LETTER I.
CHARLES EVELYN TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

IF I was not a ſlave to my promiſe, I ſhould not write to you, at preſent, as I find myſelf utterly incapable of ex⯑preſſing the mixed ſenſation of my mind.—I have often complained of the inade⯑quateneſs of language, but never felt it more ſtrongly, than now; the moſt co⯑pious that I am acquainted with, could by no means afford you even an idea of [2] the different reflections that have pro⯑greſſively given place to each other, in the ſpace of eight and forty hours.

I am provoked at this natural incapa⯑city of conveying my ſentiments to you; words are but a cloak, or rather a clog, to our ideas; there ſhould be no curtain before the hearts of friends; and the longing I have ever felt for an intuitive converſe, is to me a ſtrong argument for a future ſtate—What ſays my ſceptical friend to this opinion?—Don't be alarmed, I am not going to ſermonize—but what is almoſt as dull, to narrate.

By the careleſneſs or ignorance of my poſtilion, who drove me at leaſt a dozen miles out of my road, over Saliſ⯑bury Plain, it was near midnight be⯑fore I reached this place.—You, who are thoroughly acquainted with the na⯑tural warmth of my temper, and know [3] how impatient I have been to embrace a favourite ſiſter, after an abſence of twelve years, may judge of my anxiety—but there was no remedy, and I ſtrove to amuſe the irkſome tediouſneſs of my journey, by endeavouring to trace in my imagination, the growing beauties of my Emma's features, from ten years old, when I laſt ſaw the little darling of our houſe, to their meridian charms, at twenty-two.

At length we reached the gates of this noble edifice, and had the pleaſure to find the family not retired to reſt, by perceiving lights in the hall.—I en⯑quired for Sir James Deſmond, as I was determined not to announce myſelf, and I thought it rather too late for an un⯑known viſitor, to demand an interview with his lady—I was ſhewn into a ſa⯑loon, from whence the company had retired after ſupper; and from an ad⯑jacent [4] apartment, I heard a confuſed ſound of voices, intermixed, with the deteſtable noiſe of a dice-box.

In a few minutes all was huſhed, and a man, whom I believed to be an upper ſervant, was ſent to reconnoitre my perſon, and enquire my name and buſineſs. I told him I ſhould not re⯑veal either, but to his maſter. He ſmiled, as it now ſeems, at my ignorance, and withdrew. In about ten minutes, which ſeemed as many hours to me, Sir James entered, with an air compounded of fierte, and timidity. I preſented myſelf with the beſt grace I poſſibly could, and on mentioning my name, was accoſted with the utmoſt politeneſs, by my brother-in-law.

On my expreſſing my impatience to ſee my ſiſter, he ſaid he was pretty cer⯑tain [5] that ſhe was not gone to bed, and offered to conduct me to her apartment. I declined his offer till a ſtranger was announced to her; for I wiſhed to ſur⯑priſe, not alarm her. A ſervant was then ſent to let her ladyſhip know that there was a gentleman from London, who deſired to pay his reſpects to her.—We followed the ſervant to her dreſſing-room door; ſhe was ſitting leaning on her elbow, and ſeemed loſt in thought; the delivering of the meſſage rouſed her from her reverie, ſhe ſtarted up, and ſaid who can it be, at this late hour? I flew and caught her in my arms, crying out, 'tis I, 'tis Charles! ſhe preſſed me to her boſom, ſoftly ex⯑claimed, my brother! and almoſt fainted in my arms.

I will not pretend to deſcribe my ſen⯑ſation, for the reaſons given in the be⯑ginning of this letter, but I am certain, [6] I never felt ſuch unimpaſſioned tender⯑neſs before.—Sir James, who was not much affected with our interview, left us, to go and order ſome refreſhment for me; tho' in truth I needed none, my mind being ſo perfectly delighted with beholding my beloved ſiſter, whom I had ever thought on with all a father's fondneſs, that I had no leiſure to attend to the calls of appetite.

I aſked her a thouſand queſtions, without waiting for her anſwer, except to one; the number of her children—ſhe replied, I have but one—it is the image of our mother, and named after her.—Come, Charles, and let me ſhew you my lovely Fanny.—She led me to the nurſery, where I beheld a little ſleeping angel, of about two years old.—As we croſſed the ſtair-caſe, I again heard the dice-box rattle—Sir James is fond of play, I fancy, Emma, ſaid I—She affected [7] not to hear my queſtion, and did not anſwer it.

A thouſand diſagreeable images ruſhed on my imagination, in that inſtant, I cruſhed their growth, and talked of India, of my other ſiſters, Lucy, and Mrs. Selwyn, and of you alſo, till we were ſummoned to the ſaloon, where ſupper was prepared for me.

I there met three gentlemen with Sir James, amongſt whom was the perſon I had miſtaken for a ſervant. When he was preſented to me, I made my apology, which he received with great good humour, and congratulated Lady Deſmond on my arrival, with ſuch ap⯑parent ſincerity, that I have taken a liking to this new acquaintance, whoſe name is Sewell.—

We ſpent a couple of hours, moſt agreeably, my ſiſter became quite chear⯑ful, [8] Sir James and ſhe ſung two or three ſweet duettos, and we all retired to reſt, about three o'clock, in the moſt per⯑fect harmony, and at this happy criſis I will leave you, having run my letter into too great a length, though I have a thouſand things more to ſay to you; but I have quite as many to ſay to Emma, and ſo, Sir, you muſt, as in duty bound, give place to your betters; as you have gallantry enough, I hope, to agree with me, that all amiable women are ſo.

LETTER II.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

YOU know what an inveſtigator of human nature I am, and yet here have I been, four whole days, and as many nights, under the ſame roof with Sir James Deſmond, and cannot form any fixed idea of his character! one hour, tender and polite to his wife, fond of his lovely child, and eaſy in his manners to all around him.—The next, cold, diſtrait, nay peeviſh to my ſiſter, [10] inſenſible to the carreſſes of his little girl, inattentive and indifferent to his gueſts!—help me Stanley, to account for ſuch an oppoſition of qualities, and inconſiſtency of demeanour, in the ſame individual.

Too plainly I perceive that Emma is not happy, yet ſhe adores her huſband, and when ſhe ſpeaks of him, her tongue grows wanton in his praiſe; at his ap⯑proach, her eyes ſparkle with delight, but loſe their luſtre when his counte⯑nance changes, as it ſometimes does, from gay to grave. The variety of ex⯑preſſion that Emma's Cameleon-like features receive from her Proteus, ſerve but to heighten her beauty.—I ſhould think that nothing could be more in⯑tereſting than her ſprightly glance, if I had not ſeen her downcaſt eye.

[11] Why, Stanley, do all women affect to charm us by levity, when our affections are much more liable to be attracted by an appearance of ſenſibility? However, it is not the ſemblance, but the reality that can pleaſe, as I have very lately experienced.—Where it is only aſſumed, it is eaſily detected; and when the paint is waſhed off, the complexion looks the worſe, for having worn it—affectation in women, and hypocriſy in men, are equally deteſtable.

I have very uneaſy apprehenſions, tho' I hope they are not well founded, that Sir James Deſmond's ruling paſſion is the love of play. Men addicted to this vice, of all others, ſhou'd never marry; it abſorbs every generous affec⯑tion of the human heart. The drunkard has intervals of ſobriety, and in thoſe [12] may be capable of friendſhip and of fondneſs.—The choleric man is not al⯑ways in a paſſion, and is even pro⯑verbially good natured and humane; ſorry for, and ready to atone, the evil his ſhort lived frenzy may have cauſed.—Even the libertine, tho' he may ceaſe to love, moſt generally eſteems a virtu⯑ous wife; and if not a deſpicable wretch, indeed, endeavours to compenſate for his want of fondneſs, by generoſity and politeneſs towards her.

But let a man be once poſſeſſed with a paſſion for gaming, he becomes inca⯑pable of honour or affection; he wou'd wiſh to win money from his deareſt friend, tho' he knew that friend muſt be diſtreſſed by loſing it, and wou'd ſacri⯑fice the intereſt of his tendereſt connec⯑tion, to gratify this ſordid vice, which [13] like a whirlpool ſwallows every virtue.—His mind can never be at peace; his loſſes are attended with a permanent regret; his winnings, with but a tran⯑ſient exultation. The conſtant conten⯑tion of his paſſion, deſtroys his conſti⯑tution and anticipates old age; he paſſes his days and nights with harpies, like himſelf; he lives unloved, and dies un⯑lamented.

I know not how I have been drawn into this long exclamation againſt a vice which you hold in as much ab⯑horrence as I do, but my mind was full of rancour againſt it, merely on a ſuppoſition that it may interfere with the happineſs of a beloved ſiſter—I have now let out my venom, and ſhall perhaps be able to throw off that re⯑ſerve to Sir James and his aſſociates, [14] which this mental bile has hitherto been the cauſe of.

I find from Emma, that my brother was rather averſe to her marrying Sir James Deſmond, but that he had ſuf⯑fered too much from a diſappointed love to inflict ſuch torments upon her; as ſhe then confeſſed to him, and does now to me, that ſhe cou'd not have been happy with any other man—May her huſband's gratitude reward her predilection—And, indeed, if my ſuſpicion, with regard to his love of play, be groundleſs, I doubt not but he will. As I have already ſaid he ſeems to love and eſteem her, the caprice of his temper may produce ſud⯑den changes in his manner; but I think her beauty and tenderneſs muſt ſecure his affections.—I will think no more upon [15] this ſubject, at preſent. My mind is in⯑voluntarily occupied by more ſelfiſh re⯑flections; but in my next I ſhall afford you an opportunity of judging for your⯑ſelf, by reaſoning from facts.

LETTER III.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

I PROMISED in my laſt, to give you the minute tranſactions of this fa⯑mily; but how impoſſible! not only them, but every trace of my paſt life, except thy friendſhip, are vaniſhed from my memory.

My ſentiments, my paſſions, are en⯑groſſed by one object,—my whole ſoul is hers,—never was love ſo violent, nor beauty ſo inſpiring, "Since the [17] firſt fair that Eden's garden graced,"—wou'd ſhe were my Eve, and I her Adam! For in this peopled world, there is no doubt, but that ſhe muſt have had as many lovers, as beholders.—Perhaps ſome favoured youth has already touched her gentle heart, and your unhappy friend muſt ſigh in vain—jealouſy is twin-born with love; but ſo is hope; and I will hope, while I exiſt—deſpair and death to me can be but one.—

I will ſtrive to methodize my thoughts, a little, and attempt a deſcription of this charming woman; though I know it impoſſible to give you a juſt idea of her perfections. We were at breakfaſt in Lady Deſmond's dreſſing-room, when a ſervant announced the arrival of Lady Juliana Harley—my ſiſter's eyes ſparkled with joy at her approach.—

[18] She was dreſſed in a light grey caſſimere cloth habit, embroidered with black; her hair was turned up under a white ri⯑ding hat, in which was a black band and feather; ſome of her lovely auburn locks had broke from their confinement, and wandered careleſsly o'er her ſnowy neck—ſhe is a little taller than the middle ſize, her complexion dazzlingly fair, the colour in her cheeks ſo faint, ſo tranſient, that you can hardly pronounce there is any except when ſhe ſpeaks, or is addreſſed; and then we may ſay with Donne,

This circumſtance, however, tho' it may, perhaps, leſſen her beauties, in⯑creaſes [19] her charms; for by appearing not to have been any original defect in her complexion, but the caſual effect of misfortune or ill-health, captivate us thro' ſympathy, which is always ſtronger than the ſenſes. Her eyes dark blue, adorned with long black eye-laſhes; her brows of the ſame colour; her noſe the perfect Grecian; her lips and teeth—but I ſhall attempt no more—A ſtatue may be deſcribed, but not a living Venus—ſhe ſeems to be about four and twenty, and has been near two years a widow.

Emma tells me that my elder brother had been propoſed for her, before her marriage with Mr. Harley; but her fa⯑ther, the Earl of K—, had already en⯑tered into a treaty with her late huſ⯑band, and poor Harry was of courſe, [20] refuſed—I grieve now for what he muſt have ſuffered, at that time; but con⯑ſole myſelf with thinking that he would have had a much ſeverer ſtruggle on his leaving life, had he been poſſeſſed of ſuch an object. At leaſt I ſtrive to perſuade myſelf that it was happy for him, he was not married to Lady Juliana, as I may hope, at the ſame time, that it was very fortunate for me.

This charming woman has promiſed to ſtay a fortnight with my ſiſter, and then we are all to go to London, together.—I will uſe all my intereſt with Emma, to delay her journey, and detain her lovely gueſt for a longer term. If I do not obtain ſome little ſhare in her heart, whilſt ſhe remains under the ſame roof with me, where I have a thouſand op⯑portunities of marking my attentions, [21] without appearing to obtrude them, I muſt deſpair of making any impreſſion, when ſhe will be ſurrounded by crouds of admirers, and hurried into all the diſſipation of the gay world.

The country, as the poets tell us, is the ſcene for love; the pleaſing objects that ſurround us, the pureneſs of the air, but, above all, its ſtillneſs, har⯑monize the ſoul, and render it ſuſcep⯑tible of every ſoft and tender feeling.—Noiſe is an enemy to all the gentle paſſions, I agree with Sterne, that a lover who was unfortunate enough, to throw down the fire ſhovel and tongs, when he was going to proſtrate himſelf at his miſtreſs's feet, cou'd have very little hopes of ſucceſs, from his flurried fair one.

[22] Silence is rendered vocal, at this moment, by the ſoft ſounds of Lady Juliana's, and my ſiſter's voices, under my window—They are going to walk, perhaps,—I fly, I follow them!

LETTER IV.
CHARLES EVELYN TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

SOME French writer ſays, ‘That there are men, who are ſuch egotiſts, that rather than not talk of themſelves they wou'd even reveal their failings.’ Thoſe men were never in love, or they wou'd have experienced a much higher delight in talking of the object of their affections, than of themſelves.

For my part, I can neither think, talk, or write upon any other ſubject than the [24] charming Juliana—If you were not a lo⯑ver, I ſhou'd fear you wou'd ſoon grow tired of my correſpondence, but as I know you are capable of all the pleaſing weakneſſes neceſſarily attendant upon that character, I truſt you will indulge me on my favourite topic.

In my laſt, I gave you a faint ſketch of lady Juliana's perſonal charms, but be⯑lieve me, Stanley, no pen or pencil can deſcribe the winning ſoftneſs, and attrac-tive grace, that accompanies her every look and motion—I have ſeen many ele⯑gant women, but ſhe is elegance perſo⯑nified—ipſa forma.

There is a plaintive ſweetneſs in her voice, that wou'd render the moſt trifling expreſſions intereſting; even a blind man, who did not underſtand her language, wou'd be enamoured of the ſound—She [25] talks but little, and when ſhe ceaſes, I feel like our progenitor, when Raphael left off ſpeaking—

Her words upon every ſubject on which ſhe converſes, are perfectly well choſen, from whence I conclude ſhe has read the beſt authors in our language; ſhe is a perfect miſtreſs of the French, and Em⯑ma ſays, plays finely on the harpſichord, but has not been prevailed on ſince ſhe came here to afford us this delight. I have never ſeen her laugh, and ſhe ſighs oftener, than ſhe ſmiles—ſhe ſeems to labour under an habitual melancholy, which gives an additional ſoftneſs both to her looks and manner.—

[26] Do you know that notwithſtanding our friendſhip, I ſhould not be quite eaſy at your ſeeing Lady Juliana, if I was not convinced that Lucy has an unboun⯑ded power over your affections, and will of courſe be kind enough to herſelf, and me, to prevent your becoming my ri⯑val. As to the men who are in this houſe, they are ſo entirely occupied by their ſor⯑did paſſion for gaming, that I almoſt doubt whether the united charms of the whole ſex could be able to make any impreſſion on them. Their hearts are tied up in their purſes. But though I deſpiſe their ſtupidity, I am indebted to it, as it occaſions their retiring to a diſtant apartment every day after dinner, to purſue their ſports and paſtimes, and leaves me happier than an emperor, in the ſociety of two moſt charming women.

[27] I am ſometimes permitted to read to them. Milton, is a favourite of Lady Juliana's, and you may ſee by my quo⯑tation, that our taſtes are the ſame. I have ſometimes perceived while I have been reading, that ſhe has looked ear⯑neſtly upon me, but the moment I have raiſed my eyes in hopes of meeting hers, their modeſt lids have veiled them from my ſight, and I have frequently obſerved a ſilent tear ſteal down her lovely cheek.

What can theſe marks of ſorrow mean? I wou'd give worlds, to know, provided it was in my power to remove the cauſe.—Emma too, whom you know to be the gentleſt of the gentle kind, ap⯑pears abſent, and loſt in thought frequent⯑ly.—From this account you will not ſup⯑poſe that our evenings are paſſed in the moſt lively manner. Yet believe me, Stanley, I wou'd not exchange the plea⯑ſure [28] I receive from this devotement of my time, for ‘The broadeſt mirth unfeeling folly wears.’ The minutes ſeem to fly, while our ſo⯑ciety is confined to a triumvirate, but as ſoon as Sir James and his companions join us, Lady Juliana retires, and then all is what they call jollity, and I call noiſe.

I don't know whether you may not be inclined to laugh at my Sombre ideas of happineſs, I know Lucy will, if you ſhew her my letter, be that as it may, I am certain I never was half ſo happy before; though perhaps neither you or ſhe wou'd be ſo in the ſame ſituation—I therefore wiſh ye both all the pleaſures the gay world can give, and am moſt affectionately yours

LETTER V.
WILLIAM STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

AND now, I ſuppoſe, like your gallant prototype, Monſieur Romeo, you have totally forgotten your former miſtreſs, and are ready to hang, drown, or put an end to your miſerable exiſ⯑tence, in any other doleful way, all for the love of your fair Juliet. Alas poor Charles!—however, I am glad you have [30] been laid hold of by this charming re⯑lict—Love-making and hay-making are the two moſt delightful rural paſtimes, that I know of; but it is not requiſite that both ſhould be done while the ſun ſhines—for the firſt is juſt as agree⯑able by a fire-ſide, under a roof, with or without the ſinging of cage-birds, as in a ſummer's evening, under the ſhade of a beech, to the ſoft notes of the nightingale,—For notwithſtanding all that you or the poets have ſaid, in praiſe of the country, I will venture to promiſe that your fond vows will be juſt as well received by Lady Juliana, at her houſe in Berkeley-ſquare, as in the moſs-grown woods, or flowering-ſhrub⯑bery at Delville—It is the man, and not the place, that muſt render his paſſion acceptable; for every ſpot is an Eden, with thoſe we love.

[31] I will allow there is much pleaſure, and perhaps ſome little advantage too, in being in the ſame houſe with the object of our affections, whilſt we are endeavouring to inſpire a reciprocal one; but that once having taken effect, believe me it is much more for the intereſt of the lover to be placed at a little diſtance, than too near. The pleſaure of expecting his approach, fixes the fair-one's attention to his moſt agreeable qualities, and the flat⯑tering likeneſs which her fondneſs and ſelf-love join to draw off the abſent idol, generally exceeds the merits of the original.

If therefore you can flatter yourſelf with having made any impreſſion on Lady Juliana's heart, and are ſeriouſly [32] in love yourſelf, which I know not how to believe after your ſeeming attach⯑ment to Miſs Morton, don't be afraid of her Ladyſhip's coming to London—re⯑member, ‘That to a woman that loves, there is but one man in the world.’ Some lady-writer has refined upon this ſentiment of Rouſſeau's, and ſays That to a woman who truly loves, there is no man in the world the object is more; and every other leſs.

I admire your ingenuity in endeavour⯑ing to perſuade yourſelf that your bro⯑ther's being unſucceſsful in his addreſſes, was a fortunate circumſtance for him, becauſe it is a lucky one for you—juſt ſo do all men reaſon, who ſpeak from their paſſions. Self-love is an artful ſophiſter, and I have no doubt but you cou'd eaſily prevail upon yourſelf, to be⯑lieve that it was a great advantage to [33] poor Harry, to be taken off by a fever, in his eight-and-twentieth year, as his death has put you into poſſeſſion of a noble eſtate, and recalled you from India's burning ſoil, to the mild climate of your native land.

Your ſerious complaint of the inade⯑quateneſs of language, in your firſt letter, made me ſmile,—believe me you were more at a loſs for ideas, than words, when you ſat down to write; or at leaſt the former wanted pr [...]iſion; for nothing can be clearer to me than that you were then undetermined with regard to Sir James Deſmond's character—the new lights thrown upon it ſince, in my mind do but puzzle the cauſe—I am not perſonally acquainted with him, but he is generally well ſpoken of, tho' ſaid to be remarkably fond of play; and [34] I have heard it hinted that he has ſuffered by it conſiderably.

I can't tell why I ſhould diſlike your new acquaintance, Mr. Sewell, and yet I do—your miſtaking him for a ſervant, is againſt him,—a meanneſs, either in manners or appearance, is no favourable prognoſtic—or—don't be angry, Charles, but poſſibly my antipathy may have ariſen from your too ſudden ſympathy. Not from any ſpirit of contradiction, but that I know you are often too liable to impromptu attachments, both in love and friendſhip.—And yet, tho' you have ſmarted pretty ſeverely for a firſt-ſight connection before now; I wou'd not, if I cou'd, reſtrain the openneſs and benevo⯑lence of your nature.—Every man that is not himſelf a knave, is liable to be duped by one, till a thorough knowledge of the world has taught him caution, at the coſt [35] of one of the higheſt pleaſures in life—that of thinking well of human na⯑ture.

I don't know whether your ſiſters, Mrs. Selwyn, and my Lucy, for I ſtill hope to call her mine, have not reaſon to be jealous, in the friendly way, of your partiality to Lady Deſmond,—ſhe cannot, in my mind, have more ex⯑cellent or amiable qualities, than your eldeſt ſiſter, nor is it poſſible that ſhe can have more charms, either in mind or perſon, than your youngeſt. But I will not hint this unjuſt preference to either of them, particularly as I have reaſon, from your laſt letter, to believe that they, and all the reſt of the world, are quite upon a par, in your preſent eſtimation; your whole quota of fond affections, being abſolutely devoted to the tranſcendent beauties of your divine [36] Juliana—I hope that laſt line is ſublime enough to ſatisfy your loverſhip.

Adieu! my dear Charles, I have ſaid nothing of my own affairs, becauſe they are ſtill in an unpleaſant train.

P. S. I ſhewed your laſt letter to Lucy; ſhe ſmiled, and ſaid ſome men have ſtrange fancies.

LETTER VI.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

UPON my honour you do me wrong, Stanley—I never loved, or feigned to love Miſs Morton—I thought her lively, elegant, and ſenſible, and ſtill think her ſo, but were every charm ſhe poſſeſſes augmented beyond the power of numbers to encreaſe, my heart could hold no ſympathy with hers—For if ſhe has a heart, it is an unfeeling one—Do not miſtake me, now, by ſuppoſing that [38] I complain of her coldneſs, from having experienced it—Believe me I never pro⯑ceeded ſo far as to meet with a repulſe.

When I firſt came to England, I ſaw her often, liked, nay admired, and might perhaps have loved her, had not the worthleſſneſs of her diſpoſition broke thro' the cobweb veil of an affected ſenſibility, and turned my admiration to diſguſt—You may remember, that at the time of my arrival in London, Miſs Morton was on a viſit at my ſiſter Selwyn's; this cir⯑cumſtance occaſioned our being particu⯑larly intimate; we ſpent almoſt our whole time together, and whether from any little deſign of rendering herſelf agree⯑able to me, by indulging what you call my foible, or from an affectation of ſin⯑gular ſenſibility, I know not, ſhe uſed to launch forth into ſuch effuſion of ſenti⯑mental tenderneſs and generoſity, as ex⯑ceeded [39] even our eaſtern ideas of huma⯑nity.—I have ſeen her ready to weep for a drowning fly; and my ſiſter Lucy uſed to ſay, Miſs Morton cou'd only be a fit wife, for The Man of Feeling ^*.

It happened one ſummer's evening, that we three walked in the park till near duſk; as we came down Conſtitu⯑tion-Hill, a young woman in a wretched garb, with a pale and emaciated counte⯑nance, paſſed cloſely by us. Chance, and chance alone, directed my eyes to glance full upon hers; in a moment her face was ſuffuſed with crimſon, ſhe turned her head aſide, quickened her pace, and was almoſt inſtantly out of ſight.

Nothing is ſo ſwift as thought; a ray of recollection beamed upon my mind, and [40] brought back to my remembrance the once ſmiling countenance of Nancy Weſ⯑ton, whoſe father had been one of the un⯑der maſters at Wincheſter, at whoſe houſe I boarded, when I was placed at college there.—Her appearance ſpoke diſtreſs—ſaas adieu, I quitted the ladies, and ſet out with haſty ſtrides to overtake and ac⯑knowledge my former play-fellow, or rather play-thing, for ſhe was ſome years younger than myſelf, and I had borne her in my arms a thouſand times. What convinced me that I was not miſtaken in my conjecture with regard to the identity of the perſon, was a pretty large mole at the bottom of her left cheek, which uſed to give a thouſand nameleſs graces to her mouth.

I reached the top of the hill without perceiving the object of my purſuit, but upon looking backwards, I ſaw her lying [41] on the ground at ſome diſtance from the foot-path, with her face covered by her hands—The little effort which conſcious ſhame had impelled her feebleneſs to make, in order to paſs unnoticed by me, had totally exhauſted her laſt remains of ſtrength, and perhaps ſhe had ſaid with Jane Shore—‘Why ſhou'd I wander, ſtray farther on, for I can die even here?’

I flew directly towards her, and raiſed her almoſt lifeleſs body from the earth—ſhe could not articulate a ſingle word, but the dumb eloquence of flowing tears too plainly ſpoke unutterable woe—I ſaw a gentleman paſſing at ſome diſtance, and called to him for help; as he came near, I entreated him to uſe the utmoſt expe⯑dition to fetch a chair to receive a young woman that I feared was dying,—he ſaid he was ſorry my humanity was not [42] beſtowed upon a worthier object, as he ſuppoſed her to be one of thoſe unhappy wretches who nightly-infeſt the park; but ſhe ſhou'd not however periſh for want of his aſſiſtance, and at that moment ſet forward to call a chair, in which, at his return I placed her, and deſired the men to carry her gently to the firſt apothecary's ſhop in Picadilly, whither I attended her.

Every medicinal aid that is uſually given to fainting perſons was adminiſ⯑tered to her, and ſhe revived a little—the humane apothecary ſaid ſhe wanted food more than phyſic, and made her eat a little bread, and drink ſome wine and water. I then deſired her to direct the chairmen to her home, and ſaid I wou'd follow her thither—ſhe raiſed her languid eyes, and ſaid, in a low, and ſcarcely ar⯑ticulate voice, I have no home. I then requeſted the apothecary to provide a [43] lodging for her, near him, and to attend her both as a phyſician and a friend, promiſing to be anſwerable for any ex⯑pence and trouble that might be incurred upon her account; and as a counter ſe⯑curity to which engagement, left a bill for fifty pounds in his hands to be ſettled for at ſome future day.

The poor unhappy girl then fell on her knees before me, pouring out the ſtrongeſt expreſſions of gratitude for my kindneſs. I intreated her to compoſe her ſhattered ſpirits for the preſent, and to rely upon my friendſhip not to deſert her, let her faults or mis⯑fortunes be of what nature ſoever they might. So leaving my addreſs with her, that ſhe might know where to apply, I returned to Mrs. Selwyn's, in order to account for my abrupt manner of quitting Miſs Morton and Lucy.

[44] When I had told my tale, I expected to ſee the bewitching tear of pity ſtand in Miſs Morton's eye:—when to my amazement, a ſettled gloom loured on her brow, and indignation ſparkled from her eyes,—ſhe continued ſilent, till I addreſſed myſelf to her and Lucy, requeſting them to ſpare me ſome part of their ward-robe, to ſupply the imme⯑diate neceſſities of the unhappy Nancy Weſton, till there cou'd be ſome pro⯑cured, more ſuited to her humble ſta⯑tion.—

No words can deſcribe the rage with which ſhe told me, that ſhe was aſto⯑niſhed, both at my inſolence and mean⯑neſs, in expecting that ſhe wou'd ſuffer any thing ſhe had ever worn to be con⯑taminated by the perſon of a proſtitute, for ſuch ſhe was ſure I had known her to be, and if I intended to reſtore her to [45] her former ſituation, ſhe thought it wou'd be but decent to cloath her at my own, rather than at any other perſon's expence.

It is impoſſible to expreſs the ſudden and forcible effect, which both the manner and matter of Miſs Morton's harangue produced on me. Suffice it to ſay, that they unſexed her, even from top to toe;—and from that hour, I have ever looked upon her mind with deteſtation, and her perſon with diſ⯑guſt.

I have entered into this long detail, to acquit myſelf of a charge, which by the generality of the world is ſcarcely deemed a vice, but which I conſider as an act of baſeneſs, that of engaging the affections of an innocent heart, and then repaying its unmerited tenderneſs with [46] black ingratitude.—Baniſhed be the vile idea from every honeſt breaſt, and may his couch be ever ſtrewed with thorns, that can for his ſport, create a pang, in the boſom of unſuſpecting inno⯑cence!

Away with the unpleaſing ſubject, and let it prove to my Stanley, of how much conſequence his eſteem is to my happineſs, when I tell him that it is now three o'clock in the morning, that I have danced from eight in the even⯑ing (but not with Lady Juliana, ſhe having retired with viſible dejection to her chamber, on the arrival of ſome company,) yet could not lay me down in peace, till I had removed the un⯑juſt ſuſpicion he has hinted, tho' ſeem⯑ingly in jeſt, of my being a faithleſs lover, or, in other words a ſcoundrel.—But tho' at this moment I am very far [47] from being, happy either on my own or Emma's account, I have the conſola⯑tion of thinking that I have not deſerved to be wretched, and of knowing that I may boldly ſubſcribe myſelf your ſincere Friend.

P. S. Lady Juliana has appeared, for ſome days paſt, much graver than uſual,—ſhe declines any little ſervice from me, tho' of ever ſo trifling a nature, and ſeems cautiouſly to avoid entering into any converſation with me, tho' in a mixed company. Ah, Stanley! I have no hopes of making any impreſſion on her heart, either at Delville, or in Berke⯑ley-ſquare.

Mr. Sewell has lately dropped ſome hints to me, that Sir James Deſmond's [48] finances are a good deal embarraſſed by his ill ſucceſs at play. I think this perſon will juſtify my predeliction in his favour, as he talks ſo very ſenſibly againſt both the vice and folly of gam⯑ing. But that in ſo unaffected a man⯑ner, that he acknowledges the neceſſity of it, to thoſe who would live in the world, as at preſent conſtituted. This is too ſad a truth.—The manners of life, however corrupt, muſt be our rule of action, if we would preſerve our rank in it.—He who would be virtuous alone, muſt live alone. While he has been ſpeaking upon this ſubject, I have ſeen my ſiſter ſteal a tender look at her huſband, more perſuaſive than all the rhetoric of Demoſthenes.—But if ſhe cannot cure his diſeaſe, I can prevent its effects from becoming fatal for the preſent at leaſt, I ſhould be happy to [49] do ſo,—if I cou'd be happy.—Send me bills for the encloſed draft, by return of the poſt—I may, perhaps, have oc⯑caſion for more than mere travelling expences before I leave this.

LETTER VII.
WILLIAM STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

IT is now very near eleven o'clock, and I am but this moment returned from an excurſion I made into Kent, for three or four days; of courſe I did not receive your letter till this inſtant.—I ſhould think myſelf unworthy of the very delicate attention you have ſhewn to my good opinion, were I to delay the thanks that are due for it, to another poſt;—accept them, my dear Evelyn, and be aſſured that I con⯑ſider [51] your generous impatience of blame, upon an article too lightly treated by the generality of men, as the ſtrongeſt proof of your friendſhip.—The higheſt compliment we can pay to thoſe we re⯑gard, is the endeavouring to appear worthy of their eſteem; for tho' love may, friendſhip never did, or will ſub⯑ſiſt, without a mutual exertion of good qualities, as well as of kind offices,—and he who can acquieſce in another's thinking meanly of him, betrays an equal want of regard to him, and of reſpect to himſelf,—ſo much in honour of your nice feelings; and I heartily wiſh that all men, and women too, were poſſeſſed of the ſame—particularly the latter, who like "Caeſar's wife, ought not to be even ſuſpected."—

I am extremely pleaſed at the little novel, which my raillery (for indeed I [52] meant no more) extorted from you.—Pray, at your leiſure, let me have the remainder of Nancy Weſton's ſtory; I feel myſelf much intereſted for her, which is more than I ever was for Miſs Morton; ſhe always appearing to me a ſort of made-up Miſs, than which I know not a leſs amiable character.

O, Charles, if women wou'd but truſt to nature for their power to charm, and ſcorn the mean, the treacherous auxiliary of art, how unbounded wou'd be their dominion over us!—But I have not time now to expatiate on a topic, that has ever been my favourite one.—For my mind is nice, tho' my moral is not ſevere.

I am glad to hear that Lady Juliana is grown cold and reſerved to you—It is at leaſt a tacit confeſſion that ſhe is ap⯑prized [53] of your paſſion.—No woman ventures to be diſagreeably diſtant to a man, to whom ſhe has once been civil, till ſhe is quite certain that her caprice will render him unhappy.—Ladies are too tenacious of their ſway, to attempt an exertion of it, where it is not likely to be felt, but your true lover is the propereſt object in the world for ty⯑ranny, and ſeems really deſigned for no other purpoſe, but to be trampled on.

Courage, then, Charles.—The ice at leaſt is broken, and in ſuch a change⯑able latitude, who knows how ſoon the wind may veer about to the ſouth, and breathe its ſoft Eteſian gales upon you. You will, I doubt not, perceive that I am not at preſent, much inclined to write a panegyric upon the fair ſex, and will of courſe conclude, that Lucy and I have had a brouillerie.—I always [54] ſquabble with thoſe I love—becauſe they won't let me have my own way—for with thoſe I care not about, I have no way at all. Yes, Evelyn! your ſiſter is—a dear delightful, charming, wo⯑man—good night.

Your bills ſhall be ſent, by next poſt.

LETTER VIII.
LADY JULIANA HARLEY, TO MISS LUCY EVELYN.

I KNOW it will give my Lucy plea⯑ſure to hear that I have paſſed ſome time with her amiable friends at Delville. I ac⯑knowledge a ſecret and irreſiſtible charm that attaches me to every part of the Evelyn family; and in the ſociety of Lady Deſmond, tho' far leſs intimately connected with her, than you, I hoped I ſhould recover my ſpirits, ſo far as to enable me, to indulge your requeſt, of [56] paſſing ſome months of the approaching winter in London.—

The unexpected meeting with Mr. Evelyn, at firſt a good deal diſconcerted me, for I am little uſed to ſeeing ſtran⯑gers. His appearance, perhaps, too ſtrongly recalled the idea of his brother, but by degrees the painful ſuggeſtions of memory, became leſs poignant, and I fancied I might with ſafety, indulge the melancholy pleaſure of tracing Henry's features, in his brother's face.

But even this tranſient—what ſhall I call it? alas! it will not bear the name of happineſs—cou'd not arrive to me without alloy.

Not to deal longer in myſtery, your brother, to his great misfortune as well as mine, I fear has conceived an affec⯑tion [57] for me. Nay, I know he has.—Diſſembling is beneath me—gracious heaven, why was I born to be a curſe to all the Evelyn race! Why am I doomed to be the ſource of miſery to thoſe whom I love beſt on earth? This is beyond the common courſe of ills!

But let me recollect myſelf—Your brother's paſſions ſeem to be violent; and therefore may be the leſs permanent—I will ſtop the growing miſchief then, by flying from his fight. I had reſolved to go to London with Lady Deſmond, and have ſent my ſervants thither—no matter—I will return to Yorkſhire, which I never more intended to viſit, and paſs the winter there, or any where, rather than hazard your brother's, Lady Deſmond's, and my Lucy's peace.

[58] You may, perhaps, think that I am too eaſily alarmed upon this ſubject, but, O my friend! thoſe who have felt the pangs of real love, ſhould dread inflicting where they cannot heal them; and pity, poor cold pity, is all that now is left me to beſtow.

Your brother has not yet made any explicit declaration of his attachment towards me; his pride will therefore be ſaved from the mortification of thinking that I fly from him—Trifling as this con⯑ſolation may appear, I am glad he is in poſſeſſion of it, as any other reaſon that he may aſſign for my ſhunning his ad⯑dreſſes, muſt be leſs painful than the real one.

If I were writing to any other perſon, I ſhould have ſome apprehenſion leſt they might ſuppoſe my vanity had miſ⯑taken [59] Mr. Evelyn's natural politeneſs, for the effects of a commencing paſſion; but his every look and action bear ſo ſtriking a reſemblance to thoſe of his la⯑mented brother, who loved me but too well, that it is impoſſible to doubt their motive—beſides, my Lucy is a perfect Columbus in the terra incognita of lovers hearts, and diſcovered her faithful Stanley's fond attachment in his ſpeaking eyes, for many months before his tongue revealed it—happy, happy Lucy! whoſe hand and heart are free to bleſs the man who beſt deſerves them! whilſt I—Here let me ſtop, nor pain your gentle breaſt with my complainings.—

I ſhall quit this houſe to-morrow; five minutes before I ſet out I will acquaint Lady Deſmond with my intention of re⯑turning into the North—How ſhall I be able to conceal the cauſe of this ſudden [60] alteration in my purpoſe from her? yet I will conceal it, from her, from all the world, but you.

Write to me, I intreat you, tho' I know I need not.—The friend of my heart will continue, as ſhe has ever been, attentive to its happineſs.—

LETTER IX.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

O STANLEY, ſhe is gone! fled! and much I fear it is from me ſhe flies.—

Laſt night, curſe on all ſports and ſportſmen! Sir James Deſmond, propoſed our going out a ſhooting this morning early; the day was gloomy, and it was near nine o'clock before we determined upon ſetting out.—The ladies, as I thought, were not yet riſen—while our horſes were getting ready I took a turn [62] in the garden, and at ſome diſtance heard the ſound of female voices—I ſtopped to liſten from whence they came, and at that inſtant perceived Lady Juliana and my ſiſter coming towards me, in cloſe conference—they ſeemed to be en⯑gaged upon ſome very important ſubject, and I fancied I heard my name men⯑tioned—the moment they beheld me, they turned about, and with a quickened pace ſhot down another walk—I ſaw they wiſhed to avoid me, and therefore re⯑turned directly into the houſe. I joined Sir James and his friends, and we ſet out together; but I was too much occupied with the ſcene that had juſt paſſed before me, to be at all intereſted in their ſport,—they rallied me upon my inattention, and wiſhed me to return home, as I interrupted their amuſement, without ſeeming to be myſelf amuſed—I readily accepted my congé, and clapping ſpurs [63] to my horſe, galloped back again with an unſpeakable anxiety.

I found my ſiſter alone in the draw⯑ing room, and inſtantly enquired for Lady Juliana—ſhe replied, with a me⯑lancholy accent, ſhe has left us, Charles.—Whither is ſhe gone? and what cou'd be the cauſe of ſuch a ſudden flight?—On both theſe ſubjects I am as igno⯑rant as you can be. It is impoſſible, I cried; but if you ever loved me, Emma, tell me and tell me truly, have I offended Lady Juliana, and is it from my hated ſight ſhe flies?—I am ſure ſhe does not hate you, ſhe replied, for her nature is incapable of repaying hatred, for love.—What, then ſhe knows I love her?—From her diſcourſe I believe ſhe fears you do—but be compoſed, ſit down, I beg of you—Wherefore ſhou'd ſhe fear it? Does ſhe think meanly of me? My [64] brother was not thought unworthy her alliance, ſhe wou'd have given her hand to him, but that her father's promiſe was engaged to one ſhe never loved,—but I will know the cauſe of her diſdain; from her own lips will know it. I rang the bell and ordered my chaiſe to be got ready inſtantly. Emma burſt into tears, and ſaid, do not render me more unhappy than I am already—my brother, do not leave me in diſtreſs.

Alarmed as all my paſſions were, her gentle accents vibrated upon my heart, and calmed each throbbing pulſe.—I ſat down by her, took her trembling hand and ſaid, what does my Emma mean?—Can I relieve her ſorrows?—Her tears flowed more abundantly, and for ſome minutes ſtopped her utterance—at length, turning her head away from me, ſhe ſaid, yes Charles, thank hea⯑ven, [65] you can; but do not let the pre⯑ſent circumſtance leſſen my huſband in your eſteem; no man is perfect, and Sir James has but one fault—he is too fond of play.—There is an execution in our houſe this moment for ſeven hun⯑dred pounds.—I wou'd have joined with my huſband to raiſe the money, by re⯑linquiſhing my jointure—but he wou'd not liſten to the propoſal, declaring he wou'd periſh in a gaol, rather than in⯑jure me, or our dear little Fanny.—He is, indeed, my brother, the tendereſt of huſbands, and of fathers.

Of thoſe particulars Emma, ſaid I, you certainly are the beſt judge, but have I not reaſon to reſent Sir James's want of confidence in me? Why did he not prevent this diſgrace to himſelf and family, by acquainting me with his [66] neceſſities?—Cou'd he ſuppoſe me mean enough to ſuffer you to be diſtreſſed for any ſum within my power to raiſe?—Ah, Charles! ſhe replied, catching my hand, the mind that feels its own reproach dreads to expoſe itſelf to that of others.—They who have loſt the fear of being contemned, moſt generally de⯑ſerve to be ſo.

I will believe you reaſon juſtly, Emma, and wou'd not, if I cou'd, re⯑fute your argument; but time now preſſes.—It is impoſſible that I can reſt till my doom is pronounced by Lady Juliana,—this night I muſt leave Del⯑ville, and am at preſent no otherways pre⯑pared to extricate you from your irkſome ſituation, than by taking the debt upon myſelf, if your creditor will accept my ſecurity, I am ready to give it; but as [67] I am not known to him, he may per⯑haps object.—If I cou'd ſtay but three days longer, it might be more eaſily accompliſhed; for from ſome hints that have been dropped, in relation to Sir James's circumſtances, I drew upon my banker for a thouſand pounds, but I cannot expect the bills ſhou'd be re⯑turned to me till Friday at the ſooneſt.

It is no matter, ſhe replied, Mr. Sewell will, I doubt not, gladly accept of your ſecurity. Is Sewell then your cre⯑ditor, I exclaimed? Cou'd he lodge an execution in the houſe under whoſe roof he dwells? I know not how it is, my brother, but I believe the money was originally loſt at play to Mr. Sewell—Sir James gave him a bond, on which he raiſed the money from his brother, who now exacts the payment in this ſe⯑vere manner.

[68] I fear then, Emma, Sewell is a knave, and joined in mean colluſion with his brother, to diſtreſs your huſband, who looks upon him as his friend.—You are deceived, Charles, I am ſure he is Sir James's friend, and mine, by his per⯑petually diſſuading him from play.—It may be ſo; but tell me, Emma, all you know, and all you think of Lady Ju⯑liana's ſudden departure, what can it mean?

She replied, I again repeat to you, that I am as ignorant of Lady Juliana's motives for her conduct, as yourſelf:—though to all appearance ſhe has been perfectly blameleſs through the whole courſe of her life; her actions have always been involved in a ſort of myſ⯑tery, and ſeemingly inconſiſtent to my apprehenſion.—My ſiſter Lucy may poſſibly be better acquainted with her [69] ſentiments than I am, as ſhe was very intimate with her even before her mar⯑riage. She did not continue in that ſtate above four months; and tho' I had rea⯑ſon to believe ſhe was an unhappy wife, ſhe lamented her huſband's untimely death with ſuch an extravagance of ſorrow, as placed her very nearly on a footing with the Malabarian widows; for her health was ſo much impaired by her grief, that it was thought impoſſi⯑ble ſhe cou'd recover; nor have I ever ſeen her chearful ſince her huſband died.—But from the moment ſhe per⯑ceived your particular attachment, her melancholy was encreaſed, and ſhe has ſeemed twenty times upon the point of expreſſing her uneaſineſs at your con⯑ſtant aſſiduities. For theſe laſt three days ſhe appeared to be quite retired within herſelf, and I have had ſo many diſagreeable things to engroſs my [70] thoughts, that I was rather pleaſed at her reſerve, and did not attempt to draw her out of it.

This morning ſhe ſent her woman to let me know that ſhe wiſhed to ſpeak with me, and that I ſhou'd find her in the garden, to which I inſtantly repaired. She was ſeated in the temple by the river's ſide, leaning on her arm, and ſeemed loſt in thought; when I approached her, ſhe ſtarted from her reverie, and ſaid—The ill fate that has ever attended me, prevents my ſtaying longer at Delville, or accompanying you to London; I was born to create miſery, where I wiſh to confer happineſs, but I will not volunta⯑rily increaſe the baneful influence of that malignant fatality which dwells around me.—For this reaſon only, do I now take a precipitate leave of you, my dear Lady Deſmond, intreating you not to [71] mention my departure till I have been gone ſome hours.

I, at firſt, proceeded Emma, endeavour⯑ed to rally her out of her reſolution, and told her that ſhe ſeemed by her phraſe to have been ſtudying judicial aſtrology; but that I was a greater conjuror than ſhe took me for, and aſſured her that I ſaw no baneful influence, nor malignant fa⯑tality in her horoſcope; but on the con⯑trary, love, joy, and harmony proceeding from the little twinkling ſtar that had directed her ſteps to Delville, from which place I earneſtly entreated ſhe wou'd not depart till we all ſet out together.

I had forced a ſmile into my counte⯑nance, while I talked to her, and did not, till I had done ſpeaking, perceive that her eyes were filled with tears—She turned her face from me, and ſtepping [72] out of the temple, ſaid, Lady Deſmond has too much humanity to jeſt with the ſorrows of her friend, did ſhe believe them real—and I have too much ten⯑derneſs for her, to convince her that they are ſo—again I take my leave, wiſhing every good on earth to her, and all that have the happineſs to belong to her, once more repeating my requeſt of con⯑cealing my departure—The reaſon of this requeſt, muſt be ſufficiently obvious, to a perſon endowed with leſs perſpicuity than are any of Mr. Evelyn's ſiſters.

I need not proceed to relate Emma's entreaties, or Lady Juliana's refuſals—it is from me ſhe flies—why then do I purſue her? What a queſtion? Do we not all purſue whate'er eludes our wiſh, and ſhun the bliſs that meets it? and ſure if ever man was yet impelled by an irreſiſtible impulſe, I am.

[73] You will perhaps, ſmile, at the ſeeming inconſiſtency of contenting myſelf with expreſſing my ardor thro' a long letter, inſtead of indulging it by purſuing the fair fugitive; but at preſent my impe⯑tuous paſſion is controuled by fraternal affection—I cannot leave my ſiſter in diſtreſs, and to relieve her from it I muſt wait the return of Sir James Deſmond, and his companions of the field.

They are arrived, I hear their boiſterous and unmeaning mirth; Sir James's voice ſounds louder than the reſt—thoughtleſs man!

I find it impoſſible to ſet out this night—Sewell's brother is to be ſent for—How cruel this delay! I have this moment [74] received your ſhort billet; accept my thanks in return, they are all I have to offer; my mind is too much diſturbed to think on any ſubject but one, and I have already tired you with that.—I deteſt hazard, and yet am going to play at it.—They ſay it intereſts and agitates;—I deny its power, except on thoſe whoſe minds are tainted with the meaneſt of all vices, avarice—But I have a purpoſe in it, which is not quite ſo ſelfiſh.

LETTER X.
MISS EVELYN, TO LADY JULIANA HARLEY.

I DO really and truly begin to think, that you my dear Lady Juliana, and all the reſt of the world, are agreed in believing that I am literally hewn out of a marble block, and can bear diſappointments and vexations, as unfeelingly as the [...]foreſaid ſturdy ſubſtance can endure the [...]rokes of the hammer and the chiſſel. But ye are all miſtaken; for I am, and [...]ver will be, exceedingly grieved and pro⯑voked [76] at the abſurdities of my friends, when they are either weak or malicious enough to interfere with my happineſs, or their own.

Why, thou inhuman fair one, what a roundeau of delights has thy caprice de⯑ſtroyed! I could cry with vexation when I think of the dear little parties I had formed in your box at the opera, your Charles, and my William, with the Lords, A, B, C, and ſo on, to the end of the alphabet, "Making their bends adorings"—Our ſuppers at Almack's, our private balls, our maſquerades, but above all, our quarres, with our Corydons in Berkeley-ſquare—and can I bear the diſappointment! and all for what? why truly becauſe the thing in the world which was moſt likely to happen, and which I moſt wiſhed, has actually come to paſs—that Charles Evelyn ſhou'd fall [77] in love with Lady Juliana—O cruel, cruel friend, thou haſt almoſt broke my heart.

But to be ſerious; for whatever you may think, I am by no means inclined to jeſt upon this ſubject, what are theſe dreadful portents that have alarmed you, and driven you at this ſeaſon of the year to the very antipodes of our delights the chilling North? If you really did not like my brother, tho' I muſt ſay I ſee no reaſon why you ſhould not, you need not have given him any encouragement, but merely ſuffered him to dangle after you till the beginning of next ſummer, and by that time either he wou'd have been tired of ſerving without wages, or you wou'd have been aſhamed of acting a ſhabby part, and ſo have paid the man for his pain and paſſion, with your lovely ſelf.

[78] For the ſake of common ſenſe, my dear Juliana, think better of this buſineſs, away with thoſe glooms that ſhould have been put off with your ſables, and order your chaiſe to London.

You cannot imagine how much I am diſtreſſed for a chaperon—my ſiſter Selwyn is within a month or ſix weeks of lying-in, and goes no where—my ſiſter Deſmond is not come to town, and when ſhe does, will be ſo taken up with her domeſtic concerns, her child and her huſband, to be ſure, that I am not to expect much comfort from her—Now you are to know, as a very great ſecret, that this is the laſt year of my reign—I feel that I muſt abdicate in ſpring; if poſſible it ſhall not be till the Ranelagh ſeaſon is near over—but I muſt not trifle longer with Stanley—You cannot conceive how I love him, and yet I have now cooked-up [79] a moſt delicious quarrel about Maria Morton (whom I know he deteſts, and indeed ſo do all the men of her acquain⯑tance) merely to prevent his teizing me into matrimony, at this time of the year, when one has ſomething elſe to do.

I have now laid all my diſtreſſes before you, and if your heart is not as much ſteeled to friendſhip, as to love, you will have pity on the ſiſter, tho' ever ſo ob⯑durate to the brother, and fly to the re⯑lief of your

LETTER XI.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

FATE ſeems to oppoſe my every purpoſe, Stanley: here am I ſtill detained by drifting ſnows and piercing winds; not that their force ſhou'd ſtop my pro⯑greſs on my own account, ‘nor ſtorms, nor night ſhould keep me here’—but that fellow Sewell's brother who derives his greatneſs from that of his debtors, and ſays, like Cacofogo, ‘The King of [81] Spain owes me money,’ will not ſet out from his cottage, tho' 'tis but eigh⯑teen miles off, till the weather mends, forſooth—and here muſt I wait, like St. Laurence on the gridiron, till his uſu⯑rerſhip arrives.—

I ſat down to hazard, as I told you, laſt night, determined like our former kings on a twelfth night, if poſſible to loſe a thouſand pounds to Sir James, and make that ſum a debt, which muſt otherwiſe be deemed a courteſy—but here chance unluckily oppoſed my pupoſe—Fortune, as ſhe is called, favoured, or rather diſappointed me; I won every thing; the baronet and both his compa⯑nions are my debtors.

N. B. Sewell has again recovered ſome part of my eſteem; he loſt his money like a gentleman,—one muſt borrow ſimilies [82] when they can't frame them—the other, one Simpſon, who they ſay is rich, ſeem'd to ſuffer the moſt dreadful agonies, and ſometimes vented his feelings in horrid imprecations. O Stanley, how is it poſ⯑ſible that a rational being ſhou'd ever put himſelf a ſecond time into ſuch a ſitua⯑tion, as to render him, at once, both un⯑happy and contemptible.—

Your letter has moſt agreeably inter⯑rupted my moralizing—Thanks to my friend for his punctuality; I will this moment go and preſent the bills to Emma; Sir James is not yet riſen; if I can quit Delville without ſeeing him, it will ſave both him and me from an equal embarraſſment, yet their is ſomething tells me that my going, ſans adieu, may in his preſent ſituation, perhaps offend the baronet; and all impatient as I am I will ſtay breakfaſt—‘Beyond the fixed and [83] ſettled rules.’—This little buſineſs is finiſhed, and if I could deſcribe the grateful tenderneſs with which Emma re⯑ceived the preſent, you wou'd be charmed with the portrait, Stanley—Sir James Deſmond too, ſeemed to accept it from her hands with more ſenſibility and dig⯑nity than I imagined him poſſeſſed of.

Does not our ſelf-love ſometimes ſuppoſe merits where we beſtow our fa⯑vours, in order to heighten our own pleaſure in the act of benevolence?—I am not at leiſure now to inveſtigate the philoſophy of this idea, but I am per⯑ſuaded that we are generally more ſtrongly attached to thoſe we have obliged, than even to thoſe who have obliged us.—Is it not uſury then to expect gra⯑titude? Not that I wou'd encourage the modern philoſophy, which reduces all virtue to ſelf-intereſt; for if I may [84] hazard an unborrowed ſimile, the liberal mind may be compared to the Nile, which enriches the ſoil, from its own abundance, without requiring any return.

LETTER XII.
MISS EVELYN, TO LADY JULIANA HARLEY.

I HAVE often heard that love makes wiſe men fools, and "turns our wits the ſeamy ſide without."—Poor Charles! It was almoſt midnight when he arrived here laſt night; pale as aſhes, his eyes wild and haggard, and his hair undreſs'd. My ſiſter Selwyn had not been well all day, and was retired to reſt.—The moment he came into the parlour where I was ſitting, he cried out, Where is ſhe, Lucy? Gone to bed, ſaid I, think⯑ing [86] he enquired after Mrs. Selwyn.—Do not torture me, he replied, but tell me where is lady Juliana?

A ſtrange queſtion truly, anſwered I; ſurely you have ſeen her long ſince I did.—I ſpoke this in a miff, for I thought he might have firſt enquired his ſiſter's health, after an abſence of above a month.—Quite frantic, he threw himſelf at my feet, and ſaid he wou'd not ſtir from thence till I informed him where you were; for that Stanley had told him he believed I knew.—Mem. I ſhall puniſh Mr. Stanley pretty handſomely for pretending to gueſs at my ſecrets. Mr. Selwyn, who was in his library in the next room, compoſing a ſermon, for ought I know, alarmed by the noiſe this inamorato made, peeped into the par⯑lour, with his glaſſes on, and ſeeing a man at my feet, ſeemed doubtful whe⯑ther [87] he ſhould retire or advance, till I intreated him to come in, aſſuring him it was not a lover, but a lunatic, he beheld in that ſituation.—You are miſtaken, Lucy, Charles exclaimed, I am the ten⯑dereſt, fondeſt, moſt unhappy lover that ever yet exiſted, and if you have not a mind to drive me to diſtraction, you will acquaint me where my deity reſides, and let me kneel before the ſhrine which ſhe inhabits, with pureſt adoration.

Pſha, very prophane that, ſaid Mr. Selwyn.—For Heaven's ſake, Charles, ſaid I, riſe and compoſe yourſelf—you muſt be very certain that if lady Juliana had entruſted me with any thing ſhe choſe to keep a ſecret, I would not violate the truſt by revealing it to you; you can therefore receive no benefit from Mr. Stanley's information. But whatever are her motives for retirement, I hope they [88] will not operate long, and that ſhe will be reſtored to the ſociety of her friends in a few days, or weeks, at fartheſt.

Days or weeks! exclaimed he,—you talk of centuries! I tell you, Lucy, I will not reſt till I behold her.—Nay then, ſaid Mr. Selwyn, I ſhall wiſh you a good night; it will be vain for me to ſit up any longer, but if you chuſe to paſs the night without ſleep, I will or⯑der the ſervants to mend the fire, bring you freſh candles, and go to bed, for they muſt riſe in the morning. I could not help ſmiling at Mr. Selwyn's literal conception of my brother's expreſſion.—Charles ſeemed much offended with both of us, and ruſhed out of the room, with⯑out even bidding us good night.

Now, madam, what do you think of the miſchief your cruelty, or caprice ra⯑ther, [89] has occaſioned? May I not ſay, with Ophelia, ‘O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!’ And have I not a right in common juſtice, to demand the reſtoration of my brother's ſenſes from your ladyſhip, or ſome other averdupois equivalent for the loſs? In ſhort, my dear Juliana, if you have any friendſhip for me, you will immediately come to London, and make an end of this ſimple buſineſs.—If you cannot like my bro⯑ther, tell him ſo, and perhaps the wound which his ſelf-love muſt receive from your denial, may rouſe him to attempt the conqueſt of an hopeleſs paſſion.

I am rather ſurprized at not having ſeen my poor lunatic to-day; my ſiſter Selwyn is quite grieved about him, and ſent this morning to know how he did, and to invite him to dinner—but the ſervant returned with a non inventus— [90] he had drove out of town—whither can he have taken his flight? Mr Selwyn thinks he ought to be put under Doctor Monro's care; but I make bold to ſay, that you, and only you, can effect his cure.—Haſten then, my ſweet friend, to the relief, both of Charles and

LETTER XIII.
CHARLES EVELYN TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

NO, Stanley! ſhe is not here, and this place, though througed with numbers of the young and gay, is to me a deſart. Yet I confeſs there was a probability of meeting, or at leaſt hearing of her, in ſuch a concourſe of people of her own rank;—yet no tidings of her have yet reached me.

[92] Pardon me, Stanley, if I ſay that I can hardly forgive your Lucy—I will not call her my ſiſter.—She certainly knows where Lady Juliana is, and yet is ſo in-human to conceal it from me.—Surely you muſt have power ſufficient over her to make her reveal the ſecret; be aſſur⯑ed, if ſhe refuſes to let you know it, ſhe is not worthy of your affection, for I am certain it is impoſſible for a woman to deny any thing to the ſolicitations of the man ſhe loves. This maxim is too frequently proved, to admit of its being doubted; but what a wretch is he who takes advantage of its certainty, to be⯑tray unſuſpecting innocence, or to in⯑volve the being he pretends to love, in miſery and guilt!

I have been led into this reflection by the unſought confidence of our ſchool-fellow, Capt. Williams, whom I hap⯑pened [93] to meet with here, and who is a very libertine, and at preſent engaged in an unworthy attempt on a young lady, his equal in birth, though not in fortune. She has a brother in the army, who is ex⯑pected daily from Ireland; and the ap⯑prehenſion of his arrival hurries Wil⯑liams into the moſt imprudent conduct: ſo that the young lady will proba⯑bly loſe her reputation, if her brother ſhould even come time enough to protect her innocence.

I have expreſſed my ſentiments upon this ſubject very fully to him, but he only laughs at what I ſay; except when I mention the certainty of the young lady's brother calling him to account for his ill behaviour. This part of the ce⯑remony, he ſays, he does not like, but has aſked me to be his ſecond, in caſe he ſhould be involved in ſuch an adventure. [94] But I have declined the honour; for the punctilio ſhould be ſhewn in avoiding an offence, not in defending it.

Is it not amazing, that a man ſhould premeditately ruſh on to an action that his heart muſt condemn, even at the ha⯑zard of his life? Anxious and unhappy as my mind is at preſent, if I had the leaſt acquaintance with the young lady, I wou'd do every thing in my power to ſave her from deſtruction; but he has had honour, or rather prudence enough to conceal her name, and it is of courſe impoſſible for me to interfere further.

Once more let me entreat you to exert your utmoſt influence with Lucy, to make her diſcover Lady Juliana's retreat, and I here pawn my honour both to her and you, that if after one interview her ladyſhip ſhould perſiſt in dooming me to [95] perpetual baniſhment, I will obey the ſtern decree, will inſtantly quit England, and never more obtrude myſelf into her preſence.—

Surely if Lucy loves her friend, ſhe will be ſatisfied with this propoſal.

LETTER XIV.
WILLIAM STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

I AM ſincerely ſorry for your diſap⯑pointment, my dear Charles, though more ſurprized at the effect than cauſe, as I could not poſſibly ſuppoſe that if Lady Juliana ſeriouſly meant to fly from you, ſhe cou'd think of retiring to ſo public a place as Bath.—But I own I flattered myſelf that the peculiar gaiety of a ſcene ſo entirely new to you, wou'd have diſſipated the chagrin you ſeem to [97] feel from her flight; or that ſome new object wou'd have attracted your atten⯑tion, and engaged you in a leſs tireſome purſuit.—But I find you are a briſk huntſman, and are determined to purſue the ſport, though you have miſſed the quarry.

I wou'd by all means adviſe you to drink the Bath water; it is famous for exhilerating the ſpirits; but if that ſhou'd fail, drink wine I entreat you.—I have known many an unſucceſsful paſſion cured by the bumpers that were filled to the obdurate fair-one's health: wine is the modern Lethe, Charles, and, as Gay ſays,

If I had any better comfort to offer you, I ſhou'd not perhaps ſo ſtrongly recom⯑mend the above recipe; but indeed, my [98] friend, I muſt beg to be excuſed from obeying the requeſt you have ſo ſtrenu⯑ouſly made to me, for I never ſhall ex⯑ert my influence over the woman I love, to tempt her to an act of diſhonour, and ſuch I hold a breach of confidence to be.—And were I married to your charming ſiſter—delightful thought! I ſhou'd eſteem her ſtill the more for preſerving the ſecrets of her friends inviolate, even from me.

Nothing but the romantic paſſion with which you are infected, can excuſe your condemning my Lucy: gladly do I ac⯑cept the term, for not betraying Lady Ju⯑liana's confidence; and give me leave to ſay, that this paſſion has rendered your conduct both unjuſt and abſurd towards the object of it.

[99] Lady Juliana has acted nobly, and ſhewn herſelf ſuperior to the meanneſs and cruelty of coquetry; ſhe has even ſa⯑crificed her own happineſs to yours, by depriving herſelf of the ſociety of her friends, to enable you to conquer an hopeleſs paſſion.—Believe me, Charles, women ſpeak but too plain when they decline our company; and I think it is high time that you ſhou'd aſk yourſelf what right you have to break in upon her retirement, and compel her to receive your viſits?

Your only plea is, that ſhe did not re⯑ject the addreſſes of your brother; per⯑haps it is for that very reaſon that ſhe de⯑clines yours.—Allow me to ſay, that Harry was to the full as amiable as you are;—now ſurely it is not impoſſible that Lady Juliana might have loved your brother; and if ſo, can you imagine that [100] her affections are to deſcend with the fa⯑mily eſtate to the next heir?

For ſhame, Charles! rouſe your rea⯑ſon, and ceaſe to perſecute this charming woman;—ſhe has already, by all ac⯑counts, ſuffered too much: the ſudden, and yet unaccounted for, death of her huſband, brought her almoſt to the brink of the grave. Though every one knew it was impoſſible ſhe cou'd love him, yet her conduct towards him has ever been unimpeached; and what muſt the delicacy of her mind have ſuffered from living with a man whom ſhe cou'd not avoid deteſting?

Women have infinitely more merit, in ſuch caſes, than men;—we are rarely, if ever, compelled to marry againſt our inclinations; but if intereſt, too often more powerful than any other attraction, [101] prevails on us to unite ourſelves to a diſ⯑agreeable object, we are generally ſo in⯑human as to make her ſuffer for the crime we have ourſelves committed, by puniſhing her with neglect, or per⯑haps a worſe ſpecies of ill treatment:—whilſt the poor girl, who has been led an unwilling victim to Hymen's altar, can have no ſafe reſource but ſighs and tears, no indulgence is allowed to any former, or future paſſion, ſhe may feel; her af⯑fections muſt be reſtrained by the magi⯑cal ceremony of marriage within her own boſom, becauſe ſhe cannot confer them on a wretch ſhe deteſts, and muſt not dare to beſtow them elſewhere.

I am ſorry that Williams is a ſcoun⯑drel; ſuch I think any man who lays a ſcheme to deſtroy innocence. But ſince knight errantry is exploded, and that the young ladies of our ſiecle are pretty [102] well enlightened in matters of gallantry, we muſt e'en leave them to take care of themſelves.—But as you ſo juſtly con⯑demn his conduct, I am pleaſed with your having refuſed to be his ſecond:—the man who appears in that character is always ſuppoſed to approve the cauſe of his friend's quarrel:—beſides, if you ſhou'd engage in any ſuch buſineſs, you well know what you muſt neceſſarily ſuf⯑fer from Parſon Selwyn's preachments againſt the damnable ſin of duelling.—Think on this, and keep clear of the con⯑ſequences.

P. S. Your quondam friend, Maria Morton, has made a runaway match with a young foreigner, a Monſieur du Pont, whom ſhe has deceived, by paſſing for a [103] great fortune.—In reality ſhe is worſe than a beggar, as the little eſtate that is to come to her after her mother's death, is involved for its full value by debts, con⯑tracted for the indulgence of Maria's ex⯑travagance. I pity Lady Morton much; but the young man more.

LETTER XV.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

DEAR Stanley, I have received your friendly, may I not rather ſay, your chi⯑ding letter? I acknowledge the unrea⯑ſonableneſs of my purſuit, but when had reaſon power to conquer love?

Yet in behalf of my own weakneſs, give me leave to ſay, that acting as you think upon wrong principles, by endea⯑vouring to obtrude myſelf into Lady Ju⯑liana's [105] preſence, I have however ſhewn much moderation, by limiting my purſuit to a ſingle interview—I am not a baſ [...]liſk, Stanley, the ſight of me will not deſtroy this lovely woman; and 'tis neceſſary I ſhou'd firſt know her will, before I can obey it.

'Tis true, my friend! ſhe has ſhewn herſelf ſuperior to coquetry, and has vo⯑luntarily exiled herſelf from thoſe gay ſcenes in which ſhe ought to ſhine, perhaps to ſhun my hated ſight—Then is it not incumbent upon me to reſtore her to an admiring world, to the ſociety of thoſe ſhe loves.—O why, alas! am I not of that happy number?—You will anſwer me that paſſion is involuntary—I know it but too well. You ſeem to hint that ſhe once loved my brother; is that a reaſon for her hating me? There is no rivalſhip between us now, his paſſions [106] are at peace, and if he died poſſeſſed of her affections, he was much happier than your living friend.

You are a lover, Stanley, but a calm, becauſe an happy one.—Lucy repays your tenderneſs, and nought but worldly prudence now impedes your union. For this reaſon you treat my ſufferings lightly, for even the tendereſt ſimpathy of friendſhip cannot feel for woes it never has experienced.—There is no Lethe for unhappy love, and let me add, en philoſophe, that wine enflames, but never cures our paſſions.—I ſhall not, therefore, my kind phyſician, ven⯑ture upon your recipe, but I will ſave you the trouble of a father preſcrip⯑tion, by following my own regimen, and ceaſing to complain.

[107] I have met with a tender ſympathiz⯑ing friend and confidante here.—I ſhall be angry if you ſmile, Stanley, when I tell you it is Nancy Weſton—I never ſaw joy ſo ſtrongly painted in any coun⯑tenance as hers, when ſhe met me; our ſurprize was mutual, but luckily this unexpected interview happened a⯑bout eight o'clock in the morning, and we had no ſpectators to reſtrain, or comment upon the ſtrong expreſſions of a grateful heart.

She told me before I went to Delville, that ſhe was very capable of the mil⯑linery buſineſs, having formerly lived ſome time with a relation of hers, who had kept a ſhop in Taviſtock-Street, but who was now dead.—I then told her that if ſhe cou'd find out any me⯑thod of eſtabliſhing herſelf properly in buſineſs, I wou'd aſſiſt her with the [108] means of carrying it on, and left her a few guineas to clothe and ſupport her, till my return.

During the few hours I ſpent in London before I came here, my mind was ſo violently agitated, that I never once thought of Nancy Weſton, and the poor girl's modeſty wou'd have pre⯑vented her from ever applying to me, or being farther burthenſome, as ſhe expreſſes it, had not chance thrown her in my way at this time.—She works with a very creditable chamber milli⯑ner, who had known her formerly at her couſin's, and who will take her into partnerſhip with a few hundreds, which ſhe ſhall have with an hearty welcome into the bargain, for I think I need not tell you, that her happineſs will con⯑tribute to mine.

[109] That puppy Williams has been witty upon hearing that an handſome milli⯑ner's doll, as he calls her, drank tea with me, on Sunday laſt.—He hap⯑pened to call upon me that evening, and my truſty Scipio refuſed to admit him, tho' he would not make the com⯑mon excuſe of ſaying I was not at home.—He has teized me ever ſince with a deal of unmeaning ribaldry, and preſſes me moſt vehemently to introduce him to my favourite; but that I never ſhall; ſhe is much too good and amiable to be the ſport of ſuch a libertine.

If he may be credited, which I much doubt, he has been ſucceſsful in his amour—he no longer conceals the lady's name, 'tis Harriſon; he ſhewed her to me in the rooms—I never ſaw a more elegant form, nor a more lively coun⯑tenance—when he ſaluted her, ſhe [110] ſmiled and bluſhed.—Can it be poſſi⯑ble that guilt ſhould aſſume that firſt of female charms, the joint reſult of ſen⯑fibility and modeſty.

She danced a minuet with Lord March, and then took out Captain Williams—ſhe acquitted herſelf in both the minuets, with infinite grace and eaſe.—Surely it is impoſſible ſhe cou'd be conſcious of having forfeited her honour, and yet ſtill continue to wear the ſemblance of chearful innocence.

As ſhe did not dance country dances, I joined her party and drank tea with her—I talked to her a conſiderable time, and tho' I think there is too much levity in her manner, I cannot prevail upon myſelf to believe that ſhe has fallen a ſacrifice to ſuch a contemptible trifler as Williams. Mrs. Peachurn ſays, [111] How are thoſe mothers to be pitied who have handſome daughters? I ſay, How are thoſe handſome girls to be pitied, who have not mothers? Miſs Harriſon has been an orphan, from her birth; her father was one of thoſe gallant, but un⯑fortunate officers, who loſt their lives with Braddock; her mother was then pregnant of this girl;—ſhe lived but a few hours after ſhe received the account of her huſband's loſs, and expired in the moment of her daughter's birth.—There is ſomething ſo affecting in the circumſtances of both her parents deaths, that has inſpired me with a kind of ad⯑ditional tenderneſs towards her—I pity, and will if not too late, preſerve her.

I have received a letter from my loved Emma, by which I can diſcover that ſhe is unhappy.—Sir James Deſ⯑mond is again involved in difficulties; [112] ſhe has not particularized the circum⯑ſtances, nor given the leaſt hint of ex⯑pecting any aſſiſtance from me.—Does ſhe not know I am her brother?—aſſure Mrs. Selwyn and your Lucy of my affectionate regard, and believe me ſin⯑cerely yours,

LETTER XVI.
WILLIAM STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

Bravo! Bravo! Charles! I am de⯑lighted beyond expreſſion to find you, like Hudibras, profiting of Ralpho's gifts, at the very time you ſeem to diſ⯑dain them.

Sly as you are, I will bet an hundred guineas to five, that before you ſat down to indite your laſt epiſtle, you had drank a couple of glaſſes of Bath water, or double that number of Champagne.— [114] But no matter for the cauſe, I congratu⯑late you on the effect, and will from thence take upon me to pronounce, that your loverſhip is in a fair way of re⯑covery.

Three whole pages, without the name of Juliana, or the word love! I ſhou'd have been amazed, indeed, at this happy change in your ſtile, if you had not leſſened my ſurpriſe by mention⯑ing your little tender ſympathizing con⯑fidante.—O Charles, there is nothing like true female ſoftneſs; 'tis the very balm of life; for when pity flows from beautiful lips, who wou'd not receive comfort; Gratitude too muſt have ani⯑mated her ſpeech, glow'd on her cheek, and ſparkled in her eyes. I wou'd have given fifty guineas to have been a wit⯑neſs of your accidental interview.—You are a lucky man to have met with this [115] charming girl, for ſuch I ſuppoſe her to be ſo, critically.

I think you are too ſevere upon Williams; it was natural enough for him to rally you a little, conſidering the gravity of your character, upon tete-a-tete with a young woman; eſpecially as you make ſuch a myſtery of your con⯑nection, and had refuſed to introduce him to her acquaintance; in which, how⯑ever, I think you perfectly right. Men of his character look upon all women who are placed in a ſituation beneath them, as lawful prey; whereas I con⯑ſider that part of the ſofter ſex whom fortune has dealt unkindly by, whoſe principles and manners are more elevated than their ſtation, as peculiarly entitled to our reſpect and protection; and cou'd more eaſily forgive myſelf for a failure in a point of politeneſs, towards [116] a ducheſs, than to a woman who is un⯑happy enough to feel her preſent con⯑dition, a degradation from her former rank.

I don't much like to introduce the ſubject of your paſſion for Lady Juliana, but, believe me, if you are, as you ſay, ſufficiently reaſonable to be contented with one interview, a little more reaſon will enable you to be contented without one.—I heartily wiſh that was the caſe, for my Lucy is quite unhappy and diſſa⯑tisfied at being deprived of Lady Juli⯑ana's ſociety; and now openly declares, that you are the ſole cauſe of her exile.—Be generous, Charles! and reſtore her to her friends without conditions;—truſt to chance for your meeting, and to the no⯑bleneſs of her ſentiments when you do.

[117] The portrait you have drawn of Miſs Harriſon, is by no means deciſive, with regard to her preſent ſituation.—Gaiety or gravity are in a great meaſure conſti⯑tutional:—I conſider too great an addic⯑tion to the firſt as a misfortune, rather than a fault, but am far from thinking that livelineſs and innocence are incom⯑patible.—Too great freedom of ſpeech or manner in a young woman, certainly leſſens the reſpect which is otherwiſe due to her; it enfranchiſes the bounds that are placed between the ſexes, puts them too much on a level, and tempts liber⯑tines to hazard improper freedoms, which though rejected and reſented, neceſſarily ſully the purity of female delicacy, and leave a ſtain behind:—for as Lady Mary Wortley Montague has juſtly ſaid, ‘He comes too near who comes to be denied.’ Williams is certainly a worthleſs wretch, and I heartily wiſh that Capt. Harriſon [118] may treat him as he deſerves; but I don't ſee why you ſhould take the work off his hands, and thruſt yourſelf into a ſcrape, unleſs it be merely pour paſſer le temps;—but if I might adviſe, I ſhou'd think you had better look out for ſome better amuſement, and can hardly ſeek amiſs.

Joy to you, Charles! Mrs. Selwyn was yeſterday brought to bed of a ſon. I ſuppoſe you will be one of its ſponſors, and muſt of courſe appear in propria per⯑ſona. Mr. Selwyn is, you know, a formal divine, and will not admit of proxies.—I was ſitting with him when the glad ti⯑dings of his ſon's birth were announced to him; he inſtantly rang his bell, and ſummoned all the ſervants who were not immediately attending on his lady, to prayers.—I attempted to retire, but he inſiſted upon my joining in thankſgiving [119] for the birth of a male child, which he ſaid was an happy event, let the parents be who they wou'd.

You have made me as errant a ſcrib⯑bler as yourſelf, and I cou'd go on in this ſort of chit-chat way for a year to⯑gether; but I have at preſent, a more important, though not a more pleaſing, occupation to purſue. My law-ſuit draws near a criſis, I muſt pore over muſty re⯑cords, and reviſe briefs, in which I ſhall uſe the utmoſt diſpatch, as my Lucy is then to be my fee.—Adieu, my friend, till I can call you brother.

LETTER XVII.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

MY dear Stanley, I have ſeized upon the firſt minute's leiſure I have been ma⯑ſter of, to acquaint you with an un⯑lucky affair that has juſt now happened, and which, like all other extraordinary events, will, I ſuppoſe, be aggravated in the repetition by a thouſand falſhoods. To you, then, I commit the care of my fame upon this occaſion; certain that you will exert the nobleſt quality of friend⯑ſhip [121] in my favour, that of juſtifying an abſent friend.

In order to make you thoroughly ac⯑quainted with this unfortunate buſineſs, I muſt entreat you to read over the in⯑cloſed ſtory of Nancy Weſton, which I wrote out ſome time ago as I received it from her own recital, intending it for your peruſal.

In my laſt I told you, that I meant to ſettle this poor friendleſs creature in partnerſhip with a chamber milliner of good repute.—In conſequence of this deſign, Nancy Weſton came to me, yeſterday morning, to talk over her little plan of buſineſs, and adjuſt all matters relative to it.—Be it obſerved, that ſhe never had once named the per⯑ſon to whom ſhe had been married, nor had I ever aſked it—delicacy prevented my making any enquiry, when ſhe firſt told me her ſtory, leſt my curioſity might be miſcontrued into a ſuſpicion of her veracity; and my contempt for [135] a man whom I ſuppoſed cou'd never come acroſs me, made me decline the renewal of a ſubject which muſt give her pain.—This, upon my honour, is truth.

As I ſaid before, ſhe was ſitting with me, when I heard a buſtle upon the ſtairs, between Capt. Williams and Scipio, the former inſiſting in a laugh⯑ing tone, that he would come up. She ſtarted at the ſound of the voice, but when he threw open the door of the room where we ſat, ſhe cried out, O my huſband!—and ſunk ſenſeleſs on the ground.

Williams gazed upon her with a counte⯑nance, where rage and contempt ſeemed equally mingled.—Then turning to me, who was juſt then raiſing his unhappy [136] wiſe in my arms, he ſaid, you need not, Sir, have made a ſecret to me of your connection with that infamous woman, I have long caſt her off, and it is natural to ſuppoſe ſhe has paſſed thro' many hands, before ſhe came into yours.—But beware, Mr. Evelyn, of repeating any forged tale ſhe may tell you, of a ſham marriage, and ſuch ſtuff; for I will not have my character traduced, and remember I have put you on your guard.

My aſtoniſhment had almoſt deprived me of the power of ſpeech, but Wil⯑liams's inſolence quickly reſtored it.—I replied, Sir, this roof which I wiſh you to quit inſtantly, is your preſent protec⯑tion, but whenever I ſpeak of you, I ſhall talk of a ſcoundrel, and wherever I meet you, I will treat you like one.

[137] His wife had by this time thrown her⯑ſelf at his feet, from whence he ſpurned her, and ruſhing into my bed-chamber, ſnatched up one of my piſtols, which lay upon a table.—I was lucky enough to ſeize his arm, before he could diſ⯑charge it, but in the ſtruggle between us, it went off and wounded himſelf in the left ſide.—The report of the piſtol alarmed the family, and in leſs than five minutes my apartment was crowded with perſons of all ranks and denomina⯑tions, whoſe curioſity ſeemed ſo much more prevalent than their humanity, that they neither thought of ſending for a ſurgeon, for the wounded perſon, nor of offering any aſſiſtance to his wife, who lay fainting upon the ground, by his ſide.

Scipio, upon ſeeing that I was ſafe, leaped for joy, and then ran for Mr. Le⯑ſter; [138] Williams was put into my bed; I committed Mrs. Williams, for ſo I ſhall henceforth call her, to the care of my landlady, and ſet out in company with Mr. Herbert, and my quondam friend Sewell, who arrived at Bath three days ago, to related this accident to the mayor. The uſual forms were com⯑plied with; theſe gentlemen became bail for my appearance, as I could not think of aſking Mrs. Williams to give her teſtimony upon this occaſion to ac⯑quit me, and her huſband has not ut⯑tered a ſingle word ſince he received the wound. However, Mr. Leſter ſays he hopes he ſhall be able to extract the ball, and he will then be in a fair way of recovery. If with his health he re⯑covers the right uſe of his reaſon, and reviews his paſt life with contrition, I ſhall rejoice in his reſtoration; if not, [139] I ſhall by no means lament the extinc⯑tion of ſuch a wretch from ſociety.

I have had a meſſage from Miſs Har⯑riſon deſiring to ſee me. The moment I have ſealed this I ſhall attend her.—I fear it will be an unpleaſant interview.

I think you will give me credit for being heartily tired of writing.—I fear you will believe it feelingly.

I ſincerely wiſh ſucceſs to your law⯑ſuit; and am, with love to all you love, ever yours,

LETTER XVIII.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

I HAVE ſeen her, Stanley! the ar⯑bitreſs of my fate! and it is irrecovera⯑bly fixed that I am to be unhappy.—Sewell informed me that Lady Juliana was certainly at her late huſband's ſeat at Harley-hill.—I ſet out on the inſtant, but I have not now time to acquaint [141] you with the particulars of our inter⯑view, as I have only ſnatched up the pen while the horſes are putting to my chaiſe, in order to retrace the horrid croſs roads that I have travelled from Bath hither.

An expreſs is this moment arrived from Sewell to acquaint me, that Wil⯑liams is not likely to recover, and ex⯑preſſes the moſt impatient deſire to ſee me.—I feel that I ſhall be ſorry for his death, ‘though it comes not near my conſcience.’

I have not been in bed theſe three nights—What ſhou'd I do there? reſt has forſaken my pillow! I am more in love, more diſtracted, and more wretch⯑ed, than any mortal out of the purlieus of Bedlam.

LETTER XIX.
LADY JULIANA HARLEY, TO MISS LUCY EVELYN.

THE ſo much dreaded interview is over; I have ſeen your unhappy bro⯑ther.—Do not think me inhuman, Lucy, when I ſay that I hope never to ſee him more.—It is my tenderneſs, and not my cruelty that dictates this fervent aſpira⯑tion.

[143] I was juſt returned from taking the air with Miſs Harley, who has been here this fortnight, and was retired to dreſs, when a chaiſe drove up to the door, and I was informed a gentleman deſired to ſee me. As Watſon was at that time combing my hair, I requeſted Miſs Harley to ſtep into the drawing-room, and make my apologies for a few minutes.—She returned almoſt on the inſtant, ſcreaming out it is the ghoſt of Evelyn.

The likeneſs between your brothers immediately occurred to me; at once accounted for her miſtake, and ac⯑quainted me with the name of my viſitor; I quieted her fears of an appa⯑rition, and begged her to return to the drawing-room.—I was ſeized with an univerſal tremor, and when Watſon had hurried on my cloaths, I found [144] myſelf unable to walk or ſtand, and deſired that Mr. Evelyn might be ſhewn into the dreſſing-room.

As he approached me, I made a vain effort to riſe, and I thought we appeared like two criminals, who waited a ſen⯑tence which they dreaded to receive.—Before I cou'd prevent him, he threw himſelf at my feet, and entreated my pardon for having broken in on my re⯑tirement, and ſaid he had great reaſon to fear, that he was the unhappy cauſe of my ſecluding myſelf from the world. (Ah Lucy! have you betrayed me?) I told him with great ſincerity, that re⯑tirement was by no means diſagreeable to me, and that it was ſo long ſince I had been engaged in the gaiety of Lon⯑don, that I feared I ſhould make but an indifferent figure there.

[145] He ſaid many civil things, in an⯑ſwer, which I ſhall not repeat, and proceeded to avow his paſſion for me, in the tendereſt terms. I wou'd have interrupted him, but he im⯑plored me to give him a patient hear⯑ing; declaring, that if I perſiſted in declining his addreſſes, he wou'd im⯑mediately quit England, his family and friends, and never more diſturb the happineſs he ſo ſincerely wiſhed me. I was affected even to tears; his looks, his manner, nay his voice pierced to my heart, and recalled the kindred image of one who will ever ſurvive there.—I wou'd eraſe this paſſage, were I writing to any other perſon breathing.—But let it go, I ſcorn diſguiſe with thee.

I then told him that I was highly ſenſible of the honour he did me, that I [146] had not the leaſt doubt of the ſince⯑rity of his regard, and therefore would not trifle with his paſſion, but candidly inform him that there was a bar, an everlaſting bar between us, which could not be removed.—But that if my promiſing never to enter into thoſe engagements, with any other perſon, which I declined with him, could make him happy, he might depend upon my word; pro⯑vided he wou'd in return, give up the thoughts of abandoning his country, family and friends, on my account, but endeavour to conquer his ill⯑placed paſſion, and never ſpeak to me upon the unhappy ſubject more.

He ſaid he had already bound himſelf to abide by my deciſion, though miſery ſhou'd be his doom; but that he wou'd by no means con⯑ſent [147] to my becoming a ſacrifice to a wretch, whom he was ſure I deteſted, though compaſſion for his ſufferings might incline me to ſo generous a propoſal, and that all he cou'd do in return, was with humility to reject the offer, and to rid me of his hated preſence, for that he never cou'd ſub⯑ſcribe to a falſhood, by ſaying he cou'd ſee me, and ceaſe to love.

He turned his head aſide, to hide the manly drops that filled his eyes, wiped them away, gazed on me for an inſtant, gave a deep ſigh and bow⯑ing left me.

I cannot deſcribe the ſituation of my mind at that inſtant, tears luckily came to my relief, and when Miſs Harley came into my dreſſing-room, I appeared more like a forſaken, than [148] a cruel miſtreſs.—She triumphed in my diſtreſs, and ſneering ſaid, what are you always to weep for an Evelyn?—

I ſhall conclude this tedious letter, with entreating that Mrs. Selwyn, Lady Deſmond and you, will exert your ut⯑moſt influence over Mr. Evelyn to pre⯑vail on him not to quit England. Be⯑lieve me, my dear Lucy, I am per⯑fectly contented to remain where I am, the gay ſcenes you deſcribe, have no charms for me, or if they had, much rather would I deprive myſelf of them, and even your loved ſociety, than rob you of your brother.—Adieu my dear, my chearful, happy friend! long may you continue ſo, fervently wiſhes, your affectionate

LETTER XX.
MISS EVELYN, TO LADY JULIANA HARLEY.

WHY ſurely ſince the days of Caſſandra and Orondates, and ſuch other ſilly gentlemen and ladies of abſurd memory, there never was, and I hope never will be, ſuch a pair of ridiculous noodles as Lady Juliana Harley and Charles Evelyn.

[150] Whilſt I read your letter, my face was like an April ſky, half cloud, half ſunſhine.—I could have laughed, but that I was vexed; and I could have cried, but that I was angry.

Fye Charles! I hate your weep⯑ing men, yet I don't know why; their tears affect one more than thoſe of our own ſex. But what buſineſs have I to reaſon about ſuch nonſenſe? I am ſure it will never be in my power to make Stanley cry, though I think I ſhould like mightily to ſee him pout firſt, and then blubber; for he has not a good crying face, and I am certain I ſhould laugh at him.

And ſo becauſe your ladyſhip, for what reaſon I cannot tell, does not happen to like my poor unfortunate brother, he, forſooth, muſt tranſport [151] himſelf into ſome foreign country, and you muſt remain locked up with that ſpiteful old Sybil, your ſiſter-in-law, in your impenetrable fortreſs at Harley-hill.—Ridiculous! as if there was not room enough for you and Charles Evelyn to dwell in this great city without ever meeting for twenty years endways; and I'll warrant you by that time, that if you ſhou'd chance to knock your heads together, you will not tremble, nor he weep, un⯑leſs the concuſſion ſhould happen to be violent indeed.

Thank you, Lady Juliana! you are vaſtly good indeed, to confeſs your paſſion for my poor dead bro⯑ther, in order to excuſe your cruelty to my poor living one.—But I will not accept of ſuch cold confidence.

[152] Tell me, thou little ſly one! who is the preſent poſſeſſor of your heart? or I ſhall certainly perſuade myſelf that it has been captivated by ſome Yorkſhire ſquire, that you are aſhamed of your choice, and therefore make a merit of ‘Living in ſhades with him, and love alone.’ I like that idea well enough, and I fancy I could be romantic if I would give myſelf time, but I have not lei⯑ſure— ‘And ſhew me to the company’ muſt ſerve my turn.

We have had rare doings at our houſe.—A ſon and heir born to the noble family of the Selwyns! [153] and how do you think we have teſti [...]ied our joy upon this occaſion? neither by dancing, ſinging, or any other act of feſtivity, I aſſure you; but by wearing out our knees, and my poor ſiſter's ſpirits, in praying by her bed-ſide, twice a-day at leaſt.

But to abate my ſpirits upon this joyful event, Lady Deſmond writes me word that Sir James does not chuſe to come to London this winter, and ſhe, like a gentle turtle as ſhe is, prefers the leaſleſs woods of Delville with her Caro Spoſo, to all the delights of this gay city without him!—By the way their houſe has been aired and ready to receive them this month paſt.—I have a great mind to take poſſeſſion of it, and ſet up for myſelf.—If I don't do that, I muſt abſolutely marry Stanley, that I may be able to a go a [154] little into the world, for I am quite weary of waiting for a chaperon.

Well! if I do marry, I will ſhew you all the difference; my whole time ſhall be ſpent in matronizing young ladies, unmarried ones I mean.—Poor things, they are much to be pitied; for even a damſel of three-ſcore, who has never had an huſband, muſt not venture into a public place, unleſs ſhe can perſuade ſome good-natur'd married girl, who might per⯑haps be her grand-daughter, to let her tag after her.

Poor Charles! I will beg of him when I ſee him not to tranſport him⯑ſelf; but tranſportation is better than hanging, and I think, as a deſpairing lover, he is bound in honour to do ſomething of that ſort.

[155] Once more I intreat you, if you have either love or regard for me, to leave your muſty caſtle, and come amongſt us; I have a very particular reaſon for deſiring it; Stanley has got a verdict in his favour, he grows importunate, I fear I muſt yield: like all bullies, I feel myſelf a coward, and ſhall never be able to keep up my ſpi⯑rits on the tremendous occaſion, if you do not lend your aſſiſtance.—The very idea has ſunk me to the centre. I can no more, but adieu,

LETTER XXI.
WILLIAM STANLEY. TO CHARLES EVELYN

I HAVE received both your let⯑ters, and am ſincerely concerned for the very diſagreeable ſituation you are in.

With regard to Williams's acci⯑dent, you are by no means account⯑able for it.—But had your hand directed the bullets which were lodged in his ſide, after reading Nancy Weſ⯑ton's [157] ſtory, I ſhould not only have acquitted, but applauded you, for ridding the world of ſuch a monſter.—But as I think his blood wou'd ſtain any hands but thoſe of an execu⯑tioner, I am glad he has done juſtice on himſelf; particularly as our legiſ⯑lature have not aſſigned a puniſhment for crimes like his, tho' to the full as fatal in their conſequences, as any of thoſe for which men ſuffer death.

My indignation and pity were both extremely moved, whilſt I peruſed your little novel, ſuch wou'd I fain think it, for the honour of human nature.—But facts are ſtubborn things, and I muſt, tho' unwillingly, ſubmit to be ranked of the ſame ſpecies, with a villain who cou'd firſt rob his wife, and then leave her and his child to periſh.

[158] Though I wou'd by no means have adviſed your purſuing Lady Juliana to her retreat, I congratulate you on the concluſion of your romance; for ſurely my friend will now exert him⯑ſelf to conquer a paſſion, which he muſt own it wou'd be the height of folly to indulge any further.

My Lucy, for proudly do I now look up to a poſſeſſion of that title, dearer far than crowns, has received a long letter from your cruel fair-one; as yet, ſhe keeps the contents of it ſecret, but as I hope the day is not far off, when we ſhall be but one, I may poſſibly be acquainted with the particulars of your interview, without putting you to the pain of relating them; and believe me, Charles, the leſs you think, talk, or write, upon this ſubject, the better.—We all help [159] to engrave our misfortunes on our hearts, by bearing them conſtantly in mind, and recurring back to them daily, as if we were incapable of turn⯑ing our thoughts to any other ſub⯑ject.

The report of Williams's acci⯑dent has not yet made its way into Clarges-ſtreet, and you may aſſure yourſelf I ſhall not be the firſt to pro⯑mulgate the intelligence for many and good reaſons.—Heavens! how would Selwyn preach, and how terrified would your ſiſters be?—The few per⯑ſons I have heard mention the affair, have been candid enough to ſuppoſe that the piſtol went off by accident, but they all believe, that jealouſy of a favourite miſtreſs, was the occaſion of his ſnatching it up.

[160] Fear not my friendſhip, Charles, upon this, or any other occaſion, tho' I both hope and believe this is the only one, I ſhall ever have to prove it.—You know I allow but two teſts of this generous affection, the not hearing one's friend abuſed, and the ſharing one's purſe with him.—You muſt be a ſpendthrift indeed, if you ſhou'd ever have recourſe to mine.—Yet, I have ſome apprehenſions of your exhauſting your own, if you continue to ſupply Sir James Deſ⯑mond's neceſſities, which I hear and fear to be very great. The [...]e are no limits to a gameſter's wants, or a mi⯑ſer's wiſhes, and prudence ſhould reſtrain us from caſting wealth into a bottomleſs pit.

If you did not know my heart to be as generous as your own, I would [161] not venture to ſpeak thus freely, but the large drafts you have lately made in favour of Sir James Deſmond, have alarmed my friendſhip ſo far, as to make me wiſh to awaken your diſcre⯑tion.

I ſuppoſe that Sewell is come to follow his laudable vocation at Bath, as there was nothing left for him to prey upon at Delville.—I cannot help it Charles, but I deteſt that man.

I give you joy, my friend, of my ſucceſs; I have obtained a verdict, and ſhall immediately be put into poſ⯑ſeſſion of a fortune ſuſſicient to gratify every honeſt wiſh of the human heart.—May my Lucy add value to its worth, by deigning to accept the full enjoyment of it.

[162] I impatiently wiſh to hear of your ſafe return to Bath,

LETTER XXII.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

MY ſpirits have been kept in ſo con⯑ſtant an agitation for ſome time paſt, by the diſagreeable ſcenes I have been engaged in, that I know not whether I have recollection ſufficient to de⯑ſcribe them to you.—However I will ſtrive to methodize my thoughts, and [164] begin by recurring back to my inter⯑view with Miſs Harriſon.

I found her pale, trembling, and in tears.—As I entered the room, ſhe cried out, O Sir! what is become of Captain Williams?

In as few words as poſſible I related to her the cauſe of the unhappy acci⯑dent that happened at my lodgings, and when I mentioned his marriage with Nancy Weſton, ſhe fell upon her knees, and exclaimed—Great Author of all good! accept my thanks, and withdraw not thy protecting provi⯑dence from the being thou haſt ſaved from the complicated miſery of add⯑ing guilt to the ſinner's ſoul, and ſor⯑row to the wretched and innocent ſuf⯑ferer!—This day, Sir, I was to have been made his wife, by ſuch another [165] marriage, I ſuppoſe, as was his firſt.—The chaiſe now waits within an hun⯑dred yards that was to have carried my maid and me to Briſtol, where he was to have met us with a clergyman, a friend of his, who, as we were both of age, would have diſpenſed with what he called the unneceſſary formality of a licence, and married us in private.

I moſt ſincerely congratulated this amiable girl upon the providential eſcape ſhe had met with, in not be⯑ing united to Captain Williams, even though his intentions towards her might have been ſtrictly honourable, if that were poſſible in his preſent cir⯑cumſtances, and which, without want of charity, I think I may reaſonably doubt.

[166] She appeared extremely affected at Mrs. Williams's diſtreſs, ſaid ſhe hoped her huſband would recover to do juſtice to her merit, and reward her ſufferings, but that ſhe never would upon any account ſee him more, for ſhe could not help owning that ſhe had loved him tenderly.—She talked of quitting Bath immediately.—As a friend, I took the liberty of oppoſing her intention, and adviſed her not only to remain where ſhe was, but to appear as little affected as poſſible at the misfortune that had befallen her worthleſs lover.—She thanked me for my advice, and promiſed to follow it as far as ſhe might be able.

The moment I left Miſs Harriſon, I ſet off in purſuit of my deſtiny,—you know it Stanley.—Fear not that I ſhall ever attempt to deſcribe the [167] ſcene that paſſed between Lady Juliana and me.—No words will ever be able to expreſs my feelings, nor no time to eraſe them from my heart.—Yet let me boaſt her tenderneſs, and tell you, that ſhe wept for your unhappy friend!—tears do not flow from ha⯑tred,—angels tears are tears of pity.—Whilſt I have life I will cheriſh the fond remembrance of her gentle ſorrow.—Do not chide me Stanley.—The only glimpſe I have of happineſs is the being certain, that ſhe does not hate me.—

At my return hither, I found Wil⯑liams in a very dangerous ſtate, the ſurgeons had extracted but one of the balls, and he wou'd not ſuffer them to proceed any farther, till I was pre⯑ſent, as he ſeemed to be perſuaded that he ſhould die in the operation. [168] I went immediately to his bedſide, he was in a high fever, but perfectly in his ſenſes, and his countenance ex⯑preſſive of the extremeſt anguiſh.—He took me by the hand, and ſaid, Can you forgive the anxiety I have coſt you, and look with compaſſion on a wretch who is now expiating his crimes by the ſevereſt torments.

I aſſured him, that I ſincerely lamented the accident that had re⯑duced him to ſuch a ſituation, and moſt truly compaſſionated his ſuffer⯑ings, but that I thought they might be relieved, if he wou'd ſuffer the ſurgeons to perform the neceſſary ope⯑ration of extracting the other ball.—He anſwered, No—they cannot eaſe my pains—that wretched woman.—But I own myſelf accountable for all her crimes, and they ſit heavy at my [169] heart.—She was innocent when I met with her,—and is ſo ſtill, upon my honour.—I replied, her ſufferings are all you have to anſwer for, and they, indeed, have been great.—But were I now even at the point of death, I wou'd atteſt her innocence with my lateſt words.—I have known all her miſeries, but by all that is ſacred, ſhe is free from guilt of any kind.—He wept aloud—and with dif⯑ficulty articulated—then I am ſtill a greater villain.

I told him I rejoiced in his contri⯑tion, as he yet had it in his power in ſome meaſure to atone the crimes he had committed, by doing juſtice to his unhappy wife.—He remained ſilent for ſome time, then groaned moſt heavily,—and ſaid,—let me ſee her—but can ſhe bear the ſight of [170] him who would have murdered her? I caught the piſtol up with an intent to kill her.—But Providence directed the wound to my own guilty heart.—But all my crimes will be atoned by death,—for never ſhall this bullet leave my ſide.—I do not wiſh to live, life wou'd be hateful to me.—Miſs Harriſon! I have injured her too—believe me, ſhe is a virtuous woman, Evelyn.

I replied, I do believe it moſt ſincerely.—But do not wander from your preſent purpoſe.—Your mind will be much eaſier, when you have ſeen your wife. He gazed upon me with a piercing look, and ſaid, you are a man of honour, and cou'd not be ſo baſe as to deceive a dying man. You ſay my wife is guiltleſs, free from ſtain.—Then let her come, and [171] pardon her cruel huſband.—I repeated every ſolemn aſſurance that I could give him of her blameleſs conduct, with which he ſeemed perfectly ſatis⯑fied, and I went to bring her to his bed-ſide.

I found her in the dining-room from whence ſhe had ſcarcely ſtirred, from the time I left her. In her ſitua⯑tion it was impoſſible her mind cou'd feel repoſe, or her body reſt. She appeared to me even a more melan⯑choly object, than when I met her in the Park; her eyes were ſwoln with tears, and her face pale and ema⯑ciated. When I told her that her huſband deſired to ſee her, ſhe ſaid it was impoſſible, ſhe dared not, cou'd not look upon the man ſhe had murdered, nor cou'd ſhe ever more know peace or comfort.

[172] With much difficulty I reaſoned down her groundleſs apprehenſions, of having cauſed his death, and led, or rather ſupported her trembling fee⯑ble frame to his bed-ſide; ſhe dropped upon her knees, and I retired quick from a ſcene that was by much too intereſting for my preſent ſtate of mind.

In about an hour's time he ſent for me; he appeared much more com⯑poſed than when I left him, but ſtill in extreme agony.—He begged I would conſult his ſurgeon, and let him know his real ſtate, for he had much to do, and he believed but a very ſhort ſpace to get it done.—He pro⯑miſed to ſubmit to any operation that ſhou'd be thought neceſſary to ſave his life, and thanked me a thouſand [173] times for the gleam of peace which I had given to his torn mind.

I immediately ſummoned a conſul⯑lation of all the phyſical people of eminence at Bath, but they wou'd not venture to pronounce, with any degree of certainty, till a further experi⯑ment had been made to come at the ball.

I acquainted him with their opi⯑nions, and begged of him to let the trial be inſtantly made, but he pe⯑remptorily refuſed to ſubmit to it, till twelve o'clock to-morrow, as he ſaid he had ſtill more important affairs to execute than that. He deſired a pro⯑per perſon might be ſent for to draw his will, and entreated me to obtain a licence, and get a clergyman to marry [174] him in due form, at nine o'clock to⯑morrow morning, to his preſent no⯑minal wife. He alſo moſt earneſtly requeſted me to wait upon Miſs Har⯑riſon, and implore her forgiveneſs of an unhappy dying man, who never cou'd forgive himſelf.

Need I tell you that I have been ſtrongly affected with Williams's con⯑trition? I moſt ſincerely pray that he may live to enjoy the fruits of his re⯑pentance, and by his future conduct, obliterate his paſt.—I have obeyed all his commands, and am at preſent ſo compleatly harraſſed both in mind and body, that I muſt decline entering into the particulars of your letter, till another opportunity.

I ſhall be preſent at Williams's marriage, and at the dreſſing of his [175] wounds to-morrow, but I much fear that I ſhall ſee him in his wedding, and his winding ſheet at once.

LETTER XXIII.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

IT is all over with poor Williams! A mortification had begun ſome hours before the time that his ſurgeons were appointed.—He was ſenſible of his ſituation by the perfect eaſe he en⯑joyed, and intreated their humanity not to torture him in vain. He bore the certainty of his approaching diſſo⯑lution with the utmoſt calmneſs, and [177] ſpent the few hours that were allotted him in imploring the forgiveneſs of heaven, and his injured wife.—He has bequeathed four hundred pounds a year to Mrs. Williams, for now ſhe is entitled to that name, according to all the forms of law.—He has left an hundred guineas to be laid out in a ring for Miſs Harriſon, on which is to be enamelled the word Beware—and has appointed me his reſiduary legatee.

I ſtaid by him the whole day and night, and about four o'clock this morning he expired.—I will not pain you or my⯑ſelf with a deſcription of his melancholy exit.—I do not think his widow will ſurvive him long.—Tho' he has ac⯑quitted me in the fulleſt and handſomeſt manner of his death, I am adviſed [178] to take my trial at the enſuing aſſizes, as the lawyers here inform me that if I avoid doing ſo, I ſhall always be lia⯑ble to a proſecution, which may, at ſome time or other, be commenced againſt me from malice.—I muſt de⯑ſire you will conſult the ableſt lawyers in London upon this occaſion, and let me have their opinions.—My mind is oppreſſed with an uncommon gloom—death is a tremendous ſubject of contemplation, when we view it near—ſeen in perſpective only, we caſt a tranſient glance, and turn our eyes away.—Perhaps it would diſrobe the ſpectre of his terrors, were we to look more frequently and ſteadily upon it.

But theſe reflections are out of ſea⯑ſon to a joyful heart; long may it be before one pang of ſorrow ſhall find [179] entrance there! May Lucy ſoon in⯑creaſe your happineſs, by ſharing it, and may it remain as uninterrupted as the ſincere friendſhip of

LETTER XXIV.
LADY DESMOND, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

MY deareſt Charles, I have read in ſome good author, that generoſity and gratitude are twins, who have ne⯑ver been ſeparated, but always ſubſiſt in the ſame heart.—In yours, then, my brother, you will find the ſenti⯑ments of mine; ſentiments which can only be felt, but never expreſſed: or [181] if they could, the ſenſation would ſtill remain as unintelligible to the bulk of human-kind as the idea of a ſixth ſenſe.

You will perhaps be ſuprized when I tell you that I have ſhed more tears this laſt week, than I have for many months before.

There would be no enduring the tranſport of conferring happineſs on thoſe we love, without that kind re⯑lief.—Surely, my brother, you muſt have wept yourſelf when you made Emma happy.

I think myſelf much obliged to Mr. Sewell for the diſpatch he made [182] from Bath to Delville with your bills. Every thing here now wears a chearful aſpect; and I fancy as I look upon the lawn, that it has acquired a brighter verdure than it uſed to wear, even in the ſpring.—But though this idea may be imaginary, I am certain that my beloved Sir James has caſt away the gloom that hung upon his brow, and the ſoft ſmiles of ſweet content now reign triumphant there. I think he was even more oppreſſed with gratitude than me, when I deli⯑vered your generous gift into his hands.—He is gone to London to ful⯑fil the purpoſe for which it was de⯑ſigned.

We ſhall now have no more credi⯑tors, for ſure I am that he will never more involve himſelf by play.—Tho' at this time I could not bring myſelf [183] to hint even the moſt diſtant deſire he ſhould relinquiſh it; but well he knows how ardently I wiſh he ſhould, and as he loves me with the utmoſt tenderneſs, I cannot doubt his giving me this proof of his affection.

Mr. Sewell is gone with Sir James to London, and I am to follow in a fortnight.—Sir James thinks our houſe cannot be ſufficiently aired in leſs time, and would not have me, or our dear little Fanny, run the hazard of catching cold.—I have a thouſand apprehenſions about his health, and earneſtly wiſh that he could have been content to paſs the winter here as we had intended.

Mr. Sewell has informed me that you had paid a viſit to Lady Juliana Harley; he could not tell me what [184] was the reſult, though I gueſs it but too well, from his ſaying that you ap⯑peared dejected at your return.—Why will you court unhappineſs by purſuing perhaps the only woman within your ſphere of life that would fly from you? Bleſt as you are with virtue, health, and fortune, why muſt you add to the too numerous proofs, that happineſs is not attainable on earth?

Forgive me, Charles, this little op⯑poſition to your only irrational pur⯑ſuit.—Few are the perſons, even amongſt the beſt, within whoſe reach felicity ſeems placed; all muſt de⯑ſerve before they can obtain it, but even then we ſometimes caſt it from us, and like Ixion, graſp a cloud.—May you reverſe the fable, and long enjoy what you ſo well deſerve! My little Fanny's playful fondneſs will [185] not ſuffer me longer to indulge in expreſſing the ardent wiſhes of my heart, for my loved friend and bro⯑ther, but from that ſource they ſhall for ever flow to the Great Fountain of all good, to bleſs, protect, and guide you!

LETTER XXV.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO LADY DESMOND.

I SINCERELY wiſh that my dear Emma's nerves were a little ſtronger, for though I confeſs myſelf extremely pleaſed with the tenderneſs of your letter, I for your ſake, lament the ſenſibility which dictated it.—This is not a world for delicate minds to be happy in.

There never was a ſentiment more elegantly expreſſed.—I would rather have been the author of that ſingle ſtanza, than of a dozen volumes of poetry; nay, and of good poetry too. But why, my Emma, will you diſtreſs me by talking of gratitude? Of what value is wealth if it does not enable us to purchaſe happineſs? and to diffuſe is to enjoy it; the greateſt miſer upon earth cannot confine his poſſeſſions ſolely to himſelf, nor can the moſt lux⯑urious man that lives, appropriate to his own uſe the tithe of what he diſ⯑ſipates.—He who beſtows, preſerves his property; a gift once made cannot be leſſened; it is a fund eſtabliſhed in [188] a grateful heart, which even the great deſtroyer, Time, cannot im⯑pair.

But holding riches lightly as I do, I would not wiſh that mine ſhould flit away on the groſs pinions of Folly or of Vice: I therefore intreat you to exert all the influence you have over your beloved Sir James, to prevail on him to conquer a paſſion that muſt come under one or other of thoſe denominations.—You muſt know that I mean his love of play.

Yet I approve of your delicacy in not mentioning the ſubject, at a time when it might have appeared like making conditions for what he thought a favour; and indeed I ſhould be bet⯑ter pleaſed, if he were voluntarily to renounce gaming, than if he ſacri⯑ficed [189] his inclination even to your re⯑queſt.

One of thoſe harpies whom I ſaw at Delville, a Mr. Simpſon, has I hear loſt large ſums of money here.—I am glad Sir James is not near enough to aſſiſt in repairing his loſſes.—I think Mr. Sewell a worthy, and I may add, a ſenſible man, as he has had prudence enough to relinquiſh gaming.—He profeſſes the ſincereſt regard for both you and your huſband.—However I think I have a little rea⯑ſon to chide, that he ſhou'd inform me of Sir James's difficulties.—Was he more worthy of my Emma's con⯑fidence than I?

I am very glad to hear you are go⯑ing to London; diſſipation, contrary to its uſual effects, will be of infi⯑nite [190] ſervice to you. The generality of public entertainments which are frequented by perſons of rank, are calculated entirely to amuſe the ſenſes; the heart has nothing to do with them, and of courſe inſenſibly re⯑tires within itſelf; its feelings lie dor⯑mant, its ſenſibility becomes obtuſe, and I am apt to think that perſons who live in a conſtant circle of diſſipa⯑tion, do not know that they have an heart.—But as I am by no means apprehenſive that you are likely to forget that part of your anatomy, I ſhall be glad the little flutterer ſhou'd repoſe for a time, in the apathy of what is ſo falſely ſtiled pleaſure.

I hope you will be time enough in town, to be preſent at our dear Lucy's wedding.—I wiſh you cou'd contrive to call upon me in your journey, it [191] will not be much out of your road, and if we do not meet here, it may be very long before we do.

I thank you for the tender con⯑cern you expreſs for me, on account of my unhappy paſſion; it is the only ſubject on which I would not liſten to my Emma's advice.—But remember, my ſiſter—"They never knew to love, that knew to change;" and be aſſured, that no other woman can ever make the ſlighteſt impreſſion upon the heart of your ſincerely affec⯑tionate brother,

LETTER XXVI.
GEORGE SEWELL, TO JOHN SIMPSON.

WHAT the devil could prevent you, Jack, from meeting us at Saliſ⯑bury? Do you know that the baronet has been very near ſlipping through our hands, and that at the very time when he is beſt worth our holding! Why, man, we have found a mine, the treaſures of the Eaſt lie before us; [193] Evelyn's whole fortune may be ours, Lady Deſmond has got a key to his purſe, out of which ſhe will certainly fill her huſband's, and we the galant knights of induſtry will as ſurely empty it.

But to explain this myſtery. We were all in a doleful way, when you, like a falſe friend, left us at Delville. Not a ſhilling to be raiſed, not a ſtake left unmortgaged but my lady's jointure, and the baronet ſwore he would periſh rather than rob his wife. The intended journey to London was entirely laid aſide, and they were to paſs the winter ſolus cum ſola.—He grew grave and peeviſh; ſhe retained her uſual gentle chearfulneſs: upon my ſoul, Jack, ſhe is a very amiable woman, and I am really glad we did not meddle with the jointure; parti⯑cularly, [194] as we can now do very well without it.

It was impoſſible for me to think of remaining in ſuch a dull ſcene, where I knew there was nothing to be got, ſo I made a few wry faces at ta⯑ble, talked of a flying gout, and ſet out to drink the Bath water, which, like the Iriſh uſquebaugh, has always a little gold floating in it, which may be eaſily extracted by ſuch ingenious chymiſts as you and I.

To my great joy one of the firſt per⯑ſons I met with there, was the prudent and ſenſible Mr. Charles Evelyn.—I had, you know, ingratiated myſelf into his good opinion at Delville, by adviſing Sir James Deſmond againſt play, and I reſolved to ſtrengthen his prepoſſeſſion, by declaring that I had [195] entirely left it off myſelf.—That was a ſtroke beyond you, Simpſon.—I was fortunate enough to be able to ac⯑quaint him with the place of his Dul⯑cinea's retreat, which he conſidered as a real obligation.—There has not been ſuch a Quixote in England theſe fifty years.—Before he ſet out on his wildgooſe chaſe, I took occaſion to mention the diſtreſſed ſituation of the Deſmond family, but under the ſeal of ſecrecy, as I told him I knew the baronet's pride would never ſuffer him to reveal the conſequences of that miſconduct, he now ſo ſincerely re⯑pented of.—I talked in raptures of Lady Deſmond's virtues, and ſwore that Sir James and ſhe would be the happieſt couple on earth if their cir⯑cumſtances were tolerably eaſy.—The gudgeon bit, and immediately aſked me what ſum I thought would relieve [196] Sir James from his preſent difficulties? I heſitated to pronounce, but upon being preſſed, ſaid I imagined four or five thouſand pounds would diſcharge all his impatient creditors, though I well knew that thrice that ſum would not extricate him.

The idiot Evelyn, whom I ſuppoſe to be as rich as the Great Mogul, ſat down directly and drew drafts for ſix thouſand pounds in favour of Sir James Deſmond, and as ſoon as they returned accepted, conſigned them to my friendly care, to be delivered into the hands of his fair ſiſter.—And am I not a friend, indeed! for I don't ex⯑pect above half this ſum to roll into your pocket, or mine?

Both Sir James and Lady Deſmond were ſtrongly affected at this proof of [197] Evelyn's generoſity; and the former was very near making a vow never to play again.—I trembled leſt his wife ſhould have ſtrengthened his wavering reſolution, by making it her requeſt; but if ſhe had, I would have laid five to three againſt any promiſe that Sir James could make; for a man may as eaſily be cured of the hy⯑drophobia, as of an itch for gaming.—All I feared was, that he might get into other hands, and therefore wrote to you to meet and accompany us to London; for to be ſure if he was not an egregious gull, he muſt be ſurprized at our conſtant good luck.

I contrived, as I wrote you word, that we ſhould lye at Saliſbury.—After ſupper, the baronet ſeemed penſive, I puſhed about the bottle, and expected he would call for cards, but he yawned, [198] and talked of going to bed.—On which I ſtept out of the room, and returned in a moment with a box and dice, and propoſed taking a caſt or two, merely to amuſe the time, for ſilver.—He could not reſiſt the dear temptation, and that jilt fortune, and my own negligence, in not having a die in my pocket, turned againſt me, and I loſt an hundred guineas.—But tant mieux, ſay I, 'tis a good bait, and will catch thouſands.—The baronet exulted vio⯑lently, as all thoſe fellows do that are not uſed to win.—I congratulated him on the change of his luck, ſaid For⯑tune was certainly weary of perſecu⯑ting him, and that it was highly pro⯑bable he would now recover all his former loſſes.—He ſmiled at the idea, and went to bed in high ſpirits.

[199] We did not get to town till late laſt night, and then parted; this day he dines with his brother-in-law Sel⯑wyn, and has deſired me to meet him in the evening at his own houſe.—I have accepted the invitation, and ſhall go properly prepared. In my next I hope to give you a good ac⯑count of him, or his money, which is a much better thing.—I am ſorry you are not here; we muſt ſtrike while the iron is hot, and reſcue his dear gui⯑neas from falling into the hands of "odious vulgar tradeſmen," as Lady Townley ſays.

I hope you are ſucceſsful at Bath, though there is danger there of meet⯑ing with your match; and give me leave to ſay, you are not qualified for ſuch an encounter:—you loſe your [200] temper with your money, and know not how to retire with the eaſy gen⯑tleman-like ſans froid of yours.

LETTER XXVII.
LADY JULIANA HARLEY, TO MISS EVELYN.

Yes, my Lucy! I will haſten to your relief, or rather to my own—Miſs Harley's ill temper has rendered this place ſo hateful to me, that I can no longer abide in't.

Surely there is a fatality that at⯑tends the meeting of an Evelyn and an Harley.—From the moment that your brother left this houſe, ſhe has [202] treated me with the utmoſt aſperity.—She ſays ſhe is certain that the whole race of Evelyns are idiots, or that I muſt have given them philtres.—But it is they, not me, who have the art of faſcination, for this poor lady is be⯑come enamoured by a ſingle glance of your brother.—Perhaps the ſudden fright ſhe received from the ſtrong re⯑ſemblance between him and the la⯑mented Henry, has occaſioned this ex⯑traordinary prepoſſeſſion;—though love is by no means the offspring of fear.—But no matter for the cauſe, the effects have been dreadful to me, and I am reſolved to withdraw myſelf from them as quickly as poſſible.

Heaven knows that this poor ſink⯑ing heart of mine needs not to have its ſorrows aggravated.—'Tis true, my Lucy, that your brother and I are [203] not under an abſolute neceſſity of meeting, yet ſurely unleſs he or I re⯑linquiſh the enjoyment of your ſociety, we cannot well avoid it.—Juſtice and reaſon ordain that I ſhould make the ſacrifice; and what a deſart will Lon⯑don be to me deprived of your ſweet converſe?

On the approaching, I hope, happy event of your changing your name—‘O name, for ever ſad, for ever dear!’—I beg if Mr. Evelyn ſhould be in London, that his pre⯑ſence may be conſidered as more eſſen⯑tial on that occaſion than mine.—My Lucy does but jeſt when ſhe talks of terrors at giving her hand where ſhe has long ſince beſtowed her heart.—Though I will allow that even thus happily circumſtanced, there is ſome⯑thing [204] extremely awful in the marriage contract, to a ſenſible and delicate mind. I have often wondered, where thoſe very young ladies, who elope from their families and friends, have found reſolution ſufficient to ſupport themſelves thro' that ſolemn cere⯑mony. But think what ſhe endures, who is compelled to make a "joyleſs, loveleſs vow!"

I purpoſe being in London, by this day fortnight, but let me conjure you not to delay Mr. Stanley's happineſs, upon my account; your ſiſter Sel⯑wyn, whom I ſincerely congratulate, will ſupport your ſpirits, and to ſay truth, my Lucy, I wou'd rather be excuſed from being preſent at a cere⯑mony, where love, hope and joy ſhou'd fill each chearful heart.—Theſe charming ſenſations have, alas! been [205] [...] [204] [...] [205] long baniſhed from mine, and the only pleaſing one which now inhabits there, is the affectionate regard with which,

LETTER XXVIII.
MISS EVELYN, TO LADY JULIANA HARLEY.

THANK you, my good Miſs Harley, with all my heart, for hav⯑ing been able to effect, by the pure dint of a diabolical diſpoſition, what all the earneſt entreaties of Lady Ju⯑liana's favourite friend, had ſolicited in vain. Old adages have always been highly eſteemed by me, for I firmly believe our anceſtors were wiſer than [207] the preſent generation, and the needs muſt, I ſhall henceforth look upon as an oracular truth—I aſk ten thou⯑ſand pardons, thou departed ſpirit of Cheſterfield, for having ventured to quote an old proverb againſt your injunction.

I am delighted at the idea of Miſs Harley's falling in love by a coup d'oeil, and ſhall certainly con⯑gratulate Charles on his conqueſt. Dry wood is more apt to take fire, than when 'tis green, we all know, but why the deuce came Miſs Touch⯑wood, to make ſuch a ſmoke and pother?—I never knew but one per⯑ſon, beſides Miſs Harley, whoſe tem⯑per was not ſoftened by love; ſhe poor dear was a middle-aged Lady alſo, and the fonder ſhe grew of her lover, the more ſpiteful ſhe became to [208] all the reſt of the world.—But vari⯑ous are the effects of the ſame diſeaſe, upon the human body, and as various are the effects of the ſelf-ſame paſſion upon the human mind.—I think that laſt a good pretty philoſophical ſort of a ſentence.—'Tis poetical, at leaſt.

And ſo, my dear Lady, you are pleaſed to ſay, that I do but jeſt, when I talk of terrors in regard to a certain event, and in the very next line you kindly allow, that there is ſomething very awful in a marriage con⯑tract, to a ſenſible and delicate mind.

Thank you, my ſweet friend, for this obliging inuendo;—but I am not in a humour to quarrel, and the only revenge I deſire to take, for this ſly hint, is to inſiſt upon your being pre⯑ſent at my nuptials, I think that ſounds better than wedding, and conveys a [209] more dignified idea of the ſolemn ceremony. To be ſerious—for I am not merry, though

I feel that there is ſomething very tremendous in uniting our fate, with that of a perſon whoſe temper and ſentiments it is impoſſible we ſhould be thoroughly acquainted with, and becoming as it were, dependent upon another for our temporal and eter⯑nal happineſs.—For I agree with Dr. Tillotſon, "That an unhappy mar⯑riage is a leſſer Hell, in paſſage to the greater."—

I tremble whilſt I write this ſen⯑tence;—yet wherefore ſhou'd I be ſo much alarmed? Stanley is gene⯑rous and humane, and ſhou'd he even [210] ceaſe to love me,—ſhocking thought, I will not dwell upon the gloomy ſubject.—Now for the other end of the perſpective.—We have got the prettieſt houſe imaginable, very near Berkeley-ſquare, not far from my ſiſter Selwyn's, and in the ſame ſtreet with Emma.—Apropos, Sir James Deſ⯑mond is come to town, and her lady⯑ſhip is expected in a few days; he ſeems in high ſpirits, which I rejoice at, becauſe I know my ſiſter's gentle nerves are always in ſtrict uniſon with his.—I ſhould be glad to know, if ſhe is very happy.—If ſhe is not, Lord have mercy upon me! for I never ſhall make half ſo good a wife, and yet I aſſure you I am reſolved to be as good as I poſſibly can.

I did not intend to write above ſix lines, when I took up the pen, and they were meant to tell you,

There's an extempore for you.—We have a great deal of company to dine, and I muſt dreſs.

LETTER XXIX.
WILLIAM STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

I BY no means wonder at the op⯑preſſion of ſpirits you ſeemed to labour under, when you laſt wrote to me.—Such a ſucceſſion of melanchcly ſcenes wou'd unſtring the nerves of an Her⯑cules.—I know not how to ſay I am ſorry for Williams, and yet I feel ſomething like concern for his death, mixed with a fear, that if he had [213] lived, he wou'd have relapſed into his former errors. To conquer habi⯑tual vice is a more than Herculean labour, it requires ſtrength of mind and preſeverance, qualities which are ſeldom to be met with in a vicious perſon—for all kinds of baſeneſs ener⯑vates the ſoul, and render it averſe from pain or difficulty.—But peace be with his aſhes, and may his widow live to enjoy content, if not felicity.

I have conſulted ſome of our ableſt lawyers, and they agree in deſiring you ſhould take your trial at the en⯑ſuing aſſizes; but I hope neither this, or any other buſineſs, will prevent your being a witneſs and partaker of my happineſs, in receiving the com⯑pletion of my every wiſh, from my dear Lucy's hand.

[214] The long deſired day is at length fixed for the eighteenth of next month.—By that time, Lady Deſmond and Lady Juliana Harley will both be in London, and my Lucy ſays, will both be preſent at what ſhe calls the aw⯑ful ceremony.

After this hint, I think I need not preſs your coming; but let me intreat you, my dear Charles, upon this occa⯑ſion, to caſt off your glooms and ſa⯑bles—

It is a general remark, that grave la⯑dies like ſprightly men.—Contraſts oftener create affection than ſimilari⯑ty;—in manners only, I mean:—for there muſt be a ſympathy of ſentiment to form a perfect love.—‘Her taſte [215] was his own,’ is one of the very beſt reaſons for a real attachment, that I know of.

I write in haſte, for I reſent the loſs of every moment which I do not en⯑joy in my Lucy's company.—My car⯑riage waits to convey me to Clarges⯑ſtreet, you will therefore, I hope, forgive this abrupt adieu.

LETTER XXX.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

NO, Stanley! no, my friend! I will not damp your joys; nor gloom, nor ſorrow, ſhall obtrude on your feſtivity.—I never ſhall put on a wedding garment, and therefore will not be a gueſt at yours.—Yet ſhall my heart moſt truly ſympathize [217] in my friend's happineſs, nor can his own form any wiſh more ardent that it may be laſting!

Lucy has many good and amiable qualities, and will, I am convinced, exert them all to inſure the happineſs of the man ſhe loves.—I don't know any young woman better qualified to make a good wife; ſhe has an excellent temper, and conſtant ſpirits; and I am perſuaded, that chearſulneſs is a very neceſſary ingredient in matri⯑mony.—The languid and dejected part of her ſex, ſeem to claim a conſtant exertion of their huſband's tenderneſs; they appear to be incapable of bearing their part in the difficulties, or di⯑ſtreſſes of life, and of courſe throw the whole load upon the men.—But tho' 'tis natural to love the being we pro⯑tect, 'tis as reaſonable to expect, that [218] the companion of our journey through life ſhould at leaſt endeavour to en⯑liven the dreary part of the road, and make it ſeem leſs tireſome.—You know the adage, ‘Jucunda comes, in viâ, pro vehiculo eſt.’ Such a one, I hope, you will find in my ſiſter, and may your journey be long, but not tedious.

Believe me, my friend, I am ſin⯑cerely rejoiced at hearing that Lady Juliana means to return to the world and her friends again.—May every happineſs the world can give be hers!—and never, never ſhall I interrupt it.—How could you think that I would break my promiſe, and ſink myſelf in her eſteem? I ſcarce can pardon the idea.

[219] My gentle Emma, too, will grace your wedding:—too ſurely may I ſay my heart will be amongſt ye.—The reſt of me, the mere animal body, will remain here till after the aſſizes, and when they are over, I ſhall ac⯑company Miſs Harriſon and her bro⯑ther to Ireland.—He is a very ſenſible, elegant man, and thinks himſelf obliged to me for the attention I have ſhewn to his ſiſter.

Poor Mrs. Williams continues in a very weak and languid ſtate of health; fortune cannot repair the wrongs it has already done her; her phyſicians have hopes of her recovery from drinking the Briſtol waters next ſum⯑mer, but I can ſcarcely form a hope that ſhe will remain amongſt us long enough to try their efficacy.

[220] Preſent my ſincereſt congratulations to your fair bride, though I ſhall write to her and my ſiſter Selwyn by next poſt. ^*

Farewell, my Stanley, and be aſ⯑ſured that even the name of brother cannot add to the unfeigned regard with which

LETTER XXXI.
MISS LUCY EVELYN. TO CHARLES EVELYN.

I WILL not ſay with Beatrice, ‘Againſt my will, I am ſent to bid you come to dinner.’—For with my whole heart, that is, with all that I have left of it, do I intreat your com⯑pany on the eighteenth inſt.—Surely [222] my good, my generous brother, will not deny to grant the only requeſt that I have ever made to him.

Should you refuſe, even your prince⯑ly preſent would loſe its luſtre in my eyes, or at leaſt your unkindneſs will diminiſh its brilliancy; for indeed, I have ſet my heart upon your coming, and one ſhould not be croſſed upon one's wedding-day.—Let the honey-moon at leaſt, ſhine unclouded to its wain.—Suppoſe Lady Juliana ſhould be there, ſhe is no gorgon.—She has the beauty, indeed, of the Meduſa head, but without its terrors.—For my life I can't find out why you and ſhe are ſo horridly afraid of each other.—I am certain that if you never meet, you will never come together; and I think that is an event that might probably [223] enough be brought about, if you did not take ſo much pains to avoid it.—Neither women nor men, I fancy, ſhould be underſtood, au piè du lettre, upon the article of love;—both ſides generally ſay more than they literally mean.—For my part, I know have told Mr. Stanley twenty times that I ſhould never marry; and heartily ſorry ſhould I now be if he had been ſuch a dunce as to have taken me at my word.

For ſhame, then, Charles! take courage, and don't give out on a firſt denial.—

But let this matter be ſettled between you and your fair relict, as you pleaſe: [224] it has nothing to do with my requeſt, with which I again intreat your com⯑pliance, and am moſt affectionately

P. S. Caſtlefranc has executed your commiſſion in a moſt elegant taſte.—Thank you, my ſweet brother, for the handſomeſt pair of ear-rings I ever ſaw,—I mean to ſurprize Mr. Stanley with them, and will never for⯑give you if you are not preſent to en⯑joy his aſtoniſhment, and hear Mr. Selwyn's remarks on the folly and va⯑nity of ſuch fopperies. ^*

LETTER XXXII.
LADY DESMOND, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

NOT all the gay and pleaſing ſcenes in which I have been engaged ſince my arrival here have been able to efface the tender melancholy I felt at bidding you adieu.—Though we parted at the Devizes, you accompa⯑nied me all the way to London; not [226] even my little Fanny's chearful prat⯑tle, and innocent curioſity, could rouſe me ſufficiently from my reverie to make me anſwer her queſtions ra⯑tionally.—My mind was totally occu⯑pied on the peculiar unhappineſs of yours, in not being able to conquer a paſſion, which you acknowledge to be hopeleſs.

My anxiety for you has rendered me unjuſt: I could not receive Lady Juliana with the cordiality and affec⯑tion I uſed to feel for her, nor caſt my eyes upon her elegant form with⯑out wiſhing to leſſen her charms.—No woman ever took more pains to de⯑preciate a rival's beauties to a waver⯑ing lover, than I have done to find ſome fault with her's.—But it is in vain—I cannot diſcover a ſingle im⯑perfection, except her being the cauſe, [227] though an innocent one, of your un⯑happineſs.—I think ſhe is thinner than ſhe was when you ſaw her at Del⯑ville, and is almoſt as much ſpiritu⯑alized, though without the appear⯑ance of ill health, as your fair idea, Mrs. Williams; for whoſe recovery I am much intereſted, and intreat you to preſent my beſt wiſhes to her.

Lady Juliana endeavoured to ap⯑pear chearful at my ſiſter's wedding, but every one might ſee ſhe ſtrove to be ſo.—What cauſe can be aſſigned for ſuch a depreſſion of ſpirits in one who is ſurrounded with all the out⯑ward ſigns of happineſs?—She cannot ſurely love in vain—I know not what to think of her.—But this is the laſt time that even your intreaties ſhall prevail on me to mention her again.

[228] I have been involved in a continued circle, or rather whirl, of public and private amuſements ever ſince I came to town; yet I feel I have an heart, and that it grieves for you.—I look back with pleaſure on the three days I ſpent with you at Bath; though there is a good deal of regret mingled with the recollection, at not having had it in my power to perſuade you to come up to London.

Mr. and Mrs. Stanley are as happy as it is poſſible to be, and with true joy I ſay, they have a proſpect of con⯑tinuing ſo, if happineſs were a peren⯑nial flower.—But alas! few are the ſoils in which it always blooms.—In moſt that I have ſeen, 'tis but an an⯑nual; nay, ſometimes blaſted e'er it can take root.—'Tis a celeſtial plant, [229] and was not meant to flouriſh here below.

Do not from hence conclude I am unhappy; if I were, I ſhould deſerve to be ſo, for I ſhould be ungrateful to Providence and to you.—No, let my thankful heart acknowledge its feli⯑city, by ſaying that my beloved Sir James and Fanny both are well, and that I am, to the beſt of brothers, an affectionate ſiſter.

LETTER XXXIII.
GEORGE SEWELL, TO JOHN SIMPSON.

DEVILISH bad, indeed Jack! what routed horſe and foot! Stephens undone as well as you?—No hopes of repairing the damage, but by my ſuc⯑ceſs?—Let me tell you, gentlemen, this will never do.—You are miſtaken, if you fancy I have touched all the Baronet's caſh.—No more than a pal⯑try [231] ſeven hundred has come to my ſhare.—I was obliged to take in a part⯑ner, as Sir James objected to playing with me, tête-a-tête, for large ſums.—Not from any ſuſpicion, but as I was his friend, he did not chuſe to win my money. Scrupulous idiot! he need not have feared hurting me.—A gameſter like an hiſtorian, ſhould have neither country, reli⯑gion, or friends.—There muſt be no boggling. I called in Kelly and paſſed him for a rich Weſt Indian.—We divided fourteen hundred, for as Kelly is not of our ſet, he inſiſted on the ready.—He is an errant Jew, and it grieved me to go ſnacks, with ſuch a niggardly raſcal.

However it was lucky that I ſtruck the iron while 'twas hot, for ſince my lady's arrival in town, the Baronet has not touched a die.—There has been a wedding in the family, and a [232] deal of dining and ſupping together.—The new brother-in-law, Mr. Stan⯑ley, is I fancy a deviliſh keen one.—I was in hopes to have touched him for a little of his wife's fortune, but upon Sir James propoſing play a few nights ago, at his own houſe this ſame wiſe-acre talked of gaming and gameſters, in ſuch a ſtile as made me almoſt bluſh, and wiſh myſelf fairly out of the company.—I perceive there is nothing to be got by him.

Though Lady Deſmond appears the gentleſt of beings, I begin to fancy that her huſband is a little in awe of her, from his not venturing to play, ſince ſhe came to town.—If this ſhou'd be the caſe, I will take care that her reign ſhall be ſhort, by throwing out hints of his apparent ſubjection, at which, I am ſure the [233] Baronet's pride will revolt, and then let her ladyſhip look to her jointure.—If I can cure his qualms about it, I ſhall have none of my own, hence-ſorward.—

There is a good clever woman in their ſet, that I think has ſpirit enough for any thing; a Madam du Pont, ſhe loves play, and ſeems to underſtand it; but I fancy ſhe is poor. Suppoſe we were to admit her of our ſociety? women are the beſt decoy⯑ducks in the world.—I don't fancy ſhe would have many ſcruples, for I have heard that ſhe is an infamous daugh⯑ter to an indulgent mother, whoſe circumſtances ſhe has ruined.—

I have ſome doubts about Monſieur, her huſband, he ſeems to be a man of honour; but if he is fond of her, he will eaſily be converted into— [234] What? I do not like to anſwer the queſtion.

It is deviliſh hard lads, that we muſt be confined to this piddling work.—If they had not black balled us at the great clubs, we might have rolled in our chariots long ſince; not but that there are many of our fraternity amongſt them; and ſome not half ſuch honeſt fellows as our⯑ſelves.—

I encloſe you bills for five hundred, to make a puſh with.—I deſire, Jack, that you will be cautious how you play with foreigners; they generally know as much of the matter as we do. The Eaſt and Weſt Indians are our beſt marks.—Full purſes and honeſt hearts, the true ferae naturâ for gentlemen gameſters.

[235] I have juſt received a meſſage from Sir James; Lady Deſmond goes to a ball; he has ſtrained his ancle; and deſires to ſee me.—It is not impoſſi⯑ble that I may make him dance with⯑out a fiddle, before the night is over. Luck attend us all! adieu.—

LETTER XXXIV.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO WILLIAM STANLEY.

MY trial is over, and I ſtand ac⯑quitted by the laws of the land, as well as my own conſcience.—The proceſs was very ſhort; Williams had taken every poſſible precaution, to ſecure both my life and honour—Poor fellow! I wiſh he had taken as much pains to preſerve his own.

[237] The formalities of a court of ju⯑dicature, even to a mind conſcious of its innocence, and certain of acquital have ſomething very awful in them.—I am amazed how any perſon, who ſtands ſelf convicted, is able to ſup⯑port himſelf, on ſuch a tremendous occaſion. Shakeſpear ſays,

I ſhould think ſuch an effect much more likely to be produced by put⯑ting a culprit on his trial; at leaſt I am ſure I ſhould plead guilty, if I was conſcious of being ſo.—But we are not judges of ſituations that we have not experienced; and perhaps if I was capable of committing mur⯑der, [238] I might be mean enough to deny my guilt, for the poor privilege of carrying up-and-down a wretched reſtleſs being.

But away with theſe Tyburn to⯑picks, and let me talk to you of love and joy.—To you I truſt they are terms ſynonimous; to me they never can, or will be ſo. But tell me, Stanley, how does your lively bride become that character?—has ſhe aſſumed an air of dignity, and put the matron on, even with the wedding ring, as I have ſeen young ladies do e're now;—or is ſhe ſtill the ſame un⯑affected pleaſant Lucy, not changed in any thing but name?—How go the Selwyns and the Deſmonds on?—And anſwer me this once, has Lady Juliana ever mentioned me?—

[239] There is a fiſter in law of her's, here, at preſent; a Miſs Hartley; ſhe did me the honour to addreſs me in the rooms, from having ſeen me for a moment at Harley Hill, I had not the leaſt recollection of her.—How ſhould I?—I ſaw her not, nor ſhou'd have ſeen the Grecian Venus, had ſhe ſtood before me.—I had no eyes but for one ſingle object. But I will not indulge myſelf with dwelling on the dear painful ſubject.

Miſs Harley has been particularly civil to the Harriſons and me; I al⯑moſt fancy ſhe likes the Captain, and 'tis a very probable conjecture, for he is extremely agreeable, both in his perſon and manners; yet I ſhall be ſorry if it is ſo, for I would not have any one who bears the name of Har⯑ley wretched, and I am pretty ſure [240] that his affections are already beſtowed upon Mrs. Williams; but I fear he will not be ſucceſsful there, as he has a potent rival in the grim king of terrors, who lurks in ambuſh, even beneath her ſmiles.

I purpoſe ſetting out for Ireland, in about ten days; if my ſiſters have any commiſſions to execute, I beg they will employ me, as I am to them, and you, a ſincerely affec⯑tionate brother,

LETTER XXXV.
MRS. STANLEY, TO CHARLES EVELYN.

I HAVE ſnatched the pen from my huſband—how oddly that word looks! becauſe I am reſolved to an⯑ſwer for myſelf, as I have heard it remarked, that one ſhou'd never rely upon what a man ſays of his wife.—There's another queer word—and be⯑cauſe [242] I have a ſecret to tell you, that I don't chuſe to truſt Mr. Stanley with.—You ſee that I am already au fait of the myſteries of matrimony, and underſtand my place.

Now to your queries—I have not aſſumed any matronly airs as yet, merely becauſe I don't think they would become me.—Beſides, the man likes me as I am at preſent, but the moment I perceive the leaſt altera⯑tion in his manners towards me, I'll turn the tables upon him, ſtudy the Graces, become at once a very dig⯑nified fine lady, ſcorn to laugh at any thing however ridiculous, and be as dull and as formal as any Donna Elvira at the Court of Madrid.—If variety has charms, ſuch a contraſt ſurely muſt delight him.

[243] Now for my ſecret.—Huſh, let me whiſper in your ear.—It is not Cap⯑tain Harriſon, but Charles Evelyn, that has captivated the tender heart of the young and beautiful Miſs Harley.—Lady Juliana aſſures me, that her ſiſter-in-law is very little turned of thirty; but were I to judge, I think we might add ten to the ſcore, and bring her almoſt on the road to fifty.—But were ſhe fifteen, I ſhou'd not like her; but that is no reaſon for your diſlike; and now that I am married and ſettled as it were, I wou'd fain have you in the ſame pre⯑dicament.—Yet I wiſh you to look ſomewhere elſe for a wife, as I am perſuaded there never will be a match, between a Harley and an Evelyn.

They ſay the Iriſh ladies are re⯑markably handſome; who knows but [244] ſome fair bogtrotter may lay hold of your heart, and tranſmogrify you into a brogueneer.—You aſk me for com⯑miſſions; bring me over a ſiſter-in-law, and I won't trouble you for any elſe; but if you return ſingle, I de⯑ſire you to bring me a great quantity of Iriſh ſtuff, and every other kind of countraband commodity, you can contrive to ſmuggle, that is the manu⯑facture of that country.

I know you won't think my letter worth the poſtage, if I don't ſay ſomething of Lady Juliana.—Seri⯑ouſly, Charles, ſhe gives me great uneaſineſs; both her health and ſpirits decline viſibly, and I am certain there is a cruel ſomething, that preys upon her heart.—She laments her being the cauſe of your abſenting yourſelf from your family, yet highly approves [245] your ſhunning her.—She ſometimes talks of going abroad, but I don't believe ſhe will ever have reſolution enough to travel; for even I cannot prevail on her to ſtir from her own fire-ſide.—In ſhort, ſhe is a riddle too difficult for me to expound.

The Selwyns and Deſmonds all ſalute you, as does my ſpoſo, and your affectionate ſiſter.

P. S. Madame Du Pont, whom you will poſſibly know better by the name of Maria Morton, deſires her com⯑pliments to you.—She is a great deal with us at preſent, as my brother and ſiſter Deſmond ſeem to have taken a particular liking for her.—I think ſhe is more agreeable as Madam du Pont, [246] than ſhe was as Miſs Morton.—But I hear ſhocking ſtories of her behaviour to her mother.—If they are true, I ſhall renounce her;—for to me, not all the charms of wit and beauty, can compenſate for a bad heart.—Pray write from Ireland, and tell me all about it.

LETTER XXXVI.
GEORGE SEWELL, TO JOHN SIMPSON.

SO the wheel is gone round I find, and you are now pretty near the top.—Climb away, Jack, but remem⯑ber to ſit faſt when you get on the pinnacle.—Such another tumble as your laſt would go near to undo us.

[248] Dame Fortune has been pleaſed to give me a lift alſo, yet I could not have gone on cleverly if you had not ſupplied me with the ready.—The ba⯑ronet's caſh is exhauſted, and I have been kind enough to furniſh him with a brace of hundreds, which added to the ſum he has loſt to me ſince I wrote laſt, makes a cool thouſand; and all I have to ſhew for it is a piece of ſtamped paper, bond and warrant, my boy, that's all.

Give me credit, Jack, I am a Ma⯑chiavel in politics.—Madame Du Pont is the fineſt bait I ever had to an⯑gle with; ſhe is really a woman of ſenſe and ſpirit, and will very ſoon be as adroit as any of our fraternity.—Her huſband is a ſilly fellow, but he is a Frenchman, and ſuffers her to do juſt what ſhe pleaſes.—She coquets [249] with the baronet, and he loſes his mo⯑ney with the beſt grace imaginable.—Filthy dice are baniſhed, Monſieur Du Pont thinks it too maſculine for ladies to play at hazard; and the noiſe of the box gives Lady Deſmond the head-ach.—I am much miſtaken if the heart-ach is not added to her other complaints very ſoon.—So now we only piddle at loo, quinze, pharo, vingt et un.

Lady Deſmond never plays, and I think ſhe begins to look coldly on her female friend; but while Sir James's warmth continues, her ladyſhip's fri⯑gidity is of ſmall conſequence.—The only end it can anſwer, will be to diſ⯑guſt her huſband; for ſhe is too timid to oppoſe him; and our fair ally is not of a humour to be eaſily diſcou⯑raged [250] where either her pleaſure or pro⯑fit is concerned.

I rejoice to hear that Evelyn is gone to Ireland; I was deviliſhly afraid he would have come athwart us.—I made him believe I had left off play, and I muſt have looked ſilly if he had found me at it.—I wiſh we were as fairly rid of Stanley.—I can't bear that man;—I don't know why, but I ſhrink before him, and yet I am no coward, Jack.—A man ſhould have courage that plays all the game, and yet not affect the bully either.—I have ſeen you much too hot upon ſome occaſions.—But I hope that hu⯑mour was pretty well corrected by your Iriſh expedition.

I wiſh you joy of your lordly na⯑bob:—he is a prize, indeed!—Stick [251] to him like a leech, Jack, for there can be no ſin in robbing thoſe who have robbed others.—'Tis every ho⯑neſt man's duty to recover ſtolen goods from a thief, though he had no original claim to the property.—Go on and proſper then.

LETTER XXXVII.
CHARLES EVELYN, TO MRS. STANLEY.

I HAVE not words to expreſs the pain I have ſuffered from your laſt letter.—"Her health and ſpirits decline viſibly—A cruel ſomething preys upon her heart."

[253] O Lucy! how could you write thoſe words, and not efface them with your tears?—I thought I had already experienced every ſpecies of anguiſh that could be inflicted by diſappointed love.—From reſpect and tenderneſs to the dear cauſe of all my ſufferings, I had brought my humbled mind to ſuch a ſtate of acquieſcence, as to for⯑bear complaining.—Nay I am per⯑ſuaded I could, without repining, have endured to ſee her married to the object of her choice.—But to know ſhe is unhappy muſt render me ſo be⯑yond a hope of cure.—I have been long labouring to conſider this idol of my heart as miſers do their hidden treaſure; though hopeleſs of enjoying it, yet while I thought 'twas ſafe, I could not look upon myſelf undone.—Now I am robbed of my ideal wealth, and am left poor indeed.

[254] O Lucy, if you ever loved me, ſtrive, I conjure you, to aſſuage her gentle ſorrows, and pour the balm of friend⯑ſhip on her wounded heart! Gracious heaven! what can the affliction be that thus oppreſſes her mild ſpirits? Would I could bear it for her, and eaſe her troubled breaſt.

Perhaps this place, or Briſtol, might be of ſervice to her health; perhaps 'tis that alone which is impaired, and the now coming ſpring may with its vernal breezes bring back health to her, and happineſs to me.—Compara⯑tive happineſs, I mean, for I have long been wretched, but never was completely ſo till now.

Let Lady Juliana know that I ſhall quit this place immediately.—You [255] know that I intended it before, but if I had not, nothing on earth ſhould now detain me here, I would fly to the Antipodes to leave it free for her. Surely my fate is ſingularly ſevere, that thus impels me to a voluntary baniſhment from every place, in which my happineſs is centered.

I cannot, Lucy, enter into your raillery in regard to Miſs Harley; I do not think her amiable; but were ſhe all that cou'd attract, "Envy in woman, or deſire in man," her charms wou'd be intirely loſt on me.—My eyes are cloſed to beauty; I only feel its power, when I turn them inward, and gaze upon the image in my heart.

I am ſorry to hear that Madam Du Pont, is ſo intimate with Emma, [256] tho' I am certain it will never be in her power to pervert her principles, or render her heart callous; yet, from the hint you give, and my own obſervation, I by no means think her an eligible companion for my ſiſter.—A female mind cannot have too much delicacy, provided that it does not degenerate into affectation.—A groſs or boiſterous woman is an unnatural character, and were I married, I had much rather my wife ſhould converſe with men than monſters.

The freedom that ſubſiſts between female friends, renders the converſa⯑tion of ſuch a perſon as I have men⯑tioned, infinitely more dangerous, than that of a male-libertine.—A woman eaſily ſees thro' his deſigns, and may, if ſhe pleaſes, be on her [257] guard againſt them.—While the in⯑ſiduous companion of her private hours; without alarming, ſaps the foundation of her every virtue.

But grant they ſhould be fixed, and are impregnable, will not the tainted gale, by often paſſing o'er the beau⯑teous flower, tarniſh its luſtre, abate its fragrant ſcent, take off its poliſh, and fade its blooming tints. As chaſte, as delicate, believe me Lucy, as the opening roſe, ſhou'd be the female heart.

Not even the preſent anxiety of my mind can render me indifferent to the happineſs of one with whom I am ſo tenderly connected, as Lady Deſmond.—Read the above paſſage [258] to her, and I am certain ſhe will want no further caution.

I ſhall ſet out for Ireland to-mor⯑row.—Remember my ſiſter, tho' ſure I need not urge your friendſhip, that the treaſure of my heart is com⯑mitted to your care; and may your kind attention be rewarded with the reſtoration of Lady Juliana's health and happineſs.

Preſent my affections to our ſiſters, to yours and my Stanley, and write ſoon, I intreat you, to your unhappy and affectionate brother,

P. S. Direct for me at Captain Harriſon's, Kildare-ſtreet, Dublin.—I am all amazement—Harriſon is juſt come in and tells me that Miſs Harley has offered to accompany his ſiſter to Ireland! What can ſhe mean! She ſhall not go, if I can prevent it.