh not to lower this lively ſpirit—You will put your determination into Engliſh.

Miſs Gr. In plain Engliſh, then, I can by no means think of encouraging the addreſs of Sir Wal⯑ter Watkyns.

Sir Ch. Well, And what ſhall I ſay to Lord G.?

Miſs Gr. Why that's the thing!—I was afraid it would come to this—Why, Sir, you muſt tell him, I think—I profeſs I can't tell what—But, Sir, will [147] you let me know what you would have me tell him?

Sir Ch. I will follow your lead as far as I can—Can you, do you think, love Lord G.?

Miſs Gr. Love him! love Lord G.? What a que⯑ſtion is that!—Why no! I verily believe, that I can't ſay that.

Sir. Ch. Can you eſteem him?

Miſs Gr. Eſteem!—Why that's a quaint word, tho' a female one. I believe, if I were to marry the honeſt man, I could be civil to him, if he would be very complaiſant, very obſervant, and all that—Pray, brother, don't, however, be angry with me.

Sir Ch. I will not, Charlotte, ſmiling. It is conſti⯑tution, you ſay.—But if y [...]u cannot be more than civil; and if he is to be very obſervant; you'll make it your agreement with him, before you meet him at the altar, that he ſhall ſubſcribe to the woman's part of the vow; and that you ſhall anſwer to the man's.

Miſs Gr. A good thought, I believe! I'll conſi⯑der of it. If I find, in courtſhip, the man will bear it, I may make the propoſal.—Yet I don't know, but it will be as well to ſuppoſe the vow changed, without conditioning for it, as other good women do; and act accordingly. One would not begin with a ſingu⯑larity, for fear of putting the parſon out. I heard an excellent Lady once adviſe a good wiſe, who, how⯑ever, very little wanted it, to give the man a hearing, and never do any thing that he would wiſh to be done, except ſhe choſe to do it. If the man loves quiet, he'll be glad to compound.

Harriet. Nay now, Miſs Grandiſon, you are much more ſevere upon your ſex, and upon matrimony, than Sir Charles.

Sir Ch. Have I been ſevere upon either, my dear Miſs Byron?

Harriet. Indeed I think ſo.

Sir Ch. I am ſorry for it: I only intended to be [148] juſt. See, Charlotte, what a cenſure, from goodneſs itſelf, you draw upon me!—But I am to give en⯑couragement (am I?) to Lord G.?

Miſs Gr. Do as you pleaſe, Sir.

Sir Ch. That is ſaying nothing. Is there a man in the world you prefer to Lord G.?

Miſs Gr. In the world, Sir!—A very wide place, I profeſs.

Sir Ch. You know what I mean by it.

Miſs Gr. Why no—Yes—No—What can I ſay to ſuch a queſtion?

Sir Ch. Help me, Lady L. You know, better than I, Charlotte's language: Help me to underſtand it.

Lady L. I believe, brother, you may let Lord G. know, that he will not be denied an audience, if he come—

Sir Ch. "Will not be denied an audience, if he come!" And this to Charlotte's brother! Women! Women! Women!—You, Miſs Byron, I repeat with pleaſure, are an exception—In your Letters and beha⯑viour we ſee what a woman is, and what ſhe ought to be—But I know, as you once told Sir Rowland Me⯑redith, that you have too much greatneſs of mind, to accept of a compliment made you at the expence of your ſex.—But my heart does you juſtice.

Lord L. See, however, brother Grandiſon, this excellence in the two ſiſters! You ſay, indeed, but juſt things in praiſe of Miſs Byron; but they are more than women: For they enjoy that praiſe, and the acknowleged ſuperiority of the only woman in Britain to whom they can be inferior.

Do you think I did not thank them both for com⯑pliments ſo high? I did.

You DID, Harriet?

Ah, Lucy! I had a mind to ſurpriſe you again. I did thank them; but it was in downcaſt ſilence, and by a glow in my cheeks, that was even painful to me to feel.

[149] The ſiſters have ſince obſerved to me (flattering Ladies!) that their brother's eyes—But is it not ſtrange, Lucy, that they did not aſk him, in this long converſation, Whether his favourite of our ſex is a foreigner, or not? If ſhe be, what ſignifies the eye of pleaſure caſt upon your Harriet?

But be this as it may, you ſee, Lucy, that the communicating of my Letters to Lord L. and the two Ladies, and of ſome of them to their brother, has rivetted the three firſt in my favour, and done me honour with Sir Charles Grandiſon.

But what do you think was Miſs Grandiſon's ad⯑dreſs to me, on this agreeable occaſion? You, my grandmamma, will love her again, I am ſure, tho' ſhe ſo lately incurred your diſpleaſure.

Sweet and ever-amiable Harriet! ſaid ſhe; Siſter! Friend! enjoy the juſt praiſes of two of the beſt of men!—You can enjoy them with equal modeſty and dignity; and we can (What ſay you, Lady L.?) find our praiſe in the honour you do our ſex, and in being allowed to be ſeconds to you.

And what do you think was the anſwer of Lady L. (generous woman!) to this call of her ſiſter?

I can chearfully, ſaid ſhe, ſubſcribe to the viſible ſuperiority of my Harriet, as ſhewn in all her Letters, as well as in her whole conduct: But then you, my Lord, and you, my brother, who in my eye are the firſt of men, muſt not let me have cauſe to dread, that your Caroline is ſunk in yours.

I had hardly power to ſit, yet had leſs to retire; as I had, for a moment, a thought to do. I am glad I did not attempt it: My return to company muſt have been aukward, and made me look particular. But, Lucy, what is in my Letters, to deſerve all theſe fine ſpeeches?—But my Lord and his ſiſters are my true friends, and zealous well-wiſhers: No fear that I ſhall be too proud, on this occaſion. It is hum⯑bling enough to reflect, that the worthy three thought [150] it all no more than neceſſary to eſtabliſh me with ſomebody; and yet, after all, if there be a foreign Lady—What ſignify all theſe fine things?

But how (you will aſk) did the brother acknowlege theſe generous ſpeeches of his ſiſters and Lord L?—How? Why as he ought to do. He gave them for their generous goodneſs to their Harriet, in preference to themſelves, ſuch due praiſes, as more than reſtored them, in my eye, to the ſuperiority they had ſo nobly given up.

Sir Charles afterwards addreſſed himſelf to me jointly with his ſiſters: I ſee, with great pleaſure, ſaid he, the happy underſtanding that there is between you three Ladies: It is a demonſtration, to me, of ſurpaſſing goodneſs in you all. To expreſs myſelf in the words of an ingenious man, to whoſe works your ſex, and if yours, ours, are more obliged, than to thoſe of any ſingle man in the Britiſh world,

The two ſiſters and your Harriet bowed as they ſat.

Encouraged by this happy underſtanding among you, let me hope, proceeded he, that you, Miſs Byron, will be ſo good as to inform your-ſelf, and let me know, what I may certainly depend upon to be our Charlotte's inclinations with reſpect to the two gentle⯑men who court her favour; and whether there is any man that the can or does prefer to the moſt favoured of either of them. From you I ſhall not meet with the "Not that ſhe values."—The depreciating indif⯑ferences, the affected ſlights, the female circumam⯑bages, if I may be allowed the words; the coldly⯑expreſſed conſent to viſits not deſerving to be diſcou⯑raged, and perhaps not intended to be ſo, that I have had to encounter with in the paſt converſation. I have been exceedingly diverted with my ſiſter's vivacity: But as the affair is of a very ſerious nature; as I would [151] be extremely tender in my interpoſition, having really no choice but hers; and wanting only to know on whom that choice will fall, or whether on any man, at preſent; on your noble frankneſs I can rely; and Charlotte will open her mind to you: If not, ſhe has very little profited by the example you have ſet her in the Letters you have permitted her to read.

He aroſe, bowed, and withdrew; Miſs Grandiſon called after him, Brother, brother, brother—One word—Don't leave us—But he only kiſſed his hand to us at the door; and bowing, with a ſmiling air, left us looking at each other in a ſilence that held a few moments.

LETTER XVIII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LOrd L. broke the ſilence. You are a delightful girl, Charlotte; but your brother has had a great deal of patience with you.

O my Lord, ſaid ſhe, if we women play our cards right, we ſhall be able to manage the beſt and wiſeſt of you all, as we pleaſe. It is but perſevering; and you men, if not out-argued, may be out-teazed. —But, Harriet—upon my word—The game ſeems to be all in your own hands.

We want but my brother to be among us, ſaid Lady L. Beauty would ſoon find its power: And ſuch a mind—And then they complimented me, that their brother and I were born for each other.

Miſs Grandiſon told us all three her thoughts, in relation to the alliance with Lord G. She ſaid, ſhe was glad that her brother had propoſed to know her mind from me. Something, Harriet, ſaid ſhe, may ariſe in the tête-à-tête converſation, that may let us into a little of his own.

But ſhall I truſt myſelf with him alone, Lucy? [152] Indeed I am afraid of him, of my ſelf, rather. My own concerns ſo much in my head, I wiſh I don't confound them with Miſs Grandiſon's. A fine piece of work ſhall I make of it, if I do. If I get it ſo happily over, as not to be diſſatisfied with my ſelf, for my part in it, I ſhall think I have had a deliverance.

But, Lucy, if all theſe diſtinctions paid me in this converſation, and all this confidence placed in me, produce nothing—If—Why, what if? In one word, Should this if be more than if —Why then it will go the harder, that's all, with your Harriet, than if ſhe had not been ſo much diſtinguiſhed.

At afternoon-tea, the Danby's being mentioned, Lord L. aſked Sir Charles, What was the danger from which he relieved their uncle? And we all joining in requeſting particulars he gave the following, which I will endeavour to repeat, as near as poſſible, in his own words. My heart intereſted itſelf in the relation.

‘'Mr. Danby, ſaid he, was a merchant of equal eminence and integrity: He was ſettled at Cambray: He had great dealings in the manufactures of cam⯑bricks and lace. His brother John, a very profligate man, had demanded of him, and took it ill that he denied him, a thouſand guineas; for no better rea⯑ſon, but becauſe he had generouſly given that ſum to each of the wicked man's children. Surely, he pleaded, he was as nearly related to his brother as were thoſe his children. No plea is too weak for folly and ſelf-intereſt to inſiſt upon. Yet my Mr. Danby had often given this brother large ſums, which he ſquandered away almoſt as ſoon as he re⯑ceived them.’

‘'My father uſed to make remittances to Mr. Danby, for my uſe: for his dealings in other branches of commerce extended to the ſouth of France and Italy: This brought me acquainted with him.’

‘'He took a great liking to me. I ſaw him firſt at [153] Lyons; and he engaged me to viſit him at Cam⯑bray, whenever I ſhould go to Paris or Flanders.’

‘'Accompanying a friend, ſoon after, to Paris, I performed my promiſe.’

‘'He had a villa in the Cambreſis, at a ſmall di⯑ſtance from the city, which he ſometimes called his cottage, at others his dormitory. It was a little lone houſe: He valued it for its elegance. Thither, after I had paſſed two days with him at his houſe in the city, he carried me.’

‘'His brother, enraged at being refuſed the ſum he had ſo unreaſonably demanded, formed a plot to get poſſeſſion of his whole fortune. My Mr. Danby was a bachelor, and, it was known, had, to that time, an averſion to the thought of making his will.’

‘'The wretch, in ſhort, hired three ruffians to murder him. The attempt was to be made in this little houſe, that the fact might have the appearance of being perpetrated by robbers; and the cabinets in the bed-chamber, if there were time for it, after the horrid fact was perpetrated, were to be broken open, and rifled, in order to give credit to that ap⯑pearance. The villains were each to be rewarded with a thouſand crowns, payable on the wicked man's getting poſſeſſion of his brother's fortune; and they had fifty crowns apiece paid them in hand. Their unnatural employer waited the event at Ca⯑lais, tho' he told them he ſhould be at Dunkirk.’

‘'I had one ſervant with me, who lay with a man⯑ſervant of Mr. Danby in a little room over the ſtable, about an hundred yards from the houſe. There were only conveniences in the houſe for Mr. Danby and a friend, beſides two women ſervants in the upper part of it.’

‘'About midnight I was alarmed by a noiſe, as of violence uſed at the window of Mr. Danby's room. Mine communicated with his. The faſtening of the [154] door was a ſpring-lock, the key of which was on my ſide.’

‘'I ſlipt on my cloaths in an inſtant, and, drawing my ſword, ruſhed into the next room, juſt as one villain, with a large knife in his hand, had ſeized the throat of Mr. Danby, who, till then, was in a ſound ſleep. The ſkin of his neck, and one hand liſted up to defend himſelf, were ſlightly wounded before I ran the ruffian into the ſhoulder, as I did with my ſword, and in the ſame moment diſarmed him, and threw him, with violence from the bed, againſt the door. He roared out, that he was a dead man.’

‘'A ſecond fellow had got up to the window, and was half in: He called out, to a third below, to haſten up after him on a ladder, which was gene⯑rally left in an outhouſe near the little garden.’

‘'I haſtened to this ſecond fellow, who then fired a piſtol, but happily miſſed me; and who, feeling my ſword's point in his arm, threw himſelf, with a little of my help, out of the window, upon the third fellow, who was mounting the ladder, and knocked him off: And then both made their eſcape by the way they came.’

‘'The fellow within had fainted, and lay weltering in his blood.’

‘'By this time, the two women-ſervants had let in our men, who had been alarmed by the report of the piſtol, and by the report of the piſtol, and by the ſcreams of the women from their window; for they ventured not out of their chamber till they were called upon for entrance, by their fellow-ſervant from below.’

‘'The two footmen, by my direction, bound up the ruffian's ſhoulder: They dragged him down into the hall: He ſoon came to himſelf, and offered to make an ample confeſſion.’

‘'Poor Mr. Danby had crept into my room, and in [155] a corner of it had fainted away. We recovered him with difficulty.’

‘'The fellow confeſſed, before a magiſtrate, the whole villainy, and who ſet him at work: The other two, being diſabled by their bruiſes from flying far, were apprehended next day. The vile brother was ſent after to Dunkirk, according to the intel⯑ligence given of him by the fellows; but he having informed himſelf of what had happened, got over from Calais to Dover.’

‘'The wounded man, having loſt much blood, re⯑covered not. They were all three ordered to be executed; but, being interceded for, the ſurviving villains were ſent to the gallies.’

‘'It ſeems they knew nothing of Mr. Danby's having a gueſt with him: If they had, they owned they would have made their attempt another night.'’

We were about to deliver our ſentiments on this extraordinary event, when Sir Charles, turning to Lady L. Let me aſk you, ſaid he, the ſervant being withdrawn, Has Charlotte found out her own mind?

Yes, yes, Sir; I believe ſhe has opened all her heart to Miſs Byron.

Then I ſhall know more of it in ten minutes, than Charlotte would let me know in as many hours.

Stand by, every-body, ſaid the humorous Lady—Let me get up, and make my brother one of my beſt courteſies.

Sir Charles was juſt then called out to a meſſenger, who brought him Letters from town. He returned to us, his complexion heightened, and a little diſcom⯑poſed.

I intended, madam, ſaid he, to me, to have craved the honour of your company for half an hour in my Lord's library, on the ſubject we were talking of: But theſe Letters require my immediate attention. The meſſenger muſt return with my anſwer to two of [156] them, early in the morning. You will have the good⯑neſs, looking round him, to diſpenſe with my attend⯑ance on you at ſupper. But perhaps, madam, to me, you will be ſo good, as, in one word, to ſay, No, or Yes, for Charlotte.

Miſs Gr. What, Sir to be given up without a preface!—I beg your pardon. Leſs than ten words ſhall not do, I aſſure you, tho' from my ſiſter Har⯑riet.

Sir Ch. Who given up, Charlotte? yourſelf? If ſo, I have my anſwer.

Miſs Gr. Or Lord G.—I have not ſaid which. Would you have my poor Lord rejected by a ſlighting monoſyllable only?

Lady L. Mad girl!

Miſs Gr. Why, Lady L. don't you ſee that Sir Charles wants to take me by implication? But my Lord G. is neither ſo ſoon loſt, nor Charlotte ſo eaſily won. Harriet, if you would give up yourſelf at a firſt queſtion, then I will excuſe you if you give up me as eaſily, but not elſe.

Harriet. If Sir Charles thinks a conference upon the ſubject unneceſſary—Pray don't let us give him the trouble of holding one. His time, you ſee, is very precious.

Can you gueſs, Lucy, at the humour I was in when I ſaid this?—If you think it was a very good one, you are miſtaken; yet I was ſorry for it after⯑wards. Fooliſh ſelf-betrayer! Why ſhould I ſeem to wiſh for a conference with him? But that was not all—To be petulant with ſuch a one, when his heart was diſtreſſed; for ſo it proved: But he was too po⯑lite, too great, ſhall I ſay? to take notice of my pe⯑tulance. How little does it make me in my own eyes!

Had I, ſaid he, ever ſo eaſily obtained a knowlege of my ſiſter's mind, I ſhould not have known how to depend upon it, were it not ſtrengthened, madam, [157] from your lips. The conference, therefore, which you gave me hopes you would favour me with, would have been abſolutely neceſſary. I hope Miſs Byron will allow me to invite her to it to-morrow morning. The intended ſubject of it is a very ſerious one with me. My ſiſter's happineſs, and that of a man not unworthy, are concerned in it, lightly as Charlotte has hitherto treated it. He bowed and was going.

Miſs Gr. Nay, pray, brother—You muſt not leave me in anger.

Sir Ch. I do not, Charlotte. I had rather bear with you, than you ſhould with me. I ſee you can⯑not help it. A lively heart is a great bleſſing. Indulge it. Now is your time.

Dear doctor, ſaid Miſs Grandiſon, when Sir Charles was gone out, What can be the meaning of my bro⯑ther's gravity? It alarms me.

Dr. B. If goodneſs, madam, would make an heart lively, Sir Charles's would be as lively as your own; but you might have perceived by his air, when he en⯑tered, that the letters brought him affected him too much to permit him to laugh off a light anſwer to a ſerious queſtion.

Miſs Gr. Dear doctor!—But I do now recollect, that he entered with ſome little diſcompoſure on his countenance. How could I be ſo inattentive?

Harriet. And I, too, I doubt, was a little captious.

Dr. B. A very little. Pardon me, madam.

Juſt then came in the excellent man.

Dr. Bartlett, I could wiſh to aſk you one queſtion, ſaid he.

Miſs Gr. You are angry with me brother.

Sir Ch. No, my dear!—But I am afraid I with⯑drew with too grave an air. I have been a thouſand times pleaſed with you, Charlotte, to one time diſ⯑pleaſed; and when I have been the latter, you have always known it: I had ſomething in my hand that ruffled me a little. But how could patience be pa⯑tience, [158] if it were not tried? I wanted to ſay a few words to my good Dr. Bartlett: And, to ſay truth, being conſcious that I had departed a little abruptly, I could not be eaſy till I apologized in perſon for it; therefore came to aſk the favour of the doctor's ad⯑vice, rather than requeſt it by meſſage.

The doctor and he withdrew together.

In theſe ſmall inſtances, ſaid my Lord, are the cha⯑racters of the heart diſplayed, far more than in greater. What excellence ſhines out in full luſtre, on this un⯑affected and ſeemingly little occaſion! Fear of offend⯑ing; of giving uneaſineſs; ſollicitude to remove doubts; patience recommended in one ſhort ſentence, more forcibly than ſome would have done it in a long diſ⯑courſe, as well as by example; cenſuring himſelf, not from a conſciouſneſs of being wrong, but of being taken wrong. Ah! my dear ſiſter Charlotte, we ſhould all edify by ſuch an example—But I ſay no more.

Miſs Gr. And have you nothing to ſay, Har⯑riet?

Harriet. Very little, ſince I have been much to blame myſelf: Yet let me remind my Charlotte, that her brother was diſpleaſed with her yeſterday, for trea⯑ting too lightly a ſubject he had engaged in ſeriouſly; and that he has been forced to refer to her friend, rather than to herſelf, to help him to the knowlege of her mind. O Charlotte! regret you not the occaſion given for the expedient? And do you not [Yes, I ſee you do] bluſh for giving it? Yet to ſee him come vo⯑luntarily back, when he had left us in a grave humour, for fear the babies ſhould think him angry with them; O how great is he! and how little are we!

Miſs Gr. Your ſervant, ſiſter Harriet!—You have made a dainty ſpeech, I think: But, great and good as my brother is, we know how it comes to paſs, that your pretty imagination is always at work to aggran⯑dize the man, and to lower the babies!

Harriet. I will not ſay another word on the ſub⯑ject. You are not generous, Charlotte.

She took my hand: Forgive me, my dear—I touch'd too tender a ſtring. Then turning to Miſs Jervois, and with the other hand taking hers, Why twinkles thus my girl?—I charge you, Emily, tell me all you think.

I am thinking, ſaid ſhe, that my guardian is not happy. To ſee him bear with every-body; to have him keep all his troubles to himſelf, becauſe he would not afflict any-body, and yet ſtudy to lighten and re⯑move the troubles of every-body elſe—Did he not ſay, that he ſhould be happy, but for the unhappineſs of other people?

Excellent young creature! ſaid Miſs Grandiſon: I love you every day better and better. For the future, my dear, do not retire, whatever ſubjects we talk of. I ſee, that we may confide in your diſcretion. But well as you love your guardian, ſay nothing to him of what women talk to women. My Lord L. is an ex⯑ception, in this caſe: He is one of us.

Harriet. O Miſs Grandiſon! what a mix'd cha⯑racter is yours! How good you can be, when you pleaſe! and how naughty!

Miſs Gr. Well, and you like me, juſt now?—That's the beauty of it; to offend and make up, at pleaſure. Old Terence was a ſhrewd man: The fall⯑ing out of Lovers, ſays he (as Lord L. once quoted him), is the renewal of Love. Are we not now bet⯑ter friends, than if we had never differed? And do you think that I will not, if I marry, exerciſe my huſband's patience now-and-then for this very pur⯑poſe?—Let me alone, Harriet: Now a quarrel; now a reconciliation; I warrant I ſhall be happier than any of the yawning ſee-ſaws in the kingdom. Everlaſt⯑ing ſummers would be a grievance.

Harriet. You may be right, if you are exceeding diſcreet in your perverſeneſſes, Charlotte; and yet if [160] you are, you will not lay out for a quarrel, I fanſy. The world, or you will have better luck than your brother ſeems to have had, will find you opportunities enow, for exerciſing the tempers of both, without your needing to ſtudy for occaſions.

Miſs Gr. Study for them, Harriet! I ſha'n't ſtudy for them, neither: They will come of courſe.

Harriet. I was about to aſk a queſtion—But 'tis better let alone.

Miſs Gr. I will have it. What was your que⯑ſtion? Don't you ſee what a good-natured fool I am? You may ſay any-thing to me: I won't be angry.

Harriet. I was going to aſk you, If you were ever concernd two hours together, for any fault you ever committed in your life?

Miſs Gr. Yes, yes, yes; and for two-and-twenty hours: For ſometimes the inconveniencies that fol⯑lowed my errors, were not preſently over, as in a certain caſe, which I'll be hang'd if you have not in your head, with that fly leer that ſhews the rogue in your heart: But when I got rid of conſequences, no bird in ſpring was ever more blyth. I carolled away every care at my harpſichord.—But Emily will think me mad—Remember, child, that Miſs Byron is the woman by whoſe mind you are to form yours: Never regard me, when ſhe is in company.—But now (and ſhe whimſically aroſe, and opened the door, and ſaying Begone, ſhut it, and coming to her place) I have turned my folly out of door.

LETTER XIX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

THE conference, the impatiently expected con⯑ference, my Lucy, is over: And what is the reſult?—Take the account of it, as it was brought on, proceeded with, and concluded. Miſs Grandi⯑ſon and her Lovers were not our only ſubjects. I will ſoon be with you, my dear.—But I'll try to be as mi⯑nute as I uſed to be, notwithſtanding.

Notwithſtanding what?—

You ſhall hear, Lucy.

Sir Charles gave us his company at breakfaſt. He entered with a kind of benign ſolemnity in his coun⯑tenance, but the benignity increaſed, and the ſolem⯑nity went off, after a little while.

My Lord ſaid, he was very ſorry that he had met with any-thing to diſturb him, in the Letters that were brought him yeſterday. Emily joined by her eyes; tho' not in ſpeech, her concern with his Lordſhip's: Miſs Grandiſon was ſedately ſerious: Lady L. had expectation in her fine face; and Dr. Bartlett ſat like a man that was determined to be ſilent. I had appre⯑henſion, and hope, I ſuppoſe, ſtruggling in mine, as I knew not whether to wiſh for the expected confe⯑rence, or not; my cheeks, as I felt, in a glow.

[162] Let us think of nothing, my Lord, in this com⯑pany, ſaid he, but what is agreeable.

He enquired kindly of my health and laſt night's reſt, becauſe of a ſlight cold that had affected my voice: Of Emily, Why ſhe was ſo ſad? Of Lady L. and my Lord, When they went to town? Of Miſs Grandiſon, Why ſhe looked ſo meditatingly? that was his word—Don't you ſee, Miſs Byron, ſaid he, that Charlotte looks as if ſhe had not quite ſettled the humour ſhe intends to be in for the next half-hour?

Charlotte looks, I believe, Sir, replied ſhe, as if ſhe were determined to take her humour for the next half-hour from yours, whether grave, or airy.

Then, returned he, I will not be grave, becauſe I will not have you ſo.—May I hope, madam, by-and-by, addreſſing himſelf to me, for the honour of your hand, to my Lord's library?

Sir, I will—I will—attend you—heſitated the ſim⯑pleton, but ſhe can't tell how ſhe looked.

Thus, Lucy, was the matter brought on.

He conducted me to my Lord's library.—How did I ſtruggle with myſelf for preſence of mind! What a mixture was there of tenderneſs and reſpect, in his countenance and air!

He ſeated me; then took his place over-againſt me▪ I believe I looked down, and conſcious, and ſilly; but there was ſuch a reſpectful modeſty in his looks, that one could not be uneaſy at being now and then with an air of languor, as I thought, contemplated by him: Eſpecially as, whenever I reared my eye-lids to caſt a momentary look at him as he ſpoke, I was al⯑ways ſure to ſee his eye withdrawn: This gave more freedom to mine, than it poſſibly otherwiſe could have had. What a bold creature, Lucy, ought ſhe to be, who prefers a bold man! If ſhe be not bold, how ſilly muſt ſhe look under his ſtaring confident eye! How muſt her want of courage add to his! and, of courſe, to his ſelf-conſequence!

[163] Thus he began the ſubject we were to talk of.

I will make no apology for requeſting the favour of this conference with one of the moſt frank and open-hearted young Ladies in the world: I ſhall have the honour, perhaps, of detaining your ear on more than one ſubject [How my heart throbbed!] But that which I ſhall begin with, relates to my Lord G. and our ſiſter Charlotte. I obſerve, from hints thrown out by herſelf, as well as from what Lady L. ſaid, that ſhe intends to encourage his addreſſes; but it is eaſy to ſee, that ſhe thinks but ſlightly of him. I am in⯑deed apprehenſive, that ſhe is rather induced to favour my Lord, from an opinion that he has my intereſt and good wiſhes, than from her own inclination. I have told her, more than once, that her's are, and ſhall be, mine: But ſuch is her vivacity, that it is very difficult for me to know her real mind. I take it for granted, that ſhe prefers my Lord to Sir Walter.

I believe, Sir—But why ſhould I ſay believe, when Miſs Grandiſon has commiſſioned me to own, that Lord G. is a man whom ſhe greatly prefers to Sir Walter Watkyns.

Does ſhe, can ſhe, do you think, madam, prefer Lord G. not only to Sir Walter, but to all the men whom ſhe at preſent knows? In other words, Is there any man that you think ſhe would prefer to Lord G.? I am extremely ſollicitous for my ſiſter's happineſs; and the more, becauſe of her vivacity, which, I am afraid, will be thought leſs to become the wife, than the ſingle woman.

I dare ſay, Sir, that if Miſs Grandiſon thought of any other man in preference to Lord G. ſhe would not encourage his addreſſes, upon any account.

I don't expect, madam, that a woman of Char⯑lotte's ſpirit and vivacity, who has been diſappointed by a ſailure of ſuppoſed merit in her firſt Love (if we may ſo call it), ſhould be deeply in love with a man that has not very ſtriking qualities. She can play [164] with a flame now, and not burn her fingers. Lord G. is a worthy, tho' not a very brilliant man. Ladies have eyes; and the eye expects to be gratified. Hence men of appearance ſucceed often, where men of in⯑trinſic merit fail. Were Charlotte to conſult her hap⯑pineſs, poſſibly ſhe would have no objection to Lord G. She cannot, in the ſame man, have every-thing. But if Lord G. conſulted his, I don't know whether he would wiſh for Charlotte. Excuſe me, madam; you have heard, as well as ſhe, my opinion of both men. Sir Walter, you ſay, has no part in the que⯑ſtion; Lord G. wants not underſtanding: He is a man of probity; he is a virtuous man; a quality not to be deſpiſed in a young nobleman: He is alſo a mild man: He will bear a great deal. But contempt, or ſuch a behaviour as ſhould look like contempt, in a wife, what huſband can bear? I ſhould much more dread, for her ſake, the exaſperated ſpirit of a meek man, than the ſudden guſts of anger of a paſſionate one.

Miſs Grandiſon, Sir, has authorized me to ſay, That if you approve of Lord G.'s addreſſes, and will be ſo good as to take upon yourſelf the direction of every-thing relating to ſettlements, ſhe will be entirely govern'd by you. Miſs Grandiſon, Sir, has known Lord G. ſome time: His good character is well known: And I dare anſwer, that ſhe will acquit her⯑ſelf with honour and prudence, in every engagement, but more eſpecially in that which is the higheſt of all worldly ones.

Pray, madam, may I aſk, If you know what ſhe could mean by the queſtions ſhe put in relation to Mr. Beauchamp? I think ſhe has never ſeen him. Does ſhe ſuppoſe, from his character, that ſhe could prefer him to Lord G.?

I believe, Sir, what ſhe ſaid in relation to that gen⯑tleman, was purely the effect of her vivacity, and which ſhe never thought of before, and probably, [165] never will again. Had ſhe meant any-thing by it, I dare ſay, ſhe would not have put the queſtions about him in the manner ſhe did.

I believe ſo. I love my ſiſter, and I love my friend. Mr. Beauchamp has delicacy. I could not bear, for her ſake, that, were ſhe to behold him in the light hinted at, he ſhould imagine he had reaſon to think ſlightly of my ſiſter, for the correſpondence ſhe car⯑ried on, in ſo private a manner, with a man abſolutely unworthy of her. But I hope ſhe meant nothing, but to give way to that vein of raillery, which, when opened, ſhe knows not always how to ſtop.

My ſpirits were not high: I was forced to take out my handkerchief—O my dear Miſs Grandiſon! ſaid I, I was afraid ſhe had forfeited, partly, at leaſt, what ſhe holds moſt dear, the good opinion of her brother!

Forgive me, madam; 'tis a generous pain that I have made you ſuffer: I adore you for it. But I think I can reveal all the ſecrets of my heart to you. Your noble frankneſs calls for equal frankneſs: You would inſpire it, where it is not. My ſiſter, as I told her more than once in your hearing, has not loſt any of my love. I love her, with all her faults; but muſt not be blind to them. Shall not praiſe and diſpraiſe be juſtly given? I have faults, great faults, myſelf: What ſhould I think of the man who called them virtues? How dangerous would it be to me, in that caſe, were my opinion of his judgment, joined to ſelf⯑partiality, to lead me to believe him, and acquit my ſelf?

This, Sir, is a manner of thinking worthy of Sir Charles Grandiſon.

It is worthy of every man, my good Miſs Byron.

But, Sir, it would be very hard, that an indiſcre⯑tion (I muſt own it to be ſuch) ſhould faſten reproach upon a woman who recovered herſelf ſo ſoon, and whoſe virtue was never ſullied, or in danger.

Indeed it would: And therefore it was in tender⯑neſs [166] to her that I intimated, that I never could think of promoting an alliance with a man of his nice no⯑tions, were both to incline to it.

I hope, Sir, that my dear Miſs Grandiſon will run no riſque of being ſlighted, by any other man▪ from a ſtep which has coſt her ſo dear in her peace of mind—I heſitated, and looked down.

I know, madam, what you mean. Altho' I love my friend Beauchamp above all men, yet would I do Lord G. or any other man, as much juſtice, as I would do him. I was ſo apprehenſive of my ſiſter's indiffer⯑ence to Lord G. and of the difference in their tem⯑pers, tho' both good, that I did my utmoſt to diſſuade him from thinking of her: And when I found that his love was fixed beyond the power of diſſuaſion, I told him of the affair between her and Captain An⯑derſon; and how lately I had put an end to it. He flattered himſelf, that the indifference, with which ſhe had hitherto received his addreſſes, was principally owing to the difficulty of her ſituation; which being now ſo happily removed, he had hopes of meeting with encouragement; and doubted not, if he did, of making a merit with her, by his affection and grati⯑tude. And now, madam, give me your opinion—Do you think Charlotte can be won (I hope ſhe can) by indulgence, by Love? Let me caution her by you, madam, that it is fit ſhe ſhould ſtill more reſtrain her⯑ſelf, if ſhe marry a man to whom ſhe thinks ſhe has ſuperior talents, than ſhe need do if the difference were in his favour.

Permit me to add, That if ſhe ſhould ſhew herſelf capable of returning ſlight for tenderneſs; of taking ſuch liberties with a man who loves her, after ſhe had given him her vows, as ſhould depreciate him, and, of conſequence, herſelf, in the eye of the world; I ſhould be apt to forget that I had more than one ſiſter: For, in caſes of right and wrong, we ought not to know either relation or friend.

[167] Does not this man, Lucy, ſhew us, that goodneſs and greatneſs are ſynonymous words?

I think, Sir, replied I, that if Lord G. prove the good-natured man he ſeems to be; if he diſlike not that brilliancy of temper in his Lady, which he ſeems not to value himſelf upon, tho' he may have qualities, at leaſt, equally valuable; I have no doubt but Miſs Grandiſon will make him very happy: For has ſhe not great and good qualities? Is ſhe not generous, and perfectly good natured? You know, Sir, that ſhe is. And can it be ſuppoſed, that her charming viva⯑city will ever carry her ſo far beyond the bounds of prudence and diſcretion, as to make her forget what the nature of the obligation ſhe will have entered in⯑to, requires of her?

Well, madam, then I may rejoice the heart of Lord G. by telling him, that he is at liberty to viſit my ſiſter, at her coming to town: or, if ſhe come not ſoon (for he will be impatient to wait on her) at Colnebrooke?

I dare ſay you may, Sir.

As to articles and ſettlements, I will undertake for all thoſe things: But be pleaſed to tell her, that ſhe is abſolutely at her own liberty, for me. If ſhe ſhall think, when ſhe ſees farther of Lord G.'s temper and behaviour, that ſhe cannot eſteem him as a wife ought to eſteem her huſband; I ſhall not be concerned, if ſhe diſmiſs him; provided that ſhe keeps him not on in ſuſpence, after ſhe knows her own mind; but be⯑haves to him according to the example ſet her by the beſt of women.

I could not but know to whom he deſigned this compliment; and had like to have bowed, but was glad I did not.

Well, madam, and now I think this ſubject is concluded. I have already written a Letter to Sir Wal⯑ter, as at the requeſt of my ſiſter, to put an end, in the civilleſt terms, to his hopes. My Lord G. will be [168] impatient for my return to town. I ſhall go with the more pleaſure, becauſe of the joy I ſhall be able to give him.

You muſt be very happy, Sir, ſince, beſides the pleaſure you take in doing good for its own ſake, you are intitled to partake, in a very high manner, of the pleaſures of every one you know.

He was ſo nobly modeſt, Lucy, that I could talk to him with more confidence than, I believed, at my entrance into my Lord's ſtudy, would fall to my ſhare: And I had, beſides, been led into a preſence of mind, by being made a perſon of ſome conſequence in the Love-caſe of another: But I was ſoon to have my whole attention engaged in a ſubject ſtill nearer to my heart; as you ſhall hear.

Indeed, madam, ſaid he, I am not very happy in myſelf. Is it not right then, to endeavour, by pro⯑moting the happineſs of others, to intitle myſelf to a ſhare of theirs?

If you are not happy, Sir—and I ſtopt. I believe ſighed; I looked down: I took out my handkerchief, for fear I ſhould want it.

There ſeems, ſaid he, to be a mixture of generous concern, and kind curioſity, in one of the lovelieſt and moſt intelligent faces in the world. My ſiſters have, in your preſence, expreſſed a great deal of the latter. Had I not been myſelf in a manner uncer⯑tain, as to the event that muſt, in ſome meaſure, go⯑vern my future deſtiny, I would have gratified it, eſ⯑pecially as my Lord L. has, of late, joined in it. The criſis, I told them, however, as perhaps you remem⯑ber, was at hand.

I do remember you ſaid ſo, Sir. And indeed, Lucy, it was more than perhaps. I had not thought of any words half ſo often, ſince he ſpoke them.

The criſis, madam, is at hand: And I had not in⯑tended to open my lips upon the ſubject till it was over, except to Dr. Bartlett, who knows the whole [169] affair, and indeed every affair of my life: But, as I hinted before, my heart is opened by the frankneſs of yours. If you will be ſogood as to indulge me, I will briefly lay before you a few of the difficulties of my ſituation; and leave it to you to communicate or not, at your pleaſure, what I ſhall relate to my two ſiſters and Lord L. You four ſeem to be animated by one ſoul.

I am extremely concerned, Sir—I am very much concerned—repeated the trembling ſimpl [...]ton [one cheek feeling to myſelf very cold, the other glowingly warm, by turns; and now pale, now crimſon per⯑haps to the eye] that any-thing ſhould make you un⯑happy. But, Sir, I ſhall think myſelf favoured by your confidence.

I am interrupted in my recital of his affecting nar⯑ration. Don't be impatient, Lucy: I almoſt wi [...]h I had not myſelf heard it.

LETTER XX. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I DO not intend, madam, to trouble you with an hiſtory of all that part of my life which I was obliged to paſs abroad from about the Seventeenth to near the Twenty-fifth year of my age; tho' perhaps it has been as buſy a period as could well be, in the life of a man ſo young, and who never ſought to trea [...] in oblique or crooked paths. After this en [...]rance into it, Dr. Bartlett ſhall be at liberty to ſatisfy your cu⯑rioſity in a more particular manner; for he and I have correſponded for years with an intim cy that has few examples between a youth and a man in ad⯑vanced life. And here let me own the advantage▪ I have received from his condeſcenſion; for I found the following queſtions often occur to me, and to be of the higheſt ſervice in the conduct of my life—‘'What [170] account ſhall I give of this to Dr. Bartlett?'’ ‘'How, were I to give way to this temptation, ſhall I re⯑port it to Dr. Bartlett?'—Or, 'Shall I be an hypo⯑crite, and only inform him of the beſt, and meanly conceal from him the worſt?'’

Thus, madam, was Dr. Bartlett in the place of a ſecond conſcience to me: And many a good thing did I do, many a bad one avoid, for having ſet up ſuch a monitor over my conduct. And it was the more neceſſary that I ſhould, as I am naturally paſſionate, proud, ambitious: and as I had the honour of being early diſtinguiſhed (Pardon, madam, the ſeeming va⯑nity) by a ſex, of which no man was ever a greater admirer; and, poſſibly, the more diſtinguiſhed, as, for my ſafety-ſake, I was as ſtudious to decline intimacy with the gay ones of it, however dignified by rank, or celebrated for beauty, as moſt young men are to cultivate their favour.

Nor is it ſo much to be wondered at, that I had advantages which every-one who travels, has not. Reſiding for ſome time at the principal courts, and often viſiting the ſame places, in the length of time I was abroad, I was conſidered, in a manner, as a na⯑tive, at the ſame time, that I was treated with the re⯑ſpect that is generally paid to travellers of figure, as well in France, as Italy. I was very genteelly ſup⯑ported: I ſtood in high credit with my countrymen, to whom I had many ways of being ſerviceable. They made known to every-body my father's affec⯑tion for me; his magnificent ſpirit; the antient fa⯑milies, on both ſides, from which I was deſcended. I kept the beſt company; avoided intrigues; made not myſelf obnoxious to ſerious or pious people, tho' I ſcrupled not to avow, when called upon, my own principles. From all theſe advantages, I was reſpected beyond my degree.

I ſhould not, madam, have been thus laviſh in my own praiſe, but to account to you for the favour I [171] ſtood in with ſeveral families of the firſt rank; and to ſuggeſt an excuſe for more than one of them, which thought it no diſgrace to wiſh me to be allied with them.

Lord L. mentioned to you, madam, and my ſiſters, a Florentine Lady, by the name of OLIVIA. She is, indeed, a woman of high qualities, nobly born, go⯑nerous, amiable in her features, genteel in her perſon, and miſtreſs of a great fortune in poſſeſſion, which is entirely at her own diſpoſal; having not father, mother, brother, or other near relations. The firſt time I ſaw her was at the opera. An opportunity offered in her ſight, where a Lady, inſulted by a Lover made deſperate by her juſt refuſal of him, claimed and received my protection. What I did, on the occaſion, was generally applauded: Olivia, in particular, ſpoke highly of it. Twice, afterwards, I ſaw her in company where I was a viſiter: I had not the preſumption to look up to her with hope; but my countryman Mr. Jervois gave me to under⯑ſtand, that I might be maſter of my own fortune with Lady Olivia. I pleaded difference of religion: He believed, he ſaid, that matter might be made eaſy—But could I be pleaſed with the change, would ſhe have made it, when paſſion, not conviction, was likely to be the motive?—There could be no objection to her perſon: Nobody queſtioned her virtue; but ſhe was violent and imperious in her temper. I had never left MIND out of my notions of love: I could not have been happy with her, had ſhe been queen of the globe. I had the mortification of being obliged to declare myſelf to the Lady's face: It was a mortifi⯑cation to me, as much for her ſake as my own. I was obliged to leave Florence upon it, for ſome time; having been apprized, that the ſpirit of revenge had taken place of a gentler paſſion, and that I was in danger fromit.

How often did I lament the want of that refuge in a [172] father's arms, and in my native country, which ſub⯑jected me to evils that were more than a match for my tender years. and to all the inconveniencies that can attend a baniſhed man! Indeed I often conſidered myſelf in this light; and, as the inconveniencies hap⯑pened, was ready to repine; and the more ready, as I could not afflict myſelf with the thought of having forfeited my father's love; on the contrary, as the conſtant inſtances which I received of his paternal goodneſs, made me ſtill more earneſt to acknowlege it at his feet.

Ought I to have forborn, Lucy, ſhewing a ſenſibi⯑lity at my eyes on this affecting inſtance of filial gra⯑titude? If I ought, I wiſh I had had more command of myſelf: But conſider, my dear, the affecting ſub⯑ject we were upon. I was going to apologize for the trickling tear, and to have ſaid, as I truly might, Your filial goodneſs, Sir, affects me: But, with the conſciouſneſs that muſt have accompanied the words, would not that, to ſo nice a diſcerner, have been to own, that I thought the tender emotion wanted an apology? Theſe little tricks of ours, Lucy, may ſa⯑tiſfy our own punctilio, and ſerve to keep us in coun⯑tenance with ourſelves (and that, indeed, is doing ſomething); but, to a penetrating eye, they tend only to ſhew, that we imagined a cover, a veil, wanting; and what is that veil, but a veil of gauze?

What makes me ſo much afraid of this man's diſ⯑cernment? Am I not an honeſt girl, Lucy?

He proceeded.

From this violent Lady I had great trouble; and to this day—But this part of my ſtory I leave to Dr. Bartlett to acquaint you with. I mention it as a mat⯑ter that yet gives me concern, for her ſake, and as what I find has given ſome amuſement to my ſiſter Charlotte's curioſity.

Bu [...] I haſten to the affair which, of all others, has moſt embarraſſed me; and which, engaging my com⯑paſſion, [173] tho' my honour is free, gives torture to my very ſoul.

I found myſelf not well—I thought I ſhould have fainted—The apprehenſion of his taking it as I wiſhed him not to take it (for indeed, Lucy, I don't think it was that) made me worſe. Had I been myſelf, this faintiſhneſs might have come over my heart. I am ſure it was not that: But it ſeized me at a very unlucky moment, you'll ſay.

With a countenance full of tender concern, he caught my hand, and rang. In ran his Emily. My dear Miſs Jervois, ſaid I, leaning upon her—Excuſe me, Sir—And I withdrew to the door: And, when there, finding my faintiſhneſs going off, I turned to him, who attended me thither: I am better, Sir, al⯑ready; I will return, inſtantly. I muſt beg of you to proceed with your intereſting ſtory.

I was well the moment I was out of the Study. It was kept too warm, I believe; and I ſat too near the fire: That was it, to be ſure; and I ſaid ſo, on my return; which was the moment I had drank a glaſs of cold water.

How tender was his regard for me! He did not abaſh me by cauſleſly laying my diſorder on his ſtory, and by offering to diſcontinue or poſtpone it. Indeed, Lucy, it was not owing to that; I ſhould eaſily have diſtinguiſhed it, if it had: On the contrary, as I am not generally ſo much affected at the moment when any-thing unhappy befals me, as I am upon reflexion, when I extend, compare, and weigh conſequences, I was quite brave in my heart. Any-thing, thought I, is better than ſuſpenſe. Now will my fortitude have a call to exert itſelf; and I warrant I bear, as well as he, an evil that is inevitable. At this inſtant, this trying inſtant, however, I found myſelf thus brave: So, my dear, it was nothing but the too great warmth of the room which overcame me.

I endeavoured to aſſume all my courage; and deſired [174] him to proceed; but held by the arm of my chair, to ſteady me, leſt my little tremblings ſhould increaſe. The faintneſs had left ſome little tremblings upon me, Lucy; and one would not care, you know, to be thought affected by any-thing in his ſtory. He pro⯑ceeded.

AT Bologna, and in the neighbourhood of Urbino, are ſeated two branches of a noble family, mar⯑quiſes and counts of Porretta, which boaſts its pe⯑digree from Roman princes, and has given to the church two cardinals; one in the latter age, the other in the beginning of this.

The Marcheſe della Poretta, who reſides in Bo⯑logna, is a nobleman of great merit: His Lady is il⯑luſtrious by deſcent, and ſtill more ſo for her good⯑neſs of heart, ſweetneſs of temper, and prudence. They have three ſons, and a daughter—

[Ah, that daughter! thought I.]

The eldeſt of the ſons is a general officers, in the ſervice of the king of the two Sicilies; a man of equal honour and bravery, but paſſionate and haughty, valuing himſelf on his deſcent. The ſecond is de⯑voted to the church, and is already a Biſhop. The intereſt of his family, and his own merits, it is not doubted, will one day if he lives, give him a place in the ſacred college. The third, Signor Jeronymo (or, as he is ſometimes called, the Barone) della Porretta, has a regiment in the ſervice of the king of Sardinia. The ſiſter is the favourite of them all. She is lovely in her perſon, gentle in her manners, and has high, but juſt, notions of the nobility of her deſcent, of the honour of her ſex, and of what is due to her own character. She is pious, charitable, beneficent. Her three brothers preferred her intereſts to their own. Her father uſed to call her, The pride of his life; her mother, Her other ſelf; her own Clementina.

[CLEMENTINA!—Ah! Lucy, what a pretty name is Clementina!]

[175] I became intimate with Signor Jeronymo at Rome, near two years before I had the honour to be known to the reſt of his family, except by his report, which he made run very high in my favour. He was maſter of many fine qualities; but had contracted friendſhip with a ſet of diſſolute young men of rank, with whom he was very earneſt to make me acquainted. I allowed myſelf to be often in their company; but, as they were totally abandoned in their morals, it was in hopes, by degrees, to draw him from them: But a love of pleaſure had got faſt hold of him; and his other companions prevailed over his good-nature. He had courage, but not enough to reſiſt their libertine at⯑tacks upon his morals.

Such a friendſhip could not hold, while each ſtood his ground; and neither would advance to meet the other. In ſhort, we parted, nor held a correſpond⯑ence in abſence: But afterwards meeting, by acci⯑dent, at Padua, and Jeronymo having, in the interim, been led into inconveniencies, he avowed a change of principles, and the friendſhip was renewed.

It however held not many months: A Lady, leſs celebrated for virtue than beauty, obtained an influ⯑ence over him, againſt warning, againſt promiſe.

On being expoſtulated with, and his promiſe claimed, he reſented the friendly freedom. He was paſſionate; and, on this occaſion, leſs polite than it was natural for him to be: He even defied his friend. My dear Jeronymo how generouſly has he acknow⯑leged ſince, the part his friend, at that time, acted! But the reſult was, they parted, reſolving never more to ſee each other.

Jeronymo purſued the adventure which had occa⯑ſioned the difference; and one of the Lady's admi⯑rers, envying him his ſuppoſed ſucceſs, hired Breſcian bravoes to aſſaſſinate him.

The attempt was made in the Cremoneſe. They had got him into their toils in a little thicket at ſome [176] diſtance from the road. I, attended by two ſervants, happened to be paſſing, when a frighted horſe ran acroſs the way, his bridle broken, and his ſaddle bloody: This making me apprehend ſome miſchief to the ri⯑der, I drove down the opening he came from, and ſoon beheld a man ſtruggling on the ground with two ruf⯑f [...]ans; one of whom was juſt ſtopping his mouth, the other ſtabbing him. I leapt out of the poſt-chaiſe, and drew my ſword, running towards them as faſt as I could; and, calling to my ſervants to follow me, indeed calling as if I had a number with me, in order to alarm them. On this, they fled; and I heard them ſay, Let us make off; we have done his buſineſs. Incenſed at the villainy, I purſued and came up with one of them, who turned upon me. I beat down his trombone, a kind of blunderbuſs, juſt as he preſented it at me, and had wounded and thrown him on the ground; but ſeeing the other ruſſian turning back to help his fellow, and, on a ſudden, two others appear⯑ing with their horſes, I thought it beſt to retreat, tho' I would ſain have ſecured one of them. My ſervants then ſeeing my danger, haſtened, ſhouting, towards me. The bravoes (perhaps apprehending there were more than two) ſeemed as glad to get off with their reſcued companion, as I was to retire. I haſtened then to the unhappy man: But how much was I ſurpriſed, whe [...] I found him to be the Barone della Porretta, who, in diſguiſe, had been actually purſuing his amour!

He gave ſigns of life. I inſtantly diſpatched one of my ſervants to Cremona, for a ſurgeon: I bound up, mean time, as well as I could, two of his wounds, one in his ſhoulder, the other in his breaſt. He had one in his hip-joint, that diſabled him from helping himſelf, and which I found beyond my ſkill to do any⯑thing with; only endeavouring, with my handker⯑chief, to ſtop its bleeding. I helped him into my chaiſe, ſtept in with him, and held him up in it, till one of my men told me, they had, in another part of [177] the thicket, found his ſervant bound and wounded his horſe lying dead by his ſide. I then alighted, and put the poor fellow into the chaiſe, he being ſtiff with his hurts, and unable to ſtand.

I walked by the ſide of it, and in this manner moved towards Cremona, in order to ſhorten the way of the expected ſurgeon.

My ſervant ſoon returned with one. Jeronymo had ſainted away. The ſurgeon dreſſed him, and pro⯑ceeded with him to Cremona. Then it was, that, opening his eyes, he beheld, and knew me; and being told, by the ſugeon, that he owed his preſervation to me, O Grandiſon! ſaid he, that I had followed your advice! that I had kept my promiſe with you!—How did I inſult you!—Can my deliverer forgive me? You ſhall be the director of my future life, if it pleaſe God to reſtore me.

His wounds proved not mortal; but he never will be the man he was: Partly from his having been un⯑ſkilfully treated by this his firſt ſurgeon; and partly from his own impatience, and the difficulty of curing the wound in his hip-joint. Excuſe this particularity, madam. The ſubject requires it; and Signor Jero⯑nymo now deſerves it, and all your pity.

I attended him at Cremona, till he was fit to re⯑move. He was viſited there by his whole family from Bologna. There never was a family more affectionate to one another: The ſuffering of one, is the ſuffering of every one. The Barone was exceedingly beloved by his father, mother, ſiſter, for the ſweetneſs of his manners, his affectionate heart, and a wit ſo delight⯑fully gay and lively, that his company was ſought by every-body.

You will eaſily believe, madam, from what I have ſaid, how acceptable to the whole family the ſervice was which I had been ſo happy as to render their Jeronymo. They all joined to bleſs me; and the more, when they came to know that I was the perſon [178] whom their Jeronymo, in the days of our intimacy, had highly extolled in his Letters to his ſiſter, and to both brothers; and who now related to them, by word of mouth, the occaſion of the coldneſs that had paſſed between us, with circumſtances as honourable for me, as the contrary for himſelf: Such were his penitential confeſſions, in the deſperate condition to which he found himſelf reduced.

He now, as I attended by his bed or his couch⯑ſide, frequently called for a repetition of thoſe argu⯑ments which he had, till now, derided. He beſought me to forgive him for treating them before with le⯑vity, and me with diſreſpect, next, as he ſaid, to in⯑ſult: And he begged his family to conſider me not only as the preſerver of his life, but as the reſtorer of his morals. This gave the whole family the higheſt opinion of mine; and ſtill more to ſtrengthen it, the generous youth produced to them, tho', as I may ſay, at his own expence (for his reformation was ſincere), a Letter which I wrote to lie by him, in hopes to en⯑force his temporary convictions; for he had a noble nature, and a lively ſenſe of what was due to his cha⯑racter, and to the love and piety of his parents, the Biſhop, and his ſiſter; tho' he was loth to think he could be wrong in thoſe purſuits in which he was wil⯑ling to indulge himſelf.

Never was there a more grateful family. The no⯑ble father was uneaſy, becauſe he know not how to ac⯑knowlege, according to the largeneſs of his heart to a man in genteel circumſtances, the obligation laid upon them all. The mother, with a freedom more amiably great than the Italian Ladies are accuſtomed to expreſs, bid her Clementina regard as her fourth brother, the preſerver of the third. The Barone de⯑clared, that he ſhould never reſt, nor recover, till he had got me rewarded in ſuch manner as all the world ſhould think I had honour done me in it.

When the Barone was removed to Bologna, the [179] whole family were ſtudious to make occaſions to get me among them. The General made me promiſe, when my relations, as he was pleaſed to expreſs him⯑ſelf, at Bologna, could part with me, to give him my company at Naples. The Biſhop, who paſſed all the time he had to ſpare from his dioceſe, at Bologna, and who is a learned man, in compliment to his fourth brother, would have me initiate him into the knowlege of the Engliſh tongue.

Our Milton has deſervedly a name among them. The friendſhip that there was between him and a learned nobleman of their country, endeared his me⯑mory to them. Milton, therefore, was a principal author with us. Our lectures were uſually held in the chamber of the wounded brother, in order to di⯑vert him: He alſo became my ſcholar. The father and mother were often preſent; and at ſuch times their Clementina was ſeldom abſent. She alſo called me her tutor; and, tho' ſhe was not half ſo often pre⯑ſent at the lectures as they were, made a greater pro⯑ficiency than either of her brothers.

[Do you doubt it, Lucy?]

The father, as well as the Biſhop, is learned; the mother well read. She had had the benefit of a French education; being brought up by her uncle, who reſid⯑ed many years at Paris in a public character: And her daughter had, under her own eye, advantages in her education which are hardly ever allowed or ſought after by the Italian Ladies. In ſuch company, you may believe, madam, that I, who was kept abroad againſt my wiſhes, paſſed my time very agreeably. I was particularly honoured with the confidence of the Marchioneſs, who opened her heart to me, and con⯑ſulted me on every material occurrence. Her Lord, who is one of the politeſt of men, was never better pleaſed than when he found us together; and not ſel⯑dom, tho' we were not engaged in lectures, the fair [180] Clementina claimed a right to be where her mother was.

About this time, the young Count of Belvedere returned to Parma, in order to ſettle in his native country. His father was a favourite in the court of the princeſs of Parma, and attended that Lady to Madrid, on her marriage with the late king of Spain, where he held a very conſiderable poſt, and lately died there immenſely rich. On a viſit to this noble fami⯑ly, the young Lord ſaw, and loved Clementina.

The Count of Belvedere is a handſome, a gallant, a ſenſible man; his fortune is very great: Such an al⯑liance was not to be ſlighted. The Marquis gave his countenance to it: The Marchioneſs favoured me with ſeveral converſations upon the ſubject. She was of opinion, perhaps, that it was neceſſary to know my thoughts, on this occaſion; for the younger bro⯑ther, unknown to me, declared, that he thought there was no way of rewarding my merits to the fa⯑mily, but by giving me a relation to it. Dr. Bartlett, madam, can ſhew you, from my Letters to him, ſome converſations, which will convince you, that in Italy, as well as in other countries, there are perſons of honour, of goodneſs, of generoſity; and who are above reſerve, vindictiveneſs, jealouſy, and thoſe other bad paſſions by which ſome perſons mark in⯑diſcriminately a whole nation.

For my own part, it was impoſſible (diſtinguiſhed as I was by every individual of this noble family, and lovely as is this daughter of it, miſtreſs of a thouſand good qualities, and myſelf abſolutely diſengaged in my affections) that my vanity ſhould not ſometimes be awakened, and a wiſh ariſe, that there might be a poſſibility of obtaining ſuch a prize: But I checked the vanity, the moment I could find it begin to play about and warm my heart. To have attempted to recommend myſelf to the young Lady's favour, tho' [181] but by looks, by aſſiduities, I ſhould have thought an infamous breach of the truſt and confidence they all repoſed in me.

The pride of a family ſo illuſtrious in its deſcent; their fortunes unuſually high for the country which, by the goodneſs of their hearts, they adorned; the relation they bore to the church; my foreign extra⯑ction and intereſt; the Lady's exalted merits, which made her of conſequence to the hearts of ſeveral illu⯑ſtrious youths, before the Count of Belvedere made known his paſſion for her; none of which the fond family thought worthy of their Clementina, nor any of whom could engage her heart; but, above all, the difference in religion; the young Lady ſo remarkably ſtedfaſt in hers, that it was with the utmoſt difficulty they could reſtrain her from aſſuming the veil; and who once declared, in anger, on hearing me, when called upon, avow my principles, that ſhe grudged to an heretic the glory of having ſaved the Barone della Poretta; all theſe conſiderations outweighed any hopes that might otherwiſe have ariſen in a boſom ſo ſenſible of the favours they were continually heaping upon me.

About the ſame time, the troubles, now ſo happily appeaſed, broke out in Scotland: Hardly any thing elſe was talked of, in Italy, but the progreſs, and ſup⯑poſed certainty of ſucceſs, of the young invader. I was often obliged to ſtand the triumphs and exulta⯑tions of perſons of rank and figure; being known to be warm in the intereſt of my country. I had a good deal of this kind of ſpirit to contend with, even in this more moderate Italian family; and this fre⯑quently brought on debates which I would gladly have avoided holding: But it was impoſſible. Every new advice from England revived the diſagreeable ſubject; for the ſucceſs of the rebels, it was not doubted, would be attended with the reſtoration of what they called the Catholic religion: And Clementina particularly [182] pleaſed herſelf, that then her heretic tutor would take refuge in the boſom of his holy mother, the church: And ſhe delighted to ſay things of this nature in the language I was teaching her, and which, by this time, ſhe ſpoke very intelligibly.

I took a reſolution, hereupon, to leave Italy for a while, and to retire to Vienna, or to ſome one of the German courts that was leſs intereſted than they were in Italy, in the ſucceſs of the Chevalier's undertaking; and I was the more deſirous to do ſo, as the diſpleaſure of Olivia againſt me began to grow ſerious, and to be talked of, even by herſelf, with leſs diſcretion than was conſiſtent with her high ſpirit, her noble birth, and ample fortune.

I communicated my intention to the Marchioneſs firſt: The noble Lady expreſſed her concern at the thoughts of my quitting Italy, and engaged me to put off my departure for ſome weeks; but, at the ſame time, hinted to me, with an explicitneſs that is pecu⯑liar to her, her apprehenſions, and her Lord's, that I was in Love with her Clementina. I convinced her of my honour, in this particular; and ſhe ſo well ſa⯑tisfied the Marquis, in this reſpect, that, on their daughter's abſolute refuſal of the Count of Belvedere, they confided in me to talk to her in favour of that gentleman. The young Lady and I had a conference upon the ſubject; Dr. Bartlett can give you the par⯑ticulars. The father and mother, unknown to us both, had placed themſelves in a cloſet adjoining to the room we were in, and which communicated to an⯑other, as well as to that: They had no reaſon to be diſſatisfied with what they heard me ſay to their daughter.

The time of my departure from Italy drawing near, and the young Lady repeatedly refuſing the Count of Belvidere, the younger brother (ſtill unknown to me, for he doubted not but I ſhould rejoice at the honour he hoped to prevail upon them to do me) declared in [183] my favour. They objected the more obvious diffi⯑culties in relation to religion, and my country: He deſired to be commiſſioned to talk to me on thoſe ſub⯑jects, and to his ſiſter on her motives for refuſing the Count of Belvedere; but they would not hear of his ſpeaking to me on this ſubject; the Marchioneſs giv⯑ing generous reaſons, on my behalf, for her joining in the refuſal; and undertaking herſelf to talk to her daughter, and to demand of her, her reaſons for re⯑jecting every propoſal that had been made her.

She accordingly cloſetted her Clementina. She could get nothing from her, but tears: A ſilence, without the leaſt appearance of ſullenneſs, had for ſome days before ſhewn, that a deep melancholy had begun to lay hold of her heart: She was, however, offended when Love was attributed to her; yet her mother told me, that ſhe could not but ſuſpect, that ſhe was under the dominion of that paſſion without knowing it; and the rather, as ſhe was never chearful but when ſhe was taking leſſons for learning a tongue, that never, as the Marchioneſs ſaid, was likely to be of uſe to her.

['As the Marchioneſs ſaid'—Ah my Lucy!]

The melancholy increaſed. Her tutor, as he was called, was deſired to talk to her. He did. It was a taſk put upon him, that had its difficulties. It was obſerved, that ſhe generally aſſumed a chearful air while ſhe was with him, but ſaid little: yet ſeemed pleaſed with every-thing he ſaid to her; and the lit⯑tle ſhe did anſwer, tho' he ſpoke in Italian or French, was in her newly-acquired language: But the mo⯑ment he was gone, her countenance fell, and ſhe was ſtudious to find opportunities to get from com⯑pany.

[What think you of my ſortitude, Lucy? Was I not a good girl? But my curioſity kept up my ſpirits. When I come to reflect, thought I, I ſhall have it all upon my pillow.]

[184] Her parents were in the deepeſt affliction. They conſulted phyſicians, who all pronounced her malady to be Love. She was taxed with it; and all the in⯑dulgence promiſed her that her heart could wiſh, as to the object; but ſtill ſhe could not, with patience, bear the imputation. Once ſhe aſked her woman, who told her that ſhe was certainly in Love, Would you have me hate myſelf?—Her mother talked to her of the paſſion in favourable terms, and as laudable: She heard her with attention, but made no anſwer.

The evening before the day I was to ſet out for Germany, the family made a ſumptuous entertain⯑ment, in honour of a gueſt on whom they had con⯑ferred ſo many favours. They had brought them⯑ſelves to approve of his departure the more readily, as they were willing to ſee, whether his abſence would affect their Clementina; and, if it did, in what manner.

They left it to her choice. Whether ſhe would ap⯑pear at table, or not. She choſe to be there. They all rejoiced at her recovered ſpirits. She was ex⯑ceeding chearful: She ſupported her part of the con⯑verſation, during the whole evening, with her uſual vivacity and good ſenſe, inſomuch that I wiſhed to myſelf, I had departed ſooner. Yet it is ſurpriſing, thought I that this young Lady, who ſeemed always to be pleaſed, and even ſince theſe reſveries have had power over her, to be moſt chearful in my company, ſhould rejoice in my departure; ſhould ſeem to owe her recovery to it; a departure which every one elſe kindly regrets: And yet there was nothing in her be⯑haviour or looks that appeared in the leaſt affected. When acknowlegements were made to me of the pleaſure I had given to the whole family, ſhe joined in them: When my health and happineſs were wiſhed, ſhe added her wiſhes by chearful bows, as ſhe ſat: When they wiſhed to ſee me again, before I went to England, ſhe did the ſame. So that my heart was [185] dilated: I was overjoyed to ſee ſuch an happy altera⯑tion. When I took leave of them, ſhe ſtood for⯑ward to receive my compliments, with a polite French freedom. I offered to preſ [...] her hand with my lips: My brother's deliverer, ſaid ſhe, muſt not affect this diſtance, and, in manner, offered her cheek; add⯑ing, God preſerve my tutor where-ever he ſet his foot (and in Engliſh, God convert you too, Chevalier!) May you never want ſuch an agreeable friend as you have been to us!

Signor Jeronymo was not able to be with us. I went up to take leave of him: O my Grandiſon! ſaid he, and flung his arms about my neck, and will you go?—Bleſſings attend you!—But what will be⯑come of a brother and ſiſter, when they have loſt you?

You will rejoice me, replied I, if you will favour me with a few lines, by a ſervant whom I ſhall leave behind me for a few days, and who will find me at Inſpruck, to let me know how you all do; and whe⯑ther your ſiſter's health continues.

She muſt, ſhe ſhall be yours, ſaid he, if I can manage it. Why, why, will you leave us?

I was ſurpriſed to hear him ſay this: He had never before been ſo particular.

That cannot, cannot be, ſaid I. There are a thouſand obſtacles—

All of which, rejoined he, that depend upon us, I doubt not to overcome. Your heart is not with Olivia?

They all knew, from that Lady's indiſcretion, of the propoſals that had been made me, relating to her; and of my declining them. I aſſured him, that my heart was free.

We agreed upon a correſpondence, and I took leave of one of the moſt grateful of men.

But how much was I afflicted when I received at Inſpruck the expected Letter, which acquainted me, that this ſunſhine laſted no longer than the next day! [186] The young Lady's malady returned, with redoubled force. Shall I, madam, briefly relate to you the manner in which, as her brother wrote, it operated upon her?

She ſhut herſelf up in her chamber, not ſeeming to regard or know that her woman was in it; nor did ſhe anſwer to two or three queſtions that her woman aſked her; but, ſetting her chair with its back to⯑wards her, over-againſt a cloſet in the room, after a profound ſilence, ſhe bent forwards, and, in a low voice, ſeemed to be communing with a perſon in the cloſet.—‘'And you ſay he is actually gone? Gone for ever? No, not for ever!'’

Who gone, madam? ſaid her woman. To whom do you direct your diſcourſe?

‘'We were all obliged to him, no doubt. So bravely to reſcue my brother, and to purſue the bravoes; and, as my brother ſays, to put him in his own chaiſe, and walk on foot by the ſide of it—Why, as you ſay, aſſaſſins might have murdered him: The horſes might have trampled him under their feet.'’ Still looking as if ſhe was ſpeaking to ſomebody in the cloſet.

Her woman ſtept to the cloſet, and opened the door, and left it open, to take off her attention to the place, and to turn the courſe of her ideas; but ſtill ſhe bent forwards towards, and talked calmly, as if to ſomebody in it: Then breaking into a faint laugh, ‘'In Love!—that is ſuch a ſilly notion: And yet I love every-body better than I love myſelf.'’

Her mother came into the room juſt then. The young Lady aroſe in haſte, and ſhut the cloſet-door, as if ſhe had ſomebody hid there, and, throwing herſelf at her mother's feet, My dear, my ever-ho⯑noured mama, ſaid ſhe, forgive me for all the trou⯑ble I have cauſed you—But I will, I muſt, you can't deny me; I will be God's child, as well as yours. I will go into a nunnery.

[187] It came out afterwards, that her confeſſor, taking advantage of confeſſions extorted from her of regard for her tutor, tho' only ſuch as a ſiſter might bear to a brother, but which he had ſuſpected might come to be of conſequence, had filled her tender mind with terrors, that had thus affected her head. She is, as I have told you, madam, a young Lady of exemplary piety.

I will not dwell on a ſcene ſo melancholy. How I afflict your tender heart, my good Miſs Byron!

[Do you think, Lucy, I did not weep?—Indeed I did—Poor young Lady!—But my mind was fitted for the indulging of ſcenes ſo melancholy. Pray, Sir, proceed, ſaid I: What a heart muſt that be, which bleeds not for ſuch a diſtreſs! Pray, Sir, proceed.]

Be it Dr. Bartlett's task to give you further parti⯑culars. I will be briefer—I will not indulge my own grief.

All that medicine could do, was tried: But her confeſſor, who, however, is an honeſt, a worthy man, kept up her fears and terrors. He ſaw the favour her tutor was in with the whole family: He knew that the younger brother had declared for rewarding him in a very high manner: He had more than once put this favoured man upon an avowal of his prin⯑ciples; and, betwixt her piety and her gratitude, had raiſed ſuch a conflict as her tender nature could not bear.

At Florence lives a family of high rank and honour, the Ladies of which have with them a friend noted for the excellency of her heart, and her genius; and who, having been robbed of her fortune early in life, by an uncle to whoſe care ſhe was committed by her dying father, was received both as a companion and a bleſſing, by the Ladies of the family ſhe has now for many years lived with. She is an Engliſh woman, and a Proteſtant; but ſo very diſcreet, that her being ſo, tho' at firſt they hoped to proſelyte her, gives [188] them not a leſs value for her; and yet they are all zealous Roman Catholics. Theſe two Ladies, and this their companion, were viſiting one day at the Marcheſe della Porretta's; and there the diſtreſſed mother told them the mournful tale: The Ladies, who think nothing that is within the compaſs of hu⯑man prudence impoſſible to their dear Mrs. BEAU⯑MONT, wiſhed that the young Lady might be en⯑truſted for a week to her care, at their own houſe at Florence.

It was conſented to, as ſoon as propoſed; and Lady Clementina was as willing to go; there having always been an intimacy between the families; and ſhe (as every-body elſe) having an high opinion of Mrs. Beaumont. They took her with them on the day they ſet out for Florence.

Here, again, for ſhortening my ſtory, I will refer to Dr. Bartlett. Mrs. Beaumont went to the bottom of the malady: She gave her advice to the family upon it. They were reſolved (Signor Jeronymo ſupporting her advice) to be governed by it. The young Lady was told, that ſhe ſhould be indulged in all her wiſhes. She then acknowleged what thoſe were; and was the ea⯑ſier for the acknowlegement, and for the advice of ſuch a prudent friend; and returned to Bologna (Mrs. Beau⯑mont accompanying her) much more compoſed than when ſhe left it. The tutor was ſent for, by com⯑mon conſent; for there had been a convention of the whole family; the Urbino branch, as well as the Ge⯑neral, being preſent. There the terms to be propoſed to the ſuppoſed happy man were ſettled; but they were not to be mentioned to him, till after he had ſeen the Lady: A wrong policy, ſurely.

He was then at Vienna. Signor Jeronymo, in his Letter, congratulated him in high terms; as a man, whom he had it now, at laſt, in his power to reward: And he hinted, in general, that the conditions would be ſuch, as it was impoſſible but he muſt find his very [189] great advantage in them: As to fortune, to be ſure, he meant.

The friend ſo highly valued could not but be af⯑fected with the news: Yet, knowing the Lady, and the family, he was afraid that the articles of Reſidence and Religion would not be eaſily compromiſed between them. He therefore ſummoned up all his prudence to keep his fears alive, and his hope in ſuſpenſe.

He arrived at Bologna. He was permitted to pay his compliments to Lady Clementina in her mother's preſence. How agreeable, how nobly frank, was the reception from both mother and daughter! How high ran the congratulations of Jeronymo! He called the ſuppoſed happy man brother. The Marquis was ready to recognize the fourth ſon in him. A great fortune, additional to an eſtate bequeathed her by her two⯑grandfathers, was propoſed. My father was to be in⯑vited over, to grace the nuptials by his preſence.

But let me cut ſhort the reſt. The terms could not be complied with: For I was to make a formal renuncia⯑tion of my religion, and to ſettle in Italy; only once, in two or three years, was allowed, if I pleaſed, for two or three months, to go to England; and, as a viſit of curioſity, once in her life, if their daughter deſired it, to carry her thither, for a time to be limited by them.

What muſt be my grief, to be obliged to diſappoint ſuch expectations as were raiſed by perſons who had ſo ſincere a value for me! You cannot, madam, imagine my diſtreſs: So little as could be expected to be allowed by them to the principles of a man whom they ſuppoſed to be in an error that would inevitably caſt him into perdition! But when the friendly bro⯑the implored my compliance; when the excellent mother, in effect, beſought me to have pity on her heart, and on her child's head; and when the tender, the amiable Clementina, putting herſelf out of the queſtion, urged me, for my ſoul's ſake, to embrace the doctrines of her holy mother the church—What, madam—But how I grieve you!

[190] [He ſtopt His handkerchief was of uſe to him, as mine was to me—What a diſtreſs was here!]

And what, and what, Sir, ſobbing, was the reſult? Could you, could you reſiſt?

Satisfied in my own faith; Entirely ſatisfied! Hav⯑ing inſuperable objections to that I was wiſhed to em⯑brace!—A lover of my native country too—Were not my God and my Country to be the ſacrifice, if I complied! But I laboured, I ſtudied, for a compro⯑miſe. I muſt have been unjuſt to Clementina's merit, and to my own Character, had ſhe not been dear to me. And indeed I beheld graces in her then, that I had before reſolved to ſhut my eyes againſt; her Rank next to princely; her Fortune high as her rank; Religion; Country; all ſo many obſtacles that had appeared to me inſuperable, removed by themſelves; and no ap⯑prehenſion left of a breach of the laws of hoſpitality, which had, ti l now, made me ſtruggle to behold one of the moſt amiable and noble-minded of women with indifference.—I offered to live one year in Italy, one in England, by turns, if their dear Clementina would live with me there; if not, I would content myſelf with paſſ⯑ing only three months, in every year, in my native coun⯑try. I propoſed to leave her entirely at her liberty, in the article of religion; and, in caſe of children by the mar⯑riage, the daughters to be educated by her, the ſons by me; a condition to which his Holineſs himſelf, it was preſumed, would not refuſe his ſanction, as there were precedents for it. This, madam, was a great ſacrifice to Compaſſion, to Love.—What could I more!

And would not, Sir, would not Clementina con⯑ſent to this compromiſe?

Ah the unhappy Lady! It is this reflexion that ſtrengthens my grief. She would have conſented: She was earneſt to procure the conſent of her friends upon theſe terms. This her earneſtneſs in my favour, devoted as ſhe was to her religion, excites my com⯑paſſion, and calls for my gratitude.

What ſcenes, what diſtreſsful ſcenes, followed!— [191] The noble father forgot his promiſed indulgence; the mother indeed ſeemed, in a manner, neutral; the youngeſt brother was ſtill, however, firm in my cauſe; but the Marquis, the General, the Biſhop, and the whole Urbino branch of the family, were not to be moved; and the leſs, as they conſidered the alliance as highly honourable to me (a private, an ob⯑ſcure man, as now they began to call me) as dero⯑gatory to their own honour. In ſhort, I was allowed, I was deſired, to depart from Bologna; and not ſuffered to take my leave of the unhappy Clementina, tho' on her knees ſhe begged to be allowed a parting inter⯑view—And what was the conſequence?—Dr. Bartlett muſt tell the reſt.—Unhappy Clementina!—Now they wiſh me to make them one more viſit at Bo⯑logna!—Unhappy Clementina!—To what purpoſe?

I ſaw his noble heart was too much affected, to anſwer queſtions, had I had voice to aſk any.

But, O my friends! you ſee how it is! Can I be ſo unhappy as he is? As his Clementina is? Well might Dr. Bartlett ſay, that this excellent man is not happy. Well might he himſelf ſay, that he has ſuf⯑fered greatly, even from good women. Well might he complain of ſleepleſs nights. Unhappy Clemen⯑tina! let me repeat after him; and not happy Sir Charles Grandiſon!—and who, my dear is happy? Not, I am ſure,

LETTER XXI. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

I WAS forced to lay down my pen. I will begin a new Letter. I did not think of concluding my former where I did.

Sir Charles ſaw me in grief, and forgot his own, to applaud my humanity, as he called it, and ſooth me [192] I have often, ſaid he, referred you, in my narrative, to Dr. Bartlett. I will beg of him to let you ſee any⯑thing you ſhall wiſh to ſee, in the free and unreſerved correſpondence we have held. You that love to en⯑tertain your friends with your narrations, will find ſomething, perhaps, in a ſtory like this, to engage their curioſity. On their honour and candor, I am ſure, I may depend. Are they not your frien [...] Would to heaven it were in my power to contribu [...] to their pleaſure and yours!

I only bowed. I could only bow.

I told you, madam, that my Compaſſion was en⯑gaged; but that any Honour was free: I think it [...] But when you have ſeen all that Dr. Bartlett will ſhew you, you will be the better able to judge of me, and for me. I had rather be thought favourably of by Miſs Byron, than by any woman in the world.

Who, Sir, ſaid I, knowing only ſo far as I know of the unhappy Clementina, but muſt wiſh her to be—

Ah Lucy! there I ſtopt—I had like to have been a falſe girl!—And yet ought I not, from my heart, to have been able to ſay what I was going to ſay?—I do aver, Lucy, upon repeated experience, that Love is a narrower of the heart. Did I not uſe to be thought generous and benevolent, and to be above all ſelfiſh⯑neſs? But am I ſo now?

And now, madam, ſaid he [and he was going to take my hand, but with an air, as if he thought the freedmo would be too great—A tenderneſs ſo ſpeaking in his eyes; a reſpectfulneſs ſo ſolemn in his coun⯑tenance; he juſt touched it, and withdrew his hand] What ſhall I ſay?—I cannot tell what I ſhould ſay—But you, I ſee, can pity me!—You can pity the noble Clementina—Honour forbids me!—Yet honour bids me—Yet I cannot be unjuſt, ungenerous—ſelfiſh!—

He aroſe from his ſeat—Allow me, madam, to thank you for the favour of your ear—Pardon me for [193] the trouble I ſee I have given to an heart that is ca⯑pable of a ſympathy ſo tender—

And, bowing low, he withdrew with precipitation, as if he would not let me ſee his emotion. He left me looking here, looking there, as if for my heart; and then, as giving it up for irrecoverable, I became for a few moments motionleſs, and a ſtatue.

A violent burſt of tears recovered me to ſenſe and motion; and juſt then Miſs Grandiſon (who having heard her brother withdraw, forbore for a few mi⯑nutes to enter, ſuppoſing he would return, hearing me ſob, ruſhed in.—O my Harriet! ſaid ſhe, claſping her arms about me, What is done!—Do I, or do I not, embrace my ſiſter, my real ſiſter, my ſiſter Gran⯑diſon?

Ah my Charlotte! No ſlattering hope is now left me—No ſiſter! It muſt not, it cannot be! The Lady is—But lead me, lead me out of this room!—I don't love it! ſpreading one hand before my eyes, my tears trickling between my fingers—Tears that flowed not only for myſelf, but for Sir Charles Gran⯑diſon and the unhappy Clementina: For, gather you not from what he ſaid, that ſomething diſaſtrous has befallen the poor Lady? And then, ſupporting myſelf with her arm, I hurried out of Lord L.'s Study, and up ſtairs into my own chamber; ſhe following me—Leave me, leave me here, dear creature, ſaid I, for ſix minutes: I will attend you then, in your own dreſſing-room.

She kindly retired; I threw myſelf into a chair, indulged my tears for a few moments, and was the fitter to receive the two ſiſters, who, hand-in-hand, came into my room to comfort me.

But I could not relate what had paſſed immediately with any connexion: I told them only, that all was over; that their brother was to be pitied, not blamed: And that if they would allow me to recollect ſome things that were moſt affecting, I would attend them; [194] and they ſhould have my narrative the more exact, for the indulgence.

They ſtayed no longer with me than to ſee me a little compoſed.

Sir Charles and Dr. Bartlett went out together in his chariot: He enquired more than once of my health; ſaying to his ſiſter Charlotte, That he was afraid he had affected me too much, by the melan⯑choly tale he had been telling me.

He excuſed himſelf from dining with us. Poor man! What muſt be his diſtreſs!—Not able to ſee, to ſit with us!

I would have excuſed myſelf alſo, being not very fit to appear; but was not permitted.

I ſat, however, but a very little while at table after dinner; and how tedious did the dinner-time appear! The ſervants eyes were irkſome to me; ſo were Emily's (dear girl!) gliſtening as they did, tho' ſhe knew not for what, but ſympathetically, as I may ſay; ſhe ſuppoſing, that all was not as ſhe would have it.

She came up ſoon after to me—One word, my deareſt madam (the door in her hand, and her head only within it): Tell me only that there is no miſun⯑derſtanding between my guardian and you!—Tell me only that—

None, my dear!—None, none at all, my Emily!

Thank God! claſping her hands together; thank God!—If there were, I ſhould not have known whoſe part to take!—But I won't diſturb you—And was going.

Stay, ſtay, my precious young friend! Stay, my Emily.—I aroſe; took her hand: My ſweet girl! ſay, Will you live with me?

God for ever bleſs you, deareſt madam!—Will I? It is the wiſh next my heart.

Will you go down with me to Northamptonſhire, my love?

To the world's end I will attend you, madam: I [195] will be your handmaid; and I will love you better than I love my guardian, if poſſible.

Ah my dear! but how will you live without ſeeing your guardian now-and-then?

Why he will live with us, won't he?

No, no, my dear!—And you would chooſe, then, to live with him, not with me, would you not?—

Indeed but I won't—Indeed I will live and die with you, if you will let me; and I warrant his kind heart will often lead him to us. But tell me, Why theſe tears, madam? Why this grief?—Why do you ſpeak ſo quick and ſhort? and why do you ſeem to be in ſuch a hurry?

Do I ſpeak quick and ſhort? Do I ſeem to be in a hurry?—Thank you, my love, for your obſervation. And now leave me: I will profit by it.

The amiable girl withdrew on tiptoe; and I ſat about compoſing myſelf.

I was obliged to her for her obſervation: It was really of uſe to me. But you muſt think, Lucy, that I muſt be fluttered—His manner of leaving me—Was it not particular?—To break from me ſo ab⯑ruptly, as I may ſay—And what he ſaid with looks ſo earneſt! Looks that ſeemed to carry more meaning than his words: And withdrawing without conduct⯑ing me out, as he had led me in—and as if—I don't know how as if—But you will give me your opinion of all theſe things. I can't ſay but I think my ſuſ⯑penſe is over; and in a way not very deſireable—Yet—But why ſhould I puzzle myſelf? What muſt be, muſt.

At afternoon-tea, the gentlemen not being returned, and Emily undertaking the walter's office, I gave my Lord and the two Ladies, tho' ſhe was preſent, ſome account of what had paſſed, but briefly; and I had juſt finiſhed, and was quitting the room, as the two gentlemen entered the door.

Sir Charles Inſtantly addreſſed me with apologies for [196] the concern he had given me. His emotion was vi⯑ſible as he ſpoke to me. He heſitated: He trembled. Why did he heſitate? Why did he tremble?

I told him, I was not aſhamed to own, that I was very much affected by the melancholy ſtory. The poor Lady, ſaid I, is greatly to be pitied—But re⯑member, Sir, what you promiſed Dr. Bartlett ſhould do for me.

I have been requeſting the doctor to fulfil my en⯑gagements.

And I am ready to obey, ſaid the good man. My agreeable taſk ſhall ſoon be performed.

As I was at the door, going up ſtairs to my cloſet, I courteſied, and purſed my intention.

He bowed, ſaid nothing, and looked, I thought, as if he were diſappointed, that I did not return to company.—No, indeed!

Yet I pity him, at my heart! How odd is it, then, to be angry with him!—So much goodneſs, ſo much ſenſibility, ſo much compaſſion (whence all his woes, I believe), never met together, in a heart ſo manly.

Tell me, tell me, my dear Lucy—Yet tell me no⯑thing till I am favoured with, and you have read, the account that will be given me by Dr. Bartlett: Then, I hope, we ſhall have every-thing before us.

LETTER XXII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

DR. Bartlett, ſeeing our impatience, aſked leave to take the aſſiſtance of his nephew in tranſcribing from Sir Charles's Letters the paſſages that will enable him to perform the taſk he had ſo kindly undertaken. By this means, he has already preſented us with the following tranſcripts. We have eagerly peruſed them. When you have done ſo, be pleaſed to haſten them up, that my couſin Reeves's may have the ſame opportu⯑nity. They are ſo good as to give chearfully the pre⯑ference to the venerable circle, as my couſin, who dined with us yeſterday, bid me tell you. O my Lucy! what a glorious young man is Sir Charles Grandiſon! But he had the happineſs of a Dr. Bartlett, as he is fond of owning, to improve upon a foundation that was ſo nobly laid, by the beſt and wiſeſt of mothers.

[208] You have heard, my good Miſs Byron, that the friendſhip between Mr. Grandiſon and Signor Jero⯑nymo was twice broken off: Once it was, by the un⯑kindly-taken freedom of the expoſtulatory Letter. Je⯑ronymo, at that time of his life, ill brooked oppoſi⯑tion in any purſuit his heart was engaged in. When puſhed, he was vehement; and Mr. Grandiſon could not be over-ſolicitous to keep up a friendſhip with a young man who was under the dominion of his diſſolute companions; and who would not allow of remonſtrances, in caſes that concerned his morals.

Jeronymo, having afterwards been drawn into great inconveniencies by his libertine friends, broke with them; and Mr. Grandiſon and he meeting by acci⯑dent at Padua, their friendſhip, at the preſſing inſtan⯑ces of Jeronymo, was again renewed.

Jeronymo thought himſelf reformed; Mr. Gran⯑diſon hoped he was: But, ſoon after, a temptation fell in his way, which he could not reſiſt. It was from a Lady who was more noted for her birth, beauty, and fortune, than for her virtue. She had ſpread her ſnares for Mr. Grandiſon before Jeronymo became ac⯑quainted with her; and revenge for her ſlighted ad⯑vances taking poſſeſſion of her heart, ſhe hoped an opportunity would be afforded her of wreaking it upon him.

The occaſion was given by the following Letter, which Mr. Grandiſon thought himſelf obliged, in ho⯑nour, to write to his friend, on his attachment; the one being then at Padua, the other at Cremona:

And what was the conſequence? The unhappy youth, by the inſtigation of the revengeful woman, defied his friend, in her behalf. Mr. Grandiſon, with a noble diſdain, appealed to Jeronymo's cooler deli⯑beration; [210] and told him, that he never would meet, as a foe, the man he had ever been deſirous to conſider as his friend. You know, my Lord, ſaid he, that I am under a diſadvantage in having once been obliged to aſſert myſelf, in a country where I have no natural connexions; and where you, Jeronymo, have many. If we meet again, I do aſſure you, it muſt be by ac⯑cid [...]nt—and if that happens, we ſhall then find it time e [...]ough to diſcuſs the occaſion of our preſent miſunderſtanding.

Their next meeting was indeed by accident. It was in the Cremoneſe; when Mr. Grandiſon ſaved his life.

AND now, madam, let me give you, in obedience to your ſecond command,

You muſt ſuppoſe them ſeated; a Milton's Paradiſe Loſt before them: And that, at this time, Mr. Gran⯑diſon did not preſume that the young Lady had any particular regard for him.

Clementina. You have taught the prelate, and you have taught the ſoldier, to be in love with your Milton, Sir: But I ſhall never admire him, I doubt. Don't you reckon the language hard and crabbed?

Grandiſon. I did not propoſe him to you, madam: Your brother choſe him. We ſhould not have made the proficiency we have, had I not begun with you by eaſier authors. But you have often heard me call him a ſublime poet, and your ambition (it is a laudable one) leads you to make him your own too ſoon. Has not your tutor taken the liberty to chide you for your impatience; for your deſire of being every-thing at once?

Clem. You have; and I own my fault.—But to have done, for the preſent, with Milton; What ſhall I do to acquit myſelf of the addreſſes of this Count of Belvedere?

Gr. Why would you acquit yourſelf of the Count's addreſſes?

Clem. He is not the man I can like: I have told my papa as much, and he is angry with me.

Gr. I think, madam, your papa may be a little diſpleaſed with you; tho' he loves you too tenderly to be angry with you. You reject the Count, without aſſigning a reaſon.

Clem. Is it not reaſon enough, that I don't like him?

Gr. Give me leave to ſay, that the Count is an handſome man. He is young; gallant; ſenſible; of a family antient and noble; a grace to it. He is learned, good-natured: He adores you—

Clem. And ſo let him, if he will, I never can like him.

Gr. Dear Lady! You muſt not be capricious. You will give the moſt indulgent parents in the world apprehenſion that you have caſt your thoughts on ſome other object. Young Ladies, except in a caſe of pre⯑poſſeſſion, do not often reject a perſon who has ſo many great and good qualities as thine in this gentle⯑man; and where equality of degree, and a father's and mother's high approbation, add to his merit.

Clem. I ſuppoſe you have been ſpoken to, to talk with me on this ſubject—It is a ſubject I don't like.

Gr. You began it, Madam.

Clem. I did ſo; becauſe it is uppermoſt with me. I am grieved at my heart, that I cannot ſee the Count with my father's eyes: My father deſerves from me every inſtance of duty, and love, and veneration; but I cannot think of the Count of Belvedere for an huſband.

Gr. One reaſon, madam? One objection?

Clem. He is a man that is not to my mind: A [212] fawning, cringing man, I think.—And a ſpirit that can fawn and cringe, and kneel, will be a tyrant in power.

Gr. Dear madam, To whom is he this obſequious man, but to you?—Is there a man in the world that behaves with a more proper dignity to every one elſe? Nay, to you, the Lover ſhines out in him, but the Man is not forgot. Is the tenderneſs of well-placed Love, the veneration paid to a deſervedly beloved ob⯑ject, any derogation to the manly character? Far from it; and ſhall you think the leſs of your Lover, for be⯑ing the moſt ardent, and, I have no knowlege in man, if he is not the moſt ſincere, of men?

Clem. An excellent advocate!—I am ſure you have been ſpoken to—Have you not? Tell me truly? Perhaps by the Count of Belvedere?

Gr. I ſhould not think, and, of conſequence, not ſpeak, ſo highly as I do, of the Count, if he were ca⯑pable of aſking any man, your father and brothers ex⯑cepted, to plead his cauſe with you.

Clem. I can't bear to be chidden, Chevalier. Now you are going to be angry with me too. But has not my mamma ſpoken to you? Tell me?

Gr. Dear Lady, conſider, if ſhe had, what you owe to a mamma, who deſerving, for her tenderneſs to her child, the utmoſt obſervance and duty, would con⯑deſcend to put her authority into a mediation. And yet, let me declare, that no perſon breathing ſhould make me ſay what I do not think, whether in favour or disfavour of any man.

Clem. That is no anſwer. I owe implicit, yes, I will ſay implicit, duty to my mamma, for her indul⯑gence to me: But what you have ſaid is no direct anſwer.

Gr. For the honour of that indulgence, madam, I own to you, that your mamma, and my Lord too, have wiſhed that their Clementina could or would give one ſubſtantial reaſon why ſhe cannot like the [213] Count of Belvedere; that they might prepare them⯑ſelves to acquieſce with it, and the Count be induced to ſubmit to his evil deſtiny.

Clem. And they have wiſhed this to you, Sir? And you have taken upon you to anſwer their wiſhes—I proteſt, you are a man of prodigious conſequence, with us all; and by your readineſs to take up the cauſe of a man you have ſo lately known, you ſeem to know it, too well.

Gr. I am ſorry I have incurred your diſpleaſure, madam.

Clem. You have. I never was more angry with you, than I now am.

Gr. I hope you never was angry with me before. I never gave you reaſon, And if I have now, I beg your pardon.

I aroſe to go.

Clem. Very humble, Sir!—And are for going be⯑fore you have it. Now call me capricious, again!

Gr. I did not know that you could be ſo eaſily diſpleaſed, madam.

She wept.

Clem. I am a very weak creature: I believe I am wrong: But I never knew what it was to give offence to any-body till within theſe few months. I love my father, I love my mother, beyond my own life; and to think that now, when I wiſh moſt for the continuance of their goodneſs to me, I am in danger of forfeiting it!—I can't bear it!—Do you for⯑give me, however. I believe I have been too petulant to you. Your behaviour is noble, frank, diſintereſted. It has been a happineſs that we have known you. You are every-body's friend. But yet I think it is a little officious in you to plead ſo very warmly for a man of whom you know ſo little; and when I told you, more than once, I could not like him.

Gr. Honoured as I am, by your whole family, with the appellation of a fourth ſon, a fourth brother; [214] dear madam, was I to blame to act up to the cha⯑racter? I know my own heart; and if I have conſe⯑quence given me, I will act ſo, as to deſerve it; at leaſt, my own heart ſhall give it to me.

Clem. Well, Sir, you may be right: I am ſure you mean to be right. But as it would be a diminu⯑tion of the Count's dignity, to apply to you for a ſup⯑poſed intereſt in you, which he cannot have, it would be much more ſo, to have you interfere where a father, mother, and other brothers [You ſee, Sir, I allow your claim of fourth brotherhood] are ſuppoſed to have leſs weight: So no more of the Count of Bel⯑vedere, I beſeech you, from your mouth.

Gr. One word more, only—Don't let the good⯑neſs of your father and mother be conſtrued to the diſadvantage of the parental character in them. They have not been poſitive: They have given their wiſhes, rather then their commands. Their tenderneſs for you, in a point ſo very tender, has made them unable to tell their own wiſhes to you, for fear they ſhould not meet with yours; yet would be, perhaps, glad to hear one ſolid objection to their propoſal—And why; That they might admit of it—impute, therefore, to my officiouſneſs, what you pleaſe; and yet I would not wiſh to diſoblige or offend you; but let their in⯑dulgence, they never will uſe their authority, have its full merit with you.

Clem. Your ſervant, Sir. I never yet had a ſlight notion of their indulgence; and I hope I never ſhall. If you will go, go: But, Sir, next time I am fa⯑voured with your lectures, it ſhall be upon Languages, if you pleaſe; and not upon Lovers.

I withdrew, profoundly bowing. But ſuel [...]y, thought I, the lovely Clementina is capricious.

Thus far my patron.

Let me add, That the Marchioneſs having acquainted Mr. Grandiſon, that her Lord and ſhe had heard every word that had paſſed, expreſſed her diſpleaſure [215] at her daughter's petulance; and, thanking him in her Lord's name, as well as for herſelf, for the generous part he had taken, told him, that Clementina ſhould aſk his pard on.

He begged that, for the ſake of their own weight with her on the ſame ſubject, ſhe might not know that they had heard what had paſſed.

I believe that's beſt, Chevalier, anſwered the Mar⯑chioneſs; and I am apt to think, that the poor girl will be more ready than perhaps one would wiſh, to make up with you, were ſhe to find you offended with her in earneſt; as you have reaſon to be, as a diſintereſted man.

You ſee, Chevalier, I know to whom I am ſpeak⯑ing; but both my Lord, and ſelf, hope to ſee her of another mind; and that ſhe will ſoon be Counteſs of Belvedere. My Lord's heart is in this alliance; ſo is that of my ſon Giacomo.

I come now, madam, to your third command; which is, To give you,

[Mr. Grandiſon ſtill not preſuming on any parti⯑cular favour from Clementina.]

The young Lady was walking in one alley of the garden; Mr. Grandiſon, and the Marquis and Mar⯑chioneſs, in another. She was attended by her wo⯑man, who walked behind her; and with whom ſhe was diſpleaſed for endeavouring to divert her; but who, however, ſeemed to be talking on, tho' without being anſwered.

The dear creature! ſaid the Marquis, tears in his eyes,—See her there, now walking ſlow, now with quicker ſteps, as if ſhe would ſhake off her Camilla. She hates the poor woman for her love to her: But who is it that ſhe ſees with pleaſure? Did I think that I ſhould ever behold the pride of my heart, with the [216] pain that I now feel for her? Yet ſhe is lovely in my eye, in all ſhe does, in all ſhe ſays—But, O my dear Grandiſon, we cannot now make her ſpeak, more than Yes, or No. We cannot engage her in a con⯑verſation, no not on the ſubject of her newly-acquired language. See if you can on any ſubject.

Ay, Chevalier, ſaid the Marchioneſs, do you try to engage her. We have told her, that we will not talk of marriage to her at all, till ſhe is herſelf inclined to receive propoſals. Her weeping eyes thank us for our indulgence: She prays for us with lifted-up hand: She courteſies her thanks, if ſhe ſtands before us: She bows, in acknowleged gratitude for our goodneſs to her, if ſhe ſits; but ſhe cares not to ſpeak. She is not eaſy while we are talking to her. See! ſhe is ſtepping into the Greek temple; her poor woman, unanſwered, talking to her. She has not ſeen us. By that winding walk we can, unſeen, place ourſelves in the myrtil-grove, and hear what paſſes.

The Marchioneſs, as we walked, hinted, that in their laſt viſit to the General at Naples, there was a Count Marulli, a young nobleman of merit, but a ſoldier of fortune, who would have clandeſtinely obtained the attention of their Clementina. They knew no⯑thing of it till laſt night, ſhe ſaid; when herſelf and Camilla, puzzling to what to attribute the ſudden me⯑lancholy turn of her daughter, and Camilla mention⯑ing what was unlikely, as well as likely; told her, that the Count would have bribed her to deliver a Letter to the young Lady; but that ſhe repulſed him with indignation: He beſought her then to take no notice of his offer, to the General, on whom all his fortunes depended. She did not, for that reaſon, to any-body; but, a few days ſince, ſhe heard her young Lady (talk⯑ing of the gentleman ſhe had ſeen at Naples) mention the young Count favourably—Now it is impoſſible there can be any-thing in it, ſaid the Marchioneſs: But do you, however, Chevalier, lead to the ſubject of [217] Love, but at diſtance; nor name Marulli, becauſe ſhe will think you have been talking with Camilla. The dear girl has pride: She would not endure you, if ſhe thought you imagined her to be in Love, eſpe⯑cially with a man of inferior degree, or dependent fortunes. But on your prudence we wholly rely; mention it, or not, as matters fall in.

There can be no room for this ſurmiſe, my dear, ſaid the Marquis; and yet Marulli was lately in Bo⯑logna: But Clementina's ſpirit will not permit her to encourage a clandeſtine addreſs.

By this time we had got to the myrtle-grove, be⯑hind the temple, and over-heard them talk, as follows:

Camilla. And why, why muſt I leave you, ma⯑dam?—From infancy you know how I have loved you. You uſed to love to hold converſe with your Camilla. How have I offended you? I will not enter this temple till you give leave; but indeed, indeed, I muſt not, I cannot leave you.

Clem. Officious Love!—Can there be a greater torment than an officious prating Love!—If you lov⯑ed me, you would wiſh to oblige me.

Cam. I will oblige you, my dear young Lady, in every thing I can—

Clem. Then leave me, Camilla. I am beſt when I am alone: I am chearfulleſt when I am alone. You haunt me, Camilla; like a ghoſt you haunt me, Ca⯑milla. Indeed you are but the ghoſt of my once ob⯑liging Camilla.

Cam. My deareſt young Lady, let me beſeech you—

Clem. Ay, now you come with your beſeeches again: But if you love me, Camilla, leave me. Am I not to be truſted with myſelf? Were I a vile young creature, that was ſuſpected to be running away with ſome baſe-born man, you could not be more watchful of my ſteps.

[218] Camilla would have entered into farther talk with her; but ſhe abſolutely forbad her.

Talk till dcoms-day, I will not ſay one word more to you, Camilla. I will be ſilent. I will ſtop my ears.

They were both ſilent. Camilla ſeemed to weep.

Now, my dear Chevalier, whiſpered the Marquis, put yourſelf in her ſight; engage her into talk about England, or any-thing: You will have an hour good before dinner. I hope ſhe will be chearful at table: She muſt be preſent; our gueſts will enquire after her. Reports have gone out, as if her head is hurt.

I am afraid, my Lord, that this is an unſeaſonable moment. She ſeems to be out of humour; and, par⯑don me if I ſay, that Camilla, good woman as ſhe is, and well-meaning, had better give way to her young Lady's humour, at ſuch times.

Then, ſaid the Marchioneſs, will her malady get head; then will it become habit. But my Lord and I will remain where we are, for a few minutes, and do you try to engage her in converſation. I would have her be chearful before the Patriarch, however; he will expect to ſee her. She is as much his delight, as ſhe is ours.

I took a little turn; and entering the walk, which led to the temple, appeared in her ſight; but bowed, on ſeeing her ſitting in it. Her woman ſtood ſilent, with her handkerchief at her eyes, at the entrance. I quickned my ſteps, as if I would not break into her retirement, and paſſed by; but, by means of the winding walk, could hear what ſhe ſaid.

She aroſe; and ſtepping forward, looking after me, He iS gone, ſaid ſhe. Learn, Camilla, of the Che⯑valier Grandiſon—

Shall I call him back, madam?

No. Yes. No. Let him go. I will walk. You may now leave me, Camilla: There is ſomebody in the garden who will watch me: Or you may ſtay, [219] Camilla; I don't care which: Only don't talk to me when I wiſh you to be ſilent.

She went into an alley that croſſed the alley in which I was, but took the walk that led from me. When we came to the center of both, and were very near each other, I bowed; ſhe courteſied; but not ſeeming to encourage my nearer approach, I made a motion, as if I would take another walk. She ſtopt. Learn of the Chevalier Grandiſon, Camilla, repeated ſhe.

May I preſume, madam? Do I not invade—

Camilla is a little officious to-day: Camilla has teazed me. Are the poets of your country as ſevere upon womens tongues, as the poets of ours?

Poets, madam, of all countries, boaſt the ſame in⯑ſpiration: Poets write, as other men ſpeak, to their feeling.

So, Sir!—You make a pretty compliment to us poor women.

Poets have finer imaginations, madam, than other men; they therefore ſeel quicker: But as they are not often intitled to boaſt of Judgment (for imagination and judgment ſeldom go together) they may, perhaps, give the cauſe, and then break out into ſatire upon the effects.

Don't I ſee before me, in the Orange-grove, my father and mother? I do. I have not kneeled to them to-day. Don't go, Chevalier.

She haſtened towards them. They ſtopt. She bent her knee to each, and received their tender bleſſings. They led her towards me. You ſeemed engaged in talk with the Chevalier, my dear, ſaid the Marquis. Your mamma and I were walking in. We leave you—They did.

The beſt of parents! ſaid ſhe. O that I were a more worthy child!—Have you not ſeen them, Sir, before to day?

[220] I have, madam. They think you the worthieſt of daughters; but they lament your thoughtful turn.

They are very good. I am grieved to give them trouble. Have they expreſſed their concern to you, Sir?—I will not be ſo petulant as I was once before, provided you keep clear of the ſame ſubject. You are the confident of us all; and your noble and diſ⯑intereſted behaviour deſervedly endears you to every⯑body.

They have been this very morning, lamenting the melancholy turn you ſeem to have taken. With tears they have been lamenting it.

Camilla, you may draw near: You will hear your own cauſe ſupported. The rather draw near, and hear all the Chevalier ſeems to be going to ſay; becauſe it may ſave you and me too a great deal of trouble.

Madam, I have done, ſaid I.

But you muſt not have done. If you are com⯑miſſioned, Sir, by my father and mother, I am, I ought to be, prepared to hear all you have to ſay.

Camilla came up.

My deareſt young Lady, ſaid I, What can I ſay? My wiſhes for your happineſs may make me appear importunate: But what hope have I of obtaining your confidence, when your mother fails?

What, Sir, is aimed at? What is ſought to be ob⯑tained? I am not very well: I uſed to be a very ſprightly creature: I uſed to talk, to ſing, to dance, to play; to viſit, to receive viſits: And I don't like to do any of theſe things now. I love to be alone: I am contented with my own company. Other com⯑pany is, at times, irkſome to me; and I can't help it.

But whence this ſudden turn, madam, in a Lady ſo young, ſo blooming? Your father, mother, bro⯑thers, cannot account for it; and this diſturbs them.

I ſee it does, and am ſorry for it.

No other favourite diverſion takes place in your [221] mind. You are a young Lady of exemplary piety: You cannot pay a greater obſervance than you always paid, to the duties of religion.

You, Sir, an Engliſhman, an heretic, give me leave to call you; for are you not ſo?—Do you talk of piety, of religion?

We will not enter into this ſubject, madam: What I meant—

Yes, Sir, I know what you meant—And I will own, that I am, at times, a very melancholy ſtrange creature. I know not whence the alteration; but to it is; and I am a greater trouble to myſelf than I can be to any-body elſe.

But, madam, there muſt be ſome cauſe—And for you to anſwer the beſt and moſt indulgent of mothers with ſighs and tears only; yet no obſtinacy, no ful⯑lenneſs, no petulance, appearing: All the ſame ſweet⯑neſs, gentleneſs, obſervance, that ſhe ever rejoiced to find in her Clementina, ſtill ſhining out in her mind. She cannot urge her ſilent daughter; her tenderneſs will not permit her to urge her: And how can you, my Siſter (Allow of my claim, madam) How can you ſtill ſilently withdraw from ſuch a mother? How can you, at other times, ſuffer her to withdraw, her heart full, her eyes running over, unable to ſtay, yet hardly knowing how to go, becauſe of the ineffectual report ſhe muſt make to your ſorrowing father; yet the cauſe of this very great alteration (which they dread is growing into an habit, at a time of life when you were to crown all their hopes) a Secret faſt locked up in your own heart?

She wept, and turned from me, and leaned upon the arm of her Camilla; and then quitting her arm, and joining me, How you paint my obſtinacy, and my mamma's goodneſs! I only wiſh—With all my ſoul, I wiſh—that I was added to the duſt of my anceſtors. I who was their comfort, I ſee, now, muſt be their torment.

[221] Fie, fie, my ſiſter!

Blame me not: I am by no means ſatisfied with myſelf. What a miſerable thing muſt ſhe be, who is at variance with herſelf?

I do not hope, madam, that you ſhould place ſo much confidence in your fourth brother as to open your mind to him: All I beg is, that you will relieve the anxious, the apprehenſive heart of the beſt of mothers; and, by ſo doing, enable her to relieve the equally-anxious heart of the beſt of fathers.

She pauſed, ſtood ſtill, turned away her face, and wept; as if half overcome.

Let your faithful Camilla, madam, be commiſſioned to acquaint your mamma—

But hold, Sir! (ſeeming to recollect herſelf) not ſo faſt—Open my mind —What! whether I have any⯑thing to reveal, or not?—Inſinuating man! You had almoſt perſuaded me to think I had a ſecret that lay heavy at my heart: And when I began to look for it, to oblige you, I could not find it. Pray, Sir—She ſtopt.

And pray, madam (taking her hand) Do not think of receding thus—

You are too free, Sir. Yet ſhe withdrew not her hand.

For a brother, madam? Too free for a brother? And I quitted it.

Well, and what farther would my brother?

Only to implore, to beſeech you, to reveal to your mamma, to your excellent, your indulgent—

Stop, Sir, I beſeech you—What! Whether I have any-thing to reveal, or not?—Pray, Sir, tell me, invent for me, a Secret that is fit for me to own; and then, perhaps, if it will ſave the trouble of enquiries, I may make, at leaſt, my four brothers eaſy.

I am pleaſed, however, madam, with your agree⯑able raillery. Continue but in this temper, and the Secret is revealed: Enquiry will be at an end.

[222] Camilla, here, is continually teazing me with her perſuaſions to be in Love, as ſhe calls it: That is the ſilly thing, in our ſex, which gives importance to yours. A young creature cannot be grave, cannot indulge a contemplative humour, but ſhe muſt be in Love. I ſhould hate myſelf, were I to put it in the power of any man breathing to give me uneaſineſs. I hope, Sir, I hope, that you, my brother, have not ſo poor, ſo low, ſo mean a thought of me.

It is neither poor, nor low; it is not mean, to be in Love, madam.

What! not with an improper object?

Madam!

What have I ſaid? You want to—But what I have now ſaid, was to introduce what I am going to tell you; that I ſaw your inſinuation, and what it tended to, when you read to me thoſe lines of your Shake⯑ſpeare; which in your heart, I ſuppoſe, you had the goodneſs, or what ſhall I call it? to apply to me. Let me ſee if I can repeat them to you in their original Engliſh.

With the accent of her country, ſhe very prettily repeated thoſe lines:

Now, Chevalier, if you had any deſign in your pointing to theſe very pretty lines, I will only ſay, you are miſtaken; and ſo are all thoſe who affront and afflict me, with attributing my malady to ſo great a weakneſs.

I meant not at the time, madam—

Nor now, I hope, Sir—

Any ſuch application of the lines. How could I? [224] Your refuſal of many Lovers; your declining the propoſals of a man of the Count of Belvedere's con⯑ſequence and merit; tho' approved of by every one of your friends; are convictions—

See, Camilla! interrupting me with quickneſs, the Chevalier is convinced!—Pray let me have no more of your affronting queſtions and conjectures on this ſubject. I tell you, Camilla, I would not be in Love for the world, and all its glory.

But, madam, if you will be pleaſed to aſſign one cauſe, to your mamma, for the melancholy turn your lively temper has taken, you will free yourſelf from a ſuſpicion that gives you pain, as well as diſpleaſure. Perhaps you are grieved, that you cannot comply with your father's views—Perhaps—

Aſſign one cauſe, again interrupted ſhe—Aſſign one cauſe! —Why, Sir—I am not well—I am not pleaſed with myſelf—as I told you.

If it were any-thing that lay upon your mind, your conſcience, madam, your confeſſor—

Would not make me eaſy. He is a good, but (turning aſide and ſpeaking low) a ſevere man. Ca⯑milla hears not what I ſay [Camilla dropt behind]. He is more afraid of me, in ſome caſes, than he need to be. And why? Becauſe you have almoſt perſuaded me to think charitably of people of different perſua⯑ſions, by your noble charity of all mankind: Which I think, heretic as you are, forgive me, Sir, carries an appearance of true Chriſtian goodneſs in it: Tho' Proteſtants, it ſeems, will perſecute one another; but you would not be one of thoſe, except you are one man in Italy, another in England.

Your mother, madam, will aſk, If you have ho⯑noured me with any part of your confidence? Her communicative goodneſs makes her think every-body ſhould be as unreſerved as herſelf. Your father is ſo good as to allow you to explain yourſelf to me, when he wiſhes that I could prevail upon you to open your [225] mind to me in the character of a fourth brother My Lord the Biſhop—

Yes, yes, Sir, interrupted ſhe, all our family wor⯑ſhips you almoſt. I have myſelf a very great regard for you, as the fourth brother who has been the deli⯑verer and preſerver of my third. But, Sir, who can prevail upon you, in any thing you are determined upon?—Had I any thing upon my heart, I would not tell it to one, who, brought up in error, ſhuts his eyes againſt conviction, in an article in which his everlaſt⯑ing good is concerned. Let me call you a Catholic, Sir, and I will not keep a thought of my heart from you. You ſhall indeed be my brother; and I ſhall free one of the holieſt of men from his apprehenſions on my converſing with ſo determined an heretic as he thinks you. Then ſhall you, as my brother, command thoſe Secrets, if any I have, from that heart in which you think them locked up.

Why then, madam, will you not declare them to your mamma, to your confeſſor, to my Lord Biſhop?

Did I not ſay, If any I have?

And is your reverend confeſſor uneaſy at the favour of the family to me?—How cauſeleſs!—Have I ever, madam, talked with you on the ſubject of religion?

Well but, Sir, are you ſo obſtinately determined in your errors, that there is no hope of convincing you? I really look upon you, as my papa and mamma firſt bid me do, as my fourth brother: I ſhould be glad that all my brothers were of one religion. Will you allow Father Mareſcotti and Father Geraldino to enter into a conference with you on this ſubject? And if they anſwer all your objections, will you act accord⯑ing to your convictions?

I will not, by any means, madam, enter upon this ſubject.

I have long intended, Sir, to propoſe this matter to you.

You have often intimated as much, madam, tho' [226] not ſo directly as now; but the religion of my coun⯑try is the religion of my choice. I have a great deal to ſay for it. It will not be heard with patience by ſuch ſtrict profeſſors as either of thoſe you have named. Were I to be queſtioned on this ſubject be⯑fore the Pope, and the whole Sacred College, I would not prevaricate: But good manners will make me ſhew reſpect to the religion of the country I happen to be in, were it the Mahometan, or even the Pagan; and to venerate the good men of it: But I never will enter into debate upon the ſubject as a traveller, a ſojourner; that is a rule with me.

Well, Sir, you are an obſtinate man, that's all I will ſay. I pity you; with all my ſoul I pity you: You have great and good qualities. As I have ſat at table with you, and heard you converſe on ſubjects that every one has in ſilence admired you for, I have often thought to myſelf, Surely this man was not de⯑ſigned for perdition!—But begone, Chevalier; leave me. You are an obſtinate man. Yours is the worſt of obſtinacy; for you will not give yourſelf a chance for conviction.

We have ſo far departed from the ſubject we began upon, that it is proper to obey you, madam. I only beg that my Siſter—

Not ſo far departed from it, perhaps, as you ima⯑gine, interrupted ſhe; and turned a bluſhing cheek from me—But what do you beg of your Siſter?

That ſhe will rejoice the moſt indulgent of parents, and the moſt affectionate of brothers, with a chearful aſpect at table, eſpecially before the Patriarch. Do not, madam, in ſilence—

You find, Sir, I have been talkative enough with you. —Shall we go thro' your Shakeſpeare's Hamlet, to-night?—Farewel, Chevalier. I will try to be chearful at table: But let not your eye, if I am not, reproach me.—She took another walk.

I was loth, my dear Dr. Bartlett, to impute to my⯑ſelf [227] the conſequence with this amiable Lady, that might but naturally be inferred from the turn which the converſation took; but I thought it no more than juſtice to the whole family, to haſten my departure: And when I hinted to Clementina, that I ſhould ſoon take leave of them, I was rejoiced to find her un⯑concerned.

This, my good Miſs Byron, is what I find in my patron's Letters relating to this conference. He takes notice, that the young Lady behaved herſelf at table as ſhe was wiſhed to do.

Mr. Grandiſon was prevailed upon, by the intrea⯑ties of the whole family, to ſuſpend his departure for a few days.

The young Lady's melancholy, to the inexpreſſible affliction of her friends, increaſed; yet ſhe behaved with ſo much greatneſs of mind, that neither her mother nor her Camilla could perſuade themſelves that Love was the cauſe. They ſometimes imagined, that the earneſtneſs with which they ſolicited the in⯑tereſt of the Count of Belvedere with her, had hur⯑ried and affected her delicate ſpirits; and therefore they were reſolved to ſay little more on that ſubject till they ſhould ſee her diſpoſed to lend a more fa⯑vourable ear to it: And the Count retired to his own palace in Parma, expecting and hoping for ſuch a turn in his favour: For he declared, That it was im⯑poſſible for him to think of any other woman for a wife.

But Signor Jeronymo doubted not, all this time, of the cauſe; and, without letting any-body into his opinion, not even Mr. Grandiſon, for fear a diſap⯑pointment would affect him, reſolved to make uſe of every opportunity that ſhould offer, in favour of the man he loved, from a principle of gratitude, that reigned with exemplary force in the breaſt of every one of this noble family; a principle which took the firmer root in their hearts, as the prudence, generoſity, [228] magnanimity, and other great and equally-amiable qualities of Mr. Grandiſon, appeared every day more and more conſpicuous to them all.

I will ſoon, madam, preſent you with farther ex⯑tracts from the Letters in my poſſeſſion, in purſuance of the articles you have given me in writing. I am not a little proud of my taſk.

LETTER XXIII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

LET me now give you a brief account of what we are doing here. Sir Charles ſo much re⯑joiced the heart of Lord G. who waited on him the moment he knew he was in town, that he could not defer his attendance on Miſs Grandiſon, till ſhe left Colnebrooke; and got hither by our breakfaſt-time, this morning.

He met with a very kind reception from Lord and Lady L. and a civil one from Miſs Grandiſon; but ſhe is already beginning to play her tricks with him.

[232] O Lucy, where is the ſenſe of parading it with a worthy man, of whoſe affection we have no reaſon to doubt, and whoſe viſits we allow?

Silly men in Love, or pretending to be in Love, generally ſay hyperbolical things, all, in ſhort, that could be ſaid to a creature of ſuperior order (to an angel), becauſe they know not how to ſay polite, proper, or ſenſible things. In like manner, from the ſame defects in underſtanding, ſome of us women act as if we thought coyneſs and modeſty the ſame thing; and others, as if they were ſenſible, that if they were not inſolent, they muſt drop into the arms of a Lover upon his firſt queſtion.

But Miſs Grandiſon, in her behaviour to Lord G. is governed by motives of archneſs, and, I may ſay, downright roguery of temper. Courtſhip is play to her. She has a talent for raillery, and in no inſtance is ſo ſucceſsful, yet ſo improper, as on that ſubject. She could not ſpare her brother upon it, tho' ſhe ſuf⯑fered by it.

Yet had ſhe a reſpect for Lord G. ſhe could not treat him ludicrouſly. Cannot a witty woman find her own conſequence, but by putting a fool's coat on the back of a friend?—Sterling wit, I imagine, re⯑quires not a foil to ſet it off.

She is indeed good-natured; and this is all Lord G. has to depend upon—Saving a little reliance that he may make upon the influence her brother has over her. I told her, juſt now, that were I Lord G. I would not wiſh to have her mine, on any conſidera⯑tion. She called me ſilly creature, and aſked me, If it were not one of the trueſt ſigns of Love, when men were moſt fond of the women who were leaſt fit for them, and uſed them worſt? Theſe men, my dear, ſaid ſhe, are very ſorry creatures, and know no me⯑dium. They will either, ſpaniel-like, fawn at your feet, or be ready to leap into your lap.

She has charming ſpirits: I wiſh I could borrow [233] ſome of them. But I tell her, that I would not have a ſingle drachm of thoſe over-lively ones which I ſee ſhe will play off upon Lord G. Yet he will be pleaſ⯑ed, at preſent, with any treatment from her; tho' he wants not feeling, as I can ſee already—Don't, Char⯑lotte, ſaid I to her, within this half-hour, let him find his own weight in your levity. He admires your wit; but don't let it wound him.

But perhaps ſhe is the ſprightlier, in order to give me, and Lord and Lady L. ſpirits. They are very good to me, and greatly apprehenſive of the ſtory, which takes up, in a manner, my whole attention: So is Miſs Grandiſon: And my ſweet Emily, as often as ſhe may, comes up to me when I am alone, and hangs upon my arm, my ſhoulder, and watches, with looks of Love, every turn of my eyes.

I have opened my whole heart to her, for the bet⯑ter guarding of hers; and this hiſtory of Clementina affords an excellent leſſon for the good girl. She bleſſes me for the lectures I read her on this ſubject, and ſays, that ſhe ſees Love is a very ſubtile thing, and, like water, will work its way into the banks that are ſet up to confine it, if it be not watched, and damned out in time.

She pities Clementina; and prettily aſked my leave to do ſo. I think, ſaid ſhe, my heart loves her; but not ſo well as it does you. I long to know what my guardian will do about her. How good is it in her father and mother to love her ſo dearly! Her two elder brothers one cannot diſlike; but Jeronymo is my fa⯑vourite. He is a man worth ſaving; i'n't he, madam? But I pity her father and mother, as well as Clementina.

Charming young creature! What an excellent heart ſhe has!

Sir Charles is to dine with Sir Hargrave and his friends to-morrow, on the foreſt, in his way to Gran⯑diſon-hall. The doctor ſays, he expects to hear from him, when there. What! will he go by this houſe, [234] and not call in?—With all my heart—We are only ſiſters! Miſs Grandiſon ſays, ſhe'll be hanged (that is her word) if he is not afraid of me. Afraid of me! A ſign, if he is, he knows not what a poor forward creature I am. But as he ſeems to be pre-engagged—Well, but I ſhall ſoon know every thing, as to that. But ſure he might call in, as he went by.

The doctor ſays, he longs to know how he ap⯑proves of the decorations of his church, and of the alterations that are made and making, by his direction, at the Hall. It is a wonder, methinks, that he takes not Dr. Bartlett with him: Upon my word, I think he is a little unaccountable, ſuch ſiſters as he has. Should you like it, Lucy, were he your brother? I really think his ſiſters are too acquieſcent.

He has a great taſte, the doctor tells us, yet not an expenſive one; for he ſtudies ſituation and conveni⯑ence; and pretends not to level hills, or to force and diſtort nature; but to help it, as he finds it, without letting art be ſeen in his works, where he can poſſibly avoid it. For he ſays, He would rather let a ſtranger be pleaſed with what he ſees, as if it were always ſo; than to obtain comparative praiſe by informing him what it was in its former ſituation.

As he is to be a ſuitor for Lord W. before he re⯑turns, he will not, perhaps, be with us, while I am here. He may court for others: He has had very little trouble of that ſort for himſelf, I find.

A very diſturbing thought is juſt come into my head: Sir Charles being himſelf in ſuſpenſe, as to the cataſtrophe of this knotty affair, did not intend to let us know it till all was over—As ſure as you are alive, Lucy, he had ſeen my regard for him thro' the thin veil that covered it; and began to be apprehenſive (generouſly apprehenſive) for the heart of the poor fool; and ſo has ſuffered Dr. Bartlett to tranſcribe the particulars of the ſtory, that they may ſerve for a check to the over-forward paſſion of your Harriet.

[235] This thought excites my pride; and that my con⯑tempt of myſelf: Near borderers, Lucy! What a little creature does it make me, in my own eyes!—O Dr. Bartlett, your kindly-intended tranſcripts ſhall cure me: Indeed they ſhall.

But now this ſubject is got uppermoſt again. What, Lucy, can I do with it?

Miſs Grandiſon ſays, that I ſhall be with her every day when I go to town: I can have no exception, ſhe ſays, when her brother is abſent —Nor when he is preſent, I begin now to think.

Lord help me, my dear; I muſt be ſo very careful of my ponctilio!—No, thought I, in the true ſpirit of prudery, I will not go to Sir Charles's houſe for the world: And why? Becauſe he is a ſingle man; and becauſe I think of ſomething—that he perhaps has no notion of. But now I may go and viſit his ſiſter without ſcruple, may I not? For he perhaps thinks only of his Clementina—And is not this a charming difficulty got over, Lucy?—But, as I ſaid, I will ſoon be with you.

I told Miſs Grandiſon that I would, juſt now—Lovers, ſaid ſhe, are the weakeſt people in the world; and people of punctilio the moſt un -punctilious—You have not talked till now of going in ſuch an hurry. Would you have it thought that you ſtayed in town for a particular reaſon? and, when that ceaſed, va⯑lued nobody elſe? She held up her finger—Conſider! ſaid ſhe!

There is ſomething in this, Lucy. Yet what can I do?

But Dr. Bartlett ſays, he ſhall ſoon give me another Letter.

Farewel, my Dear.

LETTER XXIV. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

SIR Charles came hither this morning, time enough to breakfaſt with us.

Lady L. is not an early riſer. I am ſure this bro⯑ther of hers is: So is Miſs Grandiſon. If I ſay I am, my Lucy, I will not allow you to call it boaſting, becauſe you will, by ſo calling it, acknowlege Early riſing to be a virtue; and if you thought it ſuch, I am ſure you would diſtinguiſh it by your practice. Forgive me, my dear: This is the only point in which you and I have differed—And why have I in the main ſo patiently ſuffered this difference, and not tried to teaze you out of it? Becauſe my Lucy always ſo well employs her time when ſhe is alive. But would not one the more wiſh that well-employed life to be made as long as poſſible?

I endeavoured to be very chearful at breakfaſt; but I believe my behaviour was aukward, and affected. After Sir Charles was gone, on my putting the que⯑ſtion to the two ſiſters, Whether it was not ſo? they acquitted me—Yet my heart, when in his company, laboured with a ſenſe of conſtraint.

My pride made me want to find out pity for me in his looks and behaviour, on purpoſe to quarrel with him in my mind; for I could not get out of my head that degrading ſurmiſe, that he had permitted Dr. Bart⯑lett to haſten to me the hiſtory of Clementina, in order generouſly to check any hopes that I might en⯑tertain, before they had too ſtrongly taken hold of my fooliſh heart.

But nothing of this was diſcoverable. Reſpect, ten⯑der reſpect, appeared, as the Ladies afterwards took [237] notice, in every word, when he addreſſed himſelf to me; in every look that he caſt upon me.

He ſtudiouſly avoided ſpeaking of the Bologna fa⯑mily. We were not indeed any of us fond of leading to the ſubject.

I am ſure, I pitied him.

Pity, my dear, is a ſofter paſſion, I dare ſay, in the boſom of a woman, than in that of a man. There is, there muſt be, I ſhould fancy, more gene⯑roſity, more tenderneſs, in the pity of the one, than in that of the other. In a man's pity (I write in the firſt caſe from my own ſenſibilities, in the other from my apprehenſions) there is, too probably, a mixture of inſult or contempt. Unhappy, indeed, muſt the woman be, who has drawn upon her the helpleſs pity of the man ſhe loves!

The Ladies and Lord L. will have it, that Sir Charles's Love, however, is not ſo much engaged for Clementina as his Compaſſion. They are my ſincere friends: They ſee that I am pretty delicate in my no⯑tions of a firſt Love; and they generouſly endeavour to inculcate this diſtinction upon me: But to what purpoſe, when we evidently ſee, from what we al⯑ready know of this ſtory, that his engagements, be the motive what it will, are of ſuch a nature, that they cannot be diſpenſed with while this Lady's deſti⯑ny is undetermined?

Poor Lady Clementina! From my heart I pity her: And tenderneſs, I am ſure, is the ſole motive of my compaſſion for this fair Unfortunate.

Sir Charles ſet out, immediately after breakfaſt, for Sir Hargrave's. He will dine with him, and intends to paſs the evening with Lord W. We ſhall all go to town to-morrow.

WITH this I ſend the doctor's ſecond pacquet. O my dear! What a noble young Lady is Clementina! What a purity is there in her paſſion! A Letter of [238] Mrs. Beaumout (Mrs. Beaumont herſelf an excellent woman) will ſhew you, that Clementina deſerves every good wiſh. Such a noble ſtruggle did I never hear of, between Religion and Love. O Lucy! you will be delighted with Clementina: You will even, for a while, forget your Harriet; or, if you are juſt, will think of her but next after Clementina! Never did a young Lady do more honour to her ſex, than is done it by Clementina! A flame, the moſt vehement, ſuppreſſed from motives of piety, till, poor Lady! it has devoured her intellects!

Read the Letter, and be loſt, as I was, for half an hour after I had read it, in ſilent admiration of her fortitude! O my dear! ſhe muſt be rewarded with a Sir Charles Grandiſon! My reaſon, my juſtice, com⯑pels from me my vote in her favour.

My Lord L. and the two Ladies admire her as much as I do. They look at me with eyes of tender concern. They ſay little. What can they ſay?—But they kindly applaud me for unfeigned admi⯑ration of this extraordinary young Lady. But where is my merit? Who can forbear admiring her?

What I ſhall tranſcribe, in order to ſatisfy you, madam, with regard to the fifth article, will include all that you can wiſh to be informed of, reſpecting the fourth.

[239] But let me premiſe, That Mrs. Beaumont, at the requeſt of the Marchioneſs, undertook to give an ac⯑count of the health of the young Lady, and what effect the change of air, of place, and her advice, had upon her mind, after ſhe had been at Florence for two or three days. She, on the fourth day of their being together, wrote to that Lady the deſired parti⯑culars. The following is a tranſlation of her Letter:

YOUR Ladyſhip will excuſe me for not writing till now, when you are acquainted that it was not before laſt night that I could give you any tole⯑rable ſatisfaction on the ſubject upon which I had en⯑gaged to do myſelf that honour.

I have made myſelf miſtreſs of the dear young Lady's Secret. Your Ladyſhip gueſſed it, perhaps, too well. Love, but a pure and laudable Love, is the malady that has robbed her of her tranquillity for ſo long a ſpace, and your ſplendid family of all com⯑fort: But ſuch a magnanimity, ſhewn or endeavoured at, that ſhe deſerves to be equally pitied and admired. What is it that the dear young Lady has not ſuffered in a conflict between her duty, her Religion, and her Love?

The diſcovery, I am afraid, will not give pleaſure to your family; yet certainty, in what muſt be, is better than ſuſpenſe. You will think me a managing perſon, perhaps, from the relation I have to give you: But it was the task preſcribed me; and you com⯑manded me to be very minute in the account of all my dealings with her, that you might know how to conduct yourſelves to her for the cure of the unhappy malady. I obey.

The firſt and ſecond days, after our return to Flo⯑rence, were paſſed in endeavouring to divert her, as our gueſt, in all the ways we could think of: But finding, that company was irkſome to her, and that ſhe only bore with it for politeneſs ſake; I told the La⯑dies, [240] that I would take her entirely into my own care, and devote my whole time to her ſervice. They acquieſced. And when I told Lady Clemen⯑tina of my intention, ſhe rejoiced at it, and did me the honour to aſſure me, that my converſation would be balm to her heart, if ſhe could enjoy it without mixt company.

Your Ladyſhip will ſee, however, from what I have mentioned of her regard for me, that I had made uſe of my time in the two paſts days to ingratiate myſelf into the favour of your Clementina. She will have me call her nothing but Clementina: Excuſe there⯑fore, madam, the freedom of my ſtile.

She engaged me laſt night to give her a leſſon, as ſhe called it, in an Engliſh author. I was ſurpriſed at her proficiency in my native tongue. Ah my dear! ſaid I, what an admirable manner of teaching muſt your tutor have had, if I am to judge by the great progreſs you have made in ſo ſhort a time, in the acquiring of a tongue that has not the ſweetneſs of your own, tho' it has a force and expreſſiveneſs that is more than equal, I think, to any of the mo⯑dern languages!

She bluſhed—Do you think ſo? ſaid ſhe—And I ſaw, by the turn of her eye, and her conſciouſneſs, that I had no need to hint to her Count Marulli, nor any other man.

I took upon me, without puſhing her, juſt then, upon the ſuppoſed light dropt in from this little in⯑cident, to mention the Count of Belvedere with di⯑ſtinction, as the Marquis had deſired I would.

She ſaid, She could not by any means think of him.

I told her, that as all her family approved highly of the Count, I thought they were intitled to know her objections; and to judge of the reaſonableneſs or unreaſonableneſs of them. Indeed, my dear, ſaid I, you do not, in this point, treat your father and mo⯑ther with the dutifulneſs that their indulgence de⯑ſerves.

[241] She ſtarted. That is ſeverely ſaid, is it not, madam?

Conſider of it, my dear, and if you pronounce it ſo, after an hour's reflection, I will call it ſo, and aſk your pardon.

I am afraid, ſaid ſhe, I am in fault. I have the beſt and moſt indulgent of parents. There are ſome things, ſome ſecrets, that one cannot be forward to divulge. One ſhould perhaps be commanded out of them with a high hand.

Your acknowlegement, my dear, ſaid I, is more generous than the occaſion given for it: But if you will not think me impertinent—

Don't, don't, aſk me too cloſe queſtions, madam, interrupted ſhe; I am afraid I can deny nothing.

I am perſuaded, my dear Clementina, that the mu⯑tual unboſoming of ſecrets is the cement of faithful Friendſhip, and true Love. Whenever any new turn in one's affairs happens, whenever any new lights open, the friendly heart reſts not, till it has commu⯑nicated to its fellow-heart the new lights, the inte⯑reſting events; and this communicativeneſs knits the true Lover's knot ſtill cloſer. But what a ſolitari⯑neſs, what a gloom, what a darkneſs, muſt poſſeſs that mind that can truſt no friend with its inmoſt thoughts! The big ſecret, when it is of an intereſt⯑ing nature, will ſwell the heart till it is ready to burſt, Deep melancholy muſt follow—I would not for the world have it ſo much as thought, that I had not a ſoul large enough for friendſhip. And is not the eſſence of friendſhip communication, mingling of hearts, and emptying our very ſoul into that of a true friend?

Why that's true. But, madam, a young creature may be ſo circumſtanced, as not to have a true friend; or, if ſhe has near her a perſon to whom ſhe might communicate her whole mind without doubt of her fidelity; yet there may be a forbiddingneſs in the [242] perſon; a difference in years, in degree; as in my Camilla, who is, however, a very good woman—We people of condition, madam, have more courtiers about us than friends: But Camilla's fault is teazing, and always harping upon one ſtring, and that by my friends commands: It would be therefore more lau⯑dable to open my mind to my mother, than to her; as it would be the ſame thing.

Very true, my dear: And as you have a mother, who is leſs of the mother than ſhe would be of the ſiſter, the friend; it is amazing to me, that you have kept ſuch a mother in the dark ſo long.

What can I ſay?—Ah, madam!—There ſhe ſtopt. At laſt ſaid, But my mother is in the intereſt of the man I cannot love.

The queſtion recurs—Are not your parents intitled to know your objections to the man whoſe intereſt they ſo warmly eſpouſe?

I have no particular objections. The Count of Belvedere deſerves a better wife than I can make him. I ſhould reſpect him very much, had I a ſiſter, and he made his addreſſes to her.

Well then, my dear Clementina, if I gueſs the reaſon why you cannot approve of the Count of Bel⯑vedere, will you tell me, with that candor, with that friendſhip, of the requiſites of which we have been ſpeaking, whether I am right or not?

She heſitated. I was ſilent in expectation.

She then ſpoke, I am afraid of you, madam.

You have reaſon to be ſo, if you think me unwor⯑thy of your friendſhip.

What is your gueſs?

That you are prejudiced in favour of ſome other man; or you could not, if you had a ſiſter, wiſh her an huſband that you thought unworthy of yourſelf.

I don't think the Count of Belvedere unworthy neither, madam.

Then my conjecture has received additional ſtrength.

[243] O Mrs. Beaumont! How you preſs upon me!

If impertinently, ſay ſo; and I have done.

No, no, not impertinently, neither; yet you di⯑ſtreſs me.

That could not be, if I were not right; and if the perſon were not too unworthy of you, to be acknow⯑leged.

O Mrs. Beaumont! how cloſely you urge me! What can I ſay?

If you have any confidence in me—If you think me capable of adviſing you—

I have confidence: Your known prudence—And then ſhe made me compliments, that I could not de⯑ſerve.

Come, my dear Clementina, I will gueſs again—Shall I?

What would you gueſs?

That there is a man of low degree—Of low for⯑tunes—Of inferior ſenſe—

Hold, hold, hold—And do you think that the Cle⯑mentina before you is ſunk ſo low?—If you do, Why don't you caſt the abject creature from you?

Well, then, I will gueſs again—That there is a man of a royal houſe; of ſuperior underſtanding; of whom you can have no hope.

O Mrs. Beaumont! And cannot you gueſs that this prince is a Mahometan, when your hand is in?

Then, madam, and from the hints your Ladyſhip had given, I had little doubt that Clementina was in Love; and that religion was the apprehended diffi⯑culty. Zealous Catholics think not better of Pro⯑teſtants, than of Mahometans: Nor, indeed, are zealous Proteſtants without their prejudices. Zeal will be zeal, in perſons of whatever denomina⯑tion.

I would not however, madam, like a ſudden froſt, nip the opening bud.

[244] There is, ſaid I, a young ſoldier of fortune, who has breathed forth paſſionate wiſhes for Clementina.

A ſoldier of fortune, madam! with an air of diſ⯑dain. There cannot be ſuch a man living, that can have his wiſhes anſwered.

Well, then, to ſay nothing of him; there is a Roman nobleman—a younger brother—of the Bor⯑gheſe houſe—Permit me to ſuppoſe him the man.

With all my heart, madam.

She was eaſy, while I was at a diſtance.

But if the Chevalier Grandiſon [She coloured at his name] has done him ill offices—

The Chevalier Grandiſon, madam, is incapable of doing any man ill offices.

Are you ſure, madam, that the Chevalier has not art?—He has great abilities. Men of great abilities are not always to be truſted. They don't ſtrike till they are ſure.

He has no art, madam. He is above art. He wants it not. He is beloved where-ever he goes. He is equally noted for his prudence and freedom of heart. He is above art, repeated ſhe, with warmth.

I own, that he deſerves every-thing from your fa⯑mily. I don't wonder that he is careſſed by you all: But it is amazing to me, that, in contradiction to all the prudent maxims and cautions of your country, ſuch a young gentleman ſhould have been admitted—I ſlopt.

Why, now, you don't imagine, that I—that I—She ſtopt, and heſitated.

A prudent woman would not put it in any man's power to give her a prejudice to perſons of unexcep⯑tionable honour; and to manage—

Nay, madam, now has ſomebody prejudiced you againſt your countryman—He is the moſt diſintereſ⯑ted of men.

I have heard young Ladies, when he was here, ſpeak of him as an handſome man.

[245] An handſome man! And is not Mr. Grandiſon an handſome man? Where will you ſee a man ſo hand⯑ſome?

And do you think he is ſo very extraordinary a man, as to ſenſe, as I have heard him reported to be? I was twice in his company—I thought, indeed, he looked upon himſelf as a man of conſequence.

Nay, madam, don't ſay he is not a modeſt man. It is true, he knows when to ſpeak, and when to be ſilent: But he is not a confident man; nor is he, in the leaſt, conceited.

Was there ſo much bravery in his relieving your brother, as ſome people attribute to him in that happy event? Two ſervants and himſelf, well armed; the chance of paſſengers on the ſame road: The aſſaſſins that appeared but two; their own guilt to encounter with—

Dear, dear Mrs. Beaumont, with what prejudiced people have you converſed? The Scripture ſays, A prophet has no honour in his own country; but Mr. Grandiſon has not much from his own country⯑woman.

Well, but did Mr. Grandiſon ever ſpeak to you of any one man as a man worthy of your favour?

Did he!—Yes, of the Count of Belvedere. He was more earneſt in his favour—

Really?

Yes, really—than I thought he ought to be.

Why ſo?

Why ſo!—Why, becauſe—becauſe—Why what was it to him—you know?

I ſuppoſe he was put upon it—

I believe ſo.

Or he would not—

I believe, if the truth were known, you, Mrs. Beaumont, hate Mr. Grandiſon. You are the only perſon that I ever in my life heard ſpeak of him, even with indifference.

[246] Tell me, my dear Clementina, What are you ſin⯑cere thoughts of Mr. Grandiſon, perſon and mind?

You may gather them from what I have ſaid.

That he is an handſome man; a generous, a pru⯑dent, a brave, a polite man.

Indeed I think him to be all you have ſaid: And I am not ſingular.

But he is a Mahometan —

A Mahometan! madam—Ah, Mrs. Beaumont!

And ah, my dear Clementina!—And do you think I have not found you out?—Had you never known Mr. Grandiſon, you would not have ſcrupled to have been Counteſs of Belvedere.

And can you think, madam—

Yes, yes, my dear young Lady, I can.

My good Mrs. Beaumont, you don't know what I was going to ſay.

Be ſincere, my dear young Lady. Cannot a Lover, talking to a ſecond perſon, be ſincere?

What! madam, a man of another religion! A man obſtinate in his errors! a man who has never pro⯑feſſed Love to me! a man of inferior degree! A man who owns himſelf abſolutely dependent upon his father's bounty! His father living to the height of his eſtate!—Forbid it pride, dignity of birth, duty, religion—

Well then, I may ſafely take up the praiſes of Mr. Grandiſon: You have imputed to me, ſlight, in⯑juſtice, prejudice againſt him: Let me now ſhew you, that the Prophet HAS honour with his country⯑woman. Let me collect his character from the mouth of every man who has ſpoken of him in my hearing or knowlege—His country has not in this age ſent abroad a private man who has done it more credit. He is a man of honour in every ſenſe of the word: If moral rectitude, if practical religion (your brother the Barone teſtifies this on his own experience) were loſt in the reſt of the world, it would, without glare [247] or oſentation, be found in him. He is courted by the beſt, the wiſeſt, the moſt eminent men, where⯑ever he goes; and he does good without diſtinction of religion, ſects, or nation: His own countrymen boaſt of him, and apply to him for credentials to the beſt and moſt conſiderable men, in their travels thro' more countries than one: In France, particularly, he is as much reſpected as in Italy. He is deſcended from the beſt families in England, both by father and mother; and can be a Senator of it, whenever he pleaſes. He is heir to a very conſiderable eſtate, and is, as I am informed, courted to ally with ſome of the greateſt families in it. Were he not born to a fortune, he would make one. You own him to be generous, brave, handſome—

O my dear, dear Mrs. Beaumont! All this is too much, too much!—Yet all this I think him to be! I can no longer reſiſt you. I own, I own, that I have no heart but for Mr. Grandiſon. And now, as I don't doubt but my friends ſet you to find out the love-ſick girl, how ſhall I, who cannot diſown a ſecret you have ſo fairly, and without condition, come at, ever look them in the face? Yet let them know, (I will enable you to tell them) how all this came about, and how much I have ſtruggled againſt a paſſion ſo evidently improper to be encouraged by a daughter of their houſe.

He was, in the firſt place, as well you know, the preſerver of a beloved brother's life; and that brother afterwards owned, that had he followed his friendly advice, he never would have fallen into the danger from which he reſcued him.

My father and mother preſented him to me, and bid me regard him as a fourth brother; and it was not immediately that I found out that I could have but three brothers.

My brother's deliverer proved to be the moſt ami⯑able and humane, and yet braveſt of men.

[248] All my friends careſſed him. Neither family forms, nor national forms, were ſtood upon. He had free acceſs to us all, as one of us.

My younger brother was continually hinting to me his wiſhes that I were his. Mr. Grandiſon was above all other reward; and my brother conſidered me in a kind light, as able to reward him.

My confeſſor, by his fears and invectives, rather confirmed than leſſened my eſteem for a man whom I thought injured by them.

His own reſpectful and diſintereſted behaviour to me contributed to my attachment. He always ad⯑dreſſed me as his ſiſter, when he put on the familiar friend, in the guiſe of a tutor: I could not therefore arm againſt a man I had no reaſon to ſuſpect.

But ſtill I knew not the ſtrength of my paſſion for him, till the Count of Belvedere was propoſed to me with an earneſtneſs that alarmed me: Then I conſi⯑dered the Count as the interrupter of my hopes; and yet I could not give the reaſon why I rejected him. How could I, when I had none to give but my pre⯑poſſeſſion in favour of another man? A prepoſſeſſion entirely hidden in my own heart.

But ſtill I thought I would ſooner die, than be the wife of a man of a religion contrary to my own. I am a zealous Catholic myſelf: All my relations are zealous Catholics. How angry have I been at this obſtinate Heretic, as I have often called him; the firſt heretic, my dear Mrs. Beaumont (for once I did not love you) that my ſoul deteſted not! For he is as te⯑nacious a Proteſtant as ever came out of England. What had he to do in Italy? Why did he not ſtay at home? Or why, if he muſt come abroad, did he ſtay ſo long among us; yet hold his obſtinacy, as if in de⯑fiance of the people he was ſo well received by?

Theſe were the reproaches that my heart in ſilence often caſt upon him.

I was at firſt concerned only for his ſoul's ſake: [249] But afterwards, finding him eſſential to my earthly happineſs, and yet reſolving never to think of him if he became not a Catholic, I was earneſt for his con⯑verſion for my own ſake; hoping that my friends in⯑dulgence to me would make my wiſhes practicable; for on his part, I doubted not, if that point were got over, he would think an alliance with our family an honour to him.

But when I found him invincible on this article, I was reſolved either to conquer my paſſion, or die. What did I not undergo in my endeavours to gain this victory over myſelf! My confeſſor hurt me, by ter⯑rors; my woman teazed me; my parents, and two elder brothers, and all my more diſtant relations, urged me to determine in favour of the Count of Bel⯑vedere. The Count was importunate: The Cheva⯑lier was importunate in the Count's behalf—Good heaven! What could I do?—I was hurried, as I may ſay: I had not time given me to weigh, ponder, re⯑collect. How could I make my mother, how could I make any-body my confident? My judgment was at war with my paſſion; and I hoped it would overcome. I ſtruggled; yet every day the object appearing more worthy, the ſtruggle was too hard for me. O that I had had a Mrs. Beaumont to conſult—Well might melancholy ſeize me—Silent melancholy!

At laſt the Chevalier was reſolved to leave us. What pain, yet what pleaſure, did this his reſolution give me! Moſt ſincerely I hoped, that his abſence would reſtore my tranquillity.

What a ſecret triumph did I gave myſelf, on my behaviour to him, before all my friends, on the part⯑ing evening!—My whole deportment was uniform. I was chearful, ſerene, happy in myſelf, and I made all my friends ſo. I wiſhed him happy where-ever he ſet his foot, and whatſoever he engaged in. I thanked him, with the reſt of my friends, for the benefits we had received from him▪ and the pleaſure he had given [250] us, in the time he had beſtowed upon us; and I wiſhed that he might never want a friend ſo agree-and entertaining as he had been to us all.

I was the more pleaſed with myſelf, as I was not under a neceſſity of putting on ſtiffneſs or reſerve to hide a heart too much affected. I thought myſelf ſecure, and ſtood out forwarder than he ſeemed to hope for, and with more than my offered hand, at the moment of his departure. I thought I read in his eyes a concern, for the firſt time, that called for a pity which I imagined I myſelf wanted not. Yet I had a pang at parting—When the door ſhut out the agreeable man, never again, thought I, to be opened to give him entrance! I ſighed at the reflexion: But who perceived it?—I never could be inſenſible in a parting ſcene, with leſs agreeable friends: It was the eaſier for me to attribute to the gentleneſs of my heart, the inſtant ſenſibility. My father claſped me to his boſom: My mother embraced me, without morti⯑fying me by ſaying for what. My brother, the biſhop, called me twenty fond names; all my friends compli⯑mented me, but only on my chearfulneſs, and ſaid, I was once more their own Clementina. I went to reſt, pleaſed that I had ſo happily acquitted myſelf, and that poſſibly I contributed to the repoſe of dear friends, whoſe repoſe I had been the cauſe of diſ⯑turbing.

But, alas! this conduct was too great for the poor Clementina to maintain: My ſoul was too high ſet.—You know the reſt; and I am loſt to the joys of this life: For I never, never, will be the wife of a man, if I might, who by his religion is an enemy to the faith I never wavered in; nor would ever change, were an earthly crown on the head of the man I love to be the reward; and a painful death, in the prime of my life, the contrary.

A flood of tears prevented farther ſpeech. She hid her face in my boſom. She ſighed—Dear Lady! How ſhe ſighed!

[251] This, madam, is the account I have to give of what has paſſed between your beloved Clementina and me. Never was there a more noble ſtruggle be⯑tween duty and affection; tho' her heart was too tender, and, in ſhort, the man's merits too dazling, to allow it to be effectual. She is unwilling that I ſhould ſend you the particulars: She ſhall be aſhamed, ſhe ſays, to look her father, her mother, in the face; and ſhe dreads ſtill more, if poſſible, her confeſſor's being made acquainted with the ſtate of her heart, and the cauſe of her diſorder. But I tell her, it is abſolutely neceſſary for her mother to know every⯑thing that I know, in order to attempt a cure.

This cure, madam, I am afraid will never be ef⯑fected, but by giving her in marriage to the happy man. I muſt think him ſo, who will be intitled, by general conſent, to ſo great a bleſſing.

You, madam, will act in this affair as you judge proper: But if you can at Bologna, at Urbino, and Naples, get over your family objections, you will perhaps find yourſelves obliged, ſuch are the young Lady's own ſcruples, on the ſcore of religion, to take pains to perſuade her to purſue her inclination, and accept Mr. Grandiſon for an huſband.

Be this as it may, I would humbly recommend a gentle and ſoothing treatment of her. She never knew yet what the contrary was; and were ſhe to experience that contrary now upon an occaſion ſo very delicate, and in which her Judgment and her Love are, as ſhe hints, at variance; I verily think, ſhe would not be able to bear it—That God direct you for the beſt, whom you and yours have always ſerved with ſignal devotion!

I will only add, That ſince the ſecret which had ſo long preyed upon her fine ſpirits, is revealed, ſhe appears to be much more eaſy than before; but yet ſhe dreads the reception ſhe ſhall meet with on her return to Bologna. She begs of me, when that return [252] ſhall be ordered, to accompany her, in order to enable her, as ſhe ſays, to ſupport her ſpirits. She is very deſirous to enter into a nunnery. She ſays, She never can be the wife of any other man; and ſhe thinks ſhe ought not to be his, on whom her heart is fixed.

A word of comfort on paper, from your honoured hand, I know, madam, would do a great deal to⯑wards healing her wounded heart.

I am, madam, with the greateſt veneration and reſpect,

LET me add, my good Miſs Byron, that the Mar⯑chioneſs ſent an anſwer to this Letter expreſſing the higheſt obligation and gratitude to Mrs. Beaumont; and incloſed a Letter to her daughter, filled with ten⯑der and truly-motherly conſolation; inviting her back to Bologna out of hand, and her amiable friend with her: Promiſing, in the name of her father and brothers, a moſt indulgent welcome; and aſſuring her, that every-thing ſhould be done that could be done, to make her happy in her own way.

LETTER XXV. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

LETTER XXVI. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

I Send you now incloſed the doctor's fourth Letter. I believe I muſt deſire my grandmamma and my aunt Selby to ſend for me down.

We ſhall all be in London this evening.

Would to heaven I had never come to it!—What of pleaſure have I had in it?—This abominable Sir Hargrave Pollexfen!—But for him, I had been eaſy and happy; ſince but for him, I had never wanted the re⯑lief of Sir Charles Grandiſon; never had known him. Fame might perhaps have brought to my ears, in general converſation, as other perſons of diſtinction are talked of, ſome of his benevolent actions; and he would have attracted my admiration without coſting me one ſigh. And yet, had it been ſo, I ſhould then have known none of thoſe lively ſenſibilities that have mingled pleaſure with my pain, on the pride I have had in being diſtinguiſhed as a ſiſter to the ſiſters of ſo extraordinary a man. O that I had kept my fooliſh heart free! I ſhould then have had enough to boaſt of for my whole life, enough to talk of to every one. And when I had been aſked by my companions and intimates, What diverſions, what entertainments, I had been at? I ſhould have ſaid, ‘'I have been in company and converſed with SIR CHARLES GRAN⯑DISON; and been favoured and diſtinguiſhed by all his family.'’ And I ſhould have paſſed many a happy winter evening, when my companions came to work and read with me at Selby-houſe, in anſwering their queſtions about all theſe; and Sir Charles would have been known among us principally by the name of The fine Gentleman; and my young friends would have come about me, and aſked me to tell them ſome⯑thing more of The Excellent man.

[264] But now my ambition has overthrown me: Aiming, wiſhing to be every-thing, I am nothing. If I am aſked about him, or his ſiſters, I ſhall ſeek to evade the ſubject; and yet, what other ſubject can I talk of? For what have I ſeen; what have I known, ſince I left Northamptonſhire, but Him and Them; and what muſt lead to Him and Them? And what indeed but Him and Them, ſince I have known this family, have I wiſhed to ſee, and to know?

On reviewing the above, how have I, as I ſee, ſuf⯑fered my childiſh fancies to delude me into a ſhort for⯑getfulneſs of his, of every -body's diſtreſſes!—But, O my Lucy, my heart is torn in pieces; and, I verily think, more for the unhappy Clementina's ſake, than for my own! How ſeverely do I pay for my curioſity! Yet it was neceſſary that I ſhould know the worſt. So Sir Charles ſeems to have thought, by the permiſſion he has given to Dr. Bartlett, to oblige me, and through me, his ſiſters, and all you my own friends.

Your pity will be more raiſed on reading the Letter I incloſe, not only for Clementina and Sir Charles, but for the whole family; none of whom, tho' all unhappy, are to be blamed. You will dearly love the noble Jeronymo, and be pleaſed with the young Lady's faithful Camilla: But, my dear, there is ſo much tenderneſs in Sir Charles's woe—It muſt be Love—But he ought to love Clementina: She is a glorious, tho'unhappy, young creature. I muſt not have one ſpark of generoſity left in my heart, I muſt be loſt wholly in Self, if I did not equally admire and love her.

LETTER XXVII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

REceive, my Lucy, the doctor's ſixth Letter. The fifth has almoſt broken the hearts of us all.

LETTER XXVIII. Miſs BYRON. In Continuation.

HERE, my Lucy, once more I am. We ar⯑rived yeſterday in the afternoon.

Lady Betty Williams and Miſs Clements have been already to welcome me on my return. My couſin [289] ſays, they are inſeparable. I am glad of it, for Lady Betty's ſake.

Dr. Bartlett is extremely obliging. One would think, that he and his kinſman give up all their time in tranſcribing for us. I ſend you now his ſeventh, eight, and ninth Letters. In reading the two latter, we were ſtruck (for the two ſiſters and my Lord were with us) with the nobleneſs of Clementina. Her motive, thro' her whole dilirium, is ſo apparently owing to her concern for the Soul of the man ſhe loved (en⯑tirely regardleſs of any intereſt of her own) that we all forgot what had been ſo long our wiſhes, and joined in giving a preference to her.

LETTER XXIX. Miſs BYRON., To Miſs SELBY.

O My Lucy! What think you—But it is eaſy to gueſs what you muſt think. I will, without ſaying one word more, incloſe

LETTER XXX. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

THIS Lady Olivia, Lucy, what can ſhe pretend to—But I will not puzzle myſelf about her. Yet ſhe pretend to give diſturbance to ſuch a man! You will find her mentioned in Dr. Bartlett's next Letter; or ſhe would not have been named by me.

LETTER XXXI. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY.

IN the doctor's next Letter, incloſed, you will find mention made of Sir Charles's Literary Journal: I fancy, my dear, it muſt be a charming thing. I wiſh we could have before us every line he wrote while he was in Italy. Once the preſumptuous Har⯑riet had hopes, that ſhe might have been intitled—But no more of theſe hopes—It can't be helped, Lucy.

LETTER XXXII. Miſs BYRON, To Miſs SELBY

REceive now, my dear, the doctor's thirteenth Letter, and the laſt he intends to favour us with, till he entertains us with the hiſtories of Mrs. Beau⯑mont, and Lady Olivia.

Excellent Dr. Bartlett! How worthy of himſelf is this advice! But think you not, my Lucy, that the doctor has in it a particular view to your poor Har⯑riet? A generous one, meaning conſolation and in⯑ſtruction to her? I will endeavour to profit by it. Let me have your prayers, my dear friends, that I may be enabled to ſucceed in my humble endeavours.

It will be no wonder to us now, that Sir Charles was not ſolicitous to make known a ſituation ſo em⯑barraſſing to himſelf, and ſo much involved in clouds and uncertainty: But whatever may be the event of this affair, you, Lucy, and all my friends, will hardly over know me by any other name than that of