LETTER I.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

HOW much am I indebted to the author of theſe beautiful lines, for having expreſſed my preſent feelings, ſo much better than I could myſelf. The addreſs was originally made to a brother, there can therefore be no im⯑propriety [2] in applying them to a ſiſter—and ſuch a one as mine—

You deſired me, my Fanny, to write to you from every ſtage—this is the firſt moment I have had to myſelf—one of Sir William's moſt favourite maxims, is, that women ſhould be treated like ſtate criminals, and utterly debarred the uſe of pen and ink—he ſays, that ‘"thoſe who are fond of ſcribling, are never good for any thing elſe; that fe⯑male friendſhip is a jeſt; and that we only correſpond, or converſe, with our own ſex, for the ſake of indulging ourſelves in talking of the other."’

Why, Sir William, why will you diſ⯑cover ſuch illiberal ſentiments, to one who has been ſo lately prevailed upon to [3] pronounce thoſe awful words, ‘"love, honor, and obey"’! The fulfilling the two firſt articles of this ſolemn engage⯑ment, muſt depend upon yourſelf, the latter only, reſts on me; and I will moſt ſanctimoniouſly perform my part of the covenant.

Yes, my ſiſter, I will ſtifle the riſing ſigh, and wipe away the wayward tear, that ſteals involuntarily down my cheek, from the fond recollection of thoſe dear friends, that I have left behind me. Would to nature that the objects neceſ⯑ſarily followed their affections, or elſe retained them with themſelves, inſtead of ſuffering remembrance, like a tyrant, to purſue the unhappy traveller, ad⯑ding anxiety to fatigue, and grief to danger.

[4]Sir William has met with ſome gen⯑tlemen of his acquaintance, here; he pre⯑ſented them to me, and I could ſee that he ſeemed pleaſed at that ſort of appro⯑bation which is expreſſed by looks, at firſt ſight of a perſon who happens to pleaſe us—there would be ſomething flattering in this idea which I ſhould wiſh to cheriſh, if I did not fear that his pleaſure aroſe more from vanity, than affection.—Yet why ſhould I think ſo? Has he not purſued me with unabated ardour, near two years, and triumphed over the repeated refuſals of my friends, and ſelf, by the moſt obſtinate perſeve⯑rance? But might not vanity—be ſtill, thou reſtleſs, buſy, perturbed ſpirit! and no longer ſeek to inveſtigate an humiliat⯑ing cauſe for an event which is irrevo⯑cably paſt!

[5]Theſe gentlemen, then, that I told you of, are to join company with us, for the remainder of our journey and voy⯑age:—there is one of them a Lord ſome⯑thing, I forgot his title, who is juſt re⯑turned from making the grande tour; his perſon is elegant; I think him, both in face, and figure, vaſtly like Colonel Stanford.—I ſuppoſe this young noble⯑man will be the bon ton of this winter, in Dublin; it may therefore be of ſome uſe to a ſtranger, as I ſhall be, to be known to him. I ſhall not, however, cultivate the preſent opportunity, as I have left the room, determined not to return, on pre⯑tence of a head-ach, in order to tell my dear Fanny what ſhe already knows, that I am her more than ſiſter, her affec⯑tionate and faithful friend,

P.S. Love to my brother, and to my dear Mary Granville; but I charge you not to ſhew my letters, even to either of them.

LETTER II.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

WILL you not doubt my veracity, Fanny, when I tell you, that three days ſpent in this dulleſt and moſt diſagreeable of villages, have not ap⯑peared tedious to me! There is certainly a wonderful charm in variety of ſitua⯑tions—every change produces a new aſ⯑ſemblage of ideas; and actuates the mind with curioſity, compariſon, and inquiry.

[7]The wildneſs, or even horror, of this place, for we have had a perpetual ſtorm, is ſo ſtrongly contraſted with the mild ſcenes of Cleveland Hall, or indeed any other part of England that I have ſeen, that one would ſcarce think it poſſible for a few days journey to tranſport us into ſuch extremes, of the ſublime and beautiful—

I am perſuaded that all the inhabitants of Wales muſt be romantic:—there ne⯑ver was any place appeared ſo like en⯑chanted ground, and the ſcenes ſhift up⯑on you almoſt as quick as in a panto⯑mime—from the ſtupendous, bleak, and barren hills of Cambria, you are al⯑moſt inſtantly tranſported into fertile and laughing vallies.—There never was a richer, and more beautiful view, than [8] that of the Vale of Cluyd.—I am not at at all ſurpriſed that poetry took its riſe in this part of Britain; the ancient Dru⯑ids could not be at a loſs for poetic ima⯑ges—every object they ſaw muſt have inſpired them, and exceeded, both in beauty, and wildneſs, whatever ſportive fancy could have invented, or creative genius drawn forth from the ſtore-houſe of imagination.

I think that even I ſeem to be poſſeſſed with a kind of poetic rapture, while I deſcribe theſe charming ſcenes; but I will not anticipate the pleaſure that I hope you will yourſelf receive from them, next ſummer; tho' I already foreſtall the much higher delight I ſhall feel, on ſeeing my dear Fanny at South-field.

[9]Sir William has been in great ſpirits ever ſince we have been here; and highly pleaſed at a very trifling mark of my obedience:—he propoſed riding out, the morning after we came; and though there was a high wind, and a drizzling rain, I made not the leaſt objection to mounting one of the little Welſh pal⯑freys, and clambering up the hills, at his requeſt—our fellow travellers, Lord Lucan and Colonel Walter, accompa⯑nied us.

I have deſcribed the former to you—the latter is remarkably handſome, but with a peculiar expreſſion in his coun⯑tenance, which is not the reſult of his features, but ſeems to ariſe from the predominancy of a particular paſſion in his mind—in ſhort it is that ſort of ex⯑preſſion, [10] which has made you and me diſlike ſo many handſome men.

The Colonel is to be our neighbour in the country; he is now going to Ire⯑land, to take poſſeſſion of his eſtate, and a ſeat in parliament for a borough he never ſaw—I am no politician, or I ſhould animadvert a little upon this ſub⯑ject. This ſelf-ſame Colonel has juſt tapped at my door, to tell me that the wind veers a little, and that Sir William deſires I will hold myſelf in readineſs to embark. I obey! adieu, my Fanny.

P.S. I forgot to tell you, that Lord Lu⯑can was at Paris when we were there, laſt year—he has made me ſmile, two or [11] three times, by his pathetic manner of lamenting his not knowing me then. I tell him that he may date his acquaint⯑ance from what aera he pleaſes, as our living together in an inn has brought on a greater intimacy, in four days, than almoſt as many years could have effected, in the uſual courſe of meeting at Operas, Routes, &c. But he ſighs out a rueful, O que non! and the Colonel laughs, to ſhew his white teeth, and ſuperior under⯑ſtanding—

I come, Sir William! adieu, adieu—

LETTER III.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

WHAT ſcenes of diſtreſs have I gone thro', ſince I concluded my laſt letter to my dear Fanny! We em⯑barked aboard the pacquet-boat, with what they called a ſhifting gale, and to do the captain juſtice, he was unwilling to ſail. But Sir William and Colonel Walter were both impatient; and their impetuoſity, as it generally does, triumph⯑ed over our calmer reaſon—

We had not been three hours at ſea, before there aroſe ſo violent a ſtorm, that the captain ſaid it was impoſſible for the ſhip to weather it, ſix hours: he was, however, miſtaken, for it continued ſix [13] and thirty—during which time we had been driven upon the northern coaſt of Ireland, and it was then to be feared that we ſhould beat to pieces, on the rocks. There was a great number of paſ⯑ſengers on board, and their groans and lamentations would have affected me extremely, in any other ſituation; but the violent and continued ſickneſs which I ſuffered, rendered me inſenſible, even to my own danger; nor did I feel the ſmalleſt emotion when Lord Lucan, who had ſeldom left my bedſide, caught hold of my hand, with a degree of wildneſs, and preſſing it to his lips, ſaid, ‘"We muſt periſh!—but we ſhall die, together!"’

The Captain had fired guns of diſtreſs upon our approaching the ſhore; and a fiſhing boat came to our relief, into [14] which the paſſengers crouded ſo faſt, that the gentlemen were obliged to draw their ſwords, to prevent their ſinking it. How I got into the boat I know not, but I found myſelf there, rolled up in Lord Lucan's rocquelaure, and my head ſupported by Sir William's knee—there were two other ladies in the boat with us, the youngeſt of whom, a Miſs Leiſter, ſeemed to be, if poſſible, worſe than I—but I will not detain you longer in this ſcene of horror, where we expect⯑ed to be ſwallowed up by the waves, that came rolling on us, like moving mountains, every moment, till we reached the ſhore.—

Behold us then landed upon what may almoſt be called a deſert iſland, for it is entirely ſurrounded by an arm [15] of the ſea, and uninhabited by every thing but a few goats, and ſome fiſher⯑men, who are almoſt as wild as they.—It was about four o' clock in the morn⯑ing, when we arrived at this diſmal place, and ſuch a morning, for darkneſs, rain, and wind, I never ſaw!

Neither Miſs Leiſter nor I could ſtand, much leſs walk, and the gentle⯑men were obliged to carry us in their arms, by turns, for near two miles—till we arrived at ſome of the huts, where the hoſpitable cottagers received us with that ſort of ſurprize, which I imagine we ſhould feel, if an order of higher beings were to deſcend by miracle to viſit us.—But be their kindneſs never forgot by me! and may their beds of ſtraw, and ſmoaky rafters, yield them [16] ſuch ſoft and balmy ſleep, as they af⯑forded to my harraſſed frame! and let them never envy thoſe that toſs on down.

I did not wake till near ten in the morning, which was then as mild as it had been tempeſtuous when I re⯑tired to reſt. Lord Lucan and Miſs Leiſter were ſeated on a little bank, without-ſide the door of the cottage where I ſlept, to prevent any perſon from diſturbing me; as ſoon as they heard me move, Miſs Leiſter came to offer her aſſiſtance, in dreſſing me—ſhe ſmiling ſaid that breakfaſt was prepared for me, in a large drawing-room, and under the fineſt canopy ſhe had ever ſeen; then led me by the hand to the bank where ſhe had been ſitting—I was ſurprized to ſee tea there, which, tho' made in wooden [17] veſſels, appeared to me more delicious, than any that I had ever drank out of the fineſt Dreſden china.—

Lord Lucan told me, that Sir Wil⯑liam, the reſt of the gentlemen, and Mrs. Layton, who is Miſs Leiſter's aunt, were gone to reconnoitre la carte du paï, de la terre inconnuë, ou nons etions—and that now he had ſeen me ſo happily re⯑covered, he wou'd try to join them.—

I found that another boat had arrived from the ſhip, and that our ſervants, and a part of our baggage were come—when my poor Benſon ſaw me, ſhe cried for joy; and indeed nothing but the ſtate of inſenſibility, in which I quitted the veſſel, could have made me leave her behind.—

[18]Upon enquiring, we were told that there were neither horſes or carriages, of any kind, to be had, to convey us out of the iſland, but that we might croſs, in a boat, to a piece of land that lay oppoſite to one ſide of it, which, when we reached, was eight miles from any town, or village. As ſoon as I had chan⯑ged my cloaths, Miſs Leiſter and I ſet out to meet, or overtake, our company; to confer about the difficulties of our ſad ſituation.

I will bring you acquainted with Miſs Leiſler, in my next letter; and for the preſent I will call her Lucy, for I am ſure I ſhall love her, and in that caſe I hate the formality of Miſs—

Suppoſe us now to have walked about a mile and a half, without diſcovering [19] any object but the ſea, which ſurrounded us, when, to our great delight, we ſpied land, tho' ſtill divided from us by a gulph we thought impaſſable. We ſtood however on the ſhore, inventing a thou⯑ſand impracticable ſchemes to croſs this tremendous Helleſpont, but never once thought of the only poſſible one, tho' we had been told of it. We at laſt grew weary of indulging our viſions, and Lu⯑cy, who I find is extremely romantic, ſaid, that, were ſhe in my ſituation, ſhe could, with the utmoſt pleaſure, think of paſſing her days on the ſpot we were thrown on; for that the conſtant preſence of the beloved object, muſt ren⯑der any place an Eden to her.—I told her, that if we were fated to remain there, that either Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter, would, I hoped, make this ſpot [20] a paradiſe to her, on her own plan. She wiped away a ſtarting tear, and ſaid that was impoſſible.—

At that inſtant a new object rouſed our attention; we perceived a gentleman, well mounted, and attended by a couple of ſervants, on the oppoſite ſhore; Lucy put up a moſt fervent ejaculation, that he might have knight-errantry enough to croſs the river, and reſcue us from our melancholy ſituation: her prayer was heard—he ſwam his horſe acroſs the flood, and Lucy called him a ſecond Leander! He came up to us with infi⯑nite politeneſs and addreſs, and told us, that the mail which had been put on ſhore with us, had been forwarded to his father, who was the next juſtice of peace, and lived about twelve miles from [21] thence; that by that means he became acquainted with our diſtreſs, and had ſent his carriage, as far as the roads were paſſable, with a number of ſaddle horſes, to bring us to his houſe.

I confeſs I was charmed with this in⯑ſtance of hoſpitality, and generoſity; I hope I ſhould have been as much pleaſed with it, had I only heard it related, with⯑out having benefited by it.—There is nothing affects my heart ſo much as bene⯑volent actions; I will flatter myſelf, that this is owing to a natural ſympathy.—We made all the acknowledgments that our joy would permit; and walked, or rather ran, back to our cottage with the ſtran⯑ger; where we met our company, and many more of the paſſengers, who had come in the ſecond boat from the ſhip.—

[22]Mr. Mathewes's ſervants were by this time come up to us, and opened two large baſkets of proviſions, cold meats, wine, tea, &c. Every perſon ſeemed ſur⯑priſed and overjoyed, while univerſal gladneſs diffuſed itſelf through our little colony—Lucy appeared almoſt frantic with delight—the common occurren⯑ces of life appear like enchantment to ſome minds—but there was an ele⯑gant ſimplicity mingled with her tranſ⯑ports, that rendered them extremely pleaſing.—

I have now, my deareſt Fanny, deliver⯑ed you from the painful anxiety, you muſt have ſuffered from the firſt part of my letter; my next, I hope, ſhall tranſport you to more pleaſing ſcenes. In the mean time reſt aſſured, that thro' every [23] change of circumſtance, or ſituation, I ſhall remain unalterably yours,

I long to hear from you: pray tell me, have you heard from the continent; and how, and where Lord Hume now is?

LETTER IV.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

FOR the preſent, I will continue my letters journal-wiſe, as Miſs Byron^* calls it; but I cannot for my life be cir⯑cumſtantial, and carry you up and down ſtairs, to the parlour, the drawing-room, the harpſicord, the card-table, &c. &c. &c.

[24]Suppoſe us then to have croſſed the ſo much dreaded arm of the ſea, with ſome difficulty, and leſs danger; that we have performed our twelve miles journey, thro' rugged roads, and over hills and dales; and are at laſt ſafely arrived at Mr. Mathewes's very handſome ſeat, wel⯑comed by him and his lady, and a very numerous family of ſons and daughters, grown up to men and women's eſtate.

On our entrance we were ſhewn into a room, where there was a table laid with all kinds of breakfaſts, that could be pleaſing or neceſſary to the ſick, or healthful appetite, and were informed that there were beds prepared for any of the company, who might require reſt after their fatigue. This offer was de⯑clined by us all, for the preſent; but the [25] whole company, which amounted to eigh⯑teen ladies and gentlemen, beſides ſer⯑vants, accepted Mr. Mathewes's invi⯑tation, to ſpend that day and night at his houſe, except Colonel Walter, who ſaid he would go on to Newry, the next great town, and ſend us carriages from thence.—

From the firſt notion that you could conceive of our generous hoſts, you muſt believe that we were politely and ele⯑gantly entertained; but neither your idea, nor my deſcription can do juſtice to their hoſpitality; they have given me the moſt favourable impreſſions of this country, on my firſt entering it; but even Sir William, who is partial to his native land, ſays I am not to expect a whole nation, of ſuch—fools! I think he ſaid [26] —heigh, ho! this is my only com⯑ment.—

The manners and behaviour of this worthy and amiable family, were ex⯑preſſive of the ſincereſt pleaſure at hav⯑ing had it in their power to relieve our diſtreſs—may they or their's never know any! Lucy was in raptures with the young ladies; both ſhe and I flatter ourſelves with a proſpect of much plea⯑ſure, from a future intimacy with Mrs. Mathewes and her daughters.

Next morning, our carriages, a coach and four, and ſeveral poſt-chaiſes, arrived; and we took a grateful and affectionate leave of our kind hoſts. Our journey had nothing remarkable in it, except Colonel Walter's waiting for us, at the [27] firſt ſtage we came to, which, conſider⯑ing the hurry he affected, when he left us, was rather an overſtrained piece of politeneſs, ariſing I imagine from a ſup⯑poſition that his company was of ſome conſequence to the party.

And perhaps he is not miſtaken—Lucy's aunt, Mrs. Layton, a good, agree⯑able, and well jointured relict, about ſix and thirty, ſeems to admire him much—ſhe ſpeaks Italian badly—he is maſter of the language, and ſhe is for ever applying to him, to correct her pronounciation—who knows but he may find pleaſure in inſtructing ſo hopeful a pupil.—

The Colonel is what is called a wo⯑man's man: he has lived a good deal [28] abroad, and has a ſuperficial knowledge of almoſt every ſcience—his head may be aptly enough compared to the draw⯑er of a lady's writing cable, which con⯑tains a little of every thing—I have this moment looked into mine, to ſee if the alluſion is juſt. Its contents are a mini⯑ature picture of Sir William, with a ſlight crack in the enamel, and the catch that faſtens the bracelet broken—my houſe-keeper's accounts—a little billet from Lucy—a French ſong, that the Colonel gave me—ſome ſcented ſealing wax—writing paper—meſſage cards—and a pocket book, with ſciſſars, pen⯑knife, pencil, blank leaves, &c.—I do really think that this farrago of materials, conveys a very expreſſive image of what I would deſcribe—I hope you will think ſo too, and henceforward acknowlege the Colonel as an acquaintance.—

[29]I promiſed, in my laſt, to give you a ſketch of my Lucy, but I find I am not equal to the taſk; for even in her outward appearance there is a variabi⯑lity, that renders it almoſt impoſſible to draw an exact reſemblance of her; at ſome times, you would think that her form and face were deſigned to perſonify Vivacity.—

At other times, a ſoft melancholy uſurps the place of gaiety; ſo that, at different aeras, ſhe may paſs alternately for a Melpomene, or a Thalia The Muſes of Tragedy and Comedy.; yet ſhe is agreeable, under both theſe characters, and I by no means think her temper changeable; but am rather inclined, tho' ſorry to believe, that theſe tranſitions are [30] rather the effect of peculiar circumſtances, than natural conſtitution—

I know ſhe is in love—but I ſhould ſuppoſe that to be rather a conſiſtent paſſion, where the flame is mutual; and I ſhould be tempted almoſt to deſpiſe her, or any other woman in the world, who continued ſtill to love, without ſympathy—for true love is a paſſion of that extraordinary nature, as ſome author has well expreſſed it, that it requires the felicity of two perſons, to render one happy—Without being poſitively handſome, the men all like her, ſhe has good eyes, hair and teeth; a lively, tho' not a fine com⯑plexion; and a form that may juſtly be ſtiled elegant, tho' ſmall.—

And now, my dear Fanny, let me ſpeak of, and to, yourſelf. It is above [31] a month ſince I left London; I have been a fortnight in Dublin, and have not received a ſingle line from you, or any of the other dear friends I parted from in Dover-ſtreet!—They tell me ſomething about contrary winds—for my own peace, I will believe them, but if I am to remain in this iſland, much longer, under ſuch ſuſpence, I ſhall be tempted to ſell my jewels, and ſend the money to Lapland, to purchaſe, I know not whether it is to be an eaſterly, or a weſterly wind—but it ſhall be a fair gale to waft your letters to me—for the ſtory of Aeolus and Ulyſſes, you know, is quite an arrant fiction.

LETTER V.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

I Received my dear ſiſter's two letters, from Wales, together; and am pleaſed to find that you illuſtrate your own remark on the good effects which change of objects produce upon our minds. I have always thought, that in the ſepara⯑tion of two perſons, who love each other, the one who is left, is by far the greateſt ſufferer. The mind, in ſpite of us, muſt neceſſarily, in ſome degree, accompany, or rather attend upon, the body; and while that is in motion, it feels a kind of rotation alſo—

And now I talk of coaches, I have never [33] ſet my foot in ours, ſince you left Lon⯑don: I begin to think that this is carry⯑ing the idea of locality too far, and will therefore order it to ſet me down at the play-houſe, this evening.

Your deſcription of South-Britain has encreaſed my curioſity, but not my deſire of travelling through it—for what can augment my wiſhes to ſee you! Your firſt letter affected me, extremely—Oh! beware of a propenſity to unhappineſs, my much loved ſiſter! Sir William has a roughneſs in his manner, which I really believe to be more owing to an illiberal education than a coarſe mind—I ſay illiberal, tho' I know he was bred at a college—learning and ſcience may be there acquired, but alas! I fear the profeſſors of univerſities do not attend [34] much to les petites morales—There are many men weak enough to imagine that an affectation of contempt for the under⯑ſtandings of women, is proof ſufficient of the ſuperiority of their own—but theſe perſons ought never to marry; for we can neither love thoſe we deſpiſe, nor thoſe who ſeem to deſpiſe us—But I am far from imagining this to be Sir Wil⯑liam's caſe; I know he both loves and eſteems my Louiſa, though he be defi⯑cient in that ſort of galant addreſs, which might better inable him to ſhew his ſen⯑timents—But how few huſbands are there, after all, even in what is ſtiled polite life, who ſeem to think ſuch an attention neceſſary? I affirm it to be abſolutely ſo—for they muſt be ſad philoſophers, indeed, who miſtake the poſſeſſion of a treaſure for the enjoyment of it: but I will not [35] forgive your trifling with your own hap⯑pineſs, by ſeeming to doubt a fact, on which alone it can be founded.

I am glad you have happened to meet with the gentlemen you mention—Agreeable ſociety is always pleaſing to a rational mind, but more particularly ſo when there is any little difficulty, danger or fatigue, to encounter; and notwith⯑ing your flouriſhing deſcription of Wales, I cannot help thinking that a journey thro' it muſt be attended, in ſome de⯑gree, with thoſe ſlight evils I have mentioned.—

My brother has been remarkably grave, ever ſince you left us; but I will not flatter you, by imputing his reſerve intirely to your abſence—his Delia! his beloved Miſs Colville! is going to France, [36] with her ridiculous mother—and ill uſed as my ſenſible brother has been, by that abſurd widow, I have no doubt but he will be weak enough to follow her daughter there, and leave poor ſolitary me to paſs the winter, tout ſeul, in Do⯑ver-ſtreet.

I have told him, and I really believe it, that Mrs. Colville has no exception, either to his perſon, rank, or fortune, tho' ſhe will never conſent to his marry⯑ing her daughter; but I am perſuaded that ſhe would moſt readily accept of him herſelf.—Sir George cannot help ſmiling, when I talk in this ſtrain, tho' he affects to be diſpleaſed, at what he calls my folly.

I know you will expect that I ſhould ſay ſomething of myſelf.—Alas, Louiſa! [37] my hiſtory, like poor Viola'sTwelfth Night. is a blank! I have not received a line from Lord Hume, ſince I ſaw you! my apprehen⯑ſions for his health and ſafety, are how⯑ever relieved, by a letter his ſiſter had from him, dated at Sienna, a few days ago—

I will believe, for his ſake, as well as my own, that he has written to me—a letter may miſcarry; I have often heard that the poſts upon the continent are not ſo regular, as ours—I will believe any thing, but—that he has forgotten me—Is this philoſophy, or vanity? and is my opinion of his conſtancy, founded on his merits, or my own? I aſk queſtions without wiſhing to have them reſolved. [38] —Adieu, my only confidante, my much loved ſiſter,

P.S. Sir George's beſt affections, along with mine, wait on Sir William, and our dear Louiſa. Mary Granville is at Bath, with her aunt.

LETTER VI.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

WHY ſurely, my dear Louiſa, you intend to publiſh your travels, and to puſh Madame de Scuderi from the ſhelf ſhe has ſo long uſurped in a la⯑dy [...] library.—What a ſweet romance is yours! what hair-breadth 'ſcapes! what amazing perils, by ſea and by land! what imminent danger of paſſing your life on [39] a deſolate iſland, which, by the way, would, I fear, had you remained there, have become a diſſolute one; for I don't find that you had a parſon among ye, and I have doubts whether the colonel and the widow would have waited till another ſhipwreck might have ſent you a Jonas—as to Lucy, and Lord Lucan, to be ſure they would have remained in a ſtate of perfect purity; and Sir William and you are already joined in the holy bands of matrimony—So that, upon a fair calculation, I do not think that your community would have been worſe than the reſt of this habitable globe; for one couple of delinquents, in three, is as lit⯑tle as can be expected, even in the iſland of ſaints,^* of which you are happily now become an inhabitant; or in the territo⯑ries [40] of his holineſs the pope, where all ſhould be perfect.

But a truce with Badinage, and be aſ⯑ſured, my dear ſiſter, that I felt for your diſtreſſes; and ſincerely rejoice at your ſafe arrival in Dublin. I both love, and admire, tho' not without a little mixture of envy, your generous hoſts. What extreme pleaſure muſt they have re⯑ceived, from ſuch a noble exerciſe of their benevolence and hoſpitality!

All girls build caſtles; mine have been always ſituated on a ſea-coaſt, and in them have I often received ſhipwrecked prin⯑ceſſes, and drowning heroes; I have chafed their temples, and rubbed their hands, for whole hours; and when my great care and humanity have brought [41] them back to this world of woes, they have repaid my pains by a faithful recital of their doleful adventures.—I once fell in love with a man I never ſaw, for the ſame ſentiment.Triumvirate, chap. xciii.—I did not then imagine I ſhould ever have ſo near and dear a connection as my Louiſa, involved in the reality of ſuch a dreadful ſitua⯑tion; and now may heaven be praiſed for my loved ſiſter's preſervation!

I like your deſcription of the Colonel, much—one knows abundance of table drawers, tho' not all as well furniſhed as yours—but I do not much like the cha⯑racter—ſmatterers in ſcience are gene⯑rally triflers in every thing—that ſame want of ſtability which prevents their being maſter of any art, like a ſhake in [42] marble, runs thro' the whole block, and leſſens the value of every part.—I ſhould not like ſuch a man, either as a friend, or lover, tho' he may perhaps be an agree⯑able acquaintance.

I am much more charmed with your Lucy, your little pocket Iris; I hope ſhe always wears changeable ſilks, and alters them from grave to gay, accord⯑ing to the complexion of the day—I did not mean to rhyme, as you may ſee by my mode of writing.—I agree with you, that thoſe tranſitions you mention, may poſſibly be owing rather to particular circumſtances, than a peculiar inconſiſt⯑ency of mind—the latter would ren⯑der her contemptible, the former enti⯑tles her to our tenderneſs and love. I think, even from the ſlight account you [43] have given of her, there muſt be a charming frankneſs in her manner; which is one of the firſt qualities I would ſeek for, in a friend. Life is not long enough; but were I an antediluvian, I ſhould not think it worth while to ſeek for a heart that is wrapped up in a hundred and fifty envelopes—Un coeur ſerré would diſguſt me, tho' the poſſeſſor of it had ten thouſand amiable qualities.

I think that your misfortunes, with regard to the ſtorm, like moſt other diſ⯑aſters, have been productive of ſome good, by bringing you acquainted with Miſs Leiſter.—But what have you done with Lord Lucan? when the pencil and pal⯑let were in your hands, why lay them by, without giving a ſketch of him? I ſhould fancy, from his rueful O que non! [44] that there were traits of character ſuffici⯑ent to mark him by;—if ſo, I deſire you will reſume your new calling, and let me have a full length of his lordſhip, by the next poſt.

Sir George, as I gueſſed, actually in⯑tends to ſet out for Paris, in a fortnight.—I am ſtrongly tempted to accompany him, Louiſa—I ſhould then be on the ſame continent, nay, perhaps, in the ſame city, with Lord Hume; for as his route is not abſolutely determined, I think it is moſt likely that he will paſs the winter in Paris, as I know it is his favourite city.—But then—may not my delicacy be wounded, by its being ſaid, or even thought, that I purſued him thi⯑ther? and to what end? if his heart, as I much fear, be already eſtranged, [45] will my preſence recal it? ah, no! to what then ſhould I expoſe myſelf? to be ſlighted by the man I love!—O, ne⯑ver! never! in woods and deſerts let me rather dwell, and hide my woes in ſolitude.—

I now wiſh I had gone with you to Ireland—and yet I ſhould not chuſe to be farther removed from that bleſſed ſpot, where ere it be, for at preſent I know not, that holds my happineſs—perhaps my miſery! How can you ſay, Louiſa, that love is a conſiſtent paſſion? alas! you know it not! ten thouſand contra⯑dictory wiſhes are born and periſh in my mind, in the ſame moment—and yet there was a time, when you, my ſiſter, uſed to blame my calmneſs, and upbraid me with having too much philoſophy— [46] where is that calmneſs, that philoſophy fled to, now! Oh, let me once more woo them to my breaſt! and be what I then was, your happy, as well as affectionate ſiſter,

P.S. You will perceive by this long epiſtle, that I have received both your letters, from Dublin—I do not, my dear, expect two for one; but the firſt came laſt night, when I happened to be out, and the laſt arrived this morning.—You may alſo perceive I began my letter with an affected gayeté de coeur, and end⯑ed it in real ſadneſs.—I had determined not to mention Lord Hume, but my brother's coming into my dreſſing-room, and telling me of his going to Paris, threw me off my guard—excuſe my weakneſs, my loved, my dear Louiſa.

LETTER VII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

INdeed, my dear Fanny, your laſt let⯑ter has hurt me ſenſibly—I cannot expreſs the tender concern I feel for your ſufferings—yet with that frankneſs we both ſo much admire, I will confeſs that I am, on this occaſion, conſcious of the force of Rochfaucault's ſelfiſh maxim, ‘"In the diſtreſſes of our beſt friends, we find ſomething that does not diſpleaſe us."’ Horrid adage! yet how true! when I cannot help re⯑joicing that I have never felt the paſſion of Love, in the extreme that you ſeem to do—I have ever thought that love, like friendſhip, could only be founded on [48] the amiable qualities of its object, and that with them it muſt, becauſe it ought, decay.—How often have you and I laughed at the perſevering paſſion of Miſs B—, when we knew that Lord M— deſpiſed her?—But the little tyrant has taken ample vengeance upon you—Heaven ſhield me from his reſentment!

I am, however, far from doubting Lord Hume's conſtancy or love to my ſweet Fanny; and my opinion is found⯑ed on your charms, rather than his me⯑rits—yet grant him to be all you can wiſh, ſurely it is a miſerable ſtate to have our happineſs ſo totally dependent upon any human being, that our not hearing from them, for a few days or weeks, ſhall render us totally wretched, and create ſuch a fever in the mind, as you [49] deſcribe, and I tremble at! Heavens! what a wretch ſhould I be, were I poſ⯑ſeſſed of this tormenting paſſion. I am certain Sir William has no more idea of it than of a ſixth ſenſe—how would the roughneſs and aſperity of his manners which are now ſcarce ſufferable, then wound me to the heart!

Rejoice with me, my Fanny—at what? not at my want of ſenſibility, for ſure I think not even you have more—and can I be delighted, then, at not hav⯑ing found in Sir William an object to awaken it! O, no! I fear I ought rather to lament than exult, in my preſent torpid ſtate—but ſtill I have a ſubject for my tenderneſs, my much loved, dear⯑eſt ſiſter! Come to me, then, my Fanny, and I will ſoothe your ſorrow, will liſten [50] to your ſoft complainings, and ſhare each pang that wounds your gentle heart!

I was alarmed at the firſt part of your laſt letter; your treating the diſtreſſes I went thro', ludicrouſly, was not like my Fanny; and when we ſtray ſo far out of ourſelves, there muſt be ſome particular cauſe, which we would wiſh to conceal, that occaſions our acting or ſpeaking out of character—you were unhappy, and did not wiſh that I ſhould know it? But let not even that ſort of pious fraud be ever practiſed between us, more.—You may write freely, your letters are ſacred; no eye but my own will ever ſee them. Sir William is ſatisfied with our correſ⯑pondence; and ſays, he is ſure we ſhall both be tired of it, in three months—I will venture to ſay he is miſtaken in us both.—

[51]And ſo my brother is a ſtricken deer, alſo, and is ſetting off, on a wild-gooſe chace, after Miſs Colville! ſurely two victims to love, in one family, are quite ſufficient, and don Cupid will, I flatter myſelf, let the third go free—

For heaven's ſake, Fanny, if you have not by this time received a volume of billet doux from Lord Hume, get up your ſpirits, break at once into open re⯑bellion againſt him, and the little pur⯑blind deity; fly to me and try whether an Hibernian ſwain cannot make you amends for his loſs.—I am perſuaded that it is poſſible to ſhake off an ill pla⯑ced affection; but I am afraid by ſaying ſo, I may offend you; however I ſhall [52] let the ſentiment paſs, ſince 'tis written, and you are welcome to make as free with it as you pleaſe; and perhaps may ſay, with the philoſopher Boyle, ‘"that to undertake the cure of a lover, is perhaps, the next weakneſs to that of being one."’

I perceive myſelf falling into the very error which I reprehend in you, that of affecting to treat your diſtreſſes light⯑ly; but believe me, my Fanny, that I lay a reſtraint on myſelf, in doing ſo, and feel them not the leſs.—Chearfulneſs and diſſipation are the only remedies for a wounded mind, and if I can make you ſmile, even at my folly, my end will be anſwered.

You will, I dare ſay, diſcover that this letter has been written at different [53] aeras—morning viſitors are a peſt that rages in all cities; but is, I think, more violent, here, than in any place I ever was in, except Bath.—There is ſome excuſe for this intemperate deſire of gad⯑ding, there, as the uſe of the waters forbids all ſedentaty amuſements; and a game of, Neighbour, I'm come to torment you, may be conducive to health—but here, without temptation or excuſe, the ladies make it a rule to paſs their morn⯑ings in any one's houſe but their own; and would almoſt perſuade one that they can neither read, write, work, houſwife, or pray.—

Excluſive of this grand mal, I like the people and country extremely—there is an air of freedom, chearfulneſs and affability that runs thro' all the better [54] ſort of men and women, and inclines you to like them, even at firſt ſight. Rien qui gene, rien ſerré—we may be allowed to ſpeak of a people in this language, who ſeem to reſemble the French more than any of their nearer neighbours.—The old Iriſh families ſtile themſelves Mileſi⯑ans, from Mileſius, a Spaniard, who brought over a colony of his countrymen to people the iſland.—But I ſhould think, from their manners, as I hinted at before, that they were originally de⯑rived rather from the French—I hate all national reflections; but they ſeem not to have any thing of the Spaniſh character among them.

The court, which is called the Caſtle, here, is extremely agreeable, as well as brilliant, both in beauty, and finery— [55] it abounds particularly with the former—I think I never ſaw ſo many handſome women together in any place, as I have ſeen here, on a ball night.—Beauty is not, however, ſo general in this kingdom as in England: it is chiefly confined to the higher ranks of life; while there I have obſerved that it was moſt fre⯑quently met with in the middling and lower claſſes.—

I have run this letter into ſuch an extravagant length, that tho' I am very well inclined to proceed in the pictu⯑reſque ſtile, and give you an idea of lord Lucan, en gros, which is certainly as much as I can venture to pretend to, at preſent, I find my paper has circumſcribed me within the limits of the ſmalleſt minia⯑ture; and as my art cannot yet riſe to [56] the nicer touches requiſite to that ſmall ſcale, I ſhall begin his portrait on a new ſheet, next poſt: in the mean time, this will barely allow me to aſſure you that my affection and tenderneſs are, if poſſible, encreaſed by the unhappineſs of my ever dear Fanny.

Miſs Leiſter is highly pleaſed, with the title you have given her; and ſays ſhe will charge all her poetic ſwains to celebrate her, henceforward, by the name of Iris.

LETTER VIII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

MY dear Louiſa's agreeable melange gave me infinite pleaſure, as I am very certain it is an exact repre⯑ſentation of her ſoft yet lively mind.—I am ſorry the gloomy picture I ſent of my own, affected you even tranſi⯑ently.—Lovers, my dear, are a ſtrange inconſiſtent race of mortals; their pains and pleaſures ſo totally dependant upon trifling accidents, and yet ſo exquiſite, that they are ſcarcely to be conſidered as rational beings.—You, who are not of the ſighing tribe, will be amazed when I tell you, that at the time I received the effuſions of your ſympathetic tender⯑neſs, I had almoſt forgotten the ſource [58] of my own diſtreſs, and could have cried out, with Oreſtes, ‘"I never was un⯑happy."—’

After this, I think I need not tell you that I had juſt then received a let⯑ter from Lord Hume. He is well, and kind, my ſiſter! but, alas! he talks of ſpending three years on his tour.—We are both young, 'tis certain; but three years are three centuries, in a lover's calendar—and ſhould he hold his pur⯑poſe I ſhould fancy myſelf old as a Sybil, or as Cybele, before that time may elapſe.—

Tho' I deteſt the maxim you have quoted from Rochfoucault, I do not blame you for rejoicing in your own eaſe and tranquility; but you ſurely might [59] do ſo, though I were not in love—and yet, perhaps, the idea of your own felicity would not have ſtruck you ſo ſtrongly, if you had not then thought me miſerable! They ſay it is in ſickneſs that health is only valued; I fear there is a certain perverſeneſs in human nature, that en⯑hances the value of every bleſſing, from the privation of it—I had conceived an idea, here, but fear I have not ſufficiently expreſſed it; but what I mean, is that as a friend is a ſecond ſelf, you have had the happy occaſion of comparing the good and ill together, without the ſad experi⯑ence of the latter.

You ſee I am becoming a philoſopher again—but alas, Louiſa! my philoſophy is literally the ſport of chance; for I con⯑feſs that the only happineſs I am at preſent [60] capable of enjoying, is abſolutely depen⯑dant on winds, tides, poſt-boys, and a thouſand other wayward contingencies!

I very ſincerely join with you in wiſh⯑ing, ſince you have not yet, that you may never feel the paſſion of love, in an extreme degree; for I am firmly per⯑ſuaded, that it does not contribute much to the happineſs of the female world—and yet, Louiſa, I will frankly tell you, that I am extremely grieved at ſome hints you have dropped, in your letters, which ſpeak a want of affection for Sir William.—It is dangerous to ſport with ſuch ſentiments; you ſhould not ſuffer them to dwell even upon your own mind, much leſs expreſs them to others—we ought not be too ſtrict in analyzing the characters of thoſe we wiſh to love— [61] if we once come to habituate ourſelves to thinking of their faults, it inſenſibly leſſens the perſon in our eſteem, and ſaps the foundation of our happineſs, with our love.—

I am perfectly convinced that you have fallen into this error, from want of reflec⯑tion, and through what is called une mani⯑ere de parler; for I will not ſuppoſe that my Louiſa, tho' perſuaded by her friends and ſolicited moſt earneſtly by Sir Wil⯑liam, gave him her hand without feel⯑ing in her heart that preference for his perſon, and eſteem for his character, which is the ſureſt baſis for a permanent and tender affection.—

I almoſt condemn myſelf for the ſe⯑verity of this ſtricture; but my Louiſa's [62] happineſs, is of too much conſequence to mine, to paſs over an error that may deſtroy it, unnoticed, before ſhe is aware. We are all wiſer for others than our⯑ſelves, but let this pretence to ſagacity be pardoned by an elder ſiſter, as proceed⯑ing from the tendereſt affection of her's,

P.S. Sir George holds his purpoſe, and ſets out, in two days—I ſhall not accompany him, nor can I at preſent ac⯑cept of your kind and ſoothing invitation; I mean that in the firſt part of your let⯑ter.—I abominate your volatile idea of an Hibernian, or any other ſwain, as a reme⯑dy for hapleſs love—Adieu, my Louiſa, and forgive me the matronly airs I have [63] aſſumed in this letter; for I ſhall think myſelf extremely happy, if, in the future correſpondence of our lives, I do not make you more than amends, by affording you, in your turn, many opportunities of ap⯑pearing as much wiſer than I, as you are in reality.—

LETTER IX.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

INDEED, my Fanny, I rejoice in your happineſs, tho' I cannot help feeling that I am a ſufferer by it; for if you had not received a very kind letter from Lord Hume, you would not, in all probability, have had ſpirits ſufficient to have written an unkind one to me.—You are, my dear ſiſter, perfectly ac⯑quainted [64] with every ſentiment of my heart, therefore to repeat what you al⯑ready know, is needleſs. But in my own juſtification I muſt hold up a por⯑trait to your view, which, from a very ſhort abſence, you ſeem to have for⯑gotten.

By the loſs of the beſt of parents, I be⯑came my own miſtreſs, before I was ſe⯑venteen—my brother, who is three years elder than I, was then returned from the univerſity, and ſet out almoſt immedi⯑ately on his travels. I then looked up to him as the ſole ſtay, both of your youth and mine; and tho' my father's indul⯑gence had rendered us all independent of each other, I firmly reſolved never to marry, without the conſent and appro⯑bation of Sir George.—

[65]Young as you were you may remem⯑ber that during the time we paſſed at my aunt Marriot's, in Wiltſhire, there were ſeveral propoſals of marriage made to me; and among the reſt Sir William offered me his hand; but as my heart was by no means engaged by any of the perſons who honoured me with their addreſſes, I adhered to my firſt plan, and referred them all to my brother's de⯑ciſion—as there had been no time fixed for Sir George's return, moſt of thoſe who called themſelves my lovers, with⯑drew—but Sir William, either more en⯑amoured, or more artful, than the reſt, ſet out immediately for Naples, where my brother then was, and by concili⯑ating his eſteem, obtained his conſent, which he pretended was all that was wanting to complete his happineſs.—

[66]When my brother wrote to us to meet him at Paris, I was tranſported at the thoughts of ſeeing him, after a two years abſence, but did not once reflect upon his motive for ſending for us, nor did I even know that Sir William Barton was to be one of the party.—Sir William's galantry in coming from Paris to meet us at Dover, flattered my vanity, I will c [...]nfeſs; the continuance of his aſſiduities, during our ſtay in France, confirmed my brother's opinion of his paſſion for me.—But alas! I was ſtill in⯑capable of making any other return to his attentions, than what mere politeneſs exacted from me.

How often have my brother, Sir Wil⯑liam, and you, ſeemed to doubt my ſin⯑cerity, when I have declared I knew not [67] what love was! and, O! how fatal has that inexperience been to my peace, ſince! Yes, Fanny, your ſiſter is a wretch! and gave away her hand, before ſhe knew ſhe had a heart to transfer.—

Yet this I am convinced of, that had Sir William perſevered, perhaps a few months longer, in wiſhing ſtill to obtain that heart, it might, I doubt not, have been all his own. But can it now beſtow itſelf unſought, and trembling yield to harſhneſs, and unkindneſs? Impoſſible! The little rebel owns as yet no lord, and it may breck, but it will never bow, beneath a tyrant's frown!

There never was any perſon's beha⯑viour ſo altered as Sir William's.—I per⯑ceived a viſible change in his manners, [68] before we left London; but it has gone on in a bleſſed gradation, ever ſince, and is at length arrived at the ne plus ultra of matrimonial diſguſt.—I ſhall tell you a ſhort ſtory by way of inſtancing the uncouthneſs of my preſent ſituation, with regard to him.—Sir William is na⯑turally humane, at leaſt he uſed to ſeem ſo—I was applied to by a wretched family, tenants of his own, who had loſt their intire ſubſtance by fire—I immedi⯑ately took ten guineas out of my purſe, to pay my charity, when he, with the moſt ſupercilious air imaginable, took hold of my hand, bid me put up my money, and not meddle with matters that I did not underſtand—ſaid I was rather too young for a Lady Bountiful yet; and that if I went on at that rate, they would fire every cottage on his lands, and he [69] ſhould be run into a goal by my gene⯑roſity. I ſtood amazed at this harangue—however I obeyed my huſband, by put⯑ting up the money, but made Benſon convey it to the poor ſufferers, as from a third perſon; while they with tranſ⯑ports of gratitude, acknowleged their having received twenty pounds from Sir William, tho' forbidden to reveal his bounty to his ſteward, or any of his fam⯑ily, on pain of his diſpleaſure!

Now, pr'ythee tell me, Fanny, if you do not conſider this as an inſtance of a peculiar ſort of perverſeneſs? Why ſhould he wiſh to reſtrain me from the vir⯑tuous pleaſure of beſtowing charity? or endeavour to perſuade me that he was totally devoid of it himſelf? Chide me no longer, my ſiſter, for what is much more [70] my misfortune, than my fault—and what a misfortune, at my time of life, to look forward to a length of years that muſt neceſſarily paſs away,

May you be happier far! diſſipation muſt now be my reſource; 'tis all that I have left—what a ſlight and worthleſs counterpoiſe for domeſtic felicity!

I will change the ſubject. We are to ſpend the Chriſtmas at Southfield—Lord Lucan, Colonel Walter, and my Lucy, are to accompany us—next to yourſelf, ſhe is the moſt agreeable com⯑panion I could have met with—her mind is as delicate as her form—and I can ſee that ſhe is frequently hurt at the roughneſs of Sir William's manners, tho' [71] ſhe takes infinite pains to conceal her feelings from me, on ſuch occaſions.—I once wiſhed that Colonel Walter would have fallen in love with her, that I might have had the happineſs of her living near me in the country, but I am now con⯑vinced that they were not formed to make each other happy; and that ſhe woud have refuſed him, had he been an emperor.

She has made me her confidante—ſhe loves, and is beloved, by one of the moſt charming men in the world; yet the odds are many againſt their ever being united.—I often tell her I envy her ſituation; for ſurely there is ſomething infinitely delightful in ſuffering for, or with, an amiable perſon whom we love—it almoſt equals the happineſs of ſhar⯑ing their good fortune!

[72]I am ſorry I did not ſketch out Lord Lucan's portrait, while I was in the vein; but he is now ſo much altered, that my former idea of him would bear no reſemblance to what he appears at preſent.—From the extreme of gaiety, he is fallen into a profound gravity, and ſometimes appears gloomy and diſtrait—It is impoſſible to account for this change, as he is much liked and admired by every one who knows him; and I cannot conceive him to be in love, as he is hardly ever abſent from our coterie, and I have never obſerved the leaſt par⯑ticularity in his behaviour or addreſs to any member of it, tho' there are a number of pretty and agreeable women in our circle.

The Colonel perceives the alteration, as well as I, and ſeems to hint as if his [73] ſagacity could diſcover the cauſe of it; but I have never given him the leaſt encourage⯑ment to reveal his friend's ſecret, and I almoſt hate him for affecting to triumph over him.—I have another reaſon for diſliking the Colonel, which I will not at preſent communicate, even to you—he continues to court Mrs. Layton, but I will not take upon me to ſay they will be married; tho' I am ſure it would make her very miſerable to doubt it.

There is an orphan niece of Sir Wil⯑liam's, a very lovely girl, at a boarding ſchool here—I have endeavoured to prevail on him, to let her live with us.—She is near fifteen, which, in my mind, ren⯑ders her preſent ſituation extremely im⯑proper; and indeed I have a particular diſlike to a boarding-ſchool education, for [74] girls, at any age; as they muſt neceſſar⯑ily contract from it two qualities that I deteſt, formality and inſincerity.—Har⯑riet Weſtly has juſt written to her uncle, to ſecond my requeſt; and he has com⯑plied with it, tho' in his ungracious man⯑ner, by adding an obſervation, by way of codicil to his conſent, ‘"That two women in a houſe, are two too many."—’

Perhaps Sir William only meant to be witty, and not ill-natured—a play upon words is apt to dazzle thoſe who cannot play with them—I am glad Colonel Wal⯑ter was not by, when this ingenious re⯑mark was made, as he ſeems to take a particular pleaſure in repeating Sir Wil⯑liam's bon mots.—

[75]As the ſcene I am engaged in is not ex⯑tremely active, my dear Fanny muſt be contented with letting me fill my paper with ſuch trivial and domeſtic occur⯑rences, as may ariſe from day to day; nor muſt ſhe expect order or connection, in any of my letters—I write at every leiſure moment, and am perhaps inter⯑rupted ten times in the filling of a page.—You are very differently ſituated; miſtreſs of your leiſure, and yourſelf, and I cannot forgive your barely mentioning events, in which you know I am extreme⯑ly intereſted, as they relate to a brother, and a ſiſter, whom I can never ceaſe to love; and therefore I can readily pardon your reprehending the weakneſs, the in⯑diſcretion—call it any thing but a fault, of your affectionate

P.S. I know not whether I told you before, that Lord Hume and Lord Lu⯑can are intimately acquainted.

LETTER X.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

BELIEVE me, my ever dear Louiſa, when I tell you that my heart feels, at this moment, the tendereſt ſympathy with yours, and moſt truly reſents the unhappineſs of your ſituation. I will chide no more, my ſiſter, but hencefor⯑ward endeavour to ſooth thoſe ſorrows, which I cannot cure.—Diſſipation, as you ſay, muſt be your courſe: any thing is better than brooding over irremediable evils; yet great are the hazards which a young and beautiful married woman has [77] to run, who enters too deeply into a life of gaiety—the grave part of the world will cenſure her conduct, as ariſing from the levity of her mind; and the diſſolute will form ſchemes for the deſtruction of that innocence, which is the only true foundation and ſupport of chearfulneſs, or vivacity.—

Beware of artful men, my dear ſiſter! I cannot help it, I will tell you all my ſears; they may be, nay I hope they are, quite vain. But I will confeſs I do not like your intimacy, either with Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter—I am per⯑ſuaded that you have not the leaſt ap⯑prehenſion from your connection with them, but remember, Louiſa, ‘"The dan⯑gers that we ſee, are eaſily prevented; but thoſe ſtrike ſureſt that come unex⯑pected, [78] like lightning, which we view, and feel at once."—’

I am much pleaſed that Sir William's niece is to live with you; there is a ſome⯑thing flattering, even to virtue, in having a conſtant witneſs to approve our conduct; at leaſt I think we ſhould be more at eaſe, more ſelf-aſſured, in any trial, with a companion, than when left alone—‘"Not that I think my ſiſter ſo to ſeek; or ſo unprincipled in virtue's book,"’ to need a guard, ſave her own purity.—

I remember poor Sterne uſed to ſay, that all the miſchief which was done in this great city, was brought about by morning tête-a-têtes—which muſt be un⯑avoidable, without a female inmate, and ſhe ſhould always be a near relation—On [79] this principle I think you extremely lucky in having Miſs Weſtly for an eleve—as her preſence will be a perpetual guard againſt another danger you have to fear, the envenomed tongue of Slander.—

The houſe is an uproar! what can be the matter! Sir George is returned—I fly to him.—

O Louiſa! my heart is in rent in pieces; I have ſeen my brother almoſt diſtracted, his manly face bedewed with flowing tears! Miſs Colville is dead! ſhe died at Amiens, of a three days fever—my bro⯑ther met her hearſe at Dover—I fear, Louiſa, he will never recover this ſad ſtroke.—Sweet Delia! I may ſay with the Queen, in Hamlet,—‘"I thought thy [80] bride-bed to have decked, ſweet maid, and not have ſtrewed thy grave!"’

I cannot write more, my tears blind me—you know that I moſt truly loved this dear departed ſaint! her brutal mo⯑ther is gone on to Paris: would ſhe and her whole race had periſhed in her ſtead!—My brother's bell rings, adieu, adieu, my ſiſter.

LETTER XI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

MY deareſt Fanny, your letter has affected me more than I can ex⯑preſs; I am indeed moſt truly grieved for my brother, for the ſweet Delia, and yourſelf—yet why lament for her, whoſe [81] ſtate I envy! her life was innocence; her death was [...]arly! would mine had been ſo too.—Young as ſhe was, ſhe yet had taſted ſorrow; her mother's cruelty in firſt accepting Sir George's propoſals for her, and then rejecting him without a cauſe, preyed on her tender heart: ſhe loved him, Fanny! and he deſerved her paſ⯑ſion—her death has ſealed his conſtancy; her merits, nay her beauties, are graved upon his heart, in their full luſtre: they will remain for ever undiminiſh'd in his memory, and bloom before him from the ſilent tomb! My deareſt brother! how my heart bleeds for thine!

I would write to him, Fanny, but fear to encreaſe his grief, by mentioning the cauſe—you will be watchful over his diſtreſs, till time's lenient power ſhall [82] blunt the arrows of diſaſtrous love, and ſoften its ſharp pangs to gentle me⯑lancholy! why am I not with you, to ſhare this tender office! alas! why am I not any where, but where I am!

O, my ſiſter! ‘"I could a tale unfold"’—but I will not add to your preſent diſ⯑treſs, nor take off your attention from that dear brother, to whom it may be uſeful, to beſtow it on one to whom it cannot be of ſervice, but who will ever be with the tendereſt affection to Sir George, and you, a faithful

P.S. As ſoon as my ſpirits will per⯑mit, I ſhall reply to the firſt part of your [83] laſt letter—I will not now, my Fanny, inſiſt on regular anſwers, as I am ſure you will devote every moment of your time, to our dear mourner. But if any extraordinary particular, relative to poor Delia, ſhoud come to your knowledge, pray acquaint me with it.

LETTER XII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

I Now ſit down to thank my deareſt Fanny, for the kind caution ſhe gave me, in the firſt part of her laſt letter; I will try if poſſible to forget the melan⯑choly concluſion of it, and reply only to what relates to myſelf.—I have had Harriet Weſtley with me, for ſome days, and find as much comfort in her inno⯑cent and chearful ſociety, as my unhap⯑py [84] ſituation will admit. But, alas! ſhe is incapable of adminiſtering either con⯑ſolation or advice to me; her know⯑ledge of the world is even leſs than mine; nor would I, for that world, ren⯑der her wretched, by repoſing the diſ⯑treſſes of my perturbated mind, in her ſoft boſom.—O, Fanny! there is neither friend nor confidante for a married wo⯑man, who does not find them both in her huſband!

I am almoſt afraid to communicate my thoughts to you; yet why? for they are innocent—but letters may miſcarry, a thouſand accidents bring them to light, and oft undo the peace of the poor writer—but I have nought to loſe, my peace is fled! your apprehenſions are but too well ſounded, I am in the moſt im⯑minent [85] danger from my acquaintance with Colonel Walter—but, as Iſabella ſays, ‘"Danger, Claudio! 'tis here and every where our forced companion; the riſing and the ſetting ſun beholds us environed with it: our whole life's a journey ending in certain ruin."’ Woud mine were come to the laſt ſtage!

I told you before, that Lord Lucan was extremely altered, from gay to grave; and that Colonel Walter affected to know the cauſe of this ſudden tranſition, and repeatedly offered to acquaint me with it, which I conſtantly declined, and turned it off with raillery—

I will confeſs to you that I before ſuſpect⯑ed what the Colonel meant to inform me of. Women are generally too quick ſighted, [86] in theſe matters, and I by no means wiſhed to have my doubts upon this ſub⯑ject confirmed. I obſerved that when⯑ever Lord Lucan was preſent, the Co⯑lonel uſed to ſtrive to ſit as near me as poſſible, and frequently whiſper nothing in my ear, then laugh as if he had ſaid ſomething ſmart and lively: I have often looked grave, and ſometimes ſilly, on theſe occaſions, but could not divine the meaning of this abſurd behaviour, till this morning.—

I was at work in my dreſſing-room, and Harriet reading to me, when Lucy came in—I could viſibly diſcover that ſomething had affected or ruffled her mind, and therefore made a pretence to ſend Harriet out of the room.—As ſoon as ſhe was gone, Lucy burſt into tears, [87] and drew a letter out of her pocket, which ſhe had juſt received from Colonel Walter; ſhe made a thouſand apologies for putting it into my hands, but ſaid ſhe knew not how to act, upon ſo nice and critical an occaſion—the contents were as follow.

I ſhall never be able to deſcribe what I felt upon reading this deteſtable ſcroll! this outrage to honour, delicacy, friend⯑ſhip, virtue! But how to act! it was im⯑poſſible to think of ſhewing ſuch a letter to a huſband, as the conſequences muſt, in all probability, and ought to have been fatal.—And neither Lucy, nor I, could ſubmit to the meanneſs of telling a falſehood, by ſaying ſhe had not ſhewn me the letter.—

[91]In this dilemma, I determined on ſend⯑ing for Colonel Walter, myſelf, to ſpeak my ſentiments to him, upon the occaſion; which I did.—He came, and on my aſking him what I had ever done to provoke his malice, or how he dared to inſult me, by his letter to Miſs Leiſter? he burſt into an affected laugh, and ſaid he was ſorry to find that Engliſh Ladies had no idea of a jeſt; that he really meant nothing more than a little badinage, and to bring about a kind of Platonic galantry, be⯑tween Lord Lucan and me, which might ſerve to amuſe us in the long evenings we were to paſs together at Southfield: but if his raillery had given me a mo⯑ment's pain, he aſked my pardon, and promiſed never to offend again on the ſame subject.—

[92]I was, in prudence, obliged to acquieſce with this inſincere ſubmiſſion; but from this hour I know him for mine enemy—O Fanny! what a ſituation is mine! would to heaven I could exchange it, for that of our dear departed Delia—ſhe is at peace, my ſiſter—while I—But let me not diſtreſs you farther—tell me, I conjure you, tell me, that my brother's virtue and philoſophy have calmed his ſorrows, and that he now only feels that ſort of tender regret, which ariſes from the fond idea of a long abſent friend.—Tell me ſomething of yourſelf; but let that ſome⯑thing give me leave to hope, that you are happy, and I ſhall repine the leſs at my own wretchedneſs—My true love waits on Sir George, and you. Adieu, my Fanny.

LETTER XIII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

MY dear Louiſa, I have received both your letters, and really think no ſituation can be more difficult than yours; but as you ſee the precipice before you, I will truſt in that good Providence which is the guardian and ſupport of inno⯑cence, that he will enable you to avoid it.—I am perſuaded I felt as much reſent⯑ment as yourſelf, on reading Colonel Walter's letter: I perfectly approve of your not ſhewing it to Sir William; but I cannot by any means divine what could be the motive for writing it.—

Ever ſince you mentioned the change in Lord Lucan's behaviour, I have had [94] ſome apprehenſions of his paſſion for you, but would not hint them, for fear of giv⯑ing you uneaſineſs.—O, my Louiſa! how nicely circumſpect muſt your conduct be, if you mean to eſcape the dangers that ſurround you! and how much brighter than gold, ſeven times tried in the fur⯑nace, will that conduct appear, when it has paſſed through more than a trial or⯑deal, unſullied, and unhurt!—

You have never given me the leaſt rea⯑ſon to apprehend that Sir William is inclinable to jealouſy: this is certainly a very fortunate circumſtance, in your preſent ſituation; but do not ſuffer your⯑ſelf to be lulled into a ſtate of ſecurity, by his apparent indolence; vigilant and watchful muſt that woman be, who has ſo many foes to ſhield againſt—the un⯑kindneſs [95] of Sir William—the paſſion and merits of Lord Lucan—the arts and ma⯑lice of Colonel Walter—but the laſt and moſt formidable—ſhall I venture to ſpeak out?—is your own heart.

You have not yet begun to ſuſpect it. It is therefore the more dangerous enemy. Examine it, my ſiſter; call it to ſtrict ac⯑count; and if you find one ſentiment or wiſh, that lurks in ſecret there, unwor⯑thy of yourſelf, baniſh it, I beſeech you: thoughts, even without purpoſes, are criminal, where our honour is in queſtion. Conſider the ſlighteſt idea of this kind, as a young ſerpent; though ſtingleſs now, its growth will give it ſtrength and power to wound the breaſt that nurſed and che⯑riſhed it! cruſh it, betimes, Louiſa; and be at peace for life.

[96]I weep faſter than I write; my bro⯑ther's unhappineſs, and yours, have ſunk my ſpirits to the loweſt ebb: he is ſtill inconſolable.—He has received a moſt extraordinary letter from brute Colville—I can call her nothing elſe—ſhe ſays,‘"She hopes he has by this time ſurmounted his grief for her daughter, as it is high⯑ly irrational to mourn for one who is ſo ſurely happy.—She intreats him to go directly to Paris, as ſhe has ſome⯑thing very particular to inform him of, relative to Delia's laſt requeſt, which ſhe will not communicate by letter."’

This hint has rouſed Sir George's cu⯑rioſity, or rather awakened the fond de⯑ſire of fulfilling any wiſh that Delia might have made; yet he ſays he could not bear the fight of Mrs. Colville, whom [97] he conſiders as her daughter's murderer, and the deſtroyer of his earthly happi⯑neſs.—

I know not what to think of this affair, but I moſt earneſtly wiſh that he would go any where—exerciſe is always of ſer⯑vice to an oppreſſed mind—like the wheels of a machine, it leſſens the weight, which reſt reſtores again—however, Sir George ſhall not go by Amiens, if he goes at all, and that I have any power to perſuade him.—

No one can tell where Lord Hume has been, for ſome time paſt—the only letter I received was dated from Naples, which he ſaid he ſhould quit the next day, and write to me the moment he was determined to fix at any place.—If [98] a brother's and ſiſter's unhappineſs did not at preſent take up all my thoughts, and as it were uſurp the place of my own ſorrow, I could allow it ample ſcope, Louiſa; but I will now reſtrain it, at leaſt within my own breaſt, and indulge myſelf in the more generous ſenſation of grieving for the diſtreſſes of thoſe who are more wretched, and not leſs dear to me, than myſelf.

Sir George returns your love, an hun⯑dred fold. I have never given him the leaſt hint of your being unhappy, as I knew it would render him ſtill more ſo.—I do not think that even a brother ſhould interfere, between huſband and wife, unleſs matters were come to ſuch extremities, as I hope they never will between Sir William and you.

[99]I would by all means wiſh you to make a friend, tho' not a confidante, of the young Harriet; if her heart and underſtanding be good, her want of knowledge in the ways of the world will not render her a leſs eligible companion or adviſer. There is ſomething ex⯑tremely ſtriking in the natural ſenti⯑ments of an untainted mind—they re⯑ſemble the purity and delicacy of water drank at the fountain, before it has been impregnated with theſe adventi⯑tious flavours, which it acquires in its currency.

I know not why, but I am vaſtly pre⯑judiced in Harriet's favour—I am apt to think ſhe will leſſen your domeſtic uneaſineſſes, or at leaſt prevent your brooding over them, in ſolitude and [100] ſilence.—If I ever viſit you in Ireland, I ſhall endeavour to obtain a corner of her little innocent heart: this will be no robbery; for I flatter myſelf that ſhe will love you the better, the more ſhe loves me.

Miſs Granville is returned from Bath, ſhe is at preſent my only companion—within theſe two days Sir George has ad⯑mitted her into his apartment. She has loſt all her ſpirits and vivacity, and is perfectly qualified to perform the part of a mute in a tragedy; for ſhe ſighs often, and never ſpeaks: ſhe has not however communicated the cauſe of her mourning to me; yet I fancy if ſhe were obliged to ſing a French ſong, Maudit amour, would be the firſt that would oc⯑cur to her.

[101]You will eaſily perceive that my let⯑ters, like yours, are written at different intervals; and I hope you will alſo perceive that my ſpirits are better than when I began this epiſtle, tho' nothing particu⯑lar has happened to enliven them, ex⯑cept my taking an airing with Sir George, and my quondam admirer, Mr. Loyd, in Richmond Park, this morn⯑ing.

The moral of the tale I ſing, as be⯑fore, is, that air and exerciſe are the beſt medicines in the world, both for mind and body.—By the way I hope you both continue and indulge your paſſion for riding—I hear the outlets about Dublin are delightful; you will be unpardonable if you don't viſit them all.

[102]Pray give my love to the little Har⯑riet: you may alſo offer it to Sir Wil⯑liam; for, indeed, I am, very well incli⯑ned even to beſtow, ſince he will not ſuf⯑fer me to pay it to him.

P.S. Pray enquire of Lord Lucan, if he ever hears from lord Hume?

LETTER XIV.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

YES, my dear Lucan, I will acknow⯑ledge your cenſure juſt, in ſome degree; and that I think is full as much as can be expected from a perſon of my lively and volatile diſpoſition—we idle fellows are ſeldom perverſe enough to defend our follies; or perhaps the ſame indolence of temper which makes us commit, prevents our juſtifying them—no matter from what principle our hu⯑mility ariſes, I hate ſearching for remote cauſes—'tis like ſeeking for a grain of wheat in a buſhel of chaff. I never was a good logician, tho' a very toler⯑able ſophiſt, for myſelf at leaſt; and [104] while I find the effects of my paſſion for the lovely Margarita, pleaſant, I ſhall ne⯑ver perplex myſelf with endeavouring to find out why they are ſo.

You cannot, my dear Lucan, have an idea of any thing half ſo charming, or you would not only excuſe, but counte⯑nance my fondneſs, by your own admi⯑ration.—No, hang it, I ſhould not like that, either—nor would I have you ſee her, for a thouſand guineas, notwith⯑ſtanding what you ſay of your being al⯑ready in love—you know I thought my⯑ſelf the moſt enamoured ſwain alive, when I left England, and uſed to write you the moſt doleful accounts of my ſufferings—you laughed [...]t them, then, I laugh at them, now—tempora, aut mores, mu⯑tantur—no matter which. I can't help, [105] however, ſometimes feeling a little qualm, not of conſcience tho', Lucan, for my former miſtreſs—ſhe is hand⯑ſome, I confeſs, but Margarita is divine.

When I landed on the continent, I was ſuch a novice in love, as to fancy that I could not bear a ſix month's ab⯑ſence from Fanny Cleveland; but I had not been ſix days acquainted with my preſent object, when I found that I could ſacrifice friends, country, nay myſelf, to her; I had never felt paſſion before. And ‘"What's life without paſſion? ſweet paſſion of love."’

I have, I hope, dealt like a man of honour, with Miſs Cleveland, by not diſſembling with her. I have written but once to her, ſince I came here; and [106] then told her I intended to ſtay abroad, for three years, and had not fixed upon any place of reſidence; nay even ſaid I ſhould quit Naples directly, merely to prevent her writing to me.

I hope ſhe will underſtand all this, properly, and that her pride will get the better of whatever regard ſhe might have had for me; and that whenever I return to England, if that ſhould ever happen, I may find her, what I really wiſh, mar⯑ried intirely to her own ſatisfaction—for, notwithſtanding my infidelity, I think it impoſſible that I ſhould ever be capable of diveſting myſelf of the warmeſt intereſt in her happineſs. I have now, my dear Lucan, laid my heart as open before you, as I would, were I a catholic, to my confeſſor. I expect much more from [107] you, than I ſhould from him, not only abſolution and indulgence, but a reci⯑procal confidence alſo.—Tell me who, and what, this fair Hibernian is, whoſe torrid charms have been able to thaw your frozen zone? Is it une affaire de coeur, ou d'honneur? is ſhe kind, or cruel? brown, or fair? in ſhort, deal as frankly with me as I have done with you, and we ſhall then have mutually exchanged the trueſt teſt of friendſhip, with each other.

P.S. I purpoſe ſpending the winter here, and ſetting out early, in ſpring, either to Rome, or Venice, which ever my fair compaſs points her taper index to, that we may enjoy the carnival together.

LETTER XV.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

MY dear Hume, your letter has re⯑lieved me from a thouſand appre⯑henſions, which I ſuffered on your ac⯑count—it is written in the true ſpirit of a heart at eaſe, which no man ever poſ⯑ſeſſed that was thoroughly in love—and though you call me grave and philoſo⯑phic, I am much better pleaſed that your preſent attachment ſhould be of the fro⯑lic, than the ſerious kind.—Moſt of our young men of fortune and faſhion look upon a foreign miſtreſs as a part of their travelling equipage; and I think Marga⯑rita as well qualified to fill up the train of milord Anglois, as any other of her ſiſter ſyrens—of the opera.

[109]I have ſeen her often, and acknow⯑ledge her beauty, though I could gaze on her for ever, without feeling any other effect from her charms, but what might ariſe in my mind from contempla⯑ting her picture—yet I do not think her inanimate; on the contrary, ſhe has great vivacity, both in her looks and manners, but alas! ſhe is totally devoid of ſenſi⯑bility, that firſt of female charms! her eyes are taught to languiſh, and every graceful movement of her form has been acquired in the ſchool of art.—Read the thirty-ſeventh and fiftieth letters of Ni⯑non de l'Enclos, to the marquis de Se⯑vig [...]é, and they will help you to judge more juſtly, both of her and yourſelf; they are caſes exactly in point.

She lived with the marquis de Riche⯑lieu, at Turin, when I was there—I [110] knew him intimately; he adored Mar⯑garita, and was one of the handſomeſt and moſt amiable young men I ever met with—he died of a fever. I pitied Mar⯑garita from my ſoul, and about ten days after his death, went to pay her a viſit of condolance, and was informed ſhe had ſet out for Naples, two days before, with an Engliſh gentleman whoſe name was Williams.

I am much too young to ſet up for a ſtoic, or a cynic; I know, nay I feel, all the weakneſſes and follies of youth; yet I cannot help thinking that an at⯑tachment to a worthleſs woman, is capa⯑ble of debaſing the nobleſt mind.—Vir⯑tue, I fear, is not radical in human na⯑ture; its ſeed muſt be ſown by precept, cheriſhed by example, and cultivated [111] by habit; but when the object of our af⯑fections has a diſtinct intereſt rather to extinguiſh, than inſpire it, the general bias of our paſſions, aided by the natu⯑ral indolence of diſſipation and debau⯑chery, ſuffer the plant to wither in its bloom, and thus obliterates the trueſt character of manhood.

On the contrary, let the moſt vicious man become truly enamoured of a virtu⯑ous woman, and he will at leaſt aſſume the ſemblance of thoſe virtues he ad⯑mires in her, and ‘"Uſe (as Hamlet ſays) can almoſt change the ſtamp of na⯑ture, and maſter even the Devil, or throw him out with wonderous po⯑tency."’

I find myſelf growing grave prema⯑turely; for there is but one paragraph [112] in your letter, that I meant to anſwer ſe⯑riouſly: you may eaſily gueſs—I mean the one where you ſpeak of Miſs Cleve⯑land, and ſeem to acquieſce ſo intirely in your behaviour towards her—and now that I have entered upon this ſubject, I am at a loſs to know how to treat it pro⯑perly—I would fain perſuade myſelf you were but in jeſt; yet ſurely it is wrong to trifle with the eſteem of a friend, by ſuf⯑fering me to ſuppoſe that you could poſ⯑ſibly behave ſo unworthily to a woman of merit and honour.

That the gaiety and levity of your temper and your youth might render it poſſible, nay probable, that you ſhould change your affections, and ceaſe to love a miſtreſs you once admired, I can rea⯑dily believe—but that you can ſuffer an [113] amiable woman, whom you both flat⯑tered, and inſpired, with a ſerious paſ⯑ſion for you; to be informed of your in⯑conſtancy, through ſo coarſe a medium as rudeneſs and neglect, I will not, nay I cannot ſuppoſe.—My friend knows better what he owes to himſelf, and to the world.

I muſt be excuſed from replying to your queries, relative to the object of my paſſion, except ſo far as to afford you ſome faint deſcription of her beauty and merits. Her perſonal charms are ſo obvious, that whoever views her does not wait to judge—they ſtrike ſo ſuddenly that we feel before we think. The excellencies of her character require ſome refinement to be⯑come ſenſible of—one muſt have a nice diſcernment for natural beauties, and a [114] certain claſſic taſte for the great ſimple.—Her mind is in ſuch a ſtate of perfect na⯑ture, that ſhe is not to be examined by the rules of common life; for her words, her actions, and her whole manners, bor⯑row a peculiar propriety, from herſelf alone.—She appears to be a ſort of privi⯑leged genius, of whom may be ſaid, with Milton,

In others we may trace the mechanical finger of the nurſe, the mother, the tu⯑toreſs, or the prieſt—In her can be diſ⯑covered but one only forming hand—even his who made her.

In fine, ſuch beauties, both of mind and perſon, have inſpired your, till now, inſenſible friend, with the moſt tender, [115] ardent, and hopeleſs love, that ever yet poſſeſſed a human heart! and in my breaſt, ſhall that fond love lie ever buri⯑ed—I think it will not ceaſe even with my life, but death itſelf ſhall never force me to reveal my paſſion.

Preſs me no farther on this theme, my friend, nor caſt away your uſeleſs pity on me; for while I can behold her lovely form, and gaze in ſilent rapture on her beauty, I am not wretched—nay in thoſe bliſsful moments, I feel a ſort of hap⯑pineſs I would not change for all your joys with Margarita.

You may, very probably, have but an imperfect idea of that kind of paſſion, which I have deſcribed; but do not from thence unphiloſophically conclude that [116] it cannot exiſt in any heart, becauſe you do not feel it in your own. This I know to be a common, but erroneous mode of judging—we are all too apt to ſearch in our own breaſts for the motives of other people's actions; and when a want of ſympathy of ſentiment, prevents our diſ⯑covering ſimilar principles in ourſelves, we are too often tempted to deny their exiſtence in others.

I have particularly warn'd you, my dear Hume, on this ſubject, becauſe I am certain I could full as eaſily forgive your doubting my honour, as the unſul⯑lied purity of my paſſion.—I moſt ſin⯑cerely wiſh you every pleaſure that a life of frolic and gayety can yield, but be⯑ware, my dear Hume, of thoſe thorns, that grow ſpontaneous with the roſe.

[117]Write to Miſs Cleveland, I conjure you; and, when your leiſure will permit, beſtow a few lines on yours ſincerely,

LETTER XVI.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

MAY I periſh this moment if ever I read ſuch a letter! I ſhall begin to look upon Ovid's Metamorphoſes, as a hiſtory of ſerious, and natural events; and not be at all ſurpriſed, if I ſhould find myſelf fluttering through the air, in the form of a lapwing, or a butterfly.—Surely your transformation is ſtill more miraculous! what, Lucan! the gay, the lively Lucan! changed into a melancholy, timid, whining, love-ſick ſwain; ‘"and death itſelf ſhall never force him to re⯑veal [118] his paſſion!"’ Why what, in the name of nonſenſe, muſt ſhe be, that has inſpired it? deaf, and blind, I ſuppoſe—for no woman that has ears and eyes, need ever be informed that a man is in love with her—in thoſe caſes, they are ſharp-ſighted as the lynx, and quick-eared as the mole; and I would lay a thouſand guineas, that your Dulcinea was thorough⯑ly informed of her conqueſt before you were even aware of it yourſelf.—

But why you are ſo cruelly bent upon not indulging her with a repetition of her triumph, I cannot for my ſoul conceive—I have formed a million of conjectures, about whom and what ſhe is; and have at length acquieſced in believing her to be the ſanctified ſpouſe of ſome method⯑iſt teacher, or preſbyterian parſon; for [119] you have, according to your own plan, ‘"aſſumed the ſemblance of thoſe vir⯑tues,"’ which ſuch a puritan fair one might alſo pretend to.

And ſo poor ‘"Margarita is compound⯑ed of art, and wants the firſt of female charms, ſenſibility."’ Beware, my friend, that your idol may not have one vice more, at leaſt, than mine; I mean hypo⯑criſy—the marquis de Richelieu is ſtill remembered and regretted, by Margarita, though ſhe did not abſolutely break her heart for his loſs, as you may perhaps vainly imagine your dove-like dame, your ſaint trembleur, whom nothing but the ſpirit can move, would do for you.

In ſhort, you are welcome to make as free with me, as you pleaſe; the privileges [120] of friendſhip permit it; but neither its laws, nor thoſe of chivalry, can par⯑don an affront or injury offered to the heroine of our romance—Beſides, you muſt be but a bad philoſopher, Lucan, if you do not know that there is ſuch a perverſeneſs in human nature, that the abuſing a miſtreſs is the ſureſt way of rivetting the lover's chains—

And ſo you are very angry that I have not written a full and true account of my inconſtancy, to Miſs Cleveland! why how the devil can any man ſit down to tell a woman that he no longer loves her? But 'tis a proper meaſure; I owe it to myſelf, and to the world—I repeat your words ſeriouſly, here, for I think them juſt.—And now you will for ever oblige me, my [121] dear Lucan, if you will do it for me; for may I die this moment, if I am not ſo wholly illiterate, in this noble ſcience of de⯑fence, that I know not even how to ſet about it.

On my honour I both reſpect, eſteem, and admire Miſs Cleveland, more than any woman in the world, however the ca⯑price of my heart may have rendered me capable of an infidelity; and I moſt devoutly wiſh, that I had addreſs enough to extricate myſelf out of this un⯑lucky buſineſs, without ſacrificing any more of my character than I fear is al⯑ready forfeited.

I cannot help ſmiling, when you ſay, ‘"while I can behold her lovely form,"’ &c. But I muſt acknowledge this to be [122] the beſt, perhaps the only receipt, in the world, for inſuring our conſtancy—I'll frame it into a diſtich, extempore, for the help of memory—

If you were at Rome, inſtead of Dublin, I ſhould ſwear that you were turned Virtuoſo, and became enamoured of Madame la Venus de Medicis, or ſome other old faſhioned marble beauty—the world's a farce, and it is acted thus—the bad impoſe on others, the good deceive themſelves.

But happineſs, the way we chuſe it, is ſufficient for us all, and as you are ſo very reaſonable in your option, they muſt be niggards, indeed, who would deſire to deprive you of the leaſt portion of it; [123] therefore, that you may long poſſeſs ideas, is the complying wiſh of yours, ever.

LETTER XVII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

I Have this moment received my dear Fanny's laſt letter, though, from the date, I think I ſhould have been in poſ⯑ſeſſion of it much ſooner; but perhaps Sir William detained it, on purpoſe to de⯑liver it to me on this day, as knowing it to be the moſt agreeable new-year's gift he could have preſented me with. In return then, my Fanny, accept my thanks and fervent prayer, for your hap⯑pineſs.

[124]But I have ſomething more ſubſtan⯑tial than wiſhes, to contribute towards it; for I can with truth inform you, that the little time I have ſpent here, has paſ⯑ſed away much more agreeably, than any that has elapſed, ſince I left Dover-ſtreet.

To a mind not perfectly at eaſe, there is ſomething extremely pleaſing in the quietneſs of the country; it is like that artificial repoſe, which is acquired by opiates, after long watching—like that too, though it neither ſtrengthens, nor nouriſhes, it allows us time to recover our faculties, which are often as much harraſſed by living conſtantly in the midſt of crouds, as our nerves are by an acute diſeaſe.

[125]I am very glad to find that Sir Wil⯑liam loves the country, and is particular⯑ly fond of this place, where nature ſeems to have exerted her utmoſt powers to pleaſe—If it is charming now, when ſtrip⯑ped of all its ornaments, think what it will be, when ſummer ſhall redeck it in its leafy pride, and ſpread her gorgeous carpet o'er the plains?

I look forward with delight to the happy aera of your arrival here, which I hope will be early in ſpring; and as the Iriſh parliament meet but every ſecond winter, I purpoſe ſpending the interme⯑diate time of their receſs in this ſweet retirement, with my Fanny, my Harriet, my books, muſic, drawing, planning, planting; and perhaps there may be a little interloper, who will, I truſt, increaſe [126] both our pleaſures and employments—my Lucy too will be near, if not with us; for Colonel Walter's houſe is about five miles from hence, and every thing ſeems in great forwardneſs for his marriage with Mrs. Layton?

I begin to flatter myſelf, that he is really in love with the lady he is going to marry; for he talks of her inceſſantly: yet Lucy has remarked, that he ſpends more of his time here than at Mr. Uſh⯑er's, where Mrs. Layton is now upon a viſit; though that is two miles nearer to Walterſburgh, (that is the name of his ſeat) than this.

He is to give a magnificent ball at his houſe, next week; he aſked me laſt night to dance with him on that occaſion; which I refuſed, as I thought he ought [127] to ſhew every mark of attention to his future bride—I ſhall not, however, dance with any other perſon; not ſo much on his account, as for a reaſon I have hinted at above.

I fear you will chide me for not hav⯑ing mentioned my preſent ſituation to Sir William, as it is natural to ſuppoſe it would give him pleaſure, and indeed I wiſh to do ſo; but there is ſomething ſo indelicate in his manner of treating this ſubject, that I have not yet been able to prevail upon myſelf to ſpeak of it to him.

Lord Lucan has been abſent from us ſome days, on a viſit to Sir Arthur Aſh⯑ford—they are both expected here this evening—I have great pleaſure in obſerv⯑ing [128] that Lord Lucan is vaſtly more chearful, and ſeemingly at his eaſe, than he was before we left Dublin—indeed I think we are all ſo: which ſerves to illuſ⯑trate your favourite opinion, as well as the latter part of your laſt letter, that air, exerciſe, and change of objects, are of infinite uſe, both to the mind and body.

From my not mentioning my bro⯑ther, till now, do not conclude that I have for a moment forgotten him, or his griefs; they will live together in my memory, to the laſt period of my exiſtence.—I cannot conceive why Mrs. Colville ſhould wiſh to ſee Sir George, as ſhe muſt be conſcious of having done him an irreparable injury; and ſure there is nothing on earth ſo formi⯑dable, as the ſight of a perſon we have [129] wronged.—Yet I earneſtly wiſh that he knew his Delia's requeſt, as the obeying it would afford him a very high, though a melancholy pleaſure—

I wiſh too, with you, that he would go abroad.—Do, my Fanny, ſend him to ſearch for your wanderer, on the conti⯑nent; and in the mean time do you take ſanctuary in this iſland, which boaſts a privilege of being free from all noiſome animals—you may therefore at leaſt pro⯑miſe yourſelf ſafety, if not delight, amongſt us.

I am ſorry for the change you mention in Mary Granville; her charming viva⯑city would, I hoped, have aſſiſted you in keeping up your ſpirits, under the tre⯑ble [130] preſſure of my brother's, mine, and your own diſtreſſes, which I begin to fear will ſoon outweigh our's, for I think that even the death of the object of our affections is more ſupportable than their unkindneſs.—This hint is meant to arm you; for, I confeſs, that Lord Hume's ſi⯑lence has made me think he is in the high road of inconſtancy; and I do moſt earn⯑eſtly wiſh that you would endeavour to forget him, and be happy.—

I have, my deareſt ſiſter, at your re⯑queſt, moſt ſeriouſly examined my heart, and will candidly acquaint you with its real ſituation—'Tis free from love, and thence is all its danger.—O! why am I debarred the chaſte indulgence of a virtuous paſſion? why muſt a heart that overflows with tenderneſs, have all [131] its currents dammed? like a poor river forced from its natural courſe, am I to blame if it ſhould ſteal away in uſeleſs, nay improper channels?

But hitherto, my ſiſter, all is ſafe—the man I moſt eſteem, I have no paſſion for, nor feel a fonder warmth, on men⯑tioning his name, than my dear bro⯑ther's—this ſurely is an innocent affec⯑tion—Had I been his wife!—but you have warned me not even to hazard, much leſs indulge, ſuch thoughts.

Harriet is vaſtly happy at your pre⯑dilection for her, and bids me offer you the ſecond place in her heart—ſhe kind⯑ly, and I believe at preſent truly ſays, I occupy the firſt—yours is, I think, likely to be the moſt permanent ſtation; [132] as I ſhall have many rivals to contend for mine, and happy will he be who ſhall diſplace me.—

Lucy, who came hither with me, is this day gone to pay her reſpects to her aunt, at Mr Uſher's; we are to meet them at Walterſburgh, next Monday; and ſhe is then to return with me to Southfield, where we have, alas! but a very few days to ſpend, before we ſet out for Dublin: I ſhall truly regret the changing of the ſcene—but muſt obey.

Sir William returns his affectionate compliments to my brother, and you, and was kind enough to ſay he wiſhed you would both come over, and ſee how we live here—what is ſtill more extra⯑ordinary, he ſeemed both ſurpriſed and [133] concerned, when I told him of our dear Delia's death; for he is ſometimes tender, when he is off his guard; ſo that I often flatter myſelf that 'tis rather his man⯑ners which are harſh, and not his nature hard. You ſee how I ſtrive to ſooth my⯑ſelf, and plead for him. He ſays he can⯑not be perſuaded that ſhe could die, in three days, unleſs it were of a French phyſician.

Sir Arthur Aſhford, his ſiſter, and Lord Lucan, are this moment arrived. I have never ſeen the Lady, but hear ſhe is extremely handſome; grant heaven that Lord Lucan may think ſo! now, Fanny, you can have no doubts or fears.

LETTER XVIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

REPORT does not always exag⯑gerate—Miſs Aſhford is really beautiful—the ladies of this country are in general remarkably fair, but the whiteneſs of her ſkin ſurpaſſes any that I have ever ſeen; her eyes are dark hazel, her hair jet black, which forms ſuch a contraſt to her neck and forehead, as images Shakeſpear's ſimile,

She is tall and thin, and though not elegantly made, appears perfectly gen⯑teel—while ſhe ſits ſtill—but the mo⯑ment ſhe is thrown into motion, or emo⯑tion, ſhe ceaſes to be lovely—a ſomething [135] more than want of grace accompanies her action, and every movement of her head, or hands, ſeems performed in op⯑poſition to nature—in ſhort ſhe is the only young perſon I have ever ſeen, whom vivacity does not become. She ſeems ſen⯑ſible, mild, good-natured, and in every reſpect qualified for making an amiable figure—in ſtill life.

I am much pleaſed to find that Sir William is extremely hoſpitable to his country neighbours, and likes to have company in his houſe. This tendency may doubtleſs be attended with ſome in⯑conveniences, which I had rather ſubmit to, than live unknown and unloved, amongſt one's tenants and dependants—it is their induſtry and labour which ſup⯑ports our affluence, and they certainly [136] have a right to a certain ſhare in our en⯑joyments, in proportion to their rank and ſituation.

An accident that happened this morn⯑ing, had like to have triumphed over Sir William's good humour, which is not of the invincible kind.—As we ſat at breakfaſt, in a room that looks into the garden, I obſerved Miſs Aſhford's eyes fixed on a particular object, in the walk before us—I thought ſhe ſeemed ſurpriſed, and I naturally directed a look of inquiry, to diſcover the occaſion; which was a little baſket, that appeared to move, though gently, of itſelf.

The moment I mentioned this circum⯑ſtance, the gentlemen came to the win⯑dow, and Lord Lucan flew directly into the [137] garden, and explained the phenomenon, by bringing the baſket and its contents into the parlour, which was an infant, about a week old, clean, though poorly clad, with a paper pinned to its breaſt, which ſaid, this child has been baptized by its father's name, William.

This circumſtance diſconcerted Sir William, who, after many unneceſſary aſ⯑ſeverations of his innocence, upon this oc⯑caſion, at which the whole company ſmiled, as they knew that he had been above a year out of the kingdom, deter⯑mined to prove his virtue, at the ex⯑pence of his humanity, by ordering the child to be again left in the garden where it was found, till the pariſh officers ſhould come to take charge of it; and by commanding a ſtrict ſearch to be [138] made for the mother, that ſhe might be puniſhed, according to law.

We all oppoſed the ſeverity of this reſolution, as the poor infant appeared almoſt periſhed with cold, and hunger; but Sir William perſiſted in acting like an upright magiſtrate, according to the letter of the law—till Lord Lucan declared that he was ready to adopt the little foundling, and promiſed to take care of it for life, though his name was Tho⯑mas. Sir William then relaxed a little of his auſterity, and gave vent to the re⯑mainder of it by attacking Lord Lucan with all the coarſe raillery uſual upon ſuch occaſions.

I confeſs I was pleaſed with this in⯑ſtance of his Lordſhip's humanity—I [139] have ſeen many others, even in the ſhort term of our acquaintance—yet, at this in⯑ſtant, I could wiſh to have robbed him of this little act of benevolence, and have transferred it to Sir William—There is a ſecret and involuntary ſympathy, that at⯑taches us to generous minds—our affec⯑tions are inſenſibly rivetted by eſteem, and in that caſe we may defy even the power of time to break the charming tye! O, why am I not bound in ſuch a chain!

Though you will ſee by my letter, that I had nothing to ſay when I began to write, yet as it is probable that I ſhall not have half an hour's leiſure, for ſome days to come, I have devoted the preſent moment to convince my Fanny that ſhe is never abſent from my thoughts, to en⯑quire [140] after her's and Sir George's health, and to aſſure her of the ſincereſt regard, of her ever affectionate

LETTER XIX.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

DIſtracted as I am with my own griefs, let me thank my dear ſiſter for having removed ſome of thoſe ap⯑prehenſions which I had ſuffered on her account; and by that means leaving my heart, as it ſhould now be, devoted to ſelfiſh, undivided ſorrow.—Lord Hume is falſe, Louiſa! I am forſaken, in the pride of youth; but for whom I know not.

[141]I cannot write, read the incloſed, then give the hateful ſcroll to the de⯑vouring flames—no, ſend it back—alas! for what? the fatal lines are graved too deeply, on my breaking heart!

My brother ſet out for Paris, laſt week; a ſecond letter from Mrs. Colville, more ambiguous than the former, de⯑termined him: I am glad he is gone,—I ſhould have tried, but fear it would have been in vain, to hide my an⯑guiſh from him—and he has griefs too weighty of his own, to ſuffer me to add reſentment to them.

You ſay your heart is free from love, Louiſa: O, triumph in that bleſt indiffer⯑ence! and know you cannot taſte the extreme of wretchedneſs, without feel⯑ing [142] a tender paſſion for an unworthy ob⯑ject!

If I were capable of joy, I ſhould re⯑ceive it from the hint you give, of your being ſoon likely to be bleſt with a pro⯑per object for your utmoſt ſenſibility! Repine no more, my ſiſter, but let the current of your fondneſs flow in this moſt natural and pleaſing courſe; in the rich channel of maternal love.

I intreat you to acquaint Sir William, as ſoon as poſſible, with this happy event; there are numberleſs reaſons that render it proper: thoſe you urge againſt it, are childiſh; your ſituation muſt na⯑turally increaſe his tenderneſs, and of courſe your happineſs, which is all that [143] can now diffuſe the ſmalleſt gleam of ſatisfaction, to your ever affectionate

P.S. I have this moment received a ſecond letter from you, for which I re⯑turn my thanks; but am not, at preſent, able to write more.

LETTER XX.
Lord HUME to Miſs CLEVELAND.

A Conſciouſneſs of error is, they ſay, the firſt ſtep toward reformation; but there are ſome caſes, in which we may be ſenſible of having done amiſs, yet find it impoſſible to amend: this is cer⯑tainly a very unpleaſing ſituation, and well worthy of pity, from a generous [144] mind.—So circumſtanced I acknowledge myſelf, and throw myſelf at your feet, for pardon.

Can you, madam, riſe ſo far above the unworthy man who aſks it, as to grant him your forgiveneſs, while he confeſſes that the natural inconſtancy of his ſex, and the mutability of his diſpo⯑ſition, have triumphed over a paſſion, which was once his higheſt happineſs, and honour; and which he then thought would have been as permanent, as his life?

I cannot, without deſcending to the meanneſs of a falſhood, affect to ſuppoſe that I am indifferent to you; I know but too well that I was honoured with a place in your affection—but I alſo know that [145] Miſs Cleveland has ſenſe and reſolution ſufficient to conquer her regards for one who owns himſelf unworthy of it—Hu⯑miliating confeſſion!

Let me, however, madam, as a mo⯑tive to your forgiveneſs, plead the ſmall, and only merit, that is in my favour, the not having attempted to deceive you.—I can now only add, that notwith⯑ſtanding the change of my affections, rather than my ſentiments, I ſhall ever re⯑tain the ſincereſt reſpect, and, if I may be allowed the expreſſion, the tendereſt eſteem, for Miſs Cleveland, to whom I have the honour to be

LETTER XXI.
Miſs WESTLEY to Miſs CLEVELAND.

HOW happy ſhould I be, my dear madam, in having the honour of paying my reſpects to you by letter, and thanking you for the kind partiality you have expreſſed in my favour, to my dear aunt, if her illneſs had not been the oc⯑caſion of my writing: but don't be alarmed, madam, ſhe is at preſent out of danger, though ſtill ſo weak as to be unable to write, even to you.

She was taken ill, the day after ſhe came here, and miſcarried, the day following. How I grieve for the loſs of my dear lit⯑tle couſin! he would have been a charm⯑ing [147] play-thing for us all. You can't ima⯑gine how much my uncle has fretted about it: but though my poor dear aunt has the moſt reaſon to be ſorry, ſhe bears every thing with her uſual ſweetneſs of temper—but I need not expatiate on her gentleneſs, to you who know her, for every creature who does, muſt be charm⯑ed with her.

Miſs Leiſter, who was to have been here with us, was confined with a quin⯑zy, at Mr. Uſher's, when my aunt grew ill; but ſhe came to us, yeſterday, and the gentlemen are all gone to Dublin—It was intended that we ſhould be very merry, when we arrived here, but I never ſaw ſuch a diſmal houſe; I long to get back to Southfield, which I hope we ſhall be able to do, in a few days.

[148]My aunt deſires me to aſſure you of her tendereſt affection, and ſays ſhe will write, the moment ſhe can hold a pen.

I hope my dear Miſs Cleveland will not take an averſion to me, for being the meſſenger of diſagreeable news, but believe that it would have afforded me the ſincereſt pleaſure, to have informed her that my aunt was as well and happy as I know ſhe deſerves to be, and I moſt truly wiſh her. I have the honour to be, dear madam,

P.S. I don't know whether you are acquainted with Lord Lucan; but I can't [149] help telling you, that he had the miſ⯑fortune to ſprain his leg, ſo that he could not dance, or walk, even the firſt day he came—there never was any thing ſo unlucky as this party has been! for every one has had ſomething to diſ⯑treſs them.

LETTER XXII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Miſs WESTLEY.

I Lament with you, my dear Harriet, that our correſpondence ſhould com⯑mence on an occaſion ſo painful to us both, as Lady Barton's illneſs; but I ſhould be unworthy of that regard which you ſeem inclined to ſhew me, if it were poſſible that I ſhould conceive any diſlike to you, for acquainting me with our com⯑mon misfortune, I mean the loſs of our [150] little couſin—however, as you aſſure me that my ſiſter is at preſent out of danger, I think we may reaſonably hope that our preſent loſs may be repaired in future, and that we may yet have many pretty play-things, in which we ſhall be mutu⯑ally intereſted.

The ſweetneſs of Lady Barton's tem⯑per muſt intereſt all who know her, in her ſufferings of every kind, and leſſen even to herſelf the painful ſenſations ariſing from her preſent diſagreeable ſituation—Such is the potent power of gentleneſs! I have no doubt of your tender attachment to her; there is a natural ſympathy between the good and amiable, which far exceeds the ties either of affinity or conſanguinity.

I have not the honour of knowing Lord Lucan, but am ſorry for the accident he [151] has met with, both for his ſake and yours, as I fancy his lameneſs interfered with the amuſement you propoſed to yourſelf, in dancing.—But we are all li⯑able to diſappointments, my young friend; and may this be one of the great⯑eſt that you ſhall ever experience!

Aſſure my beloved ſiſter of my ſer⯑vent and unceaſing wiſhes for her ſpeedy recovery. And believe me to be my dear Miſs Weſtley's

LETTER XXIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

MY deareſt Fanny, I lay hold of the firſt poſſible moment to calm your fears for my ſafety, I mean with re⯑gard to my health: Harriet, by my de⯑ſire, has given you an account of the accident that befel me here; but ſhe and all the world are ſtrangers to the cauſe of it.

But before I enter into a detail, that muſt affect you, let me congratulate my deareſt ſiſter upon the timely diſcovery of lord Hume's inconſtancy—Rejoice, my Fanny, that this worthleſs man is not your huſband! and that you are at [153] liberty to indulge your reſentment, or contempt, without a breach of duty—This, though you may not be ſenſible of it, is certainly an allevation of the mi⯑ſery which ariſes from ill-placed love—but time, and your ſenſe and virtue will, I hope, enable you to triumph over any remain of weakneſs, for ſuch an un⯑worthy object—Yet, contemptible as he is, I cannot help being pleaſed with his letter; frankneſs always charms me, and, like charity, in my mind it covers a multitude of faults.

Do not, from what I have ſaid, ima⯑gine that I think lightly of your preſent diſtreſs; I am convinced, that to a heart tender and good as yours, it muſt be ſe⯑vere; but I alſo know, that there are other ſituations much more intolerable, [154] and I am almoſt tempted to exclaim with Lord Littleton.—

You ſhall be yourſelf the judge, and I will now proceed.

Sir Arthur, Miſs Aſhford, Lord Lu⯑can, Sir William, Harriet, and I, ſet out together for this place, the Monday after I wrote to you—We were to have met Mrs. Layton, Miſs Leiſter, the family of the Uſhers, and ſeveral other ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood—The firſt mortification I received, was hearing that my Lucy was ill of a ſore throat, and could not come from Uſher's Grove; her aunt, and the reſt of the fa⯑mily came, but were all to return after ſupper.

[155]I told you, in my laſt, that I had re⯑fuſed to dance with Colonel Walter; I was alſo aſked by Lord Lucan, but de⯑ſired to be excuſed, and entreated he would take Miſs Aſhford for his partner. He ſaid he would obey me, and accord⯑ingly deſired the honour of her hand, which ſhe readily granted—About a quar⯑ter of an hour before the ball began, he unluckily ſtrained his leg, and was not able to fulfil his engagement.—Sir Wil⯑liam, though not fond of dancing, was polite enough to ſupply his place, and Lord Lucan and I were reduced to play at quadrille, with a couple of dowagers, and an old parſon.

The evening, however, paſſed off, very tolerably, and we retired to our cham⯑bers about twelve o'clock. The gentle⯑men [156] had agreed to meet and hunt, the next morning; and I determined to pay a viſit to Lucy, between breakfaſt and dinner, that day; for the Colonel had inſiſted on our not leaving him till the next.

According to appointment with his companions of the chace, Sir William roſe early, and left me aſleep; I had re⯑ſolved not to acquaint him with my ſitu⯑ation, till our return to Southfield; as I knew that many coarſe jeſts and com⯑mon-place ſayings would paſs, on the occaſion; which I ſhould wiſh to avoid, at all times, but eſpecially before ſtrangers.

About eight o'clock in the morning, I was waked by a perſon who knelt at my bedſide, and preſſed my hand to their lips—the chamber was dark, I could [157] only diſtinguiſh that it was a man, and inſtantly concluded him to be Lord Lu⯑can; from this circumſtance only, that I recollected Colonel Walter was to have rode out with Sir William.—I ſtrove to withdraw my hand, but could not; upon which I addreſſed him with the ſtrongeſt expreſſions of ſurprize and reſentment, at his having dared to take ſo unwarrant⯑able a liberty; to which, he anſwered, only in a whiſper, entreating me to for⯑give the effects of a paſſion too violent to be reſtrained.—He then attempted to preſs his lips to mine, and when I was going to ring my bell, I heard Sir William's voice upon the ſtairs, and fainted.

When I came to myſelf, I found Miſs Aſhford, Sir William, and Harriet, in [158] the room, ſtanding about my bed-ſide—I ſuffered infinite anxiety at that inſtant, to know whether Sir William had found Lord Lucan in my chamber, and what had paſſed between them? Harriet and Miſs Aſhford were bathing my temples with lavender water, while Sir William held one of my hands between his, and as ſoon as he found that I was recover⯑ing, preſs'd it gently, and withdrew; ſay⯑ing that he ſuppoſed ladies under⯑ſtood how to manage one another better, in ſuch circumſtances, than he—his calm⯑neſs amazed me! in ſhort the various emotions of my mind, for ſome time, are not to be expreſſed.

I determined, on the inſtant, to return to Southfield directly, let the conſequence be what it would; and never to ſuffer [159] Lord Lucan to come into my ſight again; but, alas! when I attempted to riſe, I found it impoſſible; the agitation of my mind, had diſorder'd my whole frame; my illneſs encreaſed every moment, a meſſenger was diſpatched for a phyſician, but before he could arrive—

When Sir William was informed of my misfortune, he raved and ſtamped like a mad-man; ſaid I muſt have deſigned to deſtroy his heir, out of perverſeneſs, or I would certainly have acquainted him with my ſituation—while, Heaven knows, I would have given my own life, with pleaſure, to have ſaved my child.

I continued in a ſtate of ſuch extreme weakneſs, for four days, that I ſaw no creature but Benſon, who had been ſent [160] for expreſs, the doctor, and Harriet who wept continually by me—I never can forget the dear girl's tenderneſs.

On the fifth morning, Sir William came into the room, and with an air of the ut⯑moſt diſatisfaction, told me he was very ſorry for the loſs of his boy, but hoped I ſhould do well; and as he could not be of any uſe to a ſick perſon, he had reſol⯑ved to attend the meeting of parliament, and ſhould ſet out for Dublin, with the Colonel and Lord Lucan, directly—that as ſoon as I was able, I might either re⯑turn to Southfield, or follow him to town, as I liked beſt.—But that I need not be in a hurry to move, for his good friend had left orders that I ſhould be as well at⯑tended, as if I were in my own houſe; and that Lucy Leiſter was now recovered, [161] and would come that day to Walterſburg, to keep me company.—He then gave me a cool kiſs, and withdrew.

I rejoiced extremely, at hearing that Lord Lucan was to go with Sir William; for though my life was at ſtake, I would not have remained in the ſame houſe with him, after my huſband had left it; be⯑ſides it ſaved me the difficulty of an inter⯑view, which my poor weak brain had been ſtudying to avoid, the whole time of my illneſs—Yet I had doubts and fears that he might inſolently have made a pre⯑tence to ſtay behind, till Benſon aſſured me that ſhe ſaw him ſet out, at the ſame time with Sir William and the Colonel.

Juſt as he was going off, he gave the encloſed note to Harriet, to deliver to [162] me as ſoon as I ſhould be able to read it; the ſweet girl could not conceal her emotion about it, ſhe feared ſhe had done wrong in receiving it, and, with her cheeks covered with bluſhes, and her eyes filled with tears, ſhe preſented it to me, beg⯑ging I would excuſe her if ſhe had acted improperly.

I never was more embarraſſed, in my life, than at that moment; I could have no doubt but that his letter was filled with apologies for the audaciouſneſs of his conduct, and to read it was in ſome meaſure to admit of his excuſes.—But while I heſitated, Harriet, whoſe impa⯑tience ſeemed to be extreme, had broken the ſeal, and ſaid, ſhall I read it to you, Madam? Luckily for me that part of the chamber I ſat in, was ſo much dark⯑ened [163] by a large ſcreen, that ſhe did not diſcover my confuſion; therefore taking my ſilence for conſent, ſhe proceeded to read, as follows.

I never felt ſurpriſe more ſtrongly, than at hearing this letter; and my amaze⯑ment was rather increaſed, by the tre⯑pidation and hurry of Harriet's voice and manner, in reading it, who, on the inſtant [165] ſhe had finiſhed, deſired I would give her leave to write his lordſhip an ac⯑count of my health, by that very night's poſt.—This I abſolutely forbad; but, in order to change the ſubject, told her I would employ her in a more intereſting correſpondence, and deſired ſhe would immediately write to you.

I confeſs to you, Fanny, that Lord Lucan's letter has puzzled me ſo much, that I ſometimes think it impoſſible he could have been guilty of the inſult I have charged him with, and not attempt⯑ed to have made ſome apology for it.—Yet who elſe could have dared to enter my chamber; or, indeed, who elſe was in the houſe, at the time? I am almoſt tempted to perſuade myſelf, ſometimes, that it was only a dream or viſion, that [166] alarmed me—at other times my mind ſuggeſts ſome ſcruples to itſelf, for not having acquainted Sir William with the affair.—But then again, in that caſe, I muſt have hazarded my huſband's and ſome other perſon's life! dreadful though! No, let me rather ſuffer all that fate can inflict on innocence, than be the cauſe of one man's death, or miſery!

The moment that Lord Lucan left the houſe, I felt as if a weight had been taken off my heart—I have grown better every hour ſince, and the company of my Lucy and Harriet makes me not re⯑gret the abſence of any other perſon, but yourſelf—For heaven's ſake, my deareſt Fanny, no longer deny me and yourſelf the indulgence of ſharing my heart, and alleviating its anxieties! you have now [167] nothing to detain you in England; my brother will moſt probably ſtay abroad, ſome years.—But I will not ſay more; for if your own inclination and my ſituation do not impel you, I would not wiſh that my perſuaſions or intreaties ſhould com⯑pel you.

I have been three days about this let⯑ter, and think it high time to con⯑clude; but muſt firſt acquaint you that the day Benſon came here, ſhe diſcover⯑ed a private door in my chamber, which leads to another apartment, through which I conclude that Lord Lucan had made both his entry and retreat; or elſe Sir William muſt have met him going out of my room, at the time I fainted.—Adieu, my Fanny; I will write to you, as ſoon as I get to [168] Southfield, which will be, at fartheſt, in three days.

LETTER XXIV.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

WHY muſt I tell my dear Louiſa, that the contents of her letter abated the pleaſure I received from ſee⯑ing that her hand had ſuperſcribed it? this little circumſtance gave me an idea of your perfect recovery, while the ſame characters on the inſide, trace out a tale of unhappineſs and diſtreſs! and who can hope for health, while the mind ſuf⯑fers?

There is ſomething very extraordinary, in the adventure you have met with, [169] at Walterſburgh; but your ſurmiſe on that occaſion does not appear to me to have the leaſt foundation—on the con⯑trary, I would almoſt hazard any bett, that Lord Lucan was incapable of treat⯑ing you with ſuch diſreſpect. It is im⯑poſſible, I think, from the whole con⯑tour of his character, to ſuppoſe that he could be guilty of ſuch an outrage to de⯑cency and honour; ſtill more incredible to believe, that he ſhould never ſince have thought proper to offer any ſort of excuſe for ſuch a behaviour, eſpecially as he proceeded ſo far as to frame an oppor⯑tunity to himſelf for doing ſo, by the reſpectful freedom of his letter to you; for an action too, which was ſo unfortu⯑nate in its conſequences, to the woman he loves—for that he loves, is but too obvious.

[170]Who then could it be? That indeed, I muſt be at a loſs to anſwer, any more than yourſelf.—I am half perſuaded, and I wiſh I was intirely ſo, that it was only a dream—But be that as it may, I think you were perfectly right, in concealing the affair from Sir William, as the know⯑ledge of it muſt have been fatal, at leaſt to his repoſe, and yours.

I am very ſorry, that Sir William ſhould have ſhewn more regret for the loſs of his ſon, than concern for your ill⯑neſs; but parental fondneſs is, I fear, a ſtronger and more general affection, in male minds, than conjugal love.—But, indeed, my dear, you deſerve a little mortification for your falſe deli⯑cacy, in concealing your ſituation from him; ſo kiſs the rod, and have done [171] whimpering, as we ſay to naughty chil⯑dren.

I moſt earneſtly wiſh that the buſineſs of parliament had not called Sir William from home, at this juncture; I long till he and you are ſettled in a domeſtic way, at Southfield—I own I am alarmed at a married woman's meeting with ad⯑ventures of the novel kind—in the ab⯑ſence of her huſband—

To ſay truth, I think you in almoſt as much danger as our fair mother, to whom theſe words were addreſſed, for there certainly is a ſerpent in the graſs, ſome⯑where, autour de vous—You have, how⯑ever, the advantage of being warned of [172] your danger, provided you conſtrue the billet you ſent me as its firſt whiſper; and, as a woman's beſt ſafety is found in re⯑treat, I wiſh you would reſolve to with⯑draw yourſelf from any further intimacy, either with Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter—believe me, my Louiſa, they are both dangerous intimates, though in a different way.

I receive your congratulation as I am ſure it is meant; and though my mind is not yet ſtrong enough to conſider the diſcovery of Lord Hume's inconſtancy, as a ſubject for rejoicing at, yet I agree with you, that had this change in his af⯑fections happened after I had become his wife, the misfortune would have cer⯑tainly been more inſupportable; though I cannot, even at preſent, avail myſelf of [173] the reſource you offer me, of hating or deſpiſing a man whom I once loved—The utmoſt I ever hope to arrive at, is to be able to ſpeak of my affection for him, in the paſt tenſe only; and the moſt effectual way to arrive at that end, is to mention him as little as poſſible, for the future. I hope your next letter will in⯑form me of your returning health, and happineſs; I need the aſſiſtance of them both, to ſupport my preſent wretched⯑neſs—May they long attend my beloved ſiſter, ſincerely prays her affectionate

LETTER XXV.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

DEAR Hume, I ſhould be extreme⯑ly pleaſed, if I could, like you, conſider the transformation of Ovid, as a ſeries of ſerious and natural events; for as I have, for ſome time paſt, be⯑come extremely weary of my preſent form or mode of exiſtence, I ſhould be inclined to flatter myſelf, that any change muſt be for the better; but the metem⯑pſychoſis of Pythagoras would ſuit me ſtill better than the metamorphoſes of Ovid; I ſhould like to carry my identity with me, into whatever being my ſpirit was appointed to animate, as I think the conſciouſneſs of the ſufferings I now en⯑dure, would render any ſtate, except [175] that of a ferocious animal, agreeable to me.

But to be ſerious—I have been, for ſome months paſt, uncommonly wretch⯑ed; the fate of her who is the arbiter of mine, hung for an age in doubtful bal⯑lance. I never knew the extreme of mi⯑ſery, till then; for, alas! I had never before given myſelf leave to think ſhe was mortal! Yes, Hume, all that I love in life was near the grave! and I ſuſtained the ſhock like a philoſopher—I ſighed and wept in ſecret; while to the world I wore the ſpecious maſk of mere humanity.—This was as much as I had power to do; and he that ſays philoſophy can go be⯑yond this mark, and teach us not to feel, miſtakes its uſe, and makes dull apathy uſurp its place.

[176]I don't know that ever I felt ſo much pleaſure in writing as at this moment; it certainly relieves our oppreſſion to un⯑burthen our hearts, and you are my on⯑ly confidant—This declaration may ap⯑pear ſtrange to you, who know ſo little of the particulars of my attachment; but when I affirm, that no perſon breathing knows ſo much, not even the dear ob⯑ject of it, you may, nay you muſt, ac⯑cept the title.

From your laſt letter, which I have read over ſeveral times, I have collected two things which give me ſincere plea⯑ſure, but will ſurpriſe you extreme⯑ly; the firſt is, that you endeavour to perſuade yourſelf that you love Mar⯑garita much better than you really do: and the ſecond, that you not only re⯑ſpect [177] and eſteem, but ſtill love Miſs Cleveland! I hope you have written to her, Hume—Every woman of worth and honour has, and ought to have, a pro⯑per pride; neglect is therefore the moſt unpardonable of all offences that a man can commit—I ſpeak of men, not brutes; rudeneſs is, of courſe, out of the queſtion.

I was extremely diverted at the many ridiculous ideas you formed of the object of my paſſion; but this, be aſſured of, and let it ſatisfy you, that neither her mind or body have been perverted by any kind of art, but that ſhe is at this inſtant the moſt perfect work of the great and univerſal Artiſt, that I have ever yet beheld! though perhaps ſhe may not have ſtruck you, (for you have [178] ſeen her,) with the ſame idea of per⯑fection.

I perfectly agree with you that the word happineſs has as many various mean⯑ings, as there are tempers and conſtitu⯑tions in the world; to confine it there⯑fore to any taſte, paſſion, or mode of life, would be juſt as abſurd as to drain your ponds, that your fiſh may fly; and flood your aviaries, that your birds may ſwim. Be it, therefore, unto you, as you have wiſhed it unto me, that is, as you chooſe it.—Adieu, my dear Hume.

LETTER XXVI.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

I Have often told you, my dear Lu⯑can, that I never trouble myſelf to inveſtigate cauſes for any thing that hap⯑pens; effects are enough for me: ſo that whether your tranſmogrification be according to the Ovidian, or Pythago⯑rean ſyſtem, is of no ſort of conſequence; for tranſmogrified you are, to all intents and purpoſes—You may divert yourſelf with looking for the etymology of that word, but though I don't believe you will be able to find its derivation in any dictionary, it is a deviliſh good one, for all that, and truly expreſſive of my meaning.

[180]Why, my dear metamorphoſed friend, you had nothing of the Catullus ſtrain in you, while you lived among us here. But there are peculiar diſorders incident to certain climates, and an heavy atmo⯑ſphere naturally makes people draw their breath in ſighs. Fly then for your life, my dear patient, and take the air of the world, once more among us again, be⯑fore your ailment has confirmed itſelf in⯑to a Platonic aſthma in the bogs of Ire⯑land.

You have puzzled me to the laſt line of a riddle, by ſaying that I have often ſeen your Leſbia—pr'ythee, be good na⯑tured, Lucan, and tell me when, and where; for gueſſing is rather trouble⯑ſome: there can be no ſort of danger in letting me know who ſhe is, as you are [181] already convinced that I don't like her; or if I did, may I periſh if I would at⯑tempt to rival my friend with any wo⯑man breathing; you may, therefore, be perfectly ſafe, in making me a real con⯑fidant, inſtead of a nominal one.

Margarita and I have been here this fortnight, and in that time we have con⯑trived to loſe a good round ſum at play: ſhe thinks we have been overmatched, by the Venetians, and wants to try our for⯑tune at Rome; but I muſt wait for re⯑mittances from England, before I can make this or any other experiment of the kind.

You are miſtaken, Lucan. I love Mar⯑garita moſt truly; and, what is much more extraordinary, my affection for her [182] rather increaſes than abates—I have my⯑ſelf been made ſenſible of this, tho' not in the moſt agreeable manner; for I have lately felt ſomewhat of that hydra of ca⯑lamities, jealouſy—and this, though I am perfectly ſatisfied that my ſweet girl gave me no ſort of cauſe, on her part, and would not quit me, for an emperor—

You are in ſome meaſure right, with regard to my ſentiments for Fanny Cleveland.—I certainly do moſt tho⯑roughly eſteem her, and have given the ſtrongeſt proof of my having an high opinion of her underſtanding, by wri⯑ting a very fooliſh letter, acknowledging myſelf, what, I dare ſay, your wiſe wor⯑ſhip already thinks me, a very ſilly fel⯑low.—I don't know, but as you ſay, I may love her too—that is, according [183] to your plan of loving, à la ſeraphique—but I have no idea of that ſort of paſſion which can admit of a doubt, or allow us time to reaſon about the why or wherefore of the matter—Let me be charmed! my ſenſes captivated! and let reaſon go to the ſchools, if it will; for I never found it of any uſe, but to tor⯑ment me.—I am all impatience for my remittances; I don't like this place, nor does Margarita, though ſhe has a num⯑ber of relations here, brothers and couſins, by the dozen; but they are all prieſts, and I am apprehenſive that ſome of theſe infatuates may perſuade her to quit me, and lock her up in a convent—the dear girl ſometimes alarms me much, by talk⯑ing religiouſly; but if I can get her to Rome once, there will be an end of theſe fears; for I am told, that there is not even the ſhadow of devotion there.

[184]It is now two o'clock at noon, and Margarita has not yet bleſſed my eyes; I fear ſhe is not well—I muſt go to en⯑quire her health. I hope your fair one is recovered: do, tell me all about her, in your next. Direct to me at Rome; I forget where, but to the care of your former Banker.

LETTER XXVII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

THANK Heaven, my deareſt Fan⯑ny, I have at laſt eſcaped out of that worſe than lyon's den, that deteſt⯑able Colonel Walter's houſe!—On the [185] day after I wrote laſt to you, as the wea⯑ther was remarkably fine, for the ſeaſon, I inſiſted on Lucy and Harriet's going out to take the air; and, in order to hard⯑en myſelf for my removal, I ventured into the room adjoining mine, which is a very large and handſome library.—Benſon had told me, that, ſince the Colo⯑nel went to Dublin, ſhe had ſometimes ſeen a beautiful little girl, of four years old, running about the houſe, but that the child could not ſpeak Engliſh; and that the ſervants were extremely ill-na-natured to the poor baby, who uſed to weep when ſhe could not make herſelf underſtood; that ſhe was perfectly enga⯑ging in her manner, and ſeemed to take a liking to Benſon; that ſhe had en⯑quired, as much as was proper, who the child belonged to, and was conſtantly [186] anſwered, that they knew nothing more of her, than that ſhe was one of their maſter's importations.

Upon this report I confeſs that I felt my relationſhip to dame Eve very ſtrong⯑ly; and deſired Benſon to bring the child to me, the firſt opportunity—She accord⯑ingly led her by the hand into the library, on the day I have mentioned; but the moment the child ſaw me, ſhe would have fled, and exclaimed in French, O my papa will kill me! I replied to her, in her own language, and aſſured her that no harm ſhould happen to her—She ſmiled upon me, and aſked was I a French-woman? if I was, ſhe would love me dearly; for all the people in this place, ſhe ſaid, were croſs, and cruel, except her poor mama, that ſhe believed was [187] dying—She then hid her face, with her little hands, and burſt into a paſſion of tears.

I need not tell you how I was af⯑fected—She became inſtantly ſenſible of my tenderneſs, and ſuffered Benſon to lead her to me, and ſet her on my knee; but though ſhe leaned her head upon my neck, and ſeemed pleaſed with my careſſ⯑es, I could perceive that fear predomin⯑ated over every other ſenſation, by her eyes being conſtantly directed to the door, and her appearing alarmed, at every noiſe.—I aſked her where her mama was? She pauſed for a few moments, and then replied, I was not forbidden to tell that; ſhe is above ſtairs, lying upon her bed, and that bed is on the ground—We don't lye ſo in France.

[188]The innocence and ſenſibility of her re⯑mark quite overcame me—She took my handkerchief, and dried my eyes; then ſaid, ‘"Don't weep! pray don't! you don't ſleep upon the ground, nor any one elſe, I believe, except my poor mama."’ Again I kiſſed the lovely little pratler—I deſired her to tell her mama, that I ſhould be glad to ſee her—She ſhook her head; and ſaid that was impoſſible; for her mama was too ſick to come out of her room; but if ſhe were well, ſhe muſt not diſobey her papa, and he had com⯑manded her never to ſtir out, while ſhe lived.—Then ſaid I, my dear, I will go up to her—She anſwered quick, ‘"No! no! that cannot be, the ſervants would tell my papa."’—I aſked her would ſhe carry a letter to her mama? ſhe ſaid yes—I then aſked her mama's name, and ſhe [189] anſwered D'Olivet—I inſtantly ſat down and wrote in French, what follows—

The child carried away the billet, and returned in leſs than ten minutes, to tell me that her mama had neither pen, ink, or paper; but if I would be ſo good to let her have them, ſhe would write an anſwer immediately, and in the mean time returned me a thouſand thanks, for the honour of my letter.—The dear little Olivet took my hand, kiſſed it, and ſaid ſhe was ſure ſhe ſhould love me; for ſhe thought I had done her mama good already.—I immediately furniſhed her with my own porte-feuille, which con⯑tained all the neceſſary implements for writing; and waited, not without ſome degree of impatience, to have this myſ⯑tery [192] explained.—Lucy and Harriet re⯑turned from their airing, ſoon after this adventure; but I did not think it proper to mention the affair to them, till I was more fully informed myſelf.—I heard nothing farther of the child, or her mo⯑ther, till I retired into my bed-chamber, and then Benſon gave me a letter in French, which I ſend you incloſed.

Judge of my feelings, at reading this letter, by your own! But though I know you will be diſpleaſed at my quitting the ſtory here, I muſt break off, as the poſt is going out, and I cannot ſend this without telling you that I have no re⯑mains of my late indiſpoſition, but weak⯑neſs—Peace of mind, and exerciſe will, I hope, ſoon reſtore my former ſtrength—To-morrow, my Fanny, I will indulge you with the remainder of this affecting narrative, till then

Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.
LETTER XXVIII.

THE moment I had read Mrs. Wal⯑ter's letter, I ſent Benſon to wait her coming at the appointed place.—As ſome of the family were not yet gone to bed, I had near half an hour's leiſure to reflect on the uncommon villainy of Co⯑lonel Walter! If this lady was his wife, which I could have no doubt of, from her taking his name, how did he dare to propoſe marriage to Mrs. Layton? But this circumſtance appeared trifling, when compared to the inhumanity of his beha⯑viour to the unfortunate Olivia, and her lovely child! At length Benſon tapped ſoftly at my door, and I roſe to receive [198] a being that ſeemed no longer an inha⯑bitant of this world.—From the child's account of her mother's illneſs, I was prepared to ſee a perſon pale, and ema⯑ciated; but any thing ſo near our idea of a beautiful ſpectre, never yet, I believe, ſtruck mortal ſight.

I muſt deſcribe her to you—her ſtature is ſome-what above the middle ſize, but the extreme thinneſs of her figure, made her appear ſtill taller—her eyes are large, and of the darkeſt blue; her noſe aquiline, with the moſt beautiful mouth and teeth I ever ſaw; her ſkin fairer than alabaſter, and ſo clear, that one might fancy they ſaw the circulation of the blood, which ſupplied a faint bluſhing in her cheeks, reſembling the inner tints of a white roſe; her hair of a light ſhining brown, [199] flowed in looſe treſſes upon her ſhoul⯑ders—her gown was a white ſilk polo⯑neſe; ſhe had on a gauze hood, tied looſe⯑ly under her chin, and a ſlight covering of the ſame ſort, upon her neck; ſhe ap⯑peared all form without ſubſtance, ſpirit without matter; and had ſhe propheſied, my faith would have liſtened, as to an angel.—

As ſhe entered my room, ſhe made an effort, which I was not lucky enough to prevent, to throw herſelf at my feet—when I attempted to raiſe her from the ground, I had not ſtrength ſufficient, for ſhe had fainted there; with Benſon's aſſiſt⯑ance and mine, ſhe recovered, in about ten minutes, then guſhed into ſuch a flood of tears, as took away all power of [200] ſpeech, and almoſt ſuffocated her; ſhe often tried to ſpeak, and implore my pardon for the diſtreſs and trouble ſhe had occaſioned me; and you may ſup⯑poſe that I ſaid every thing in my power to calm her mind.

As ſoon as ſhe became a little col⯑lected, ſhe ſaid it was joy, not ſorrow, that had overpowered her weak frame; the latter ſhe had been too familiar with, but the former was indeed ſuch a long abſent gueſt, that it muſt be welcomed with ſome degree of tranſport.—If the delicacy of her ſentiments had needed any addition, they would have received the higheſt from the ſweetneſs of her voice, and the uncommon beauty of her mouth, while ſhe uttered them.

[201]In order to reſtrain her acknowlege⯑ments for my intereſting myſelf about her and her child, I preſſed her to relate her ſtory, and to account for the extra⯑ordinary appearances ariſing from her ſituation. She bowed, and proceeded with ſo much grace and elegance of ex⯑preſſion, that I could have hung with mute attention on her ſpeech, for a whole winter's night, or a long ſummer's day, and never wiſhed her tale to have an end!

The Story of Mrs. WALTER.

I had the misfortune to loſe my father, who had the honour of being a general officer in the king of Sardinia's ſervice, when I was but eleven years old; his name was d'Alemberg—as he had many great and lucrative employments; and my mother and he were both young, [202] they indulged themſelves in a thought⯑leſs extravagance together, at Turin, du⯑ring his life—But at his deceaſe, my mo⯑ther, no longer able to ſupport the rank ſhe had held at that court, retired to Briançon, to live upon the ſmall pa⯑trimony which remained for her and me.

Young as I was, the loſs of a fond father made a very deep impreſſion on my mind; and the perpetual affliction to which I ſaw my mother had devoted her⯑ſelf, and which terminated her life in two years, brought me full early ac⯑quainted with ſorrow.

After this irreparable loſs, I remained at Briançon, under the care of an old maiden aunt of my father's, who had lived too much ſequeſtered from the [203] world, and who, ignorant of the nature of youth, or how to guide it, ſupplied the place of inſtruction, with auſterity, never ſuffered me to be a moment out of her ſight, and was for ever extol⯑ling her own goodneſs and charity, in being troubled with the care of my edu⯑cation and maintenance.—In ſhort, her manners were perfectly diſagreeable, and ſo extremely different from that delicacy and tenderneſs, to which I had been too much accuſtomed, that, tho' I ſtrove to reſpect her, as my aunt, I found it impoſ⯑ſible either to love or eſteem her.—The affections of young and amiable minds cannot center in themſelves; and if they are not properly attached by the ties of affinity, or kindneſs, they will moſt probably beſtow themſelves on impro⯑per objects.—This was unluckily my caſe.

[204]The only perſon I was ſuffered to converſe with, except my aunt, and that only at home, was a girl about three years elder than myſelf, whoſe mother had been formerly a ſervant to mine, but at that time kept an inn at Briançon.—This girl then, as was natural, I became extremely fond of; and as my aunt grew every day more infirm, and was often confined to her bed, I found frequent opportunities of viſiting my dear Nan⯑nette, unknown to my ſevere guardian, at her mother's houſe.

In one of theſe, till then, innocent excurſions, my ill fate contrived that Colonel Walter ſhould arrive at Briançon, and ſtop at the houſe where I was—It was ſummer, the evening fine, and, as he had no company, he ſauntered into [205] the garden, where Nannette and I were ſitting at work, in an arbour—He ac⯑coſted us with great politeneſs, and I could perceive that my companion was highly pleaſed with his addreſs—But the timidity natural to a perſon who had been brought up in ſo retired a manner as I had been, made me wiſh to with⯑draw; and, notwithſtanding his, and Nannette's ſolicitations to the contrary, I quickly returned home, poſſeſſed with the firſt idea I had ever felt, of having done wrong.

I ſaw, by the Colonel's appearance, that he was an officer; the recollection of my father ſtruck forcibly into my mind, and I bluſhed with indignation to think that general d'Alemberg's daughter had been ſeen in ſo improper a ſituation. [206] My pride was, however, conſoled by thinking that I ſhould never ſee him again; and I determined to be more guarded, in my future viſits to my friend.

The next morning, very early, Nan⯑nette was at my bedſide, and expreſſed ſome degree of reſentment at my hav⯑ing quitted her ſo abruptly, the preceed⯑ing night—my delicacy would not ſuffer me to hurt her pride, by telling her my real motive for retiring; I there⯑fore ſaid that it was owing to my appre⯑henſions of being miſſed by my aunt; but that I got off undiſcovered, and ſhould not be ſo cowardly, another time: ſhe ſeemed ſatisfied with this declaration, and preſſed me to come to her, that evening. She had an intire aſcendant over me, and notwithſtanding the reſo⯑lution [207] I had made a few hours before, I readily promiſed to attend her.

I had no doubt but that the Colonel would by that time have quitted Brian⯑çon; and I would not venture to aſk a queſtion relative to him, leſt it might lead her to ſuſpect my thoughts: ſhe however talked of him inceſſantly; ſaid he was the handſomeſt, and moſt agree⯑able gentleman ſhe had ever ſeen; told me he had invited her mother and her to ſupper, and behaved to them as if they were princeſſes; and added ſhe was glad he did not live in that country, as ſhe feared another interview might en⯑gage too much of her affections. She rattled away in this manner, till I was ſummoned to attend my aunt, and then made me repeat my promiſe of going to [208] her the moment the old lady ſhould re⯑tire to reſt.

My aunt was, if poſſible, more pee⯑viſh than uſual that whole day, or at leaſt her ill temper had a more than com⯑mon effect upon my ſpirits—I longed for the evening to be releaſed from her tyranny, and to be indulged with the liberty of pouring forth my little ſor⯑rows in the boſom of my faithful Nan⯑nette.

The moment that my aunt had diſ⯑miſſed me from her chamber, I flew to my appointment, without waiting to alter my dreſs, which was a perfect deſ⯑habille, and found Nannette in the ar⯑bour, adorned with every little orna⯑ment that ſhe was poſſeſſed of. My [209] thoughts were too much affected with the diſagreeableneſs of my own ſituation, to make reflections on the gaiety of her appearance.

I ſeated myſelf by her, leaned my head upon her boſom, and, with a pro⯑fuſion of tears, told her I was no longer able to bear the miſery I ſuffered from my aunt's ſeverity.—She ſmiled, and, as I thought, with an air of triumph, told me that I might put an end to my mis⯑fortunes, as ſoon as I pleaſed, for that the Colonel had aſſured her he had viſit⯑ed all the courts in Europe, and had never ſeen any thing half ſo beautiful, as either ſhe, or I.—That for her part ſhe was reſolved to try her fortune in the world, forthwith, and not ſtay moping at Briançon till ſhe grew old and ugly; [210] and that if I would accompany her, ſhe did not at all doubt of our ſucceſs; that I might hope to marry ſome reigning prince, and that ſhe might at leaſt ex⯑pect to be miſtreſs of a dukedom.

I was both ſhocked, and ſurpriſed, at hearing my friend talk in this extrava⯑gant and unuſual ſtile; but before I could expreſs my ſentiments, Colonel Walter came into the arbour, dreſſed as if he had been going to court on a gala day—I confeſs I was ſtruck, nay daz⯑zled, with his appearance—from the time of my leaving Turin, I had never ſeen any man finely or elegantly dreſſed, before: I now quickly perceived the ad⯑vantages that Nannette received from being decked out, and bluſhed at the inferiority of my own appearance.

[211]Every human creature has, I believe, ſome ſparks of vanity in their nature, and this was the fatal moment when mine were firſt kindled: a deſire of out⯑ſhining Nannette, who had a good deal diſguſted me, took immediate poſſeſſion of my thoughts, and my countenance was, upon the inſtant, lighted up with ſmiles.—I have not a doubt but Colonel Walter ſaw through the thin veil that co⯑vered the ſentiments of a creature ſo young and artleſs as I was then; he at leaſt indulged my weakneſs, even beyond my wiſhes, by intirely devoting his whole attention to me, and totally neglecting my companion.

Olivia here broke off her narrative, to apologize for entering into ſuch minute circumſtances, which ſhe ſaid was meant [212] to convince me of her ſincerity, as ſhe was very certain that her weakneſs and innocence were the ground works of her ruin—‘"But, alas! (exclaimed ſhe,) is there not indulgence and compaſſion due to uneducated uninformed fifteen!"’

I told her that her entering into thoſe little traits of character, thoſe fine, thoſe delicate touches, marked the maſter's hand, and were a convincing proof of the goodneſs, both of her head and heart. She complimented me on my candor, and returned to her ſtory.

There had been the moſt elegant re⯑paſt provided, that Briançon could af⯑ford; Nannette, and her mother, the Colonel and I, were all the party; but I was the idol to whom all the incenſe was offered. The good woman of the [213] houſe took the ton from her gueſt, extol⯑led my beauty and my accompliſhments, as extravagantly, though not ſo agreeably, as he.—Nannette alone was ſilent—In ſhort, I became intoxicated with flattery; and when the time of our parting drew near, I ſecretly lamented at the ſame idea which had given me ſo much ſatis⯑faction, the preceding night—that I ſhould ſee Colonel Walter no more!

The Colonel inſiſted on attending me home, and had ordered his chaiſe to convey me to my aunt's—But though my vanity was flattered with this mark of attention, I dared not indulge it with ſuch an eclat; however, I ſaid I would permit him to walk home with me, provided Nannette would accom⯑pany us—She ſullenly refuſed—I had [214] then no choice, and the Colonel and I ſet out together.

When we were about to ſeparate, I wiſhed him a good night, and a pleaſant journey—He threw himſelf at my feet, caught hold of my hand, ſwore I was the ſovereign arbitreſs of his fate, and that he would never leave Briançon, till he had obtained my hand, and heart; but that if I cruelly refuſed to accept his love, he would put himſelf to death, that inſtant, before me.

Child as I was, his tranſports terrified me; I was alſo alarmed leſt any of my aunt's ſervants ſhould ſee him, ſo I pro⯑miſed, if he would then retire, to meet him, the next evening, at the inn.—He made a merit of aſſenting to ſo [215] long an abſence, and after a thouſand proteſtations of the moſt ardent paſſion, and as many more tender adieus, he left me plunged in ſuch a fatal, yet pleaſing delirium, as youth and experience only, can feel. What an infidel ſhould I have thought the perſon who had at that mo⯑ment warned me to diſcredit the ſin⯑cerity of his profeſſion! The night paſ⯑ſed away, without ſleep, yet I thought it ſhort, and aroſe, next morning, even with unuſual vivacity—My aunt's ill temper was no longer diſagreeable to me, my ſpirits were perfectly harmonized, all was peace within, and chearfulneſs without—Towards evening I began to think that time lagged heavily in its courſe, and wiſhed for the ſetting of the ſun, as much as a benighted traveller for its riſing.

[216]At length the welcome night arrived, and ſet me free from my reſtraint; I ran to my toilet to endeavour to adorn the few graces that nature had lent me.—In vain—confuſion interrupted my efforts, and haſte prevented my diſpatch, ſo that, in a kind of deſpair, I threw aſide my few ornaments, ſnatched up a little ſtraw hat, and ſet out on my adven⯑tures, in the ſame careleſs deſhabille I had appeared the night before.

The moment I had got out of the view of my aunt's houſe, I was met by the Colonel, who received me with an extaſy, that I believe was then ſincere; we purſued our way to the arbour, where he had firſt ſeen me—On my not finding Nannette there, I endeavoured to quit him and go in purſuit of her, but he [217] held my hand, and entreated me to ſtay till he had revealed a ſecret to me, which was of the utmoſt conſequence to us both.—He then aſſured me that Nan⯑nette was not my friend, and requeſted that I would not intruſt her with the diſ⯑covery he had made of his paſſion to me, for that he feared ſhe would betray the ſecret to my aunt, and by that means de⯑prive him of more than life, the happi⯑neſs of ſeeing me; but that if I would be a little upon my guard, ſhe might ſuppoſe his attachment to be nothing more than common galantry, which might, poſſibly, quiet the jealouſy ſhe ſeemed already to have conceived about it.

I was ſhocked at the idea of deceiv⯑ing or ſuſpecting my friend, yet the [218] gloom and diſſatisfaction that appeared in her behaviour, the night before, made me too readily fall into this ſnare; nay, I joined in the deceit againſt myſelf, by entreating that he would be more atten⯑tive to her, and leſs particular to me, on the preſent interview. My motive for this requeſt, I ſolemnly declare, was rather to prevent her being mortified, as I ſaw ſhe had been before, than to re⯑move any ſuſpicion ſhe might have en⯑tertained of me—For as I had perfectly acquieſced in the Colonel's honour and integrity, as well as my own innocence, I had not the leaſt apprehenſion of any ill conſequence, in ſuch a compliance.—Thus did this artful man disjoin me from the only perſon who was likely to ſee through his deſigns, and could have an intereſt in preventing my ruin.

[219]After this diſcourſe, and abundance of proteſtations of the tendereſt affection, we joined Nannette, and the Colonel left us for ſome time together, to try, as I preſume, the ſtrength of his power over me.—Nannette was all gayety, and ſhewed me abundance of preſents that ſhe had received from the Colonel. My heart reproached me for concealing its ſentiments from her, but my promiſe to my lover had tied my tongue, and the weakneſs and vanity of her conduct left me leſs reaſon to regret the mortification ſhe muſt feel, when ſhe ſhould know that he was ſeriouſly attached to me.

This evening paſſed away leſs plea⯑ſantly than the former—Nannette aſſum⯑ed a ſuperiority over me, in ſenſe and judgment; but attempted to ſoften her [220] ſelf-ſufficience, by hinting at the differ⯑ence of our years, and experience; and though this ſalvo did not render her be⯑haviour leſs diſguſting, it deprived me of the power of reſenting it, and I retir⯑ed home convinced that there were two paſſions awakened in my mind, that I had never felt before, love, and hatred.

Nannette and the colonel accompanied me home—At parting, he put a little billet into my hand, which I could not refuſe to accept, without letting her know that it had been offered. I was even then become the ſlave, the abject ſlave, of love, and feared to offend my future tyrant! The billet contained no⯑thing more than a repetition of paſſion⯑ate and tender expreſſions, with the warmeſt acknowledgments for the at⯑tention [221] I had ſhewn to his requeſt, by the prudence and propriety of my con⯑duct, and the moſt earneſt entreaties to favour him with my company, the next evening.

I retired to bed, and I hoped to reſt, but ſleep was vaniſhed, and with it the charming delirium that had kept me waking the foregoing night—Short was the road that I had travelled in the flowery path of pleaſure, yet I already found it ſtrewed with thorns! I trembled at the danger of treading it alone, and lamented more piouſly then, than ever, the loſs of my dear mother, to whom I might have confided both my hopes and fears, upon this hazardous adventure.

[222]The uſual hour of my riſing arrived, and found my eyes uncloſed, and my thoughts unſettled; I had neither ſlept, nor determined on any ſcheme, for my future conduct; and when my maid came into my chamber, I ſtept out of bed, burſt into a paſſion of tears, and ſaid ſoftly to myſelf, I will not ſee the Colonel—at leaſt, this day.

I conſidered this determination as an amazing effort of reſolution, and fan⯑cied I had gained a complete victory over my infant paſſion. The anxiety of my mind, with loſs of reſt, had brought on a ſlight degree of fever; and the mo⯑ment I quitted my aunt's chamber, I retired to my own, threw myſelf on the bed, and deſired my maid to leave me.

[223]The poor girl, who loved me tender⯑ly, was alarmed at my ſituation, and ran directly to Nannette, to tell her I was ill, and to beg ſhe would come to me—She told her ſhe was at that time ſo particularly engaged, that it was impoſ⯑ſible for her to ſtir abroad, but that ſhe would certainly ſee me, ſome time in the evening.

I knew nothing of this tranſaction; and after having paſſed ſome hours in a diſagreeable ſtate of reſtleſſneſs, the agi⯑tation of my mind ſubſided, and I fell aſleep.—Some time after I was awaked by a light at my bed-ſide, and on open⯑ing my eyes I perceived Nannette, and Colonel Walter, diſguiſed in womens cloaths, ſtanding by me; the confuſion which I felt, both from my ſituation, [224] and his, is not to be expreſſed—He gazed upon me, with ſuch a look of ardent tenderneſs, as covered me with bluſhes. I turned my eyes away, begged they would withdraw into another room, and promiſed them that as ſoon as I had ren⯑dered my appearance decent, I would wait on them.

Nannette burſt into a loud laugh, at what ſhe called my affected delicacy; ſaid ſhe ſuppoſed every body was ſome⯑times undreſſed, and ſhe did not ſee any occaſion for making a difficulty about ſuch trifles.—The boldneſs of her manner while ſhe ſpoke, increaſed my diſtreſs, and completed the diſlike I had began to have conceived for her—The Colonel appeared infinitely more modeſt, in his deportment, and on his making a ſign [225] to her to leave the chamber, they both withdrew.

The hurry of ſpirits which this unex⯑pected viſit had occaſioned, was increaſ⯑ed by my apprehenſions that ſome of the ſervants might detect the Colonel un⯑der his diſguiſe; and though I knew they all loved and pitied me, yet I had been taught in my infancy, to dread the putting myſelf in the power of a ſervant, and never to let them know a circum⯑ſtance which I wiſhed ſhould be kept ſecret.

The moment that I entered the room where my gueſts were, I entreated them to leave me, and mentioned my reaſons for wiſhing them gone.—Nannette again made a jeſt of my ſcruples, but the Co⯑lonel [226] treated them more ſeriouſly, and aſked my pardon for having brought me into any difficulty or diſtreſs, by his in⯑diſcretion, but pleaded both his, and Nan⯑nette's anxiety for my health; and inſiſt⯑ed on my returning with them to the inn, ſince he was certain, from my appear⯑ance, that I had not any complaint to prevent me.—

But not to detain you, Madam, longer, with ſuch tedious circumſtances, I, half reluctantly, complied with his entreaties, and for about three weeks longer, we ſpent every evening together, almoſt in the ſame manner as the firſt.

I had by this time loſt all affection and eſteem for Nannette, and had now no confidante or friend, on earth, to whom [227] I could diſcloſe the ſecrets of my heart, but the ſingle perſon in the world from whom I ſhould moſt carefully have con⯑cealed them.

When he had become quite certain of his empire over my affections, he pro⯑poſed my quitting Briançon, with him—he ſaid my aunt was too old and perverſe to be conſulted, on ſuch an occaſion; that he neither wanted nor deſired any trea⯑ſure but myſelf, for that all other con⯑ſiderations were below his attention—he added, that his paſſion for me had detain⯑ed him ſo long, at Briançon, that he was in danger of forfeiting his commiſſion, and his honour; that if I loved him, I ought not to heſitate about putting my⯑ſelf under his protection; that our intereſts were now become one, and that he would [228] defend me from every misfortune, to the laſt moment of his life.—I believed, obeyed, and repented!

Here ſhe pauſed—for this little reflec⯑tion was followed by ſuch a paſſion of tears, that I was obliged to reſtrain my curioſity, as you muſt your's, for ſome time—I adminiſtered drops and water to my fair biographer; and to you I recommend patience, till the next poſt; for my fingers are ſo tired, that it is as impoſſible for me to proceed, as it is to think, or write, upon any other ſubject, till I have finiſhed this: therefore not one word ſhall I ſay of myſelf, but that I am well, that I long to hear from you, and that I am moſt affectionately your's,

LETTER XXIX.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

TAKE notice, my dear Fanny, that I am not uſed to narrative writing; you muſt, therefore, make allowances for me, and excuſe my being ſometimes too circumſtantial, and at others, too dif⯑fuſe.—I can only ſay that my tranſlation is, what all others pretend to be, a faith⯑ful one.

Perhaps it is ſo much the worſe, for that reaſon, for while I am endeavouring to convey the minuteſt circumſtances to you, the elegance of expreſſion which gave them conſequence, in the original, is loſt.—But no matter for the manner of recital—if the ſtory intereſts and affects you as much in the reading, as it does [230] me in the writing, I ſhall be ſatisfied with my own performance.

As ſoon as the fair Olivia had regain⯑ed her compoſure, ſhe proceeded thus—Weak, young, and infatuated with paſ⯑ſion, as I was, the Colonel's propoſal of flying with him, without marriage, alarm⯑ed me, and awakened all the ſentiments of delicacy, which are inherent to an innocent and virtuous mind; yet that very delicacy prevented my having reſo⯑lution to expreſs my thoughts upon that occaſion—I feared to injure his honour, by ſeeming to doubt it.—I therefore re⯑mained, for ſome time, ſilent upon this moſt intereſting ſubject—He repeated his entreaties, and preſſed me to determine.

I replied, that I would conſult my con⯑feſſor. He had ſeen the various workings [231] of my mind, and was prepared to evade all my ſcruples—He objected inſtantly to my propoſal, by urging that a prieſt would oppoſe my marrying an heretic, and endeavour to prevent it, by acquaint⯑ing my aunt; but told me he had a par⯑ticular friend, a clergyman, at Embrun, who would make no difficulty of uniting us together.—Thus did this artful man lull all my doubts to reſt, and ſoothe my unwary mind into a perfect dependance upon his honour, fidelity, and love.

The night following was fixed for our departure, and in an evil and inauſpicious hour, I ventured on a world unknown, with the moſt inhuman and ungenerous of his ſex, for my conductor—I had per⯑haps as little to regret at leaving Brian⯑çon, as any young creature who ever [232] took ſo raſh and unadviſed a ſtep—I wounded not the heart of a fond parent! nor drew a pitying tear from any friend⯑ly eye! I had no ſiſter, on whom my diſ⯑grace might be reflected! nor a brother, whoſe tenderneſs might lament, or ho⯑nour have reſented my miſconduct!—I ſtood, as it were, alone in the univerſe; was dear to no one, but the loved object under whoſe protection I now had placed myſelf, and in whom all the affections of my heart were centered!

Yet notwithſtanding this very peculiar ſituation, my heart trembled, and my eyes overflowed, when I got into the chaiſe, and every league that we travel⯑ed, the dejection of my ſpirits increaſed—For ſome time the Colonel endeavoured to diſſipate my melancholy, by the ut⯑moſt [233] tenderneſs, and I affected to appear more chearful, in compliment to his at⯑tention—but he ſoon rouſed my languor into reſentment, by taking ſome unwar⯑rantable liberties, which, when he found I would not ſuffer, he attempted to ex⯑cuſe, by ſaying that he had already conſi⯑dered me as his wife.

The moment we arrived at Embrun, he left me in the inn, to go, as he ſaid, in purſuit of his friend, the clergyman—He returned, in about an hour, with a perſon to perform the ceremony; and we were married directly, but without any other witneſs; for I had thrown myſelf out of a ſituation to preſcribe terms, and muſt therefore have compounded for ha⯑ving my own ſcruples ſatisfied, by a con⯑ſciouſneſs of my being his wife, leaving [234] the opinion of the world to its own cha⯑rity about me.

We remained two days at Embrun, and then ſet out for Marſeilles; during our long journey, my huſband told me that he had ſome reaſons for wiſhing to change his name; and that in compliment to my chriſtian one he would be called Olivet.—I readily acquieſced in what⯑ever he thought proper, without attempt⯑ing to enquire into the motives of his conduct. We took a houſe at Mar⯑ſeilles, and lived for four months, in the utmoſt retirement, and the moſt per⯑fect happineſs together—I never ſtirred out, but to church, or to take the air with my huſband; every wiſh of my fond heart was accompliſhed, and I ſecretly rejoiced that he no longer talked [235] of joining his regiment, or returning to his native country.

About that time his temper and man⯑ners began to alter; he was frequently ſullen, and gloomy; and if I attempted to enquire into the cauſe of this change, he would anſwer, Thou art! and com⯑mand me to leave him—I obeyed, and uſed to retire to my chamber, and paſs whole days and nights, in tears.—But whenever he condeſcended to ſpeak to me with chearfulneſs, I inſtantly forgot his paſt unkindneſs, and vainly flattered myſelf that it would return no more.

At length, with ſome appearance of tenderneſs in his manner, he told me that he was under an abſolute neceſſity of leaving me, for a few months, as my [236] ſituation would not admit of my travel⯑ling with him, from my being far advan⯑ced in my pregnancy of Olivia; but that he would certainly come back to me, by the time I ſhould be recovered from my lying-in, and take me with him to Ire⯑land, where his eſtate lay.

All that I had ever ſuffered in my life, ſeemed ſlight, to the miſery of parting with him; I knelt, I wept, and implor⯑ed him not to abandon me, under ſuch circumſtances! He was unmoved by my tears, and entreaties; and in a few days afterwards quitted Marſeilles, without even bidding me adieu.—The grief I felt from this ſeparation, would I hoped have terminated my life; and I fear I ſhould have been tempted to have ſhort⯑ened the date of my wretched exiſtence, [237] had not the tenderneſs which I felt even for my unborn babe, reſtrained my hand from the too frequent effects of deſpair. My ſituation was certainly deplorable, and I then thought that my miſery could not admit of addition—I have been ſince but too ſtrongly convinced that there are numberleſs gradations in wretched⯑neſs, and that I was then but entering on my novitiate.

I was ſo totally abſorbed in ſorrow at being forſaken by an huſband, whom, notwithſtanding his unkindneſs, I both reſpected and loved, that the common concerns of life never occurred to me, till my maid came to aſk me for money, to ſupport my family, which conſiſted of two maids, and a man ſervant. I ſtarted, as from a dream, and in an ago⯑ny [238] of grief ran to the Colonel's deſk, where I found twenty louis d'ors, ſealed up in a ſmall box, labelled thus,

Here again the fair mourner's tears interrupted her recital, and muſt alſo put a ſtop to my tranſlation, for the pre⯑ſent. I wiſh extremely that I had finiſh⯑ed the taſk I have undertaken; for the ſympathy between us is ſo ſtrong, that I feel my health waſting as her tale pro⯑ceeds. There is a ſtory, that ſome un⯑happy woman had blaſted a great oak-tree, [239] once, by conſtantly mourning her griefs beneath its ſhade. This fable does not appear unnatural to me, under my preſent ſenſations.—And yet ſo ſweet the poiſon is, that I would rather have liſtened to her doleful ditty, than to all the carols of the moſt feſtive mirth.

What can be the reaſon of ſo unnatu⯑ral a preference? How oddly compound⯑ed is the human heart! But moſt admi⯑rably framed, ſurely! for what appears to the vulgar, to be its contradictions, are, in the language of philoſophy, but its con⯑traſts only. Its perfection conſiſts in this, as much as the harmony of nature depends on an oppoſition of elements—The heat of fire, the coldneſs of water, the hea⯑vineſs of earth, and the lightneſs of air.

[240]You may obſerve that I take the ad⯑vantage of every opportunity, for reflec⯑tion, in order to guard my mind as much as poſſible, from the danger of thinking. I ſhall leave you to explain this paradox to yourſelf, and am, my deareſt friend,

LETTER XXX.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

MY dear Fanny, I am now ſitting down to conclude, I hope, the ſufferings of my fair Narrator, which I ſhall endeavour to do without any further interruption; for though the liſtening to her ſtory, had a great deal of what I deem the luxury of woe in it, I fear that this delicate ſenſation may have evaporated, from the frequent breaks in the recital, as much as the original ſpirit has, in my tranſlation—but at at all hazards, I will now proceed.

On peruſing this ſhocking and ſurpriſ⯑ing manuſcript, continued Mrs. Wal⯑ter, [242] my head turned round, and I had juſt preſence of mind ſufficient to convey it into my pocket, before I dropt upon the floor. The ſervants heard me fall, and came to my aſſiſtance.—Happy would it have been for me, if they had ſpared their cruel officiouſneſs, and ſuf⯑fered me to have expired at that mo⯑ment!

My diſtreſs and deſpondency, upon this occaſion, may appear unaccountable, perhaps, to others. An huſband's leav⯑ing his wife, ſometimes, upon ſeveral occaſions of buſineſs, was not ſo uncom⯑mon a caſe as to have alarmed me.—But there is a ſort of praeſentiment, in the mind, which often forebodes approach⯑ing ills; philoſophy muſt here be at a ſtand. This circumſtance cannot be ac⯑counted [243] for from nature, as the preſent ſituation may have no ſenſible connec⯑tion with the future events; nor can ſuch an effect be imputed to Providence nei⯑ther, without the impiety of ſuppoſing it capable of rendering us wretched, be⯑fore our time, by giving us a hint of misfortunes to come, without ſupplying us with the means of avoiding them.

Beſides, did not the addreſs of his bil⯑let, the ſtiling me by my own ſirname of d'Alemberg, inſtead of Walter, or even that of d'Olivet, which he had artfully prevailed on me to aſſume, during our reſidence together at Marſeilles, ſuffici⯑ently evince that he no longer meant to conſider me as his wife, for the future? This circumſtance too, ſupplied me with a ſtrong reaſon, alſo, to ſuſpect [244] that in reality I had no legal title to that claim, as the unknown perſon who had ſo clandeſtinely performed the ceremo⯑ny, might not probably have been pro⯑perly qualified, by the orders of any church, to have officiated in the mar⯑riage rites.

It was, perhaps, no ſmall aggravation to my misfortunes, to reflect, that had not my own indiſcretion aided his diſho⯑nour, I ſhould not now have been ſo totally abandoned, unjuſtified, unfriended, and unſuſtained, to the ſport of fortune, to the mercy of a malignant, cenſorious, and unpitying world!

Some days after this event, I was ly⯑ing on my bed, in a ſtate of ſtupid diſ⯑traction, when the ſudden ſtopping of a [245] chaiſe at my door, rouſed me from my lethargy—I leaped off the bed, and flew down ſtairs, crying out, he is returned, my life, my love, my huſband!—But judge of my aſtoniſhment, madam, when I ſaw Nannette enter the door—Her face was thin, and pale, but ſhe appear⯑ed farther advanced in her pregnancy, than I, and ſeemed, from the expreſſion of her countenance, to be, at that inſtant, in the pangs of labour.

She accoſted me with the groſſeſt abuſe, called me vile, deceitful wretch! ſaid I had ſeduced her huſband from her, that ſhe was come to claim him, and to cover me with the infamy I deſerved; alter⯑nately called for her dear Colonel Wal⯑ter, and implored aſſiſtance to ſave her's, and her infant's life.

[246]Amidſt the variety of paſſions, which in thoſe moments preyed upon my wretched heart, compaſſion was the ſtrong⯑eſt! I had her immediately conveyed to my chamber, and placed in my own bed; I ſent for the bed aſſiſtance that could be had, and in a few hours ſhe was deliver⯑ed of a ſon, who lived but three days. The agitations of her mind brought on a violent fever, but even in her ravings ſhe continued to accuſe me as the ſole cauſe of all her ſufferings, and uttered the moſt vehement imprecations againſt me.

From the moment of Nannette's arri⯑val, I could perceive that my ſervants treated me with leſs reſpect than uſual; they doubtleſs believed her ſtory, and thought that my receiving her into my [247] houſe, was at once a proof both of my guilt and fear.—The phyſician and apothecary who attended her, divulged the tale abroad, and I was looked upon by the whole city of Marſeilles, as one of the moſt abandoned wretches.

I know nothing that creates ſuch an irkſome ſenſation in the mind, as imput⯑ed guilt; but the very delicacy that makes us feel it moſt, ſerves to reſtrain us from entering into a vindication; as this would be to admit it poſſible, at leaſt, it might be true.—Under ſuch a difficulty I then laboured, and this nicety, ſupported by the natural courage of inno⯑cence, inclined me rather to acquieſce in the cenſure, than engage in ſo public a juſtification of myſelf, as this unhappy woman's charge againſt me ſeemed to re⯑quire; [248] and ſhe was not herſelf, at that time, in a fit condition, either of mind or body, to have liſtened to my defence.

Nannette's-delirium continued about fifteen days, during which time the miſer⯑able pittance that Colonel Walter had left me, was exhauſted, and I was ſeized with the pains of labour, without being miſ⯑treſs of a ſingle livre, or credit in the place. Death was, at that time, the ſu⯑preme object of my wiſhes; yet in regard to my dear babe, that now approached the light, I ſent for my confeſſor, re⯑lated to him every circumſtance that I have repeated to you, implored his pro⯑tection for the unborn innocent, and put a ſhagreen caſe which contained the por⯑traits of both my parents, with ſome jewels, into his hands, which had been [249] bequeathed me by my dear mother, on her death bed, and which I had ever ſince preſerved as a relic, with the moſt pure devotion.

Truth generally affords conviction to an ingenuous mind; the good father heard my ſtory, believed it, pitied my diſtreſs, and gave me every conſolation that my wretched ſtate could admit of, by adminiſtering the rites of the church, and aſſuring me, in the moſt ſolemn man⯑ner, that he would take the utmoſt care of my child, in caſe it ſhould ſurvive its unhappy mother. I likewiſe recommend⯑ed Nannette to his humanity—He pro⯑miſed that while ſhe remained ill, all her wants ſhould be ſupplied; and if ſhe re⯑covered, he would furniſh her with the means of returning home again to her mother.

[250]Peace once more took poſſeſſion of my breaſt, and a thorough reſignation to the will of Heaven triumphed for a while over that diſtracting inquietude, which had well nigh deſtroyed both my mind and body—But the arrow of incurable affliction was ſtill lodged in my heart, and the temporary calm that I then enjoyed, was occaſioned rather by my weakneſs than my ſtrength.

It pleaſed Heaven that I was ſoon and ſafely delivered of my beloved Olivia; and from the moment of her birth, all ſelfiſh apprehenſions vaniſhed; I no longer felt a pang, but for her; and never ceaſed lamenting her being involved in the miſeries of her mother! Though doating on her as I did, I a thouſand times wiſhed ſhe had been born of any other parent! [251] and yet am certain I would not have part⯑ed with her to a queen.

In about ten days after I was brought to bed, the good father, who had ſupplied me with every neceſſary, and viſited me conſtantly, came into my chamber, with an unuſual vivacity in his looks—Be of good cheer, Madam, ſaid he; Pro⯑vidence never forſakes the virtuous and patient ſufferer—Heaven has been pleaſ⯑ed, through my weak endeavours, to raiſe you up a friend, who is at once in⯑clined and capable of relieving you from your diſtreſs, and eſtabliſhing a certain ſupply for your future competence.—Madame de Fribourg will be here in a few minutes, and is coming to take you under her roof and protection; but, before it is poſſible for you to remove [252] there, I will inform you how this inſtance of good fortune has been brought about, and furniſh you with ſome inſtructions, that may conduce towards rendering you agreeable to your patroneſs.—But while he was yet ſpeaking, the marchioneſs de Fribourg entered, and interrupted him.

I have already told you, that I had lodged Nannette, in my own chamber, and was of courſe obliged to lye-in, in my maid's room—The firſt words the Marchioneſs uttered, were, Heavens! what a place for the child of my friend! my dear madame d'Alemberg! She ſtept forward and embraced me, then raiſed her glaſs to her eye, and ſurveyed me with the moſt critical and diſtreſſing at⯑tention; I was ſo extremely confuſed, both by the ſuddenneſs and manner of her [253] entering and addreſs, that I could nei⯑ther ſpeak nor move.

From the death of that dear mother ſhe mentioned, I had never ſeen a woman that was capable of inſpiring me with re⯑ſpect, or awe, before—her appearance commanded both—A ſudden guſh of tears relieved me for a moment, and ſeemed to ſoften the farouche demeanour of my future benefactreſs.—She quickly made an apology for having mentioned my mother, ſeated herſelf by me, laid aſide her glaſs, and took my hand with infi⯑nite grace, but no ſoftneſs.

The marchioneſs was about fifty years old, ſhe was uncommonly tall, had been remarkably handſome, her eyes large, black, and piercing; but the whole con⯑tour [254] of her countenance was rather hard than pleaſing—there was an air of fierté expreſſed throughout her whole appear⯑ance, that inclined you, at firſt ſight, ra⯑ther to fear than love her.

She told me, that my confeſſor, who was alſo her's, had informed her of my diſtreſs, but that chance had brought her acquainted with my being the daugh⯑ter of her friend; that, as ſuch, I might depend on her good offices, and regard: and added, that ſhe hoped I ſhould be ready to ſet out with her, in a few days, for Paris, where ſhe was then going; and that ſhe would order her woman to pro⯑vide a proper nurſe to leave my child with.

The idea of parting with my daughter, ſhocked me extremely—I fell at her feet, [255] and as if ſhe had been the arbitreſs of my fate, implored her not to divide me from my child! ſaid that this infant was now the only bleſſing I poſſeſſed in life, and that nothing but death, or her happineſs, ſhould ever part us.

She gazed at me with a mixture of ſurpriſe and contempt, and ſaid, that if Pere Guillaume had informed her I was ſuch a pretty ſimpleton, ſhe would have ſaved me and herſelf the trouble of a vi⯑ſit; but that ſhe believed there was ſome⯑thing contagious in folly, ſince ſhe found herſelf inclined to comply with my ab⯑ſurd requeſt, though ſhe deteſted chil⯑dren; but that her hotel at Paris being large enough to prevent her hearing it ſquall, I might bring the brat with me, provided I did not inſiſt on her being plagued with it, during our journey.

[256]I was tranſported with even this un⯑couth and forced permiſſion; I kiſſed her hand, and bathed it with my tears; told her ſhe had rendered me extremely happy, and that I would endeavour to deſerve her indulgence, by every mark of gratitude and attention in my power. She ſeemed pleaſed, and ſomewhat af⯑fected; and at quitting me, ſhe gave me a purſe of fifty Louis-d'ors, bid me pre⯑pare for my journey, by that day ſen⯑night; ſaid ſhe would not deſire me to come to her houſe, at Marſeilles, be⯑cauſe ſhe meant to ſurpriſe her huſband, by finding me in her ſuite, without his knowlege, and deſired that I might ſtill retain the name of d'Olivet.

This was the moſt ſudden tranſition I had ever experienced, from ſorrow to [257] joy; and tho' I could not poſſibly know what ſort of ſtate I was going to enter into, yet I thought any change muſt be for the better—It was alſo the firſt time I had ever had any thing like buſineſs to tranſact in my life; and the having it in my power to diſcharge my debts and ſervants, compoſed my mind into a ſtate of the moſt pleaſing tranquility imagin⯑able.—Nannette, however, remained ſtill a weight upon my ſpirits, in addition to that misfortune that then did, and ever will oppreſs them.

In a ſhort time after the marchioneſs had left me, the good father Guillaume re⯑turned; he brought with him the ſhagreen caſe, which I had intruſted him with, the contents untouched, except a dia⯑mond ring which he had been obliged to [258] diſpoſe of, to anſwer the expences of my family; and delivered me twelve Louis d'ors, the remainder of thirty he had ſold it for.—The ſight of my dear parent's pictures affected me extremely; I kiſſed and bathed them with my tears, and moſt piouſly thanked my good pa⯑troneſs in my heart, for this article of her bounty, more than all the reſt, that ſhe had ſaved me from the miſery of parting with thoſe dear remains.

Father Guillaume told me that he had related my ſtory to madame de Fribourg, without mentioning who I was, and ſhewed her the jewels, in hopes that ſhe would purchaſe them, which ſhe refuſed; but the moment ſhe beheld the portraits, ſhe ſnatched up one of them, exclaiming with ſurprize and joy, this, this is—was— [259] my near relation, and my deareſt friend, Olivia d'Alemberg! upon which he ac⯑quainted her with my name and family; and ſhe promiſed on the inſtant to take care of me, but inſiſted on his not in⯑forming me that ſhe had acknowledged any manner of affinity between us.

He then gave me the marchioneſs's character and hiſtory, in a few words.—Pride, vanity, an inſatiable deſire of admiration, and a fondneſs for play, he ſaid, were her great foibles; but that ſhe was friendly, generous, and humane, when theſe virtues did not interfere with her paſſions—He ſaid ſhe had been mar⯑ried young to the marquis de Fribourg, that he had been dead about ten years, and had left her immenſely rich; that ſhe had ſince married monſieur de Lovaine, [260] a young ſoldier of fortune, who treated her very cavalierly, and of whom ſhe was extravagantly fond and jealous—He told me that he had furniſhed me with this little charte du païs, in hopes I ſhould be able to ſteer my courſe by it, to ſafety and happineſs.

He then informed me that he had written to a friend of his, in Ireland, to inquire after Colonel Walter; but that, as I had not been able to aſcertain even the name of the province where his for⯑tune lay, it was poſſible, nay probable, from the diſſoluteneſs of his character, that I might never ſee or hear of him again.—He intreated me, therefore, to ſtrive wholly to forget him, and devote my whole attention to the cultivation of the marchioneſs's friendſhip, and the [261] education of my child—He promiſed to remember me in his prayers, and to fa⯑vour me with his advice by letter; then took a moſt affectionate leave of me, as he was obliged to quit Marſeilles, for a few days, to perform ſome buſineſs, by command of his ſuperior.

I had not ſeen Nannette from the time of my being taken ill; but as I knew ſhe was recovering, though ſlowly, I fancied I was then able to bear an interview with her, and acquaint her with my deſign of quitting Marſeilles: I meant to offer her every aſſiſtance in my power, and take leave of her, I hoped, for life.

I accordingly proceeded to her cham⯑ber—but no words can expreſs the ſur⯑priſe and horror that affected me, at ſee⯑ing [262] her—Her whole frame was convulſed, and every feature diſtorted and enlarged. The moment ſhe beheld me, ſhe ſeemed to acquire new ſtrength, and endeavour⯑ed to revile me with as much bitter⯑neſs, as when ſhe arrived firſt at Mar⯑ſeilles.

She had, however, no longer the power of raiſing any paſſion in me, but pity—I ſaid every thing that was poſſible to calm her mind; aſſured her I had never knowingly injured her; and that I had certainly been as much, if not more, im⯑poſed on and deceived, by Colonel Wal⯑ter, than herſelf.

I then proceeded to relate, with the utmoſt exactneſs, the Colonel's whole be⯑haviour, from his firſt meeting, to his [263] quitting me, during the recital of which, ſhe wept often; her countenance became more placid and compoſed; and, when I had finiſhed my ſtory, ſhe aſked my pardon, a thouſand times, for the injury ſhe had done me, and confeſſed I was much more to be pitied than herſelf, on account of my youth and inexperience.

She confeſſed too, that the formalities of marriage had never paſſed between them; but ſhewed me a paper he had given her, by which he had engaged to acknowledge her as his wife, at ſome fu⯑ture aera. And with regard to the mark⯑ed attention which he had ſhewn to me, he aſſured her he meant nothing more by it, than merely to deceive her mother—and in order to carry on the plot, ſaid he was obliged to ſpend a few weeks at [264] Embrun, upon a particular buſineſs, and deſired her to hold herſelf in readineſs to come off to him there, at a minute's warn⯑ing, on a ſummons which he promiſed to ſend her from thence.

Matters being thus ſettled between them, her mind, ſhe ſaid, was quite at eaſe on his departure—till ſhe heard of my elopement with him, the morning af⯑ter it happened; which threw her into a ſtate of diſtraction, for ſeveral months; but not hearing from him, all that time, and beginning, at laſt, to apprehend that her ſituation would quickly diſcover her miſconduct, and cover her with infamy, ſhe determined to follow him to Embrun; and as ſhe could not ſuppoſe that he had ventured to have entered into firmer en⯑gagements with me, than he had already [265] done with her, ſhe conſidered herſelf as having a prior right to the title of his wife, and reſolved to aſſert her claim.

She then took a ſmall ſum of money from her mother, to whom, at length, ſhe had revealed the ſecret, and came off poſt to Embrun, as it had been known that we had taken that route; but upon miſſing us there, ſhe had with almoſt in⯑credible difficulty, and after numberleſs delays, attended by illneſs and fatigue on the way, traced us to Marſeilles, where ſhe acknowledged that ſhe owed her life to my unmerited humanity—ſhe then poured forth many ſevere excecrations againſt Colonel Walter, ſaid ſhe would not return to Briançon, but, if ſhe ſhould recover, would purſue him all over the world, till ſhe had received ſatisfaction, [266] at leaſt in revenge, for his perjured faith and villainy.

She told me that my aunt had not ex⯑preſſed either rage or ſurpriſe at my going off, but ſeemed rather to be ſuf⯑ficiently conſoled for my loſs, by being freed from the expence of my future main⯑tenance.—There is a material difference between the belief, and certainty of a fact—and though I had hitherto ſup⯑poſed that her inſenſibility might have prevented her from grieving at the im⯑propriety of my conduct, or the misfor⯑tunes which might probably attend it, I could not bear to be convinced of my own inſignificance, by her inhumanity—I felt humbled and mortified, at this account, as if I had received ſome freſh injury.

[267]Before I knew any thing of Madame de Fribourg, I had many times thought of returning to Briançon, of throwing myſelf at my only ſurviving parent's feet, and of endeavouring to obtain her pardon, for my offending ſelf, and her protection for my unoffending child.—But now the idea vaniſhed like a dream, and I thought of no other reſource, but the mar⯑chioneſs's kindneſs.

After having diſcharged all my little debts, I had about thirteen Louis-d'ors left, and the day before I quitted Mar⯑ſeilles, I took leave of Nannette, and preſented her with ten of them; I begged to hear from her, and left a line recom⯑mending her to the care of the good Fa⯑ther Guilaume, and we parted from each [268] other with all the tokens and feelings of revived friendſhip.

When the Marchioneſs's equipage ſtop⯑ped at my door, I was ready to ſtep into it, and my little girl was conſigned to the care of her woman, who travelled in a chaiſe behind us—Madame de Fribourg accoſted me with great good-humour, and praiſed my exactneſs, in not keeping her waiting. The inſtant I opened my lips to reply to her politeneſs, Monſieur de Lovain lifted up his eye-lids, which had been cloſed before, and ſeemed to awake from a profound ſlumber; he gazed at me with an expreſſion of ſur⯑priſe in his look, and threw me into as much confuſion as his lady had done on out firſt interview.

[269]From that moment he became lively, and ſo perfectly polite, and attentive to the Marchioneſs, that not only ſhe, but I was charmed with his behaviour, and our long journey was rendered perfectly agreeable by the pleaſing concord that appeared between, as I then thought, this happy pair.

On our arrival at Paris, the mar⯑chioneſs allotted me an apartment, in her hotel, and ordered two of her women to attend particularly on me, and my child; ſhe requeſted that I would get the better of my air triſte, and appointed a muſic-maſter and a dancing-maſter to inſtruct and faſhion me.

LETTER XXXI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

AS I have now happily ſet the fair narrator down ſafe, at the hotel de Fribourg, you will give us both leave to reſt ourſelves, a little; for though I am ſtill, you perceive, running on, yet I find that a change of ſubjects relieves the fatigue of writing.

While ſhe was relating her ſtory, I felt infinitely more than you can poſſibly do in reading it; the ſeeing the very object of diſtreſs before us, is a vaſt improve⯑ment to the pathetic; beſides that along with my compaſſion towards her, and my reſentment againſt her huſband, there was mixed up a certain ſenſation of hor⯑ror [271] at being lodged under the roof of ſuch a villain.

I honour Shakeſpeare, for aſking by the mouth of Lear, ‘"Can there be any cauſe in nature for theſe hard hearts?"’ And am charmed with Sadi, the great In⯑dian philoſopher, for ſaying that Il ne faut qu'un ſoupir de l'innocence opprimée, pour remeur le monde. The extravagance of the eaſtern manner of expreſſion cannot hurt the nobleneſs of the ſentiment.

We have heard nothing from any of the party ſince they left us, nor have we been encumbered with neighbourly vi⯑ſits, ſince our return home—But our weather is fair, our woods are dry, our hearth and hearts are warm, and Har⯑riet, Lucy, and I, find ſufficient ſociety [272] in ourſelves, to ſhorten the day and lengthen the evening, being too loth to part at night.

The next poſt I ſhall reſume my nar⯑rative, which may ſerve to divert us both from too cloſe an attention to our own unhappineſs—Till then,