me no matter for obſervation, either of praiſe or cenſure, and conſequently no⯑thing for your entertainment. They are neither handſome nor ugly, witty nor fooliſh, aukward nor well-bred; they are in that claſs of mediocrity which leaves one nothing to ſay, but that they are good ſort of people. However, there was another lady expected, who, I ſuppoſed, had ſome claim to diſtinction; for upon the mention of Lady Jackſon, every one had ſomething to ſay of her. 'She was at church laſt Sunday,' ſaid one lady, ‘quite new dreſſed in her fourth mourning, that is, for the laſt quarter, you know, and looked mighty well.’ ‘To be ſure, ſhe is a very per⯑ſonable woman,’ ſaid another, ‘and has a fine preſence: but any one would look well, dreſſed to ſuch advantage as ſhe is; I dare ſay, ſhe had not leſs than twenty pounds value of gauzes, and blonds, and feathers about her.’ ‘Aye, ſhe had plenty of white plumes on her head,’ ſaid a third lady. ‘I ſup⯑poſe [3] it is the faſhion in London to wear ſo many; for Lady Jackſon would rather be dead than out of the faſhion: and they ſay, indeed, ſhe ſpends two⯑thirds of her income in clothes, though ſhe is not young, and never was hand⯑ſome; and, to my thinking, that prodigious quantity of feathers ſhe wears is very frightful; for when ſhe came into church, being a very tall woman, and walking through the crowd, ſhe overtopped every body, and her white plumes, nodding as ſhe moved, appeared like thoſe carried before the hearſe of ſome batchelor or maid in a funeral.’

EVERY one laughed at this conceit; and Mr. Greville happening to ſit near me, I aſked him, in a low voice, ‘who is this Lady Jackſon?’ ‘She is the widow of a rich citizen,’ ſaid he,

'It muſt be confeſſed,' ſaid I, ‘that you are going to introduce me to a very valuable acquaintance.’ ‘I could not avoid inviting her,’ replied he, ‘as ſhe is upon a viſit to a lady in the neighbourhood, who is my intimate friend; beſides, I am fond of extra⯑ordinary characters. I have given you but the bare outlines of Lady Jack⯑ſon's; the lady will finiſh the picture herſelf.’

I WAS obliged, however, to wait ſome time longer for this ſatisfaction; and dinner was ready to be ſerved, before Lady Jackſon came; doubtleſs, this delay was an effect of the ſame policy, [6] which makes our celebrated beauties enter the church and the play-houſe, when the ſervice is half over in the for⯑mer, and the ſecond act of the comedy begun in the latter.

At length Lady Jackſon was an⯑nounced; ſhe entered the room with a maſculine ſtep, and ſuch an air of con⯑fidence in the ſuperiority of her charms and her dreſs, as at the firſt moment inſpired me with diſguſt.

Mr. GREVILLE, who knew that din⯑ner only waited for her, led her imme⯑diately into the dining-hall, expreſſing his concern, by the way, that Mrs. Derwent did not accompany her. Lady Jackſon told him, that Mrs. Derwent was ſo much indiſpoſed, that ſhe could not venture abroad, and that ſhe had ſat by her bed-ſide, in great uneaſineſs, all the morning. This was the firſt time I had heard her voice, which is loud and harſh; and ſo little did her countenance [7] expreſs the ſenſibility ſhe would be thought to poſſeſs, that her mouth was ſcrewed up into an affected ſimper, while her eyes were fixed upon the large glaſs that fronted the door by which ſhe en⯑tered, and ſhewed her her figure at full length. This ſight had the force of magic, and ſeemed to have rivetted her feet to the ſpot where ſhe ſtood; when Mr. Greville, by a gentle violence, led her to her ſeat at the table, which was on my right hand. She ſoon entered into a particular converſation with me; admired the elegance of my undreſs; aſked who was my millener, and how much my lace coſt a yard; and, in a de⯑ciſive tone, aſſured me every thing I had on was perfectly faſhionable.

AFTER dinner, when we were got back to the drawing-room, being ſtill ſeated near me, ſhe renewed the diſ⯑courſe; and making a ſudden tranſi⯑tion from the trimming of gowns, to which ſhe condeſcended to aſk my opi⯑nion [8] of, ſhe talked of books; ran over the names of Milton, Shakeſpeare, Dry⯑den, Pope:—But her obſervations and criticiſms were confined to exclamations of—excellent! divine! inimitable! which ſhe uttered with great vehemence; while ſhe entered more deeply into the merits of Mariveaux and Marmontel; the cha⯑racters of the former were ſo natural—the tales of the latter ſo charming—ſo intereſting! This flow of erudition was ſtopped by the attention the company ſeemed willing to give, to a lady who was relating to the perſon that ſat next her, a melancholy accident which had happened to an acquaintance of her's—a gentleman who was killed by a fall from his horſe, and brought home dead to his wife a few hours after he had left her in high health and ſpirits. The wretched wife was ſeiſed with convul⯑ſions at the ſight, and died the next day.

[9]LADY JACKSON, being a widow her⯑ſelf, it was her part to be more affected than any one elſe with this ſad ſtory : ſhe ſighed aloud. My uncle obſerved, that ſuch inſtances of conjugal affection were very rare.

'Very rare indeed,' ſaid Mr. Gre⯑ville; ‘for one ſuch afflicted widow, we ſhall ſee a hundred, who, as Pope, one of your admired authors, Madam,’ ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to Lady Jack⯑ſon, 'has it,

'Oh, dear Sir,' ſaid Lady Jackſon, 'you are very fevere.'

'Not at all, Madam,' ſaid he, ‘for although my cenſures are general, I admit of ſome exceptions. But, to ſpeak the truth, there is no virtue now ſo common as fortitude, nor any thing [10] ſo ſuperfluous as the cuſtom of com⯑forting. All the poiſons of Theſſaly might ſafely be truſted in the hands of the mourners of our time.’

'I HOPE, Sir,' ſaid Lady Jackſon, ‘you include the male mourners in this obſervation.’

'CERTAINLY, Madam,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘there are men, I believe, who would be glad to outlive, not only their friends and relations, but even the age they live in, and their very country; and rather than die, would willingly ſtay in the world alone.’

‘I AM ſure there is no woman of that mind,’ ſaid Lady Jackſon.

'For a very good reaſon, Madam,' ſaid Mr. Greville; ‘there would be no⯑body to admire her.’

[11]'You are a perfect cynic,' replied the Lady, gravely; and riſing, walked up to a window, from which there was a proſpect of a very fine flower⯑garden, which ſhe commended greatly. Mr. Greville aſſured her, it was part of his buſineſs every morning to dreſs that garden. 'For,' added he, ‘I am a great admirer of beauty, wherever I meet it: but becauſe it is a dangerous thing in women's faces, I had rather contemplate it in theſe flowers.’

LADY JACKSON, who has, it ſeems, a very happy facility in appropriating theſe ſort of ſpeeches to herſelf, imme⯑diately changed her manner; ſhe be⯑came lively, witty, good-humoured; but her vivacity ſhewed itſelf in boiſter⯑ous laughs at a jeſt of her own finding out; her wit, in ſcraps of poetry quoted at random; and her good-hu⯑mour, in familiar nods, ſmiles, indeli⯑cate praiſe, and taps on the ſhoulder, [12] rather heavy indeed, for the hand that gave them was robuſt, and the manner truly maſculine.

MR. Greville kept up the ſcene ſo long, that the lady departed in full per⯑ſuaſion that ſhe had made a conqueſt; and this notion of her's afforded my uncle ſome diverſion; but I was con⯑cerned that her folly had been ſoothed ſo agreeably; for if happineſs be but opinion, Mr. Greville had made her happy; and what was this but to re⯑ward and continue folly?

I WAS malicious enough to wiſh ſhe had been a ſecret witneſs of the ridicule caſt upon her by the very man whom ſhe imagined was beginning to feel the influ⯑ence of her charms. But enough, and indeed too much of this lady; if it were not that ſhe has earneſtly requeſted me to make her the bearer of a letter to you, whoſe character ſhe profeſſes to be an idolater of. She ſays ſhe has ſome [13] relations in New York, who by their ſtation and connections may be of uſe to Mr. Neville; and this being confirmed to me by Mr. Greville, ſhe will have the happineſs to preſent this letter to you. Oh! envied happineſs! could ſhe taſte it—but that is impoſſible, for minds like your's and her's can never mix. Adieu! my dear Euphemia.

LETTER XVIII.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

By this time you have received my laſt letter, which Lady Jackſon, tranſported with the opportunity it gave her of being acquainted with you, pro⯑miſed to deliver to you herſelf. I am impatient till you give me an account of your interview; I am ſure you will be diverted with her peculiarities; for you only ſmile at follies which make me peeviſh.

I HAVE been ſurpriſed with a letter from Mr. Harley; a country fellow gave it to my maid. She aſked if it re⯑quired an anſwer; he ſaid he had no orders about that, but he would wait.

[16]IT ſhould ſeem that he had choſen his time well; for Mr. Greville and my uncle had rode out to take the air, about a quarter of an hour before he came.

WELL, my dear Euphemia, what do you think of this letter? is there not ſomething extremely affecting in the manner in which this young man ſpeaks of his ſituation? He is humble without meanneſs, and dignifies poverty by the nobleneſs of his ſentiments. Dearly as I love my uncle, grateful as my heart is for his generoſity to me, I muſt blame him a little for the implacability of his temper (as Mr. Harley calls it), which hinders him from diſtinguiſhing between the guilty and the innocent, and makes him ſuffer the heir of his ho⯑nour and fortunes to languiſh in indi⯑gence and obſcurity.

[18]You will readily allow that I was un⯑der the neceſſity of anſwering this letter, which I certainly ſhould not have done had it contained only a declaration of love: but it was juſt to ſet him right with regard to the pecuniary obligation, as he conſiders it. Here then is what I wrote.

TELL me, my dear Euphemia, have I done right in anſwering his letter thus, or indeed in anſwering it at all? I ſhall [20] not be eaſy till I have your approbation, which is ſo reſpected and revered by me, that I ſhould prefer it to reaſon itſelf, if they were two things that could be ſepa⯑rated, and one of them left to my choice. Adieu.

LETTER XIX. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

I AM juſt returned from Lord S.'s ſeat, where I have ſpent a week. It was a farewel viſit; and, like all other farewel viſits, was begun in pleaſure and ended in tears. The very day after my return, your Lady Jackſon called upon me, introducing herſelf with a letter from you. I could not open it with any propriety, as I heard from her that you were in health, ſo I miſſed the advantage of knowing her character without the help of my own obſerva⯑tions; but, to ſay the truth, there is no need of any great acuteneſs to make one's ſelf miſtreſs of the ſubject; for the fea⯑tures [22] of her mind are as ſtrongly mark⯑ed as thoſe of her face; and, like a book printed in a large letter, the weakeſt eyes may read her.

WITH a familiarity, which ſhe bor⯑rowed from the notion of her ſuperior rank, ſhe invited herſelf to tea with me; and in leſs than half an hour profeſſed, and claimed in return, an ardent and in⯑violable friendſhip. Having thus laid the foundations of an entire confidence, ſhe entertained me with the hiſtory of her life, in which, like all other roman⯑ces, love made the principal part—ſhe is a perfect homicide. There was no end to the murders of her eyes; then, for conjugal affection, none ever equalled her. Thoſe widows, whoſe tears an⯑tiquity hath hallowed, were but the ſhadows of her ſubſtantial grief. She left me at length, after a ſtrict embrace, to the pleaſure your letters always afford me.

[23]YOUR former large packet found me at Lord S.'s; it is full of adventure, my dear Maria. The unexpected meeting between your uncle and Mr. Harley has had conſequences that will certainly produce ſome intereſting events. The merit of the young man, and the natural good diſpoſition of Sir John, prepare a ſcene, in which you will perhaps have a part. How greatly am I obliged to you for giving me, in your charming journal, ſo large a ſhare of your converſation. The ſcene will ſoon change with me, and then my narratives may become in⯑tereſting, for at preſent my days run on in one dull tenor, and afford nothing to engage your attention.

I HAVE another letter from you this moment—things have fallen out juſt as I expected.—Mr. Harley is your conqueſt. Well, there is nothing ſur⯑priſing in that, he has a heart, and you have conquering eyes. You compliment too highly when you lay ſo great a ſtreſs upon my advice and approbation.

[24]You have no need of any precepts, nor indeed of any inſtruction; you cannot wander from the right if you go not aſtray from your own inclination, nor do amiſs, if you borrow not a frailty which is none of your own. Your letter ſeems dictated by prudence itſelf. I wiſh, in⯑deed, there had been no concealment in the caſe; but I ſee not how you could have ſhewn Mr. Harley's letter to your uncle: there is one ſevere expreſſion in it, which would doubtleſs have given him great offence, and would, perhaps, have clouded for ever thoſe dawnings of good-will, which broke out, in ſpite of himſelf, in conſequence of his engaging behaviour.

WE are to dine to-morrow on board the man of war which is to carry the colonel and his family, of which we are conſidered as a part, to New York. I know the mention of this circumſtance will raiſe ſome tumults in your breaſt; but you muſt accuſtom yourſelf, my [25] dear Maria, to bear theſe preludes to our parting, that the parting itſelf may not fall ſo heavy upon you.

MRS. Benſon has ſettled all her affairs; and having no relations but ſuch as are much richer than herſelf, ſhe has ſunk part of her little fortune in an annuity for her life, and the remain⯑der ſhe has bequeathed to me. Her good ſenſe and obliging manners en⯑dear her to every one that knows her. I am moſt happy in this conſideration, that having loſt my mother, and upon the point of being ſeparated from you, I have the comfort to enjoy ſuch a com⯑panion—ſuch a monitor and friend.

I AM to ſpend this evening with Lady Jackſon, in conſequence of ſo preſſing an invitation, that I know not how to refuſe. It ſhall not be my fault if our intercourſe of viſits do not end here. She would be my friend, that is, ac⯑cording to her notion of the thing—a [26] companion in my amuſements—one who returns my viſits moſt punctually, never fails to ſend daily enquiries after my health if I am the leaſt indiſpoſed, and a moſt ſtrict obſerver of all the civil duties of life. But by a friend, I mean a witneſs of the conſcience, a phyſician of ſecret griefs, a moderator in proſpe⯑rity, and a guide in adverſity. How little are ſuch as the qualified to act that part? But you tell me ſhe ſtyles herſelf an idolater of my character. A good opinion, it has been ſaid, lays one under an obligation, let it come from whom it will; but it is only truly valuable when it proceeds from the wiſe, the candid, and the virtuous.

AT NIGHT.

I CANNOT cloſe my letter without giving you an account of a moſt ex⯑travagantly kind propoſal Lady Jackſon made me.—I was obliged to ſtay till the reſt of her company were gone, two [27] of whom, ſhe ſaid, were her intimate friends, married ladies, whoſe huſbands ſhe gave me to underſtand were, to her great grief, ſo much in love with her, that ſhe lived in continual apprehen⯑ſion, left their unfortunate paſſions ſhould be diſcovered by their wives, whoſe peace of mind ſuch a diſcovery would entirely deſtroy.

As ſhe ſeemed impatient for my opi⯑nion and advice upon this her very hard caſe, I told her gravely, that I had no advice to offer her but to keep the ſecret carefully herſelf, in order to pre⯑vent, as far as lay in her power, the bad conſequences ſhe apprehended. She then ſuddenly changed the diſcourſe, loaded me with a thouſand profeſſions of friendſhip, and called it a misfortune to have known me, ſince ſhe was to loſe me ſo ſoon; execrated my huſband's uncle for driving him, by his unjuſt parſimony, to the neceſſity of going abroad.

[28]'BUT I have thought of a way,' ſaid ſhe, ‘to prevent that neceſſity, if you will do me the honour to accept my offer. I have ſome money unemploy⯑ed; I will lay it out in the purchaſe of a ſmall eſtate in any county in Eng⯑land that will be moſt agreeable to you. It ſhall be yours for ever, if you will; yours at leaſt; as long as you may want it. Tell me you will accept my offer—tell me ſo, and make me happy.’

MY firſt emotions on this ſpeech were all gratitude and ſurpriſe at the uncom⯑mon generoſity it diſplayed: but her looks and manners bore ſo little affinity with her words, that a moment after⯑wards I could ſcarce perſuade myſelf ſhe was in earneſt: for, while ſhe was pour⯑ing out theſe effuſions of friendſhip and benevolence, ſhe had her eyes often turned towards the claſs, with a compla⯑cency that ſhewed how much her thoughts were taken up with the object it repre⯑ſented. [29] And, in the midſt of her earneſt entreaties that I would accept her offer, her hands were often employed in ſetting the flounces of her petticoat, adjuſting her tucker, or pinning up a curl. Theſe obſervations cooled the firſt warmth of my gratitude: I expreſſed my acknow⯑ledgments, however, for the generoſity of her offer in civil terms, aſſuring her I ſhould never forget it, but that I had ſome very powerful reaſons for declining it. She would know my reaſons.—I told her my huſband was obliged in ho⯑nour to fulfil his engagements; and that, however painful it might be to me to leave my friends and my country, I hoped I ſhould always be able to ſa⯑crifice my inclination to his duty and reputation. That I had received from a dear and valuable friend, with whom I had been connected from my earlieſt youth, offers of the ſame generous na⯑ture with her's, and which, on the ſame account, I had been obliged to refuſe.

[30]SHE ſeemed ſatisfied with my excuſe; but lamented, in very paſſionate terms, her misfortune in being hopeleſs to pre⯑vail upon me. We parted, with great cordiality on her ſide, and much civility on mine.

WHEN I related what had paſſed in this viſit to my huſband and Mrs. Ben⯑ſon, they diverted themſelves extremely with my credulity, which they thought much greater than it was; for I did not endeavour to undeceive them, being really in ſome doubt whether I ſhould wrong her by ſuſpecting her ſincerity. I ſhall be able, when I write next, to tell when our voyage is determined upon. Adieu! My dear Maria.

LETTER XX MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

WELL, my dear friend, I have ſix weeks good yet. This news was like a reprieve to one under a pain⯑ful ſentence, for I reckoned upon no more than a fortnight at fartheſt. May I not hope then to have one week of your dear ſociety granted by your uncle? Do, my Maria, make the requeſt now, while Sir John is with his friend; your abſence will be more eaſily ſupported by him. Tell him I entreat this favour, and I will number it among the many inſtances I have received of his good⯑neſs, which will live in my memory for ever.

[32]NEVER having been on board a ſhip in my life, you will eaſily conceive, my dear Maria, how much I was affected with a ſight ſo new and ſtrange as that of the—man of war, where I dined yeſterday, in company with Co⯑lonel Bellenden, his lady, and eldeſt daughter. It was a beautiful, but to me terrific, object, when I conſidered, that in ſuch a frail building I was to traverſe an immenſe ocean; every thing I ſaw produced aſtoniſhment, and ex⯑cited my curioſity, ſo that I aſked a thouſand fooliſh queſtions, which were, however, anſwered with great civility by the gentlemen about us, by whom we were conducted round this little world, and ſhewn every thing worthy our obſervation.

THE commander is a young man, very genteel in his perſon and dreſs; his man⯑ners are polite, ſoft, and inſinuating; but in my opinion he has too much of the courtier, and too little of the chief. He [33] ſuffered greatly in the compariſon with Colonel Bellenden, who in his perſon and manners unites dignity with ſweet⯑neſs, the martial air of a ſoldier with the elegance of the gentleman, the noble frankneſs of his profeſſion with the po⯑liteneſs of a man of quality.

THE captain preſented his principal officers to Colonel Bellenden and the ladies. Miſs Bellenden had reaſon to be pleaſed with the effect of her charms; every eye was rivetted upon her; every tongue ſeemed ready to pronounce her beautiful. I wiſh I could ſay ſhe receiv⯑ed this involuntary homage with greater propriety; ſhe even ſeemed to claim more than was paid her; a conſcious ſimper, an affected toſs of her head, a careleſs air, and a wandering eye, that ſeemed ſearching for new victims to gra⯑tify her pride of conqueſt, proclaimed the temper of her mind.

[34]THE handſome, it has been ſaid with great truth, can never be ſeen without reſpect, and their youth hath not more days than their beauty hath triumphs—they conquer as often as they appear; but the miſchief of it is, that their tri⯑umphs are ſhort, their youth is not laſt⯑ing, and the handſome at laſt grow ugly. Queens and princeſſes, ſaid your Mr. Neville once in my hearing, grow old; and there is no ancient beauty but that of the ſun and the ſtars. What a pity it is then, that the generality of our ſex neglect to acquire, in youth, thoſe qualities which may preſerve them from contempt when they are old, and ſecure eſteem when they can no longer excite admiration.

I SUSPECTED that my huſband and Mrs. Benſon, by their whiſpering and ſig⯑nificant ſmiles at each other whenever I mentioned Lady Jackſon, and her un⯑commonly generous offers, had ſome miſchief in their heads; and to-day it [35] came out. I had paſſed the whole morning in the city, making ſome pur⯑chaſes for our approaching voyage; during which Lady Jackſon paid me a viſit. Mrs. Benſon received her in my abſence, and liſtened for a whole hour to her extravagant profeſſions of friend⯑ſhip for me, and repinings at my cruel reſerve, which would not permit her to be of ſome uſe to me. Mrs. Benſon ex⯑cuſed me upon that delicacy which made perſons born in affluence, and ac⯑cuſtomed to beſtow, not to receive fa⯑vours, ſhy of laying themſelves under great and unreturnable obligations. This called forth an oftentatious diſplay of the moſt liberal ſentiments from Lady Jackſon, delivered with an impetuoſity of voice and action peculiar to herſelf. Again ſhe regretted her misfortune in not being permitted to ſhew the ardour of her affection for me by ſome ſubſtan⯑tial proofs.

[36]MRS. Benſon ſeemed moved with the enthuſiaſm of her friendſhip; and after a little pauſe ſaid—‘It is a pity ſuch ge⯑nerous warmth ſhould fail of its pur⯑poſe; I have thought of a way by which you may gratify your earneſt deſire of ſerving Mrs. Neville, with⯑out wounding her delicacy.’

'PRAY name it,' ſaid Lady Jackſon, with a look and accent in which much of her former fervour was abated.

'WHY, Madam,' ſaid Mrs. Benſon, ‘you muſt certainly have heard of the fatal wreck of my friend's once ſhin⯑ing fortunes; and that all thoſe poſſeſ⯑ſions, to which ſhe was born the heireſs, fell by her father's imprudence into the hands of his creditors. In a day or two ſhe is likely to ſuffer a very ſenſible mortification by the ſale of a very fine collection of pictures, which her father, in a tour through Italy, [37] purchaſed at an immenſe expence. Some of theſe pictures were ſo highly valued by her mother, whoſe memory ſhe almoſt adores, that I am perſuaded you could not do her a more accept⯑able ſervice than to prevent them from going into other hands, by purchaſing them for her. If you pleaſe I will at⯑tend you to the auction-room, and point out to you thoſe particular pic⯑tures which ſhe ſo ardently wiſhed to be poſſeſſed of; ſo that when the ſale takes place you may have them.’

'YOU are very obliging,' ſaid Lady Jackſon, with a confuſed accent, and a freezing look—‘I ſhall not fail to give you notice when I am more at leiſure than at preſent, being really very par⯑ticularly engaged.’ She then roſe up, and took her leave, leaving kind com⯑pliments for me.

[38]WHEN I came home, I found Mr. Ne⯑ville and Mrs. Benſon enjoying their tri⯑umph over my credulity; and Mr. Ne⯑ville, after his uſual manner, dictating to me upon the choice of my friends, and affirming, that he only was the pro⯑per judge of what perſons I ought to ad⯑mit into my friendſhip and confidence. I pleaded hard for an exemption with regard to my female acquaintance; but he inſiſted that we were no better judges of one another than we are of the men; and that a wife has nothing to do but to leave the choice to her huſband's diſ⯑cernment. You may be ſure I did not yield this point without a little conteſt; but in regard to Mr. Neville, I have often experienced the truth of that ob⯑ſervation, that with ſome perſons it is not ſafe to be reaſonable. Whenever it happens that my arguments preſs home upon him, he has recourſe to an expedient that never fails to ſilence me, —he falls into a paſſion—I ſay not a [39] word more—happy if ſilence will ſhelter me; but that is ſeldom the caſe, for he purſues me even to this laſt retreat, and nothing will ſerve him but my confeſſion that he has convinced me I am in the wrong. For the ſake of peace I ſubmit to this; and preſently afterwards, in ſome new inſtance, this confeſſion is turned againſt me, with ‘Why will you pretend to debate this matter with me? you know you are generally wrong—nay, you acknowledge it too. Why will you depend upon your own judgment, which you are ſo often obliged to own always miſleads you?’ However, as we both agree in our high opinion of you, my Maria, I may, without fear of rebuke, ſubſcribe myſelf ever your faithful and affec⯑tionate

[40] P. S. I have juſt learned that Lady Jackſon is gone out of town for a week, by which time ſhe knew the ſale of the pictures would be over. Is not this a ſtrange woman? I was vexed this trial was made: a very little reflection might have ſerved to convince me, that ſhe meant nothing by all thoſe high-ſounding profeſſions and offers.—Truth is ſimple and mo⯑deſt; and when ſhe cannot ſhew herſelf by real effects, will ſcorn to do it in words.

YOU will be pleaſed to hear that Lord S. has actually promiſed to pur⯑chaſe thoſe pictures for me which my mother moſt valued. My huſband and Mrs. Benſon knew this, when they thought fit to make this trial of the lady's ſincerity, otherwiſe I ſhould have thought it an unpardonable mean⯑neſs.

[41]IF I am to be indulged with a viſit from you, give me ſpeedy notice of it, that I may enjoy the bleſſing by anticipation.

LETTER XXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

YES, my dear Euphemia, our wiſhes are granted; I am permitted to ſtay a week with you. My uncle did not wait to be requeſted; he kindly propoſed this little excurſion to me as ſoon as he knew that the time was fixed for your leaving England. Oh! that thought! but I will not diſtreſs you by my uſeleſs grief.

I HAVE had an interview with Mr. Harley. You are ſurpriſed;—you blame me, perhaps; but hear how it happened, and you will acquit me I hope, of imprudence, ſince it was really out of my power to prevent it.

[43]I HAD wandered into that de⯑lightful wood, where, ſince my abode at this ſeat, I have paſſed ſo many hours in ſweet, yet painful recollection. I was employed in reading ſome of your let⯑ters, when the ſound of ſteps at a diſ⯑tance made me turn to ſee who was coming. Gueſs my ſurpriſe when I ſaw it was Mr. Harley. I ſtopped, uncertain what to do, or how to take this unex⯑pected intruſion. He advanced with a ſlow and timid pace, his hat under his arm, his eyes caſt on the ground, as if he was fearful to meet my quick-en⯑quiring glance. I remained immove⯑able; he approached me, bowing re⯑ſpectfully.

'DO not be ſurpriſed, Miſs Harley,' ſaid he; ‘wdo not be offended, that be⯑ing ſoon to abſent myſelf from you, perhaps for ever, I have ventured to break in upon your ſolitude; I could not depart without the ſatisfaction of breathing at your feet thoſe vows my [44] heart made the firſt moment I beheld you.’ And he actually, my dear, threw himſelf at my feet with the air of an Orondates.

THE place, his poſture, his language, had all ſo romantic an air, that I could not help ſmiling as I deſired him to riſe. He did riſe, but with a diſconcerted look, while a deep bluſh overſpread his cheeks.

I PERCEIVED the fault I had been guilty of, and was angry with myſelf for having wounded a ſenſibility ſo affect⯑ing. The alteration in my looks and manner relieved his confuſion.

'MAY I hope,' ſaid he, ‘that you will pardon my preſumption in coming to find you here?’

'THE preſumption of this viſit, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘may be eaſily pardoned; but the imprudence of it, I am afraid, all [45] things conſidered, cannot be juſtified. Have you not called my uncle impla⯑cable? and indeed to you, perhaps, he appears ſo.’

'And is he not ſo, Madam,' replied he, ‘to my family? I am ſorry to ar⯑raign the conduct of a perſon who has had judgment enough to do juſtice to your merit; but can his long conti⯑nued enmity to my father, the friend and companion of his youth, his neareſt kinſman, be excuſed?’

‘Not unleſs he had received ſome great injury,’ I replied.

'From my father, Madam,' inter⯑rupted he, ‘impoſſible! my father is not capable of injuring any one, much leſs his friend, his relation, and, as I have heard, his benefactor.’

I cast down my eyes, and was ſilent; the noble warmth, the filial tenderneſs, [46] that appeared in his words, his accent, and his looks, affected me. I tried to diſſipate a ſtarting tear; it would not do, and I applied my handkerchief to my eyes—he looked eagerly at me—

'WHAT can this mean?' ſaid he. ‘You ſeem greatly moved, Madam; do you know the cauſe of this long continued hatred on the part of Sir John? for as for my father, he appears to have no reſentment againſt him; he ſpeaks of him with reſpect, nay kindneſs. What can he have done to offend him ſo highly?’

'Nothing,' replied I, ‘unleſs you will allow it was an offence to ſupplant him in his love for a moſt amiable object.’

'Nothing!' exclaimed he eagerly, ‘do you call that nothing which was to ſtab him to the heart?—it was worſe, —it was to make him live wretched. [47] But was it his fault that he was the ſucceſsful lover? Yet that word ſup⯑plant, implies ſome baſeneſs in his conduct. Baſeneſs! my father act baſely! that cannot be. I conjure you, Madam, ſpeak plainly. I perceive you are well acquainted with the par⯑ticulars of this affair—I wiſh to know them; what has eſcaped you has given me great uneaſineſs: pray inform me further.’

'If what I have ſaid,' replied I, ‘has given you uneaſineſs, why ſhould I increaſe it by complying with your re⯑queſt? I muſt beg to be excuſed from ſaying any more.’

'I see how it is,' ſaid he; ‘my fa⯑ther will ſuffer by this explanation— I muſt not expect it from your deli⯑cacy—every way I am unhappy.’—He ſighed deeply, and was ſilent for a moment, —then added

[48] ‘Well, Madam, every thing concurs to ſhew me the imprudence, the hope⯑leſſneſs of that paſſion I have dared to entertain. — I came to take my leave; but do not imagine that I expect my cure from abſence—perhaps I do not wiſh it.’

'Pray no more of this,' ſaid I con⯑fuſed, as you may well imagine at this converſation— ‘but tell me where you are going?’

‘I am going to ſeek my fortune in the Indies,’ ſaid he, ‘for I lie here a dead weight upon my father, who finds it difficult enough to bring up a large family of girls upon his ſlender in⯑come.’

'To the Indies!' interrupted I; ‘pray in what capacity? Are you to be dig⯑nified with a commiſſion, and the title of captain or colonel in the Compa⯑ny's troops; or are you to be a trader [49] yourſelf?’—‘I have no talents for ei⯑ther’, ſaid he ſmiling. —He was going on, when I heard my uncle's voice call⯑ing me at a diſtance.

'I would not have you ſeen here,' ſaid I, ‘on any account; pray retire. If you are reſolved to go to the Indies, make Mr. Greville acquainted with your deſign; he is your friend, and will be glad of an opportunity of ſerv⯑ing you.’

I POINTED out to him the path he was to take, in order to avoid meeting my uncle; and curtſeying low, turned from him. He followed me two or three ſteps, and taking my hand reſpect⯑fully, raiſed it to his lips; I felt it wet with a falling tear. He darted like lightning from me, and in an inſtant was out of ſight.

I met my uncle a moment after⯑wards; he ſaid he had been looking for [50] me; and pointing to Mr. Greville, who was following him—'Our hoſt,' ſaid he, ‘is come to take leave of you; he has received news which obliges him to ſet out for the North immediately.’ Mr. Greville accordingly joined us, and we walked with him to the gate, where his poſt-chaiſe waited.

I WAS very much concerned at his departure, on Mr. Harley's account, to whom I know he wiſhes well. I was not without a hope that his repreſenta⯑tions of the young gentleman's caſe might have made ſome impreſſion upon my uncle, and induced him to prevent the heir of his title and fortune from ſeeking a ſubſiſtence in ſo diſtant a part of the globe, for my uncle is naturally good; but the beſt virtues have need of ſome ſtandard to guide them.

We are to return to the Hall to-mor⯑row, and the next day I am to ſet out for London. Oh! this meeting, what [51] joy would it afford me, were it not ſo ſoon to be followed by a long, long abſence! How can I ſupport the thought? There is no friendſhip in the world of ſo much uſe to me as yours: it is my defence in all my conteſts—it is my conſolation in all my diſtreſſes: but what is ſtill more, it is my oracle in all my doubts. That which, before I have your advice, I propoſe to my⯑ſelf with diffidence, when once I have your approbation I make it a maxim. Adieu! my deareſt friend. On Wedneſ⯑day I ſhall have the happineſs to em⯑brace you.

LETTER XXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

IT is done, I have taken a long, long leave of you, perhaps for ever, for my heart ſinks within me, and tells me I ſhall not live to hail your return; do not chide me, my dear, my valuable friend, pardon the weakneſs of a vulgar mind, which feels no croſſes lightly, and falls flat to the earth at the very firſt ſtroke of adverſe fortune; perhaps in proſperity I ſhould behave better, and I do not think that happineſs would make me inſolent, but in affiction I am leſs than nothing; and that which would not leave a ſcratch upon the ſkin of a ſtoick, pierces me to the heart; if light evils wound me ſo deeply, what [53] think you I muſt ſuffer from this great, this remedileſs calamity?—a ſeparation from you. I have laid upon my wound all the balm that my ſmall ſhare of philo⯑ſophy can adminiſter; but methinks my grief is to me in the place of my friend. I poſſeſs it with a kind of ſweetneſs, and I am ſo fond of it, that I ſhould think it a ſecond loſs if I had it not to paſs my time with.

My uncle, in his reception of me at my return, ſeemed to accommodate his looks and behaviour to mine; for my grief, I confeſs, made me ſilent, unſoci⯑able, and incapable of any converſation but with my own ſad thoughts: how⯑ever, when I reflected upon the reſpect and affection I owed my generous uncle, I reſolved to put a conſtraint upon my⯑ſelf, and meet him at breakfaſt next morning with cheerfulneſs in my looks and language.

[54]Alas! my dear Euphemia, I was miſ⯑taken in the cauſe of my uncle's reſerve—he is offended with me; I have loſt his eſteem; doubtleſs he thinks me unwor⯑thy of the benefits he has beſtowed upon me. How then can I enjoy them with any ſatisfaction? He has heard of my interview with Mr. Harley—he thinks me ungrateful, deſigning, falſe—his cold looks, his altered behaviour, the hints he ſometimes throws out, ſtab me to the very heart!—Oh! what needed this new affliction to one already over⯑whelmed with diſtreſs? Why did I not make him acquainted with all that has paſſed between Mr. Harley and me? I know you diſapprove my conduct upon this occaſion; but I had not you to ad⯑viſe with at the time. I remember, in ſpeaking of this affair, you told me that concealment always implies ſome⯑thing wrong: it is true, and apppear⯑ances are againſt me; to be thought ungrateful, capable of taking advantage of that independence which his good⯑neſs [55] beſtowed on me, and contrary to his will—I cannot bear it; I will be juſtified in his opinion, and become once more dependant on his bounty.

BUT this dear, this affectionate, this more than father, ſhuns me; and hav⯑ing already condemned me in his thoughts, is unwilling to hear my de⯑fence; before the ſervants, and in com⯑pany, his behaviour, though leſs tender, is ſtill polite; but when we are left alone, he is ſilent, reſerved, and even ſtern: and either retires to his own apartment, or orders the carriage to take an airing, without aſking me to ac⯑company him.

He is this moment returned from one of theſe little excurſions; I will go to him; he is alone in his library; either he muſt acquit me of any deſign to of⯑fend him, which Heaven knows is the truth, or take back thoſe gifts which, by making me independent of him, have [56] expoſed me to his ſuſpicions. Oh! that you were here to adviſe, to direct me! I think I know how you would act on ſuch an occaſion; I will endeavour to imitate you; you are all openneſs, can⯑dour, and ſincerity—ſo innocence ſhould be; and I am ſure I have no wilful offence, with regard to my uncle, to charge myſelf with. Well, I will go, I will ſpeak to him; I will act this hu⯑miliating part; for ſurely nothing can, be more ſo than, conſcious of innocence, to have a character to defend—but I will delay no longer—I go.

This dreaded interview is over. I found my uncle in his library; he was reading; he looked up on my entrance. I aſked if he was buſy; my countenance, and the tone of my voice, which par⯑took, I ſuppoſe, of the perturbation of my heart, affected him I believe, for he anſwered with his uſual ſweetneſs; 'not if you have any thing to ſay to me;' and [57] riſing, drew a chair for me oppoſite to his.

‘TILL I can remove the prejudices you have entertained againſt me, I am,’ ſaid I, ‘unworthy to ſit in your preſence, and far, far unworthy of that affluence your laviſh gifts have raiſed me to; reſume thoſe gifts, I beſeech you, Sir; ſuffer me to return to my former dependance on your bounty, and let my behaviour be the meaſure of your future generoſity to me.’

'YOU are ſtrangely moved,' ſaid my uncle, looking earneſtly on me; 'What do you complain of, Maria?' 'I do not preſume to complain, Sir,' replied I, ‘but I lament the loſs of your favour, which is but too appa⯑rent from your altered behaviour to me.’

[58]'ARE you conſcious,' ſaid he, ‘of having done any thing to give me cauſe of complaint againſt you?’

'I AM, Sir,' anſwered I!

'THAT is honeſt,' ſaid he, ‘well, ſince you have got ſo far in your con⯑feſſion, pray go on, and let me have the whole.’

He ſpoke this with a half ſmile, which gave me courage to proceed.

'THE fault I have to confeſs, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘is my having received a letter from Mr. Harley, and anſwering it, without communicating either his let⯑ter, or my anſwer to you. I have alſo ſeen him; and this circumſtance, like⯑wiſe, I have concealed from you.’

'AND was this right?' ſaid my uncle, a little ſternly.

[59]'MY intention was not wrong, Sir,' replied I. ‘The principles of good actions,’ interrupted my uncle, ‘are good inclinations; if you meant well, how did it happen that you have acted ill?’

'YOU will be a judge, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘how far I have acted ill on this occa⯑ſion, if you will condeſcend to read the papers I have in my hands; here is Mr. Harley's letter to me, and a copy of my anſwer to it.’

'GIVE them to me,' ſaid my uncle, with ſome precipitation.

I DID ſo; he walked to the window, and I could perceive that he read both the letters twice over with great atten⯑tion. He did not return them to me, but threw them both upon the table, and reſuming his ſeat—

[60]'SO the ſon of my greateſt enemy,' ſaid he peeviſhly, ‘has made you a declaration of love? You whom I have conſidered as my daughter, and for whom I have the affection of a father.’

MY dear uncle,' ſaid I, ‘my more than father, Heaven is my witneſs I would rather die than offend you!’ I could not utter theſe words without tears. He looked at me, I thought, kindly. ‘You have read my anſwer to Mr. Har⯑ley's letter, Sir?’ purſued I; ‘is there any thing in it which offends you?’

'WHY, I cannot ſay,' ſaid he, ‘that your letter is much amiſs, conſidering that you certainly were not diſpleaſed with his declaration.’

'DOES that appear, Sir?' ſaid I. ‘I think it does’, replied he.

[61]NOw, my dear Euphemia, this ſur⯑priſed me: you have read this letter, do you think it will bear that infe⯑rence? I am ſure I did not intend it ſhould; I was vexed, —I was confuſed; I could not bear my uncle's looks, which were fixed upon me. I caſt down my eyes, and was ſilent.

HE ſeemed to wait for ſome reply; but finding I ſaid nothing—

'TAKING it for granted,' ſaid he, ‘what you have as good as confeſſed, that the addreſſes of my enemy's ſon are far from being unwelcome to you, and that your heart is very, very fa⯑vourably diſpoſed towards him—’

I ROSE up precipitately.

'OH! Sir,' ſaid I, ‘I have not de⯑ſerved this:’ my tears flowed faſt, I covered my face with my handkerchief, [62] and curtſeying without looking at him, I was haſtening out of the room.

MY uncle roſe up alſo, and getting between me and the door, took my hand, and led me back to my chair; he removed my handkerchief from my eyes; and ſtill holding my hand—

‘NAY, you muſt hear what I have more to ſay,’ ſaid he, and ſmiling, re⯑peated, ‘taking it for granted that your heart is very favourably diſpoſed towards this young man, who is the ſon of my mortal enemy, and who has himſelf offended me, by preſuming to declare a paſſion for you, and endea⯑vouring to engage you in a clandeſtine correſpondence with him: you whom I love, whom I have conſidered as my daughter, and from whom I might expect ſome returns of affection, and even duty: have I not reaſon to com⯑plain of you, Maria, for encouraging [63] pretenſions which you knew I could never approve?’

I VENTURED to interrupt him here.

‘DOES it appear, Sir, by my anſwer to his letter, that I have encouraged his pretenſions?’ ſaid I.

‘IT does not appear by your letter,’ ſaid he, ‘that you have diſcouraged them.’

ſaid a poet very ſkilful in theſe matters; ‘and one denial, it ſeems, will not ſerve his turn, elſe why is he continually hovering about my houſe, in hopes of ſome opportunity of ſpeaking to you?’

NOW this circumſtance, my dear Euphemia, I was till then quite igno⯑rant of—I bluſhed—my uncle obſerved [64] it. ‘I do not wiſh to diſtreſs you, Ma⯑ria,’ ſaid he, ‘I pretend not to con⯑trol your inclinations—you are your own miſtreſs; I ſuſpected that you had acted diſingenuouſly with me; and it was this notion which produced the coldneſs you complain of. I have been too haſty in my concluſions, I believe; I do not perceive that you are much to blame in this buſineſs; but I ſhall always think it a misfortune, that the perſon neareſt and deareſt to me in the world, ſhould form connections with thoſe I have moſt reaſon to hate.’

AT that moment Mr. Greville was announced—I roſe up, and being un⯑willing to be ſeen in the diſorder I then was, I hurried out of the room, ſaying only theſe few words to him—

[65]I HAVE often obſerved, my dear Eu⯑phemia, that moſt perſons conſider leſs the reaſons of what is propoſed to them contrary to their inclinations, than the motives which may have obliged the perſon who propoſes them to make uſe of thoſe reaſons; had I attended only to my uncle's motives for the diſappro⯑bation he expreſſed of Mr. Harley's addreſſes to me, I might have thought them rather unjuſtifiable; but the rea⯑ſons he brought to influence my con⯑duct were unanſwerable. As my parent, my friend, my benefactor, he had a right to my obedience; which, by having ſo nobly made me independent of his control, is an effect of my will, not of conſtraint: and I could not diſoblige him, without being guilty of the high⯑eſt ingratitude.

I HESITATED not a moment in reſolv⯑ing to put an end to Mr. Harley's hopes, if he entertained any; and to forbid him abſolutely from ſeeking op⯑portunities [66] to write or ſpeak to me any more. My firſt intention was to write to him; but I found I could not pleaſe myſelf in the terms I was to uſe: theſe appeared too harſh, thoſe not deciſive enough. I tore my letter, and conclud⯑ed that my beſt way was to engage Mr. Greville to acquaint him with my in⯑tentions, and to prevail upon him to deſiſt from his purſuits.

THIS ſeemed ſo happy a thought, that I became compoſed enough to take my place at table, without ſhewing, in my countenance and behaviour, any traces of the diſorder I had been in ſo lately.

I PERCEIVED that my uncle obſerved me heedfully, and ſeemed pleaſed. I found an opportunity to have a quarter of an hour's private converſation with Mr. Greville, to whom I related, not without ſome confuſion, all that had paſſed in regard to Mr. Harley; and as [67] I knew he often ſaw him, begged he would prevent my having any further diſquiet upon his account.

MR. Greville promiſed to execute my commiſſion, for he acknowledged that I had no other part to act. The next news I ſhall hear perhaps is, that the poor youth is gone to the Indies. Well, what of that? You are going to America; can I think of that dreadful circumſtance, and ſuffer any meaner regrets to mix with ſo juſt, ſo poignant an affliction? Adieu!

LETTER XXIII. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

MR Greville, it ſeems, ſoon met with an opportunity of delivering my meſſage, which he charged himſelf with two days ago, and is this morning re⯑turned to give me an account of his commiſſion; he appeared affected with the gentle ſorrow, for ſo he phraſed it, with which Mr. Harley received my abſolute rejection of him; it never roſe to complaint, ſaid he, much leſs to murmurings againſt your commands; ſilent dejection, and ſome half-ſuppreſſed ſighs, and a promiſe faintly pro⯑nounced—that he would obey you, were all his anſwer.

MR. Greville really ſeemed moved himſelf, when he repeated this: ſo you ſee it is not ſo very difficult to make [69] philoſophy feel compaſſion ſometimes. ‘I hope Sir John will now be ſatisfied with me,’ ſaid I, without taking no⯑tice of his pathetic deſcription.

'IF you had a little more ſenſibility,' replied he, ‘I ſhould ſay you have ſhewn great heroiſm on this occaſion; but as it is, I can only compliment you upon your prudence and good ſenſe.’

‘I DO not think I have done any more than my duty,’ ſaid I, ‘which my uncle pointed out to me; and when once one is aſſured of the ſkill of one's guide, it is afterwards a pleaſure to be led.’

'I AM not ſure,' replied Mr. Gre⯑ville, gravely, ‘that my good friend is quite right in all this; the limits that part juſtice from wrong, are not ſo well marked out, but that we may paſs them before we are aware. Mr. Harley is not anſwerable for his [70] father's faults, and he has virtues that render him not unworthy even of you, —and that is ſaying a great deal.’

I WILL diſpatch this letter to the poſt immediately; my uncle keeps his chamber with a ſlight indiſpoſition. I ſhall be employed in ſending to him all day. My dear Euphemia, I expect a letter from you every mo⯑ment, and would you think it, I trem⯑ble at the very thoughts of receiving one, leſt it ſhould fix the day of your departure. Oh! my friend, my forti⯑tude grows leſs every day; I feel it does, —how ſhall I bear the loſs of you? but I will not wound you with my vain re⯑grets. Adieu!

LETTER XXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

NO, my dear friend, this letter will not fix the day of my departure, which may perhaps be yet more diſtant than I imagined; for the Bellenden fa⯑mily do not ſeem to have finiſhed half their preparations yet. They propoſe to ſet out in a very ſplendid ſtyle, ſuit⯑able to the rank the colonel will hold in the province, and the taſte the people of our colonies have, as I am informed, for expence. I think I can perceive the colonel is only paſſive in theſe affairs; that innate grandeur of ſoul which he poſſeſſes, neither ſeeks nor needs the aid of outward ſhew.

[72]How ſhall I thank you, my dear Ma⯑ria, for the unbounded generoſity of your preſents to me? Your jeweller was with me this morning, and in a few inſtants I was made ſo rich by your mu⯑nificence, that Mr. Neville was ſtruck with aſtoniſhment, and ſeemed to doubt whether he was not in a dream. Grati⯑tude is the beſt virtue of the poor, and that Heaven knows my heart is full of; ſo full indeed, that no words ſeem ade⯑quate to its feelings; and were you pre⯑ſent with me, I could only thank you with a ſilent tear.

I CANNOT expreſs how much I ad⯑mire you, for being able to maintain ſo noble a conduct under your preſent trials and difficulties—I repeat it, my friend, trials; for, although you have not been pleaſed to open your whole heart to me; yet that heart, incapable of diſguiſe, diſ⯑plays itſelf even in the midſt of all your delicate reſerve. Would I could con⯑gratulate, as well as praiſe; for I had ra⯑ther ſee the virtue of my friend employ⯑ed [73] in wiſely uſing well-deſerved proſpe⯑rity, than in nobly bearing unmerited diſtreſſes. If Heaven hears my ardent prayers, I ſhall yet be able to leave you in a more tranquil ſituation than you are at preſent. Adieu!

LETTER XXV.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

YOU have a right to all occaſions of doing good; I think it therefore in⯑cumbent upon me to offer you one. There is a young woman in my neigh⯑bourhood, for whom I have a great eſteem, on account of her good ſenſe and amiable qualities. Some diſappoint⯑ments ſhe has lately met with, makes her very deſirous to go abroad. She will think herſelf happy to be about your perſon, for ſhe knows enough of your character to love and revere you with a kind of enthuſiaſm: her hiſtory is briefly this:

[75]HER parents, who were perſons of genteel birth and education, dying when ſhe was very young, left her wholly unprovided for, to the charita⯑ble cares of an aunt, who was a widow, without children, and in tolerable cir⯑cumſtances. She bred up the little girl as her own, gave her a good edu⯑cation, and declared ſhe would leave her all ſhe was worth. The merit of the girl, and the dutiful and affection⯑ate returns ſhe made to her kindneſs, made this diſpoſing of her property ſeem not more an act of affection than juſtice. The old gentlewoman being ſeized with a dangerous fit of ſickneſs, ſent for an attorney, in great practice here, to make her will: a man remark⯑able for his ſucceſs in his profeſſion, by which, being likewiſe very fortunate in the numerous legacies that have been bequeathed him, he has made a very conſiderable fortune in a few years.

[76]THE old lady died; and when the will was opened, Mr. D. the attorney, was, to the aſtoniſhment of every one, appointed her executor, and ſole heir to her fortune, which was about two thouſand pounds—her once-loved neice being cut off with a ſhilling!—This ſtrange and unexpected reverſe of for⯑tune drew on a ſtill more poignant af⯑fliction: A young man, who had courted her with the conſent of his parents, and to whom ſhe was ſoon to have been married, was ordered by them to ſee her no more. He loved her, and perſiſted in his reſolution to marry her, though at the hazard of loſing the greateſt part of his fortune by diſobliging his father. — Poor Fanny! though ſhe loves him tenderly, has had the generoſity to give him a poſitive denial, and to avoid his im⯑portunities; and doubtful, perhaps, of her own reſolution, is anxiouſly deſir⯑ous of leaving England. When I mentioned recommending her to you, [77] ſhe was in tranſports. If you approve of my propoſal, I will ſend her to Lon⯑don in the ſtage-coach, under the care of our houſekeeper, a good matronly woman, who has a great kindneſs for her, with whoſe abſence I muſt diſpenſe for a few days, that I may have the ſatisfaction of delivering her ſafe to your protection.

I AM very uneaſy about my uncle; I am afraid he is going to have a ſevere attack of his old diſtemper, the gout; at preſent it is but ſlight, yet he is more reſtleſs and impatient than uſual. I read to him continually; but he does not ſeem to give much attention, and often interrupts me to tell me, that my voice is low and faint, and that my ſpirits ſeem greatly depreſſed. It may be ſo; and ſure I have cauſe, ſo ſoon to be ſe⯑parated from the friend of my heart, the companion of my youth, my com⯑fort in adverſity, and my example for virtue.

[78]MR. Greville will have it that my uncle is not quite ſatisfied with his con⯑duct towards young Mr. Harley, which, doubtleſs, ſaid he, was harſh, if not un⯑juſt; and yet, if he was here (ſo he is gone you ſee, my Euphemia), it is probable he would not alter it. Now I cannot be of this opinion. I am ſure, if my un⯑cle thought he was wrong in this caſe, he would make haſte to be right: bad men juſtify their faults, the good amend them.

I WAS obliged to lay down my pen, being ſummoned to Sir John, who was taken extremely ill. The phyſicians were afraid the gout was getting into his ſtomach. I have not been in bed theſe two nights: my dear, ſuffering uncle, ſeeing me continually by his bed⯑ſide, expreſſed great uneaſineſs, leſt my health might ſuffer by ſo conſtant an attendance upon him, and inſiſted upon my retiring to reſt. It was not poſſible for me to obey him; ſo I kept out of [79] his ſight, yet without quitting his apart⯑ment.

THIS morning, when I approached his bed, as if juſt come down from my own chamber, he took notice that I looked very pale, and ſaid, ‘He was afraid I had not ſlept well.’ He com⯑forted me with an aſſurance that he was better; and preſſing my hand affection⯑ately, 'You are a good girl,' ſaid he, ‘your whole conduct is of a piece. I never will forget the generous ſacrifice you have made me on a late oc⯑caſion.’

I FELT my face all in a glow; I was not able to make him any anſwer. The phyſicians coming in relieved my con⯑fuſion; they pronounced him better: and now being in ſome meaſure free from my racking apprehenſions, I really retired to my chamber, and threw my⯑ſelf upon my bed. Two hours ſleep re⯑freſhed me ſo much, that when I entered [80] my uncle's apartment again, he per⯑ceived the alteration in my looks.

I FOUND the ſervants had informed him that I had not been in bed for three nights; he tenderly reproached me with the deceit I had practiſed upon him; but added, ‘that as he hoped for ſome reſt himſelf to-night, the phyſicians having ordered ſomething to compoſe him, he would never pardon me if I did not go to bed.’

MR. Greville is come to paſs a day or two here. I left the two friends to⯑gether, and retired to my own apart⯑ment, to have the pleaſure of converſing with you, my dear friend; for when I am writing to you, and relating all the little occurrences that help to vary the dull ſcene of my life, I fancy you are preſent, and I am talking to you. Adieu! however, for a little time.

[81]I HAVE a ſtrange and terrible circum⯑ſtance to tell you, my Euphemia, which I ſhall never wholly loſe the remem⯑brance of, and which, as often as it is recollected, will probably occaſion the ſame horrors that I feel now.

THIS evening, when I went into my uncle's chamber to take leave of him for the night, he told me he would take the draught that was ordered for him then, that he might have the pleaſure of taking it from my hands. Accordingly, after having read the label, I poured the medicine into a cup, and gave it into his hand: in the very moment that he was raiſing it to his lips Martin came into the room, and perceiving what my uncle was doing, cried out, with eyes all wild and ſtaring, and in a voice ſcarce articulate, from the violence of his agitation—‘Hold, Sir! for Heaven's ſake do not drink!’

[82]'WHAT is the matter with the man,' ſaid my uncle; 'are you mad?'

‘YOU have not drank any of it, have you, Sir,’ ſaid he, eagerly taking the cup out of his maſter's hand, ‘are you ſure you have not?’

'WELL,' replied my uncle, ‘I have not, and what then?’

'Heaven be praiſed!' ſaid the good old man. ‘Why, Sir, if you had drank it, you would have been dead by this time; it is poiſon.’

'How! poiſon!' ſaid my uncle aſto⯑niſhed. As for me, I was near fainting, and ſhould have fallen to the ground, if my dear uncle, weak as he was, had not raiſed himſelf up in his bed to ſupport me: in the mean time Mr. Greville was examining the medicine.

[83]'I BELIEVE it is laudanum,' ſaid he; ‘and ſure enough you would, as Mar⯑tin ſays, have been a dead man if you had taken this doſe. But pray, my good friend,’ ſaid he to Martin, ‘how did it happen that you knew this?’

'SIR,' ſaid Martin, ‘two moments ſince a man and horſe came to the gate; he muſt have rode hard indeed, for the horſe was all over in a foam. ‘If your maſter has not yet drank the potion that was ſent him by Mr. Allen, the apothecary, this evening,’ ſaid he, ‘haſte — prevent him — it is poiſon. Allen will be here ſoon after me and explain,’—and he rode away inſtantly.’

MR. Greville now congratulated my uncle on his eſcape, who ſeemed touched with the ſincerſt gratitude to Heaven for his preſervation, and ſaid ſome very kind things to Martin, who had been, under Providence, the happy inſtrument of it.

[84]IT WAS ſome time before I could re⯑cover any degree of compoſure, ſo greatly had I been affected by my uncle's danger. He preſſed me earneſtly to go to bed; but all inclination to ſleep was vaniſhed, and I was reſolved to ſit up, and hear what the apothecary had to ſay.

I RETIRED, however, for a few mo⯑ments, to write you an account of this ſtrange accident, which was likely to have been ſo fatal a one, both to him and me; for I think I never ſhould have forgiven myſelf for having, though in⯑nocently, adminiſtered the deadly draught to him.

THESE ill-ſhaped letters and crooked lines are an effect of that agitation un⯑der which I ſtill labour.

SURE the apothecary muſt be come by this time.—I am impatient to hear how this dreadful miſtake happened. For [85] the future I ſhall tremble to take their medicines; for how can one be ſure of their exactneſs? Jenny tells me Mr. Allen is this moment arrived.

ONE IN THE MORNING.

WELL, my dear friend, here I am, in my own chamber, without the leaſt deſire of going to bed to night. Joy is as great an enemy to ſleep as grief; and I am overjoyed, I own it. You are ſurpriſed—you are impatient to know what has happened to produce a ſenſa⯑tion I am ſo little acquainted with—ſo long unfelt, and almoſt deſpaired of. Take then things in order, and ſhare, largely ſhare in the ſatisfaction of your friend.

MR. Allen entered my uncle's apart⯑ment a moment after me; his counte⯑nance retained the traces of the great perturbation he had been in.

[86]'HEAVEN be praiſed! Sir,' ſaid he to his patient, ‘that this miſtake has had no other conſequences than to make me, for ſome hours, the moſt wretched man in the world.’—‘I can eaſily con⯑ceive the fright you have been in,’ ſaid Sir John; ‘but prithee, Allen, how did it happen that you ſent me this fatal doſe.’

'SIR,' replied the apothecary, ‘a patient of mine, a gentlewoman in years, is accuſtomed to take ſmall doſes of laudanum every night: ſhe is miſe⯑rable if it is not always at hand; ſo I generally ſend her two ounces at a time. I had prepared your draught, and wrote the labels for both the phials, when a ſervant of a dear friend of mine, who lived about a quarter of a mile diſtant, came to tell me that I muſt go inſtantly and bleed his maſter, who was in an apoplectic fit.’

‘THE gentleman inſtantly re-mounted his horſe, and putting him in full gal⯑lop, cried out to me as he paſſed by me, that he would be at the Hall in leſs than ten minutes, and hoped to pre⯑vent the miſchief. Then, and not be⯑fore, I recollected who he was.’—‘And who is he?’ ſaid my uncle eagerly; ‘The reverend Dr. Harley's ſon,’ re⯑plied Mr. Allen, ‘I know him very well.’

[89]My uncle hearing this name, claſped his hands together with great emotion, and caſting his eyes firſt upon Mr. Gre⯑ville, then on me, with a look big with meaning, he turned himſelf about in his bed, and continued ſilent. His piercing glance at me filled me, I know not how, with confuſion. I felt my face covered with bluſhes. I could not look at Mr. Greville, who exclaimed two or three times, in a tranſported ac⯑cent—'Generous, noble fellow! What think you of this, my friend, ſaid he to Sir John, approaching his bed. My uncle made him no anſwer; but I thought I heard him ſigh deeply.

Mr. Greville then obſerving that Mr. Allen muſt be greatly fatigued with ſo long a walk in ſuch agitation of mind (and indeed the poor man looked like a ghoſt), deſired him to walk into the next room, where he would find ſomething to refreſh him, and in the mean time he [90] would give directions for a horſe to be ſaddled, to carry him home.

Mr. Allen withdrew; and Martin appearing upon Mr. Greville's ringing the bell, my uncle interrupted the or⯑ders he was giving, to aſk him eagerly if he knew the perſon who brought the meſſage from the apothecary.

'YES, Sir,' ſaid Martin, ‘it was Mr. Harley.’ ‘And why did you not tell us this circumſtance?’ ſaid my uncle. Martin caſt down his eyes.

‘How did he look, —what did he ſay to you?’ aſked my uncle.

‘HE ſeemed to be in great agitation: Sir,’ replied Martin, ‘his horſe was all in a foam, and himſelf ſeemed al⯑moſt breathleſs.’

[91] ‘"Has your maſter,' ſaid he, ‘taken the medicine that Mr. Allen ſent here this morning?’ I replied, No. ‘Fly, prevent him, it is poiſon,’ ſaid he; ‘the apothecary is following me, he will explain the miſtake.’ The porter has ſince told me, that he rode away in⯑ſtantly, and that he thought he was wounded, for his handkerchief was bound round his left hand, and ſeemed covered with blood.’

My uncle then bid Martin go and attend Mr. Allen; when Mr. Greville repeating,

'I THINK,' replied Sir John, ‘that this young man is the nobleſt of all human beings. My life ſtood be⯑tween him and an ample fortune; and, what is more, between him and a bleſ⯑ſing which he ſets perhaps a much [92] higher value upon. Yet has he ſaved that life with the hazard of his own, and done as much for his enemy as he would have done for his father.’—Then pauſing a little—‘And a father I will be to him now,’ added he; ‘from this moment I will conſider him as my ſon. Why is he not here, that I may embrace and call him ſo?’ My uncle ſpoke this in ſo affectionate a manner, as moved even the lively Mr. Greville.

'WHERE ſhall I find, him,' purſued he—‘who will bring him to me? that wound in his hand alarms me. I feel already the anxiety of a father for him.’ Then looking at me with a ten⯑der ſmile,

'MARIA,' ſaid he, ‘will not, I hope, be jealous of this new-ſprung affec⯑tion for a perſon ſo worthy.’ I was ſilent; for what indeed could I ſay? Mr. Harley's merits are too great for [93] praiſe—for my poor praiſe. My uncle ſeemed to have a juſt ſenſe of them; and for this I could not but rejoice.

Mr. Greville, who ſat muſing for ſome time, at laſt ſaid, ‘The appear⯑ance of young Harley in theſe parts ſurpriſes me. I know he took leave of his family a week ago, in order to go on board the—Indiaman, which I thought had failed by this time. Perhaps I may get ſome in⯑telligence from Allen; I'll go to him.’ He did ſo, and returned again in a quarter of an hour; during which time my uncle and I had not ſpoke a word to each other.

'ALLEN tells me,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘that he met Mr. Harley when he had got about half way to the Hall. He called out to him in a joyful tone, and told him all was ſafe. He com⯑plained of the hurt in his hand, and ſaid, he would ſtop at his houſe, and [94] get his journeyman, if he was come home, to put ſome dreſſings upon it.’ Mr. Allen begged he would ſtay till he came back if he did not find his man at home. Mr. Harley replied, ‘that he had not a moment to ſpare; that he was going to hire a poſt-chaiſe at the Roſe-Inn, and intended to travel all night, being apprehenſive that the ſhip would fail without him;his fa⯑ther's ſudden illneſs having detained him longer than he expected.’

'So, then,' interrupted my uncle, in a tone of deep diſtreſs, 'he is gone!'

'No, no, I hope not,' replied Mr. Greville; ‘I have diſpatched Allen on horſeback, with directions, if he finds the youth at his houſe, as I doubt not but he will, to tell him that he muſt not ſtir from thence till I have ſeen him, which ſhall be early in the morn⯑ing. Allen can accommodate him with a bed.’

[95]'THIS will not do,' cried my uncle vehemently, ‘this voyage muſt be pre⯑vented, or I ſhall never enjoy a quiet moment. Bid Martin get on horſe⯑back inſtantly; and if he does not find Harley at Allen's, let him go on with all ſpeed to the Roſe-Inn. Dear Greville haſten him; mean time I will write a line myſelf to Harley. Maria, give me pen, ink and paper.’

MY uncle's impetuoſity put us all in motion. Mr. Greville haſtened to give Martin his orders; I brought my uncle what he deſired; he ſat up in his bed, and made ſhift to ſcrawl a few lines. Here is is a copy of them:

Mr. Greville incloſed this note in one from himſelf; and Martin, who ſeemed exceſſively pleaſed with his com⯑miſſion, aſſured us he would not return without the bleſſed young gentleman that had preſerved his maſter.

SIR John ſeemed now quite exhauſted with the different agitations his mind had ſuffered this evening; and a few minutes after Martin's departure, fell into a profound ſleep. I wiſhed Mr. Greville a good night, and retired to my chamber, where I have ever ſince been employed in writing to you.

Mr. Greville told me at parting, that he would ſit up an hour or two longer, [97] in expectation of Martin's return, who, if he is not here by that time, ſaid he, we may conclude he did not meet Har⯑ley at Allen's, and is gone after him to the inn.

WELL, we may now conclude that Martin has not ſucceeded, for he might have been here long ere this time. I hear Mr. Greville croſſing the gallery, to go to his own chamber, ſo he has given up all hope. He calls to me as he paſſes by my door, ſeeing a light ſtill in my chamber.—Sure he has heard ſome news.

THIS is what Mr. Greville told me through the door, for I would not open it, being all undreſſed.

MARTIN has ſent a man home with the horſe he rode out with; and in a note to Mr. Greville informs him, that Mr. Harley had called at Allen's, and got his hand dreſſed, which he had hurt [98] by a fall from his horſe, and immedi⯑ately afterwards ſet out for the inn. Thither Martin followed; and hearing that Mr. Harley was gone away a quar⯑ter of an hour before in a poſt-chaiſe, he thought he could not do a more ac⯑ceptable piece of ſervice to his maſter than to follow him, and endeavour to overtake him: accordingly he ordered poſt-horſes and a guide, and was juſt ready to ſet out when his meſſenger came away. Mr. Greville added, in a melancholy accent, that he feared all this would end at laſt in diſappointment and regret. Indeed I fear ſo too, and am in pain for my uncle, who will be moſt ſenſibly afflicted: ſo now, my dear Euphemia, being not too happy to ſleep, I will wiſh you a good night, and retire to bed.

LETTER XXVI. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

I ROSE early this morning, and had the ſatisfaction to hear that my uncle had had a good night, and was ſtill aſleep. Mr. Greville being alſo up, and in my uncle's library, I joined him there. He was beginning to rally me on the ſubject of Mr. Harley; but pre⯑ſently altered his tone, being ſtrongly apprehenſive that the youth would be on board, and the ſhip failed before Martin could overtake him.

'Poor fellow!' ſaid he with a ſigh, ‘he is too good to be a favourite with Fortune, who ſeldom beſtows any [100] thing upon the virtuous, becauſe ſhe knows ſhe cannot bribe them with her gifts.’

MY uncle having ſent to deſire we would drink our chocolate by his bed⯑ſide, we attended him immediately. He was very low ſpirited, having heard from his valet that Martin was not returned. Mr. Greville read his billet to him, which was not calculated to remove his fears of the bad ſucceſs of his expedition. He was full of uneaſy reflections; he railed at fortune, he railed at himſelf, but ſtill he was more inclined to find fault with his ſtars than himſelf.

MR. Greville put him in mind of the great danger he had ſo lately eſcaped, by means ſo unlikely and unexpected.

'YES,' replied my uncle, ‘my life is preſerved, but he who preſerved it is out of the reach of my gratitude, which will be a continual ſource of [101] vexation and regret to me. The fa⯑vours I receive,’ purſued he in a pee⯑viſh tone, ‘are ſo huſbanded, that I cannot recover an eye but by loſing a leg; my cauſes of complaint never ceaſe, they only change their places.’

WE have had a melancholy day of it; I never ſaw my uncle ſo fretful and im⯑patient: he recals every circumſtance to his mind that is likely to increaſe his remorſe for his unkindneſs to Mr. Harley. He reprobates his own chur⯑liſh conduct at the inn, where he firſt ſaw him, and received ſo ſtrong a proof of the generoſity and ſweetneſs of his diſpoſition, which I repaid, ſaid he, by a tyrannous exertion of the power I had to make him miſ:erable. I muſt ever deſpiſe and hate myſelf for it.

'COME, come,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘we muſt not ſuffer you to be too ſe⯑vere a cenſurer of yourſelf; a man ſhews himſelf greater by being capable [102] of owning a fault, than by being in⯑capable of committing it.’

'I WOULD repair that fault,' replied my uncle impatiently, ‘and fortune puts it out of my power—it is this that makes me wretched.’ His phyſician was ſurpriſed when he viſited him to⯑day to find him ſo much worſe. He ſaid he had a conſiderable degree of fever; he ſeemed unwilling to take any medicines, telling him the danger he had eſcaped, which he could not do without ſighing deeply ſeveral times.

DR. Irwin told him he would carry his preſcriptions himſelf to the apothecary, ſee them made up, and ſend them by one of his own ſervants; and this expe⯑dient has made us eaſy on that head. But as we have no tidings yet of Mar⯑tin, and my uncle apparently ſuffers in his health from the inquietude of his mind, we are under great apprehenſions on his account. Mr. Greville utterly [103] condemns his too great ſenſibility on this occaſion. The beſt virtues, he told him, when in exceſs, partake ſo much of vice, that even extreme right is no better than extreme wrong. My uncle anſwer⯑ed peeviſhly, that his philoſophy was very unſeaſonable; and turning himſelf in his bed, ſeemed as if he was deſirous of taking ſome reſt; but I really believe he ſought only to indulge his melancholy reflections without interruption.

MR. Greville walked into the garden, and I retired to my chamber, and wrote thus far. I am now going down to make him ſome tea. —No news of Martin yet.

AT NIGHT.

MR. Greville being obliged to viſit a friend in our neighbourhood to-day, I have been reading the whole evening to my uncle, in order to detach his [104] thoughts from the ſubject of his uneaſi⯑neſs. His friend is now with him; he tells him that Martin's not returning is a good ſign, for if he had not had hopes of overtaking Mr. Harley, he would have been back ere now. There is ſome probability in this; but my uncle is ſo out of humour with himſelf, that he ad⯑mits of nothing which may tend to re⯑lieve his diſquiet.

WHAT an enormous packet you will receive this time! but I am willing to keep it open while our ſuſpenſe conti⯑nues, that you may either rejoice or grieve with us for the event. I wiſh, yet dread, to have a letter from you—your next will probaby fix the very mo⯑ment of your departure. It is late; and with this ſad expectation on my mind I will go to bed, I cannot ſay to reſt.

WELL, my dear Euphemia, Martin is returned. Has he brought back Mr. [105] Harley? you aſk: he has, but not to us. This morning, as I was going into my uncle's chamber, I met Mr. Gre⯑ville, who, beckoning to me to come to one of the gallery windows, which look⯑ed out into the court-yard, ſhewed me Martin juſt arrived, alone, and looking melancholy. We were in doubt whe⯑ther we ſhould let him ſee my uncle immediately, till we had prepared him for the ill news he brought. But he, who had already been informed that he was come, rang his bell impetuouſly, upon which we both went into his chamber.

'So,' ſaid he, as ſoon as he ſaw us, ‘Martin is come, and alone it ſeems: it is as I expected. Did ever any thing happen according to my wiſh?’

MARTIN coming in, put a ſtop to theſe fretful complaints; but, as it ſhould ſeem, he was afraid to aſk him any queſtions, for he ſaid not a word [106] to him. Upon which Mr. Greville ſaid, ‘I am ſorry to ſee you are come alone, friend.’

'I AM ſorry too, Sir,' replied Mar⯑tin; 'and Mr. Harley hopes, Sir,' ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to his maſter, ‘when you know his reaſons, you will have the goodneſs to excuſe him.’

'YOU have ſeen him then,' cried my uncle impatiently, ‘and he has refuſed to come: well, I might have expected this. But did he receive my invitation with diſdain—did he expreſs any bit⯑terneſs againſt me?’

'OH, Sir,' ſaid Martin, ‘I wiſh you could have ſeen with what reſpect he received your Honour's letter. At the very firſt words he read of it, his face ſeemed all in a glow. He read it over, I believe, twenty times; and kiſſing it reſpectfully before he put it in his pocket, I obſerved his eyes full [107] of tears. I ventured to ſay to him, May I hope, Sir, you will lay aſide all thoughts of your intended voyage, and return with me to the Hall?’

‘"CAN you doubt it, my good friend?" ſaid he; "if you were not ſo much fa⯑tigued as I ſee you are, I would this moment ſet out with you, for I ſhall think every moment an age till I can throw myſelf at the feet of your noble maſter, to thank him for the unmerited goodneſs he expreſſes for me in this letter." He then took it out of his pocket again, and read it over half a dozen times, I believe.’

'BUT why is he not here?' interrupt⯑ed my uncle with his uſual impatience; 'where is he—when ſhall I ſee him?'

'SIR,' replied Martin, ‘he is gone to his father's.’

[108]'How!' interrupted my uncle, ‘gone to his fathers'!’

'OH, Sir!' reſumed Martin, ‘the poor young gentleman heard the moſt melancholy piece of news when he came to the Roſe-Inn laſt night, where we only ſtopped till freſh horſes were put to the chaiſe. I walked out with him into the inn-yard, to haſten them, when a country fellow eſpying him, camerunning up to him, crying "Maſ⯑ter Harley, I am glad to ſee you, faith! What, you have heard the ſad news then. —But you muſt make haſte, I can tell you that, or you will not ſee your father alive; he was juſt giving up the ghoſt when I came from— and that is five or ſix hours ago."’

'OH, Sir!' purſued Martin, wiping his eyes—‘I ſhall never forget the ſad condition poor young Harley was in; I had juſt time to catch him in my arms, where he lay, without ſenſe or [109] motion, for ſeveral minutes. As ſoon as he recovered, he begged me, with his eyes all drowned in tears, to tell you the ſad circumſtances he was in; and then eagerly throwing himſelf into the chaiſe, which was now ready, he bid the poſt-boy drive with all the ſpeed he could to—. He juſt pronounced your Honour's name, and would have added ſomething; but a violent burſt of grief ſtopped his voice; he fell all along the feat, ſigh⯑ing as if his heart would break, and the chaiſe driving away furiouſly, he was preſently out of ſight. I was obliged to ſtay ſeveral hours after him, not being able to get any conveyance here till five o'clock this morning.’

YOU will eaſily imagine, my dear Euphemia, that we were all greatly af⯑fected with this ſad tale. I wept, I own it; my uncle diſcovered great emotion, and Mr. Greville walked to the window in a penſive mood.

[110]MY uncle, after a ſilence of ſome mi⯑nutes, told Martin he would allow him this day to reſt himſelf after his fatigue, and that to-morrow he muſt ſet out early for Dr. Harley's—The poſt is juſt going out; I ſhall have only time to make up my packet. Adieu! then, my dear Euphemia.

LETTER XXVII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

SIR John is ſo well recovered, that he took an airing this morning in his chariot. Mr. Greville has left us, and Martin is diſpatched to Dr. Har⯑ley's, with a kind meſſage to the af⯑flicted family, and his pocket-book ſtuffed with bank bills for Mr. Harley; and a ſhort billet, in which my uncle earneſtly requeſts him to come to the Hall as ſoon as he poſſibly can. His health ſeems to improve every moment. Joy is a great reſtorative. Yet he now and then breathes a half-ſuppreſſed ſigh [112] to the memory of his once-loved friend, whoſe offences towards him could only, it ſeems, be cancelled by death.

MARTIN is returned. Dr. Harley lived two hours after the arrival of his beloved ſon. He was perfectly ſenſible; and Mr. Harley had the comfort to remove his anxiety for the future for⯑tunes of the young family he left behind him, by acquainting him with the happy change in Sir John's diſpoſition towards him.

THE family are in great affliction. Mr. Harley has wrote a few lines to my uncle, which ſeem to pleaſe him greatly. He did not read them to me, but this was his obſervation upon them: ‘This young man,’ ſaid he, ‘receives a bene⯑fit with the ſame grace with which he confers one. His gratitude loſes no⯑thing of its force by the dignity of his [113] expreſſion.’ Why have I not a letter from you? Yet when it comes I ſhall fear to break the ſeal, left it ſhould tell me what I dread to know. Adieu!

LETTER XXVIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I RETURNED laſt night from an⯑other viſit to Lord L.'s. I could not reſolve to leave England without viſit⯑ing once more the place where the dear remains of my mother are depoſited. As I was leaving the church I met Mr. Neville, who was juſt arrived at Lord L.'s ſeat, in order to conduct me home; and hearing to whatplace I was gone, came himſelf to fetch me. My mind, ſoftened by the tender, melancholy ideas which the ſight of my loved mother's tomb inſpired, was ſo ſenſibly affected with the obliging ſolicitude of my huſband, that I flew to meet him with a tranſport, which was inſtantly repreſſed by the au⯑ſterity [115] of his looks, and the harſhneſs of his reproofs, for the indulgence of a grief which he treats almoſt as a crime. There is no doubt but he meant well; and this ſeverity was an effect of his con⯑cern for me: but he has ſo little deli⯑cacy, is ſo ungracious, that he converts even the beſt intentions into offences, by his unfortunate manner of expreſſing them.

THIS meeting, therefore, as you may well imagine, did not contribute to calm my mind. I came home ſuffi⯑ciently mortified and dejected; but the ſociety of my dear Mrs. Benſon, her wiſe reaſonings, and tender ſoothings, reſtored me to ſome degree of tran⯑quillity.

YOU have made me a moſt accept⯑able preſent in the young perſon who has the honour to be recommended by you. Oppreſſion has ever been, in my opinion, a ſufficient ground for protec⯑tion; [116] but the teſtimony you give of her merit, and her own engaging appear⯑ance and manner, will ſecure her a large ſhare of my kindneſs and eſteem. Her ſituation with me ſhall, in every reſpect, be made as agreeable to her as you would wiſh. Mrs. Benſon is much pleaſed with her; ſhe is her bedfellow, and they are very ſeldom aſunder.

I HAVE got your ſecond packet; my hopes, my wiſes, my expectations, are anſwered—you will be the wife of Mr. Harley. Excellent young man! but he is, as you juſtly obſerve, above all praiſe. He is worthy of you, my friend, lovely as you are in perſon and mind.

SIR John Harley's character riſes greatly upon me in your agreeable nar⯑rative—he has acted both a juſt and a generous part. You have painted him with great force; I ſee him in all the turns and changes of his temper, and in [117] every view he is pleaſing. Your gay philoſopher, your lively, yet ſententious Mr, Greville, was in my opinion much to blame, when he placed the moſt amiable virtue of the mind in the num⯑ber of its maladies and infirmities. Sir John's ſenſibility is certainly very great; and if it be neceſſary, as ſome have ſaid, that limits and bounds ſhould be ſet in all caſes, they cannot be unfit in acts of acknowledgment. If there be a fault oppoſite to ingratiude, he has fallen into it; and thus, by the exceſs, he has avoided the defect; but the de⯑fect is ſo horrid, and the exceſs ſo beau⯑tiful, that he muſt be a rigid moraliſt indeed who calls it an infirmity.

AND now, my dear Maria, that I ſee you poſſeſſed of ſo much happineſs at preſent, and ſo much greater in pro⯑ſpect, I ſhall with the leſs reluctance tell you, that our ſhip will abſolutely ſail within theſe ten days. All the for⯑titude I can boaſt would have been [118] ſcarce ſufficient to have ſupported my ſpirits under this ſeparation, if I had left you in that uneaſy ſtate of mind which your delicacy but half unveiled, but which your candor and amiable ſimpli⯑city made but too apparent to an obſer⯑vation intereſted like mine.

YES, my dear friend, you have loved Mr. Harley all this time; and your gentle mind has had ſome ſevere con⯑flicts to ſuſtain between your inclination for him, and the obedience you owed Sir John, who, as your uncle and be⯑nefactor, had a double title to it. The virtues of Mr. Harley have made this ſacrifice no longer neceſſary, and that which juſtifies your choice ſecures you the poſſeſſion of its object.

I EARNESTLY intreat you, my Maria, not to ſuffer the preſent ſunſhine of your fortune to be clouded with your appre⯑henſions for me. Our ſeparation is the only circumſtance that ought to give [119] you ſome concern, and that is common to us both. It is true, I have but little contentment but what I derive from reaſon and philoſophy; that ſort of phi⯑loſophy I mean which teaches us ſubmiſ⯑miſion to the will of Heaven. I ſee no⯑thing terrible in this long voyage but my abſence from you. I apprehend nothing worſe than what has already happened to me; and I will never believe that ill fortune will follow me ſo far, or that it is poſſible for one to fall, who already ſtands ſo low. You may render abſence tolerable to me by fre⯑quent letters. Continue your charming narratives; while I read your lively de⯑ſcriptions, I ſee, I converſe with you—I partake your fears, I am elevated with your hopes, I ſympathiſe with your ſor⯑rows, and enjoy your happineſs.

AS for me, it will be the chief com⯑fort of my life to write to you, and make you acquainted with all the events of it. I propoſe to devote ſome part of [120] every day to this dear converſe I will call it, which will make you preſent with me; and, although I cannot hope to give you equal entertainment, yet I will be punctual if not liberal, and ſend you that which I promiſed, if I cannot ſend you what I would. Adieu!

LETTER XXIX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MR. Greville is juſt come from Dr. Harley's afflicted family, where he has been to pay a conſolatory viſit. He has brought a letter from Mr. Harley to my uncle, which he keeps to himſelf. I am extremely glad that the youth, in accepting my uncle's, liberal preſent, diſcovers nothing of that pride of ſpirit which appeared in that letter of his to me upon a former occaſion. I men⯑tioned this circumſtance to Mr. Gre⯑ville, as what had given me ſome appre⯑henſions.

'YOU are right,' ſaid he, ‘for no⯑thing is more likely to create diſtruſt in [122] a new reconciliation than to ſhew a ſhy⯑neſs to be obliged to thoſe with whom we are reconciled. But Harley, you know, is now his ſon by adoption; and no I think of it,’ purſued he, with a ſly leer, ‘you are too juſt not to have this worthy young man's intereſt ex⯑tremely at heart; would it not be more for his advantage, think you, for Sir John to call him his nephew than his ſon?’

I BLUSHED like a fool; but recollect⯑ing myſelf, I anſwered himgravely, ‘that he had acted like a father by me, who was only his niece; and that which⯑ſoever of thoſe characters he choſe to conſider Mr. Harley in, I did not doubt but he would ſhew himſelf equally affectionate.’

I WAS afraid of the archneſs I ſaw riſing in his looks; therefore, to prevent his miſchievous raillery, I aſked him a great many queſtions concerning Mrs. Har⯑ley [123] and the young ladies; and he let me into a ſecret which ſurpriſed me greatly. Mrs. Harley was, it ſeems, bred up by her mother in the Roman Catholic re⯑ligion; and although obliged, on ac⯑count of her huſband's profeſſion, to conceal her principles while he lived, yet being a bigot to its tenets, ſhe is de⯑termined to ſpend the remainder of her days in a convent in France, where ſhe propoſes to complete the education of her daughters. I believe this ſcheme will meet with ſome oppoſition from Sir John, who, I know, intends to take care of them.

To-DAY at dinner my uncle told me, that he expected a viſit from Mr. Har⯑ley in a day or two; and he deſired me to give orders to the houſekeeper to prepare that apartment for him which was formerly mine; for ſince Lady Harley's death I have, by his expreſs command, occupied her's. I anſwered, heſitatingly, 'Yes, Sir;' for both the [124] gentlemen threw me into ſuch confuſion by their faſcinating looks, that I ſcarce knew what I ſaid.

AS ſoon as the cloth was removed I retired to my own apartment; inſtead of giving the houſekeeper orders myſelf, I bid my maid tell her, her maſter wanted her. She received his directions, and came to tell me, with great joy, that we were to have Mr. Harley for a gueſt.

‘WE are all debtors to this charming young gentleman,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘for the life of our good maſter.’

NOW, my dear Euphemia, no one has a higher ſenſe of this obligation than I have; but my ſituation is a little aukward. Mr, Greville's raillery, and my uncle's fixed looks on me, which ſeem as if they were exploring the in⯑moſt receſſes of my heart, often diſtreſs me greatly—I eſcape from them when I can.

[125]I AM ſummoned this moment to make tea. I wiſh Mr. Greville was gone—I never thought his company tireſome before. Do you not think it is indelicate in him my Euphemia, to purſue me thus with his raillery?—So! a ſecond ſummons—I muſt go.

SIR John and his friend imagined a fine ſcheme to divert themſelves with my embarraſſment. Who do you think I ſaw upon my returning to the room where I had left them together?—Even Mr. Harley, whom I had been taught not to expect theſe two days. But this miſchievous deſign did not ſucceed en⯑tirely to their wiſh; for, although my ſurpriſe was indeed very great at this unexpected ſight of him, yet I felt my confuſion decreaſe, in proportion as the tender melancholy in his looks fixed my attention upon the recent cauſe.

A TRANSIENT bluſh overſpread his cheeks on my firſt appearance; but [126] inſtantly gave place to that paleneſs which the death of a father, whom he had loved exceſſively, ſeemed to have planted there.

HE approached me with an air of deep reſpect, but with a ſedateneſs which he borrowed from his melancholy ſitua⯑tion, and made me a ſhort compliment; which I received, and anſwered, without any other emotion than what aroſe from a participation in a grief ſo juſt and ſo affecting. He led me to my chair; and reſuming his ſeat, which was next my uncle, he continued his diſcourſe upon ſome indifferent matters, which my com⯑ing in had interrupted.

SIR John and Mr. Greville were evi⯑dently diſappointed, that this firſt inter⯑view had paſſed over without any of that diſcompoſure which would have laid a foundation for ſome future raillery. I enjoyed their diſappointment, I confeſs, and ſaw, with ſome little triumph, Mr. [127] Greville's arch looks, and my uncle's ſignificant glances, give place to a ſeri⯑ouſneſs, which was better ſuited to the circumſtances of our young gueſt.

THE evening paſſed over very agree⯑ably; my uncle ſeemed delighted with Mr. Harley's converſation; for al⯑though he was far from making an often⯑tatlous diſplay of his powers of pleaſing, yet, through all his modeſty, there ap⯑peared a fund of knowledge and an ele⯑gance of expreſſion, which captivated the attention, and gave an advantageous idea of his underſtanding and improve⯑ments.

HE took occaſion once to mention his great obligations to my uncle; he em⯑ployed but few words; for he ſeemed well aware of the juſtneſs of that obſer⯑vation, that the dignity of truth is wounded by much profeſſing: but his look and accent were ſo affecting, that Sir John ſeemed touched to the ſoul, [128] and graſping his hand with an eager preſſure—

'TALK not to me of obligations,' ſaid he, ‘your worth outſtrips all my power of rewarding.’

MR. Greville was cruel enough, at that moment, to caſt a glance full of mean⯑ing, at me, to add to the confuſion with which I was overwhelmed. I perceived, as ſoon as I was able to look up, that this miſchievous look had not eſcaped Mr. Harley's obſervation: his face was covered by a deep bluſh. With a timid and diſconcerted air he raiſed my uncle's hand, which ſtill held his faſt claſped, to his lips, and told him, in a low but ardent accent, that it ſhould be the bu⯑ſineſs of his life to deſerve his good opi⯑nion.

OUR common perſecutor now ſeemed to pity the embarraſſment he had occa⯑ſioned, and inſtantly began a converſa⯑tion on indifferent matters.

[129]I RETIRED early to my own apartment, to be at liberty to continue my letter to you. It was late, and I was ſtill en⯑gaged in this dear employment, when Mrs. Groves, who had carried the can⯑dle before Mr. Harley when he retired to his chamber, where ſhe left him with Martin, who was ordered to attend him, came into my room, and begging pardon for her intruſion, broke into the moſt extravagant praiſes of the young gentleman.

THIS good woman loves to talk, and ſays every thing that comes into her head, without regarding time, or place, or perſons; and ſhe is indulged in this liberty on account of her long-tried rec⯑titude and fidelity.

'DO you know, Madam,' ſaid ſhe, ‘that I have found out that there is a great likeneſs between you and Mr. Harley. He has the very air of your countenance, your fine large eyes,’ ſaid [130] the flatterer, ‘and dimpled mouth; only his complexion is not like yours —his is a lovely brown, and yours, to be ſure, is as fair as alabaſter. I think he reſembles you too in the air of his perſon—no diſparagement to you neither, Madam, for I think he is one of the genteeleſt young men I ever ſaw.’

‘WELL, but I muſt tell you ſome⯑thing, Madam: You muſt know, that as we paſſed through that room which was formerly your dreſſing-room, your picture, that hangs over the chimney, took his eye in a minute; well, what did he do, but, with great eagerneſs, he takes one of the candles out of my hand, goes up cloſe to it, and there he s;tood looking and looking, as if he could never be tired. So I made bold to ſay, Sir, that is my young lady's picture; it was drawn when ſhe was about fourteen: do you think it is like her?’

[131]'IT is like your young lady,' ſaid he, ‘but ſhe is vaſtly improved ſince this was painted.’

‘WELL, Madam, he ſtaid looking and looking at it ſo long, till I was down⯑right tired with ſtanding; at laſt, he begged my pardon, and returned me the candle; and, as ſure as you are alive, Madam, he fetched a deep ſigh when he took his eyes off it,’

'WELL, Mrs. Groves,' ſaid I ſmiling, ‘what is all this to the purpoſe?’

'WHY, Madam,' replied ſhe, ‘what I refer from all this is, that Mr. Har⯑ley has certainly a great kindneſs for you, and that you would make a charming couple.’

NOW, my dear Euphemia, I do not doubt but the wiſe aſſembly of the houſekeeper's room have ſettled already all the preliminaries of this match, and [132] as good as concluded upon it. I was un⯑willing to hear any more upon the ſub⯑ject; ſo I called my maid to aſſiſt me in undreſſing, and bade the loquacious houſekeeper good night.

AND a thouſand thouſand times good night to you, my dear friend, whom I always ſee in my dreams, but with me⯑lancholy omens; for, alas! you are torn from me; the diſtance between us ſeems to increaſe, and ſometimes I loſe fight of you entirely. But ſure we ſhall meet again; do you not think we ſhall? I muſt, I will indulge this hope, for without it I ſhall be miſerable.

LETTER XXX. MISS HARLEY IN CONTINUATION.

MR. Harley has left us, and I am juſt eſcaped from that unceaſing teazer, Mr. Greville, to give my dear Euphemia an account of what has paſſed during this intereſting day.

AT breakfaſt, my uncle aſked Mr. Harley if it would be inconvenient to him to ſtay another day. The youth replied, that a longer abſence at this time would be ſeverely felt by his af⯑flicted family.

‘WELL then, you ſhall go, my dear Edward,’ ſaid my uncle, ‘my horſes [134] and groom ſhall attend you, unleſs you chooſe to have the poſt-chariot.’ Mr. Harley thanked him, and ſaid, as the day was fair he would rather ride.

'YOU will reach—,' ſaid my uncle, ‘before dark, though you do not ſet out theſe two hours; therefore,’ purſued he, riſing, ‘as I wiſh to have a little diſcourſe with you in private be⯑fore you leave us, I will expect you in my library as ſoon as you have finiſhed your breakfaſt.’

MR. Harley, who roſe up when my uncle did, told him he was ready to at⯑tend him then; and accordingly followed him, after bowing to me with an air ſo timid and embarraſſed, as threw me, I know not why, into confuſion like⯑wiſe.

I DURST not raiſe my eyes to Mr. Greville, who, I ſuppoſed, was making his malicious obſervations; ſo both of [135] us continued ridiculouſly ſilent for ſeveral minutes, when he thought fit to relieve me, by deſiring me to give him another diſh of tea. I did ſo; and he then aſked me gravely, if I could gueſs what was likely to be the ſubject of Sir John's converſation with Mr. Harley?

I TOLD him I really could not.

‘AND have you no curioſity about it?’ ſaid he.

'NOT much,' I anſwered.

'NOT much!' repeated he; ‘this in⯑difference is not very obliging to Mr. Harley.’

'YOU are miſtaken, Sir,' replied I, ‘I am not indifferent to any thing that concerns Mr. Harley; his intereſts will always be of ſome conſequence to me, eſteeming him ſo juſtly as I do. But I have no anxiety on my mind [136] on account of this private conference, and therefore little curioſity, becauſe I have no doubt of the greatneſs and permanency of my uncle's affection for him, as it is founded upon his me⯑rit, and the grateful ſenſe he has of his obligations to him.’

THE openneſs of my anſwer diſcon⯑certed Mr. Greville, who, I perceived, expected I ſhould ſay ſomething that would give him an opportunity of teaz⯑ing me, as was his cuſtom. He looked at me, I thought, with complacency; and that moment my uncle called out, Greville.

'Now,' ſaid he, riſing to go to him, ‘I ſhall know all; and to puniſh you for your reſerve, I will not tell you a word of what I know.’

'YES you will,' replied I, laughing, ‘when I have curioſity enough to aſk you.’

[137]HE went to my uncle, and I took my uſual walk upon the terrace, where, in about half an hour afterwards, I was joined by Mr. Greville and Mr. Har⯑ley. There was ſomething in the coun⯑tenance of the latter ſo full of meaning, that, I knew not why—but I could nei⯑ther look at nor ſpeak to him. He was ſilent too; and in this ſtupid way we followed Mr. Greville, who led us from one walk to another, pointing out to Mr. Harley ſomewhat or other to ad⯑mire in the diſpoſition of the grounds, which, you know, are laid out in the moſt beautiful taſte imaginable.

ALL on a ſudden he ſeemed to recol⯑lect ſomething he had to ſay to Sir John; and telling us he would be with us again in a few minutes, left us to⯑gether.

THIS ſilly contrivance of leaving me alone with Mr. Harley, was not calcu⯑lated to leſſen that unaccountable em⯑barraſſment [138] into which his coming had thrown me. I was impatient to free myſelf from this aukward ſituation; and therefore, pretending to be apprehenſive that it would rain, I mended my pace, in order to get as ſoon as poſſible into the houſe; but he reſpectfully retaining me, begged me not to have the cruelty to deprive him of the only opportunity he had yet had of ſpeaking to me alone. I then walked ſlower, but ſtill towards the houſe, though he ſought to turn my ſteps to another path.

'THE tide of favour here,' ſaid he, ‘flows ſo ſtrongly for me, as might in⯑deed carry my hopes very far, did not your coldneſs, Madam, or rather aver⯑ſion, reduce me to deſpair.’

'MY averſion,' ſaid I, ‘Mr. Harley how can you imagine that I have any averſion to you—you who have ſo juſt a right to my eſteem?’

[139] ‘AND am I honoured with your eſ⯑teem, Madam,’ replied he eagerly; ‘and may I preſume to hope that the tender, the ardent paſſion, with which you inſpired me the firſt moment I beheld you, is not diſpleaſing to you? Speak, I conjure you, Madam,’ pur⯑ſued he, ‘relieve me from this agony of doubt—ſuffer me not to depart un⯑certain of my fate.’

BEING ſtill out of ſight of the houſe, he threw himſelf at my feet, holding one of my hands, which he ſeveral times preſſed to his lips, in ſpite of my endea⯑vours to withdraw it.

THIS liberty was not altogether agree⯑able, any more than the parade of his poſture, ſtill kneeling. I moved a ſtep back; and laughing, as I did once be⯑fore on the ſame occaſion, told him, that I ſuppoſed he had lately read Caſ⯑ſandra and the grand Cyrus, for his lan⯑guage [140] and manners had all the air of an Orondates.

I CONFESS to you, my dear Euphe⯑mia, that I was willing to relieve the embarraſſment this very paſſionate ad⯑dreſs had thrown me into, by a little raillery, which detached my reflexions upon the ſilly figure I muſt have made during this ſhort ſcene; but I was much concerned when I perceived the effect my ill-judged gaiety had upon him. —He dropped my hand ſubmiſſively, and riſing, bowed low, aſking me pardon for the liberty he had taken in declar⯑ing his ſentiments ſo freely. He was now convinced, he ſaid, that my indif⯑ference, or rather diſlike of him, was not to be overcome; that he could have borne my anger with more fortitude than my ſcorn, by which his preſumption was too ſeverely puniſhed to leave him an excuſe for ever repeating his of⯑fence.

[141]I HEARD him ſigh—I ſaw his eyes full of tears; I was ſhocked, perplexed—I knew not what to ſay to him. I am ſure my heart was far from being in that diſpoſition towards him which he ſeemed to apprehend. Scorn! good Heaven! Mr. Harley an object of ſcorn! how could a thought ſo inju⯑rious to his acknowledged merit riſe in his mind? I wiſhed to eraſe it; but nothing proper to be ſaid recurred to my mind.

I CONTINUED ſilent; and, without at⯑tending to what I did, walked faſt to⯑wards the houſe. Doubtleſs he under⯑ſtood this to be in conſequence of my eagerneſs to get rid of him; for again I heard him ſigh deeply; but he ſpoke not a word.

MR. Greville, who was come out again, joined us before either of us per⯑ceived him. He ſeemed ſurpriſed and vexed at the diſorder that appeared in [142] Mr. Harley's countenance: it was in⯑deed ſufficiently apparent, for at that moment I ventured to caſt my eyes upon him; but inſtantly removed them again, being, I own it, greatly affected by the tender diſtreſs expreſſed in every line of his face.

MR. Greville, who heedfully obſerved us both, caſt an upbraiding glance on me; and being now arrived at the houſe, he ſaid to Mr. Harley, I intend to accompany you a few miles; the horſes are at the gate—I believe we ſhall find Sir John there likewiſe.

MR. Harley then made me a moſt re⯑ſpectful bow; but uttered not a word, nor raiſed his eyes to my face. I curt⯑ſeyed alſo in ſilence, though I am ſure I ſecretly wiſhed him a good journey, and retired to my own apartment, where I have been ever ſince.

[143]I HAVE a moſt oppreſſive weight upon my ſpirits; I dread ſeeing Mr. Greville again—I hate his ſcrutinizing looks; but I muſt reſolve to meet them; for my maid tells me that dinner is ready to be ſerved, and that Mr. Gre⯑ville is returned from his ride. Why did he return? I think he takes root here.—Well, I muſt go.

MY uncle looked very grave upon me all dinner-time; Mr. Greville was ſerious and reſerved.

WHEN I drank my uncle's health, he took no other notice of me than by a bow lower than uſual, without his wonted ſmile of complacency. Juſt as I was riſing from table, my maid brought me a letter from you. I took it out of her hand with a viſible emotion, I ſuppoſe, for the gentlemen ſmiled, I aſked leave to retire to read it; and, without waiting for an anſwer, flew up ſtairs.

[144]OH! my Euphemia, what do you tell me? a few days more, and I ſhall be ſeparated from you, perhaps, for ever. Have I ſo anxiouſly wiſhed for this letter, which, when it came, was to pierce my heart with its fatal tidings? Do not chide me, my dear friend, this ſtroke, though long expected, falls heavy on me. I muſt lay down my pen, my tears blind me; when I am more compoſed I will finiſh my letter.

I have paſſed a ſleepleſs night: ‘Thought followed thought, and tear ſucceeded tear.’ But I am now, if not eaſy, yet reſigned, ſince to remedileſs evils nothing but pa⯑tience can be oppoſed. But be aſſured, neither time nor abſence will be able to weaken my affection—Your idea will always be preſent with me. I ſhall dream continually of you, and find no image in my memory ſo pleaſing as that which preſents me the time of [145] our being together. You ſhall have letters from me by every conveyance; and thus, though oceans roll between us, our minds may often meet and con⯑verſe with each other.

YOUR picture travels continually from one room to another; whereever I am likely to ſpend moſt of my time, thither it is removed; but this is not ſufficient, I would have you always near me. I conjure you then, my dear friend, ſit immediately to — for a miniature. You will ſtill have time enough, if you ſet about it in⯑ſtantly. When the painter has done his part, ſend it to my jeweller, he has ſome diamonds of mine unem⯑ployed; I will write to him, and give him directions. I diſpatch this pacquet to the poſt, without ſtaying to conſider ſome things in your laſt letter, which have given my thoughts a good deal of employment. Adieu! my dear Eu⯑phemia.

LETTER XXXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I HAVE loved Mr. Harley all this time you ſay, my dear Euphemia; and this circumſtance, which has hither⯑to been a ſecret to myſelf, you have, it ſeems, diſcovered, from my first men⯑tion of him. I will not call your pene⯑tration in queſtion, nor will you, I am ſure, doubt my candour when I declare, that the ſentimental entertained for Mr. Harley, and which I freely avowed to you, appeared to me to be, ſuch as every friend to virtue muſt feel for one ſo duly virtuous.

[147]YOU call him an excellent young man; and ſo he certainly is. It was natural to wiſh well to the worth I eſ⯑teemed—to feel for his ſituation, and to be anxious for his proſperity. I never thought it neceſſary to queſtion my own heart about the nature of ſentiments which appeared to me ſo reaſonable and ſo juſt.

I REMEMBER a ſaying that once fell from you—‘A young woman has paſſ⯑ed over the firſt bounds of reſerved⯑neſs, who allows herſelf to think ſhe is in love.’ Nor would your delicacy have permitted you to ſpeak ſo plainly to me on this ſubject, if you had not ſuppoſed, that from the great and juſt degree of favour Mr. Harley is now in with my uncle, his pretenſions to me will be authoriſed by his conſent; with⯑out it I am ſure, however favourably I might think of him, he could never have hoped for ſucceſs.

[148]BUT although, according to you, my inclinations and duty are now reconciled, you are not likely to leave me ſo happy as you imagined; for my uncle is of⯑fended, Mr. Greville reproaches me, and Mr. Harley perhaps hates me; and all theſe misfortunes I have drawn upon myſelf with the moſt innocent intentions imaginable.

SOME time ago I ſuffered in my uncle's opinion for being willing to do juſtice to the merits of this young man, when I thought he was harſhly uſed; and I was ſuſpected of favouring ad⯑dreſſes from the ſon of his ancient ene⯑my; and now he reproaches me with caprice, and a tyrannical uſe of my power over a perſon whom he loves and eſteems, and to whom he has the high⯑eſt obligations. In the former caſe I ſhewed a ready obedience to his will, by giving Mr. Harley an abſolute re⯑jection; in the latter, whatever my ſen⯑timents were with regard to him, I [149] thought myſelf obliged to act with great reſerve, till my uncle was pleaſed to de⯑clare his intentions to me. Mr, Gre⯑ville calls my conduct, in this inſtance, a too ſcrupulous prudence, which does nothing for fear of doing ill. "Your uncle's prejudices, ſaid he, have all given way to the conviction of his bet⯑ter judgment; for ſenſible perſons only taſte of an error, of which the ignorant drink till they are intoxicated. You could not, my dear Miſs Harley, be ig⯑norant what deſigns Sir John entertained in favour of Mr. Harley. Why then treat him with a coldneſs that ſaddened all his delightful proſpects?" And he was angry with me in good earneſt, for ſending his young friend, as he calls Mr. Harley, away in deſpair.

IT is no unpleaſant thing to ſee a phi⯑loſopher in choler. I only ſmiled at his reproaches, though I could eaſily have juſtified myſelf. He was malicious enough to leave me alone with my uncle [150] this afternoon, who he knew was re⯑ſolved to chide me; and accordingly he began to rail at the caprice, the obſtinacy and inconſiſtency of our ſex, in very ſevere terms. I was determined not to make any particular application, and liſtened to him very patiently, which reduced him to the neceſſity of being more explicit.

‘I HOPED you had been, in a certain degree, free from thoſe faults, Maria,’ ſaid he; ‘but you have convinced me, by your behaviour to Mr. Harley, that you are a very woman; and that to give ſteadineſs to your inclinations, it is neceſſary you ſhould meet with oppoſition.’

'HERE now,' purſued he, (without waiting for my anſwer, and indeed I had none ready for him) ‘when, to my ſhame be it ſpoken, I viewed young Harley in no other light than as the ſon of an ungrateful man, who had deceiv⯑ed [151] and betrayed me, you were very favourably diſpoſed towards him, and ſome very tender letters paſſed be⯑tween you.’

'OH! Sir,' interrupted I with ſome emotion, ‘is this a candid repreſenta⯑tion of my conduct? You have copies of my letters to Mr. Harley; will they bear ſuch a comment?’

'WELL, well,' reſumed Sir John, ‘letting the letters paſs, if Mr. Harley was indifferent to you, where was the merit of your rejecting him to comply with my unreaſonable prejudices? That ſacrifice, Maria, for ſo I conſi⯑dered it, redoubled my affection for you; great as it was before, it has been greater ſince; but you have ſpoiled all, by your unaccountable be⯑haviour. Is this young man leſs ami⯑able in your eyes, becauſe mine are open to his virtues?’

MY dear uncle ſpoke all this ſo affec⯑tionately, that I was melted into tears. He miſtook the cauſe of my emotion; and ſtarting from his chair, began to pace about the room in great agitation.

I WAS confounded, not being able to gueſs at the cauſe of this tranſport; when ſuddenly coming up to me, and ſeizing my hand, he looked earneſtly at me for a moment, then exclaimed—

'DISLIKE to Mr. Harley, Sir,' re⯑plied I, 'No, on the contrary—' I ſtopped, for his eyes were fixed upon me.

'GO on,' ſaid he, ‘your contrary, come.’—

‘EVERY one muſt be a friend to Mr. Harley who knows him,’ ſaid I.

NOW, my dear Euphemia, the diſ⯑covery you think you have made coming into my head that moment, I felt my face glow like fire.

'Very well,' ſaid my uncle, ‘that bluſh is honeſter than your words, and we are friends again, my Maria; ſo I will anſwer for you, ſince Mr. Harley is your choice, Sir, he ſhall be mine; have I hit your meaning?’

[154] ‘You may always depend upon my obedience, Sir,’ replied I; ‘for I am ſure you will never command any thing that is not reaſonable.’

'Mighty well, mighty well,' cried my uncle, in a joyful accent, ‘I am ſa⯑tisfied.’ Mr. Greville coming in at that moment — 'Greville,' ſaid Sir John, ‘write to Harley inſtantly, tell him, I ſay he is a fool.’

I hastened out of the room, not being willing to hear more: though, it muſt be acknowledged, my uncle has not, on this occaſion, been inatten⯑tive to the claims of female delicacy. Here is a prodigious change in my affairs: a happy one I know you will think it. But, alas! that happineſs comes clogged with the painful idea of our ſeparation.

LETTER XXXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I DISPATCHED my laſt letter to the poſt, without waiting till I could give you an account of my interview with Mr. Harley, which I expected would ſoon take place; for a meſſenger was immediately diſpatched to him, with a letter from my uncle, which it was probable would ſoon bring him to the Hall; and indeed he came ſo early the next morning, that Sir John was not riſen.

[156]By his order, however, he was intro⯑duced into his bed-chamber, where they had a conference of more than an hour. I had already finiſhed my morn⯑ing walk, when they came together into the garden to meet me, for you know I am an early riſer.

While they were yet at ſome diſ⯑tance, I could perceive ſo much heart⯑felt ſatisfaction in my uncle's looks, in Mr. Harley's ſo much joy, which yet ſeemed checked by a certain timidity that encreaſed as he approached me, that it was eaſy to gueſs their converſa⯑tion had been very intereſting.

I summoned up all my courage, in order to conquer my confuſion, and prevent my acting a ſilly part in the trying ſcene that was preparing for me; and accordingly I paid my compliments to my uncle, with an air very unembar⯑raſſed [157] as I thought; but when Icurtſeyed to Mr. Harley, my half-raiſed eyes were encountered with ſo paſſionate a glance, at the ſame time that he bowed to me with the moſt profound reſpect, as quite diſconcerted me; and I felt that I bluſhed, and bluſhed the more becauſe I felt it.

My uncle did not give me time to recover myſelf.

'It is in vain to diſſemble, Maria,' ſaid he, eagerly; ‘I have betrayed your ſecret to my young friend here. I have told him, that you have been kind enough to put it in my power to reward his nobleneſs of mind, and pay him back ſome part of the vaſt debt of gratitude I owe him, by a gift, which, knewing your merit ſo well as I do, I will call a precious one.’

[158]'RECEIVE her hand from me, Harley,' proceeded he; ‘I promiſe you it is not an unwilling one—Is it, niece?’

'If it were, Sir,' ſaid I, ‘I am ſure you would not give it, nor would I.’ I could not bring out another word —I was half dead with confuſion.

Mr. Harley, as if remembering my rebuke a day or two before, and fearful of incurring the ſame cenſure, received my hand half bending on one knee, but kept it glewed to his lips with ſo paſſionate an action, that my uncle, willing, as it ſhould ſeem, to relieve me, called out laughing—

‘We receive the anſwers of oracles, Sir,’ replied he, riſing, in awful ſilence; ‘true devotion is dumb; and all words,’ purſued he, taking [159] my uncle's hand, which he kiſſed re⯑ſpectfully, ‘would be too weak to paint the exceſs of my tranſport and acknowledgment.’

‘You have done pretty well now, however,’ ſaid my uncle, ſtill ſmiling, and giving his hand a hearty ſhake— 'and now we will go in to breakfaſt.'

Just as we were preparing to enter the houſe we perceived Mr. Greville coming to meet us; he drew near, laughing,

'I have rare news for you, Sir John,' ſaid he; ‘who do you think is come to breakfaſt with you? even the learned and ſcientific Lady Cornelia Claſſick, with the Diana of our foreſts, the fearleſs huntreſs Miſs Sandford, who, at the age of forty-five, declares her fixed reſolution never to marry, though an Endymion were to court [160] her; and boaſts of her wonderful art in keeping the men at a diſtance.’

‘Alas! to what am I condemned, for two hours at leaſt?’ ſaid Sir John.

'Aye,' replied Mr. Greville, ‘you muſt reſolve to be patient; but as for you, Miſs Harley,’ purſued he, ‘fall upon your knees, and thank me for ſparing you the mortification of ſhar⯑ing this tremendous viſit; for I have told her, that you are confined to your chamber with a ſore throat, a diſorder ſhe is infinitely afraid of, ſo you may breakfaſt quietly in your dreſſing⯑room, either alone or with company’, looking at Mr. Harley, who would not venture to underſtand this propoſal otherwiſe than by a ſpeaking look.

I thanked Mr. Greville very cor⯑dially for the good office he had done me at the expence of his veracity; and, without taking notice of his inſinuation [161] with regard to my having company to breakfaſt with me, I told him, I would employ the happy exemption he had afforded me in writing to you.

He charged me with a thouſand thou⯑ſand good wiſhes for you; and we parted.

Mr. Harley, notwithſtanding a little cloud upon his brow, contrived, unſeen, to kiſs my hand with a mighty paſ⯑ſionate air; and here have I been ever ſince in company with my dear Euphe⯑mia; but I muſt quit you ſoon, I ſup⯑poſe, for my maid tells me the ladies are going. I hear their carriage draw up to the gate—I muſt have one look at them.

There is my uncle leading Lady Cornelia with the moſt gallant air ima⯑ginable. By the motion of her hand and head it would ſeem that ſhe is diſ⯑cuſſing ſome deep queſtion in politics, [162] theology, or the belles lettres; and my uncle, by his aſenting nods, is fully convinced I obſerve.

But here comes the virgin huntreſs, with Mr. Greville on one ſide of her, and Mr. Harley on the other. I proteſt ſhe does not accompany Lady Cornelia in the carriage, but mounts her ſteed with moſt maſculine agility, to eſcort her female friend. Her military riding⯑habit, the fierce cock of her hat, the intrepid air of her countenance, make her have the appearance of a very re⯑ſpectable guard, Ah! what a pity ſhe has petticoats!— My uncle looks up to me as he paſſes, and beckons me. I come, my dear Sir—again! Pray do not be impatient. Adieu! then, my dear Euphemia, for a ſhort time only, for I ſhall diſpatch this letter to the poſt to-day.

[163]I found the gentlemen entertaining themſelves very freely with the ſingu⯑larities of their female viſitants. How abſurd does it ſeem in our ſex to ſtep out of nature, in order to be more agreeable! And how mortified would theſe miſtaken candidates for general admiration be, if they could, unſeen, hear the cenſures and ridicule that are caſt on them, inſtead of the praiſes they expect.

My uncle congratulated me on hav⯑ing eſcaped this diſagreeable viſit; how⯑ever, ſaid he, your part would only have been ſilence; for wherever Lady Cor⯑nelia is no one talks but herſelf.

'Lady Cornelia,' ſaid Mr. Greville, ‘does not mix in company to converſe, but to make orations. She will ſtun her female viſitants of ſixteen with learned gibberiſh; gives rules for epic and dramatic poetry, and cannot en⯑dure [164] a comedy that is not within the law of four-and-twenty hours.’

'Ah! if your charming friend,' pur⯑ſued Mr. Greville, looking at me. (Can you gueſs who he meant, my dear?) ‘had been here, what a contraſt might we not have obſerved between true genius and an affectation of knowledge — elegant language, and pedantic ſtiffneſs, juſt ſentiment and unintelligible conceit: when the other preached ſhe would only ſpeak; and, as ſome one juſtly obſerves, by making plain and ſimple anſwers to her rid⯑dles, and giving diſtinction to her confuſion, ſhe would have done her at leaſt the good office of expounding her to herſelf.’

A man makes a ſilly figure,' ſaid Mr. Harley, ‘in company with ſo learned a Lady, and her Amazonian friend. Talents ſo maſculine, and ſo oſtenta⯑tiouſly diſplayed, place them above [165] thoſe attentions and aſſiduities to which the charming ſex have ſo juſt a claim, and which we delight to pay. Women ſhould always be women; the virtues of our ſex are not the virtues of theirs. When Lady Cornelia declaims in Greek, and Miſs Sandford vaults into her ſaddle like another Hotſpur, I for⯑get I am in company with women: the dogmatic critic awes me into ſilence, and the hardy rider makes my aſſiſtance unneceſſary.’

'You do well,' ſaid Mr. Greville, laughing, ‘to find an excuſe for not fly⯑ing to take up Miſs Sandford's hand⯑kerchief when ſhe dropped it, nor at⯑tending to a queſtion put to you in Latin by Lady Cornelia.’

'Oh! as for that,' replied Mr. Har⯑ley, ‘Lady Cornelia anſwered herſelf, and Miſs Sandford drew up her hand⯑kerchief with the end of her whip ſo dexterouſly, that I had no opportunity of ſerving her.’

[166]'I DO not think hunting,' ſaid my uncle, ‘a proper ſport for ladies; it ſpoils their complexion, gives, them maſculine manners, and hardens their tempers. A woman who, like Miſs Sandford, leaps every five-bar gate, is ready to join the huntſman's hollow, and would grieve if ſhe is not in at the death, may make a jolly companion over a flaſk of wine, but muſt not ex⯑pect to inſpire a delicate paſſion. I would as ſoon marry the female pedant, her friend, as one of thoſe Amazonian ladies.’

'Ah, Sir,' replied Mr. Harley, ‘if you have ſeen the young, the noble, the beautiful Louiſa join the chace, under the conduct of a fond father, and affectionate brothers, you would confeſs, that female delicacy may be preſerved even in that habit; and that exerciſe, by the elegance and propri⯑ety of her dreſs, ſhe loſes none of the tender graces of her ſex and years; her charming face retains all its ſweetneſs, [167] her form all its delicacy, and her mind all its native ſoftneſs.The happy in⯑nocent animal, whom ſhe purſues but to ſave, as if conſcious of her gene⯑rous intention, takes ſhelter at her feet, and there is ſure of protection.’

‘You have reſcued one of our fair huntreſſes from Sir John's general cenſure,’ ſaid Mr. Greville. ‘Do you think we could not find a lady eminently diſtinguiſhed for her erudi⯑tion, who yet is free from pedantry and oſtentation?’ ‘You, Sir, know ſuch a one, I am ſure,’ replied Mr. Harley. ‘The wiſe, the pious, the virtuous Eleonora, ſuperior to moſt of our ſex in learning, in gentleneſs equal to the moſt gentle of her own. The poets deſcribe Modeſty as bluſhing at her own motion. Eleonora engages in diſcourſe with timidity and is ſur⯑priſed, confuſed, to find her ſuperio⯑rity acknowleged by thoſe, whoſe higher attainments ſhe conſidered with awe.’

[168] ‘THEN this lady does not ſtun one with her Latin and Greek like Lady Cornelia,’ ſaid my uncle.

'So far from it. Sir,' replied Mr. Harley, ‘that unleſs her extraordi⯑nary acquirements are called forth by ſome apt and unavoidable occaſion, one may converſe with her for whole years as a ſenſible and amiable woman, without diſcovering her to be a great genius.’

Mr. Harley, this moment, tapped at my door, and preſented me a ſmall box, which contained your dear picture, which he would ſuffer no one to bring up to me but himſelf. I could not help thanking him very cordially, for the ſatisfaction he ſhewed in doing me this kind office.

After we had ſpent ſome time in ad⯑miring thoſe features, which ſo power⯑fully expreſs the beauty of the ſoul that [169] animates them. I ordered my woman to tie the ribbon, to which I had faſtened it round my neck; this taſk, alſo, he would perform, and did very dexte⯑rouſly. And now, I would have had him leave me, that I might be at liberty to indulge, alone, the ſad, yet pleaſing ideas, with which this dear image filled my mind, when, with a look of ſympa⯑thiſing tenderneſs and concern, he drew from his pocket your letter.

Oh! my Euphemia, my foreboding heart told me this would be the laſt I ſhould receive from you in England. With trembling haſte I broke the ſeal.—Your firſt lines confirmed the melan⯑choly truth—I burſt into tears; and vainly repeated to Mr. Harley, my ear⯑neſt deſire to be left alone. He threw himſelf at my feet, and while he held one of my hands, and preſt it to his lips, I felt it wet with a ſympathiſing tear.

[170]'Yes,' ſaid I, ‘you would love her, as I do, if you knew her; and, like me, you would grieve at being ſepa⯑rated from her— for ever.’ He ſoothed my ſorrows, by a tender participation in them. He comforted me with hope; and, when he found me a little com⯑poſed, he told me, that if I had any letters ready, the meſſenger who brought the picture would procure a ſafe and ſpeedy conveyance for them, his bro⯑ther being to ſet out immediately for London; but that I had not a moment to loſe. Alas! I have a thouſand thou⯑ſand things to ſay to you, and not a moment to ſay them. Farewell then, my Euphemia! and to that Almighty Power, to whom ſuch piety and virtue muſt be dear, I truſt the preſervation of my friend! Farewell! farewell!

LETTER XXXIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

THIS will be the laſt letter you will receive from me in England, my dear Maria; and could I not, at the ſame time that I tell you this diſagree⯑able news, congratulate you on your approaching union with the virtuous youth who has ſo well deſerved you, my full heart would have found it very difficult to bid you farewell; but I leave you happy, happy as my fondeſt wiſhes for you could require. And once more, I earneſtly intreat you, not to re⯑pine that my lot has not been caſt ſo favourably as yours.

A well diſpoſed mind will extract good out of evil; for, whatever hap⯑pens [172] to us, there is ſome virtue or other to be exerciſed; either patience or gra⯑titude, moderation or humility, charty or reſignation, and they are all equally productive of peace here, and happineſs hereafter.

And do you count it a ſmall matter that I enjoy ſuch a friendſhip as yours? I tell you, my Maria, with ſuch a friendſhip I can deſpiſe ill fortune; and it affords me comforts, which high fortune ſeldom enjoys.

My picture will accompany this let⯑ter; the perſon who carries it will bring me back what letters you have ready. I ſhall begin a kind of journal from the day I leave England, and continue it as long as I am able to hold a pen; and thus I ſhall have the pleaſure of conver⯑ſing with you every day.

The more ſplendid and active ſcenes of your life will hardly afford you equal [173] leiſure to gratify me with packets as large as thoſe I ſhall ſend you; but I am perſuaded you will neglect no op⯑portunity of making me happy by your letters. Fanny writes to you by my meſſenger, who is this moment ready to ſet out. I muſt then, my Maria; I muſt bid you farewell—Moſt loved, moſt amiable of friends, farewell, fare⯑well!

LETTER XXXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

It was a great comfort to me that I did not miſs your laſt packet, which was delivered to me a few hours before I ſet out from London. It brings me a confirmation of your happineſs; and can I then, loving you as I do, be leſs than happy, when you are ſupremely ſo? Mrs. Bellenden inſiſted upon my performing my journey to this place in her coach, though I made a fifth in it; but the three young ladies accommodated themſelves very eaſily on the back ſeat, [175] and I was obliged to ſit next their mo⯑ther, whoſe polite attention to me, I am afraid, was not properly repaid by one, whoſe thoughts were ſo much engroſſed by the abſent.

THE Colonel and Mr. Neville, with the men-ſervants, rode on horſe-back, the maids were diſpoſed of in the ſtage⯑coach, and my worthy Mrs. Benſon and Fanny were together in a poſt⯑chaiſe. We were hoſpitably entertained two nights, at the houſe of a friend of the Colonel's; and next morning Cap⯑tain Wilmot ſent the boat, full manned, to bring the Colonel and his train on board the ſhip.

AFTER all the ceremonies of our re⯑ception were over, we retired to our ſe⯑veral little apartments. The Colonel and his family are all lodged near each other very commodiouſly. One of the lieu⯑tenants, an old acquaintance of Mr. [176] Neville's, having very obligingly re⯑ſigned his cabin to me during the voy⯑age, I found a ſmall writing deſk in it, which I ſhall make good uſe of. Mrs. Benſon and Fanny continue to be bed⯑fellows, and are to be very near me.

CAPTAIN Wilmot gave us an elegant dinner, and did the honours of his ta⯑ble very gracefully. The beautiful Miſs Bellenden drew his particular attention, though her vivacity ſeemed a little clouded by her regret at leaving Eng⯑land, or rather, her beloved London, alone, the ſcene of all her triumphs.

I HAPPENED to be ſeated at table near a lady, who I found was a relation of the Captain's; ſhe had the air and man⯑ner of a woman of faſhion, but ſeemed ſunk in ſo profound a melancholy, that, although ſhe anſwered with great po⯑liteneſs to the uſual civilities that paſs between perſons at the ſame table, yet [177] ſhe did not engage at all in the conver⯑ſation, but ſeemed wholly taken up with her own ſad thoughts.

I OBSERVED her eyes were continually turned upon a moſt beautiful and ele gant boy, about twelve years of age, who ſat oppoſite to her, and when ſhe removed them, it was always with a ſigh, that ſeemed to rend her heart.

THE boy, whenever he met her eager glance, turned pale and red alternately, while his ſweet eyes ſeemed full of tears, which he ſtrove to hide, by for⯑cing a ſmile at an auſtere looking gentle⯑man next him, who watched his looks attentively, and never failed to re⯑pel the riſing ſoftneſs by a dreadful frown.

WHILE I was buſied in obſerving their different emotions, which greatly affected me, the lady, whoſe ſtifled grief had almoſt riſen to a ſuffocation, [178] aſked me, in a voice ſcarcely articulate, for a ſmelling-bottle, I immediately produced one, and propoſed to her to leave the company for a few minutes, and go into freſher air.

SHE accepted my ſupporting arm; the ladies were now all in motion to aſ⯑ſiſt her, as well as the gentlemen; but ſhe begged to be permitted to with⯑draw for a few minutes with me, on whom ſhe ſtill leaned.

'AYE, aye,' ſaid the ſtern gentle⯑man, whom I found was her huſband, ‘take a little air, my dear, this will go off.’ And nodding ſignificantly at Captain Wilmot, ‘Women will be fooliſh,’ ſaid he, ‘there is no help for it.’

THE ſweet boy roſe up eagerly, as if he would have gone with us, but was with⯑held by the frowning ſire; he yielded ſubmiſſively; but his eyes followed [179] us to the door with ſuch an expreſſion of tender anxiety, as moved me greatly.

I LED the lady to my little apart⯑ment, and ſeated her on the bed. She burſt into a violent paſſion of tears, which ſeemed a little to relieve her la⯑bouring heart. I endeavoured to ſooth her, and begged of her to tell me, if I could in any way be uſeful to her.

'AH! Madam,' ſaid ſhe, ‘I ought to aſk your pardon, for being thus troubleſome to you with my grief; but when you are a mother, you will be able to gueſs what my ſufferings are this moment.’

ANOTHER ſhower of tears now burſt from her eyes: ſomebody tapping gently at the door, I opened it, and Captain Wilmot appeared, leading the boy; who ſeeing the diſorder his mother was in, ſprung into her arms; and lean⯑ing his head over her ſhoulder, while ſhe preſſed him to her ſobbing boſom, he wept in ſilence, anxious, as it ſhould ſeem, to hide his tears.

'It is you couſin,' ſaid the lady, caſt⯑ing an upbraiding glance at the captain, ‘it is to you that I am indebted for this ſevere affliction. Why would you en⯑courage Mr. Manſel in this odious de⯑ſign of ſending our ſon to ſea? is he not born to an eaſy fortune? was he not proſecuting his ſtudies with the greateſt application and ſucceſs?’

[181]'MY dear couſin,' interrupted the captain, ‘you accuſe me unjuſtly; I found Captain Manſel determined to bring up his ſon to the ſea-ſervice, a ſervice in which he himſelf has ac⯑quired reputation. I neither encou⯑raged nor diſſuaded him from his reſo⯑lution, but deſired to have him on board my own ſhip; and will it not be a greater ſatisfaction to you, that he ſhould make his firſt voyage under my care and protection, than with a ſtranger?’

The poor little boy now interpoſed; and taking one of his mother's hands, which he kiſſed tenderly ſeveral times, ſaid, in a ſoothing voice—‘My dear mamma, make yourſelf eaſy, I ſhall be very happy under my couſin's protection, he will bring me back ſafe to you; and if upon this trial I ſhould not like the ſea, or be found unfit for it, my papa may be perſuaded to alter his mind.’

[182]THE weeping mother made no reply; but ſtrained him again in her arms, as if determined never to let him go from thence. The captain and I employed every argument we could think of to conſole and ſatisfy her mind; without attending to what we ſaid, ſhe ex⯑claimed—

'I WILL, Madam,' cried I, eagerly— ‘I will ſupply your place during this voyage; in my cares and aſſiduity Maſter Manſel ſhall find another pa⯑rent.’

‘OH! what comfort do you give me, Madam,’ ſaid Mrs. Manſel; ‘if any thing can ſupport me under this afflict⯑ing ſeparation, it will be this kind [183] promiſe of yours. Edmund,’ ſaid ſhe to her ſon, ‘this ſweet lady will be your mother now; I need not bid you love and reſpect her, for you have a grate⯑ful heart.’ The boy anſwered only by a moſt expreſſive look, and a bow low as the ground.

CAPTAIN Manſel now burſt in upon us.

‘What! have you not done whimper⯑ing yet?’ ſaid he to his lady. ‘Come, come, every body has been enquir⯑ing for you.’

HE ſtrutted before her, and Captain Wilmot giving her his hand to lead her to the company, I addreſſed ſome tri⯑fling converſation to Maſter Manſel, in order to begin our acquaintance, and leſſen his reſerve.

WHILE Mrs. Manſel was apologizing to the company for her abſence, I took [184] care to ſeat myſelf next to my young charge, as I now conſidered him. I talked to him familiarly, and leſſened his diffidence inſenſibly. He ſerved me with my tea and coffee with a grace and freedom, and at the ſame time with an aſſiduity, that ſhewed at once the ele⯑gance of his manners, and the particular pleaſure he took in attending me.

MY heart glowed with tranſport when I obſerved that the mothér, who watched our behaviour, beheld the growing in⯑timacy with a ſatisfaction which ſeemed to ſuſpend her grief. She took an op⯑portunity to approach me—and graſping my hand with an eager preſſure—

‘I SEE my ſon will be happy in your favours to him,’ ſaid ſhe; ‘this good⯑neſs of your's has preſerved me from deſpair. You are all over angel,’ purſued ſhe in a tranſported accent: ‘you look and act like one; and Hea⯑ven [185] ſurely ſent you to my relief on this trying occaſion.’

I STOPPED this rhapſody, by calling her attention to the little ſchemes we had formed for our amuſement during the voyage. I promiſed to make him ac⯑quainted with the colonel's young daughters; and aſſured her he would paſs his time very agreeably in ſuch ſociety.

The evening now approached: I ex⯑pected ſhe would be ſoon ſummoned to depart. I felt for her ſo ſincerely, that I dreaded the fatal moment, and could not help trembling when I ſaw Captain Wilmot advancing towards us. He ſeemed diſconcerted, and unwilling to tell her, that ſhe muſt take leave of her ſon; but Captain Manſel ſpared him the diſagreeable taſk.

'The boat is ready, my dear,' ſaid he, with an unfeeling abruptneſs. ‘Ed⯑mund, [186] God bleſs you! Come, my dear, give him a kiſs, we muſt be gone.’

A PALENESS, like that of death, over⯑ſpread her countenance. She ſtood mo⯑tionleſs, uttering not a word, nor ſhed⯑ing a tear, whilſt the boy, who on his knee had received his father's bleſſing, now proſtrated himſelf at her feet; and ſtruggling to ſuppreſs his ſighs and tears, while he held her hand, which he eagerly kiſſed ſeveral times, uttered in broken accents—

MRS. Manſel, whom I had ſupported all this time, after breathing a deep ſigh, turned her eyes upon her ſon, who was ſtill kneeling, and ſpreading her arms, he ſprung into her embrace, wet⯑ing [187] her boſom with his tears, which now flowed faſt from her eyes alſo.

THIS ſcene affected even the men who were preſent. Mrs. Bellenden was greatly moved, and the young ladies were drowned in tears.

CAPTAIN Manſel's ſterneſs put an end to it. He ſeized his wife's hand, and told her in a voice, not very tender, that ſhe was to blame to work upon the boy's paſſions, by giving way to her ex⯑travagant grief.—'See how he blubbers,' continued he —‘what a milk-ſop you make of him! Come, I ſhall loſe all patience if you go on thus.’

THE poor lady, who evidently was in great awe of him, ſuffered herſelf to be led upon the deck. I followed her with Maſter Manſel, giving her, as we paſſed on, the moſt tender aſſurances of my at⯑tention to him. She ſeemed ſtruggling to repreſs her anguiſh, and aſſume ſome [188] degree of fortitude; and being now ready to ſeat herſelf in the chair, by which ſhe was to be let down into the boat, after ſaluting the ladies, and the reſt of the company, ſhe took a more cordial leave of me, whiſpering, ‘Re⯑member what you have promiſed me.’ Then ſolding her ſon once more in her arms, ſhe breathed an ardent bleſ⯑ſing on him, and ſtill preſerved ſome compoſure, till ſhe was got into the boat. I then ſaw her ſuddenly ſink into her huſband's arms, apparently in a fainting fit.

HER ſon, who had kept his eyes fixed upon her, cried out to me in a mourn⯑ful voice, 'Ah! Madam, my mother!' and hiding his face to conceal his tears. I endeavoured to comfort him, but in vain; till perceiving ſhe was recovered, I bid him look up, and ſhewed him his tender mother, now ſtanding waving her handkerchief to him—which he returned [189] with repeated bows, till the boat was out of ſight.

WE are got under ſail; all the ladies, except Mrs. Bellenden and myſelf, are ſea-ſick. My dear Mrs. Benſon ſtrug⯑gled with the ſame diſorder for ſome hours, in order to keep me company; but ſhe was at laſt forced to yield to it; and ſhe, as well as Fanny, is confined to her bed.

I SAT upon the quarter-deck, as it is called, more than two hours this morn⯑ing, under an awning, which Lieutenant Crawford, my huſband's friend, cauſed to be ſet up for me, with no other com⯑pany than my young charge, who never leaves me but when he retires to his ſtudies, under the direction of the cap⯑tain; as for Mr. Neville, he always finds moſt amuſement where I am not. My eyes follow the receding ſhores, while I revolve a thouſand tender melancholy ideas, and many a heavy ſigh I breathed, [190] which was conſtantly echoed back by my little friend, who, obſerving me taken up with my own thoughts, did not offer to interrupt them by any conver⯑ſation. At laſt I aſked him, ‘Why he ſighed ſo often?’—‘Some of my ſighs are for myſelf, Madam,’ replied he, ‘but the greater part are for you: when I ſee you melancholy, I think it is my mother that I ſee ſo—and can I chooſe but ſigh then?’

MR. Neville that moment came to us.

'SO, ſo, young gentleman,' ſaid he, ‘what, always with the ladies! you will make a fine ſailor at this rate; come, I heard the captain aſk for you—I will bring you to him.’ Maſter Manſel, after making me a low bow, followed him.

WE have now loſt ſight of land—all is ſky and ocean; tremendous proſpect! [191] My mind feels its awful influence— my ideas are all ſolemn and ſad. I have recourſe to my books to diſſipate them; for Mrs. Benſon continues ſtill too much indiſpoſed to relieve me by her agree⯑able converſation. My ſweet Edmund is ſick likewiſe, but Fanny is better, and able now to aſſiſt me in my office of nurſe to him and my friend.

TO-DAY Mrs. Bellenden and I, ac⯑companied by the colonel, took an air⯑ing upon deck. This lady has a charm⯑ing flow of ſpirits, and ſo much natural as well as acquired politeneſs, that al⯑though her underſtanding is not one of the firſt-rate, yet her company is ſome⯑times very deſirable. When I left her, to retire to my own apartment, I was moſt agreeably ſurpriſed to find Mrs. Benſon there, quite recovered, her ſick⯑neſs having lef [...] her as ſuddenly as it had come on; and ſhe is, as it is com⯑mon it ſeems in theſe caſes, the better for having been ill. I embraced, and [192] congratulated both her and myſelf for this change: but as the good things of this life are often mixed with the bad, I found Maſter Manſel worſe, and even with ſome ſymptoms of a fe⯑ver. I ſtaid with him great part of the day; and in the afternoon Mrs. Benſon and I went to viſit our ſick friends. Mrs. Bellenden we found buſy in nurſing her daughters; for all their female attend⯑ants were ſo ſick, that ſhe could have but little aſſiſtance from them. Miſs Bellenden, wrapped in a white ſatin negligee, with a moſt becoming night⯑dreſs on her head, lay reclined on ſome cuſhions, moaning grievouſly. Our young naval commander had, I found, been extremely aſſiduous about her, never failing to enquire a dozen times in a day concerning her health; and when his viſits were permitted, expreſſed great ſolicitude for her. But this ſingle adorer could not comfort her for the gay ſcenes ſhe had abandoned; and the general admiration ſhe ſuppoſed ſhe had [193] attracted, when in the midſt of them, ſhe ſuffered more from diſcontent than ſickneſs—ſhe is ſullen, fretful, and im⯑patient.

WHEN I came into their apartment, I found her mother gently reproving her for her behaviour, which, ſhe ſaid, greatly affected her father, who is very fond of her.

'HE thinks it ſtrange, my dear,' ſaid Mrs. Bellenden, ‘that you ſhould ſhew ſo much reluctance to follow him to any place where his duty calls him: this peeviſhneſs alters you ſo, that one would hardly know you.’

'ALTERS me, Madam!' repeated Miſs Bellenden, rouſed to attention by theſe intereſting words.

'YES, my dear,' replied Mrs. Bel⯑lenden, ‘I appeal to Mrs. Neville for the juſtneſs of my obſervation.’

[194] ‘PRAY be free, my dear Mrs. Ne⯑ville,’ ſaid Miſs Bellenden, eagerly, ‘Tell me, am I really altered?’

'MY dear Miſs,' ſaid I, ‘I am ſorry to be obliged to tell you ſo diſagree⯑able a truth; but if you ſuffer this depreſſion of ſpirits to gain upon you, it may produce the jaundice, a diſ⯑temper which is often the effect of con⯑tinued diſcontent.’

'OH Heavens!' cried Miſs Bellen⯑den, taking out her pocket-glaſs, and fixing her eyes upon it, ‘how you terrify me!’

COLONEL Bellenden and Captain Wil⯑mot that moment entered; the latter obſerving the young lady ſo intently gazing upon her own image that ſhe did not perceive him, went cloſe up to her, and whiſpered her to beware of the fate of Narciſſus.

[195]'HAD Narciſſus the jaundice, then?' ſaid ſhe, turning to him.

'THE jaundice!' repeated the cap⯑tain, ſurpriſed.

'AYE,' ſaid Miſs Bellenden; ‘here is Mrs. Neville and my mamma have been frightening me out of my wits; they tell me I am grown quite ſhock⯑ing with this ſea-ſickneſs; I ſhall hate the ſea while I live; I wiſh we could have gone to this New-York by land.’

'I AM glad that was not poſſible,' ſaid Captain Wilmor, half ſmiling, ‘for then I ſhould not have had the plea⯑ſure of conducting you.’

I HEARD no more of the ſprightly dialogue that enſued, being engaged in diſcourſe with the colonel and his lady, and in paying my compliments to the two youngeſt ladies, who are as ill as [196] their ſiſter, but not quite ſo impatient. Preſently afterwards Mrs. Benſon and I took leave of them.

WHEN ſhe left me to retire for the night, I had recourſe to my pen. It is a great comfort to me to be this way with you, and that from time to time I can make you read, that your image is the dear companion of all my ſoli⯑tary hours.

WHEN I viſited Maſter Manſel this morning, I was greatly alarmed to find his fever very high: Captain Wilmot ordered the ſurgeon to attend him im⯑mediately. This gentleman, who is a grave, ſenſible man, and, as far as I can judge, very ſkilful, thinks his diſ⯑temper will be the ſmall-pox. Mrs. Manſel, it ſeems, never had courage enough to have him inoculated: un⯑happy, yet amiable weakneſs, in a mind ſo full of maternal tenderneſs!

[197]I AM now fixed by his bed-ſide: I give him all his medicines, he refuſes nothing from my hand. At times he is deli⯑rious, and then he takes me for his mo⯑ther. Giving me that tender appellation, which he accompanies with ſuch affec⯑tionate expreſſions of duty and obedi⯑ence, as go to my heart. My anxiety is inexpreſſible! I fear for him, I fear for his mother—I fear for myſelf, for I feel a mother's tenderneſs for him.

THE ſurgeon tells me, the ſymptoms are all favourable. He approves my method of nurſing him; but I have ſome conteſts to ſuſtain with Mr. Ne⯑ville, who is prejudiced in favour of all the old methods; he is indeed diſeaſed with opinion, and infected by cuſtom. He ſays I ſtarve the youth; and, al⯑though the weather is very warm, mut⯑ters ſadly when I ſuffer the freſh air to enter the little cabin. He aſks me, ‘How I will anſwer it to Mrs. Manſel if I kill her ſon by my improper ma⯑nagement?[198]’ I generally get off by referring him to the ſurgeon, whoſe di⯑rections I tell him I am reſolved to fol⯑low. He retires, ſhrugging up his ſhoulders; and I, in this caſe, perſiſt in my own way.

I HAVE paſſed ſome days under the moſt uneaſy ſolicitude; but now, thank Heaven! all goes well: the eruption is ſo favourable, that the ſurgeon aſſures me we have nothing to fear. But the dear boy's ſenſibility is ſo great, that he even oppreſſes me with the exceſs of his gratitude. He employs the warmeſt acknowledgments, the moſt endearing expreſſions, to teſtify the ſenſe he has of what he calls my kindneſs to him. I am obliged to leave him ſometimes for half an hour together, to put a ſtop to theſe ſtrong effuſions of his grateful heart, leſt they ſhould act too power⯑fully upon his ſpirits.

[199]I HAVE the pleaſure to tell you, my dear Maria, that notwithſtanding all Mr. Neville's fatal prognoſtications, at which I own I have been weak enough to be ſometimes alarmed, that my young friend is perfectly recovered, and will loſe nothing of his beauty. The little redneſs that remains on his face will, the ſurgeon aſſures me, leave no marks. The Bellenden family, and Captain Wilmot in particular, have con⯑gratulated me upon this event in the moſt obliging terms.

Mr. Neville, however, perſiſts in ar⯑raigning my ſkill as a nurſe; calls Maſ⯑ter Manſel's recovery a lucky hit, in which the odds were ten to one againſt him; and declares, when he is ſo happy as to be a father, he will treat this diſ⯑temper, when his child has it, his own way.

‘HEAVEN forbid you ſhould have a daughter then,’ cried Miſs Bellenden; ‘[200] ſure you do not intend to ſpoil her face! Why, what a cruel man are you?’

'Your mamma was more cruel,' ſaid Captain Wilmot to her, in a low voice, for he always contrives to ſit next her, ‘when ſhe prevented what you think ſuch a misfortune; ſhe may be called the firſt cauſe of all the murders you have committed.’

MISS Bellenden ſmiled graciouſly at this groſs flattery, which encouraged the gallant captain to add:

CLARA, the lively Clara, that moment raiſing her eyes from a book which ſhe had been reading, and caſting them archly on her ſiſter, repeated, What! a whole day, and kill but one poor thouſand! [201] The powerful expreſſion of her look and voice charmed me, and rivetted the cap⯑tain's attention upon her for a minute, which Miſs Bellenden obſerving, ſaid peeviſhly, ‘I SUPPOSE, Miſs, you found that piece of wit in your book there.’

'INDEED I did,' ſaid Clara; ‘here, you may read it if you pleaſe,’ and offered her the book, which Miſs Bel⯑lenden rejecting with a contemptuous frown, the ſweet girl gave it to me; 'See, Mrs. Neville,' ſaid ſhe, ‘how truly my ſiſter has gueſſed; and gueſs⯑work it muſt always be with my ſiſter,’ whiſpered ſhe to me, ‘for ſhe hates reading, and always joins with my mamma when ſhe chides me for being fond of it.’

CAPTAIN W [...]lmot now haſtily ſtepped up to me; and looking over my ſhoul⯑der, [202] as I held the book open in my hand:

'AH!' ſaid he, ‘it is Dryden's tra⯑gedy of the Duke of Guiſe, and Mar⯑montier—the charming Marmontier ſpeaks that ſprightly line.’

HE begged me to give him the book; and reſuming his ſeat near Miſs Bellen⯑den, read out the ſcene, which is full of extravagant paſſion, all which he ap⯑plied to the fair coquet with too little ceremony I thought; but ſhe ſeemed highly delighted, though he read ſo ill, that Clara could not hide her diſſa⯑tisfaction, but murmured ſoftly, ‘Poor Dryden, you have got into bad hands, I perceive.’

WHEN the Colonel joined us, the con⯑verſation took another turn; for cap⯑tain Wilmot is extremely reſerved in his addreſs to Miſs Bellenden before her worthy father; however, as this gentle⯑man's [203] private fortune is very conſider⯑able, his preſent ſtation reſpectable, and his intereſt great, he certainly would be no bad match for the young lady; but a coquet generally uſes her advantages ſo ill, that theſe ſudden attachments ſel⯑dom produce any ſerious conſequences.

THE winds ſeem to favour the paſſion of our gallant commander; and, in order to keep the charming object near him, have lulled themſelves into ſo per⯑fect a calm, that we make, in the ſailor's phraſe, very little way, and our voyage is likely to laſt long: however, as our ſick are now in a fair way of being well, we paſs our time very agreeably. We have muſic often, cards ſometimes, and feaſting every day.

COLONEL Bellenden and the captain keep ſplendid tables: we have conſtant invitations to both; but I am never hap⯑pier than when I am permitted to paſs a day in private with my own family, in [204] the pleaſing viciſſitude of converſation, reading, work, and writing to you.

POOR Miſs Bellenden is in a ſtate of mortification at preſent. Notwithſtand⯑ing the gratification her vanity has met with in the ſighs of the enamoured Captain Wilmot, ſhe has always pined in ſecret after the fuller triumphs ſhe enjoyed in the gay metropolis, where ſhe was a general toaſt. The uneaſineſs of her mind has brought on hyſteric fits, to which it ſeems ſhe is ſubject.

HITHER TO ſhe has been a very charm⯑ing invalid; and both her languor and her deſhabille have been alike becom⯑ing: and being well aware of this cir⯑cumſtance, her adorer has not been kept at a diſtance on account of her indiſpo⯑ſition, which only rendered her charms more intereſting: but it is quite another thing with an hyſteric fit.

[205]CAPTAIN Wilmot happened to be preſent yeſterday when ſhe was ſud⯑denly ſeized with one, which proved to be very violent; her frantic ſcreams, the diſtortions of her countenance, her ſtruggles, in which ſhe exerted ſuch ſtrength, that it was with difficulty her mother, aſſiſted by two maids and my⯑ſelf, could hold her. Her lover ſtood motionleſs for ſome minutes with amaze⯑ment; and ſtrong marks of diſguſt, mixed with ſome tranſient gleams of pity, appeared in his countenance. He haſtened to ſend the ſurgeon, and in the mean time the young lady recovered her ſenſes. I left her after ſhe had taken ſome drops, and meeting Cap⯑tain Wilmot, as I was returning to my own apartment, he led me to the door of it, enquiring with more curioſity, as I thought, than concern after the ſick lady; I told him ſhe was in no danger; he ſmiled, but in a grave accent ſaid, it was a terrible malady, he had never ſeen any thing like it.

[206]WE have, for this week paſt, had, what the ſailors call, a briſk wind, and that ſo favourable, that the Captain tells us we may ſoon expect to reach our deſired port. The weather is now very warm, and a few days ago it was ſo in⯑tenſely cold, that we were ſcarce able to endure its rigour; this effect was pro⯑duced, it ſeems, by our paſſing near an iſland of ice, which roſe up in the midſt of the ocean to a ſurpriſing height, exactly in the form of a ſugar-loaf, which it reſembled in colour as well as ſhape.

I WENT upon deck with the reſt of the ladies to take a view of it, but was not able to ſtay more than a few moments; my limbs ſeemed all benumbed with cold, and my teeth, as the phraſe is, chat⯑tered in my head. Happily this incon⯑venience did not laſt long; we ſoon loſt ſight of this beautiful, but uncomfort⯑able object, and its freezing influence was no longer felt.

[207]PROVIDENCE has been pleaſed to grant us hitherto ſo favourable a navi⯑gation, that nothing has happened to act, even upon the fears of ignorance and inexperience like mine, except a a few ſqualls, as the ſailors call a ſudden guſt of wind. The hurry and buſtle theſe would occaſion among the mari⯑ners, ſeemed to me a certain indication that we were going to the bottom; but the danger, as well as the apprehenſion, was ſoon over.

THE ſailors are now emulouſly climbing up to the top-maſt head, as they call it, looking out for land; from this fearful height they ſeem no big⯑ger than crows. Happy will the man be who firſt diſcovers it; he will be pre⯑ſented with a handſome purſe, the joint offering of all the paſſengers. We are all full of pleaſing anxious expectation.

IN this interval of hope and ſuſpence, I often amuſe myſelf with obſerving [208] what paſſes between the Captain and Miſs Bellenden; the lover—lover now no more ſince the adventure of the hyſ⯑teric fit, is become a much more agree⯑able companion, now that his attention is not wholly engaged by one object— the lady's malady has reſtored him to health; he converſes freely, and, in ge⯑neral, his eyes are no longer rivetted upon one face; he is at leiſure to attend to all the little complaiſances and aſſidui⯑ties, which a polite man pays to every female in company, but which a lover confines to one.

HE diſguiſes his indifference, how⯑ever, under a moſt profound reſpect; Miſs Bellenden ſeems amazed, con⯑founded; ſhe calls forth all her attrac⯑tions; ſhe varies her poſture twenty times in a minute in vain, his attention is wholly diſengaged; ſhe grows peeviſh, complains of the length of the voyage, enquires impatiently when it will be at an end? The Captain tells her, he [209] hopes ſoon to have the pleaſure of con⯑gratulating her upon the fight of land. —She ſtares—He enters into ſome indif⯑ferent diſcourſe with Mrs. Bellenden or myſelf. She is now down-right angry, and frowns; he does not perceive it; but, in the courſe of the converſation, addreſſes her with the ſame free unem⯑barraſſed air as any other perſon in the company, and when ſhe ſullenly ne⯑glects to anſwer any queſtion he hap⯑pens to aſk her, he ſhews not the leaſt ſurpriſe, but repeats it. with all the ap⯑parent ſimplicity imaginable, till ſhe thinks fit to anſwer him.

HER coquetry is now at a ſtand; ſmiles and frowns, peeviſhneſs and good humour, produce no alteration in his countenance and behaviour; he is al⯑ways polite, always reſpectful, and al⯑ways indifferent.

IT is common with perſons of deeper thinking than Miſs Bellenden, to change [210] their opinions of others by their kind⯑neſs or unkindneſs to them. This young lady has now found out, that Captain Wilmot is a very ſilly fellow, rude, unpoliſhed, in a word, a mere ſailor, and is much mortified to find, none of us can be perſuaded to think as ſhe does. However, ſhe condeſcended yeſterday to throw out, what ſhe thought, a lure for him; which produced an effect quite contrary from what ſhe expected, and which, to ſome of us who knew the ſecret, was a very diverting one.

THE young ladies and myſelf were to⯑gether in the gallery, admiring the moſt beautiful landſcape imaginable, formed by the ſetting ſun, when Captain Wil⯑mot joined us. He had ſcarce paid his compliments, when we were alarmed with a cry, that one of the ſailors had fallen over board; though this bad news was immediately contradicted, yet it had ſuch an effect upon the tender nerves of Miſs Bellenden, that ſhe ſighed out, [211] 'OH! I ſhall faint!' and would actually have fallen, if I had not ſupported her; for the Captain, who was ſtill nearer her, being apprehenſive that ſhe was going to have another hyſteric fit, inſtead of receiving her in his arms, ran away as faſt as he could to ſend the Doctor; and we could hear him calling aloud for him long after the lady was recovered. Miſs Bellenden looked mortified to the laſt degree, and retired, led by her two ſiſters.

I MET the Captain ſome time after⯑wards, and rallied him a little upon his want of gallantry. He aſſured me, he had not fortitude enough to bear the ſight of a lady in an hyſteric fit, and he thought the beſt thing he could do, was to ſend the Doctor to her aſſiſt⯑ance.

IF this young lady could be con⯑vinced, that theſe fits, to which ſhe is ſo ſubject, prove a powerful antidote [212] againſt the effects of her charms, ſhe might poſſibly endeavour to reſtrain the violence of her temper, for it is to that, and not to the weakneſs of her conſtitu⯑tion, that ſhe owes this diſguſting ma⯑lady.

I WAS juſt riſen this morning, when the ſound of land! land! reached my ears, and which was ſoon afterwards re⯑peated by a hundred voices at once. A good we ardently wiſh for, always ap⯑pears uncertain till we are in poſſeſſion of it. This may be an illuſion, thought I, a miſtake ariſing from too great eager⯑neſs for the promiſed reward; but I was ſcarce dreſſed, when the good news was confirmed to me by Maſter Manſel, who, with a countenance like an April day, half ſmiles, half tears, came to wiſh me joy that our voyage would ſoon be happily concluded.

'METHINKS, my dear little friend,' ſaid I, ‘your ſatisfaction on this occa⯑ſion, [213] is not altogether unmixed with ſome chagrin; what is the reaſon?’

'BECAUSE, Madam,' replied he, ‘I ſhall ſoon loſe you; you will forget me I fear, and this parting will be al⯑moſt as terrible to me as the ſepara⯑tion from my mother; for have you not been a mother to me? purſued he, reſpectfully kiſſing my hand, which I felt wet with his tears, 'and can I help loving you like a ſon?’

I COMFORTED him with aſſurances, that I would always love him tenderly, and that while Captain Wilmot re⯑mained on the coaſt, I would make fre⯑quent opportunities of ſeeing him.

I NOW went to pay my compliments to the Colonel and his family. Mr. Ne⯑ville, who, it muſt be acknowledged, is very exact in his obſervance of all due reſpect to his commander, was already in his apartment, which was ſoon filled [214] with ſeveral of the naval officers. When Captain Wilmot joined the company, Miſs Bellenden affected the moſt extra⯑vagant joy, at the proſpect of being ſoon delivered from her conſinement on board an odious ſhip. The Captain, without taking notice of an expreſſion, that inſinuated ſo great a diſlike to her preſent ſituation, appeared to en⯑joy the univerſal ſatisfaction. He gave us an elegant entertainment, at which the mortified fair ſat ſullen and ſilent. He aſſures us, we ſhall make the harbour in two days.

THE wiſhed for port is now in ſight; we are all buſy in making preparations for our landing. Miſs Bellenden and her maid have been in cloſe conſult for many hours. The article of dreſs, on this occaſion, is an arduous affair with this young lady.

WE are entering faſt the harbour.—I have now a ſight of this new world; my heart throbs with ſenſations unfelt [215] before—I dread, I hope, I wiſh I know not what—my thoughts are all confuſed. I know not whether to re⯑joice or weep; but I feel a diſpoſition to do both.

I AM rouſed from this revery by the noiſe of the cannon from the fort. The city of New-York ſeems to riſe from the waves, and, viewed from the ſea, makes a fine appearance. The noiſe of the ſalutes, given and received from all the ſhips in the harbour, as well as the citadel, ſtuns me. We have now caſt anchor. I muſt lay down my pen. Mr. Neville tells me the ladies expect me.—The barge is ordered. My next letter will be dated from the city now in my view.

New-York.

TILL this moment, my dear Maria, I have not had leaſure to reſume my lit⯑tle [216] narrative, though I have been al⯑ready two days upon this iſland.

WHEN I waited upon Mrs. Bellenden in the great cabin, I found the ladies all ready to embark in the ſhip's barge, which was full manned; the ſtreamers flying, and every decoration, both for ſtate and convenience, ordered by the Captain, to accommodate Colonel Bel⯑lenden and his family.

WHEN Miſs Bellenden came upon deck, in the full blaze of dreſs and beauty, I obſerved Captain Wilmot look at her attentively, not without ſome emotions of ſurpriſe and pleaſure, as I thought; but they were ſoon checked by the ſilly conſciouſneſs ſhe betrayed of her own charms, and the ſcornful, yet exulting glances, ſhe caſt upon him. And he now, having taken a polite leave of Mrs. Bellenden, ad⯑dreſſed her with the moſt perfect indif⯑ference, aſſociating myſelf and the young [217] ladies, her ſiſters, in his parting com⯑pliments.

WHEN we were all ſeated in the barge, with Mrs. Bellenden at our head, I obſerved to her ſmiling, that ſhe had a numerous ſuite; and indeed her charm⯑ing daughters, Mrs. Benſon, myſelf, Fanny, with the female ſervants, who were all well dreſt, formed a reſpectable train.

THE Governor's coaches waited our landing; the Colonel put me into the firſt coach with his lady and daughters; Mrs. Bellenden would have it ſo; he went in the next himſelf, with Mrs. Benſon, Mr. Neville, and Fanny; who modeſtly declined the honour; but the Colonel inſiſted upon taking her.

WE were carried to a very large houſe, the principal tavern in the place, where a magnificent dinner was pro⯑vided. Here we found a gentleman [218] waiting our arrival, who complimented the Colonel from the Governor, and in⯑troduced ſome ladies, wives to ſome of the principal merchants, one of whom did the honours of the table very po⯑litely.

THE Governor had cauſed Colonel Bellenden to be informed, that he would wait upon him in the evening; but the Colonel, ever ſtrictly attentive to all the duties of his ſtation, with great polite⯑neſs prevented this viſit, which was in⯑tended as a mark of high reſpect, and paid a viſit himſelf to the Governor af⯑ter dinner, taking Mr. Neville along with him. In the evening, we went to the ſeveral lodgings provided for us in the town, and had reaſon to be ſatisfied with their neatneſs and convenience.

THIS city is ſituated upon an iſland about fourteen miles long, but not more than two broad. This iſland is juſt in the mouth of the river Hudſon, [219] one of the nobleſt rivers in America, and is navigable for more than two hundred miles. Albany, the next prin⯑cipal city of the province, is ſituated on the ſame river, at about a hundred and fifty miles diſtant from New-York. There Colonel Bellenden, being ſecond in military command to the Governor, will generally reſide; half of the troops being conſtantly quartered there; and there alſo we muſt ſettle, my huſband being one of the Colonel's lieutenants.

MRS. Bellenden received a viſit to⯑day from the Governor's lady; ſhe brought with her three of her daughters, all handſome, their manners eaſy and engaging—ſo eaſy, that after the firſt ceremonies were over, they entered into the moſt familiar converſation with the Colonel's daughters; and before they parted, made them a thouſand profeſ⯑ſions of friendſhip, with ſurpriſing cor⯑diality, which ceaſed to be ſurpriſing, when I found theſe ſuddenly formed at⯑tachments [220] is the cuſtom of the place. When Mrs. Bellenden preſented me to the Governor's lady, ſhe in a very grace⯑ful manner juſt mentioned my family, in order to procure me a more diſtin⯑guiſhed notice; and it muſt be acknow⯑ledged, that Mrs. Montague anſwered her intention perfectly well by the recep⯑tion ſhe gave me.

YESTERDAY we dined at the Gover⯑nor's, and were moſt ſplendidly enter⯑tained. He reſides in a very ſpacious houſe within the fort, where a lieute⯑nant's guard mounts every day. It be⯑ing Sunday, we heard divine ſervice in the Governor's chapel. It is ſmall but elegant; the Governor and his family ſit in a little covered gallery, decorated with velvet hangings and cuſhions; they enter it by a door from one of their own apartments. The principal officers and their wives, who are conſidered as the nobility of the place, the Secretary of the Province, and ſome other per⯑ſons [221] in civil employments, have pews in this chapel, and are always invited to the Governor's table, who is very hoſpitable, very polite, and, without deſcending from his dignity, extremely affable. He has the reputation of being a man of diſtinguiſhed underſtanding.

A SUCCESSION of viſits, balls, and entertainments, for theſe ten days paſt, have fatigued me greatly, which, toge⯑ther with the heat of the climate, at this ſeaſon of the year, brought on a little fever, for which Mrs. Montague preſcribes change of air, and inſiſts upon my paſſing a week at a little cottage of her's, as ſhe calls it, about two miles from the city, where ſhe promiſes to join me in a day or two; I ſhall ſet out accompanied only by Mrs. Benſon and Fanny.

MR. Neville is perpetually engaged; and pleads in excuſe for his not attend⯑ing me in this little excurſion, the im⯑portunities [222] of the numerous friends he has made ſince his arrival here, who will not ſuffer him to have an hour at his own diſpoſal.

MRS. Benſon tells him, that it is a great misfortune to be ſo much be⯑loved, for that one of whom ſo many others have need, can be of little uſe to himſelf. 'For my own part,' added ſhe, ‘I think it better to be leſs agree⯑able; and, as ſomebody ſays, never to ſacrifice to the graces at all, than to become the victim of the ſacrifice.’

MR. Neville looked a little grave at firſt, not knowing whether to take what ſhe ſaid as a compliment or banter; but ſelf-love explained it to his own advan⯑tage, and the cloud that was gathering on his brow ſoon diſperſed.

A RIDE of about half an hour brought me to Mrs. Montague's little villa; a cottage for its ſimplicity; but it is a [223] palace for elegance and convenience.—The ſcene is ſweetly romantic. I ſeem already to inhale health and ſpirits from the balmy breeze, impregnated with a thouſand ſweets from the flowers, which in vaſt profuſion bloom around me. How ſweet is ſolitude, to a mind capable of reliſhing its calm and rational plea⯑ſures! Yet it is true, that your ab⯑ſence is a perpetual drawback upon every thing that gives me joy; and poſſeſſing you but in idea, it requires a very ſtrong imagination to make me de⯑ſire nothing more.

MR. Neville favoured me with a viſit this morning, to tell me that a ſhip will ſail to-morrow for England, and that I muſt make up my packet, which he will take care to put into proper hands, that it may be ſafely delivered. I have been ſo ſhort a time here, that I can ſay but little of the place and its inhabitants. The city of New-York, as I obſerved [224] before, makes a good appearance, viewed from the ſea; but its ſtreets are irregular.—The houſes are of brick, and ſome of them built in the Dutch taſte, who were the firſt ſettlers; and many of their deſcendants remain here. The town has a flouriſhing trade, which pro⯑duces great profits. The merchants are wealthy; and the people, in general, comfortably provided for, and that with very moderate labour. There ſeems to be great freedom of ſociety among the better ſort, who are rich and hoſpitable. The officers live in a ſtile ſuitable to the diſtinguiſhed rank they hold here.—And the Governor, though eaſy of acceſs, and very affable in his manners, keeps up a proper ſtate and dignity.

THE ſoil of this country, I am told, is extremely fruitful, abounding not only in its native grain, Indian corn, but in all ſuch as have been naturalized here from Europe. Here is wheat, they [225] ſay, in ſuch abundance, and ſo excel⯑lent, that few parts of the world, for the part that is cultivated, exceed it in either of theſe qualities; nor in barley, oats, rye, and every ſort of grain which you have. They have here a great number of horned cattle. Horſes, ſheep, hogs—all the European poultry, abound here. Game of all kinds is ex⯑tremely plenty.—Wild turkies of a vaſt ſize, and equal goodneſs; and a beau⯑tiful ſpecies of pheaſants, only found, they ſay, in this country. Every ſpe⯑cies of herbs, or roots, which you force in your gardens, grows here with great caſe, as well as every kind of fruit; but ſome, ſuch as peaches and melons, in far greater perfection than you have them.

FROM the account I have given you, my dear Maria, of the productions of this clime, you will readily agree, that an epicure may find ſufficient gratifi⯑cations [226] here for his predominant paſ⯑ſion.

MR. Neville bids me haſte and con⯑clude. He is going back to town im⯑mediately, and only waits for my packet. I incloſe a few lines for my Lord L. which I intruſt to your care; he is the only perſon, among my relations, who, I believe, is anxious to hear from me.

THIS letter will, perhaps, reach your hands in three weeks, if the wind is fa⯑vourable, and the ſhip not becalmed, as ours was; and, perhaps, one from you is upon its road to me.—Oh! that thought, how I enjoy it! I am charged with a thouſand compliments to you from Mrs. Benſon and Mr. Ne⯑ville. Your Fanny is well and happy, and tells you ſo herſelf, in a letter which I incloſe. Say every thing that is re⯑ſpectful [227] and kind, in my name, to Sir John and Mr. Harley. And from your own heart, my deareſt friend, judge of the unalterable affection of your