LETTER I. FROM HENRY SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

REJOICE with me, dear Edmund, rejoice! for he is gone. Yes! by all the honeſt powers, who frown on the unſightly union of age and youth, of decrepitude and beauty, he is departed.—Aye! my friend, departed, like a ſhadow as he ſeemed to be, to the region of ſpi⯑rits. That hour, for which you have heard me pant ſo frequently with all the fervency of an impaſſioned ſoul, that bleſſed hour is at length arrived.—Cornelia, the lovely, the tender, the patient, the dutiful Cornelia is delivered from her Aegyptian bondage; Cornelia is a widow: and what a widow! Oh Heavens! a thouſand times more able to exerciſe and to gratify the im⯑perial paſſion of my heart, than all the boaſted virgins that Circaſſia could exhibit. You have heard me to rave on her graces, her virtues, her enchantment; and with true philoſophical phlegm, or with a friendly deſign, perhaps, to divert me from what you conſidered as a very hopeleſs attachment, you have told me that my heart is the dupe of my own feveriſh imagina⯑tion. Yes! you argumentative rogue! I per⯑fectly remember how you employed againſt my [2] paſſion the united powers of logic and of ridicule. I ſee you at this moment with that ſingular, va⯑riable, and intereſting face of yours, in which the rigid frown of Zeno is perpetually mingling with the wanton ſmile of Epicurus, I ſee you arranging your tremendous ſyllogiſms, and pre⯑paring to tell me once more, that one of your two poſitions muſt be true, that either Cornelia was never half ſo lovely as I have repreſented her, or if ſhe was once indeed a perfect model of lovelineſs, that her charms muſt have withered, like the leaves of an unfortunate roſe, barbarouſly ſtationed under the deadly ſhade of a decaying yew tree.

I have not, you find, either forgot, or forgiven the abominable metaphor, by which you tried, like a rough empiric as you are, to cure my heart by diſguſting my fancy; a ſort of quackery, that is, I muſt confeſs, very frequently ſucceſs⯑ful, and practiſed with marvellous effect, by the women, in their attempts to annihilate the in⯑fluence of a rival! But let me tell you, prophane wretch as you are, ‘Aurora Springing from Tithonus' bed,’ was never half ſo freſh, ſo enchanting, ſo divine, as my angelical widow.—I call her mine, becauſe I feel, that I ſhall be frantic, if I cannot make her ſo. Yet that pious barbarian, your brother Charles, told me the other day, with a ſacerdotal aſſurance, that I had not religion enough to de⯑ſerve, or maintain her; confound his preſump⯑tion! were he of any family but yours, I ſhould think him the groſſeſt of hypocrites. Becauſe he has married the fair buxom daughter of a pomp⯑ous [3] high prieſt, the rogue aſſumes all the arro⯑gance of the Catholic Church, and thinks he has a right to ſend to purgatory all who preſume to act, or to think, in a ſtyle that differs from his own. He teaches us, to be ſure, by his example, a moſt orthodox ſyſtem of happineſs, for he kiſſes no woman but his wife, reads no book but the Bible, and labours hard to reinforce the militia of Heaven with a new party of cherubims, as his good woman, after making him a preſent of twins but a few months ago, looks already as if ſhe intended to double that favour. Deuce take the fellow! while I am laughing at him, I am almoſt ready to envy his felicity, and I ought in⯑deed to tell you, that with his inſolent rebuke to me, which I have mentioned, he mingled ſuch an air of concern and benevolence, that I felt a ſtrange ſort of momentary doubt in my mind, whether I ought to challenge, or to embrace him. As it generally happens in the diſagreeable per⯑plexity of a mixed and equivocal ſentiment, I did nothing: yet had I been hypocritical, or diſcreet enough to purſue my own intereſt, in ſpite of a ruffled ſpirit, I certainly ought to have embraced him as the deareſt friend I have in the world; ſince I am ſufficiently aware, that he will have great influence on the future deſtination of my enchanting widow. You know, I ſuppoſe, that as he was the favourite relation of Mr. Sedley, he makes a moſt important figure in his will, as his confidential truſtee for the young widow, and thoſe two lovely infants, whom ſhe ſeemed to have made miraculouſly, without any aſſiſtance of her unequal partner. Pious as he is, I really [4] believe your brother will manage their ample pro⯑perty with a faithful diſcharge of his truſt. If I thought him indeed inclined to play the Jew, or the prieſt, (for with me, I confeſs, they are almoſt ſynonymous) I would willingly give him all the wealth of the widow, to ſecure me the rapid poſſeſſion of her heart and hand. Yet I have ſuch a rooted deteſtation of artifice and falſehood, that I could not play the pious hypo⯑crite with him for an hour, if I knew it would make me maſter of the object I adore.—I muſt however contrive to aſſociate as much as poſſible with your brother, and the more ſo as his wife is the boſom friend of my Cornelia. Pray write me word inſtantly, if your ſiſter Lucy is now reſiding with you. I hope from the bottom of my ſoul that ſhe is, as I know that ſhe and your ſiſter Charles never paſs a week without writ⯑ing to each other. It is from this quarter alone, that I can at preſent gain a little unſuſpected inſight into the heart and ſpirit of my dear Cornelia. I conjure you by our friendſhip to obtain for me all poſſible information concerning her plan of life, her thoughts, her feelings, and every minute article relating to her. Obſerve this requeſt as you wiſh not only to promote the happineſs, but to preſerve the exiſtence of

LETTER II. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HENRY SEYMOUR.

I REJOICE with you indeed, my dear Sey⯑mour; but I confeſs it is with a fearful joy.—You know that I am naturally ſubject to an anxious timidity concerning thoſe I regard; and if my ſympathy in your preſent tranſport appears too much chaſtiſed by apprehenſion, you will, I hope, impute, what you may at firſt conſider as a deficiency of ſpirit, to an exceſs of affection.— In truth, you are not only in the very limited number of my deareſt confidential Friends, but you are the very Friend, whoſe peculiar qualities and ſituation have filled me, for ſome time, with the moſt affectionate ſolicitude.—I own to you, that I tremble, leſt the miſchievous power of Chance ſhould conſpire with ſome of your pecu⯑liarities, I ſhould rather ſay with your only de⯑fect, to counteract all the noble advantages you poſſeſs. What young man ever entered the world with more abundant means to render it a ſcene of chearfulneſs and delight! You have an ex⯑cellent conſtitution, with an engaging figure; you have an ample fortune, without a ſingle in⯑cumbrance; you have a gay and brilliant ima⯑gination; you have a warm, a benevolent heart; but allow the frowning Stoic to add, you have a [6] precipitancy of ſpirit, which may rapidly convert all theſe inſtruments or Happineſs into ſources of Mi [...]ery.

But I abuſe the privilege you allow me of preaching againſt your foibles, in giving you a dull unreaſonable ſermon, when a little timely railler▪ might not only be more pleaſant, but more efficacious. Inſtead therefore of continu⯑ing my dictatorial harangue on your imperfec⯑tion [...], let me only adviſe you not to write an offer of marriage to your widow, while ſhe is adjuſting her weeds; nor a challenge to my bro⯑ther, in conſequence of that inſupportable pro⯑vocation—his feeling a ſincere wiſh to ſee you a good Chriſtian.

Though you tell me I love to touch your foi⯑bles wi [...]h the cauſtic of ſarcaſm, I find that I cannot juſt with any tolerable grace, or eaſe, on ſubjects that may preſs upon my heart with ſuch ſerious weight.

There is hardly a circumſtance in life which could give me more pain, than a quarrel between you and my brother: and when I conſider your reſpective ſituations, I ſhudder at the probability of ſuch an event. It would certainly be moſt impolitic in you to offend him at preſent; yet you have ſuch an exalted idea of never ſacrificing your ſentiments to your intereſt, that my caution to you on this ground might he more likely to produce, than to prevent the miſchief, I would guard againſt. As I have a moſt cordial affection both for you and my brother, and a much more intimate knowledge of both than you have yet acquired of each other, allow me to inform you, [7] that although you differ on one great ſubject, there are many points of agreement and reſem⯑blance beween you, that ought to unite us all in a very firm and inviolable friendſhip. It was your lot, as you approached towards manhood, to be connected with ſome mercenary prieſts, both in humble and high ſtation [...], whoſe ungene⯑rous conduct inſpired, or rather inflamed you, with a vehement prejudice, not only againſt their whole order, but againſt all perſons who are very zealouſly attached to the Religion they profeſs. Youth and pleaſure have not hitherto allowed your reaſon ſufficient time to examine and correct this early, this unfortunate preju⯑dice; and accident perhaps has repeatedly con⯑ſpired with the native ardor of your mind to ſtrengthen the honeſt indignant feelings on which it was founded. My brother Charles, though he has neither the habit, nor the occupa⯑tions of a divine, is indeed a man of as religious a mind, as the church can exhibit: but his Re⯑ligion, if I may use ſuch a diſtinction, is rather conſtitutional, than acquired; it ariſes more from tenderneſs of heart, and ſenſibility of mind, than from extenſive ſtudy and profound meditati⯑on. His piety is the child of Gratitude, not of Fear; and its chief characteriſtics are chearful⯑neſs and benevolence: it is his favorite maxim, that Religion not only takes from us the bitter ſenſe of calamity, but gives a finer zeſt to all the pleaſures of life. His doctrine is indeed very for⯑cibly recommended by his example; for he is by many degrees the moſt happy being that I ever knew.—We all talk you know of God, as our [8] general Parent; but few of us, I fear, are able to look up to him with a true filial ſpirit. Of all the men whom I have had occaſion to obſerve in this point of view, Charles, I muſt ſay, is the only perſon who ever ſeemed to repoſe with the happy affectionate confidence of an innocent child on the boſom of his Creator.

You will begin to ſuſpect that I am metamor⯑phoſed into a Moravian; or at leaſt that I have caught my brother's enthuſiaſm without his vi⯑vacity: but to confeſs my own weakneſs, they are equally beyond ray reach. Connected as we are by nature and by affection, I find there is ſuch an unalterable difference in our characters, that I might as well attempt to acquire the exact turn of his features, as the peculiar caſt of his mind. When I am in one of my argumentative metaphyſical moods, I reaſon myſelf into a con⯑ſolatory perſuaſion that his great ſuperiority over me, both in goodneſs and gaiety, is principally owing to a mechanical felicity of frame.

But I am rambling very far from the main ob⯑ject of my letter, which is to conjure you not to indulge your wit and imagination in any ſatirical ſallies againſt the church, and her ſons, in the preſence of my brother. I do not pretend to ſay he is right in his maxim, that piety is an eſſential ingredient in a good huſband (the Ladies we know are ready enough to grant a diſpenſation on this article); but of this I am ſure, If Charles is once convinced that you are poſſeſſed with the ſpirit of outrageous Irreligion, he will la our hard to preſerve your lovely widow from a connexion, which in his idea, muſt be productive of miſery, [9] both to her and her children. If I thought you an abſolute debauchee, I ſhould be very fearful of giving you ſuch a hint, becauſe I know, in that caſe, what your anſwer, or at leaſt what your conduct would be. You would engage the amo⯑rous wiſhes of the widow in a conflict with the pious advice of her guardian, for the pleaſure of watching the battle, and diſcovering which would be triumphant. But though we have both of us had more reſemblance to the libertine, than to the anchorite, in our adventures, I am perſuaded that you have a true and chaſte affection for this divine little widow, and of courſe you can never feel a wiſh to fill her tender boſom with painful diſquietude and contention, when fortune ſeems to offer you the tranquil acquiſition of her heart and hand. When I thought that your admiration of her charms could only involve you in a hopeleſs or a dangerous attachment I endeavoured to laugh away your love; but the great change in your Cornelia's ſituation has turned me from an opponent into an advocate for your paſſion. I have now only to conjure you, not to throw any ſtumbling black yourſelf into the very inviting primroſe path, that is juſt opened before you. I can truly ſay, to encourage you, that you have as many advantages for the chace of a widow, as a greyhound has for that of a hare; but remember! the greyhound is ſometimes apt to overrun his game, and to loſe his prey by the very rap [...]di [...]y which ſeemed to enſure it. I foreſee and acquieſce in the juſtice of your retort; that I have the ſlow foot of a beagle, and frequently ſuffer the object of my [10] wiſhes to eſcape me, by the tardineſs of my pur⯑ſuit. Agreed! but pray recollect what a very uſeful aſſiſtant the flow dog often proves to the ſwift one.

That I am highly anxious for your ſucceſs, you will clearly perceive by my writing you ſo long a letter, without touching on my own leſs delicate amours. Indeed, I ſhould think it almoſt a profanation of your divine Cornelia, if I pre⯑ſumed to talk of the wayward Sylvia in the ſame page. I will only add therefore that having been wickedly tormented by a miſtreſs, I am particu⯑larly ſolicitous to ſee you religiouſly happy in a wife, and let me cloſe that friendly wiſh with a devout Amen!

P.S. You will think I am proving the truth of an old ſaying, which tells us all the pith of a letter is contained in the poſtſcript, when I in⯑form you here, that my ſiſter Lucy is with me, and that I engage for her being as much the patroneſs of your affection, as the duties and punctilios of female friendſhip will allow her to be.

LETTER III. FROM CORNELIA SEDLEY TO HARRIOT AUDLEY.

ALAS! my moſt tender and deareſt friend, what a bitter misfortune to me is the pro⯑voking little accident, which has confined you [11] to your chamber at a time when my heart and ſoul have ſuch preſſing occaſions for your ſociety!

Surely I am deſtined to be for ever ungrateful; for is there not much ingratitude in this com⯑plaint, conſidering the kind and brotherly atten⯑tion that I receive from your excellent huſband, and the affectionate manner in which you preſs him to remain at a diſtance from you ſo long as his preſence here can be any way ſerviceable to me and my dear little orphans? Your own heart will witneſs for me, that I do him only ſimple juſ⯑tice in ſaying, that no man in the world could diſcharge the mournful office, in which he has ſo graciouſly engaged, with more delicate propriety, or with more ſoothing friendſhip. Indeed, I know not how poor Cornelia could have ſupported her exiſtence without him; for in the week, pre⯑ceding Mr. Sedley's death, a ſcene paſſed between us, which annihilated all the little ſtrength of body and mind, with which I had endeavoured to prepare myſelf for that moſt aweful expected event. You will conceive the impreſſion it made upon me, when I tell you, that I have ſat down four different days with a firm reſolution to give you a minute account of it, and that I have been repeatedly prevented by the burſting tears of an⯑guiſh and ſelf-reproach.—Ah! my dear Harriot, had you been a witneſs of that diſtreſſing conver⯑ſation, you would no more take the part of your ſelf-reproaching Cornelia. No, you would cer⯑tainly join with my own heart in telling me, that as I was not happy in being connected with ſo noble, ſo elegant, ſo affectionate a mind as my departed Sedley's, I can never deſerve happineſs [12] on earth. Good Heaven! how ſtrangely does the capricious human ſpirit adminiſter to its own diſquietude! How ſilly a wretch have I been, to live ſix years with ſuch a man, and not love him with true affection, till the very moment in which he ſeemed to hover in a middle ſtate be⯑tween earth and heaven! In truth, he was much more of an angel than a mortal in the heart-piercing converſation I have mentioned, and of which I will now endeavour to give you the moſt exact narrative in my power.

I ſhould begin by informing you, that his gloo⯑my and querulous diſpoſition, which we found, you know, ſo grievous and oppreſſive in the early periods of his long diſorder, changed on a ſud⯑den into a kind of ſeraphic ſerenity under pain, which excited in all his attendants admiration and reverence. As ſoon as he found, by a fair trial, that the waters at Briſtol had not the ſlighteſt effect on that internal uncertain malady, which had ſo often deceived his phyſicians, and preyed in ſo ſingular a manner on his waſting frame, his mind ſeemed to paſs from a turbulent ſtate of ſuſpenſe to a tranquil certainty. He was con⯑vinced, for the firſt time, that he was very ſoon to die; and the conviction, inſtead of weaken⯑ing, appeared to give new energy to his ſpirits, his faculties, and his affections. Repreſent to yourſelf, my dear Harriot, his waſted, yet man⯑ly figure, ten times more emaciated than when you laſt beheld him, and his piercing eyes endu⯑ed, as it were, with a ſupernatural keenneſs, that ſeemed to ſearch the ſoul of every perſon on whom he turned them! Behold him wrapt in [13] his looſe coat of blue velvet, which you ſportive⯑ly uſed to call his imperial robe, and reclining on a ſopha, in a ſilent conflict with internal pain. Behold your Cornelia preparing for her morning taſk of reading to the poor ſufferer, after the removal of our breakfaſt, at which he had endured as uſual extreme torture on the firſt reception of a little food into his ſto⯑mach. His pangs had ſubſided, and he had made me a ſignal to open the volume of Shakſpeare which I held in my hand, when, in⯑ſtead of obeying it immediately, I ventured to ſay, "If you are perſuaded that Briſtol does not ſuit your complaint, why do you not move from an inconvenient lodging into one of your own comfortable houſes?" He fixed upon me thoſe eyes of inexpreſſible quickneſs; and after a moment's pauſe he replied, "I will tell you, my dear Cornelia, very frankly: I wiſh to die here, becauſe I wiſh to leave you no veſtiges of a wretch⯑ed ſcene in either of thoſe habitations, where I hope you are ſoon to lead a life of quiet, and in due time of joy." His expreſſion ſtruck me in a manner which it is impoſſible for me to de⯑ſcribe: I felt in it a mixture of the tendereſt ſo⯑licitude, and of half diſguiſed reproach; it diſtreſſed me to ſuch a degree, that I could not utter a ſyllable; but my face, I believe, was co⯑vered with an half-guilty bluſh; and tears ſtarted into my eyes. He obſerved my confuſion with pity, and drew me haſtily towards him. While he was affectionately preſſing one of my hands, the book ſlipt from the other, and accidentally fell open. His quick eye darted on the page be⯑fore [14] him, and he inſtantly exclaimed: Here are words that ſuit my preſent feelings exactly; it is my wiſh to deſerve this character from you, my dear Cornelia, and to leave it engraven on your heart:

I have indeed no treaſons to confeſs; but I have pardon to implore! Let me now ſay to you, my deareſt Cornelia, what pride and ill humour have hitherto prevented my ſaying as I ought— let me ſay, that I moſt cordially implore your pardon for many, many ſenſations of pain and depreſſion, with which the peeviſh and moroſe ſpirit of my diſtemper, for I will not call it mine, has unjuſtly afflicted you." This tender unex⯑pected humiliation of an imperious, though af⯑fectionate mind, pierced me to the ſoul. I ſunk to the ground, and bathing his hands with my tears, I replied, very truly, that his malady was an excuſe for every thing; but that a crea⯑ture whom Heaven bleſt with conſtant health, and who failed in the duty of patient and chear⯑ful tenderneſs to the ſick—He interrupted me with the kindeſt emotion, and raiſing me to his boſom, he exclaimed: "By Heaven, you have never failed—your life, ſince our marriage, has been a perfect model of virtue, though not of happineſs." My tears guſhed with a vehemence that I could not diſguiſe, at this unmerited en⯑comium I was on the point of confeſſing to him, what I have ſo often Lamented to you, [15] my too tender and indulgent Confeſſor, that al⯑though guiltleſs of any actual offence, I have of⯑ten been ſuch a wretch as to murmur in ſecret at my deſtiny; though I formed it myſelf, in a voluntary and chearful compliance with the wiſhes of a moſt affectionate father. A dread of giving unneceſſary pain to my generous Sedley prevented my relieving my over-burthened heart by ſo frank an avowal of all its unworthineſs. I only inti⯑mated, in words which my agitation I believe ren⯑dered hardly intelligible, that if Heaven would ſpare his life to my prayers, I would ſhew my⯑ſelf more thankful for the bleſſing than I had hitherto been. He now ſeated me by his ſide, in a manner that expreſſed the tendereſt ſolicitude to tranquillize my ſpirits. "Be calm, he cried, I conjure you, my dear Cornelia; for it is of great importance to the preſent relief of my mind, and to your future happineſs, that I ſhould have a long and unreſerved converſation with you." I ſat ſilent, and half petrified with awful expecta⯑tion. "I have wiſhed (he continued) for ſome days to enter on this diſcourſe; and I feel, that I muſt not let ſlip the preſent hour, becauſe it is moſt probable that I ſhall not have another, in which I may poſſeſs eaſe, and ſtrength of body ſufficient to utter all I would ſay to you: No! my dear Cornelia, you muſt not think of my recovery. There is not indeed a ſhadow of foun⯑dation for any hope of that kind—and believe me, I am willing to die—my affection for you, ſtrange as it may ſound, has a tendency to fa⯑vour a turn of mind ſo deſirable in a ſtate like mine. I have wiſhed very ineffectually to make [16] you happy; your excellent father had the ſame paſſionate deſire; and as he had alſo a ſtrong abhorrence for the profligate manners of our young men, and a fond anxiety to guard you from the miſeries of conjugal infidelity, he gave you at ſeventeen to the arms of his particular friend, whoſe integrity he conſidered as much more than a compenſation for the difference of our age—that difference indeed was not painfully viſible at the period of our union, but every ſuc⯑ceeding year rendered it more apparent, and ac⯑cident conſpired with time and nature to pre⯑clude us from that felicity which he had fondly perſuaded himſelf we were deſtined to enjoy; flattered by the alacrity with which you obeyed the wiſh of a father whom you idolized, I was vain enough to ſuppoſe that you loved me, before I had in truth merited your tenderneſs, Eager to improve your admirable underſtanding, I began to play the preceptor too ſoon and too ſedulouſly. I beſtowed that time and care on the cultivation of your mind, which I ought to have devoted to the acquiſition of your heart. I did not per⯑ceive my error, and its very natural conſequence, till I had been viſited for ſome time by the ſe⯑vere internal malady which has long rendered my exiſtence ſo painful to myſelf, and ſo bur⯑thenſome to all around me.—You, my deareſt Cornelia, have been a very diligent and a very kind attendant to a wretched invalid; but your own heart will inform you, that I am not miſta⯑ken in ſaying, you have been ſo much more from the ſenſe of duty, than from the ſentiment of love.—Do not, I conjure you, ſuppoſe that [17] I mean to caſt a ſhadow of reproach upon you by what I am ſaying: on the contrary, I conſider myſelf as making a juſt acknowledgment to the excellence of your conduct; there is aſſuredly more virtue in diſcharging very burthenſome and painful duties with the ſtricteſt fidelity, than in merely acting from the impulſe of an ardent af⯑fection. Yet when I have obſerved your lively ſpirit depreſſed, and at times even the lovelineſs of your countenance impaired, by being involv⯑ed ſo early in offices ill-ſuited to your youth, I have almoſt thought it a crime in me to labour for the preſervation of a life whoſe continuance could only lengthen your misfortune. He ut⯑tered theſe words with ſuch an enthuſiaſtic mix⯑ture of tenderneſs and deſpair, that I could re⯑main ſilent no longer.—I know not however what I attempted to utter, for he ſoon reſtrained my end [...]avour to take a part in the converſation, by requeſting me to hear what he wiſhed to ſay of our children; a ſubject, which he had long been unable to touch upon without a very pain⯑ful and diſtreſſing emotion! After ſome affec⯑tionate remarks on their infantine diſpoſitions, They have, he ſaid, and I hope they will long have, a mother to whom Nature has given every perfection that belongs to the maternal character: but as it is poſſible that, when they will ſtand moſt in need of paternal admonition, they may find only a nominal father, whoſe parental ſolici⯑tude may be engroſſed by more fortunate chil⯑dren—As he was uttering his apprehenſion, I felt a ſort of proud anguiſh, and affectionate indignation, that I was unable to ſuppreſs; [18] and I interrupted him with a vehemence of man⯑ner ſo different from my uſual behaviour to him, that he gazed at me in ſilent aſtoniſhment, while I exclaimed: I ſee the full extent and cruelty of your fears. O Sedley! if I have hitherto failed in affection, let me now give you a convincing proof that you are much dearer to me than you imagine. If it will afford any relief to the fond parental anxiety that afflicts you, I will bind myſelf by any form of adjuration, or engage⯑ment, you can preſcribe, to live only for your children, and never, whatever offers may tempt me, to marry a ſecond time.—No words, my dear Harriot, can give you a complete idea of the effect which this ſudden, unexpected (and you, I know, will call it) romantic teſtimony of genuine attachment, produced on the dear in⯑valid.—Starting up in a wild agitation of delight, and looking indeed like a being juſt tranſported from the grave into paradiſe, he exclaimed: No, thou divineſt of women, I am not ſuch a ſelfiſh wretch, as to form a wiſh ſo inhuman.— Then drawing me forcibly in his emaciated arms to a pier-glaſs, at ſome diſtance from his ſopha, "Look there, my angel, he continued, look there! and let the beautiful image in the mirror inform you what a deſpicable brute I muſt be, if, ſenſible as I am that you have never yet expe⯑rienced the delicious paſſion of love, I could ſuffer you to make ſuch a ſacrifice to generoſity, as your angelic ſoul has ſuggeſted, No!—But, my Cornelia, I am referring you to a monitor unfaithful to my purpoſe: however true that re⯑flexion may be to the beauties of your perſon, [19] your native diſſidence will render it a weak inter⯑preter of my meaning. Turn then to me alone, and believe the voice of a dying man, who tells you, in a ſtate which admits not any ſpecies of adulation, that you are at this moment, both in perſon and in mind, one of the moſt lovely crea⯑tures with which the great Parent of all lovelineſs has deigned to embelliſh this world. Why do I tell you this?—for the kindeſt of purpoſes, to impreſs on your own mind a juſter eſtimate of the perfections you poſſeſs, that ſeeing at once their rare value, and the various dangers to which they may expoſe their poſſeſſor, you may render them no more the ſources of diſquietude, but the inſtruments of happineſs. Not marry again! Oh, Heavens! my deareſt Cornelia, it is my ardent prayer that you may; and in ſuch a manner, that your ſecond marriage may af⯑ford you the fulleſt compenſation for all the inevi⯑table infelicity of the firſt.

Here his voice failed him, and a fit of his ſe⯑vere agony came on ſo ſuddenly, that I was terri⯑fied with the idea of his expiring, as he leant, exhauſted and ſpeechleſs, againſt my boſom. I contrived however to replace him on his ſopha, and after ſome dreadful writhing of his poor tor⯑tured frame, he reſumed his diſcourſe with an aſtoniſhing coherence and compoſure. In vain I conjured him not to deſtroy his reviving ſtrength by farther converſation on a subject at once ſo diſtreſſing, and ſo unneceſſary. I am convinced, my dear Cornelia, he replied, that, at this mo⯑ment, you believe it unneceſſary; but the day perhaps may come, when you will reflect upon [20] it, as a uſeful caution, with affectionate grati⯑tude. Having been an unworthy partner to you in life, I am the more anxious to have a friendly and beneficent influence on your thoughts when I have ceaſed to live. Do not ſhrink from my diſcourſe with ſuch an appear⯑ance of diſtreſs! —I have but little more to ſay; but that little may be of great importance to you: hear it therefore, I conjure you; and as the ſubject is indeed too affecting to us both, I will then diſmiſs it for ever! — You have little experience of the world; you have naturally an open, lively, unſuſpecting temper: you are ſtill ſo young, that your beauty, ſtriking as it is, has not yet perhaps attained its perfection. You are hitherto (forgive me for repeating this impor⯑tant truth), you are hitherto a ſtranger to the paſſion, which your boſom is naturally formed to feel in the very height of its purity and its power: —a paſſion, my dear Cornelia, which, even in a heart ſo virtuous and ſo gentle as yours, is forcible and imperious to a degree that you can hardly conceive!—No.! by Heaven! ſo far from wiſhing to withhold you from a future marriage, had I the powers of an angel, I would exert them to ſelect for you an object that ſhould render you the happieſt of wives. I have not ſuch a privi⯑lege; but I can at leaſt caution you againſt the kind of character that would have the greateſt tendency to produce the oppoſite effect.— Vice, my dear Cornelia, is a ſtill greater enemy to happineſs, than a lingering diſtemper.—Heaven forbid that you ſhould ever be the wife of a man whoſe profligacy might induce you to regret your [21] departed invalid! —You muſt indeed be egregi⯑ouſly deceived before this could happen; but how common is ſuch deception in the world: How many men have I known extolled by their acquaintance for infinite honeſty of heart, and high ſentiments of honour, yet practiſing every device that could be productive of miſery to your ſex; and careſſed by the polite world in propor⯑tion as they merited univerſal deteſtation! What examples have we of huſbands, who married with every poſſible advantage of rank, fortune, underſtanding and perſon united in either party; yet who have wantonly ſacrificed every bleſſing to a rage for licentious pleaſure, and have left a lovely woman to ruin her health by diſſipation, or to pine in ſolitude over her declining beauty, and her deſerted children! — But is there any kind of caution, which a woman may conſider as her ſafeguard againſt miſery like this —Yes! my dear Cornelia, there is one, a very ſimple one, which has chiefly induced me to trouble you with this long diſcourſe. —Let this, I conjure you, be the leading maxim of your life, that he can never be a proper partner for a lovely and inno⯑cent woman, who has no ſenſe of his obligations to her Creator! —It is my hope, and my ardent prayer, that you may never beſtow your inva⯑luable ſelf on any man, however engaging his ac⯑compliſhments, and however numerous his good qualities may be, if his mind is avowedly deſtitute of Religion. Perceiving that his weak frame was exhauſted, to the moſt alarming degree, by the great exertion of talking ſo long on a ſubject that preſſed with ſo much weight upon his heart, [22] I ſeized with great eagerneſs the opportunity of replying. I aſſured him, that ſince the hour of my birth, no words had ever made an impreſſion at once ſo aweful and ſo tender on my mind, as thoſe which he had juſt uttered. I ſaid this with the ſtricteſt truth; and indeed, my dear Harri⯑ot, I queſtion if the voice of an angel, giving me counſel from Heaven, could have filled my retentive mind with ſuch grateful admiration. Nor can I think it would have deſerved to do ſo; for though a celeſtial ſpirit, deſcending from a ſtate of beatitude to caution an endangered mor⯑tal, might dazzle us in the extreme, and excite our reverence and gratitude, yet I hope it is not profane to ſay, that in the eyes of affection and of reaſon, there is ſomething ſtill more admira⯑ble in a Being, who, after his temper had been ruined by lingering diſeaſe, and his body waſted by inceſſant pain, inſtead of being oppreſſed or engroſſed by any dread of increaſing tortures and impending death, collected and ſtrained all his faculties to beſtow the pureſt advice, that the lips of friendſhip could utter, on a woman who had little merited ſuch affectionate, ſuch a gene⯑rous attention. Oh, Harriot! if I formerly be⯑held him with ungrateful indifference, he is now the object of my idolatry. Alas! what tears have I ſhed, in reflecting that the cauſe of my not loving him as I ought to have done was my own unworthineſs, and the not poſſeſſing a ſpi⯑rit ſo noble as his.—But I am wandering from my promiſe, which was, to give you a very full and complete narration of our conference.—I told him, that although I ſincerely hoped and believed [23] I ſhould not marry again, yet I ſhould treaſure up his counſel, as children do a rich and beauti⯑ful pocket-piece, not for uſe, but for frequent contemplation, as an engaging and valuable me⯑morial of regard and affection. I was on the point of uttering a very ſolemn promiſe on the religious article he mentioned, when his phyſi⯑cian entered the room.—Enough! my dear Cornelia, cried the generous Sedley; and ad⯑dreſſing himſelf immediately to his medical friend, he ſaid, with an air of calm Chriſtian triumph in his countenance, You find me, Doctor, as your benevolent ſpirit would wiſh to find a patient whom no art can reſtore. You find me with a boſom greatly relieved, by having juſt ſaid all that I was anxious to ſay in this world. I thank Heaven, and this divine atten⯑dant (here he pointed to the unworthy Cornelia, with a tone and geſture ſo affecting that it made me fly to hide my face at the window), I am now ſo perfectly prepared to die, and ſo weary of theſe waſting pains, that I ſhould eſteem it a favour, if you could announce to me the certain hour of my releaſe.—I now quitted the room, as I found myſelf unable to ſuppreſs my tears, and indeed I had great occaſion to give vent to them in privacy. During the greater part of my poor Sedley's diſcourſe to me, my whole frame was agitated with a conflict of oppoſite ſen⯑ſations: of reverence and regret; admiration of him, and abhorrence of myſelf. My heart indeed made ſeveral efforts to relieve itſelf by tears; but they were repeatedly checked by the reflection, that it was ungenerous and cruel to [24] indulge them in his preſence. With him there⯑fore I wept but little; as ſoon as I had eſcaped to my own chamber, I began to weep indeed, like a penitent who wiſhed to efface the offences of many years. Reflecting however that I had ſtill a more painful duty to diſcharge, I prayed moſt devoutly for ſtrength and ſpirits to watch over the poor ſufferer, with the moſt tender and inceſſant attention, through every remaining hour of a life ſo rapidly haſtening to its cloſe. I felt moſt ſenſibly on this occaſion, ‘That but to aſk more goodneſs is to gain;’ for I ſoon returned to the poor object of my pray⯑er, with the powers of my mind amazingly recruited. It is well for me that they were ſo, as on opening the door of his apartment I was ſtruck with a ſcene that at firſt led me to ſuppoſe he had expired in my abſence: this however was not the caſe; but the poor exhauſted patient had ſunk into a little ſlumber, which his humane phyſician had requeſted him to indulge, with a promiſe to ſit watching by his ſide. His late ex⯑ertion had very viſibly produced a conſiderable diminution of his ſtrength, and the phyſician enjoined me to keep him as quiet as poſſible. We religiouſly obeyed this injunction, which was given on the Thurſday; and I believe he did not utter ten words on the two following days; but on the fatal Sunday he requeſted me to join him in a ſhort and fervent prayer, which he had compoſed and written for the purpoſe.— I could hardly articulate the words, which he pronounced in a low voice, yet very diſtinctly, [25] though at that moment the cold ſweat of death was ſtanding on his forehead. In taking the paper from him, as he ended his devotion, I kiſſ⯑ed his hand, which was indeed like clay; when, looking at me with inexpreſſible kindneſs and anxiety, he ſaid: Remember, my dear Cornelia, remember that the caution I have given you is not only important to yourſelf, but to our children! —the laſt word he could only ſpeak in a confuſed murmur, and thus he expired in a ſudden ſhort agony of parental tenderneſs.—Oh, my dear Harriot! if it is poſſible that your Cornelia can ever become ſuch a wretch, as to let the juſt im⯑preſſion of all I have now related to you be effaced from her heart, be you my monitor! remind me —but no, it is not poſſible: or if it were ſo, will not the two dear little beings, whom the departed angel has left me, ſerve me as perpetual re⯑membrancers of his divine ſolicitude and affection for us all?—Alas! how little are they aware of the loſs they have ſuſtained! How affecting is the ſimplicity and ignorance of deep ſorrow which infants diſcover, to thoſe who are labouring under the preſſure of recent grief; When I flew to the dear orphans on my return from Briſtol, they caught indeed the infection of my tears, which flew afreſh at the ſight of the little fatherleſs creatures: but in the few days that have elapſed ſince my arrival here, they ſeem to have loſt, not only all traces of ſorrow, but all memory of the dead. In ſuch a mere infant as Charles this is perfectly natural; but William ſurely is old enough to ſhew more feeling and recollection.—But what a wretch am I to blame my poor child, when I ought rather to conſider [26] how often I have failed myſelf in affectionate duty to the departed! I wiſh my children to be gay and happy, and yet I am ſuch a fool as to be wounded by the ſight of the very chearfulneſs that I wiſh them to enjoy. Oh, Harriot! my mind is full of nothing but confuſed and uneaſy ſenſations; it is only your voice, the voice of true ſympathy and friendſhip, that can calm my ruffled ſpirits, and reconcile me to myſelf—Your dear Audley is all goodneſs to me, and you know I think him a man who has hardly his equal in the world; but I believe the moſt tender and accom⯑pliſhed of men have no comprehenſion of the thouſand little depreſſive and turbulent feelings, that agitate the heart of a woman who is diſſatis⯑fied with herſelf. But as Audley knows that no human being has manners more ſoothing than our beloved Harriot, he has kindly preſſed me to relinquiſh my deſign of going immediately to Sedley-hall, for the more comfortable plan of re⯑turning with him to you.—As he tells me there is the greateſt chance that the accident which happened to your foot may confine you for ſome weeks to a couch, I pleaſe myſelf with the idea that I ſhall be the partner of your confinement, and aſſiſt in your recovery. The feeling Audley inſiſts on our bringing both my little orphans with us; and I am confident they will both be as welcome to my tender and warm-hearted friend as her deſolate and affectionate

As we ſhall have ſettled our diſmal but neceſ⯑ſary buſineſs in a few days, I ſhall not write again —indeed it would be unconſcionable in me to do [27] ſo, as you will hardly have time to get through the melancholy volume I am now diſpatching to you before you ſee us. I am the leſs diſpoſed to apologize for the enormous length of my letter, as Audley is ſo buſy in the kind diſcharge of his truſt that he will only be able, as he tells me, to ſend you a ſhort billet.

LETTER IV. MR. TO MRS. AUDLEY.

MY deareſt Harriot has a ſpirit to conſider my thorough occupation in the ſervice of her friend as a pleaſing attention to herſelf. Pray have the goodneſs to accept this, not only as a ſufficient, but as a handſome apology for a brief epiſtle from him whoſe heart has always a great deal to ſay to you.

We have in truth much ſerious buſineſs to get through before we can return to you: I ſay we —becauſe you will find that I have perſuaded your too feeling Cornelia, for whom you are ſo anxious, to ſeek preſent ſhelter for herſelf and her little ones under your friendly wing. As I know how full of ſolicitude you are concerning her, after I have recommended to your im⯑mediate attention a certain fair creature with a crippled foot, who is the only being in the world that you are too apt to neglect, I muſt aſſure you, that although your friend has been much harraſſed in mind, and fatigued in body, I can⯑not perceive any material diminution either in [28] her health or beauty. Nor can I find more than a ſingle fault in her whole compoſition, and that is a great tendency to load her innocent ſelf with iniquitous reproaches.—In another woman I might perhaps be tempted to think this affecta⯑tion; but I know it is in your Cornelia, as you have truly told me, an exceſs of real ſenſibility. It is moſt certain, that all her conduct to the poor unhappy man juſt releaſed, has not only been irreproachable, but highly meritorious; for, to ſpeak freely of his infirmities, his diſtemper had rendered him peeviſh to ſuch an exceſs, that, had Heaven itſelf furniſhed him with an attend⯑ant, he would have ſcolded the poor ſeraph for flapping even coeleſtial plumes by the ſide of his couch.—I lamented his calamity, and revered his virtues; but though common humanity teaches us to forgive and pity the plaintive aſperi⯑ty of diſeaſe, I could not, I own, have attended my unfortunate relation with the unwearied pa⯑tience of your Cornelia—of all human defects that exiſt without a bad heart, a querulous diſ⯑poſition is to me the moſt unamiable—in health and in ſickneſs, it is ſurely inconſiſtent with rea⯑ſon and religion: it is, in ſhort, my averſion; and if my lovely Harriot herſelf could acquire a habit of murmuring at the evils of life, inſtead of ſupporting them with that gentle and chearful fortitude for which ſhe is famous, I am appre⯑henſive that all her other perfections would not render her ſo inexpreſſily dear as ſhe now is, to

P. S. I ought in juſtice to add, that poor Sedley's behaviour, in the three laſt days of his life, might atone for the peeviſhneſs of his three [29] laſt years. He died indeed like a man; but I feel, that I ſhould love his memory more, if I could ſay, with the ſame truth, that he lived ſo. When I obſerve the ſincerity and the depth of Cornelia's concern for him, I feel angry with him that he did not render her life more eaſy, as I am confident he might have done ſo, in ſpite of his perſonal calamity. I muſt tell you, however, that in his will he has ſaid and done for her every thing that could be expreſſive of gratitude, eſteem, and confidence. Adieu—depend on ſee⯑ing us on Saturday.

LETTER V. FROM HENRY SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

I Have ſeen—I have talked with—I have touched her, and the fire of that electrical touch is ſtill dancing in my veins, though I am ſitting ſupperleſs in a diſmal inn; where, in⯑ſtead of haſtening either to ſupper or to bed, as the time of night would induce any leſs amorous or more fortunate mortal to do, I ſeize the ſtump of a pen that has ſerved, I ſuppoſe, a hundred travellers to write their adventures, to give you a hiſtory of mine.—Ah! if your inhuman brother were not as cruel as a prieſt, I ſhould have en⯑joyed the happineſs of paſſing this night under the roof that protects my adored Cornelia;—yet I muſt ſay the pious Barbarian behaved very handſomely, all things conſidered.—Let me how⯑ever [30] grow a little more methodical, and tell you theſe intereſting occurrences in their due order.

To avail myſelf with the beſt grace imaginable of your kind hint where I might catch a ſight of my Cornelia, I ordered poſt horſes before I had perfectly peruſed your friendly letter, and haſten⯑ed to the houſe of a certain honeſt dull 'ſquire, who reſides about thirty miles weſt of your bro⯑ther; and who, with many preſſing invitations, could never tempt me before to pay him a ſhoot⯑ing viſit. Here I did penance for three days: my good hoſt, you know, has a head like his gun-barrel, full of nothing but powder and ſhot; but had he poſſeſſed the wit of Athens, and the urbanity of Rome, I ſhould, I believe, have thought him a woeful companion, while he de⯑tained me from that dear object of my idolatry, to whom my ſpirit had fled before my limbs could reach her. At laſt the three days, that appeared to me three centuries, expired, and I ſet forth for your brother's. Heavens! what a variety of inexpreſſible ſenſations I felt in paſſing Sedley-Hall! The ſight of the hatchment, the open windows of Cornelia's chamber, and every ob⯑ject of the ſpot, ſtruck in ſome forcible manner on my heart, and produced altogether a ſtrange agitation, in which hope and fear, melancholy and exultation, were whimſically blended. I felt I know not what ſatisfaction in contemplating this deſerted abode of the lovely mourner, that I wiſh to make the ſmiling ſcene of our future fe⯑licity; yet, as I paſſed the recent grave of poor Sedley, I felt a cold involuntary pang ſhoot athwart my boſom—Were I inclined to ſuper⯑ſtition, [31] I ſhould ſay that his ſpirit ſmote me as I croſſed his tomb, and forbade me to indulge the ambition of my heart: but my love is too warm and vigorous to be repreſſed by phantoms; were a legion of ghoſts to riſe in her defence, they ſhould not bar me from my purſuit: indeed ſuch a legion would not be half ſo formidable as that ſingle watchful dragon—your brother. I believe it was a ſcurvy dread of encountering his keen eyes in too long a tête-à-tête before dinner, which tempted me to loiter ſo in the precincts of Sedley-Hall; I requeſted permiſſion of the old porter there, to avail myſelf of the private road which leads through a little ſtring of farms by which Sedley and your brother have very lately con⯑nected their reſpective domains. I contrived to reach Charles's gate juſt as the firſt bell was ſum⯑moning the good folks of his houſehold to a pre⯑paration for dinner, and as I entered the hall I met him juſt come in through the garden-door from a long and dirty walk. I felt, I muſt con⯑feſs, more like a thief than a friend; but put⯑ting the beſt face I could on my unexpected in⯑truſion, I told him I had taken the liberty of ſtopping to dine with him, in my road from the weſt.—He gave me a very polite welcome: I thought I diſcovered in it more of civility than of joy; and this idea did not tend to diminiſh my embarraſſment; but, to my inexpreſſible re⯑lief, in a few minutes he left me alone in his library, while he retired to change his dreſs. My heart now began to palpitate at the ſound of a female foot in the room above. I had not dared to enquire after the widow; and he, perhaps [32] from delicacy, had not named her to me. A ſer⯑vant luckily entering the library, I ſeized the opportunity of inquiring if there was any com⯑pany in the houſe, and if Mrs. Audley was ſuffi⯑ciently recovered from her late accident to dine below. The fellow's anſwer was ſo exactly what I wiſhed, that I conſidered him as my good angel, and was ready to worſhip him for his bleſſed intell [...]gence. In croſſing the hall, at the ſound of the ſecond bell, I caught the firſt ſight of my angelic Cornelia, employed, angel-like, in ſupporting the uneaſy ſtep of her diſabled friend. I had the delight of gazing on them for a minute unperceived, as they came ſlowly down ſtairs. In my firſt compliment I could not help remarking the very touching graces of the poſition in which I ſurprized them, and I expreſſed my wonder that the painters had not more frequently ſeized a ſubject ſo delightful as that of one lovely woman engaged in ſome act of friendly aſſiſtance to another. "O, cried your lively ſiſter, I am afraid the painters, like the greater part of your ſex, are a ſet of wicked creatures, who have no faith in female friend⯑ſhip; but you have luckily hit on a moſt ſeaſona⯑ble piece of flattery; for I was ſaying to my kind friend here this morning, that if we ever fit for our pictures again, it ſhall be in the cha⯑racters of Celia and Roſalind: for my part (ſhe continued with that graceful vivacity which ſhe poſſeſſes you know in a ſingular degree) I think there is more female heroiſm in confining your⯑ſelf to wait on a cripple, than in wandering with an exile through the pleaſant foreſt of Arden." My heart and tongue were both eager to exclaim: [33] "How bleſt the man who might become the Oli⯑ver to your Celia!" But the ſudden appearance of your brother annihilated at once my courage and my compliment. Our dinner, I believe, would have paſſed very heavily, had not your en⯑gaging ſiſter gradually contrived to diſſipate the general conſtraint, and to impart a portion of her own eaſe and chearfulneſs to the little circle round her. She deſerves in truth to be painted in the character of Roſalind, for ſhe can indeed "do ſtrange things," and ſeems to have ‘con⯑verſed with a magician moſt profound in his art, and yet not damnable.’ She read my heart and ſoul with that quick intuition with which clever women comprehend all the feelings of a man in love, before he can thoroughly de⯑cypher them himſelf. She rallied me on my vi⯑ſit to the ſhooting ſquire, and did it with that ſportive delicacy of expreſſion that ſhe neither diſtreſſed me nor my tender widow by her rail⯑lery; though I ſaw that ſhe perfectly knew what magnet had drawn me to her table. As I am naturally ſanguine, you know I ſoon felt myſelf inſpirited by the kindneſs of her reception. I thought her eyes ſaid to me, I read and applaud your paſſion for Cornelia; it is impoſſible for her at preſent to afford you any thing like encourage⯑ment; but I, who am her ſecond-ſelf, and know all her thoughts, will do all that I dare to inſpire you with hope. This idea gave me new life: at the cloſe of dinner a very whimſical little inci⯑dent happpened, which, trivial as it may appear, I muſt relate to you at full length, becauſe it filled us all with no unpleaſant emotion. While [34] the ſervants were ſetting the wine on the table, the eldeſt of the little Sedleys, the moſt lovely and wonderful child of five years that I ever ſaw, came running furiouſly into the room: his beau⯑tiful little countenance was illuminated with a brave indignation; I never beheld ſuch an image of an infant hero; and we ſoon found that he came on a very heroic errand; for, as ſoon as he could collect breath enough to ſpeak, he made a very ſpirited appeal to the alarmed Cornelia againſt the tyranny of Nurſe, who was going to inflict a corporal puniſhment that he thought very unjuſt on his little brother: I ſhall never forget the tone and manner of this marvellous boy—"My papa, ſaid the infant hero, told me, that when he was gone to Heaven I ſhould be the protector of little Charles, and nobody ſhall whip him for ſuch a trifle!" He uttered this with ſuch an enchanting air of infantine magnanimity, that I could not help catching him up in my arms, and exclaiming, "Heaven bleſs thee, ſweet boy, thou wilt be one of the nobleſt-minded men that God ever created!" I perceived a tear of maternal tranſport ruſh to the eye of my Cor⯑nelia; ſhe was greatly affected, and was going to quit the room to regulate this petty diſtur⯑bance; but your brother ſtopt her, by inſiſting on his prerogative, as Lord paramount of the nurſery, and confined her under the guard of his wife, while he and the little Sedley went together to examine and redreſs the grievance.

I defy you to gueſs in a twelve-month the high crime and miſdemeanour by which the infant-culp [...]it had excited the anger of his nurſe— [35] Apropos of nurſe—You, whoſe idea of beauty is always connected with that of fertility, and who think a woman never ſo tempting as when ſhe has a child in her arms; you, I ſay, would have been frantic at the ſight of this beautiful nurſe; and beautiful indeed you will ſuppoſe her to be, when I confeſs that I could not help ſtaring at her in the preſence of my adored Cornelia—it was a ſtare of admiration, not of licentiouſneſs; and to prove to you that it was ſo, when I marry the lovely widow I will ſend you this admirable creature for your houſekeeper. You dread, I know, the galling yoke of Hymen, and you can never find a more eligible ſubſtitute for a wiſe; ſhe is completely in your favourite ſtyle of beauty—ſo rich, ſo luxuriant, ſo ſmi⯑ling— in ſhort, a land flowing with milk and honey.

But to return to the infant culprit, and his inconceivable offence— Bleſs the gay little ur⯑chin! his crime was nothing more nor leſs than a kind hint to me to ſhorten the mourning of his mother, whom Nature faſhioned for joy. It ſeems the lively urchin, who is ſtill in petticoats, has taken a pleaſant averſion to black; as he was juſt equipped to make his appearance in the parlour in a clean white frock and a new broad black ſaſh, the rogue contrived to ſeize a large pair of ſciſſars, and made ſeveral tremendous gaſhes in the gloomy decoration of his dreſs, which he could not reconcile to his joyous ima⯑gination. This had excited the anger and me⯑naces of nurſe, and the generous interference of his elder brother, who exulted not a little [36] when Audley returned to us, as he ſoon did, with the little rebel in his arms, unwhipt, and beginning to ſmile again, with cheeks like two crimſon roſes, and with two forgotten tears ſtand⯑ing like dew-drops in the middle of each. My divine Cornelia diſplayed a great deal of maternal tenderneſs, but with infinite good ſenſe, and without a grain of affection. She thought herſelf bound to chide the young delinquent a little for the ſake of vindicating the honour and the authority of nurſe. Your brother, with much good humour and pleaſantry, played the advocate for his little nameſake, and made him very happy by a promiſe to replace his hateful black ribband by a new one of ſky colour. As there was no mode in which I could venture to make immediate love to my tender widow, ex⯑cept by careſſing and trying to ingratiate myſelf with her children, you will ſuppoſe I was very aſſiduous in that attempt; and I was luckily ſo ſucceſsful, that I ſoon became the prime favourite of both: never did favourite obtain the influence he wiſhed, with leſs hypocriſy and adulation; I was in truth the idolater I profeſſed myſelf. O my divine Cornelia, ſuch is the magic of thy charms, they communicate an inexpreſſible at⯑traction to all that belongs to thee! I proteſt to Heaven, I do not believe it poſſible for me to contemplate any offspring of my own either with admiration or with love ſuperior to what I felt in gazing on thy children. You know, my dear Edmund, that I have always had a ſingu⯑lar pleaſure in the ſociety of ſuch artleſs little folks; it is one of my favourite amuſements to [37] obſerve the free play of unſophiſticated nature, in their looks, their attitudes, their expreſſions. The heroiſm of the elder Sedley inchanted me, and I was indebted to the younger urchin for a tranſport ſtill more delightful. The ſturdy rogue did not reliſh the mild rebuke of his mother, but began to pout like a young Achilles, and turned his face from her with a ſulky grandeur. I undertook to negotiate a peace between them, and contrived, as proxy for the little half-penitent rebel, to imprint a kiſs of ſubmiſſive homage on her imperial hand—imperial I may truly call it, as I felt in touching it by this ſportive ma⯑noeuvre, that every fibre of my frame acknow⯑ledged its ſovereign ſway. I trembled at my own preſumption, though in childiſh ſport; and if my divine Cornelia had poſſeſſed leſs ſimplicity of character, or leſs underſtanding, my freedom might have produced a very fooliſh and very aukward ſcene; but, with a grace and delicacy of manner that no words can deſcribe, ſhe ac⯑cepted my homage as the act of her child, and ſeemed not a little obliged to me in her heart for having furniſhed her with an early pretence for admitting the little half-ſullen and half-recon⯑ciled rebel to her lap.

When the ladies withdrew, which they did not without a kind memento from your ſiſter that I muſt drink tea with them before I proceed⯑ed in my journey, your brother, in a vein of arch hoſpitality, plied me with ſome excellent wine; not forgetting the health of his lovely gueſt: I drank freely, in the hope of imbibing courage enough to open my heart to him on the [38] great object of its ambition; but the ſanctified rogue looked at me with ſo piercing an eye that he disjointed the exordium of an oration that I was ſtudying for this purpoſe: I believe he com⯑prehended my deſign, and my want of aſſurance to accompliſh it; for juſt as we were ſummoned to attend the ladies at their tea table, he ſur⯑priſed me by the following ſpeech: ‘My young and agreeable traveller, do not think me an inhoſpitable Barbarian for not aſking you to paſs the night under my roof. Come, Sey⯑mour, I will be very frank with you; I truſt you know enough of me to know that I deteſt every thing like diſguiſe and duplicity. I am perfectly aware of your ſerious paſſion for the very beautiful and amiable woman now under my protection; if the vehemence of love does not blind your own excellent judgment, you will perceive on reflection that I could not invite you to remain with us in this early pe⯑riod of her widowhood, without failing in the delicate regard that I owe to the character and the feelings of my lovely charge; but give me your hand, and be aſſured, that ſo far from being an enemy to your well-placed affection, I only wiſh to find every poſſible reaſon that may enable me in due time to aſ⯑ſiſt and befriend it.’ I caught his extended hand in a tranſport of gratitude, and could not help preſſing it to my lips, as the hand of a gracious monarch who had juſt raiſed an aſpiring and anxious ſubject to the pinnacle of honour and of joy. Alas! my gratitude, as you tell me all my paſſions are inclined to be, was much [39] too precipitate. Hear how the Barbarian pro⯑ceeded: "I am diſpoſed to regard you, Seymour, as the boſom friend of a brother who is very dear to me; you have many of his beſt quali⯑ties, but you have alſo (ſhall I ſay) his defect, or his misfortune: I ſee you underſtand me but too well, by the angry fire which is kindling in your countenance; but dive into your own heart, and aſk it fairly, if you have any juſt cauſe of anger againſt a man who is kindly ſhew⯑ing you what he knows to be the only obſtacle in your road to happineſs." I was abaſhed, I own, by the tenderneſs of this reproof; the haſty and indignant ſpeech I had upon my tongue died away without reaching my lips; and I ſate like a ſinner in ſilent confuſion, while the triumphant preacher thus continued his diſ⯑courſe: "You will acquit me of impertinence in hinting thus remotely at this very ſerious ſub⯑ject, when you know that I have ſome material information to give you concerning it. I need not tell you that my relation, poor Sedley, had, with all his infirmities, a ſtrong underſtand⯑ing, a ſincere attachment to religion, and a per⯑fect ſenſe of the miſery which a want of that attachment introduces ſooner or later into all the conditions of human life. In leaving a beau⯑tiful, young, and rich woman, in a world full of various temptations, he was too wiſe to ex⯑pect or to wiſh that ſhe ſhould not marry again; but his knowledge and his goodneſs induced him to expreſs to her a peculiar ſolicitude that ſhe ſhould never marry an irreligious man: her re⯑ſolution on this point is ſettled; and though a [40] libertine might laugh at the idea, it has been ſet⯑tled by circumſtances of ſuch uncommon ſolem⯑nity, that I queſtion if any human temptations could lead her to renounce or forget it. The vows of a widow, you may tell me, are prover⯑bially frail. I have not forgot our common ac⯑quaintance, the fair matron of Epheſus; but neither you nor I can look upon Cornelia as a creature of that claſs. If indeed, it were poſ⯑ſible for her to waver, my own ſentiments, and the duty I owe both to the dead and to the living, muſt oblige me to exert all the influence I poſſeſs to confirm her in ſo juſt and ſo important a re⯑ſolution. You are very young, Seymour; and it is your misfortune, as it was your friend Edmund's before you, to be acquainted with a ſet of lively and too agreeable infidels, who have led you both, I fear, very wide of that rock upon which alone it is poſſible to build human happineſs! You both, I am afraid, conſider Religion either as a maſk that hypocrites aſſume for their intereſt, or, at beſt, as a grave bauble for old age to play with. I truſt the time will come, when you will both entertain a much truer idea of it, when you will both agree with me in thinking, that the very beautiful enco⯑mium which Tully beſtows on Literature, is ſtill more applicable to Religion, that it is "the friend of every ſeaſon and ſituation, the guard and ornament of proſperity, the refuge of af⯑fliction." But, I aſk your pardon, the ladies expect you; a ſingle glance from the woman you love will have a much better chance of con⯑verting you than fifty ſermons of mine. I will [41] only ſay, detach yourſelf from your profane aſ⯑ſociates, make yourſelf religiouſly worthy of the divine Cornelia, and I ſhall have infinite delight in placing her in the arms of a man ſo accom⯑pliſhed. And now, having ventured to do it thus metaphorically, let me literally ſhew you the way to her, by conducting you up ſtairs. Without waiting far a reply, which in truth I hardly knew how to make, he led me to the drawing-room. There was certainly much of the friend in his addreſs to me, but there was alſo a bitter daſh of the parſon and the dictator that I was unable to ſwallow: as I followed him up ſtairs my proud ſplenetic fancy for a moment ſubdued even my love. I conſidered Cornelia her⯑ſelf, in a ſarcaſtic point of view, as a new ſort of Penelope, who was to make a trial of her lo⯑vers, not by a ſtrong bow, but by the number of chapters they could read in the Bible; but the inſtant I beheld her lovely angelical figure at the tea-table, every particle of my pride and ſpleen evaporated. I flew, all joy and tender⯑neſs, to her ſide; and while her ſnowy hand was gracefully preſenting a diſh of tea to me, I was ready to exclaim, from the book I have juſt mentioned, ‘Intreat me not to leave thee (or to return from following after thee) for whither thou goeſt I will go: and where thou lodgeſt I will lodge; thy people ſhall be my people, and thy God my God.’

But I repreſſed my rapture, or rather adopted a mode of indulging it, which, inſtead of being exceptionable, was ſure of exciting ſympathy and approbation. I talked to Cornelia of her chil⯑dren. [42] I dwelt on the engaging preſage of a fine manly character, which the little incident after dinner had ſhewn us in her elder boy. She liſ⯑tened to me with viſible delight. I am convinc⯑ed there is no mode of attacking the heart of a truly amiable widow ſo effectual as that of mak⯑ing her own child ſerve you in the character of Cupid. It has ſome advantages over the ſtrata⯑gem which Venus herſelf employed in behalf of Aeneas, when ſhe conveyed the fictitious Iulus to the lap of poor Dido, and the urchin, in ſeeming only to repoſe on her boſom, ſet it ſe⯑cretly on fire. As I think myſelf, without va⯑nity, a much honeſter man than the pious Aene⯑as, who, like the religious raſcals of every age, played a thouſand dirty tricks in the name of Heaven, I truſt that my dalliance in its end will be very different from his, and that I ſhall turn my widow into a happy wife, inſtead of driving the fair creature to hang herſelf; a fate that the generous Dido could not ſurely deſerve, even for the extreme folly of having ſurrendered her charms to a ſniveling, canting, treacherous hypocrite, who had the impudence to call him⯑ſelf a hero.

But I find, to my infinite ſurprize, that I have been writing half the night; it is time for me to get to bed, and no longer perſecute either you or the poor chamber-maid and waiter; who, having exhauſted all the little worn-out love that they have for each other, are yawning and curſing the ſtrange gentleman for writing at ſuch unſeaſonable hours. The concluſion of my day's adventure may be told in few words: after [43] a very ſhort hour's converſation, which turned chiefly on the education of children, and the force of female friendſhip, I tore myſelf from the preſence of my divine Cornelia; and the pain that I felt in doing ſo, made me, I appre⯑hend, very aukward and very ungracious, in taking leave of my hoſt. Every circle of the wheels that conveyed me from his houſe ſeemed to raiſe a new reſervoir of ſpleen in my boſom; and before I reached your old acquaintance, mine hoſteſs of the Garter, who, by the way, is half dead with dram-drinking, I had devoted your pious brother to all the devils, for a per⯑verſe provoking Methodiſt, who would perſuade a blooming widow, full of warm deſires, not to admit an honeſt man to her bed till ſhe had heard him repeat his Catechiſm. Adieu! I am as ſick and as full of ſpight as a monkey half-ſtarved by a miſer who pretends to feed and careſs it. I am however willing to perſuade myſelf, that the greater part of my malady ariſes from my horror of the few enſuing months in which it will be impoſſible for me to catch another ſight of my dear idol. You may do much towards my cure, if you can fill up this dreadful void in my exiſtence by employing me in your ſervice. I have no reliſh for the remedy that Ovid and Lucretius (great doctors both!) have preſcribed for my diſorder—I would rather avoid than go in queſt of licentious pleaſure. I feel indeed at preſent that friendſhip alone can be a tolerable ſubſtitute for love. Make my chaſtity, if you pleaſe, the ſlave of your incontinence, by ap⯑pointing me the guardian to ſome pregnant [44] Sultana, whom you may wiſh perhaps to have conveyed out of the kingdom, that ſhe may en⯑rich your nurſery without impoveriſhing her character. You may truſt me with more confi⯑dence than the Grand Signor repoſes in the chief of his black eunuchs. I would not give a ſtraw for the poſſeſſion of any woman in the world except my unrivalled Cornelia; and her I muſt poſſeſs, or expire in the attempt. The ſeaſon for that momentous experiment is yet very diſtant; and let me repeat, that if you can con⯑trive for me to fill up the horrid interim by giv⯑ing me any friendly commiſſion, if you can ren⯑der me ſupportable to myſelf by being any ways uſeful to you, believe me, you will be the beſt of phyſicians to the untuned and turbulent ſpi⯑rits of,

LETTER VI. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HENRY SEYMOUR.

AS you ſeem ſufficiently diſpoſed to condemn the waywardneſs of your own agitated ſpi⯑rit, and your ſplenetic injuſtice to my brother, I will ſpare you the lecture you deſerve on that copious topic. Matters of a more grievous na⯑ture demand our attention; you wiſh me to fur⯑niſh you with ſome intereſting occupation! [45] Alas! my dear Seymour, I am but too able to comply with your requeſt: I can inſtantly em⯑ploy you, not in my ſervice indeed, but in that of humanity; if you have leiſure, as I know you have ſpirit enough, to embark in a very mournful office, that muſt coſt you a great deal of time, and may involve you in great trouble and expence; but, on the other hand, it will afford you the delight of atchieving the moſt charitable exploit, and, of courſe, raiſe you high in the eſtimation of your divine Cornelia, But why do I trifle, in ſuggeſting intereſted mo⯑tives, to engage a heart like yours in the ſuccour of a lovely afflicted creature, whom calamity has viſited in a ſtrange land; it is a beautiful foreign⯑er, quite unknown to you, and bowed to the earth by the ſevereſt anguiſh that I ever ſaw a female boom endure, whom I wiſh you (as ſoon as I can reſtore her a little more to herſelf) to con⯑vey back to the houſe of an ill-judging father, which ſhe deſerted in a moment of natural anger and ill-ſtarred affection. I will give you the wretched ſtory as briefly as I can: I believe you once ſaw a young friend of mine, whoſe name was Peverell; yes, I recollect you ſaw him, by your having remarked that he was the moſt perfect model of manly beauty that you ever beheld. Alas! my dear Seymour, tears drop upon my paper while I tell you that his fine form, which was every way inferior to his ſoul, has been ſuddenly daſhed to pieces, by an accident too hideous for deſcription! You, who know the warmth of my friendſhip, will conceive what I felt on the firſt horrible ſurpriſe of this intelli⯑gence. [46] The unexpected death of a being, ſo young and ſo accompliſhed, muſt be diſtreſſing in any ſtate; but there are peculiar circumſtances that render the anguiſh of this event inexpreſſibly ſevere. Peverell loved me as you love me, and made me the confident, or rather the guide and ruler of his moſt ſecret concerns: in a very neat but ſmall cottage, that belongs to me, and ſtands in a moſt ſequeſtered ſpot about a mile from my houſe, he had depoſited the concealed treaſure of his once warm and gallant heart, the lovely foreigner I have mentioned. She is the child of an old and rich merchant in Genoa, in whoſe houſe my loſt friend reſided a conſiderable time: the young couple were inſtructors to each other in their reſpective languages, and ſoon conceiv⯑ed a vehement and mutual paſſion. Poor Peve⯑rell, whoſe mind had a ſtrong natural biaſs to every thing honourable, thought ſeriouſly of marriage, and ſounded the father. The old man took care to make both parties comprehend, that he would ſooner put the girl into a grave, than into the arms of any man who was not a perſon of rank in his own republic; and ſhe, in the height of her inſulted love, very naturally thought, that a father deſerved to loſe his child for a ſentiment ſo proud and inhuman: ſhe per⯑ſuaded the man ſhe adored, who was indeed as worthy of her idolatry as a human being could be, to decamp ſuddenly with apparent indigna⯑tion, promiſing to join him in ſecret at the firſt ſea-port, and embark with him for England. Her character is one of the moſt ſingular that I ever met with in her ſex: from the ſteady ar⯑dour [47] and energy of her mind, we might ſuppoſe her an antient Roman. On her landing here, ſhe declined the immediate offer of a private marriage, from a generous idea that it might ruin the man ſhe idolized, as ſhe knew his depen⯑dence on a rich and ambitious uncle; all I wiſh, ſhe ſaid, at preſent, is to have the delight of feeling myſelf indebted to you for innocence and freedom: had I remained with my father, he would have forced me into marriage with a wretch I deſpiſe; and miſery might have led me, as it leads many others, into all the enormities of guilt. I conſider myſelf as your wife in the eye of Heaven; and I care not for the opinions of earth: I have a pride and delight in conti⯑nuing an abſolute dependant on your love, be⯑cauſe I know your heart ſufficiently to be aſſured that you never abandon a woman for an exceſs of tenderneſs and generoſity.

With theſe romantic ſentiments, and with a marvellous and moſt engaging ſimplicity of life and manners, the lovely Giuliana had lived al⯑moſt two months under my private inſpec⯑tion, attended by a little female orphan, whom ſhe treats rather as a younger ſiſter than a ſer⯑vant, as the girl, whoſe age is about twelve, is particularly endeared to her, by being the daughter of her deceaſed nurſe, and of an un⯑fortunate honeſt fellow who loſt his life in trying to recover ſome ſhipwrecked merchandiſe of her father's. The charms, the character, and the ſituation, of Giuliana, ſoon made me love her as a ſiſter or a child; and I urged the poor ill-fated Peverell to try his influence with his uncle [48] Sir Richard, and, without confeſſing the ſecret of the lady's preſence in England, to obtain his conſent to marry the object of his ardent affec⯑tion, by deſcribing her, as ſhe really is, the beau⯑tiful daughter of an opulent father. I had re⯑ceived a letter from my friend, who had left us for this purpoſe, to tell me, he ſaw little poſſibi⯑lity of ſucceeding with his uncle; and I was writing him a long letter of advice, when his faithful valet, a moſt excellent and kind-heart⯑ed fellow, entered my ſtudy, more like a ſpec⯑tre than a living man; this good creature, whom I ſhall love as long as I exiſt, for his fidelity and feeling, had rode to tell me, as ſoon as poſſible, what he could not utter when he ſtood by my ſide; he had only voice enough to ſay, "Oh, Sir—my dear maſter!"—and ſunk in a kind of hyſteric fit, from the united effects of ſorrow, emptineſs, and fatigue. When I had a little re⯑ſtored him, he related to me the horrid calamity occaſioned by an unruly horſe; and as he de⯑ſcribed the death of my poor friend with all the ſtrong pathos of genuine affliction, our tears flowed apace, when the feeling Robert ſuddenly exclaimed to me, "Ah, Sir, we have reaſon to weep for him, for he loved us both; but what will that tender ſoul poor madam Giuliana do!—O Sir, I can never tell her he is dead! — No; I had rather be daſhed to pieces myſelf than tell her! O Sir, you do not know how ſhe loves him! You may think ſhe was his miſtreſs, per⯑haps; and to be ſure I thought ſo once; but it is no ſuch thing; they lived as pure as two angels, to my certain knowledge, Dear lady—nobody [49] knows but myſelf how virtuouſly ſhe loved my poor maſter! and well ſhe might; for to be ſure he was the handſomeſt and the kindeſt man in the world. Alas! poor lady—left all alone in a ſtrange country! But as long as I live ſhe ſhall never want a ſervant; and I am ſure, Sir, you will be a kind friend to her."——This heart-felt eulogy and lamentation from an honeſt do⯑meſtic proved of infinite ſervice to me; for the artleſs and pathetic manner in which the poor fellow delivered it, drew from me a very plenti⯑ful ſhower of tears, which rendered me much fitter than I ſhould otherwiſe have been to en⯑gage in the mournful duty that he ſo feelingly recommended to my attention. My firſt care was to recruit the exhauſted frame of the faithful Robert himſelf: having ordered him into a warm bed, I ſate myſelf on the ſide of it, to be ſure of keeping him quiet, and to meditate on the beſt plan of preparing poor Giuliana for a calamity which was ſoon to change her preſent chearful⯑neſs into the deepeſt affliction My meditation was ſoon diſturbed, by the ſtarts of poor Ro⯑bert, who no ſooner got a little ſlumber than it was broken by terrific viſions of his maſter's man⯑gled body, or of the diſtreſſed Giuliana. As the latter ſeemed to dwell moſt on his ſpirit, I hoped to make the good fellow's compaſſion adminiſter to his own recovery, by telling him (what in⯑deed I believed) that nothing could preſerve his miſtre's from immediate diſtraction but his ſum⯑moning up reſolution enough to vouch for the truth of every thing that I ſhould find it expedient to ſay to her, to prevent her obtaining any ſudden [50] certainty of the horrible event. The honeſt fellow ſeemed to gain new life from this idea, and was very firm in his promiſes and his inten⯑tions. He conjured me to let him riſe and at⯑tend me immediately to the cottage, leſt in his return to Warwickſhire he ſhould be too late to attend the funeral of his maſter, whoſe poor mangled frame was to be depoſited, as ſoon as poſſible, in the church where many of his gallant [...] repoſe, and which ſtands within the [...] of Sir Richard's Park. If poor Robert and [...] been going to execution, we could not, I [...]eve, have ſuffered more than we did, in our [...] to the reſidence of Giuliana. It was ſtill [...] in the morning; and my lovely charge, who has a great deal of devotional enthuſiaſm in her character, was ſinging to her harp one of the moſt ſimple ſacred airs of Marcello; this was a cruel incident to me and Robert, for at [...]e firſt ſound of her pathetic melody half of the ſtrength we had ſummoned for the occaſion de⯑ſerted us. Giuliana ſaw us from her window, and flew to let us in, with her uſual vivacity and delight; but her features changed on the firſt glimpſe that ſhe caught of ours: "What is the matter! —where is my dear Peverell! ſaid the tender Giuliana, with all the wildneſs of terrified affection. I endeavoured, with all the firmneſs I could collect, to perſuade her that my friend was only confined by a very trouble⯑ſome, but not a very dangerous illneſs, and that, knowing our ſolicitude, he had diſpatched the faithful Robert to give us a clearer account of him than he was able to write. She then de⯑clared [51] herſelf reſolved to fly to him immediately, and attend him through his ſickneſs, at any hazard of her reputation of her life. She ut⯑tered this reſolution with ſuch an air of fondneſs and magnanimity, that it overthrew all the promiſed fortitude of Robert, and the poor fel⯑low burſt into tears. "O Chriſt!" exclaimed the quick Giuliana, fixing her keen eyes upon him, "my Peverell is dead! yes, I ſee clearly he is dead, by that honeſt fellow's diſtreſs." I tried to remove her from Robert, and ſtill to conceal from her the truth; but puſhing me gently from her with a majeſty of affliction that I could not reſiſt, the ſaid, with the moſt heart-piercing tone that I ever heard, "Robert, you never told me a falſehood in your life: I charge you, do not deceive me in a point ſo near my ſoul as the health of your dear maſter; anſwer me! —O GOD! you need not! —I ſee that he is dead!"—The ſolemnity of this appeal utter⯑ly overwhelmed the poor ſervant. He burſt into a freſh agony of tears, and ſaid to her, "O my dear lady, you are an angel; and though I reſolved to tell you a lye for your own ſake, I have not power to do it."—He then looked at me, as if dreading my rebuke; but ſeeing that I alſo was unable to repreſs my tears, the poor fellow ſeemed a little conſoled for his pardonable weakneſs, and withdrawing from us its faſt as he could, ſhut me and the deſolate Giuliana into her little parlour, where we ſat ſilent together for many minutes in a lifeleſs ſor⯑row that ſeemed to abſorb all the faculties of both.

[52]I intended, my dear Seymour, to give you a moſt minute detail of all the converſation that has paſſed between me and this moſt intereſting mourner; but two things, I find, will oblige me to contract the limits of this hiſtory: Firſt, I am preſſed for time, as I wiſh to bring you ſpeedily to my aid; and ſecondly, the ſcenes I have already gone through for this unfortunate lovely creature have left ſo ſtrong and recent an impreſſion upon me, that I find I cannot relate them to you very minutely without ſuffering in the relation much more than you would wiſh me to ſuffer. I will only ſay, therefore, that I never be [...]eld affliction which appeared to me ſo much the affliction of the heart as poor Giu⯑liana's. Inſtead of burſting into thoſe vehe⯑ment expreſſions of diſtreſs which I expected from the natural vivacity of her character, her grief has been calm and concentrated in her bo⯑ſom; ſhe ſheds no tears, and ſpeaks as if there was hardly life enough in the organs of her voice to permit her to articulate. She made but one requeſt to me —it was a very diſtreſſing one, yet made in ſuch a manner that I would willingly have encountered any difficulties in the world rather than have barbarouſly thwarted this fond and natural deſire of her heart and ſoul. You will probably gueſs that her deſire was to fold once more in her arms the dear breathleſs idol of her affection; and you will think me little leſs romantic than yourſelf, when I inform you that I have really taken a long journey, and ac⯑tual [...] ſtolen at midnight into the reſidence of the dead, to gratify this angelic mourner.

[53]Woe to the marble-hearted philoſophers, who inſult real ſorrow by their pretended conſolation, which the boſom of the afflicted is juſt as able to receive, as the lips of the dead are to open for a cordial! The only way, I believe, to tri⯑umph over true grief of heart is, to indulge it in all the vehemence of its fond deſire; it was by this method that I have gained an influence over the feeling ſpirit of the afflicted Giuliana, which I could not otherwiſe have acquired. But you will want to know ſome particulars of our ſecret admiſſion to the tomb. I contrived it thus: I let the faithful Robert return with all the expe⯑dition he wiſhed, and ſupplied him with money to purchaſe for me the private aſſiſtance of the ſexton. This man happened to be my old ac⯑quaintance, as he had often attended me and my poor departed friend, in our ſhooting parties, when Sir Richard was abroad, and his young nephew had the command of his domains. The honeſt fellow lives in a cottage, juſt without the park pale, by the ſide of the high road, and picks up ſome ſhillings in a year by ſhewing his church, in which there are a few curious old monuments. Being very deſirous to keep our expedition as ſecret as poſſible, we managed ſo as to reach the cottage of the ſexton between eleven and twelve at night. The faithful Ro⯑bert had not only met us at the Inn we appointed, but, to ſhew his uncommon ſolicitude for his afflicted miſtreſs, had contrived, by his intima⯑cy with the innkeeper, to act himſelf as our poſ⯑til [...]on. This unexpected and touching proof of delicate attention paid to her ſorrow by this [54] feeling domeſtic, drew from Giuliana the only tear that I obſerved her to ſhed in our journey. As we found the ſex [...]n perfectly prepared to at⯑tend us, we pro [...]ed on foot to croſs the park-ſtyle, and walked by a triple row of old and venerable trees that lead to the church. The night was particularly clear, and the moon in her fu [...]leſt [...]p [...]ter; never in my life had I taken a nightly, walk ſo affecting. Giuliana leant on my arm; but a ſacred horror ſeemed to have ſealed up the lips of both, and we glided into the church as ſilent as two ghoſts returning to their graves: I had ſtored my pocket with drops and cordials, leſt any weakneſs or panic ſhould oppreſs the nerves of my dejected and almoſt lifeleſs companion; but, to my ſurpriſe, ſhe diſcovered nothing of that chill terror which the time and the ſcene were ſo likely to inſpire; on the contrary, animation ſeemed to rekindle in her frame, in proportion as ſhe drew nigh to the dear ſource of her ſorrow. I confeſs my own heart was chilled within me, when the ſexton, who now preceded us with a glaſs lantern, with which the careful Robert had ſupplied him, opened the maſſive and hollow-ſounding door of an extenſive vault, that holds two regularly mar⯑ſhalled ranks of the dead, in mouldering mag⯑nificence; in this vault there are two iron g [...]e, for a circulation of air, and it happened, as we entered, that the beams of the moon were ca [...]ed through one of theſe on a freſh coffin of ſky-coloured velvet and ſilver ornaments. Giu⯑liana ſprung from me at the ſight of it, and em⯑braced the coffin with a paſſionate vehemence; [55] ſhe ſoon found that the lid had been left unfaſten⯑ed for her gratification, and having ſeized the right hand of my poor departed friend ſhe clapt it wildly on her own heart. A ghaſtly ſmile of mingled agony and delight was now viſible in her pale face: I began to fear from her looks and geſture that her brain was turned by the im⯑preſſion of the ſcene; and I repented my indul⯑gence, eſpecially when ſhe requeſted, with the air of ſettled madneſs, permiſſion to live in that vault, promiſing not to deſtroy her own life, but to receive a daily ſupply of bread and water from the poor ſexton. I never endured a moment to diſtreſſing: I was obliged to ſpeak to her in a tone of authority, and indeed of reproach, very foreign to my heart. "Have you forgot, ſaid I, that Peverell was my friend as well as yours, and that his ſpirit now enjoins me to guide and protect you? is it not ungrateful to us both, to reward me thus for indulging the requeſt of your affliction?" She fell on her knees at this rebuke, and kiſſed my hand; then joining it to the cold hand of her dead lover, ſhe kiſſed them both together, and thus took a moſt affecting oath of implicit obedience to me. I haſtened to uſe the power I had gained by leading her out of the vault, but was ſoon diſtreſſed by a new petition to return to it, for the ſake of taking a look of hair from the corſe; but I inſiſted on giving this commiſſion to the faithful Robert, who had attended us. I hurried my tender charge, as faſt as poſſible, into the open air. I muſt reſerve all the particulars of our return till I have the comfort of ſeeing you, which I [56] truſt will be very ſoon. Let me add, however, that I am now very far from repenting of this mournful expedition: I take, indeed, an honeſt pride in the pa [...]t I have acted; as I am con⯑vinced that nothing could have ſo well prepared my diſconſolate companion for regulating her fu⯑ture conduct as I wiſh her to do; ſhe has ſtill in her countenance and manners the deep traces of intenſe affliction; but I can perceive that her grief is gradually melting into a tender and di⯑vine melancholy: as long as Peverell lived, I kept his ſecret ſo faithfully, that Giuliana was unknown even to my ſiſter Lucy, who was under my roof at the time of the fair ſtranger's arrival at her cottage. I had many reaſons for this reſerve; but the death of my friend and the affliction of th [...]s lovely mourner having removed them all, I have borrowed the aſſiſtance of my ſiſter in conſoling Giuliana; they have contract⯑ed a great regard for each other, and I had thoughts of going abroad myſelf with my ſiſter that we might both enjoy the delight of reſtoring this ill-fated, but amiable fugitive, to the houſe of her father: ſome very important private con⯑cerns of our family will render this project im⯑practicable, and I know not the man on earth to whom I would willingly reſign this delicate office except yourſelf. Perhaps it would interfere too much [...]ith your preſent very anxious purſuit; at all events I intreat you to haſten to me, and let me at [...]e [...]ſt have the ſatisfaction of conſulting you in perſon on a buſineſs of infinite moment to the afflicted heart of

LETTER VII. FROM HENRY SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

YOU, and your divine Giuliana, may com⯑mand me to the extremity of the earth; but why ſend her back to an old wretch of a fa⯑ther, who can never deſerve ſuch a child! More of this when we meet. There is, as you juſtly expreſs it, a majeſty in her affliction, that en⯑forces the homage of my ſoul; and if I can ren⯑der her any kind of ſervice, ſhe may depend on finding a moſt obedient, reſpectful, and affec⯑tionate vaſſal, in

I hope to reach your gate in a few hours after this haſty billet. If any circumſtances ſhould make it proper for the faithful Robert to quit the service of Giuliana, I beg that he [...]ay live and die in my houſehold. At preſent I am proud of conſidering myſelf as his fellow-ſervant. Adieu.

LETTER VIII. FROM MISS AUDLEY TO MRS. AUDLEY.

PRAY quit the apprehenſions which you good ſouls have conceived, concerning the morals and the diſcretion of our dear brother Edmund▪ Believe me, the fine ſtory of his being entangled with an Italian miſtreſs is a fiction of that artful toad-eater in petticoats who related it ſo circum⯑ſtantially, and who is, you know, in my opi⯑nion, the great nuiſance of your neighbourhood. Like moſt of her miſchievous ſtories, it cuts like a ſword with a double edge, from being a mix⯑ture of falſhood and of truth. Yes, you may look as grave as you pleaſe upon it, but it is even ſo: we have had an Italian lady concealed in our cottage; but let me add, that if one of our family had been tempted to ſleep with her, it would have been your humble ſervant Lucy, and not the innocent Edmund: not but my ſage and ſyſtematic batchelor, as he ſtyles himſelf, is ſome⯑times a traitor to his own Platonic philoſophy; yet, as he comes to me, like a culprit to his con⯑feſſor, for ſpiritual admonition, I have hopes of working a very complete reform in his conduct, though none of ſeeing him a married man. To confeſs my own ſelf-intereſted nature very frank⯑ly, as we live on ſuch pleaſant terms together, and as I think the chance a thouſand to one [59] againſt his being ſo fortunate in marriage as a certain married brother of mine of your lady⯑ſhip's acquaintance, I have no very earneſt deſire that Edmund ſhould ceaſe to be a batchelor; yet, if he were really enamoured of this fair Italian, who has frightened you and your good man ſo dreadfully, as I am abſolutely in love with her myſelf, and have not alas the power of meta⯑morphoſing myſelf into a huſband, I ſhould moſt vehemently wiſh for Edmund's ſucceſs. After this honeſt declaration, if you are not dying with an encreaſed curioſity to know all that I can tell you concerning this bewitching "ſhe of Italy," to borrow a phraſe from Shakſpeare, you muſt certainly be ſomething more than mortal

And now am I ready to quarrel with my fooliſh ſelf for having talked with ſuch an air of flip⯑pant, unfeeling levity, of a moſt admirable crea⯑ture, in the utmoſt grief and anguiſh, perhaps, that a human boſom can experience; but the truth is, your alarm concerning the philoſophical Edmund's being ſuddenly ruined by a foreign courtezan hit my fancy ſo ludicrouſly, that I could not help ſmiling, though with a heart full of ſorrow, for our lovely Giuliana. How to tell you who our lovely Giuliana is I hardly know, except by repeating, that ſhe is the moſt afflicted and the moſt intereſting creature I ever met with; but, as ſo brief a deſcription will not, I am ſure, content you, I muſt add, that ſhe is the daughter of a rich merchant in Italy, and was tempted, by the moſt dangerous and inſinuating of all modern tempters, Love, to viſit England, with that wonderfully handſome and unfortunate [60] young friend of Edmund's, whoſe calamitous death you mention ſo feelingly. Poor Peverell had deceived himſelf with the hope of being able to make his ſtately proud uncle receive, and even love Giuliana as his niece. The horrid accident we are all lamenting hurried him out of life, not only before he had made any ſucceſsful advances in this chimerical project, but before he had taken care, as he certainly ought to have done, to provide for the ſubſiſtence of this lovely ſtran⯑ger, in caſe of ſuch a calamity as it has pleaſed Heaven to inflict; yet, full as he was of all the ſanguine hopes that generous love can inſpire, added to the natural high ſpirits of youth in per⯑fect health, we cannot wonder that he forgot to reflect on his mortality. The conſequence, how⯑ever, of ſuch forgetfulneſs might have been cruel indeed to the deſolate object of his affection, if it had not pleaſed Heaven to raiſe a guardian, I might ſay a new and better father to the diſtreſſed Giuliana, in our kind-hearted Edmund. The lovely romantic girl, who perfectly underſtood her lover's abſolute dependence on his uncle, had repeatedly declined a private marriage, from a very generous reſolut [...]on, of not becoming the wife of the man ſhe adored while there was a chance that ſuch a ſtep might involve him in rain. She had, indeed, two events to expect: Sir Richard is neither young nor healthy; his conſent, or his death, might have ſettled our beautiful ſtranger in the ſtation ſhe deſerved to fill. There appeared a fair chance, that one or other might ſoon improve her ſituation; and, as ſhe had an entire reliance on the truth and gene⯑roſity [61] of her lover, ſhe was contented to abide this chance, in what moſt women would have thought a wretched and humiliating obſcurity, though under the protection of Edmund.

I muſt do my brother the juſtice to ſay, he kept the ſecret of theſe unfortunate lovers with ſo much fidelity and addreſs, that I knew nothing of Giuliana, though ſhe had reſided many weeks in a neighbouring cottage, till the ſeaſon of her diſtreſs. Edmund, who has indeed behaved to her like a father, then made us known to each other, in the hope, which I have not, I truſt, utterly diſappointed, that I might aſſiſt him in the very difficult taſk of healing, or rather ſooth⯑ing, the wounded ſpirit of this lovely mourner. As you are now acquainted with the ſingularity o [...] her ſituation, you may, in ſome meaſure, conceive the intenſe grief occaſioned by a loſs ſo unexpected, which rendered her the moſt deſolate of beings.

When ſhe ventured to quit the houſe of her father, whoſe [...]uling paſſion is money, ſhe made it a point of honour to leave him her jewels, and to take from him nothing of value, except indeed herſelf—a treaſure that he ſeems never to have eſtimated as he ought. As to her departed lover, his heart was much richer than his purſe: his allowance from the ſparing Sir Richard never equalled his expences; and his love being of too noble a kind to ſhew itſelf in coſtly trifles, he had made his miſtreſs no ſuch preſents as might on a ſudden exigence be converted into gold. Thus, it my brother had not ſtood like a good angel by her ſide, the young, the beautiful, the [62] chaſte, and lately opulent Giuliana, might have been reduced, with her little Abigail, a ſweet orphan girl of twelve years, either to beg her way home to an enraged father, or to ſeek ſub⯑ſiſtence among ſtrangers by ſome humiliating oc⯑cupation. The bare idea of ſuch a lovely crea⯑ture falling ſuddenly into ſuch penury and wretchedneſs makes my heart ſhudder whenever it recurs to my mind; but our tender Giuliana never felt her misfortune in this hideous point of view; ſhe felt only the loſs of him by the light of whoſe countenance alone ſhe appeared to exiſt; and ſhe felt it ſo intenſely, that Edmund aſſures me it was the paſſionate deſire of her ſoul to be ſhut up from the world, and end her exiſt⯑ence in the vault that holds the ſhattered frame of her ill-fated lover. I will tell you, one day or other, all that our dear Edmund has done to in⯑dulge the wildneſs of her affliction; at preſent I muſt only ſay, that no Don Quixote ever exerted more generous ſpirit to reſtore a diſtreſſed fair-one to her living Lord, than our brother has done to gratify the intenſe grief of this true and engaging mourner for the gallant youth ſhe has loſt. His ſucceſs has been equal to his good in⯑tention. I never ſaw gratitude expreſſed by any human being in a manner ſo touching as Giuli⯑ana's in expreſſing hers to us both. It is not by ſaying ſhe is obliged to us, but by ſhewing, in a thouſand undeſcribable ways, that her gratitude i [...] by no means inferior to her exceſſive affliction; by letting us ſee that ſhe makes her poor broken and bleeding heart ſubmit itſelf entirely to the guidance of my brother; and that he has gained [63] an influence like that of Heaven over her actions and even her will. I have really had a great, though melancholy delight in contemplating the very ſingular regard which compaſſion on his part, and ſorrow and gratitude on hers, have produced between them. I never behold any human attachment more affecting; and Edmund, you know, has imparted to me his habit of mo⯑ralizing on our paſſions and affections. My con⯑templations, I confeſs, are very apt to be infected with feminine weakneſs; and to tell you an honeſt truth, I could not behold the influence of Edmund and Giuliana on each other without finding an idea of their union perpetually ob⯑truding itſelf on my reluctant mind; yet, as I own the idea was very inſuitable to the time and circumſtances, I never mentioned it to either, and I will pawn my life that it never occurred either to the one or the other. Edmund is ſo very anxious to have this tender unhappy fugitive ſafely reſtored and reconciled to her father, that we had thoughts of taking a trip to Italy, for the ſatisfaction of eſcorting her home. How charm⯑ing would this have been, to have united huma⯑nity and pleaſure ſo delightfully! But, alas! the provoking legal buſineſs, which we now find in ſuch a train as to require our preſence in Eng⯑land for ſome months, is an inſuperable bar to this captivating project. Edmund, however, has been ſo fortunate as to find a charitable proxy, to his heart's content. Giuliana and her little attendant are ſet forth this morning on their re⯑turn to Italy, under the guidance and protection of his friend Seymour, who, after paſſing a few [64] days here, has undertaken, in the moſt delicate and generous manner, not only to convey the two forlorn foreigners to their own country, but to accompliſh a reconcilement between Giuliana and her father, exactly in the way that my bro⯑ther had deviſed.

So you really think that your ſweet friend Cornelia has conceived, without knowing it, a real paſſion for Seymour. I am not at all ſur⯑prized at it; eſpecially after the diverting anec⯑dotes you tell me of the fondneſs which her chil⯑dren have conceived for this engaging mortal. I own, if I were a widow myſelf, nothing would win me ſo ſoon as the perceiving a man beloved by my children, and of courſe very fond of them. I believe Seymour is perfectly ſincere in his pre⯑ſent extreme paſſion for the widow; but were I in her caſe, I ſhould tremble for the iſſue of the expedition in which he has ſo gallantly embarked. To travel ſo far, by land and by ſea, with a moſt beautiful creature, in the moſt intereſting of all poſſible ſituations! —Well, I will only ſay, if he continues ſteady in his attachment to your Cor⯑nelia, he is a Phoenix of a lover, and deſerves to be cheriſhed accordingly.

As our dear Edmund is apt, you know, to be very profound in his projects of benevolence, he has a double view in committing Giuliana to the care of his friend. But, to explain this, I muſt tell you a circumſtance in which your good huſ⯑band will triumph not a little, as it affords a ſtriking confirmation of his favourite maxims, concerning the uſe and efficacy of devotion in every period of life. Pray deſire him, therefore, [65] to take notice, that this piece of information is addreſſed particularly to himſelf; and he, I am ſure, will not ſuppoſe me miſtaken, when I tell him, that although Edmund's very tender and parental attention to the deſolate Giuliana had great influence in ſoothing her ſorrow, yet, in truth, it is religion alone that has enabled her wounded ſpirit to ſurmount the calamity which appeared to cruſh it. From all the particulars of her ſtory, I am convinced that ſhe felt for the unhappy Peverell as pure and as ſtrong a paſſion as the female boſom is capable of feeling. The devotional turn of her mind has converted her love into literal und ſurely happy and pardonable adoration. She conſiders this dear object, not as hurried out of life to leave her without a guardian, in the thorny and dangerous paths of the world, but as tranſported to Heaven, to ſecure for her, and to ſhare with her, everlaſting felicity. She thinks herſelf not only awakened and directed by this angelic guide to ſave her own ſoul, but to attempt and accompliſh the ſalvation of her father. She is perſuaded, and perhaps with ſome truth, that both have been deficient in their re⯑ſpective duties, from being equally blinded by two different deceivers, Intereſt and Love. Your huſband would be marvellouſly delighted by her pathetic eloquence on this devout ſubject. In⯑deed, I hardly think it poſſible for the moſt har⯑dened Infidel to hear her without tears, and without paying the lovely preacher at leaſt ſuch a compliment as Agrippa paid to Paul. It is on the ſweet magic of this heavenly ſorrow that our good Edmund h [...]s built ſome very friendly hopes [66] in behalf of Seymour. He is willing to be⯑lieve that a long attendance on this engaging mourner, this divine enthuſiaſt, may cure that too light though agreeable and generous young man, of the alarming irreligious levity, which is the only blemiſh in his attractive character. For my own par [...], I muſt ſay, though I think the ob⯑ſervation does not become a ſpinſter, I fear there is more benevolence than probability in Ed⯑mund's idea. I am afraid the expedition may rather lead this too lively creature into a profane paſſion for the beauty before him, than into a religious attachment to an abſent fair. I muſt however do him the juſtice to ſay, that he ſhews the moſt delicate reſpect to the grief of Giuliana. But his eſteem for her devotion I can gueſs, by one of his ſprightly remarks to me concerning her preſent views. The rogue ſaid, he did not apprehend that any piety was ſtrong enough to cure a young woman of Love, or an old man of Avarice. I ſhould add, however, that after op⯑poſing Giuliana's return to the old miſer, to uſe his own words, he became an abſolute convert to the reaſoning of my brother, and appeared to ſympathiſe with him moſt cordially in his wiſh of reconciling the dear lovely devout girl, and her outrageous father.

I am charged, by Seymour, to ſolicit both you and your Cornelia to honour him with ſome commiſſions abroad; and I have promiſed to convey to him your reſpective commands. As your friend has ſo ſweet a voice, I think you can⯑not do better than deſire a complete collection of all the airs ſung by our dear Giuliana. My bro⯑ther [67] ſays, ſhe has an infinite variety of ſongs, unknown in our country, and wonderfully ſweet. Beſides their intrinſic merit as muſical compoſi⯑tions, they will have an additional charm to all of us, in recalling the lovely image of Giuliana to our minds. The attractions of her character are ſuch, that even you and Cornelia, who have never beheld her beauty, will yet have a pleaſure in thinking of her, when Edmund and I have had ſufficient opportunities to tell you a thouſand little intereſting anecdotes relating to her ſhort reſidence in our country.

At preſent I muſt add but a few lines to this enormous pacquet, for which I ſhall hope to be as amply repaid, by a full hiſtory of all the new diſcoveries that you may have made in the heart of Cornelia. Pray ſend, if you dare, a few ani⯑mating words for me to diſpatch to the generous guardian of Giuliana on his travels. There is ſome virtue in this petition, for it may keep him conſtant to his preſent chaſte paſſion, to give him ſome proſpect of future ſucceſs. I am ready to laugh at myſelf, in perceiving what a lively inte⯑reſt I, who have renounced love on my own ac⯑count, am ſtill ready to take in the loves of my acquaintance. I am, I think, like an unlucky gameſter, who, having narrowly eſcaped the ut⯑ter wreck of his fortune, and having ſolemnly [...] never to touch a card again, yet loiters round the tables, and has an odd pleaſure in peep [...]ng into every [...]and that he can catch a ſight of. Well, Heaven bleſs all the anxious adven⯑tures, ſay I, in this [...]ound [...]me of chance, that I have declined for ever. You, my dear Har⯑riot, [68] are like a lucky mortal at commerce, who has triumphantly cried, "Content;" perfectly ſecure that no one can exhibit a richer hand. The contemplative Edmund ſays, that in every numerous family there ſhould be one maiden aunt, and one batchelor uncle, to buy toys for the children, and to lecture the parents. We are both ſteady in our purpoſe to fill theſe hum⯑ble, but uſeful and quiet departments of life, and to remain, as the great philoſopher whom I have juſt named expreſſes it, in a wiſe and armed neutrality, between the joys and afflictions that are continually treading on the heels of each other both in love and wedlock—Adieu.

LETTER IX. MRS. AUDLEY [in anſwer to the preceding.]

YOU are a charming good creature, my dear Lucy, to relieve us ſo ſoon, and ſo effec⯑tually, from our apprehenſions. You have made us laugh at our own moral panic, as I may call it, concerning the continence of Edmund. You have made us weep at the very bitter affliction of your intereſting Giuliana; and you have made us laugh again by the pleaſantry of your ſage re⯑flections [69] upon ſingle bleſſedneſs. You may talk as you pleaſe of your wiſe intentions; but I hope deſtiny has more benevolence to man, than to have devoted ſuch a delightful creature as my dear correſpondent to a life of celibacy. You have, indeed, had a narrow eſcape, after much agitation of the heart, from matrimonial miſery, with a partner who ſhewed himſelf in a fortunate, though painful moment, unworthy of the bleſſ⯑ing that in the blindneſs of our deluded affection we all wiſhed him to poſſeſs. You felt, and you ſupported, the diſappointment in a manner that has rendered you inexpreſſibly dear to all who have the happineſs of your friendſhip; and I truſt it will be your lot to receive a richer reward in the love of ſome happier man, as perfectly de⯑ſerving of you as the wretch I allude to was un⯑worthy. Deuce take the artful fellow! I hate to think of him; yet the remembrance of all his baſe deceptions will often creep over my mind, like a chilling miſt with a damp eaſterly wind. There is certainly much more true heroiſm in your ſoul, my dear Lucy, than in mine; though my good man often pays me compliments on my fortitude, I could not have paſſed through ſuch ſcenes as you have had to ſuſtain, with half your ſpirit, or half your good ſenſe. I rejoice to find that you ſtill retain the natural tender gaiety of your heart, and form to yourſelf an agreeable amuſement in contemplating the affections of your acquaintance.

I am moſt willing to impart to you the intelli⯑gence you requeſt; yes, yes, I have made diſco⯑veries in the boſom of our Cornelia. Do not the [70] philoſophers talk of little ſpots in the moon that they affirm to be burning volcanos! I can per⯑ceive, without the aid of any marvellous glaſſes from that moſt obliging and polite man of deep ſcience Mr. Herſchell, a ſpot of this flaming na⯑ture in that chaſte luminary the heart of our lovely widow. Heavens! what a crimſon cheek would ſhe have, were ſhe to peep over my ſhoul⯑der, and peruſe this ſaucy ſentence! But 'tis even ſo; love is like murder, not to be conceal⯑ed, however obſtinately it may be denied. The dear dainty hypocrite is angry with me, when I tell her ſo; yet I could give you a thouſand little unqueſtionable evidences in ſupport of my charge; but I have only time to tell you one, that ſtruck me yeſterday: a gentleman happened to dine with us, who has paſſed the greater part of his life abroad. Cornelia engaged him in a converſation apart, and I accidentally diſcovered that Genoa had been a capital ſubject in their diſcourſe: ſhe had enquired if Engliſh travellers had ever been tempted to marry there by the fair natives of that opulent city: when I, jeſtingly, alluded to this enquiry, which ſhe did not ſup⯑poſe me to know, ſhe bluſhed in ſuch a violent degree, that as we were alone I could not help ſeizing her hand, and exclaiming, in a very odd ſort of emotion, between a laugh and a cry, "Well, my dear, you ſhall have him, let him be Jew or Gentile." This led us into much ſe⯑rious converſation, in which, with more frank⯑neſs than ſhe had ever ſhewn upon this ſubject before, ſhe confeſſed —Here, Lucy, I ſee you ſmile, in full and rogueiſh expectation of peruſ⯑ing [71] the word Love; that, indeed, would have been a confeſſion worth liſtening to; but not ſo faſt, my dear girl, we are not yet arrived at that ſtage of the diſorder; no, we confeſſed only, that of all the ſingle men in the world this lively and generous traveller, Mr. Seymour, is the moſt agreeable in figure, in manners, in conver⯑ſation; but as to love, no: poſitively, ſeriouſly, and by all the unqueſtionable aſſeverations that ever paſſed the chaſte lips of widowhood, we have not the ſlighteſt ſpark of that fiery paſſion in our frame: Mr. Seymour may paſs his whole life in Italy, and we ſhould feel no farther ſolici⯑tude concerning him, than what every amiable mind muſt feel for the welfare of an accompliſh⯑ed young man, who engaged ſo readily in a rare and noble act of humanity. And ſo, my dear Lucy, ſo "we deceive ourſelves, and the truth is not in us." She means all that ſhe ſays, for her honeſt lips have not the power of uttering even an equivocation, if her mind was capable of conſpiring with her heart to meditate diſguiſe. She believes herſelf perfectly from the ſoft infec⯑tion. But if I know any thing of love, or hu⯑man nature, ſhe is actually fallen into the ma⯑lady of poor D do; and as Virgil and Dryden [...]y of that hapleſs Queen, ‘She ſeeds within her veins a flame unſeen.’

Oh, pray order for us the collection of Giuli⯑ana's ſongs; Love is an admirable muſic-maſter. Do not fail to ſend us the earlieſt tidings you re⯑ceive of the intereſting travellers; you may tell S [...]ymour, from me, that if he will but grow [72] half as devout as he is agreeable, there is nothing honourable which he may not hope from the moſt ſcrupulous of our ſex. I have ſtill a thouſand things to ſay to you, but I muſt reſerve them till I write again: the youngeſt of my dear little chits has been ailing theſe two days; and I muſt throw aſide my pen to take the poor little invalid in my arms.—Ah, Lucy, the taxes on matrimo⯑nial happineſs run very high! Adieu.

LETTER X. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

HERE we are, ſafe at Dover; and after writing the incloſed extempore tranſlation of what the grateful Giuliana dictated to me in her own language, I have hardly time to add a word more, as they are hurrying us on board the packet, leſt we loſe our paſſage. Yet I will ſay, I am inexpreſſily obliged to you for the very high, though mournful delight, I receive in exe⯑cuting the office with which you have honoured me. I now indeed ſubſcribe to your maxim, that the melancholy pleaſures are far ſuperior to the gay ones. What a heavenly creature is this Giuliana! How willingly would I expire by any death, to receive from my adored Cornelia ſuch [73] genuine tenderneſs as Peverell receives from this angelic mourner! How nonſenſical, how frantic, would this idea appear, to beings who never were in love, and have no feelings for the deli⯑cious extravagance of that ſublime paſſion! yet it reigns at this moment in full force over my heart and ſoul. But here is a ſecond ſummons from the captain of the packet; ſo farewell.

LETTER XI. GIULIANA TO EDMUND AND LUCY AUDLEY.

THOUGH I borrow the hand and the lan⯑guage of my generous conductor, it is with my own poor and broken, but not ungrate⯑ful heart, that I ſend theſe haſty thanks and tendereſt remembrances to you both, dear friends; deareſt and kindeſt of all living natives of this dear land, that I am going to quit for ever, though it holds in its boſom the loſt trea⯑ſure of my ſoul. Do not think that your Giulia⯑na, whom you have ſo benignly laboured to reſ⯑cue from deſpair and diſtraction, begins to mur⯑mur again in wicked forgetfulneſs, either of your moſt friendly admonitions, or of thoſe ſa⯑cred [74] ſuggeſtions inſpired into her wounded boſom by that

No, my dear friends, let me aſſure you, ſince I know it will pleaſe your benevolent hearts, that I have rather g [...]ned than loſt both compoſure and fortitude of mind; and my bodily health is far better than I th [...]ught it could poſſibly be on ſuch an embarkation as this. I will confeſs to you, that the firſt ſight of the ſea, which I am to re⯑paſs, affected my whole frame in a manner that no words can expreſs; it brings me, with ſuch new force, the dear image of him who led me acroſs it to your ſhore:

Pardon me, deareſt friends, for perpetually uſing the words of a tender and heavenly poet [75] of my country, who, though his loſs and cala⯑mity was not equal to mine, has powerfully ex⯑preſſed the feelings of my affliction. It ſeems to me as if my Peverell had a preſentiment of what was to befall me when he delighted in mak⯑ing me recite to him the moſt pathetic compo⯑ſitions of our favourite Petrarch: it ſeems as if he foreſaw that the melancholy verſes of that exquiſite poet would one day be a ſort of ſoothing magic to the heart on which he ſo diligently im⯑printed them. Such indeed they are to me now; and eſpecially all the many heavenly paſſages that ſo forcibly repreſent to me,

But my devout attachment to this dear celeſtial g [...]de of my ſoul muſt not make me ungratefully [...]t to thank you for the aſſiſtance I receive from that friendly and generous conductor to whoſe care you have ſo kindly recommended me, and who is ſo good as to make my poor thoughts intelligible to you. He is ſo indulgent to my ſ [...]rrow, and ſhews ſo much ſympathy in it, that I almoſt perſuade myſelf he is a brother of my dear Peverell. Ah! my heart tells me, that every gentle ſpirit of your beloved country muſt be conſidered by me as his brother. If any ſuch ſhould happen to be overtaken by calamity in the [76] land where I muſt paſs the reſidue of my mourn⯑ful life, what ſatisfaction ſhould I have in ad⯑miniſtering to their diſtreſs; and thus proving myſelf ever mindful of thoſe infinite and inex⯑preſſible obligations which my dear Engliſh fa⯑ther Edmund and his angelic ſiſter have heaped on your poor devoted Giuliana!—Dear England, and deareſt of friends, adieu! I kiſs your cha⯑ritable hands with the moſt impaſſioned gratitude and reverence —Encor adio.

Thus far Giuliana—I cannot cloſe this paper, as her ſecretary, without adding, in this ſpare corner of it, a ſhort ejaculation, imploring the genius of this divine woman, and the ſpirit of Petrarch, to forgive me for all the injuſtice I have done to their rich, delicate, harmonious language, by the poverty and roughneſs of my rapid extempore tranſlation.

LETTER XII. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AFTER a ſmooth, but rather a ſlow paſ⯑ſage, we are at length in France! thank Heaven. You want not any deſcription of French people, or French buildings; if you [77] did, I fear the accounts you would gain from me would be very unſatisfactory. I can ſee and hear nothing but my marvellouſly intereſting fellow-traveller. What a divine creature ſhe is! how admirable in her form and faculties! how ex⯑quiſite in her ſenſations! what efforts of heart and ſoul has it coſt her to tear herſelf from the land that holds her buried lover! I can never forget her looks and geſture as ſhe quitted our coaſt. The laſt thing ſhe did on ſhore was to ſtoop and pick up a pebble, which ſhe kiſſed de⯑voutly, and then preſſed into her boſom: a mil⯑lion of words could not have expreſſed ſo much as ſhe did by this little geſture. I believe I ſhould have thought it fantaſtic in another wo⯑man; but in Giuliana it appeared ſimple, grace⯑ful and affecting, in the higheſt degree. What a rich fund of ſingular and entirely new de⯑lights have you afforded me, my dear Edmund, by this commiſſion! Had a prophet told me, two years ago, that I ſhould at this time be tra⯑velling with a young beauty, not connected with any living mortal; that I ſhould hear, day after day, the ſofteſt language from the moſt lovely lips; that I ſhould have every opportunity for the moſt tender familiarities, and yet that I ſhould ſit by the ſide of this fair creature with⯑out thinking that ſhe had ſuch a thing as a lip belonging to her, without feeling a ſingle inti⯑mation from all the warm and wanton blood in my veins that I had a daughter of Eve within the reach of my embrace; had a prophet, I ſay, told me this, I ſhould have laughed at him for a lying oracle, and have informed him, that his [78] prediction was not very conſiſtent with general nature, and ſtill leſs ſo with my conſtitution: yet this is truly the caſe. Giuliana ſeems to have realized the idea, in a charming ſong of Par⯑nell's, to have been a woman to Peverell alone, and to be an angel to all the reſt of mankind. I may, in truth, apply to her the expreſſion of her darling Petrarch, and ſay, that her eyes ſeem to purify the air, and to baniſh every evil thought from her preſence. You know I have long been fond of the Italian language; and I thought myſelf an intelligent admirer of Pe⯑trarch, that inſipid and weariſome ſonneteer in the eſtimation of ordinary readers, that moſt exquiſite and enchanting of all poets to every refined ſpirit under the immediate influence of ſorrow or of love. But, though a tolerable pro⯑ficient in his language, I really never felt the magic of Petrarch till I heard him recited by Gi⯑uliana; and for this very high delight I am part⯑ly indebted to accident. In drawing out her purſe, at Canterbury, to beſtow her charity on a venerable old mendicant, Giuliana let fall a moſt elegant diminutive copy of this celebrated poet: this, as ſhe herſelf informed me, had been the conſtant pocket-companion of her dear Pe⯑verell: the book, as if in ſympathy with its maſter, had even received a wound from the horrid accident which occaſioned his death; and his ſervant, the faithful Robert, thinking, very juſtly, that his tender-hearted miſtreſs would prize it as a ſacred invaluable relique, had beg⯑ged, preſerved, and preſented it to her. I was highly pleaſed with this little anecdote; and par⯑ticularly [79] happy to catch a ſubject for converſation that I knew to be in harmony with the feelings of my afflicted companion. I made Petrarch, therefore, the main topic of our diſcourſe; I feigned myſelf puzzled by ſome paſſages, for the pleaſure of leading Giuliana to amuſe herſelf by a kind explanation of them. Heavens! if the ſoul of the poet was conſcious of our con⯑ference concerning him, what delight muſt he have received from the eloquent praiſe of his lovely commentator! When ſhe found I had ſome reliſh for her darling author, ſhe began to indulge herſelf in various quotations, ſo patheti⯑cally appoſite to her own condition, and deliver⯑ed with ſuch perfect eloquence, that I ſeemed never to have been acquainted either with true poetry, or true elocution, till that moment. I ſhould fill a volume were I to enumerate and give you a full account of all theſe. Indeed you have a little ſpecimen; but, without her voice, and with my tranſlation, a moſt imperfect ſpeci⯑men of them, in her letter from Dover. I muſt however tell you one of her quotations, which ſtruck me moſt forcibly; but let me firſt men⯑tion the occaſion that produced it. You know I join with you in deteſting that cruel and ab⯑ſurd maxim of endeavouring to conſole extreme ſorrow by leading it from its object; grief is a noble imperious paſſion, that ought not to be thwarted, but to be flattered and indulged: on theſe principles, inſtead of avoiding the name of Peverell, I have frequently introduced it; and as we were within a few miles of Dover, in ſpeaking of the perſonal attractions of Laura, [80] I extolled in the warmeſt terms that rare portion of maſculine grace and comelineſs which that gallant young man was univerſally allowed to poſſeſs. I thought I ſaw in the features of Gi⯑uliana that her impaſſioned heart ſwelled with a delightful, though melancholy pride, in hearing this honeſt praiſe of its idol; and in a moment ſhe exclaimed,

Would to heaven I were a poet, that I might give you a juſter idea of theſe enchanting num⯑bers! yet, even then, I could not convey to you the inimitable geſture and heart-ſearching tone of Giuliana; theſe were ſo exquiſitely pathetic [...]n this occaſion, that I was never half ſo much affected by the deepeſt tragedy as by her recita⯑tion of theſe few verſes. My tears, I believe, would have continued flowing till we entered Dover, had not my affection been called to a little auditor who felt the pathos of this paſſage ſtill more intenſely than I did: you will imme⯑diately ſee this could be no other than the poor [81] faithful Giannina, whom you ſeated on the ſtool at our feet. I ſoon perceived her little roſy face was grown as pale as death itſelf; and I verily believe the girl would have fainted, or fallen in⯑to convulſions, if I had not jumped from the chaiſe, and carried her in my arms for a few paces in the cool air. Giuliana, who is, you know, all tenderneſs to this little orphan, ſoon completed her recovery, by the ſweetneſs of her maternal ſolicitude for the affectionate ſufferer. But let me return to Petrarch: As we are ſuch idolaters of the poet, we have agreed to viſit Vaucluſe on our journey, and I ſhall not write to you again till we have paid our devotions there. I conjure you and Lucy to ſit down and begin learning Italian together; you know not what delight you have loſt, by not being able to converſe with our lovely friend in her own ſweet languge. Thank Heaven, my Cornelia both ſpeaks and ſings it. My Cornelia, do I ſay? alas! if ſhe is deſtined not to be ſo! Do you know, that Giuliana, who has, I fancy, received ſome hints from Lucy, begins to preach to me, like an angel as ſhe is, on my impetuous character, and the danger of the paſſions! I am impetuous, I confeſs, yet not unreaſonable in my wiſhes. Oh Heaven! let me be but as ar⯑dently beloved by Cornelia as Peverell ſtill is by Giuliana, and I will aſk no more! Adieu. My engaging fellow-traveller intreated me to ſay every thing that is kind for her. While I have been writing, ſhe and Giannina have been try⯑ing to ſleep off the unpleaſant effects of their [82] ſea-ſickneſs. They are now much reſtored. Once more adieu; and let me repeat my requeſt, and conſign you to your Italian Grammar, that you may read the future letters of Giuliana with full pleaſure. She will write to you, ſhe ſays, as long as ſhe exiſts; and if you do not acquire her language, you may oblige her perhaps, hereafter, to have her thoughts and words man⯑gled by ſome tranſlator ſtill worſe than your af⯑fectionate, &c.

LETTER XIII. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

AS I knew I ſhould find opportunities of ſend⯑ing our kind remembrances to you by your intimate friend, and moſt punctual correſpon⯑dent, at Paris, I intended not to write to you again till we had reached Avignon, and viſited Vaucluſe, the only object in our road that I thought likely to intereſt the curioſity, and af⯑ford any thing like amuſement, to my love⯑ly grief devoted companion. But we have un⯑expectly met with ſome adventures in our way, that not only drove Petrarch and Vaucluſe from her mind, but almoſt made her forget even Peve⯑rell [83] himſelf. In a word, my dear Edmund (but do not be alarmed, for the danger is all over), I have been at the point of death. I had reaſon indeed to call Giuliana an angel; for I muſt have expired, had not this divine creature watched over me with an attention as indefati⯑gable and inceſſant as ever was paid by a fond mother to her ſick infant. We have now been eleven days in this commodious and charitable city: I ought, I am ſure, to beſtow upon it that honourable epithet, as I have received from its generous inhabitants, to whom even my name was unknown, various preſents of ſuch articles as they ſuppoſed might be of uſe and comfort to a ſtranger, whom ſickneſs had overtaken on his travels. My diſorder, I confeſs, has been the natural effect of my own imprudence; for at Moulines I did a very fooliſh thing: unknown to Giuliana, and truſting too much to a ſtrong conſtitution, I contracted a villainous cold and fe⯑ver, by paſſing the whole night in the open air, to gratify a nonſenſical whim that I will explain to you hereafter. By ſlighting my complaint at firſt, I made it miſerably ſerious. On my arri⯑val here, I was obliged to keep my bed; and dur⯑ing the firſt ſeven days Giuliana and her good little ſilent ſhadow Giannina were conſtantly in my chamber day and night. They have now (God bleſs them!) reſtored me to ſuch a degree that we are to ſet forward again to-morrow, and in a mode of travelling that, inſtead of wearying me with the fatigue of a journey, will rather reſtore me by the moſt eaſy, pleaſant, and re⯑freſhing exerciſe; for we are to deſcend the [84] Rhone in a large batteau, in which there is a cabbin; it will take our carriage on board, and we are to ſtop in this agreeable voyage for the purpoſes of dining and ſleeping at the different towns that embelliſh the banks of the river: thus, they tell us, we ſhall be ſmoothly and gai⯑ly wafted to Avignon; and in truth, though my fever is entirely gone, I am not yet fit for any ſort of rapid or rough motion. Here is my beſt phyſician, nurſe, and governeſs, Giuliana, looking at her ſubmiſſive and grateful patient with her angelic black eyes, and commanding me to reſign my pen; firſt, becauſe my head is not very fit to guide it any longer; and ſe⯑condly, becauſe ſhe is determined ſhe ſays to add herſelf an Engliſh poſtſcript to this epiſtle. She ſhall not, however, take the paper from me till I have told you, that inſtead of lamenting, I really bleſs my illneſs; becauſe it has in its ter⯑mination done more eſſential ſervice to the wounded ſpirit of my lovely friend, than my broken health could poſſibly have rendered her. My recovery ſeems indeed to have given her new exiſtence. O Benevolence! I was not before inſenſible to thy beauty or thy power; but I knew not till now thy healing efficacy over a heart, however bruiſed and torn, that is ſtill able to feel thee in all thy pureſt exceſs! Giu⯑liana, in ſaving, and ſecuring to me, that life which was on the point of its departure from this ſuffering frame, has in great meaſure diſpelled the oppreſſive cloud which hung ſo heavy on her celeſtial mind. Though it is a cordial to me to praiſe her to you as I ought, ſhe will not allow [85] me to ſcribble a ſyllable more. So farewell. Be not at all alarmed for me; and depend on my writing again very ſoon.

I muſt invite you to rejoice with me, deareſt friends; for I did not think my poor heart could ever feel again upon earth, a joy of ſo much ſincerity and ſpirit like what I feel in the ſafety of this generous ſoul, my kind conductor, who has been ſick indeed. By the aſſiſtance of the good GOD, I have made him to live, when I thought he muſt die! Now, praiſed be Heaven, all the danger is over! Theſe are joyful Engliſh words from the pen of your Giuliana. Praying a moſt happy courſe to your honourable lives, I kiſs your dear hands, my beloved father Ed⯑mund and ſiſter Lucy. Adio.

LETTER XIV. FROM MISS AUDLEY TO MRS. AUDLEY. [with the preceding incloſed.]

THANK you, my dear Harriot, for the very amuſing peep you have given me in⯑to to the boſom of our Cornelia. You have, in a [86] moſt lively manner, preſented her whole heart to my eyes; and methinks ſuch a view of a heart in love is like viewing a little lump of cheeſe through a microſcope. I ſee all the poor Corne⯑lia's doubts, fears, hopes, wiſhes, caprices, ar⯑guments, ſurmiſes, phantaſies, &c. &c. &c. all huddled and hurried together in perpetual rotation, like a legion of mites, and forming as it were the very ſubſtance of her heart. I fancy all her honeſt and delicate hypocriſy, though it deceives herſelf, will never lead you to doubt on the real ſtate of her affection: but if you wiſh to put the point to ſtill farther proof, I ſhall enable you to do ſo, for I encloſe what I think an infallible touchſtone for that purpoſe. You have only to read to her the letter from Sey⯑mour, which you will find in this; taking care however to omit a parentheſis of comfort juſt before you come to the words ‘I have been at the point of death.’ If ſhe is in truth ſo deeply in love with the engaging creature as we have reaſon to conjecture, you will ſee her turn as pale as I did in a moment you well remember, when you and I were firſt informed that a certain plauſible deceiver, who had juſt boaſted to us of his proſperous voyage, was utterly undone. I moſt heartily hope that the iſſue of your Corne⯑lia's love may be more happy than mine—it may be more happy, and yet not ſo tranquil: for my own part, I now reſt on the ſame maxim of a reaſonable poet, ‘Aim not at joy, but reſt content with eaſe.’

[87]Let me, however, in diſclaiming joy, declare, that I mean only the joys of love: for as to thoſe of friendſhip, which I am perſuaded are infi⯑nitely the more valuable, few mortals poſſeſs them in more abundance, and none can feel them in a higher degree than I do; particularly when I reflect, my dear Harriot, on all your kindneſs towards me; and aſſure you, with a love "paſſing the Love of MAN," that I am

P. S. Edmund is well, but not a little anxious concerning the health of his friend. For my part, I am inclined to think this illneſs is pro⯑vidential, and only deſtined to prevent his being licentiouſly enamoured of his lovely compa⯑nion; of which I confeſs I had terrible appre⯑henſions. What a charming creature ſhe is! I was infinitely more affected by her little poſt⯑ſcript of odd Engliſh, than by all Seymour's ac⯑count of his malady. Farewell. Pray tell me very ſoon how my touchſtone operates on the tender widow. Methinks I am like an old che⯑miſt, who, having burnt his fingers, impaired his health, and then deſtroyed all his books in dudgeon, takes a ſort of half-malicious and half-goodnatured pleaſure in obſerving a chemical novice, who careleſsly ſports with the moſt ſub⯑tile corroſive, before he is perfectly and painfully apprized of its extreme power.

I intended you a larger pacquet; but as the contents of this are very intereſting, and I have [88] an opportunity of diſpatching them immediate⯑ly by a private conveyance, I ſeize it with great eagerneſs; ſo once more farewell.

LETTER XV. MRS. AUDLEY. [in anſwer to the preceding.]

YOU are a ſkilful chemiſt indeed, my dear Lucy—an abſolute conjuror; but pray ſend us no more of your corroſive touchſtones, my dear; or when you do, be ſo kind as to give me, at the ſame time, a leſſon of caution on the uſe of them.—Turn pale indeed! do you call this turning pale, to be half frightened out of ſenſe and exiſtence? Ah, poor Cornelia! verily thou art infected. But let me recover from my ſympathy in her panic, and make a full confeſſion to you, my dear full ſiſter, in this little piece of inquiſitorial iniquity, how very wickedly I managed it. Your pacquet travel⯑ling by a private hand, found me alone in the morning. Cornelia had left me, to write let⯑ters in her own room. Having peruſed both yours and Seymour's, I was ſeized with a paſ⯑ſionate deſire to make the moſt of your touch⯑ſtone. I believe, my dear, all women have [89] a little white malice in their minds on ſuch occaſions. I inſtantly ſealed the pacquet again very neatly, and told my own maid to bring it to me as juſt arrived, when ſhe found that Cor⯑nelia and I were ſat down as uſual to work toge⯑ther in the favourite little dreſſing-room. This critical time ſoon arrived; and while we were diſcourſing on the travellers, a very frequent to⯑pic with us, your kind pacquet was put again into my hand. Before I broke the ſeal, I ob⯑ſerved no ſmall degree of ſolicitude in the coun⯑tenance of my companion. I thought her eyes ſparkled with pleaſure on the ſight of Seymour's hand. She entreated me to read his letter aloud. I obeyed your direction; and left out the pa⯑rentheſis that ſpeaks of his recovery: and in ſlowly pronouncing the words ‘at the point of death,’ I fixed a ſearching eye on the features of my friend; deſcribe them to you I cannot— no language can do juſtice to their expreſſion; I muſt therefore content myſelf with telling you my own varied ſenſations of the moment. When I caught the firſt glimpſe of her face, as I had my own treacherous trick very ſtrongly in my head, I was on the point of laughing at the appearance of its ſucceſs; but the pallid hue of affectionate terror, and I may ſay agony, growing every inſtant more alarming in the countenance of Cornelia, who ſat before me with the open but ſpeechleſs lips of anxiety and expectation, my heart ſmote me, and rendered me unable to execute all the cruel deſign that I had formed againſt her; which was, to let her remain for ſome hours in an abſolute perſuaſion [90] of Seymour's being ſtill in great danger: this barbarity I could not ſupport; I read the reviving parentheſis; but without an avowal that I ought to have read it before. She was a little comfort⯑ed: but her ſufferings were ſtill ſevere enough to excite my compaſſion: ſhe perceived that I pitied her, and it both ſoftened and opened her heart towards me; for, on my ſaying, with an half-ſmile, "Ah, my dear Cornelia, can you ſtill ſay, and think, that you do not love Seymour?" ſhe burſt into a flood of tears, and hiding her lovely face in my boſom, ſhe ſaid, in a heart-piercing murmur, "I do, my deareſt friend, I do love him in my ſoul: but it is a folly and a crime, my dear Harriot, that you muſt not encourage, but help me to cure."

You, my dear Lucy, who know what a friend I am to all honeſt love, will readily gueſs the part I now took in our converſation. I ſaid eve⯑ry thing that the moſt friendly ſympathy could ſuggeſt, to ſoothe and to fortify her over-ſcrupu⯑lous and trembling heart. I ſaid what I really think, that her affection, inſtead of being ei⯑ther fooliſh or criminal, is the fair offspring, not only of nature, but of propriety and juſ⯑tice. The very delicate and reſpectful manner in which Seymour had ſought her eſteem, dur⯑ing the life of the poor old querulous invalid, whom it was impoſſible for her to love; the trembling awe, and the fond anxiety, with which he ventured to force himſelf into her preſence in this houſe; and all his behaviour here; furniſhed me with weighty arguments in his favour; and I pleaded his cauſe, I believe, [91] with all the warmth of a ſiſter; for I almoſt feel that I love him with a ſiſterly affection my⯑ſelf. The poor fellow ſeemed to derive ſo much comfort from my little civility to him in his ſhort viſit here, when my good man and Cornelia were both inclined to look rather blank upon him, that he convinced me of the truth and force of his paſſion, by the exceſs of his timidity and embarraſſment; for in the firſt hour or two be ſeemed as it were to cling to me, to give him courage, as a child does, in firſt entering a dark room with its nurſe. As the rogue does not want either grace or decent confidence in his ge⯑neral manners, his extreme ſenſibility on this occaſion inclined me very much to befriend him. I did ſo when he was here; I have now done ſo in his abſence; and if it ſhould really prove a misfortune to Cornelia to love him, as the dear weeping trembler told me it certainly muſt, Hea⯑ven forgive me for the ſin I have incurred in fanning the flame of her boſom! Not that I think Seymour much indebted to the abilities or the zeal of his advocate, for the ſway he has gained over this little ſubmiſſive, though mur⯑muring heart, we are talking of. I ſaid indeed a good deal in his praiſe: but what of that? [...]ad not the moſt eloquent of all eulogiſts ſpoke before me?—had not Love informed her, that in a [...]e, in figure, in fortune, and in mutual regard, Seymour and Cornelia are a couple un⯑commonly well-paired: they are, indeed, ſo perfectly matched in theſe eſſential points, that it is hardly poſſible to ſee them together without wiſhing them united.—"Aye, but my ſweet [92] Harriot, ſays the trembling conſcientious Cor⯑nelia, think of that tremendous article, Reli⯑gion! Remember the dying advice of my kind and provident Sedley! No, let me die by a malady more painful and more lingering than his, rather than act in oppoſition to ſo juſt, ſo benevolent, a counſellor." My dear Cornelia, I admire your virtuous ſpirit—I am charmed with your reſolution; but do not diſquiet your gentle heart with theſe imaginary terrors; there may be no ſuch obſtacle as you ſuppoſe in your way to happineſs.—"Nay, my good Harriot, why would you wiſh to flatter and delude me? Did not you yourſelf, the other day, in ſpeaking of Seymour, allude to the univerſal opinion of his being an Infidel? You ſpoke indeed in jeſt—a barbarous jeſt—but you did not know how deeply you wounded this very fooliſh heart. Now I have laid open to you all its aching fibres, pray, my dear Harriot, drop a little oil upon them; and do not, I conjure you, do not ad⯑miniſter to me any of thoſe dangerous medicines, which, under the pretence of healing a wound, only inflame and render it incurable.—Indeed I muſt not think of Seymour—no, I never will think of him! I hope he will remain in Italy— I wiſh he may fall in love with Giuliana—'Tis very likely." Here a deep ſigh; which made me exclaim, "Oh, you abominable lovely hy⯑pocrite! you have not any ſuch wiſh in your heart; and if you ever forced yourſelf to feel it for a moment, and heard of its being accom⯑pliſhed, it would ſtill make you half-frantic. Come, come, my dear Cornelia, there is really [93] no occaſion for any of theſe deſperate inſup⯑portable wiſhes; wiſh him a good godly huſ⯑band to yourſelf, and try to make him ſo. Who, my dear, could mould the rough arrogant mind of man better than ſuch a gentle angel as your⯑ſelf, when inſpired by the beſt motives, both of heaven and earth, true piety and chaſte affec⯑tion? Do we not read in hiſtory, that moſt of the Gothic ſovereigns in Europe were converted to Chriſtianity by their wives? After all, my dear, though we have allowed ourſelves to talk freely of Seymour's wanting devotion; yet ſurely he is not more deficient in that point than the general herd of young men who have been bred to his rank and fortune: they are all ſo en⯑groſſed by pleaſure or ambition, that few can find time either to think or to hear of GOD. Indeed I believe the generality of men in all ſta⯑tions are little acquainted with devotional ideas, till towards the middle, or rather the latter ſtage of their life; when, being ſettled in a domeſtic circle, and ſeeing a new generation riſe to ſuc⯑ceed in their departments, they find it high time to reflect on a better world.

You know, my dear Cornelia, it was my ſin⯑gular good fortune to fall into the arms of a man whoſe amiable mind imbibed very early a deep ſenſe of religion; but, as he has told me him⯑ſelf, he was indebted for this bleſſing to ſome remarkable incidents that happened to him in his youth, much more than to any inſtruction. Religious as he is, no man can be more indul⯑gent to thoſe who differ from himſelf, though his ſenſe of the beneficial influence which reli⯑gion [94] has had, and ſtill has on his own happineſs, makes him wiſh moſt cordiaally to ſee it more prevalent: his ſentiments and diſcourſe on the levity of others are never violent or intruſive. I know he moſt ſincerely admires all the gene⯑rous and all the agreeable qualities in Seymour; and I will venture to ſay, that no event in the world would give him more pleaſure than one which he thinks by no means improbable, and which I confeſs myſelf inclined to reckon in the claſs of certainties: I mean, the event of our ſeeing the engaging Seymour every thing we can wiſh him; or, to uſe the devout and gallant language of chivalry, moſt perfect in his ho⯑mage, both to God and his fair-one."

'Twas thus, my dear Lucy, that I ran on, in my affectionate harangue to comfort and enliven the dear troubled Cornelia. I had the ſatisfaction of ſeeing her ſweet countenance more and more ferene, as I proceeded, till at laſt her face grow⯑ing bright as the face of an angel, ſhe preſſed my hand, and exclaimed, in a tranſport from her fa⯑vourite tragedy of Zara: ‘Were he but Chriſtian, what could man be more!’

She uttered this line with ſuch an air of fond and devout paſſion, and as ſhe ſpoke the poſſibi⯑lity, or rather the hope, of being holily united to the only man ſhe has ever loved, gave ſuch a rich and tender glow to her lovely features, that I never ſaw any woman look ſo gloriouſly beautiful, to uſe a ſtrong expreſſion of our admired Lady Wortley, as my dear comforted Cornelia looked in that moment, I believe I remained gazing at [95] her, in mute delight, for a minute, as the plea⯑ſant traveller I have juſt mentioned gazed on the fair Fatima at Adrianople: though the Turkiſh lady, I grant, was a more dazzling figure, from the ſplendid novelty of her dreſs, I am perſuaded ſhe was not equal in beauty to my incomparable friend; for, in the firſt place, I can never think that black eyes can equal the delicious tenderneſs of blue; ſecondly, the monotony of Turkiſh love can hardly permit the face of a ſultana to expreſs that ſweet and rich combination of intel⯑ligence, ſentiment, and paſſion, which gave ſuch inexpreſſible charms to the countenance of Cor⯑nelia at the inſtant I am talking of. But this little digreſſion on beauty, of which you know I am a great idolater, has detained me too much: I muſt haſten to tell you, that we remained not long on thoſe tranſporting heights to which our ſpirits were ſuddenly carried. Cornelia ſoon fell from the pinacle of hope, and I gently deſcended from that of admiration. Our conference took a more ſober turn, and cloſed with a diſcreet reſo⯑lution, not to enter into any warm arguments, either for or againſt the object of our debate; but to leave things as they now are to thoſe two great ſettlers of human doubts and perplexities, time and chance. In the mean time you will readily believe, that our eagerneſs to be favoured with all the diſpatches you receive from the tra⯑vellers, is not in a way to be diminiſhed. Ex⯑cluſive, indeed, of the intereſt Cornelia takes in his welfare, I am heartily concerned for Sey⯑mour's illneſs; both on his own account, and that of his intereſting charge. Heaven ſend us [96] an early and good account of them! As to your remark, my dear Lucy, concerning the chaſte providential tendency of Seymour's illneſs, I moſt heartily hope that you may be in the right; but I confeſs it ſtrikes me in the oppoſite point of view, though I would not tell Cornelia ſo for the world; and perhaps it is merely becauſe I remember a whimſical ſpeech, made by a curi⯑ous old gentleman, who uſed to viſit my father very often, and delighted to make us girls laugh by the oddity of his remarks upon love and ma⯑trimony, his never-failing ſubjects of diſcourſe. This ſaid old gentleman once gave the following caution to my mother: "Madam," ſaid he, with an arch and humorous ſolemnity of face, "permit me to adviſe you never to employ a young woman to attend a ſick man, unleſs you wiſh to make a match between them; for I have always obſerved in theſe caſes, that the firſt uſe which a convaleſcent makes of his reviving ſtrength is, a grateful tender of it to his nurſe; and the good girl is ſo delighted to ſee a ſick man growing well again, that ſhe has no heart to con⯑tradict him."

There's a ſhort ſtory for you, as an epilogue to the long one. Heaven grant it may make you ſmile, without being any bad omen for Cornelia! Mercy on us! if any ſuch things ſhould happen, as the recollection of this nonſenſical old proſer has put into my head: Deuce take him! for ſtarting up in my memory; but not a word more, for here comes Cornelia, with two maps in her hand, to ſhew me all the route of the tra⯑vellers. Ah, poor ſtricken deer! Well I muſt [97] poſitively cloſe with all our love to you both. Dear girl, ſend us ſome good news the firſt mo⯑ment that you have it in your power: and re⯑member, that my pacquets to you are as volumi⯑nous as an old counſellor's opinion; ſo pray imitate the lawyers on your part, and be not ſparing in reply. Farewell.

LETTER XVI. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

ALIVE! alive, my dear Edmund! Behold me floating down the Rhone, by the ſide of the lovely and now ſmiling Giuliana. Do not therefore let your kind apprehenſion ſuggeſt to you, that I may be croſſing the Styx with old Charon: my preſent voyage is a thouſand times better; for I was never more diſpoſed in my life to reliſh the charms of this world. Every thing I ſee is beautiful, every thing I taſte is delicious. If this is the uſual effect of a recovery from ſick⯑neſs, I would willingly be ſick once a-year. There is one thing, however, that puzzles me to account for: as you are a profound ſpeculator, and as you love to ruminate on the variety and oddity of human ſenſations, I propoſe to your [98] ſage worſhip the following query for your ſolu⯑tion: Why was I a good and faithful Platoniſt a month ago, when I was in the full vigour of health? and why, at this ſeaſon, when I am lit⯑tle more than half reſtored from a ſtate of debi⯑lity, why do I feel a deſperate inclination to the philoſophy of Epicurus? What ſtrange creatures we are! It ſeems to me as if all our wit and ſtupidity, our wiſdom and folly, our virtues and vices, depended on a few drops, more or leſs, of the red, white, and yellow fluids, that are per⯑petually changing in theſe tragi-comical machines that we call human bodies. I am this moment a ſtriking illuſtration of my theory. I ſeized a pen, all gaiety, to write you at leaſt the begin⯑ning of a gay epiſtle on board. The motion of the boat as I write has moved my bile, made me half ſqueamiſh; and behold my gaiety turned to a dull diſſertation on the mechaniſm of man, of which, like many who have attempted to explain it, I know nothing. But this I know, that when the manly machine is out of tune, nothing can put it to ſoon into harmony as placing it within the influence of an enchanting female; ſo allow me to throw down the pen, and take a few turns on the ſhort deck of our veſſel with my ſweet meſſmate Giuliana. I will finiſh this as ſoon as we land at the village where we mean to dine.

I am now on ſhore; but toſſed at this moment in one of the moſt diſquieting half-tempeſts of heart and mind that I ever experienced Alas! my dear Edmund, I have played the fool moſt abominably. I reproach myſelf, and, what is worſe, I feel inceſſantly that I ſtill more deſerve [99] your reproaches. But that you may not, from theſe imperfect intimations, ſuppoſe my offences more flagrant than they have been, I will give you a very full and frank hiſtory of the extreme folly by which I have poiſoned the pure delight that, in ſpite of ſickneſs itſelf, I had enjoyed, till this luckleſs day, in the faithful diſcharge of my truſt.

After a moſt pleaſant and ſhort day's voyage, the kind conſiderate Giuliana, thinking me more an invalid than I am, and deſirous that I ſhould avoid the evening air on the river, con⯑trived for us to take a late dinner at a delightful village, where we are alſo to paſs the night. Our hotel is a new and elegant little ſtructure [...]uilt after an Engliſh model with bow windows, [...]ommanding one of the moſt enchanting proſ⯑pects that the eye can behold. Our landlady has been particularly recommended to Giuliana [...]t Lyons, and not without reaſon, for ſhe ſeems to p [...]ſſeſs in very rare and happy proportions the [...]v [...]ity of France, and the ne [...]tneſs of Holland. In high delight with this ſingular and moſt agreeable auberge, I and my lovely companion, after a cheerful dinner in one of its upper apart⯑ments, were leaning together on the open bow-window that commands this delicious country, when chance, or the devil, call it which you will, preſented a ſight to me that in an inſtant ſ [...]t fire to all the reviving wanton blood in my veins; yet it was by no means a ſight of licen⯑t [...]ous pleaſure, but one that rather favoured of primeval innocence and the golden age. Out [...]ndow commanded a very pretty cottage, with [100] a little vineyard and flower-garden. The happy maſter of this diminutive kingdom is, it ſeems, a Scotch Catholic, who, after paſſing a few years in the French ſervice, ſettled here with a very beautiful fair-one of this country. Having a paſſion for gardening, and being ſtill in the prime of life, he draws a moſt healthy and de⯑lightful [...]ubſiſtence from wine, fruit, and flowers, the prod [...]ce of his little domain. The buſineſs of the vintage is all paſt for this year; but it ſeems this honeſt man has a ſenſible good-natured cuſtom of rewarding his handſome wife, and ſweet children, for their labours in that buſy ſeaſon, by ſaving for them, as a treat after their toil, a little portion of his moſt exquiſite fruit. We happened to behold him in the inſtant of collecting and diſtributing this reſerved treaſure. Figure to yourſelf, my dear Edmund, a fine tall military florid fellow, ſtretching out his manly [...]rame at the top of a ladder, to reach ſome hunches of magnificent grapes, at the lofty ex⯑tremities of a broken rock, part of which he had faſhioned into a garden-wall. Obſerve towards the feet of the ladder a little golden-headed boy, like a cherubim, who has crept up four or five ſteps, and is bolding up the hollow of his hat; while his mother, a woman as comely, as luxu⯑riant in beauty as Pomona herſelf, holds one ſide of the ladder, while two beautiful little girls (both older than the boy) ſeem to delight them⯑ſelves in thinking that they ſupport the other. Behold the happy father deſcending with a neat open baſket, well filled, in his hand. His chil⯑dren form a little circle around him; each re⯑ceives [101] a luxuriant bunch of grapes; each ſmiles with content and tranſport at the allotted ſhare. Thus far all is well: but the honeſt man having kiſſed each of his children, in diſtributing his preſents, upon delivering the reſidue of the fruit and the baſket to their ſmiling mother, throws his left arm around her, and gives her ſo hearty a kiſs, a kiſs ſo marvellouſly expreſſive of connu⯑bial happineſs, that an old hermit in ſeeing it muſt have longed for a wife. No words can tell you the kind of electric fire that it ſeemed to communicate to all my fibres. Giuliana moved from the window, under the pretence of helping herſelf to a glaſs of water. I could not forbear following her; and I exclaimed, "What a cou⯑ple of ſimpletons are you and I, my dear Giuli⯑ana! You are ſolicitous to ſave the ſoul of a fa⯑ther who may not perhaps thank you for your intention; and I to gain the heart of a widow, who has, perhaps, already beſtowed it on a more fortunate ſuitor. How much wiſer would it be in both of us to ſettle together in this delicious country, and act the ſweet ſcene that we have juſt beheld in a vineyard of our own!" In utter⯑ing the laſt word, I imprinted an haſty kiſs on her lips. I had never made the ſlighteſt advance towards touching them before, and her extreme ſurprize did not allow her either time or preſence of mind ſufficient to ſhrink from my careſs: but if you wiſh to know how ſhe looked on the occa⯑ſion, imagine to yourſelf, my dear Edmund; an Attic prieſteſs, in the moment of ſeeing an altar which ſhe had guarded with the devouteſt fidelity prophaned by a barbarian. Indignant diſplea⯑ſure [102] lightened from her eyes; her whole coun⯑tenance expreſſed the rebuke of an offended angel; and I believe ſhe was on the point of uttering ſome words of great ſeverity, but ſhe checked herſelf, and remained ſilent a few mo⯑ments. I fancy my appearance affected her; it muſt have been very ſingular; for the flame of wanton deſire, which had, I confeſs, a momen⯑tary exiſtence in my boſom, had ſunk in the ſmouldering vapour of vexation and remorſe. The agitation of theſe oppoſite feelings had given ſuch a tremulous weakneſs to my unbraced nerves, that I believe Giuliana ſoon beheld me rather as an object of pity than of terror. I ab⯑ſolutely had not power to ſpeak; and, after a ſhort pauſe, Giuliana ſaid with a plaintive gen⯑tleneſs of voice and manner, a thouſand times more affecting to me than any vehement acrimo⯑nious reproof could have been, "This is very wrong and very unexpected in my generous guide! Do not, Seymour, do not ſo cruelly de⯑ſtroy the ſincere ſatisfaction I felt, in being the inſtrument, under God, of preſerving your life!" Cloſing this tender reprimand with a look ſtill more expreſſive of her own wounded feelings, ſhe left the room, and I felt as if I had heard my good genius ſay, "You are become unworthy of my care, and I abandon you to a legion of in⯑fernal tormentors." My heart indeed was full of ſuch viſitants: I traverſed the room in vain to ſhake them off, my attempts were equally fruit⯑leſs, whether I tried to reaſon, or to laugh myſelf out of my bitter vexation. Pho! nonſenſe! ſaid Pride, to comfort me. After all, what is your [103] mighty crime? barely touching the lip of a very beautiful woman, with whom you were alone. Aye, but, ſays Conſcience, you know there are certain ſituations in which a ſimple kiſs may ſeem an outrage, as cruel as abſolute violation▪ it is in theſe tender points where a delicate heart and mind are concerned, ‘That nothing is but thinking makes it ſo.’ Whatever ſelf-flattery can ſuggeſt in my defence, the troubled look of Giuliana, imprinted on my heart, refutes every ſyllable of my deluſive advo⯑cate. I find no relief but in the moſt perfect re⯑pentance. When I had brought my mind into a tolerable calm, by penitent reſolutions of making all the atonement in my power for having ſo un⯑gratefully offended my divine companion, I ſate down to give you this hiſtory. I am now jaded with w [...]ing. Giuliana is not returned to me; I feel, like a wretch as I am, that I hardly de⯑ſerve to ſee her more; yet I muſt enquire where ſhe is.— Death and diſtraction! I may not ſee her for theſe two hours; ſhe is gone, with Gian⯑nina and the hoſteſs, Heaven knows whither. I deſerve it all, but her abſence is more torturing to me than either the looks or language of her diſpleaſure. Some demon has ſurely had the conduct of this whole day: it was from a per⯑verſe incident of his contrivance that Giannina happened to have left us alone after dinner; for I have conſtantly made a point of treating the [...] more as a relation than a ſervant to Giuli⯑ [...]na, and of courſe we have had her perpetually [...] our preſence till this unfortunate afternoon.

[104]I am this inſtant interrupted by a meſſage from an obliging Engliſh traveller, who is juſt ſetting off for Lyons, and has kindly offered to take charge of any little packet that I may wiſh to diſpatch. I am much more inclined to commit this epiſtle to the flames, than to any conveyance whatever; yet, in recollecting that my laſt may have filled your affectionate heart with painful apprehenſions for my life, I think it beſt to ſend you the ſpeedieſt account I can of my reviving health, though I ſhew you at the ſame time that I hardly deſerve to live. Indeed I ſhall hardly de⯑ſire a longer exiſtence than may ſuffice for me to reconcile Giuliana and her father; for I feel that I have forfeited all claims, if I ever had any, to the love of that irreproachable angelic creature, whoſe very name my lips are now become un⯑worthy to pronounce, Cornelia. How ſhould I preſume to call her my Cornelia, as I fondly uſed to do, when I reflect that ſhe never faltered in the execution of long, irkſome, and painful duties, for which ſhe was often repaid, they ſay, by que⯑rulous ingratitude; and that I (Heavens! what a contraſt!) that I have villainouſly failed in one delicate and honourable du [...]y, though I felt the faithful diſcharge of it not only free from pain, but abſolute delight. Oh! Edmund, the fever that has ceaſed to prey on my frame, and that I thought ſo grievous, was eaſe and pleaſure, com⯑pared to this new kind of fever that I feel at this moment in my mind. I am ſick with the worſt of all ſickneſs, I am ſick of myſelf. As I have always found you a moſt indulgent and ſoothing father-confeſſor in my moſt impetuous and extra⯑vagant [105] follies, let me conjure you to be ſo now; pray let me find, on my arrival at Genoa, ſuch a letter from as may tend to tranquillize my per⯑turbed ſpirit, and make me leſs odious to myſelf, by ſhewing me that you ſtill retain ſome eſteem for your moſt ſincere and affectionate, &c.

P. S. Giuliana is not yet returned; and I can⯑not detain this another inſtant. Adieu.

LETTER XVII. FROM MISS AUDLEY TO MRS. AUDLEY.

TAKE back to yourſelf, my dear Harriot, the fine title you beſtowed on me. 'Tis you who are the real conjurer; you are the true propheteſs. O man! man! inconſtant abomi⯑nable man! in ſober truth now I could lamoſt weep to think that, in reply to your moſt de⯑lightful hiſtory of Cornelia, I have a ſorry anec⯑dote to tell you of her too agreeable infidel, who ſeems to prove himſelf as unorthodox in the nice points of love and honour, as he is ſuppoſed to be in the eſſential article of Religion. Alas! how would the tremulous heart of our poor Cor⯑nelia palpitate, if ſhe knew what I have learnt this morning! that the wicked rogue has been wantonly kiſſing his lovely afflicted fellow-travel⯑ler. [106] O Heavens! I hear you exclaim; but huſh, huſh, my dear Harriot; drop not a word, I conjure you, that may ſuggeſt ſuch a torment⯑ing idea to the tender widow. In truth, all this terrific affair was nothing but the idle frolic of a moment; and the rogue has made himſelf ſuch a frank confeſſion, and expreſſed ſo much ſincere contrition for his offence, that we ought perhaps to be rather quieted than alarmed by the incident. Let us act therefore as true Charity does with greater ſinners, and conclude that his paſt wick⯑edneſs will only furniſh him with a ſurer foun⯑dation for his future virtue. You and I, my dear Harriot, may reſt perhaps on this conclu⯑ſion; but it would not do for the diſquieted Cor⯑nelia. I know, by woeful experience, that ideas which act as an opiate on the moderate appre⯑henſions of Friendſhip, may produce nothing but an increaſe of irritation on the wild and feveriſh terrors of Love. Pray obſerve what a wondrous philoſopher I grow, in living ſo much with our dear ſpeculative Edmund. Indeed, he kindly lets me into many myſteries, to which I ſhould be otherwiſe an utter ſtranger; and the knowledge of them has no little influence in ſe⯑curing that degree of content which I have hap⯑pily recovered. There was a time, you may re⯑member, when I wiſhed to be a young man, of a good figure, and an independent fortune; ſup⯑poſing, as I believe many miſſes ſuppoſe, that ſuch a character ſports in the world at his plea⯑ſure, as in a perfect paradiſe. I have now very different ideas of this being, once ſo envied; an opulent young man, of ſtrong paſſions, acute [107] ſenſibility, and with no well-ſettled principles, ſuch in ſhort as they moſt of them are, ſuch a character, I ſay, now ſtrikes me as reſembling the dancers that I have read of in ſome barbarous nation, who twiſt, torture, and wound them⯑ſelves a thouſand horrible ways, under the name of gaiety and diverſion: it is true, indeed, as Rowe, has ſweetly told us,

But what does he generally find in theſe rov⯑ings, ſo delightful to a young and credulous fancy? what are his adventures in this alluring wild? Why, truly, at one thicket he encounters a tigreſs; in another he is ſlung by an adder; or, if he is one of the lucky mortals who meet with a milder deſtiny in this ſaid variegated wild, ſtill, in ſtooping to gather a primroſe, it is ten to one but he pricks his fingers againſt an hedge⯑hog. But what a ſimple chattering monkey am I myſelf, in thus running into a fantaſtic diſſer⯑tation on libertines, when I only meant to aſſure you, in a few ſimple words, that you and your lovely friend may be perfectly eaſy concerning the health of our intereſting travellers! I wiſh of all things to incloſe to you Seymour's letter to Edmund; but the rigid philoſopher ſays, No: adding with a kind of ſeverity, "If Cornelia ſhould accidentally catch a ſight of the hand, and petition for a peruſal of the letter, the ſym⯑pathetic Harriot has not fortitude enough to re⯑fuſe; nor could ſhe, indeed, with any very good grace." You muſt allow there is ſome reaſon, as [108] well as good-nature, in this argument; ſo if your curioſity, my dear Harriot, teizes you a lit⯑tle on this point, as I fear it will, I can only ſay, as Hamlet does to his dear Horatio, ‘O'ermaſter it as you may.’

I ought, perhaps, to proceed like Hamlet; and bind you, by a ſolemn form of adjuration: ſo come, my dear, prepare yourſelf to take the oath I require; ſwear to me upon your fan (which is a lady's ſword); ſwear, I ſay,

I would not, for the world, be accidentally the inſtrument to wound your Cornelia; I moſt cor⯑dially wiſh her happy, though I fear ſhe has but little chance of being ſo: I know how dangerous it is to love a man for whom our eſteem cannot keep pace with our affection. But away with theſe gloomy preſages: Heaven bleſs her to the utmoſt of her fond expectation, and preſerve me as I am, ‘In maiden meditation fancy-free!’

A curious prayer this on my part, when I am juſt ſallying forth to take captive the noble Gene⯑ral who has lately ſettled in our neighbourhood! We are to dine with him to-day; I dreſſed very early on purpoſe (not to captivate him, my dear, but) to ſcribble to you, without the dread of ſcribbling, as you know I have ſometimes done, [109] without thinking of my dreſs till the very mo⯑ment the carriage was ordered. Among my late philoſophical obſervations I have obſerved, there is nothing which the lordly creature man diſlikes more than to be made to wait for a woman who has no means of repaying him for her delay.

Well, here is the dear lordly Edmund himſelf juſt come into my room, to tell me the chariot is at the door; and let me add, there is a new horſe to it, which is ſo like a man, that he can⯑not wait with patience, and is at this inſtant pawing up the new-laid gravel under his feet. Horſe and man, be as impatient as ye pleaſe, I cannot lay down my pen till I have told my dear Harriot the ſaucy ſpeech Edmund has juſt made to me; eſpecially as he delivered it as a kind of maxim for the grand purpoſe of teaching a ſpin⯑ſter how to chuſe a huſband: "Come, Lucy, ſaid my dear dictator, come, and ſet your cap at the General: the love of a young man is like a dram; if it does not intoxicate, it inflames and undermines the health; but the love of a man in middle life is like wine; it does not agitate the animal ſpirits too furiouſly, but only acts as an excellent ſtomachick." So you ſee, my dear Harrriot, if I take the General, it is nothing more than taking a glaſs of port by the advice of my phyſician. But, as you know I hate to fol⯑low preſcriptions, I truſt you will ſee me like a wiſe invalid, recover all my natural gaiety, by prudently and reſolutely abſtaining from all cor⯑dials whatever. From this ſcrawl I think you may conclude that I am growing as great a rattle as I uſed to be.—Mercy, the horſe has begun to [110] rear! and if I ſtay another moment, the philo⯑ſophic Edmund will begin to ſwear; ſo GOD bleſs you! and believe me ever,

LETTER XVIII. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

THE offended angel has forgiven me. But I am not yet reconciled to myſelf. My tranſgreſſion, indeed, admits of palliation—and it might have been infinitely greater. But what a ſorry apology is this, my dear Edmund! Was not Adam, as they tell us, baniſhed from Para⯑diſe for taſting the tree of knowledge; though he touched not the tree of life? I feel like Adam; I feel exiled from a mental Paradiſe, which I have baſely forfeited, and can hope to enter no more: I may indeed deſcribe the divine Giuliana as the Adam of Milton deſcribes Heaven after his offence, ‘I ſaw her placable and mild.’ And I may alſo ſay of myſelf, that I have

[111]But I feel that theſe days of mine, like thoſe of poor Adam after his fall, muſt be paſſed in a ſtate very different from my forfeited felicity. Though Giuliana, who has ſeen me not only penitent, but half-ill again with chagrin and vexation, has treated me with great indulgence and kindneſs; yet I too plainly perceive it is not in her own power to recall thoſe pure, thoſe tender, thoſe deliciouſly flattering ſenſations of ſiſterly love to⯑wards me, which my folly has diſpelled. I have heard thoſe who drink more freely than we do, my dear Edmond, declare, that there is a cer⯑tain pitch of pleaſure as you approach towards intoxication, which gives you an idea of coeleſtial delight. I cannot ſay I have felt this to the ex⯑quiſite degree they deſcribe in any convivial feſtivity; but I maintain there is ſomething which anſwers their deſcription in a certain pe⯑riod of perfect friendſhip, with a modeſt, beau⯑tiful, afflicted woman. In the chaſte familiarity and entire confidence of Giuliana, there was an inexpreſſible charm, which approached nearer to angelic bliſs than all the raptures of triumphant love; like a brutal idiot as I was, I have deſtroy⯑ed this charm for ever; ſince, as I have told you already, it is not in the power of the lovely for⯑giving angel herſelf to reſtore it. But I will ceaſe to weary you with this fruitleſs lamentation, and tell you the progreſs of our journey.

After a moſt tranquil voyage, in which the three gentleſt elements, water, earth, and air, ſeemed to ſmile upon us as if they vied with each other in a wiſh to pleaſe us, we arrived laſt night at Avignon. Our progreſs down the Rhone, [112] which is by no means ſo rapid as I expected to find it, would have proved indeed a perfect jaunt of pleaſure, if our minds had been in harmony with the ſcene around us; but this was far from being the caſe: poor Giuliana was frequently ab⯑ſorbed in melancholy reveries; and as to myſelf, being neither ſick nor well, nor happy nor wretched, my affections and my imagination, inſtead of doing what they ought to have done, inſtead of contributing to the proper and ſalutary exerciſe of each other, ſeemed to have ſunk into a ſtupid and deteſtable lethargy together. I did not look indeed on this ſmiling face of nature with ſuch malignant eyes as the devil caſt upon Eden, for I had not vivacity enough in my frame to feel the paſſion of envy; but I ſtared with heavy, ſour, and moſt uncomfortable apathy, upon a ſeries of animated ſcenes, from which I had ex⯑pected to catch a tender gaiety of heart, and ſprightlineſs of fancy. As we drew near Avig⯑non, I could not help obſerving to Giuliana, that we had both diſcovered ſomewhat of ungrateful inſenſibility to the extreme fineneſs of our wea⯑ther, and proſperity of our voyage. She anſwer⯑ed by a happy quotation of theſe charming words from Metaſtaſio (which I hope you and your fair fellow ſtudent Lucy are by this time able to con⯑ſtrue),

This quotation applicable to both. I have al⯑ready given you too long an account of my own feelings, the poor rickety children of Indiſpoſi⯑tion and Folly; two miſerable parents! Thoſe of Giuliana had a nobler pedigree; and deſerve a more ample hiſtory.

The great ſatisfaction, I may ſay the tranſient delight, which her feeling ſpirit received from my recovery, was ſoon over-caſt by many cloudy thoughts. She has endured much pain, not in⯑deed from the recurring force of her former affliction; nor from that diſquieting incident of the kiſs, which my miſty imagination has mag⯑nified, perhaps, to a very fooliſh degree, in all that I have ſaid to you upon it.—The divine Giuliana, has adopted a new and much deeper ſource of diſquietude. Her benevolent and tender mind will intereſt itſelf in a point that I have weakly ſuffered to become the ſubject of her thoughts, though I did not mean that it ſhould ever fall within her knowledge, or even within her ſuſ⯑picion. This ſounds a little like the language of an Iriſhman; but a few words will make the bull, if it is one, intelligible.

You muſt know then, that during my fever at Lyons I had two days of delirium; in which they tell me I made ſome very curious remarks concerning the immaculate conception, and di⯑verſe articles in the birth, parentage, and edu⯑cation, of a certain myſterious Perſonage, whom I ſhould rather have ſuppoſed myſelf likely to mention in the words aſcribed to the lively Are⯑tine: [114] "Io no'l conoſco"—I do not know him▪ This paſſed as delirious raving; ſo in truth it was: yet had I been in Spain, perhaps the good folks of the Inquiſition might have kindly cured my fever by application of their ſalutary fire.

What eſcaped from me in my frenzy dwelt on the compaſſionate mind of Giuliana; at various times ſhe diſcovered a half-repreſſed and half-in⯑dulged inclination to ſearch into my religious opinions. Though you know there is nothing in the world that I deteſt ſo much as hypocriſy, I reſolved on this head to play the hypocrite with my lovely companion, on account of her tender afflicted ſpirits. I was pleaſed, however, to ob⯑ſerve, that in her own remarks on various con⯑vents that we have paſſed, ſhe ſhewed herſelf perfectly purified from the nonſenſical bigotry of her country. I find that Peverell had taken pecu⯑liar pains to eradicate from her mind all the no⯑tions of Catholic ſuperſtition; but at the ſame time he attached her moſt firmly to his own per⯑ſuaſion. With love for his aſſiſtant, what tenet might he not have ſtolen from her mind! what might he not have implanted on her tender heart! In converſing with her on theſe topics, I was ſo charmed with the ſtrength and luſtre of her na⯑tural underſtanding, that I ſuffered my own na⯑tive ſincerity to triumph over my prudence. I talked to her as if I was talking to you; and as ſhe had led me to ſpeak of Hume, Bolingbroke, and Voltaire, expreſſed my wonder that ſuch a triumvirate, uniting all the powers of reaſon, eloquence, and wit, had not baniſhed a decaying ſuperſtition from every cultivated mind. But all [115] our debates on this ſubject have ended as I be⯑lieve every conference is apt to do between a man and a woman who differ very widely on any in⯑tereſting theme. Arguments have no efficacy oppoſed to feelings. The man loſes ſome por⯑tion of his eſteem for the intellects of the wo⯑man; and the woman ceaſes to revere and to confide in the heart of the man. Do not ſup⯑poſe, however, that, like moſt theological diſ⯑putants, we are become bitter enemies: no, never did you hear of two polemics ſo tender and benevolent to each other. Our diſputes have indeed ſome vivacity, but not a particle of acrimonious malignity. You would have been much affected, had you heard the cloſe of our laſt; when Giuliana, with that graceful energy of geſture ſo peculiar to herſelf, fell on one knee, and exclaimed, "O my dear Peverell, if I have loved, and continue to love thee, with a fidelity of affection agreeable to thy pure ſpirit, grant me, before I die, to behold this generous, but miſguided young man, made as happy as thou wert upon earth in the knowledge of thy GOD!" The pathetic kindneſs of this little prayer pierced me to the ſoul. I kiſſed her hand, bathed it with a tear, and begged that we might drop the ſub⯑ject for ever.

So ended our conference laſt night in this an⯑tient reſidence of the popes. Never did one of thoſe keen ſanctified ſenſualiſts labour to make a convert to their intereſt or their pleaſure (which were the main points of their purſuit, you know, in this city), with a fervency of ſpirit equal to that of the dear devout Giuliana. And, zealous [116] as ſhe is, I may give her the praiſe ſo rarely de⯑ſerved by any Religioniſts in truly ſaying, that her charity is ſtill ſuperior to her zeal.

Before we retired to our ſeparate pillows, the good creature, ſuppoſing the ſtate of my bodily and mental health equally unſound, made me promiſe to reſt a couple of days in this city, be⯑fore I ſuffer myſelf to be ſhaken over the rocky roads of Provence. As ſhe withdrew to her chamber ſhe ſaid, "I will engage to amuſe you to-morrow; and I ſhall lead you to make an atonement for ſome or your paſt offences at the tomb of Laura, which we ſhall find, they tell me, within a very ſhort walk from this houſe." She ſaid this to me in her own ſoft language, and with a ſweetneſs of manner that no language in the world could perfectly deſcribe; her features in the moment expreſſed a mixture of melancho⯑ly and benevolent, that affected me in a marvel⯑lous degree. And I uttered to myſelf, as I with⯑drew from her to my own apartment,

My angelic fellow-traveller having diſmiſſed me to my own chamber with a fancy ſo full of gentle ideas, procured me a dream of happineſs in a fortunate viſionary marriage with Cornelia— that I am deſtined perhaps to ſee only in a dream. On riſing this morning, I found the ſcene very diſmally altered: not only the delights of my [117] viſion were fled; but the elements, as if angry with us for our inſenſibility to their ſmiles, have begun to frown upon us in a manner very unex⯑pected: an unſeaſonable and violent rain has been falling for ſeveral hours; and my good governeſs Giuliana, who is full of fears for me without any for herſelf, has inſiſted on my not venturing abroad; and thus given me an oppor⯑tunity of ſcribbling to you a letter enormouſly long, and as dull as the weather. As to Giuliana, ſhe has deſerted me, and is ſallied forth, under the protection of Robert and a very ample umbrella. She has promiſed not to viſit the tomb of Laura without me; and I rather ſuſpect, from a word ſhe dropt at her departure, that ſhe is gone to a bookſeller's in queſt of ſome favourite religious author, whom ſhe wiſhes to make her coadjutor in the grand project of my converſion.— Heaven bleſs her!—I begin to grow reſtleſs at her long abſence, and often turn an anxious eye from my paper to the ſtreet. Oh, there ſhe is; I ſpy her from the window this inſtant on her return; and with a face of ſuch joyous animation, that, in⯑ſtead of having picked an old duſty theologian from an obſcure ſhelf, I could almoſt believe ſhe has conjured the ſoul of poor Peverell out of Paradiſe to attend her. What can this mean? But joy is ever welcome; and eſpecially when it approaches in a form of ſuch tenderneſs and beauty. — Here ſhe is——

Oh, my dear Edmund, and no leſs dear Lucy, how kind, how conſiderate, how unlike the con⯑duct of common friends, and worthy of your own quick and benevolent ſpirits, was your for⯑tunate [118] idea of diſpatching a pacquet ſo delightful, with a chance of catching us on our road! Your obliging friends, the two lively brothers, who are galloping towards Rome, luckily drove into Avignon, while the faithful Robert was waiting for his miſtreſs at the door of the bookſeller I have mentioned. My lord's valet happened to be an old acquaintance of Robert's; and after ſhaking the honeſt fellow by the hand, informed him, that his maſter had letters for me. Robert in⯑ſtantly imparted theſe glad tidings to Giuliana, who, wiſhing to have the delight of delivering the pacquet to me herſelf, deſired to have it brought to her where ſhe was. This moſt welcome, this tranſporting pacquet, is now in my hands; but before I reply to a line of it, I muſt exclaim, like ſome happy being whoſe name I have forgot: "Heaven, I had a ſoul to endure pain; now give me one to ſupport delight!" I believe, in⯑deed, that the good Giuliana thought me ſinking into a new ſort of delirium, when ſhe beheld me kiſſing in an ecſtacy that enchanting morſel of paper on which the bleſſed hand of Lucy aſſures me, "that, if Cornelia has a par⯑tiality for any man on earth, it is unqueſtionably for me;" and then bids me "deſerve her."— Deſerve her! O ye powers who preſide over love and felicity, what would I not do to deſerve her!

Aye, verily, my dear Edmund, I would do more for Love than the noble Hotſpur could me⯑ditate [119] for honour.—But here comes my divine monitor, to moderate my rapture. I have ſcrib⯑bled theſe few haſty expreſſions of joy and grati⯑tude, while Giuliana has been adjuſting her dreſs for our viſit to the church of the Cordeliers. —Your charming and magical letter ſeems to have given ſerenity to the ſky, as well as to our hearts; 'tis a delicious afternoon, and we are juſt ſallying forth to pay our devotions at the grave of Laura.

I ſhall ſtill add to this voluminous letter before we leave Avignon; but I will not lay down the pen, even for a ſhort pauſe, without aſſuring you, that the tender Giuliana takes a moſt friendly, I may ſay, lively intereſt, in thoſe tranſports of hope which have ſo kindly awakened in my re-animated frame; and ſtill more does ſhe ſhare with me in the ſincere joy that I receive from theſe utterly unexpected, and therefore more de⯑lightful aſſurances of your welfare, and your re⯑gard for the two travellers, who both love you and your ſiſter with all the warmth that friendſhip and gratitude can inſpire.

We are now juſt preparing for our departure from this remarkable city; whoſe curioſities have entertained us beyond my expectation: but it is to you, my dear friends, diſtant as ye are, that we are indebted even for this entertainment; for, had not your enchanting letter put us into tune, I ſhould have continued to ſtare at the objects that [120] ſolicited my notice with all the ſpeen of Smel fungus. What curious machines we are!—the human heart appears to me like a clock, good for nothing unleſs frequently wound up by the hand of affection: you have now converted mine into a fine time-piece of ornamental and lively me⯑chaniſm, in which a multitude of the moſt chear⯑ful little images are at work together, by means of that mighty ſpring which you have ſo happily put in motion.

I wiſh I may reward you by accompliſhing every thing you wiſh with the father of Giuliana.—I think I ſhall; and ground my hopes on ſome par⯑ticular lines in his character, which I have col⯑lected from her, and will tell you hereafter. I muſt now haſtily cloſe theſe voluminous diſpatches; but not without telling you how ardently we wiſhed that you and Lucy could have ſhared the penſive delight we enjoyed at the tomb of Laura. We were fortunate, however, in our attendant, hav⯑ing met with the moſt polite and intelligent prieſt that ever fell in my way. He was enchanted with Giuliana, who, inſpired by the ſcene, re⯑peated ſome paſſages of Petrarch with a grace and pathos of magical, that I expected to ſee the ſhade ſo Laura expreſſing her ſatisfaction in theſe pleaſing honours. Giuliana will not allow the ſonnet to be genuine which was found in the tomb, and which our books of travels exhibit to you as copied from the hand-writing of Petrarch. —Apropos of poets: the polite Cordelier I have juſt mentioned, obſerving our paſſion for poetry, and hearing that we were to travel acroſe Provence, has kindly recommended to my peruſal a Latin [121] poetical epiſtle of the famous Chancellor de l'Hopital, deſcribing the country we are to paſs. Giuliana's bookſeller has furniſhed me with a copy of this moſt reſpectable poet; I was before only acquainted with his political integrity. If I find his verſes equal to the praiſe with which the friendly Cordelier recommended them to me, you ſhall hear more of them in my next: I can now only add, that Giuliana and I beſtow on you, and the dear compaſſionate Lucy, our moſt cordial benedictions.—Adieu.

LETTER XIX. CORNELIA TO MRS. AUDLEY.

ALAS! my very dear, and too penetrating Harriot, how much better do you under⯑ſtand your poor confuſed Cornelia, than ſhe un⯑derſtands, herſelf! How perfectly verified do I now find the words which you ſpoke to me with ſuch tender raillery in preſſing me to remain lon⯑ger under your friendly roof: when you told me, than tearing my troubled heart from the comfort of your ſympathetic converſation, to fortify it in the ſolitude of my own dreary manſion, was [...]aking a child out of leading-ſtrings, before it had ſtrength to go alone! A child indeed, my [...]et confidante! a very weak child, I confeſs! [122] and as unfit, I perceive, to be left alone as any infant of the nurſery! Why do they tell us, that "ſolitude is the nurſe of ſenſe." It maybe ſo perhaps with man—but with woman, I fear, it is only the nurſe of folly, and the cheriſher of paſſion. At leaſt, my dear Harriot, I will ho⯑neſtly confeſs to you, that it proves ſo with your weak Cornelia.—What different hopes had I conceived! What a ſage heroine did I fancy myſelf, in accompliſhing my painful reſolution of quitting the daily converſe of that beloved friend, whoſe too tender indulgence to my dan⯑gerous prepoſſeſſion I conceived to be a delicious poiſon to my quiet; if not to my integrity! In the deluſive pride of good intention, I expected that the ſcenery here would reſtore me to peace; as I knew that every object around me would ſet the poor departed Sedley moſt forcibly before my eyes. I hoped to grow ſtrong in the contem⯑plation of his virtue; and to impreſs ſtill deeper on my heart the kind religious admonition, which his dying tenderneſs beſtowed on me. I am very far from feeling none of the impreſſions which I expected this habitation to make upon my mind. In ſome moments perhaps, I feel ſuch impreſſions too ſtrongly, like a perſon whoſe fits of feveriſh ſtrength are ſucceeded by a proportionate weakneſs. You have entreated me to give you a very full and frank account of all my ſenſations; and ſurely you, who have taken ſuch generous pains to tranquillize my bo⯑ſom, have an unqueſtionable right to enquire into all its emotions. But do not tell me, dear Harriot, that I delight in very iniquitous ſelf-accuſation, [123] when I ſay, that I am ſometimes too ſeraphic, and ſometimes infinitely too like the weakeſt of mortals. When I ſet my foot in the library of poor Sedley, which is juſt as he left it, every volume ſeems to ſpeak to me of its buried maſter; and the piercing eyes of his por⯑trait, over the chimney, ſearch my very ſoul; baniſh from me, as long as I behold them, every perilous propenſity; and inſpite me with a vain wiſh for the faculty of proving both a mother and a father to the dear boys he has left me.— I want not, indeed, any monitor to quicken the energy of my maternal feelings. My ſweet lit⯑tle ones engroſs and amuſe the greater part of my day. But there are hours, you know, my dear Harriot, in which our children ceaſe to be our companions. When I have reſigned my two lovely boys to their early reſt, and read William to ſleep, which he generally wheedles me to do, I have ſtill ſome penſive hours to myſelf; and thoſe very hours, perhaps, in which a tender heart is moſt inclined to indulge itſelf in fooliſh tenderneſs. As I am paſſionately fond, you know, of a contemplative walk at the cloſe of day, I frequently take a late ramble alone to that ſide of the park from whence I can caſt an eye of pious meditation upon the grave of my poor Sedley.—The ſpot never fails to draw me into a very ſoothing religious reverie; and at theſe times, indeed, "I am in Heaven with him." But, alas! my Harriot, in proportion as I ad⯑vance in my return to the houſe, my celeſtial thoughts fade away, and a living image ſteals upon my mind—the bewitching figure of the too [124] agreeable Seymour haunts me with more than [...]oſtly importunity. He tells me, with that tender but reſpectful inſinuation which baffles all reſiſtance, in our viſionary intercourſe, "that, inſtead of being ſuch a dangerous cha⯑racter as my dear dying monitor wiſhed me to avoid, he is exactly the reverſe; the very pro⯑tector that Sedley wiſhed me to acquire: full of the moſt diſintereſted love to me, and of the fondeſt affection to my promiſing little or⯑phans." —Ah! my dear Harriot, this viſionary intruder on my quiet has learned to plead his cauſe with all your faſcinating arguments; but even theſe muſt not avail him; for, O my deareſt Harriot, excellent creature as you are, in this one point, alas! I feel that Heaven is againſt you: ‘Though rebel Nature holds out half my heart.’

What a weak ſimpleton I am to continue talk⯑ing thus inceſſantly of a man, whom I have pro⯑ [...]ſed myſelf not to think of! Why, indeed, [...]uld I think of him in any light, to awaken [...] w [...]ſhes or fears? There is little chance of [...]s p [...]ing an object of peril to me, ſince I am ſe [...]ured by the very circumſtances which poor Eloiſa prays for in the anguiſh of her devout ap⯑prehenſion. There are, Heaven knows, at pre⯑ſent barriers enough between me and this ſoul-terrifying Seymour; as I may now perhaps ſay, with literal truth, ‘Alps riſe between us, and whole oceans roll.’

[125]Alas! who knows if he may ever repaſs the mountains and the ſeas that divide us! He has already, we know, been once at the point of death, in his travels; ſhould he have a relapſe on his journey, we ſhall have little chance in⯑deed of ever beholding him again; and this ac⯑compliſhed, this enchanting Seymour, whom I ſometimes wildly conſider as a character of ter⯑rific impiety, may loſe perhaps his generous life in an act of the trueſt Chriſtian charity that ever noble youth was engaged in. Ah, my dear Harriot, my fooliſh eyes are filled with tears. at this idea! yet my reaſon tells me there is ano⯑ther event much more probable, and my folly tells me that the pain I ſhould feel——But as you, my dear confeſſor, know all the ſuggeſ⯑tions of my folly, even before I diſcover them myſelf, I will add no more on this ſubject. I have ſufficiently complied with your requeſt, and given you, in the preceding pages of my letter, an internal view of my heart, and the various ſenſations that have ſhaken it on my return to this place. Let me entreat you to take no ad⯑vantage of the weakneſs I have ſo honeſtly ex⯑poſed to you. But let us faithfully adhere to the agreement we made in our laſt conference on this perpetual topic; let us abſtain from all arguments on both ſides of the queſtion, and leave my future deſtiny to time and chance. To aſſume a little honeſt pride, and convince you that your weak Cornelia is not quite ſo far gone in this deſperate malady of the heart as my dear [...]n pathetic Harriot ſuppoſes, I will ſhew you [...] I can ſcribble many pages to you upon other [126] ſubjects. Before I diſpatch this pacquet by the ruſtic courier, who, to avoid the long circuit and delay of the poſt, is to paſs regularly every fortnight by the ſhort private road between us, I will endeavour to amuſe you with two incidents of a very different nature, that have happened ſince my return.

The firſt is a little rural adventure, that af⯑fected me very much. As your ſiſter Lucy has often talked of amuſing us with a novel of her own compoſition, pray tell her, that I think her lively genius might raiſe an admirable little pocket volume from the ſingular ſtory I am going to tell you. As I have not the talents of our dear Lucy for embelliſhment, I muſt content myſelf with giving you the ſimple matter of fact.

You know that the humane diſpoſition of poor Sedley made him, not only the friend, but the phyſician of the poor; and during hi [...] long illneſs I have been uſed to act as his deputy in that character. As I was taking an afternoon walk with the children and their maid, near the private door of the park, that open on the little common, I ſaw a lad running with great violence towards us, and opened the door, to enquire into the cauſe of his agitation. As ſoon as he could collect ſufficient breath he informed me, that the maid at the farm, which you ſee from the gate I have mentioned, was fallen into ter⯑rible fits, and he was bid to run as faſt as he could to the Great Houſe for Madam's advice. I was very ready to obey the ſummons; and ſending Nanny home with the children, I order⯑ed [127] her to diſpatch the grave and experienced Philip after me, with ſome pungent reſtoratives. A walk of little more than half a mile brought me to the beautiful poor excruciated patient. I wiſh I had the talent of deſcription, to give you a perfect image of the ſcene that now preſented itſelf to my attention. Figure to yourſelf, my dear Harriot, a fair, florid, robuſt, luxuriant beauty of nineteen, under the horrid influence of agonies that made her large diſtorted eyes roll like meteors, and her two even rows of ſtrong white teeth grind each other with convulſive fe⯑rocity: but I need not ſtrive to paint for you a moſt diſtreſſing figure, of which you have al⯑moſt a real portrait in your own houſe, from the pencil of Rubens. In the ſublime ſketch (which your good huſband values ſo highly) of the Saint preparing to diſpoſſeſs two Female Demoniacs, you have a very forcible repreſenta⯑tion of my unhappy patient at the moment I firſt beheld her. I ſhould ſay, however, that ſhe is a thouſand times more beautiful than the youngeſt figure of Rubens, though her form has all that rich, muſcular beauty in which he de⯑lighted. The humanity of the farmer and his wife had placed the poor creature in their beſt chamber; but her contorſions were ſo violent, that four very ſtrong men could hardly hold her down on the bed, and could not prevent her expoſing to our view her whole boſom, which ſeemed to be diſtended and tortured with inter⯑nal fire, though it retained the moſt ſnowy whiteneſs that I ever beheld in a human ſkin. You will think, her beauty muſt be great indeed, [128] when I tell you, the idea of it forced itſelf upon me in ſpite of all the torment under which I beheld it, and which I felt the moſt ſincere anxiety to relieve. By various applications I had ſoon the delight of releaſing her from theſe horrible convulſions. I then deſired to be left alone with her, and, ſeating myſelf on the ſide of her bed, prepared to adminiſter in ſoothing converſation a cordial to her heart, from whence I ſuſpected this tremendous malady to have ariſen. Ah! my dear Harriot, what a furious diſtemper is this peſtilent Love! How can you be ſo cruel as to aim at perſuading me to re⯑ſign my boſom to the dominion of ſuch a De⯑mon! All the terrific contorſions I have juſt deſcribed to you were in truth the ſport of this tyrant. By expreſſing what I really felt, a great deſire to be her friend, I drew from the good ſimple girl all the ſecrets of her agitated boſom. A young blackſmith, it ſeems, who has, I ſup⯑poſe, no reſemblance to Vulcan but in his trade, his obtained an abſolute ſway over the heart of this ruſtic Venus; and the immediate cauſe of her tremendous agony was nothing more than this petty circumſtance. The barbarous Cyclops, as Lucy would call him, had been at a neigh⯑bouring fair the preceding day, and had paſſed the abode of the damſel without bringing her a knot of remembrance, or calling to ſay a kind word to her, either as he went or as he returned. The ſprightly Lucy, who thinks ſhe has courage enough to whip the malicious little archer Cu⯑pid with his own broken arrows, would, I be⯑lieve, with her benevolent pleaſantry, have ral⯑lied [129] my ſimple patient out of her ſufferings; and, by teaching her to laugh at her own fond⯑neſs, would have her, in a new fit of mirthful ſhame, hide her fine bluſhing face under the bedclothes. But I, who am as far as poſſible from poſſeſſing our dear Lucy's invaluable fa⯑culty of laughing away pain either from myſelf or from another, I was obliged to purſue an op⯑poſite ſyſtem for the relief of my intereſting pa⯑tient. Not having either the talent, or the diſ⯑poſition, to make her laugh with me, I indulg⯑ed all my own weakneſs, and began, very ſym⯑pathetically, to weep with her; there was, in truth, ſuch a natural and affecting ſimplicity in the poor girl's account of the anguiſh of heart ſhe had endured, and of her ineffectual ſtrug⯑gle to ſuppreſs it, that I am almoſt inclined to think the gay Lucy herſelf would have wept at the recital. My ſympathy was not without ſome good effect; by flattering the honeſt creature's pride, it ſeemed to give ſome energy to her mind, which had ſunk under the complicated oppreſſion [...] grief, indignation, and deſpair.

I endeavoured to perſuade her, that this cruel [...] was a mere accident; the young man [...]ht be engaged in buſineſs for his maſter, [...]at would not allow him to ſtop. "Hope the [...], my good Jenny, ſaid I; it is not likely [...] a man, who has given you ſuch expectations, [...]ould deſert ſo lovely and modeſt a girl as you [...]e: I dare ſay, that by this time next year I ſhall not only have the pleaſure of ſeeing you married, but I ſhall ſee you with a beautiful lit⯑ [...] [...]tant in your arms." As I uttered theſe [130] chearing words an undeſcribable half-ſmile flaſh⯑ed like lightning acroſs the dark clouds of her expreſſive countenance. It was the momentary triumph of fond imagination over ſettled ſadneſs of heart.

Being very deſirous to prevent a return of her convulſions, and thinking that a viſit from her lover would moſt effectually ſecure her from a relapſe, I offered to ſend for him immediately: but the good girl, with a becoming pride, peti⯑tioned againſt his being ſent for; though I could eaſily perceive that her Soul panted for a ſight of him. As the evening was now come, I pre⯑pared to leave her, requeſting that ſhe would be as quiet, and endeavour to get as much ſleep, as ſhe could in the courſe of the night: and I promiſed to viſit her ſoon in the morning. She expreſſed her obligations to me, with an humble, yet paſſionate gratitude, that affected me much; and the more, as I diſcerned an alarming degree of wild inquietude in her features. On my re⯑turn home, I amuſed myſelf with the project of ſetting the troubled heart of this fair ſimple mai⯑den at eaſe for life. I charged the diſcreet Phi⯑lip to ſet out by day-break, and conduct this be⯑loved blackſmith to me by my early breakfaſt-hour, without letting him know the private bu⯑ſineſs for which I wanted him. What a charm⯑ing alacrity does any benevolent project give to the ſpirits! I had not waked any morning, ſince my return, with ſuch comfortable and chearful ſenſations, as I felt in riſing to prepare for the reception of the ruſtic ſtranger. My eager fancy delighted itſelf with a viſion of the great happi⯑neſs [131] which I thought myſelf about to confer on two deſerving creatures, who, though in an humble rank of life, poſſeſſed every thing that could render love a ſource of happineſs to them⯑ſelves, and an object of pleaſing contemplation to their friends. I expected to ſee, in this for⯑tunate ſon of Vulcan, a fine image of manly ſtrength, and engaging ſimplicity, correſpond⯑ing to the feminine graces of his fair admirer. I waited his arrival with great impatience, and anticipated in my thoughts the pleaſure I ſhould have in ſeeing the burſt of ſurprize, joy, and gratitude, in the varying features of a young, honeſt, open, rural countenance. At length the punctual Philip returned: but what was my aſtoniſhment, when he led into my apartment an ill-made, ugly, ſallow, ſour-looking fellow, more faſhioned to convulſe the heart of beauty with terror, than with love! Half my ſympathe⯑tic warm wiſhes for the marriage of poor Jenny, and, I am afraid, half my eſteem for the good girl, died away at the firſt glance I caſt on her grim-viſaged ſwain. But when I recovered a little from my ſurprize, I began to hope that his underſtanding and his fidelity might make us ſome amends for the defects of his figure. I talked to him on his good fortune in being ſo ſincerely beloved by a charming good girl, and aſked if he had any plan of marrying her very ſoon. I wiſh, my dear Harriot, you could have beheld the half-farcical, half-tragic viſage of the brute, when he replied in his rough dialect▪ ‘No, madam, I be'nt ſuch a fool. There be two wenches in our pariſh that I loves better [132] than ſhe.’ I was now ſeriouſly mortified, for I loſt all hope of accompliſhing the little good that I had pleaſed myſelf with the proſpect of doing: and I began to think the ſimple Jane had ſuffered herſelf to be ſadly overcome by a very groſs paſſion, for which the ſavage animal before me could furniſh us with no decent apolo⯑gy. But in this idea I did the poor girl much injuſtice; for a very ſingular and ſtriking inci⯑dent, that I ſhall relate to you preſently, con⯑vinced me that her paſſion had not only all the ſtrength, but I may ſay all the chaſtity of ge⯑nuine love. I reſigned all my hopes, and indeed all my wiſhes, to form the match I intended! but I was ſtill anxious to reſtore the health of the girl. I repreſented to her ſullen ſwain, "that ſhe had been very ill, and that I wiſhed him to walk with me to ſee her, not for any matri⯑monial purpoſe, but merely to comfort her ſpi⯑rits, by the gentle civility of a friend." Theſe were niceties of behaviour, that the ſurly Cy⯑clops did not well comprehend; and he ſeemed to be alarmed, as if I had propoſed to catch him in a net more ſubtile than his old maſter Vulcan is ſaid to have contrived on a different occaſion. I thought he would at laſt refuſe to attend me; but while I was putting on my hat, Philip by ar⯑gument, or by ale, put his terrors and his per⯑verſity to flight; and we ſet forth all together for the houſe of the damſel. I went firſt alone into her chamber, and found that ſhe had been afflicted with a return of her fits after my de⯑parture in the preceding evening. Her night had been reſtleſs; and all her features expreſſed [133] that ſhe had ſuffered much, not only from the abſence of ſleep, but from inquietude of heart. I ſoon informed her, "that I had been ſo lucky as to meet with her friend Ned Hewſon (for ſuch is the name given by mortals to this grim ſon of Vulcan); and that, upon hearing ſhe was not well, he had kindly come with me to enquire after her health." A ſparkle of fond de⯑light and gratitude now flaſhed from her eyes. She was ſtill in bed; and on my aſking her if I ſhould bring Hewſon into her chamber, ſhe re⯑plied, with a tender tremulous voice, ‘Yes, if you pleaſe, Madam.’ I now expected to ſee the triumph of impaſſioned nature over mai⯑denly, baſhful reſerve; I imagined that poor Jane would burſt into a tranſport of tears, and claſp her grizly undeſerving idol in her arms. Indeed I had ſome doubts if propriety would per⯑mit me to ſtay, and gratify the curious wiſh, which I confeſs I felt very ſtrongly to ſee the ef⯑fect of their meeting. Thinking, however, that my medical character was a complete ſancti⯑on for me, I ventured to ſtay; and am very glad I did ſo, as I beheld a ſcene very different from my expectations, and one that reſtored to the good girl all that portion of my eſteem which I told you ſhe had loſt in the courſe of my reflex⯑ions on her amour. I called Hewſon into her room, and as he approached her bed, ſhe held out her hand to meet his with an air of very modeſt affection; then looking tenderly upon him, ſhe replaced her head on the pillow, and, in the ſpace of a minute, ſunk into the pro⯑found and ſweet ſleep of an infant. Nothing [134] could have ſurpriſed, nothing could have affected me more; all the language in the world could not ſo well have expreſſed to me how completely I had relieved her poor tortured boſom, by the new and ſingular opiate which I had ſo luckily brought. The very ſtriking contraſt between her preſent deep delicious repoſe, and her paſt wild agonies, and wakeful melancholy, led me into a train of reflection on that formidable paſ⯑ſion, which has ſo extenſive and ſo inſtantaneous a power to produce either a tempeſt or a calm in the human boſom. While I ſate a conſiderable time gazing intenſely on the ſweet ſleeping countenance of poor Jenny, my eyes were filled with tears of pity for her, and perhaps of ap⯑prehenſion for myſelf. Love ſeems diſpoſed to be a cruel enemy to us both, and there is in truth very little merit in all my anxious endea⯑vours to be a friend to this hapleſs girl; for, as my favourite Zara ſays,

The caſes, indeed, of poor Jenny and your Cornelia are not preciſely the ſame; yet, I tear, we are both deſtined to be wretched, from un⯑fortunate and unſubdued affection. But it is high time to quit this weak digreſſion, and pro⯑ceed in my ſtory.

[135]I had perſuaded the half-humanized Ned Hew⯑ſon to ſit down, and wait with me the waking of my faſcinated patient. When we had ſat about half an hour, we heard a little tumult below ſtairs, and my companion was called down; as the noiſe did not break the ſound ſlumber of Jenny, I ſat quietly by her, without enquiring into the cauſe of the diſturbance; but the far⯑mer's wife ſoon brought me a ſurpriſing hiſtory of the tumultuous adventure: and what, think, you, was the ſource of the noiſy contention below? Why, truly, it had proceeded from the marvellous attractions and the licentious gal⯑lantry of my late companion, the hideous Ned Hewſon: the pariſh officers had arrived in pur⯑ſuit of him, and carried him off as their priſoner, and for what? No—not, as you ſuppoſe, to comfort and reſtore the credit of one poor preg⯑nant weeper——but to make his election of two rival queens in that condition, who, alarmed, I ſuppoſe, by their ſwain's viſit to me, and the rumour raiſed concerning it, had, in the ſame moment, and before the ſame magiſtrate, urged, with great vehemence, their equal claims to this tremendous, Alexander the Blackſmith.

But I am quite ſick of this impudent ugly ſavage; and, as I dare ſay you will be ſo too, I will diſpatch as briefly as I can the little reſidue of this long ſtory. As I happened to want a laundry-maid, I prevailed on the farmer's, wife so let me take Jenny immediately in that capa⯑city. I knew that a change of place would be the beſt plan to quiet that anguiſh of heart which I was convinced the good ſimple girl [136] would feel on the firſt hearing of an event, which I therefore wiſhed to communicate to her myſelf with a preparatory ſermon. When I had ſettled her in my own houſe, I informed her, that the perfidious Hewſon, as a proper puniſh⯑ment for his various infidelity, was juſt con⯑demned to matrimonial bondage with a buſtling vixen, who would moſt probably render his fu⯑ture as turbulent as his paſt life has been licen⯑tious.

And although her features have ſtill the traces of deep melancholy, I hope to reſtore her by de⯑grees to content and chearfulneſs: though I know, alas! by experience, that when theſe bleſſings are once loſt, they are not eaſily reco⯑vered. Thus it is, both in high and low life—Love leads to folly, either bodily or mental; and folly ends in bitter diſquietude, if not in laſting wretchedneſs. But your Cornelia is de⯑termined, if poſſible, to grow wiſe. Pray en⯑courage me in this ſage reſolution; and tell me, as I try perpetually to tell myſelf that the mo⯑ther of two lovely heroic boys ought rather to think of playing the part of Minerva, than of a ſighing Arcadian ſhepherdeſs; eſpecially when I ſee, in the fate of poor Jenny, how a ſhepher⯑deſs is rewarded for her ſighs. But I am now, in this ſage humour, juſt going to take my even⯑ing walk of meditation; adieu, therefore, for to-day, my deareſt friend. To-morrow I will devote ſome early hour to what I have promiſed [137] you, a hiſtory of a different adventure, in which the tragi-comical confuſion fell chiefly on your devoted Cornelia. It grows late; ſo, deareſt friend of my boſom, good night!

And now, good morning to you, my dear Harriot; I have juſt aſſigned to my dear litle literary William his morning taſk, which is more a pleaſure than a labour to him; and while my ſweet Liliputian ſtudent is ſitting quietly by my ſide, more compleatly abſorbed in ſtudy than many ſages of larger growth. I have reſumed my pen, to tell you how ludicrou'ſly, and yet how painfully, I have been put to the bluſh by my whimſical Weſt-country couſin. Though you have often heard me mention his name, I do not believe that I ever gave you a deſcription of this odd mortal, and his ſingular manners. If any human crea⯑ture was ever born under a laughing planet, he is the man. The very contraſt between his name and his figure is a perpetual incitement to laughter. Suppoſe yourſelf, my dear Harriot, a very grave and ſtarched matron, ſeated in due form to receive my relation on his firſt viſit, could you, do you think, preſerve the gravity of your countenance on hearing your ſervant an⯑nounce Mr. Small, and then beholding a huge gigantic mortal ſix feet high, and ſo immode⯑rately corpulent, that he would ſplit into a cou⯑ple of your common theatrical Sir John Fal⯑ſtaffs? Add to this, that the comical creature, with almoſt as much real wit as Sir John, has [138] quite as much jocularity of geſture as an apt. His animal ſpirits are by no means inferior to his bulk, and you may ſuppoſe therefore that his gaiety, like his figure, borders on the mon⯑ſtrous; yet it is hardly poſſible to be angry with him, let his jeſts be ever ſo abſurd or inſulting. A ſerious inſult he can never intend. Indeed, I believe it is as little in his power to be ſerious on any occaſion, as it is to be diminutive. The very affections that give an air of melancholy to other men, have in this creature a very comic expreſſion. I believe in my conſcience, that, if he was reading the funeral ſervice (the moſt ſolemn of all language) over a deceaſed friend that he loved, he would utter it in ſuch a man⯑ner, as to make you rather laugh than weep!

With ſuch an exterior of groteſque enormity, he has one or the moſt upright, benevolent, and tender hearts in the world; and really performs the actions of a Cato or Ariſtides with the fan⯑taſtic and rogueiſh grimaces of a Scaramouch.

This very ſtrange being, whom I had not ſeen for three years, entered my dreſſing-room the other day, while William and I were read⯑ing together by ourſelves. I wiſh you could have ſeen the dear boy's look of aſtoniſhment, not ſo much at the firſt appearance of our gigantic couſin, as at his curious mode of ſaluting me, which William appeared to be in ſome doubt whether he ſhould applaud or reſent; indeed, it was not very clear, in the firſt moment, whe⯑ther [139] his ſalutation was that of a friend or a foe. The giant caught me up in his arms exactly as you would take up a little girl of three years old; and firſt ſwinging me round, then gave me a kiſs, and ſaid, "I am come, my fair cou⯑ſin, to viſit you for a few hours, juſt to bruſh away the cobwebs of ſolitude and ſorrow from this pretty little head of yours." He then paid ſome fine compliments, between jeſt and earneſt, to my underſtanding, and expreſſed his great joy at not finding me in weeds: "Your widow in weeds, cried he, is the ſillieſt looking animal in the creation; ſhe is like a young Armadillo— an Armadillo, couſin William, is a pig in ar⯑mour, that hides every thing but his noſe. Should not you laugh to ſee ſuch a droll crea⯑ture?"—"Can he fight ſo?" cried William, with eagerneſs and ſpirit. "No, my brave cousin, replied the Droll; and there lies the beſt part of my ſimile: the pig's armour, inſtead of proving a real defence, only invites the merry miſchievous fellows, that catch ſight of it, to try if they cannot drive a pin through it."— At this abominable rate he rattled on for about half an hour; ſometimes making me laugh im⯑moderately, and ſometimes diſtreſſing me almoſt to tears. William, by degrees, became very familiar with him, and really made ſome very ſpirited and clever replies to his odd ſpeeches. At laſt this half pleaſing, half-provoking, and very ponderous jeſter, ſaid to me, "Well, my ſweet couſin, you muſt not think of moping alone in this noble place; it is high time you ſhould have ſome ſuch pretty little fairy-like [140] fellow as I am, beginning to dance about you like a Jack-o'-Lantern, to enliven the darkneſs of widowhood. What a pity it is that my dear, nervous, dainty wife did not take her flight to Paradiſe, as ſhe threatened to do when I ſaw you laſt!" I ſhould tell you, my dear Harri⯑ot, with all this wild rhodomontade, he is paſ⯑ſionately fond of his wife, who is indeed ner⯑vous in the extreme, and perhaps not the lesſ ſo for his making a perpetual joke of thoſe fine lady-like appearances which her complaint [...], more than her natural diſpoſition of mind, have given to her character. The viſible languor of her frame is very ſtriking; yet, in ſpite of that languor, ſhe has contrived to enliven this bois⯑terous giant with a very numerous family; and ſome of its branches, he tells me, are grown a [...] riotous and as noiſy as himſelf. But I return from this digreſſion, to the rattling diſcourſe he was addreſſing to me. "What a charming match, couſin, you and I ſhould have made in that caſe! Hey, my dear William, he continued, catching up the boy in his arms, ſhould not you like ſuch a dapper little play-fellow as I am, for your new papa?" William, when he reach⯑ed the ground again, ſtared a moment, as if pondering on the queſtion; and then ſaid, with ſome drollery of manner, "I do not believe we have a bed in our houſe that is big enough to hold you." "Why, you ungracious rogue, ſaid the giant, putting on a pretended ſternneſs of countenance, who ſhould you like better than me for a papa?" As my evil genius would have it, the little urchin, without being in the leaſt [141] daunted by the feigned auſterity of this demand, inſtantly replied, "Mr. Seymour."—Ah! my dear Harriot, you will eaſily gueſs what a coun⯑tenance I had at the ſound of that name, re⯑peated by my arch couſin, with a moſt ſignificant echo, and a whiſtle at the end of it, that ſeem⯑ed like the view-halloo, which encreaſes the joy of the hunter, and the palpitation of poor Puſs. I attempted, in an aukward, embarraſſed man⯑ner, to account for the child's partiality; but my gay vociferous relation ſoon interrupted me by ſaying, "Ah! my dear little widow, ſay no more!—ſay no more! I ſee clearly, by this crimſon banner (patting my cheek) what a hap⯑py conqueror is quartered in the caſtle of your heart—No! no! not a ſyllable of proteſta⯑tion!—Nay! my good little woman, do not look ſo ſeriouſly diſtreſſed!—Upon my ſoul, I am very glad it is ſo; I was afraid you might have been fooliſhly taught to think it proper to be ſolemn, and ſober, and ſad, for a century; which, in your ſituation, would be very non⯑ſenſical."—By a deluge of words, half jocular, half tender, and all full of real benevolence, he utterly prevented my giving him a fair ex⯑planation of my fooliſh embarraſſment; and he is gone, in the full perſuaſion that I am paſſionately in love with Seymour, and determin⯑ed to marry him. I am ſuch a ſimpleton as to have been much flurried, and heartily vexed, by this incident, though I have ſuch perfect confidence both in the honour and diſcretion of my rattling; couſin, that I am convinced he will not mention the idea he has conceived to any [142] living ſoul, except perhaps his wife, who is a good woman and no goſſip. Still I am vexed; but I have tried to play the philoſopher; and I make at leaſt ſome uſe of my vexation, by giv⯑ing you ſuch a full hiſtory of it as may, I hope, contribute to your amuſement. Pray tell Lucy, that obſerving how much her charming long let⯑ters delighted you, I grew jealous of her, and determined to beat her by the length of my ſcrawls, though I cannot rival the brilliancy of her epiſtles. When I caſt my eye on the ſize of this, it ſeems to have been written expreſsly to make you recant one of your favourite maxims, that a letter can never be too long from a perſon you love. I ſhall forgive you, therefore, my deareſt Harriot, if you think me too prolix; but I ſhall not forgive you eaſily, if you do not obſerve, to my credit, how ſeldom the name of Seymour is repeated in theſe multitudinous pages, written, as they are, from a heart that delights to diſplay itſelf to the invaluable boſom-friend of

LETTER XX. FROM HENRY SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

LET the ſea, my dear Edmund, which ſmiles upon us here with a fair and inviting [...]ace, plead my excuſe for ſending you, once in my life, a very brief epiſtle. I may well claim the privilege of being laconic, after filling ſo many pages as I contrived to ſcribble to you, in the courſe of our ſlow but agreeable progreſs over the fragrant rocks of Provence. In peruſing my two laſt pacquets^*, how will you, and my gentle lecturer Lucy, ſtare at each other, with looks of ſatisfactory ſurprize, to find me playing the new and ſolemn characters of critic and antiquarian by the ſide of my bewitching fellow traveller. But the felucca that I have engaged to tranſport us to Genoa is completely prepared for our re⯑ception. This felucca, let me tell you, is ſuch a ſtout, handſome, and commodious little veſſel, that the timid Lucy herſelf would ſail in it with⯑out a fear. I queſtion, however, if we are able to ſail at all, for at preſent there is hardly a breath of air ſtirring; but we have a little ſturdy [144] ſwarthy crew, (who look to me ſo ill-favoured that I could almoſt ſuppoſe them the identical galley. ſlaves deſcribed in Don Quixote) perfectly able and ready to bruſh the deep with their oars.— Adieu. Let us now embark, as I know we ſhall, with your ardent good wiſhes for the proſperity of our voyage. In proportion as the incomparable Giuliana draws nearer and nearer to the reſidence of her father, her feeling heart pal⯑pitates with filial anxiety. I ſympathiſe with her moſt cordially in theſe ſenſations; yet I cheriſh a comfortable perſuaſion, that I ſhall ſpeedily gain a great influence over this curious old marble-hearted merchant. I have endeavoured to pene⯑trate all the minuteſt peculiarities of his character, by the reports of his daughter: one point I am happily ſure of, we ſhall run no hazard of differ⯑ing on any religious ideas. This keen Italian, by paſſing ſeveral years of his early life in our coun⯑try, contracted a moſt cordial contempt for the ſuperſtitions of his own; and he hates a prieſt, I find, as heartily as I do. As the energetic old humouriſt Johnſon ſays, "I love a good hater;" and in my next I hope to ſend you a lively proof that, to hate the ſame objects, with reciprocal energy, is no bad introduction to a ſolid and uſeful friendſhip. I ſhould be very prolix on this ſubject, were it not high time for us to get on board. Giuliana ſalute you both, as I do, from the bottom of an affectionate and grateful heart: I muſt add the name of my dear Cornelia, for the mere pleaſure of writing it, having no time to ſpeak even of her; and, if I had, what could I [145] ſay, that your friendſhip will not ſay for me?— Farewell.

LETTER XXI. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

REJOICE, my dear Edmund, in the ſucceſs of your ambaſſador. Again I ſay rejoice; for I am myſelf quite intoxicated with joy, while I inform you that your angelic Giuliana is reſtor⯑ed to the root, to the boſom, of her reconciled, her tranſported father.

To moderate the pride of my preſent exulta⯑ [...]n, let me remember and declare, that I am not only indebted to your friendſhip for the honour of my miſſion, but I owe entirely to your excellent [...] all the delight of its ſucceſs. Yes, thou our philoſopher, whoſe knowledge of nature, and whoſe cool judgment in the conduct of life is ſo infinitely ſuperior to mine, I muſt frankly own to you, that if I had been deſtitute of your direc⯑t [...]ons for the management of this arduous buſi⯑neſs, the native impetuoſity of my temper would have utterly defeated all thebenevolent wiſhes of my heart, and the doors of the angry, the exas⯑perated father, would have been cloſed, perhaps, [146] for ever againſt the moſt virtuous and moſt tender child that ever triumphed over paternal rage and reſentment. In truth, I have had ſome fiery trials to endure; and, I flatter myſelf, you will applaud me for having ſuſtained them, not only as your confidential friend, but as your affecti⯑onate and obedient diſciple. I fear I ſhall give you but a broken irregular narrative of thoſe affecting ſcenes that I would wiſh to relate to you very circumſtantially; for my nerves, which had not perfectly recovered from the ſhake they re⯑ceived in my late illneſs, have been ſo variouſly convulſed in our recent adventures, that I do not ſeem to have one ſteady fibre in my frame; and, in the tumult of my preſent joy, though it is cer⯑tainly a joy of the chaſteſt kind, I am more ready to laugh and cry, by fits, like an hyſterical wo⯑man, than to ſit down and commit to paper a long and methodical relation of thoſe events which I am engaged, both by honour and incli⯑nation, to tell you minutely.

Having collected my thoughts a little, and hav⯑ing juſt received on the back of my right hand an inſpiring kiſs, accompanied by a tear, from Gi⯑uliana, who is at this moment in a weeping tran⯑ſport of gratitude to you and to all of us, I will en⯑deavour to accompliſh my promiſe, and give you with the moſt exact fidelity all the agitating occur⯑rences of our arrival and reception. Our voyage was pleaſant, though not ſpeedy; for we had ſo little wind, that we were obliged to make conti⯑nual uſe of our oars. One of our laborious crew being diſabled by ſudden illneſs, I ventured to amuſe myſelf by rowing in his place, though the [147] poor fellow reſigned his oar very reluctantly, and would, I believe, have pulled to his laſt gaſp if I had not inſiſted on relieving him, more for my own amuſement than for his advantage. He told me truly, that I ſhould find it much harder work than I ſuppoſed; but you know my paſſion for manly exerciſe of all kinds, and how apt my ſpirit is to give credit to my body for more ſtrength than it has. The tender Giuliana remonſtrated in vain, by kindly reminding me that my health was far from being confirmed. Man is an obſti⯑nate animal, and he is never, I believe, more tempted to overſtrain his force than when a lovely woman beſeeches him to ſpare it. I ſuſtained, however, the taſk I had impoſed on myſelf, be⯑yond the expectation of my companions; though, to confeſs the truth, I felt more exhauſted than I would own to them. And I ſhould not have re⯑lated to you ſo trifling an incident, had it not produced a very ſingular and happy conſequence at a future period, as you will ſee in due time; but, as my hiſtory is to be conducted with exact order, I have many things to tell you firſt.

As we had the advantage of very ſerene wea⯑ther, and an early moon, I contrived, for vari⯑ous reaſons, not to land in Genoa till after the cloſe of day. Our approach to the city, under the ſoft luſtre of a clear and delicious evening, afforded me one of the moſt ſingular and en⯑chanting views that I ever beheld: I could have pauſed for ſome hours, to ſurvey the placid beauty of this ſemicircular port, and its rich creſcent of ſtately palaces, with gardens on the roof of each, had not the heart of Giuliana preſented to me a [148] much more engaging ſubject of contemplation. I am, you know, a paſſionate admirer of all pic⯑tureſque ſcenery; but it is not, I am perſuaded, [...]n the power of nature to preſent any proſpect to the eye ſo perfectly faſcinating as the view of a lovely female heart under ſtrong agitation.

Our preſent moonlight voyage very forcibly brought to my thought your moonlight viſit with my companion to the tomb of Peverell. Giuliana was then under the recent impulſe of diſtracted love and outrageous ſorrow; yet I queſtion if ſhe could feel more at that time than ſhe felt in the firſt moments of her return to her native city. Her anxious deſire to regain the affection of her father, and to become the miniſter of his ſalvation, has given a tenderneſs and a fervor to her ſpirits beyond every thing that I ever ſaw in woman. In our paſſage from where we landed to the poſt-houſe, which is our inn, we had to paſs the houſe of Seignor Pinelli. In croſſing the door of her fa⯑ther, as ſhe hung upon my arm, I felt a ſhudder⯑ing through her frame that affected me like an electric ſhock; having paſſed the door, ſhe re⯑vived at every ſtep, like a perſon who has had the courage to croſs an imaginary ghoſt. I looked back to ſee how it was with our little Giannina, who followed us cloſe behind; and, affected as I was myſelf, I could not forbear laughing to ob⯑ſerve the good ſimple girl, who was at that in⯑ſtant before the door of the old Seignor, fortifying herſelf by the ſign of the croſs. Giannina, I be⯑lieve, is not more of a Catholic than her miſ⯑ [...]reſs; yet ſo deep does ſuperſtition ſink into an [...]fant mind, that in her preſent terror ſhe had [149] recourſe to a ceremony which ſhe had probably determined to relinquiſh for ever. But I am dwel⯑ling too long on petty circumſtances. Behold us now ſafely arrived at our Oſteria. I ſhut my fe⯑males into a chamber together, to prevent their being diſcovered; and engaged my civil hoſt in a private converſation, to collect from him all poſ⯑ſible information concerning the old Seignor. He behaved, I find, on the elopement of his daughter, as Italians generally do under the in⯑fluence of reſentment, with a peculiar vehemence both of language and conduct. As fiery in his indignation as king Lear, he publicly

And being anxious to provide himſelf with heirs more worthy, in his idea, of the opulence he has to bequeath, "he is now (ſaid my intelligent informer) on the point of marrying a young widow. Ah, Seignor, added my ſhrewd hoſt, when angry old gentlemen endeavour to puniſh their young daughters for a little natural indiſcre⯑tion, they are very apt to play the fool them⯑ſelves; and forget that they have not the plea of youth to excuſe it." My hoſt concluded with many compliments to my countrymen; and gave me to underſtand, that if he had himſelf a fine daughter, he ſhould be proud to give her in mar⯑riage to an Engliſh Cavalier, without any ſcru⯑ples concerning her body or her ſoul. As ſoon as I eſcaped from my talkative landlord, I haſtened to tell Giuliana the matrimonial news of her fa⯑ther. She knows the widow perfectly; and ſaid, [150] with great probability, [...] at if had been actu⯑ally married to her he muſt have been completely wretched for life. But I am come, ſhe added with a fervency or fillal and religious hope—I am come, I truſt, in a [...]ſſed hour, to ſave him, not only from eternal, but even from temporal infe⯑licity." How ſweet and innocent are theſe illu⯑ſions of affectionate piety! As far, however, as ſhe projected wedding is concerned, it is proba⯑ble there may be no illuſion in the ardent hopes of our incomparable Giuliana. But I muſt not anticipate. Let me obſerve, if I can, the due order of time in the long and intereſting hiſtory that I have undertaken to give you, with that mi⯑nuteneſs to which you are ſo fully entitled, from all your generous attention to the excellent crea⯑ture whoſe adventures and whoſe feelings you will expect me to deſcribe.

We talked over various plans for gaining ad⯑mittance to this offended father. I was half in⯑clined to ſhorten the anxious and agonizing ſuſ⯑penſe of Giuliana, by truſting entirely to the force of nature, and to the tender effect which the ſight of a returning affectionate child, with⯑out any preparation, might produce in a paren⯑tal boſom. But, on mature reflexion, I choſe to adhere very ſcrupulouſly to the conduct you had moſt kindly and very wiſely preſcribed to us. I went alone to the houſe of Seignor Pinelli, taking only a ſhort billet of ſupplication from Giuliana, which ſhe dated from England according to your advice; and I reſolved, as you recommended, not to let the angry old man ſuſpect that his daughter was returned to Genoa till I had ſome⯑how [151] contrived to ſoften his reſentment, and to alarm either his affection or his pride with the dread of ſuch evils as might naturally overtake a deſolate young woman in a foreign land.

As I had heard of his giving peremptory orders that no Engliſhman ſhould be ſuffered to enter his doors, I thought of perſonating a French travel⯑ler; but Giuliana aſſured me, I might ſafely truſt to the kindneſs of her father's elderly and chief domeſtic, Pietro, for admiſſion to a confer⯑ence, if not with his maſter, at leaſt with himſelf. She was perfectly right; the honeſt fellow wept like a parent, more than a ſervant, in peruſing a ſcrap of paper with three lines, addreſſed to him, by the univerſally idolized Giuliana; but in ſhewing the tenderneſs of his own regard for her, he gave me a ſtill ſtronger impreſſion of the obſti⯑nate anger which had raged without any remiſſion in the fiery ſpirit of her father. He deplored, that, old and attached to her as he was from her infancy, he was not allowed even the privilege of naming his dear miſtreſs in the preſence of her exaſperated parent. He ſpoke openly and warm⯑ly of his maſter's new and unpromiſing matrimo⯑nial proſpect; and he expreſſed a wiſh, that amounted almoſt to a reſolution, of purſuing the ſteps of the divine fugitive Giuliana, and dying in her ſervice. He laboured to diſſuade me from the attempt that he conceived to be very painful and fruitleſs, to melt the obdurate heart of Pinelli; but as ſoon as I acquainted him with the death of Peverell, his ideas were totally changed; his anxiety for the deſtitute Giuliana amounted to agony, and I believe the honeſt creature would [152] have introduced me to his maſter had he been ſure of being ſtabbed the next moment for that act of diſobedience. We both trembled, I believe, at the inſtant of that aweful ceremony; but, as ſoon as the good Pietro flung open the door of a magnificent library, I advanced with the firmeſt countenance I could, to ſalute the majeſtic and ſolitary merchant. He had been reading alone. Repreſent to yourſelf, my dear Edmund, a very noble figure, arrayed in black; in whoſe form and features I immediately diſcovered an engaging, though ſtern reſemblance, to thoſe of the beauti⯑ful Giuliana; a figure exhibiting, to my appre⯑henſion, that ſimple dignity of character which we have frequently admired together in ſome quiet portraits of Titian; and had this figure been preſented to us on canvaſs, we ſhould, I think, have gueſſed it to be a perſon of eminence in a free republic. But this ſtriking appearance of calm grandeur was the viſion of a moment. The Seignor roſe at my entrance, darting firſt a look of ſurprize upon me, and then of anger towards Pietro, who rapidly withdrew, to elude the order he expected for conducting me unheard from the apartment in which I had intruded.

I accoſted the merchant, and ſtopped him be⯑fore he had time to re-open his door. "I am come, Seignor," I exclaimed, "to announce to you the death of a man who has for some time been the object of your juſt indignation! —a very ho [...]rible accident has put a ſudden end to the life of Peverell; allow me to hope, that all your anger and all your unhappineſs may be buried in his grave." The merchant ſtood motionleſs. His [153] pride ſeemed to contemplate in the event that I announced to him all his injuries avenged by the interpoſition of Heaven; but his native dignity reſtrained him from burſting into any indecent exultation. He ſurveyed me with a gloomy ſtern⯑neſs and features that expreſſed the unexpected gratification of a dark and imperious paſſion; but he thought it proper to lay, "The life or death of a diſtant ruffian are matters of no moment to me: I have only to forget, for my own peace, that ſuch a villain ever exiſted." "With all my heart," I haſtily replied: "let his exiſtence be forgotten: he was no friend of mine. But ſurely, Seignor, neither you nor I can wiſh to forget that you have a moſt lovely daughter, who, though divided from you by the ocean, ſeems to exiſt only in your life; and expreſſes to you, in this letter, her fond filial wiſhes of being reſtored for ever to your parental boſom." I here preſented to him the letter of Giuliana, which he eagerly ſeized, for no purpoſe but that of thruſting it into one of the candles by which he had been reading; and while the paper was blazing in his hand, he ſaid to me, fiercely, "Let this convince you, young ſtranger, that I have no longer a child; and trouble me no more with vain petitions from a wanton ungrateful fugitive, againſt whom I have cloſed and fortified my heart for ever." This ſpeech was uttered with ſuch a ſtedfaſt appear⯑ance of inflexible ſeverity, that I was half petri⯑fied at the ſound of it; but rallying my diſmayed ſpirits to the utmoſt of my power, I purſued my point in the following manner.

[154]"You will not think it, Seignor, a very dif⯑ficult point to free yourſelf from my intruſion, when I aſſure you, with the ſtricteſt truth, that I have no purpoſe to anſwer in my viſit to you, but the purpoſe of pure humanity; that I am led to your houſe, only by compaſſion for your angelic unfortunate daughter, and by good will to your⯑ſelf." I now perceived that the old man began to liſten to me with milder attention. I derived new ſpirit from that idea. I launched out into a full, perhaps a vain account, of my own ſtation in life. I gave him a circumſtantial narrative of the ſingular, the innocent, the magnanimous conduct, of his child. I ſpoke of you, my d [...]ar Edmund; and you will believe I ſpoke of you with all the enthuſiaſm of friendſhip. In ſhort, I ſpoke ſo long and ſo eagerly, that I found my ſtrength fail on a ſudden, and I was on the point of faint⯑ing. The old man was affected; with great gent⯑leneſs he placed me on a ſopha, and called for refreſhments. As I imputed my ſudden languor to what I believe was its real cauſe, the fatigue I had fooliſhly drawn on myſelf by the incident of the oar, Pietro brought in ſome very fine fru [...]t, with cakes and cordial wine; and the honeſt fel⯑low caſt upon me ſuch a look of ſolicitous enquiry, his keen countenance expreſſed ſuch a mixture of concern for me, and of hope for his miſtreſs, that, half dead as I was, I could hardly help ex⯑claiming, "Honeſt Pietro, we ſhall triumph at laſt!" The merchant himſelf, with that ſin⯑gular union of dignity and tenderne [...]s in his man⯑ner which we have ſo much admired in his daugh⯑ter, exerted himſelf aſſiduouſly for my relief, yet [155] without uttering a ſyllable that pointed towards a reconciliation with Giuliana. He obſerved, and I believe very truly, that a reclining poſture had ſaved me from abſolute fainting; and he be [...]ged me not to attempt any further diſcourſe till the rich wine, whoſe reſtorative influence he boaſted, had recruited my exhauſted frame. As the giddi⯑neſs of my head had been relieved by my poſition, I now felt myſelf as ſtrong in mind as I was weak in body; and, as you know, my dear Edmund, how I love to [...]eize every opportunity of acting with a romantic ſpirit, you will not be ſurprized at my reſolving to try the influence of this ſpirit on the dignified merchant. While I ſtill reclined, and he ſt [...]od before me with a glaſs in his hand, ſtrongly preſſing me to ſwallow his never-ſailing cordial, "Dear Seignor," I exclaimed, "is it poſſible that you, ſo charitable to a ſtranger, can ſ [...]ut your heart againſt your own angelic daugh⯑ter! It it is poſſible, let me rather expire, from fatigue and emptineſs, in your preſence, than owe my life to a being with a heart ſo unnatural!" In ſaying this with a trembling voice, I gently put aſide the glaſs that he was preſenting to me. The old man was half provoked and half ſoftened by my odd behaviour. "I fear," ſaid he, looking down upon me with a ſtern and penetrating glance, "you are an ungovernable young man, raſhly wandering from your own parents, and loſing your ſenſes in a fooliſh paſſion for this unworthy girl" On hearing this ſurmiſe, I burſt into a paſſionate proteſtation of my genuine and pure friendſhip for Giuliana. I avowed, without naming her, my real attachment and hopes of marriage [156] with Cornelia. To convince him of my truth, I offered to relinquiſh the immediate pretended object of my travels, which I had told him was to eſcort a ſickly ſiſter of mine to a relation we had in Italy; and begged that we might guide him to his daughter in England, and return again all together. The Seignor was greatly touched by the frankneſs of this propoſal, and ſaid, with an air of mild deliberation, "What⯑ever your deſigns may be, you are a very extraor⯑dinary and intereſting viſitor: if I have wronged you by my ſuſpicions, I aſk your pardon, and I entreat you no longer to reject the cordial for which you have ſuch viſible occaſion." As he held one hand towards me with the wine, I ſeized the other, and kiſſing it, replied, "I have, in⯑deed, my dear Seignor, occaſion for your kind⯑neſs; but would you ſhew it moſt effectually for my relief, drink yourſelf the glaſs you offer me— drink it to the health and happy return of your child—I will pledge you with my whole ſoul, and, inſtead of declining your favours, will then bleſs you with tears of gratitude for your generous hoſ⯑pitality." My tears, however, would not wait for this appointed moment; they guſhed as I ſpoke, upon the hand of the merchant.

"There is no contending with you," ſaid the half-melted father, and pouring out a ſecond glaſs for me, he complied with my intreaty, by drink⯑ing the firſt, yet he could not preva [...]l on his lips to utter the name of Giuliana, or to expreſs even a w [...]ſh for her return; he only ſaid to me, in a ſort of murmur, "May the penitent you plead for deſerve ſo diſintereſted a friend!" "She [157] deſerves the friendſhip of earth and heaven," ſaid I, ſtarting up in a tranſport of exultation at hav⯑ing ſucceeded ſo far, and venting the fulneſs of my heart in the moſt fervent vow for the affecti⯑onate re-union of a child and parent ſo worthy of each other, and ſo unhappily divided. I at laſt eagerly ſwallowed the Lacryma Chriſti ^*, which my courteous hoſt had so repeatedly recommend⯑ed as the beſt of reſtoratives; my ſtomach, in⯑deed, acknowledged the excellence of his cordial; but my heart and ſoul felt a ſtill warmer and more delightful effect, from my proſpect of bending him to my wiſhes. He filled my glaſs again, and, to animate me ſtill farther, drank himſelf, in a very friendly manner, to my perfect recovery. His generous wine ſeemed to operate as happily towards opening his own heart, as it did in re⯑lieving the languor of my frame: yet, obſerving how much he laboured to wave all diſcourſe on his daughter; I thought it beſt for me to gain, if poſſible, ſome portion of his eſteem, by talking on other topics, before I preſſed him again on that point. I had ſtudied the peculiarities of his character, and now endeavoured to turn them to my advantage. How adroit are we made by any paſſionate and benevolent deſire! Of all talents in the world I have the leaſt pretenſions to the talent of flattery; yet I contrived to flatter the penetrating merchant very ſucceſsfully, on his republican dignity, on the ſpirit of his anceſtors, who defended his native city from the tyranny of France, on the native and improved vigour of his mind, in deſpiſing, not only the groſs ſuperſti⯑tions of his country, but every ſpecies of ſuperſti⯑tion. [158] Here you know, my dear Edmund, I was galloping on my favourite ground: the ſub⯑ject, and the delightful end that I hoped to gain by introducing it, aſſiſted by the potent wine I had drank, inſpired me, I believe, with unuſual eloquence; for the old merchant, while I kept clear of his daughter, appeared to ſympathiſe with me in every ſentiment. The more I talked to him, the more he ſeemed to covet my acquaint⯑ance; and at laſt I flattered him into ſuch a vein of good humour, that he inſiſted on my making his houſe my home while I ſtayed in Genoa. This offer was the great object of my ambition; and I thought myſelf a moſt capital politician in having obtained it; but, inſtead of replying to it by a profuſion of thanks and ſcruples, I exclaimed, "No, my good Seignor, I muſt not truſt myſelf with ſuch an enchanting companion; for you have already made me forget, not only my own infirmities, but thoſe of my poor ſiſter, who is now waiting for me at your poſt-houſe; and if I ſtay any longer, the poor terrified girl will con⯑clude that I have been robbed and murdered in your ſtreets." In ſaying this, I prepared to take my leave for the night. The courteous Pinelli inſiſted on paying his reſpects to the lady, and conveying her from an houſe ſo unfit for a female invalid, to his own comfortable manſion. His carriage was ordered for this purpoſe. With ſome difficulty I prevailed on the polite old man to let me be his ambaſſador, on an abſolute promiſe of returning to him, with my ſiſter and all our ſer⯑vants, in the courſe of the evening. I was now in ſuch an agitation of triumph, and impatience [159] to relieve the ſuſpenſe of Giuliana, that I could not wait for the carriage; but, deſiring that it might follow me, I flew to releaſe my dear anxious priſoner, and bleſs her with the tidings of my ſuc⯑ceſs. Her joy was great, but ſtill tempered with apprehenſion, as I had too frankly told her all that honeſt Pietro ſaid of her father's implacability. She was afraid that his quick ſpirit would catch fire on the diſcovery of deception, and that, in⯑ſtead of giving us a cordial welcome as I preſum⯑ed, be would ſpurn us from his door. I was not, in deed, perfectly free from fear myſelf on this point; but I endeavoured to ſtrengthen the hopes of Giu⯑liana. "O, ſaid the divine creature, all I mean is to prepare you with patience to endure calmly any ſudden burſt of his reſentment: as to myſelf, it is my duty to ſuffer, and to embrace all the in⯑dignities that can be put upon me; and what would I not moſt chearfully undergo to regain his affections, and to lead him by degrees to a wor⯑thier ſenſe of his God!" Such was the devout enthuſiaſm of this incomparable daughter. She had no fears for herſelf, but all for me and her fa⯑ther, because ſhe thought that in our tempers we are both precipitate, and equally deſtitute of re⯑ligious regulation.

While ſhe was giving me a divine lecture, her father's carriage arrived; her heart fluttered at the ſound of it. Having muffled up both her face and Giannina's, with a charge not to diſcover themſelves till they were at the feet of the vene⯑rable Seignor, I thruſt them haſtily into the carri⯑age, and we were rapidly driven to his door. Conceive the palpitation of our hearts, my dear [160] Edmund, at this moment. Honeſt Pietro let us in; and as both the females were effectually dis⯑guiſed, by their Engliſh [...]bits, and the conceal⯑ment of their faces, he marched before us with⯑out any ſuſpicion tha [...] his dear miſtreſs was ſo near him, to uſher us into a ſaloon, where the Seig⯑nor, with a little collation, was waiting to re⯑ceive us. I ſtepped before the females, and ſaid, "Forgive me, my dear Seignor, for preſenting to you, under the name of my ſiſter, the loſt, but unſullied jewel of this houſe!"—Giuliana was now kneeling before him, and, ſeizing his hand in an agony of tenderneſs and terror, he ſtood, for an inſtant, firm, with an averted countenance. I never endured, in my life, an inſtant of ſuch pain. But Nature ſoon declared herſelf our con⯑federate: the old man had not power to perſiſt in his proud indignation, and catching up his lovely ſuppliant child, he burſt into tears, and preſſed her to his boſom. I wept as plentifully, and had as little power of ſpeaking; but my heart ſhouted, Victoria! and ſeizing the little Giannina in my arms, I ran off with her, to reward the good ſoul of Pietro, who was ſtanding in a trance of awe⯑ful amazement on the outer ſide of the half-open door. The honeſt old domeſtic was frantic with joy when I ſportively threw the returned little fu⯑gitive into his arms. After receiving a million of his rapid benedictions, I ventured to return to a ſcene ſtill more intereſting and more delightful, which I had quitted chiefly from a deſire of paying the moſt delicate reſpect to the ſanctity of paren⯑tal emotions.

[161]As ſoon as I appeared again in the preſence of the relenting father, Giuliana quitted his hand, and advancing towards me with a chaſte familia⯑rity and tenderneſs, which you who know her, and you only, can perfectly conceive, ſhe embraced me, and exclaimed, "My guide, my brother! O that our dear Edmund and Lucy were here, to ſhare with us in the ſenſations of this bleſſed hour!—but they are preſent in you;" and em⯑bracing me again, ſhe added, "You will tell them how all their divine goodneſs to me is felt at this moment, not only by their grateful Giu⯑liana, but her kind, her dear ſympathetic father." She now put my hand into his; and the ſtrongly affected old man attempted to expreſs his obliga⯑tion; but his heart was yet too full for words: he could only ſpeak to me by a preſſure of the hand; but what language could equal the ex⯑preſſive force of that preſſure! My heart felt it in every fibre; and I declare to you, that I queſtion if a touch of tenderneſs from the hand of my adored Cornelia herſelf could have given me more exquiſi [...]e delight.—Ah, my dear philoſopher, you and I have hitherto been fools in our notions of pleaſure; if we wiſh to experience the keeneſt and pureſt of all human delight, let us haſten to be [...]athers. O Pinelli, how exquiſite muſt be thy tranſport in this event, ſince the mere ſight of it is to delicious to a ſtranger who has known thee but a day!

I have ſtill a thouſand things to tell you, deareſt friends, though I may literally ſay I have been writing to you from ‘Earlieſt morn to lateſt eve;’ [162] allowing very ſhort pauſes for neceſſary refreſh⯑ment. The good merchant very wiſely put us a [...]l ſoon to bed laſt night: to day, therefore, I have dedicated entirely to the pen; not only from my extreme eagerneſs to impart to you, at full length, the glad tidings of our ſucceſs, but from a [...] of leaving my intereſting hoſt and his incompa [...] ⯑ble daughter as much as poſſible to themſelves, that they might unburthen their full hearts to each other.

I have not yet had an opportunity of learning from Giuliana the particulars of their private con⯑verſation; yet I am very anxious to do ſo, as I have an unpleaſant apprehenſion of this young widow who has entangled the old merchant: as we have ſo happily reſtored to him his angelic child, it would grieve my ſoul to have her future life poiſoned by his completion of theſe unpromiſ⯑ing nuptials.—

"Well, my dear governeſs, I obey; and will only add a few ſyllables more to the enormous pacquet." This is my obedient reply to a certain guardian angel, commonly called Giuliana, who has juſt told me, that I ſhall write myſelf dead if I do not deſiſt a little from my labour. The Seignor alſo ſays, that my letter muſt be diſpatch⯑ed, to ſave the poſt; ſo, exhauſted as I am, let me promiſe you another epiſtle in a very few days; and conclude with our united benedic⯑tions.

LETTER XXII. FROM MISS AUDLEY TO MRS. AUDLEY. [ſent with the preceding letter from Seymour.]

READ, read, and rejoice, my good Har⯑riot! Thanks to the chaſte ſtars! and double thanks to the virtue and kindneſs of our ſpirited and excellent young traveller! I am ena⯑bled to make the very return I moſt wiſhed to your friendly and delightful communication, in reſtoring to you that enchanting picture which our dear frank Cornelia has given you of her own feeling heart. How happy am I to join her intereſting pages to pages not leſs intereſting, from a hand that will now, I truſt, in due time, be moſt happily and holily joined to hers.

How will her lovely quick eyes devour the hiſ⯑tory I ſend you! Methinks I ſee all her doubts, her terrors, her ſcruples, her reſolutions, melt away as ſhe advances in the peruſal. Our bene⯑volent Edmund is tranſported with the conduct and ſucceſs of his young ambaſſador; and pro⯑nounces him fairly entitled to paradiſe, from his various merits in this arduous trial: the paradiſe we mean is, the heart of your Cornelia; of which we call you the Saint Peter: we beſeech you, therefore, fair ſaint, to throw open the [164] bleſſed gate over which you preſide, and ſecure free admiſſion to this meritorious aſpirer.

In ſober ſerious truth, my dear Harriot, we entreat you to make the moſt of the preſent glo⯑rious opportunity, to ſtrengthen the intereſt of this engaging Seymour; not only in the heart of Cornelia, where Love and Nature, I fancy will ſufficiently befriend him, but in the leſs ſoft, though amiable mind, of your excellent huſ⯑band.

Ah, my dear Harriot, I cannot conceal from you the dread that torments me in the midſt of our joy. Do not, with the uſual weakneſs of a wife, betray me to my brother; to whoſe endea⯑ring virtues be aſſured that my heart does full juſtice, while I tremble for the poſſible conſe⯑quence of his inflexible integrity: you will un⯑derſtand what I mean. Believe me, my dear ſiſter, we have both of us a thouſand reaſons for the moſt tender caution on this very delicate point.

Should your huſband now oppoſe the union of Seymour and Cornelia, from any motives of re⯑ligious apprehenſion, farewell, not only to the future happineſs of that intereſting and deeply enamoured pair; but farewell to that ſweet peace and harmonious affection which has long pre⯑vailed, so uncommonly, and ſo delightfully, among the different branches of our houſe. I can perceive already, that all the boaſted philo⯑ſophy, of our tranquil Edmund will not be ſuffi⯑cient to prevent his pride from reſenting any op⯑poſition of the kind I have mentioned againſt the [165] young friend to whom his heart is now acknow⯑ledging its recent and indelible obligation.

A word to the wiſe, though it comes from an affectionate ſimpleton, may be of ſome uſe; for⯑give me, therefore, my dear Harriot, if there is folly, as I ſuſpect there is, in the gloomineſs of my fears; and continue to love me for the warmth and ſincerity of my affection.

LETTER XXIII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY; [in anſwer to the preceding.]

FORGIVE you, my dear tender-hearted mo⯑nitor! aſk not forgiveneſs when you de⯑ſerve the fondeſt thanks. I have reproached myſelf a thouſand times for the idle words [...] dropt in our haſty interview, when I confided to you the charming pacquet of our Cornelia. Your benevolent ſpirit has, I find by the anxious kindneſs of your letter this moment received, dwelt very ſeriouſly on thoſe idle words. After I ba [...]e you farewell, I was apprehenſive that you might do ſo; your good-nature, which is natu⯑rally alive and ſolicitous for your friends, has ac⯑quired, from the ſingular incidents of your life, a p [...]culiar degree of timidity, where the happi⯑neſs [166] of thoſe you love is concerned. From this, my dear girl, and from my fooliſh jeſt, by which I have added to the accidental bent of your ten⯑der mind, you have harboured an idea very painful to your own friendly boſom; and allow me to ſay, a little injurious to a certain unblame⯑able creature, to whom, among other infinite obligations, I owe the great pleaſure I feel in giving and receiving from you the name and affection of a ſiſter.

Now do not ſay "No;" nor think, my dear Lucy, that I am talking to you with the "uſual weakneſs of a wife," who cannot endure, even a ſyllable, that does but ſeem to find fault with her good man.

You charge me not to betray you to your bro⯑ther, but, my good girl, what room is there for any ſpecies of treachery between parties who have, in truth, nething to hide, as they have no deſigns or ſenſations towards each other but thoſe of reciprocal affection? However, to shew you that I am rather the loyal subject, than the abject ſlave, of my huſband, I ſhall obſerve your in⯑junction, and not impart to him your letter; though, believe me, all the effect it could have upon him would be (if that effect were poſſible) to increaſe his affection for you. Let me now aſſure you, moſt ſolemnly, that in the main ob⯑ject o [...] your apprehenſion there is nothing to be [...]eared from our dear indulgent Audley. To con⯑vince you of my perfect ſincerity on this point, I will frankly ſay to you, that, if my good father ſtood in the poſt of my huſband, as Cornelia's truſtee, I ſhould indeed be terrified for the deſtiny [167] of the Lovers! aye Lovers! my dear, I will not mince the matter: Lovers they are, as we well know, in reality, though not yet declared ſo in form. But though I queſtion if ever nymph and ſwain were more paſſionately enamoured, or, in moſt points, more ſuited to each other; if my good father, as I was ſaying, had the guardian⯑ſhip of the lady; the rigorous ſpirit of his reli⯑gion would attempt, I know, and I dare ſay with ſucceſs, to annihilate the match. The piety of my preſent, and, I may ſay to you, my better Lord (though I really love my father), is made of much gentler, and more tolerant principles. From my parents I learnt all the practices of de⯑votion; but it is from your brother alone, my dear Lucy, that I have learnt, I think, the true eſſence of religion. What is there that I might not learn from him, except what his tenderneſs would ſometimes wiſh to teach me, becauſe he thinks, and I fear truly that I ſhall have occaſion for it? Alas, muſt I ever learn that bittereſt of leſſons, how to bear his loſs!

But I am fallen imperceptibly, into a tender melancholy, ill-ſuited to the time, and very dif⯑ferent from the ſtrain in which I meant to faſhion my infant reply to your affectionate letter. Hap [...]ly for us both, here are objects juſt here appear⯑ing in my ſight to give a livelier turn to my thoughts: I can juſt diſcern the graceful figure of Cornelia, on horſeback, at this moment ap⯑proaching your favourite clump of trees. This will be called, to be ſure, a friendly viſit to me; [...], my dear dainty widow, I am not blind to [168] that ſolicitude with which you are now wiſhing to know if I have received a pacquet from Italy.

Well, that little ſcrupulous half-yielded and half-defended heart ſhall be ſpeedily thrown into new palpitations. Audley has met her, and is walking home by her ſide. I muſt put away my paper for the preſent, my dear Lucy; but before I cloſe it, you ſhall have, what I know you ar⯑dently wiſh to have, a full hiſtory of the impreſ⯑ſion which the long and touching narrative of Seymour may make on thoſe to whom I now pant to impart it. Adieu for to day.

LET me now re-echo to you your own lively words, "Read! read! and rejoice, my dear Lucy!" Truſt me, the intereſt of your young and powerful client is ſtrengthened as much as you can wiſh in the two aweful courts of Love and Friendſhip. What would I give that you could have been an ocular witneſs of the various emotions produced both in Cornelia and your not inflexible, brother, by a recital of your en⯑chanting diſpatches from Genoa! That is a gra⯑tification we cannot have; but, as you are a dear good girl, and I am eager to baniſh all your painful timidity, I will give you, as well as I can, a brief and haſt [...] ſketch of the [...]cene.

Suppoſe our fir [...]t ſalutation over, and my love⯑ly gueſt ſeated, with lips that dared not, in the preſence of Audley, aſk a ſingle a queſtion con⯑cerning Sey [...]r I ſaw, and haſtened to re⯑lieve, the [...]e [...]ude of her heart, by ſaying to my two companions, "I have a great treat for you both; I have juſt received a delightful hiſtory from Genoa; and as I have barely had time to [169] ſkim it imperfectly, we will ſecure ourſelves from interruption, and my dear Audley will have the goodneſs to read it to us aloud." Cornelia gave me a look that ſeemed to ſay, "Oh, you barba⯑rous creature, why would not you indulge me with it alone!" but joyous curioſity ſoon tri⯑umphed over her momentary diſpleaſure. We prepared to liſten with all our ears; and my good man entered with his uſual chearfulneſs on the pleaſant taſk I aſſigned to him. He read with great ſpirit the honeſt exultation at the opening of the letter, and not without remark⯑ing the graceful modeſty of Seymour. "You will readily ſuppoſe, that I watched every inſtant the features of both my companions; their firſt ex⯑preſſion was that of ſimple, unmixed joy, in the perfect ſucceſs of this charitable embaſſy. As the hiſtory proceeded, new and various emotions aroſe and ſhewed themſelves very viſibly in the [...]es that I watched. I muſt not attempt to give you a very minute account of theſe, as they would render my letter more voluminous than Seymour's; but there were two or three ſtriking incidents, in the courſe of this reading, that I muſt deſcribe to you. When Audley came to [...] paſſage, ‘It is not, I am perſuaded, in the power of nature to preſent any proſpect to the eye ſo perfectly faſcinating as the view of a lovely female heart under ſtrong agitation,’ he fixed his arch eyes on our lovely gueſt, who, ſenſible of his meaning, turned inſtantly, not [...]ale with terror, my dear, but crimſon, deep crim⯑ſon, with conſcious love. AudIey gave me a ſignificant glance; and, to relieve our dear diſ⯑treſt [170] friend, began to read on, without farther pauſe. The deſcription of the little Giannina paſſing the old merchant's door made us all ſmile; but when my dear devout huſband read the fol⯑lowing exclamation, ‘How ſweet and innocent are the illuſions of affectionate piety!’ he ex⯑claimed, with an expreſſion of countenance be⯑tween a frown and a ſmile, "Ah, Seymour, we muſt ſomehow convince you, that true piety is ſo far from being full of illuſions as you ſuppoſe it, that it is the only thing which can ſeparate illuſion from human joy." He added, with an air of cordial friendſhip, "if we can but teach you this ſimple truth, we ſhall very eaſily make you one of the happieſt, as you are certainly one of the moſt amiable men in the world." Another full bluſh, and a half ſigh, here eſcaped from Cornelia. Audley read on, very generouſly, without caſting his eyes towards her. When he came to Seymour's ſudden languor, and affect⯑ing diſcourſe to the old merchant before he would accept his cordial, Cornelia and I burſt into tears that we tried in vain to check. Your brother, who is, you know, by nature uſed to the melting mood, ſoon completed the weeping party: he read and wept, and wept and read, till at laſt, ſeizing the tranſported Cornelia by the hand, he exclaimed, "By heaven, my dear widow, it is impoſſible not to love this bewitch⯑ing Seymour! The rogue has melted me into a woman, and made me in love with him myſelf."

There, my dear Lucy, there's a charming ſpecific for your fits of timidity. Now have I a great mind to throw down my pen, and leave [171] to dwell on thoſe comfortable words; yet I will not be ſo cruel to you as to ſuppreſs one cir⯑cumſtance, which, as my dear Audley ſaid to me when we were alone, diſplayed to him at once the native modeſty of Cornelia, and her rooted paſſion for Seymour: when my huſband read the words, "my adored Cornelia," ſhe did not, as I maliciouſly expected, ſtart ſuddenly or bluſh at the ſound of her own name ſo tenderly introduced. In truth, ſhe did not believe thoſe words exiſted in the letter. Pray admire this diffidence in our lovely friend As Audley had rallied her a little on her ſuppoſed affection, ſhe concluded, in the ſimplicity of her heart, that he had ſportively inſerted this paſſage as a conti⯑nuation of his ra [...]llery; and ſhe laughed at him, in her turn, for ſuppoſing her ſo credulous. On his proteſting his veracity, and placing before her eye the identical words, "my adored Cornelia," written in fair and large characters, her tears fell inſtantaneouſly on the paper: I could not reſtrain myſelf from giving a voice to them, and ex⯑claiming, in the words of the ſcarcely leſs ſim⯑ple, and certainly not more enamoured Mi⯑ [...]anda,

As ſoon as I had pronounced my wicked quo⯑tation, I was ready to bite my tongue off, for my poor friend was bitterly diſtreſſed, and caſt upon me an eye of heart-wounding reproach; but your brother, who is, you know, the moſt [...]exterous of beings in relieving the embarraſſed, [172] ſoon put us into perfect good-humour with our⯑ſelves and each other.

In ſhort, we are now all harmony and hope; take your full ſhare of this joy, my good girl; and truſt me, if you continue to ſend us ſuch diſpatches from your intereſting client, you will have little reaſon to tremble for the final iſſue of his cauſe. I wiſh I was ſure of ſeeing you mar⯑ried as well on the day that unites him to Cor⯑nelia. Do not inſult theſe my good wiſhes, dear Lucy, with a toſs of ſupercilious virginity; but, if you pretend to doubt of their wiſdom, pray give me full credit for their kindneſs.—Accept our united love, and believe me ever,

LETTER XXIV. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

WITH all your extenſive ſpeculation, my dear Philoſopher, on human characters, you have never ſeen ſuch a creature, I am per⯑ſuaded, as Giuliana: and let me add, that al⯑though you have ſtudied this beautiful unique in ſcenes of ſolitude and of ſorrow, where you might imagine that all the finer mental folds [173] would unveil themſelves to your obſervation, you are ſtill unacquainted with half her perfections. I have heard many a woman called an angel—I have ſeen and heard many look angelically, and talk angelically—but I never beheld the abſolute angel in female conduct till I ſaw Giuliana re⯑pairing all the various evil which paſt events have produced in the houſe and boſom of her fa⯑ther. How ſublimely beautiful does a human creature appear, who, in the bloom of youth, and with every perſonal attraction, inſtead of being actuated by any ſelfiſh or perilous thought or paſſion, has no deſign, no idea, no ſenſation, but what originates and centers in the good of thoſe friends whoſe peace and happineſs ſhe ſeems commiſſioned to ſuperintend, without any por⯑tion of their natural infirmities! In truth, Giu⯑liana now appears to me ſo much the angel, that I ſhould almoſt call it profaneneſs in any man to think of making her even a wife. She is—I do not mean to ſpeak with any fooliſh jocularity, but in ſerious verity—ſhe is too ſpiritual for ſuch a department: all the warm and half-wanton [...]lood; all the little amiable caprices which form, you know, the attractive eſſence of female cha⯑racter in a young modeſt woman; all theſe, that muſt have exiſted in the frame of Giuliana, ſeem to be refined into ſoul, into mere intellectual be⯑nevolence. The fact, I am perſuaded, is that all her faculties, and ſenſations are abſorbed in her sublime and eternal paſſion for Peverell; it is the ambition of her heart and ſpirit to be unit⯑ed to that dear idol in paradiſe; and her tempe⯑rate enthuſiaſm perſuades her, that ſhe will moſt [174] effectually accompliſh this great object, by mi⯑niſtering to the temporal and to the coeleſtial intereſt of her father: whether ſhe will ſucceed or not, in raiſing the old merchant to Heaven, I ſhall not preſume to determine; but I may ſafely aſſert, that ſhe has reſcued him from that earthly Tartarus, an ill-aſſorted marriage. I have now paſſed eight very intereſting and rapid days in their houſe; it is utterly beyond my power to deſcribe to you the exquiſite addreſs, delicacy, and ſpirit, with which ſhe has carried many im⯑portant points in this period: I muſt content myſelf with giving you the reſult of her influ⯑ence. In the firſt place, ſhe has acquired, and exerciſed wi [...]h ſwe [...] and becoming gentleneſs, that aſcendancy and dominion over the impetu⯑ous old man, which a pure ſpirit has over a per⯑verſe one; ſhe has di [...]entangled him, in the moſt graceful manner, from his matrimonial perplexity; not by any abrupt oppoſition to the projected m [...]tch, but by teaching him to marry, as our militia-men fight, by a ſubſtitute. It for⯑tunately happened, that a young diſtant relation of Seignor P [...]nelli was more enamoured than himſelf of this captivating and formidable widow. Giuliana, with inexpreſſible dexterity, perſuaded her embarraſſed father to become an advocate for the ſtronger and more ſeaſonable paſſion of his young kinſman; and to toſs a little of his own ſuperflous gold into the ſcale of his rival, which he wiſhed to preponderate againſt himſelf. By this ſingular alliance, between Plutus and Cupid, the arduous affair has been happily ſettled, in a manner to accommodate all parties. I have ſtill [175] to relate to you another delightful inſtance of Giuliana's conciliating addreſs and diſintereſted magnanimity. She has negotiated and conclud⯑ed a peace between ſome diſcordant branches of her father's family. She has even introduced into his houſe, as his adopted ſon, a very pro⯑poſing and accompliſhed young man, the child of his ſiſter, who, having married to diſoblige the high-ſpirited Pinelli, had experienced his re⯑ſentment in such a degree, that he not only lived for many years without any intercourſe with her con [...]x [...]ons, but ind [...]gnantly rejected her over⯑tures of reconciliation on the death of her huſ⯑band, an event that happened while Giuliana was in England. Such have been the domeſtic employments of our divine friend ſince her re⯑turn; you will eaſily conceive how I worſhip her, and without any breach of my very different de⯑votion to my no leſs adored, and ſtill more at⯑tractive, Cornelia, who, even in theſe buſy days, when I have been honourable employed as the [...]nfidant of age and youth, of the father and his child, has not unfrequently been a ſubject of our animated converſation. Giuliana, in the midſt of arduous and intricate buſineſs, has the happy talent of attending, not only to her pre⯑ſent, but even to her moſt diſtant friends. You and Lucy will receive, with this letter, ſeveral very pleaſing proofs of her grateful remembrance. But you, as I have juſt told her, will join with me in reproving the ſumptuous liberality of her gratitude. We have had a vehement conteſt in a point of delicacy and honour, in which ſhe has ſubdued me completely both in words and [176] actions. In truth, ſhe invaded me on my weak ſide, and therefore obtained a more rapid and deciſive victory. What think you ſhe has inſiſt⯑ed on doing? Would you believe that ſhe has, in a great meaſure, taken from me the dear office of ſupplying the muſical wants of my Cor⯑nelia? She will only allow me to ſend, on my own account, two favourite airs; while ſhe uſurps the prerogative of diſpatching, as a pre⯑ſent from herſelf to the lovely ſtranger, an ex⯑quiſite ſelection of vocal muſic. I argued very furiouſly againſt the glaring impropriety, and I added the barbarity, of ſuch a proceeding. But my more eloquent [...]ntagoniſt ſoon convinced my love, of not my reaſon, that the terms of re⯑proach, which I applied to her deſign, were in truth only applicable to the oppoſition I made to it.

What a ſublime creature ſhe is!—how impe⯑rious in her humility!—She has written a letter to Cornelia. I would almoſt give one of my hands for a peruſal of it; and yet (here is bar⯑barity to which even her eloquence cannot re⯑concile me!) yet I am not permitted to read, or hear, a ſyllable of her epiſtle! — And I alſo muſt write to Cornelia—write to her for the firſt time. O delicious, dreadful taſk! how ſhall I accom⯑pliſh it to my own ſatisfaction! to my own, I am perſuaded, it will hardly be poſſible. I ſhall think, at every word I write, that I have ſaid too little, or too much. How capricious are the human faculties! Now could I more eaſily ſcrib⯑ble a volume to thee, Edmund, critical as thou art, on the moſt crabbed f [...]l [...]t thou could [...]t [177] propoſe to me, than write ten eaſy elegant lines on a happy occaſion to my candid Cornelia. It muſt, however, be done, and ſpeedily too; ſo farewell, my dear Edmund. Tell Lucy I hope to bring her home a huſband that ſhe cannot ob⯑ject to, the new-adopted brother of Giuliana, the young Seignor Morone. I have not time to ſend her a portrait of him at preſent: but I ſhall have ſufficient opportunities to draw it; for he is to have a little eſtabliſhment at Rome during the winter; and as I think it moſt eligible for me not to return to England till the ſpring, we are to keep houſe together, and to be honoured with a viſit from the incomparable Giuliana and her regenerated father. O that you could eſcort Cor⯑nelia for me to ſome Roman temple of Connu⯑bial Juno! But all in due time. Once more farewell.

LETTER XXV. FROM SEYMOUR TO CORNELIA.

I FIND that to take an intereſt in your amuſe⯑ments it is not neceſſary to have had the happineſs of ſeeing you. I am almoſt aſhamed to tell you, that a perſon who never enjoyed [178] that happineſs has robbed me in a great degree of the honour and the delight that I propoſed to myſelf in executing your muſical commiſſion. The lady Giuliana, to whoſe very ſingular hiſ⯑tory and character you are no ſtranger, has ſo forcibly pleaded for the gratification of ſending you ſuch a collection of muſic as ſhe thinks may be moſt agreeable to you, that I have been forced to ſuſpend, but not to relinquiſh, my invaluable privilege of acting as your ſervant; as a little memorial of my duty, I take the liberty of add⯑ing to her judicious ſelection two favourite airs, peculiarly expreſſive of maternal tenderneſs. And happy indeed ſhall I think myſelf when I have the opportunity of hearing them from a certain voice, which has the power of giving new delicacy and grace to the pureſt and moſt graceful ſentiments of nature! The language and muſic of this country are juſtly famous for ſpeaking to the heart. I feel that they do ſo. Yet allow me to ſay, I am ſo true an Engliſh⯑man, that, highly entertained as I have been at Genoa in hearing ſeveral of the Italian ſongs now travelling to you, I ſhall be much more delighted in hearing them from Engliſh lips.

I am conſtrained to paſs a great part of the approaching winter at Rome; and although my expedition to this country was certainly an act of choice, and I have the greateſt reaſon to exult in its ſucceſs, yet I feel that in ſo long an abſence from England I muſt experience the pains of ex⯑ile. Permit me to ſay, that nothing can ſo ef⯑fectually alleviate thoſe pains as to be favoured [179] with a ſecond commiſſion from you, as a proof that you forgive my imperfect execution of the firſt —Accept the moſt ardent good wiſhes of my heart to yourſelf and the two lovely dear little heroic boys, with whom I was vain enough to fancy myſelf a favourite.

Farewell; and let me live in the hope that you will ſoon beſtow the conſolatory honour I have requeſted on

LETTER XXVI. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HENRY SEYMOUR.

YOU are indeed, my dear Seymour, the very prince of ambaſſadors. No words can ſufficiently expreſs to you how much we re⯑joice in the ſucceſs of your negotiation, and how much we are enchanted by the admirable dexte⯑rity and ſpirit with which you have accompliſhed the great object of your wiſhes; nor let me fail to praiſe and thank you as I ought, for the feli⯑city and kindneſs of your deſcription, which tranſports us to Genoa, and makes us abſolutely your companions in every intereſting ſcene. We cannot ſatiate ourſelves with repeated peru⯑ſals [180] of your delightful narrative; and though we have twice read it regularly through together, Lucy and I are almoſt ready to quarrel for the ſeparate ſheets that each is eager to devour alone.

Tell the noble Seignor and our divine Giuli⯑ana, that, ſeparated as we are by the ocean, we ſee, we hear, we embrace you all every day; and take a full ſhare in thoſe ſcenes of heart-felt delight, which have ariſen ſo happily, my dear Seymour, from the admirable exertion of your talents and virtues. I ſee how ardently the grateful, the angelic Giuliana will wiſh you to be rewarded: I deſire therefore that you will tell her, in a whiſper, a piece of private intelligence, that I am ſure will add very conſiderably to her preſent ſatisfaction —tell her, we have already a reward for you equal to her generous eſtimate of your merits; yes, you happy and meritorious favourite of the fair, you will allow that I have not exaggerated the value of this reward when I beſtowed it upon you in a word, and aſſure you, from indiſputable authority, that your adored Cornelia doats upon her adorer. Nay, doubt it a little if you pleaſe; ſo much the better; leſt the exceſs of your joy, conſpir⯑ing with the native impetuoſity of your ſpirit, ſhould render you abſolutely frantic; yet it is an honeſt truth that my gratitude in the preſent hour could not withhold from you, though I con⯑feſs my diſcretion, or, as you will call it, my timidity, ſuggeſted to me ſome reaſons againſt indulging you completely with ſo important a ſecret.

I now behold you ready to aſk me a thouſand queſtions in a moment. Patience, dear ardent [181] inamorato, you ſhall know all; you ſhall be told, that the feeling, the frank, the generous Cor⯑nelia, has owned a paſſion for you to the friend of her boſom, the compaſſionate Harriot; from whom the precious ſecret travelled, through your very zealous advocate Lucy, to me. To ſhew you how completely I command this pleaſant channel of intelligence, I ſhall let you know that I have ſeen, and that I admire, your letter to Cornelia. You have ingeniouſly contrived to make violent love to her without ſaying a ſylla⯑ble on the ſubject. Indeed I greatly approve your caution and delicacy: I did not obſerve a word that Prudence herſelf in the weeds of a widow, could poſſibly carp at. Your unaffected Cornelia ſent a copy of your letter to her confi⯑dante, with an honeſt confeſſion of the delight ſhe received from it: yet the dear dainty creature is reſolved not to marry: no; you are too wicked, magnanimous and engaging as you are; and all other men are out of the queſtion.

But ſeriouſly, my deareſt Seymour, you muſt be very guarded in your behaviour; her heart and ſoul are your own, if you will but avail yourſelf with prudence of the victory you have gained.

As I ſend you ſuch intelligence as will, I know, occaſion a wild ferment in your veins, let me cool them with a little icy admonition: Firſt, I adviſe, nay, conjure you, to remain, as we wiſely ſettled for you, the whole winter in Italy. Secondly, be cautious, I beſeech you, in your conduct there. Beware of all the wild frolicks to which your runaway ſpirits are ſo apt [182] to betray you. Do not poiſon your blood by any gallant compliance with the wiſhes of an Italian princeſs; and pray, when you are at Rome, let not your flaming abhorrence of ſuperſtition ex⯑cite you to kick the whole College of Cardinals out of the imperial city, or to ſacrifice the poor Pope himſelf to the manes of your favourite Brutus.

It is hardly fair in me, recently and inexpreſ⯑ſibly indebted as I am to your ardent virtues, thus to rally you for that impetuoſity of ſpirit whoſe exceſſes I apprehend; but you will read my love in my fears, and my fears in my raillery.

I have yet a million of things to ſay; but I write at preſent in extreme haſte, to ſeize an un⯑expected opportunity of ſending this to you by a private conveyance. Perhaps my ſecond letter may reach you before the firſt, which had nearly happened in the arrival of your two enchanting packets from Genoa, as they came to me within a few hours of each other. I would not begin writing to you in return, till I could tell you how graciouſly your delicate love-letter in dumb ſhew had been received by your dainty idol; be⯑cauſe I knew that a letter which failed to tell you this muſt be of little or no value to ſo paſſionate a lover. Seriouſly, my deareſt friend, you may hope and believe every thing you can wiſh in that quarter. Her heart, as I have ſaid, is ab⯑ſolutely yours. My brother (as well as Lucy and Harriot) is warmly your friend. How can ſuch a hero fail, ſupported by ſuch confederates? In ſhort, you have not an enemy to encounter. For Heaven's ſake do not make one of yourſelf; [183] as that, I am perſuaded, would be the only one we could not overcome. Still harping, you find, even in the midſt of exultation, on the ſtring of timidity. But how can I be perfectly free from apprehenſion, when I know your indiſcretion on a certain article is almoſt as great as my anxiety for your happineſs? Laugh, however, as much as you pleaſe at my timidity, if you will but cautiouſly adhere to the advice of

LETTER XXVII. LUCY AUDLEY TO EDMUND.

HERE I am, dear brother, as ſafely lodg⯑ed in the noble and pleaſant manſion of our Cornelia, as the proſperous Seymour is effec⯑tually lodged in her heart. There he is, believe me; and ſo perfectly has he made it his home, his houſe, his caſtle, that you cannot tap at the door without ſeeing him at the window. As [184] often as I have had opportunities to ſpeak in private to my lovely hoſteſs, the faſcinating tra⯑veller has ſtarted up as the never-failing ſubject of our converſation; and more than once, after the good, tender, ſcrupulous creature, has de⯑ſired, half-ſmiling and half-ſighing, that we might talk of him no more, ſhe has undeſign⯑edly introduced him herſelf. Ah, Love, Love, what havoc doſt thou make in the memory, ſen⯑ſes, judgment, and all the bodily particles, that form the compoſition of that poor weak creature called a woman! But, dear Mr. Philoſopher, do not grow too proud in your ſolitude while you read this reflexion; for you know, by woeful experience, the caſe is not much better with you imperious lords of the creation. How often has your own magiſterial reaſon, when guarded and graced by an orderly train of arguments and reſolutions, like a ſet of important conſtables at⯑tending the Lord Mayor; how often, I ſay, has this maſculine reaſon of yours, with all its re⯑tinue, been reduced to diſappear, like a poor ſkulking magiſt [...]ate in the tumults and conflagra⯑tion of the metropolis! Yes, my dear lecturer in philoſophy, this ſaid love, whether licentious or chaſte, is a terrible diſturber of our peaceable faculties; and as I, by paying a heavy fine, am releaſed, I hope, from all future chance of wearing his burthenſome, tho' honourable chain, I find an agreeable exerciſe and amuſement in trying to lighten the yoke of this tyrant for my friends of either ſex. You have taught me to cheriſh the belief that I have done you great ſervice, both by tender conſolation and ludi⯑crous [185] reproof; I wiſh I may ſucceed as well in Cornelia's caſe, which is directly oppoſite to yours. You deſtroyed the peace of your life by having no ſcruples, and ſhe is a little diſpoſed to produce the ſame effect by indulging too many: alas! if the rich, the wiſe, and the good, find it ſo very difficult to make themſelves eaſy, how diſmally reſtleſs muſt be the lives of the poor, the weak, and the wicked! See what a mora⯑lizing creature you have made of a mere rattle, by your habits of contemplation. I have fallen, you find, already into grave reflexions, inſtead of giving you a lively deſcription of this charm⯑ing ſcenery, and the pleaſant day that introduc⯑ed me here; but you ſhall have it all, as I am bound in gratitude to ſend you as long a letter as the dear ſolitary bachelor can wiſh to receive.

Firſt, let me tell you, as you have not been here for ſome years, that this charming ſpot is a thouſand times more beautiful than it was when we paid a viſit together to our poor departed relation. Both the houſe and grounds, which uſed to exhibit ſomewhat of his auſterity and gloom, appear to have caught the lively and [...]der graces of Cornelia: the old faſhioned-ſquare courts, and the never-ending ſeries of ſtone-ſteps, that made the whole garden one over-grown ſtair-caſe, are all vaniſhed; and, inſtead of them, you ſee nothing but Nature embelliſhed with true Arcadian ſimplicity. In ſhort, the place itſelf appears to me as a beau⯑tiful widow, who has juſt got rid of an old bur⯑thenſome huſband, called Formality; and is at [186] once enlivened and ſoftened by a new lover, called Taſte.

What a wicked and abominable ſimile is this! Heaven grant the ghoſt of my old couſin may not torment me for it! but it ſtruck my fancy ſo forcibly, that I could not help throwing it into my letter, to make you ſmile in your ſolitude.

But to return to my own hiſtory: my brother and Harriot eſcorted me hither on Thurſday, by their new private road, which really ſaves a cir⯑cuit of about 17 miles; and, notwithſtanding all that Harriot has repeatedly ſaid in its praiſe, it ſurprized and delig [...]ted me beyond my expec⯑tation. In the firſt place, the road itſelf is con⯑trived with a moſt happy attention to pictureſque beauty; and, ſecondly, it exhibits a ſucceſſion of the ſweeteſt cottages that I ever beheld; half of theſe, you know, were built by Sedley, and half by my brother. And theſe two charitable landlords ſeem to have had an amicable conten⯑tion which ſhould produce the moſt pleaſing and perfect ſpecimens of ruſtic comfort, content, and chearfulneſs. Every tenant of a cottage has a certain number of theſe private gates allotted to his care, with ſome territorial rights and privileges, for the maintenance of his fa⯑mily: the moſt deſerving characters in humble life were ſelected for theſe ſtations; they all proſper, and all together compoſe a ſucceſſion of ſcenes that pleaſed me even to tears; but you know I am an odd creature, and often weep where other folk would ſmile, and often laugh where they would be ſad.

[187]Harriot, who is, you know, ſuch a rare good wife as to delight more in a tribute paid to the benevolence of her huſband, than in any com⯑pliments to her own beauty or underſtanding, was gratified in the extreme, by the cordial admiration I expreſſed for this enchanting road, which I begged leave to chriſten by the name of Jacob's Ladder, as it ſeems to lead ultimately to Heaven, and its ſteps are covered with little cherubims. My dear conductors having ſafely lodged me in this manſion, which is, perhaps, as like Heaven in the pur [...]y and beneficence of its inhabitants as any human habitation can be, returned home again after dinner. The day was a pleaſant one in all points, except in their ſpeedy return. Our party at dinner was exactly to my fancy; neither too large nor too ſmall; but moſt happily formed for agreeable conver⯑ſation; it conſiſted only of ourſelves and two gentlemen, whom Seymour himſelf would think entitled to that name, in ſpite of his antipathy to their coats: ‘Their coats they were good, but alas, they were black.’ For our two gentlemen were the miniſter of the pariſh and a very pleaſing viſiter of his: ‘An Oxford ſage, extremely read in Greek;’ but as polite and gentle in his manners as if he had never heard a crabbed word in his life.

Cornelia has, I think, firſt-rate talents for converſation; and ſhe exerted them to our ge⯑neral [188] delight, not by engroſſing a large portion of the diſcouſe, but by her ſkill in bringing every voice to its proper ſhare in the concert. It ſel⯑dom anſwers to repeat converſation, however ſprightly and amuſing; yet I muſt tell you one remark that dropt from William, and made a forcible impreſſion on my mind. The mild Mr. C. who often acts as almoner to the charitable Cornellia, was pa [...]ing her ſome juſt and delicate compliments on her ſucceſs in relieving ſome piteous objects of her bounty; and among them a poor woman, the wife of an honeſt la⯑bourer, who had, like her huſband, been long remarkable for induſtry, chearfulneſs, and good-nature. But being betrayed by indiſpoſition into dram-d [...]nking, ſhe grew by degrees ſo ſplenetic and malignant as to acquire in the neighbour⯑hood the appellation of the Crazy Woman. In ſpeaking of this unfortunate ſufferer, my brother ſaid, "I believe madneſs has often this origin: as benevolence and ſobriety may be ſaid to con⯑ſtitute, in great meaſure, the perfection of a rational being every deviation from either may be conſidered as an approach to inſanity."

Whether this obſervation is philoſophically and medically true or not, I ſhall leave you, my dear ſolitary philoſopher, to conſider; but it ſtruck me forcibly in the moment I heard it, and has ſince been a ſubject of my meditations; you, my dear ſpeculatiſt, are ſo ſevere as to think that no animals in the creation are ſo malevo⯑lent to their own ſpecies as woman to woman. Now, if your bitter idea has any foundation, we may at leaſt ſet this malevolence in a pitiable, [189] though in a very humiliating point of view, by aſcribing it, with my brother William, to a want of vigour and ſoundneſs in the intellects of our ſex. For my part I am determined to profit by the remark. I have reſolved, henceforth, to ſay and to do all the good-natured things that I can to all woman-kind, for the ſake of vindi⯑cating the health and dignity of the female un⯑derſtanding.

I ſhall begin my new ſyſtem of benevolence with our lovely widow, by what my dear ſarcaſ⯑tic Edmund will call a rare inſtance of female friendſhip: I mean, by perſuading her to make herſelf happy. In ſerious truth, you may de⯑pend on my being as warm an advocate for your friend as you can wiſh me to be; but how little does he want a new advocate, when Love and Muſic are at this moment ſtamping his image ſtill deeper on the ſoft little heart, ſufficiently prepared to receive and retain it! Cornelia is delighted with the ſongs he has ſent, and ſeems never ſo happy as when ſhe is ſinging them. Her powerful notes have juſt aſcended to the chamber where I am writing; and, after ſo long a ſcrawl, I am ſure you will allow me to throw down my pen abruptly, that I may haſten to catch more diſtinctly the ſweet warbling of this amorous nightingale.

Will ſhe continue to ſing ſo delightfully if we put her, as we ſo eagerly wiſh to do, in a cage? That is uncertain; but this I know, that i [...] ſhe is not put in the cage I allude to, ſhe will cer⯑tainly ſing, if ſhe ſings at all, with a thorn at her breaſt. Ala [...], poor bird! I meant to cloſe [190] with a little innocent laugh, and am half read, to cry. Pity the poor fooliſh Lucy; and believe me ever,

LETTER XXVIII. EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

WELL, my dear inamorato, one of your paſſionate prayers is compleatly accom⯑pliſhed. Never was my poor friend Peverell, living or dead, more vehemently idolized by the ardent G [...]uliana than you are by the timid, the tender, the melting, Cornelia! 'Tis ſo, by all the powers of Love, if I know any thing of woman's heart, which I have ſtudied in truth with ſufficient application more years than you have. Your good friend the penetrating and zealous Lucy has furniſhed me with a hundred proofs, which you would have patience, I ſup⯑poſe, to peruſe, if they were ſet forth in a fo⯑lio volume, notwithſtanding your diſlike to a book of that ſize; but as I preſume you will give me credit without calling for ſuch a maſs of evidence, I ſhall only mention, at preſent, one teſt of her affection for you, that I am apprehenſive you will think a little unpalatable, [191] and I would willingly aſſiſt you to reliſh and di⯑geſt it: She has reſolved not to employ her own dear dainty fingers in writing any ſort of an⯑ſwer to your ingenious love-letter. Here I ſee you ſtare and frown, and proteſt that it is im⯑poſſible! that ſhe muſt write to you! that com⯑mon politeneſs requires it! with a thouſand other proteſtations full of ſurprize, diſappoint⯑ment, anger, ſpleen, and love. Alas, my dear friend, I fear this rotation of turbulent ſenti⯑ments is a neceſſary tax, that all mortals muſt pay for their amorous delights, however licen⯑tious or legitimate, however groſs or refined. I have juſt paid the galling tax myſelf; and feel it ſo heavy, that I am almoſt on the point of relinquiſhing for ever what I can only hold by a tenure ſo tormenting; a certain female, whoſe capricious love for me is a ſecret to all the world but you, has ſeized me, ſince your departure, beyond all deſcription. How often has ſhe led me to repeat thoſe truly poetic and truly philoſophical lines of Rowe, on the ſex.

You will ſay, perhaps, of your more gentle widow,

[192]It may be ſo, my good friend; I confeſs ſhe is of as ſoft and delicate a mould as I ever ob⯑ſerved in a female: but ſhe is a woman; and as ſuch ſhe will infallibly try the patience of her lover, eſpecially as ſhe has one who can hardly reckon patience among the conſtitutional cha⯑racteriſtics of his temper.

But to return to the point whence I have ſadly digreſſed, her reſolution not to write to you, and the reaſon why you ſhould contemplate that reſolution with more pleaſure than chagrin: had ſhe not loved you, moſt aſſuredly you would have had a letter from her; for I think, as I know you do, that ſhe ought in courteſy to write; ſo ſhe ought in diſcretion; but the moſt ſenſible and accompliſhed women perpetually over-ſhoot their mark on this ground. Whenever they conceive a vehement affection, they never fail to betray themſelves at an early period of it, by an exceſs of reſerve. Cornelia, however, thinks ſhe has a full excuſe for not writing to you, in the opportunity ſhe has of conveying her thanks to you, by her correſpondence with the dear, though unſeen, Giuliana. I own I would give ſomething for a view of their ſingular and myſ⯑terious correſpondence; but even Lucy, who is treated with great confidence by your ingenuous though timid widow, is not permitted to ſee a line, and can only diſcover that Giuliana has ſpoke of you with that friendly enthuſiaſm which your ſignal ſervices have deſerved. Pray tell that divine woman, if ſhe is really a woman, and not a being of a higher claſs, that I adore her more than ever, as I am ſure you muſt, for this [193] bold, yet delicate method, of expreſſing her gratitude to you. I conſider their correſpon⯑dence as a ſtriking omen in your favour; but what omens can a lover want to inſpire him with courage, who has viſible poſſeſſion of the heart to which he aſpires?

I will only ſay, therefore, be confident, be cautious, and be happy.

I know your active ſpirit will fret now, becauſe you have no commiſſions from your Dulcinea, or I ſhould rather ſay your Dido, to employ you; but I will take pity on you, ſo far as to tell you an article ſhe wants, though I queſtion if you can find it where you are; ſhe has a fancy for a beautiful and ſpirited, yet gentle white ſteed, with a full mane and tail; in ſhort, ſuch a pal⯑frey as Dido might have been proud to mount when ſhe rode by the ſide of the Trojan Prince.

Now do not quit the hoſpitable roof of the no⯑ble Seignor Pinelli; do not give up your pro⯑jected reſidence at Rome, to plunge into thoſe wilds of Arabia where the moſt beautiful horſes are to be found, and where a horſe, as travellers tell us, is brought to practiſe the moſt ſpirited and the moſt gentle of human virtues, by being cheriſhed as a friend, and careſſed as a child.

I know your affectionate impetuoſity is ſtrong enough to lead you round the globe, to gratify even a whim of the woman you adore; and I really ſhould not be ſurprized to receive a letter from you dated Hejaz^†. Remember, however, that the ſarcaſtic monitor, who has ſaid ſo much [194] to you againſt any precipitate addreſſes, has al⯑lowed you to commence your ſiege in due form on the firſt appearance of that grand ſeaſon for all amorous and warlike operations, the ſpring; ſo do not wander too far; but, wherever you may rove, reſt aſſured, that the intereſt of your heart will not be neglected in this country, and that you have a vigilant, zealous and faithful agent in

P. S. I hope Giuliana has received a long let⯑ter from me, with the beſt return I could make for her ſplendid preſent. I ſhould have ſaid a great deal againſt the coſtlineſs of her kind re⯑membrance, had not affection induced me to ſa⯑crifice my own pride to the indulgence of her imperial gratitude. She knows me well enough to be aſſured, that the ſtrongeſt proof I can poſ⯑ſibly give of my entire regard is, to accept, without murmuring, a gift of great value. She is, indeed, as I have told her, the only mortal exiſting who could exert ſuch a deſpotic domi⯑nion over the moſt intractable of my feelings, and make me chearfully play the part of an Aſiatic ſlave, bending under the weight, and yet ſmiling at the ſplendor, of unexpected and unmerited munificence.

LETTER XXIX. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

NO, my dear Edmund, I write to you, not from Arabia, but from Rome. Here is your impetuous friend; but, alas, his impetuo⯑ſity, like that of Rome, is no more. In truth, I am as much reduced in ſpirit, and as creſt-fallen, as this poor old draggled-tail Queen of cities herſelf. I am as much mortified and as ſplene⯑tic as one of her paralytic, yet ambitious, car⯑dinals, who has juſt loſt his animating proſpect of the papal throne. Notwithſtanding all the kind ingenuity of your friendſhip to ſoften my chagrin, I am wretched, under the uncivil and barbarous reſolution of Cornelia not to anſwer my letter! Shall I frankly confeſs to you, how violently I was at firſt affected by her unexpected ſilence? it inflamed my pride almoſt to frenzy; and half-palſied my love. Had the divine Giu⯑liana been acceſſible as a wife, I ſhould, I be⯑lieve, in the inſtant have united my deſtiny to hers; but I did not wound our exquiſitely feel⯑ing and open-hearted friend by any ſuch propo⯑ſal; and this angelic creature has joined her efforts to yours, in trying to perſude me, that I ought to conſider an inſult as a proof of affec⯑tion. Alas, my dear monitors, how fallacious [196] are your arguments! do women heſitate to write, when their paſſions are awakened? No, no; to ſcribble when they really love, is the firſt delight of their ſouls; it is their paſſion, even in infancy; and their little fingers itch to ſcrawl a billet-doux before they can well hold a pen. No; it is plain enough, her heart turns from me with abhorrence; and for this I am indebted, I ſuppoſe, to ſome of her pious friends: but they, and ſhe herſelf, ſhall feel, if I live, that I am not to be inſulted with impunity; they may make me, if they pleaſe, an object of their ha⯑tred; but never of their contempt.

That you, my dear ſober friend, may not think me too precipitate in my indignation, I muſt tell you, Giuliana has had a ſecond letter from Cornelia; and would not ſhew me a line of it, though I begged for the indulgence as if my very being depended on a peruſal of that tor⯑menting paper. The friendly angel has vainly tried both to argue and to laugh away my reſent⯑ment; promiſing, that, if I behave well, ſhe will treat me with a whole paragraph from the next epiſtle: but I will not allow even her charitable virtue and her enchanting ſpirit to jeſt away my very juſt indigna [...]ion; and to act as a proxy for Cornelia, in making a fool of my heart.

How fully have I experienced, ſince I entered this city, the truth of Metaſtaſio's maxim, that objects change their appearance according to the tranquility or the tempeſt in our hearts. When I paid my firſt viſit to Rome, a very few years ago, with what ardour did I aſcend to the capitol! my pulſe ſeemed to beat with Roman energy as [197] I ſurveyed the monuments of Roman magnifi⯑cence; and my ſoul caught fire in the recollec⯑tion of thoſe heroes whoſe virtues illuminated the ſcene around me: it is not ſo now; theſe ruins and palaces, this ſtrange mixture of debility and ſplendor, only feeds my ſpleen and increaſes my melancholy; yet I am pleaſed to wander alone among ſhattered columns and broken arches, and find ſomewhat of ſoothing ſympathy between grandeur in deſolation and love in deſpair.

I am juſt returned from ſauntering, and lean⯑ing, a gloomy reverie, againſt one of the three pillars that remain of the temple which that cold-blooded coward Auguſtus built to Jupiter Tonans, on his narrow eſcape from a deadly flaſh of lightning; and ſo ſtormy were my thoughts in this ſtation, that I almoſt wiſhed to meet ſuch a ſtroke of heavenly fire as the daſtardly tyrant was ſo thankful for eſcaping.

Pray is it a proof of man's ſociability, or of his ſelfiſhneſs, that when our own proſpects are blaſted, we loſe our lively intereſt in thoſe of others: the poor young Seignor Morone, with whom I am quartered here in an excellent houſe, is, like other objects around me, not a little overſhadowed by the preſent gloom of my ſpirit I once talked, you know, of bringing him to England, as a huſband for Lucy; but pray tell her, with my kindeſt good wiſhes, I have relinquiſhed the project, and ſhe muſt pro⯑vide for herſelf. Morone is indeed a good and ſenſible young man; but he is as unfit to reliſh the wit and ſprightlineſs of your ſiſter, as I am [198] to enjoy, in my preſent humour, the various delights of Italy.

Our dear friends of Genoa will be with us in about three weeks; and then, I hope, you will receive a more chearful pacquet from this mor⯑tified traveller, whoſe ſpleen, I fear, you will now think immoderate; but whatever exceſſes it may riſe to, be aſſured, my dear Edmund, it can never overwhelm that affection with which I am,

LETTER XXX. EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

YOU want, indeed, my dear Seymour, a Mentor in your travels, to guard you againſt yourſelf—believe me, you have no other enemy; and think me not too ſevere if I add, you cannot have a worſe. I am ſeriouſly angry with you for being ſo barbarouſly unjuſt to the tender Cornelia, and ſo blind to your own ad⯑vantages. I am almoſt angry enough to puniſh you with cruelty nearly equal to your own; and to withhold from you a piece of news that may prove a ſovereign remedy for your ſpleen. But, if I did, I believe your partizan Lucy would [199] think that I deſerved, like an ungrateful and inhuman tyrant, to he cut off by a doſe of do⯑meſtic poiſon. So, in pure ſelf-defence, I muſt inform you, that your lovely opulent widow has been furiouſly attacked by a moſt formidable aſ⯑ſailant; and has defended herſelf with infinite ſpirit, ſkill, and ſucceſs. In plain Engliſh, that I may not torture your flery imagination, let me tell you, her inſinuating and ſplendid neigh⯑bour, the Peer, has exerted all his abilities to ſe⯑cure the poſſeſſion of her hand; but with ſo lit⯑tle effect, that he has now abandoned the enter⯑prize in abſolute deſpair. There is a triumph for you, that you little deſerved in your late fit of querulous ill-humour!

Now do not let your exultation be as unrea⯑ſonable as your ſpleen; for ſhe does not reſerve herſelf for you; no, you wicked humoriſt, en⯑gaging and all accompliſhed as you are, you are not good enough, ſhe ſays, for a huſband; and as to all the other men in the world (mercy on us!) there is not any one that is merely tole⯑rable: ſo, for her part (alas, the poor hapleſs creature!) ſhe is devoted to eternal widow⯑hood.

Aye, you happy rogue, how will you make all theſe petty iſicles, that are ſo apt to hang on the retired and ſolitary heart of a truly delicate woman, melt at your approach in the ſpring! Indulge not, I beſeech you, any ſplenetic hu⯑mour; but dedicate all your feeling ſpirit to Hope and Love. If your active and imperious fancy can torture itſelf in your ſituation, what would it do in mine connected, as I am, with a [200] wayward bewitching creature, whom I can nei⯑ther make happy nor relinquiſh, and who has the art of tormenting both herſelf and me, by an affection on which ſhe might build, if ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſed a more ſteady underſtanding, the happi⯑neſs of both? Yet, perverſely circumſtanced as I am, by the aid of a little optimiſtical philoſo⯑phy, I make myſelf tolerably contented. I think every mortal ſhould form for himſelf a ſort or mental ſpying-gla [...]s, looking, through the magnifying end at all the good in his deſtiny, and through the diminiſhing end at all the evil: but the greater part of mankind do exactly the reverſe; and hence ariſes more than half the miſery of human life. Hence the loud com⯑plaints, in every age of the world, againſt the general condition of our exiſtence. Hence the innumerable invectives againſt woman, the ſource of our moſt exquiſite delights. I have juſt had our friend Merlon with me, for a few days, who is a thouſand times more ſubject to ſpleen than you are; and, as he was alſo out of humour with his fair-one, he entertained me by inveighing againſt Love, with all the acrimony of a Cynic: "I think, ſaid he, with that ſour vehemence which you can ſo well repreſent to yourſelf—I think Sir Iſaac Newton was not only the wiſeſt, but the happieſt man that ever paſſed through the world; becauſe he kept his mind always amuſed by ſcience, and never allowed his heart to be tormented by a woman." I en⯑countered our moody friend as a champion for the ſex; and I replied, "Notwithſtanding my reſpect and my paſſion for ſcience, I can never [201] ſuppoſe that the joys ariſing from intellectual pur⯑ſuits are ſuperior to thoſe that belong to the af⯑fections. Do you imagine that Newton, in his ſublimeſt diſcoveries, felt a tranſport equal to that of a lover, who, having doubted the fidelity of a woman he adores, finds her faithful and af⯑fectionate in the higheſt degree? Do you think that any author, in publiſhing a moſt conſum⯑mate and celebrated production, can rejoice with an exultation ſo delicious as that of a fa⯑ther, in happily completing the education of a ſon? No, my friend, as Nature choſe to make a warm heart her prime miniſter for the manage⯑ment of her moſt important concerns, ſhe juſtly allotted to that miniſter the richeſt fund of de⯑light."

You, I am ſure, my dear Seymour, would have taken my ſide of the queſtion; and who could have defended it ſo well, even in the field of friendſhip, without entering on that of love? who could more properly decide on the joys ariſ⯑ing from our affections and our faculties, than a perſon to whom Nature has given ſo much warmth in the firſt, and ſo much quickneſs in the Later? Your adventures at Genoa would, in my opinion, determine the point; for aſſur⯑edly no man of the keeneſt intellect could feel ſuch exquiſite pleaſure in a ſuppoſed or real diſ⯑covery of the longitude, as you felt in that happy ſcene which you ſo forcibly deſcribed to us.

Let the moroſe and the ſplenetic ſay what they pleaſe againſt human life, it is ſurely a field more productive of enjoyments than of ſuffer⯑ings, if cultivated by one who is careful to che⯑riſh [202] the fruits and flowers, and eradicate the brambles and the weeds. It would be a Paradiſe indeed if we could all make, and conſtantly uſe, ſuch a mental ſpying-glaſs as I have mentioned; yet, had I a patent for making ſuch, I ſhould hardly beſtow one upon you; for in truth, you have only to ſee things exactly as they are, to be convinced that your lot is ſingularly fortunate; and I truſt, the unaided optics of nature are ſuf⯑ficient to make you clearly perceive the receſſes of my heart, and all the warmth and ſincerity of

P. S. Lucy is ſtill with your lovely widow; and I ſhould grievouſly lament her long abſence, if I did not prefer your intereſt to my own com⯑fort.—Adieu.

LETTER XXXI. FROM HENRY SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

FEAR no more, my kind philoſophical moni⯑tor, leſt your too ſplenetic friend ſhould torment and injure himſelf. Here is my good angel juſt arrived to enliven and protect me—here is our divine Giuliana, exerting her heavenly in⯑fluence, [203] and diffuſing peace and delight over every troubled ſpirit around her. She has fulfilled her promiſe, and indulged me, though in truth I hardly deſerved it, with ſuch a paragraph from the pen of my adored Cornelia, that all my proud ſuſpicions, and ſurly inquietude of ſoul, are baniſhed, I truſt, for ever. Yes, my dear adept in the abſtruſe ſcience of woman, your judgment in my favour is confirmed; I am con⯑vinced that the heart of this delicate widow is, as you have kindly told me, my own; for though ſhe is too modeſt to make ſuch a confeſſion to Giuliana, yet every word in which ſhe ſpeaks of me is at once a graceful proof of her delicacy, and a moſt enchanting indication of her love. I feel this ſo ſtrongly, that my angelic governeſs finds it expedient to admoniſh me not to let my ex⯑pectations of happineſs run too high. I believe, indeed, that I may now appear as much intoxi⯑cated with hope as I was lately exaſperated by deſpair. Ah, my dear philoſopher, what a reſt⯑leſs ſcene of different tumults does the human bo⯑ſom exhibit! yet who would wiſh to live in per⯑fect exemption from the tender tumultuous paſ⯑ſion? You and Lucy, perhaps, in the profun⯑dity of your philoſophical meditations. But, if ſo, allow me to declare, that I am not of your ſect; for my part, I embrace the doctrine of that charming female ſaint of Spain, the warm-heart⯑ed Tereſa, who gave an incomparable definition of the Devil, in declaring him incapable of love. But ſeriouſly, my dear ſpeculatiſt, it is this paſſion alone which can render human life to my feelings a ſcene that I would wiſh to prolong. I eſteem [204] the joys of friendſhip very highly, yet I confe [...]s they are inſufficient to maintain that harmony in my frame which is eſſential to its welfare. My feelings perhaps are ſingular and romantic in a great degree. I pretend not to ſay they are juſt what they ought to be; but I tell you very truly what they are. When I fancy myſelf not beloved, my whole frame appears to me as a heavy, auk⯑ward, and uſeleſs ſtatue of black marble; but as ſoon as the riſing beams of affection play upon it, the dark maſs begins to be animated, like the famous ſtatue of Memnon at the riſe of the ſun; every fibre ſeems to vibrate with harmony and joy. Such, my dear Edmund, are my own ſenſations in the preſent moment; yet I have certainly a ſtriking example before me in our dear Giuliana, that it is poſſible for a being of exquiſite ſenſibi⯑lity to be contented (I may almoſt ſay happy) not only without poſſeſſing the enjoyments of love, but in the abſolute per [...]aſion of having relinquiſh⯑ed them for ever: yet it is not ſo; for Love is ſtill predominant in this lovely creature: her heart is with Peverell in Heaven; and all her very tender and very ſucceſsful attention to her delight⯑ed father is only a method adopted by her love to enſure her re-union with the prime idol of her ſoul. She is happier, perhaps, in this idea, than ſhe could have been with the living lord of her heart. There is a delicious and ſublime tranquil⯑lity in a paſſion for the dead, that can perhaps belong to no other affection; at leaſt this idea ſtrikes me, when I contemplate the preſent ſera⯑phic ſerenity of Giuliana. Do not think, how⯑ever, that I am deſirous of conſigning my lovely [205] Cornelia to the grave, for the ſake of loving her with a more intenſe and more tranquil ardour. Enthuſiaſt as I am, my extravagances are not ſo gloomy; and I ſhall content myſelf with the hope of ſoon preſenting to your contemplation two ob⯑jects which I have heard your acute worſhip re⯑preſent as the greateſt rarities in the world; I mean, love unabated by fruition, and friendſhip unimpaired by marriage.

I have juſt made a pleaſant compact with Giu⯑liana and her farther, who is metamorphoſed by his divine daughter into one of the moſt gentle, generous, and engaging characters, that I ever met with: you know I have a particular venera⯑tion for thoſe rare old men who preſerve, with elegance of manners, a warmth and tenderneſs of heart in the latter ſtages of life. Pinelli has now all theſe endearing qualities; for his two predo⯑minant failings, a love of money, and a paſsion for importance, are perfectly cured, by his con⯑viction that opulence and rank are of little value to that angelic child of his, for whoſe ſake he was once ſo ſolicitous to increaſe his conſequence and his wealth. Giuliana has made him amiable and happy, by annihilating his avarice and ambition. His feelings are naturally ſtrong; he had no child but Giuliana; he loved her intenſely; and that love, the main ſpring of his life, after being pain⯑fully counteracted by indignation and reſentment, has at length recovered its force and freedom, and enlarged the circle of its activity. His paſt anger has given new energy to his preſent affec⯑tion. He not only loves his daughter better than he ever did; but he ſeems to love me almoſt as [206] much as if I were really her brother, for hav⯑ing been, under Heaven and you, the fortu⯑nate inſtrument of her reſtoration to his parental arms. He flatters me on my talents, ſuch as they are; he rallies me on my foibles, and, in ſhort, treats me exactly as a ſon very dear to him: but, in giving you this ſketch of his regenerated character, I have forgot to tell you our com⯑pact.

It is briefly this: if I marry Cornelia (oh, that abominable if! it chills my blood; let me there⯑fore ſay, when I marry Cornelia, our friends of Genoa are bound to viſit me in England, on the aniverſary of my wedding, provided I can aſſure them, on my honour, that, in the courſe of the firſt half year, I have not experienced a ſingle ſplenetic hour: if, on the contrary, I am reduced to confeſs, ‘That the raſh humour which my mother gave me mad [...] me forgetful;’ I am bound, as a gentle penance for my offences, to conduct my lovely wife to the diſtant reſidence of our friends. To enſure the exact obſervance of this treaty, you, my dear Edmund, are ap⯑pointed its guarantee. But do not haſtily con⯑clude that I ſhall certainly incur the penalty of this amicable bond; no, I feel, by the magic influence which a few ſyllables from the pen of my Cornelia have already had on my boſom—I feel, that a ſingle embrace of that dear tender be⯑ing will baniſh every particle of ſpleen from m [...] frame for ever; and you will ſee the happieſt o [...] [207] mortals, and the moſt affectionate of friends, in

LETTER XXXII. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I Now write to you, my dear Edmund, not from Arabia, but from a ſpot which your ſar⯑caſtic penetration could not foreſee a chance of my viſiting: behold me on the banks of the Tagus! aye, verily, in Liſbon! And now I hear you exclaim, "What, in the name of Heaven, could carry this ſtrange eccentric fellow to Portugal!" Peace; you will be ſatisfied when I anſwer, Charity and Love. The firſt has in⯑duced me to aſſiſt a poor, a miſerable, wandering, yet more than half-dead Engliſh invalid; whom I met in Italy, attended only by two helpleſs wo⯑men. The ſecond ſuggeſted to me, that, as the ſpring is approaching, I could not do better than move to a ſcene from whence I may be conveyed by an eaſy voyage to that dear object who is ſoon, I truſt, to ſettle the tranquillity and happineſs of my future days. At Rome I chanced to catch a ſight of my poor old valetudinarian acquaintance Sir Charles Dawney, reduced, I think, to the [208] moſt deplorable ſort of weakneſs that can fall on the mind and body of a feeble half-ſpirited mortal, and literally dying of a rage to live. His two good though ungraceful ſiſters, who will ſoon be repaid by his ample fortune for a long and wretched attendance on this ſelfiſh ſkeleton, have led him about, from place to place, juſt according to the whimſical dictates of his own querulous, mutable, ſickly mind; which, inſtead of teaching him to expect and await the ſtroke of death like a man, makes him crawl about like a whining child, and fooliſhly ſeek, by the moſt uncomfortable pere⯑grination through various countries, that health which no climate can poſſibly reſtore to him. For my own part, I confeſs his deſpicable and ſelfiſh avidity for life, burthenſome as it is to himſelf and his relations, has annihilated my pity for his perſonal ſufferings; and had I been one of his ſiſters I ſhould, I believe, have been more eager to ſend him acroſs the Styx, than to convey him to the banks of the Tagus: but theſe good wo⯑men have an inexhauſtible fund of affectionate compaſſion; they have charmed me by their in⯑defatigable humanity; and when the eldeſt in⯑formed me of her wiſh, that ſhe hardly knew how to accompliſh, of indulging her emaciated brother in his anxious fancy to paſs the month of March at Liſbon, I, like a true knight-errant as you know I am, immediately offered my ſervices to eſcort them hither. A diſmal piece of work I have had of it; but here we are; and I have been rewarded for my trouble, not by ſeeing the ſick man revive, or expire, for he is neither bet⯑ter nor worſe, but by meeting accidentally with [209] the very thing I wiſhed to find for my Cornelia, a palfrey, whoſe beauties ſurpaſs every thing that I ever beheld in the ſhape of a horſe; it is perfectly milk-white, with a mane and tail ſo full and bril⯑liant that you might almoſt take them for threads of ſilver. I have only one thing to fear, that this exquiſite animal may be rather too ſpirited for ſo gentle a rider as Cornelia; yet they aſſure me it has carried a lady, and the maſter of it ſwore to me it was the property of a Portugueſe Dutcheſs lately deceaſed. This I take for a mere jockey's ſtory. I have bought the horſe, however, at a very high price, and moreover two very fine uſe⯑ful horſes for myſelf and your old friend Robert, who is appointed for life my maſter of the horſe. I have ordered a ſmall veſſel from Falmouth, to tranſport me and my cavalry to that port. I mean to proceed immediately to my divine Cornelia, with my four-footed offering; and, from Sedley-hall, I ſhall croſs the country with all poſſible ra⯑pidity to you, and I hope to be the meſſenger of my own triumph. So pray tell my friend Lucy, if ſhe hears your vigilant Hector bark furiouſly after midnight, ſhe may diſmiſs her old apprehen⯑ſion of houſe-breakers, and conclude the alarm to ariſe only from the rapid and riotous return of

LETTER XXXIII. CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

WE are apprehenſive, my good tender-hearted girl, that you will be frightened out of your wits by the haſty letter diſpatched to you in the alarm of yeſterday, as I confeſs I was by the ſummons which brought me to the bed⯑ſide of our dear Harriot, from whence I now write to you, not, I thank Heaven, to increaſe, but to relieve you from your terror.

She is ſorely bruiſed, indeed, by the accident, and there is reaſon to apprehend an event which may deprive me of the opportunity I expected, of beſtowing my fine Roman name, as you call it, on a little Miſs Audley; but our invaluable friend has eſcaped miraculouſly, conſidering the horrid circumſtances of her overturn. Poor Sally, who concluded her miſtreſs abſolutely kill⯑ed at the firſt ſight of her, deſires me to ſay, ſhe was hardly in her ſenſes when ſhe ſent off her letter to you: and as to the honeſt poſtilion, his ſufferings, I believe, are the worſt of all; I do not mean in body, though he has his full ſhare of bruiſes, but in mind; the good creature ab⯑ſolutely puts himſelf to the torture, for having been the innocent cauſe of miſchief to "the beſt lady in the world," as he juſtly calls her. [211] Harriot commiſſioned me, juſt now, to go and conſole him; and if you had been with me, we ſhould have wept and laughed for an hour, at the odd unaccountable and tragi-comic expreſſions that poor Daniel made uſe of to diſcover how far he was likely to be the means of diminiſhing the expected family of his maſter. But I muſt not ramble from the main deſign of my letter, which is, to conjure you, in the name of Harriot and in my own, not to think of flying hither at a time that we know it would be ſo very inconve⯑nient to you, eſpecially as you have ſo very faithful and ſympathetic a ſubſtitute in me, to take all poſſible care of your ſiſter. She has determined, with her uſual magnanimity, not to ſend Audley any circumſtantial account of this miſchance, leſt his kind anxiety ſhould hurry him back from Ireland before the buſineſs that carried him thither can be brought to a con⯑cluſion.

I have this moment had a private conference with our medical favourite Mr. Brenſil. He is, you know, one of the moſt ſenſible ſoothing creatures in the world; and he aſſures me there is nothing to fear for the life of our dear patient, even if things take the worſt turn they can; but, alas! ſhe may have ſome ſharp ſufferings to undergo, and be ſome time confined. At pre⯑ſent, though ſhe is full of pain, ſhe has all her uſual ſpirits, and even her pleaſantry; as you will find, by her firſt exclamation to-day, when I entered her chamber in a new-faſhioned morn⯑ing dreſs of white dimity, "So, my dear attend⯑ant, ſhe cried, this, I ſuppoſe, is à Genoeſe; and [212] very becoming, I proteſt." Ah, Lucy! ſtill harp⯑ing on Genoa, you ſee—but I will poſitively throw down this abominable pen, leſt it force me to ſay more than I intend of that bewitching city, which produces ſuch admirable creatures a [...] Giuliana; for as to any other perſon that Genoa may contain—you may think what you pleaſe, my dear, but I can aſſure you—no; you will only laugh at my proteſtations; ſo I will aſſure you nothing, but that I am, my dear Lucy,

P. S. I have not told you, that I arrived here late laſt night; and I have ſent home for various neceſſaries to-day, intending to take up my abode in this houſe. I ſhall dedicate myſelf en⯑tirely to our dear Harriot; and as it is proper that ſhe ſhould be kept quiet, I have ordered my two dear little noiſy chits to remain at home, under the government of their incomparable nurſe. Pray make yourſelf perfectly eaſy, and confide in our ſincerity and affection. Harriot is my partner in this petition; and begs me to add, that ſhe will write to you very ſoon herſelf. Say every thing that is kind for us to your bro⯑ther. Adieu.

LETTER XXXIV. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

YES, from Sedley-Hall, my dear Edmund, from a chamber adjoining to that of my adored Cornelia, I write to inform you of my arrival: 'tis well I do not write, as an honeſt Iriſhman promiſed to do, to tell you of my death; for your knight-errant has had a narrow eſcape of cloſing his adventures like a true hero of romance, and literally pouring forth his life⯑blood before the gates of his fair-one. Behold me now in a ſtate ſufficiently romantic, juſt car⯑ried into her caſtle, in a very bloody condition, with a ball lodged in my ſhoulder.—I ſcrawl this billet to you in ſome haſte, more pain, and ſtill more delight, for I am charmed with the incident that has thrown me into my preſent ſtate, though I muſt not yet attempt to give you any hiſtory of it; I only lament that the blood I have loſt was not ſhed in the defence of my dear widow herſelf, inſtead of an humbler beauty in her train; but more of this as ſoon as I can write with more eaſe. As I cannot ſpare Robert, I ſend this off by an expreſs, leſt that rapid rogue Rumour, who runs and magnifies every thing, ſhould get the ſtart of my epiſtle, and diſtreſs [214] you with a report that your friend is ſhot dead.— Be not in the leaſt alarmed, I beſeech you, my dear Edmund; my life is perfectly ſecure; my wound is this moment dreſſed by a very ſenſible pleaſing fellow, who has not plagued me with a ſingle hard word in the whole operation. He is one of us, an honeſt enthuſiaſt; and he is ſo taken with the ſatisfaction I expreſſed in my ex⯑ploit, in ſpite of the blood it has coſt me, that we are become excellent friends in a ſhort ac⯑quaintance of half an hour. He is at this mo⯑ment ſtanding by me, to ſee that I fulfil my promiſe to him, of writing only a few lines; for my animal ſpirits are in an odd ſort of fluctua⯑tion, between energy and weakneſs; and he in⯑ſiſts, with the cordial warmth of a friend, that I remain perfectly idle and quiet for ſeveral hours; ſo I bid you farewell, to fall into a delicious waking dream of my dear widow's return; for ſhe is unluckily from home, attending your ſiſter Harriot on a confounded miſcarriage; but the dear tender creature will, I doubt not, return to-morrow, to viſit the wounded champion of her caſtle, and repay a thouſand fold all the bo⯑dily anguiſh of

P. S. Don't you remember a promiſe I made to you of my widow's very lovely luxuriant nurſe? She is the fair I have reſcued from no vulgar ruffian. So you ſee, you lucky rogue, that I [215] have been fighting for you, as well as for my queen. My fingers burn to ſcribble the whole ſtory to you; but I am bound, by a ſolemn pro⯑miſe, not to attempt it to-night. So God bleſs you!

LETTER XXXV. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

IT is morning; I have ſlept little, but I can ſleep no more; and as I can contrive to ſcribble to you as I recline in bed, without much increaſing the pain of my wound, I ſhall begin to write, let my honeſt ſurgeon ſay what he pleaſes; I am ſure his good ſenſe will allow that, to render eſſential ſervice to the body, we ought firſt to make the mind eaſy; and mine will not be ſo, till I have given you the hiſtory which I have promiſed; and which you, I know, will expect with the moſt affectionate impatience: ſo, fillets and bandages, by your leave.

I had a quick and pleaſant paſſage, from Liſ⯑bon to Falmouth; landed my foreign ſteeds in excellent order, and, by a briſk march, arrived about five o'clock yeſterday in fight of my lovely widow's park-pale; the faithful Robert, leading [216] the white palfrey, was a few miles behind me. My intention was to find quarters for the night at the little inn on the extremity of the heath, and to preſent both myſelf and the palfrey to my fair idol the next morning. I was meditating how to manage my introduction in the moſt de⯑cent and graceful manner, when juſt as I ar⯑rived at the firſt little private door leading from the park to the common, and neareſt the houſe, a ſcene preſented itſelf to me that I ſhall never forget as long as I exiſt: the firſt object I ſaw was the youngeſt of the little Sedleys, ſtanding ſtill, and roaring in an agony of infantine diſ⯑treſs; juſt beyond him his brother, the little heroic William, trying, with all his might, to diſengage a large ſtone from the earth; for what purpoſe, do you think? why, truly, to ſerve the noble little hero as offenſive arms againſt an elderly but gigantic ruffian, who at that moment had got his beautiful nurſe in his graſp, and was forcibly carrying her to a chaiſe that ſtood ready. You will ſuppoſe that I inſtantly joined the con⯑flict, on the ſide of my moſt gallant little friend and confederate William, who had actually drawn blood from the ſtout and barbarous fellow that had ſeized his nurſe, by throwing a ſharp and heavy ſtone at his legs. I made my attack on the oppoſite quarter, and catching hold of his collar inſiſted on his releaſing the woman. Being one of the moſt athletic men I ever ſaw, and frantic with various paſſions, he griped her faſt in his left arm, and threw me from him with his right. He then aſſerted no very clear title to the beauty in queſtion; ſwore the jilt, as [217] he called her, had promiſed to marry him, and added another oath to announce a reſolution of ſhooting any man who moleſted him in ſecuring her perſon. In the mean time, the poor terrified female denied his aſſertions, called him ſome harſh names, which ſerved to let me know my antagoniſt (he is a man of no trifling note, I aſſure you); and, with the moſt piercing ſup⯑plication, implored me to perſevere in her reſcue. The g [...]l does not want ſtrength of body or mind; ſhe ſtruggled hard to eſcape; a general ſcuffle enſued, in which I was lucky enough to ſet her free, and to receive a large bullet through my breaſt into my ſhoulder.

What paſſed immediately after this I cannot very well tell you, as the force of the ball laid me flat on the field of battle; but nurſe, who, as ſhe honeſtly confeſſes, was not half ſo anxious for my life as ſhe was to ſave her virgi⯑nity for a man ſhe loves; nurſe, I ſay, informs me that the moment ſhe felt herſelf out of the clutches of the laſcivious old monſter (you ſee by her expreſſion women have no mercy on the amorous frenzy of an aged lover), ſhe ran, without ſlopping till ſhe got within the little door of the p [...]rk, which, as the key was fortunately left on the inſi [...]e, ſhe was able to lock in an inſtant, and thus narrowly eſcaped her impetuous and frantic purſuer. Not thinking herſelf even then in perfect ſecurity, and ſeeing the game-keeper at a diſtance, whom the ſound of the piſtol had brought toward the ſcene of out adventure, the poor frighted girl continued running till ſhe placed herſelf under the protection of his gun: [218] with this guardian ſhe had the humanity to re⯑turn to my relief, or rather, I believe, in queſt of the poor deſerted children: how they ſupport⯑ed their terrors, Heaven only knows; the firſt thing that I can recollect is the rattle of a poſt-chaiſe in my ears, and the dear little William creeping up upon me, rubbing my face, and cry⯑ing out, "Seymour, Seymour, you an't dead! pray tell me, you an't dead!" I wiſh to Heaven I could give you a perfect idea of the wonderful ſpirit and affectionate endearing geſtures of this brave little urchin: he will hardly quit me a mo⯑ment; and the dear boy even petitioned to ſleep in my chamber, for fear, he ſaid, I ſhould want his aſſiſtance in the night. O, my adored Cor⯑nelia, how lovely art thou, not only in thyſelf, but in thy offspring! Exquiſite beings that ye are, when ſhall I have the tranſcendant hap⯑pineſs of ſaying you are all my own?

But to proceed in my hiſtory. When nurſe arrived again at the gate, with her new and well-armed champion, the enemy was not only flying, but out of ſight. Being foiled in his fu⯑rious love, and dreading the chance, we ſup⯑poſe, of being ſtopped for an aſſaſſin, he had jumped into his poſt chaiſe, and driven off with the utmoſt rapidity. The reſcued fair, thus ef⯑fectually delivered from her fears, now exerted the moſt lively compaſſion, and gratitude towards me. It was no eaſy matter to convey me to the houſe; for, beſides my wound, which bled in a manner that terrified my two aſſiſtants, I had ſomehow got a ſprain, which rendered me unable to walk. As ill luck would have it, the coach⯑man [219] and groom were out with their horſes. What was to be done? Fortunately for me, the keeper recollected a little low garden-chair, in which his poor deceaſed maſter uſed to be drawn, by a ſervant, to his favourite ſpots in the park: in this I was ſoon ſeated; and the honeſt fellow, with my zealous friend William, who inſiſted on having his little hand in the buſineſs, drew me to the houſe. Faint and full of pain as I was, I could not help ſmiling at the figure I made in this triumphal car, followed by the beau⯑tiful and truly grateful damſel that I had reſcued, who, carrying the youngeſt boy in her arms, walk⯑ed cloſe behind me, with the moſt touching ſoli⯑ [...]tude for the eaſe and ſafety of her deliverer. I queſtion it Alexander or Caeſar ever enjoyed a triumphant proceſſion ſo cordially as I did; my vanity ſuggeſted to me, that this incident would render me the hero and the idol of this manſion. In truth, all the domeſtics of it ſeem as eager to do me honour and ſervice as vanity itſelf can deſire; a few hours will, I hope, convince me, that their divine miſtreſs is as ſenſibly affected as they are by my adventure, and as eager to ſatisfy the ambition of my love.

But I have not yet told you all the events of laſt night. As ſoon as the men and horſes came in the rogues had been gallanting their ſweet⯑hearts to a diſtant fair), one was diſpatched for the neareſt ſurgeon, and another ſent to inform his miſtreſs that ſhe had a wounded knight in her caſtle. The laſt meſſenger fortunately met the ſurgeon, whom I deſcribed to you laſt night, a few miles from this houſe. He is a moſt agree⯑able [220] fellow, and, I believe, at this moment under this roof; for, being high in favour with Cornelia, and a continual agent to her extenſive charity, he often ſleeps here, I find, for the convenience of viſiting the various poor patients of the neighbourhood whom ſhe conſigns to his care. It was his intention to do ſo laſt night, he ſaid, before he heard of my accident. He is a very penetrating as well as a pleaſant fellow, and has ſomehow or other picked up an idea that the lovely widow has honoured me with her affec⯑tion. I intend to ſecure him very firmly in my intereſt; and, as I am ſituated at preſent, I may find him a very uſeful ally. He is a fine ſtout warm-hearted ſon of Aeſculapius and Lucina, with a prolific little wife and multitudinous brood of children at home. But neither houſehold cares, nor the wounds and maladies he has to cure, ſeem to rob him of his peaceful morning ſlumber; for, though he promiſed to viſit me early, I have nor yet heard him ſtiring.

You will begin to grow angry with me, for keeping you ſo long ignorant of the formidable raviſher, who was ſo near carrying off the luxu⯑riant beauty that I once promiſed to ſend you, like a rich gift of ancient heroic times. Poor Edmund, your chance is gone! ſhe is deſtined, I hope, to an humbler, yet, a your modeſty will certainly confeſs, to a more meritorious lover, who has endured the moſt oppreſſive tyranny for her ſake. But her hiſtory, if I can bring it to the concluſion that I have now ſet my heart on accompliſhing, to make this lovely perſecuted creature as happy as ſhe ought to be, will form [221] a delicious little romance, and you ſhall have it entire. I cannot however begin it at preſent; for here comes my ſweet boy, my brave little Wil⯑liam, my earlieſt viſiter, to enquire after his wounded friend. I have indeed ſcribbled till I am weary; ſo adieu for ſome hours.

I break the ſeal of this pacquet to ſay, that my expreſs is juſt returned with your moſt friendly billet. I grieve that you are ill; and conjure you not to think of coming hither. I inſiſt on paying you the firſt viſit. Adieu.

LETTER XXXVI. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

I AM ſo painfully ſurprized, by the kind ac⯑count or your horrible adventure, that I hard⯑ly know what to do or to ſay. Had your meſſen⯑ger not found me confined by indiſpoſition, I had infallibly hurried to you immediately; for I know your gallant ſpirit makes too light of every dan⯑ger, and I am wretchedly apprehenſive that your wound may be much more ſerious than you re⯑preſent it. In the name of Love and Friendſhip, I conjure you not to trifle with a life ſo valuable. Conſider, you are on the point of obtaining the fondeſt wiſh of your heart, and have before you as fair a proſpect of your happineſs as the world can exhibit. Do not, I entreat you, ſacrifice all to any unſeaſonable contempt of danger; if your ſurgeon is in any degree alarmed by your caſe, I [230] conjure you to ſend inſtantly to London for the beſt advice. I know that, if you are not already more than half dead, you will laugh abominably at my apprehenſions; I allow you to do ſo; but the perpetual monitor muſt remind you, that your diſdain of fear, which ſtands high among your numerous virtues, ſometimes paſſes the line, and ſhews itſelf in the petty groupe of your foibles. Remember Pope's Lord Peterborough, the braveſt man of his time, uſed to ſay, "Shew me real danger, and I will ſhew you real fear."

However, if you are really ſafe (and Heaven grant you may be ſo!) I will rejoice with you in the glorious opportunity that Fortune has ſo pro⯑pitiouſly given you, of diſplaying your heroiſm in the eyes of your goddeſs: That ſhe may ſoon reward you for your valour, as Thetis and other chaſte goddeſſes rewarded their heroes of old, is the fervent prayer of

P. S. I have had a ſmart fever; but Lucy has almoſt nurſed me into health again. She would be very happy to render the ſame good office to you; and we ſhould very ſoon, I believe, ſet out toge⯑ther for that purpoſe, if we did not conclude, on a minute's reflection, that you might, for certain reaſons, heartily wiſh us at a diſtance. Tell us frankly your feelings on this point; and, I beſeech you, do not fail to give us full and ſpeedy intelli⯑gence.

LETTER XXXVII. MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

BLESS us all, my dear Lucy, what a hurly-burly of caſualties, ſickneſs, and ſorrow, we have had among us! But, thank Heaven, our proſpect is growing bright again in every quarter. —To begin with myſelf: You will, I know, re⯑joice to hear that I am once more on my legs; nor will it afflict you to be informed, that I am going to make a charitable use of the liberty I have juſt regained, and to attend our dear widow in her ſecond viſit to the brave wounded knight in her caſtle. There's ſpirit and enterprize for you, my dear romantic girl! there's a bleeding lover ready made by fortune for your pen to celebrate, juſt as your own fancy would make one, according to the true pattern of good old ro⯑mance. If you are diſpoſed to exerciſe your ge⯑nius in painting impaſſioned ſcenes from the life, you muſt quit the penſive philoſophical batchelor, and take your abode with us; for ours, you find, is the region of adventure. Well, 'tis a great bleſſing that we can now laugh at the wounds of our young champion, which threw us all at firſt into a terrible conſternation. Edmund and you, I ſuppoſe, have had a full hiſtory from himſelf of all that befell him. He may have deſcribed to you the delightful viſit of his lady hoſteſs. Ah, [232] my dear Lucy, what a viſit was that for the ac⯑compliſhment of our wiſhes! The whole buſineſs is done, my dear. You may begin to work the bridal ſhoes you talked of preſenting to her. Would you believe it? The dear ſcrupulous creature was alone with him for an hour in his chamber! "Dreadful indiſcretion!" ſhe exclaim⯑ed in confeſſing it. "Mercy upon us, cried I, 'tis well this tremendous hero had one arm diſabled." But her gentle frank heart was ſo open in its con⯑feſſions, ſhe came back to me with an agitated bo⯑ſom, ſo full of pity, gratitude, and of love, that I could not bear to rally her long. Beſides, I was, I confeſs, very impatient to know, as you will be if you do not know it already, what matrimonial advances our hero had made in ſo favourable an interview; and what conceſſions he had obtained from our lovely ſcrupulous friend: no trifling one, I can aſſure you; ſhe has promiſed him ne⯑ver to marry another man. The lover has who in⯑duced his miſtreſs to give up for him all the reſt of his ſex, muſt be a weak pleader indeed if he does not proceed a little farther in his argument, and at laſt prevail on the fair-one to make him a preſent or herſelf.

You and I, my dear Lucy, may now, I think, ſet our hearts at reſt on this match; it is a favou⯑rite point with both of us, and a point that For⯑tune ſeems as eager to accomphliſh as we are. I expect my dear Audley at home again in a few days, I need not tell you with what affectionate impatience. My father, who had heard of my late accident, is coming with him. It gives me particular delight, that I ſhall preſent your fa⯑vourite Seymour to them both with ſuch an accu⯑mulation [233] of honour on his head. He has not only endeared himſelf to us women by his courage in this adventure; but he is juſt now very gene⯑rouſly exerting his intereſt to redreſs all the wrongs of poor Caroline's perſecuted lover. Could you have thought that the old Admiral would have ſhewn himſelf ſuch a frantic brute? What horrid imperious creatures men are apt to be! Becauſe this rough veteran has ſhed his blood very freely, they ſay, in the ſervice of his country, he thought himſelf entitled to make as free as he pleaſed with the chaſtity of her daughters; but his outrage to Caroline is rendered doubly deteſtable by his baſe oppreſſion of his young fa⯑voured rival, who, however inferior to him in rank, is certainly, from what I have learned of his ſufferings, more truly brave than himſelf. If Seymour can accompliſh his generous project of uniting this very handſome and cruelly injured couple, he may, I think, command the ſervice of all honeſt lovers throughout the world. As to poor Caroline, who is, yon know, a ſweet grateful creature, ſhe, I find, perfectly worſhips him already. So, if Cornelia ſhould affect to be inexorably cruel, which is not, I think, very pro⯑bable, ſhe muſt be driven into wedlock by a gene⯑ral perſecution from her own ſex; in which I know the voice of the dear zealous Lucy will be as loud as that of

LETTER XXXVIII. SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AS I think an intereſting love-ſtory no bad me⯑dicine, my dear Edmund, to inſpirit the imgination of a ſick philoſopher, and as I have nothing new to tell you in the progreſs of my own paſſion; I devote this paper to the promiſed ac⯑count of my humble, yet lovely ward, the very grateful Caroline. I heartily wiſh you could have the high pleaſure that I have had, I mean, the pleaſure of hearing this little ſtory moſt admirably told by the eloquent lips of thankful ſimplicity. But, as I have laid you under an injunction not to haſten to the houſe where Caroline is to be heard, I ſhall exerciſe as well as can, for your amuſement, the agreeable office of her hiſtorian; if I may truſt my own feelings in liſtening to her narrative, the adventures of few beauties are more worthy of being recorded.

I hardly know where to begin my hiſtory; be⯑cauſe I imagine that your lively intelligent ſiſter, who never lets an intereſting tender ſtory eſcape her, muſt have heard from Cornelia, and proba⯑bly communicated to you, many particulars re⯑lating to this captivating girl; yet as that may not be the caſe, I ſhall briefly tell you the firſt [235] incidents of her ſingular life. Caroline Southcote is the daughter of an honeſt and jovial farmer, who, living with more hoſpitality than diſ⯑cretion, left a widow, embarraſſed in circum⯑ſtances, and over-burthened with a numerous fa⯑mily. It happened that the ſquire of their pariſh had a brother ſettled abroad, as a conſul in Spain, who, marrying a Spaniſh lady, requeſted his brother to ſend him over a young Engliſh girl, to attend on his wife. The lot fell on Caroline, whole merit and ſituation out-weighed her want of age and experience: ſhe was a mere child when ſhe was ſent into this foreign ſervice, but a very few years converted her into ſuch a wo⯑man as might inflame to madneſs the warm blood of a Spaniſh Cavalier. She eſcaped, however, the gallantry of Spain, to be more roughly, and I hope in time more tenderly, handled by a Bri⯑tiſh tar; for the two objects of her abhorrence and her idolatry are ſailors. Juſt as ſhe reached the delightful age of nineteen, in the full bloom of beauty by its nature luxuriant, and rendered ſtill ſo perhaps, by the climate in which it expand⯑ed; at this critical ſeaſon of her life, the maſter of Caroline was obliged by ill health to reviſit his native country. His amiable Spaniſh wife em⯑barked with him, attended by the lovely girl, whom, as the good lady had produced no children, ſhe ever treated more as her child than her ſervant. They ſailed from Gibraltar in an Engliſh man of war, commanded by an Admiral, whoſe name is well known to you, as he has often ſignalized his courage in the public ſervice. This warrior, though he is, like Othello, declined into the vale [236] of years, retains, like the Moor, all his keen ap⯑petite for beauty; and, I may add, for revenge. He was deeply enamoured at the firſt ſight of Ca⯑roline; and never, I muſt ſay, was a compoſition moulded by nature more likely to ſet a veteran on fire. The Admiral exerted all the advantages of his ſituation, in trying to gratify his deſire; but he found that the lovely girl was impregnable; and having never perhaps met with a repulſe be⯑fore either in Love or War, he began to ſpecu⯑late on the latent cauſe of this unuſual and un⯑pleaſant event. The ſearching eye of authority and ſuſpicion ſoon diſcovered the ſource of this mortifying failure: the tender and open heart of the tempting damſel was pre-occupied by a young⯑er aſſailant; ſhe had entered the veſſel with a bo⯑ſom well prepared by nature for all the ardour and firmne's of genuine and honourable love; and chance recommended to her favour a fine young fellow, who has proved himſelf, I think, com⯑pletely worthy of her paſſionate attachment; but, unfortunately for all parties, this favoured youth is peculiarly dependent on his old and ungenerous rival. He is a brave lad, of humble birth, but with the advantage of having received a tolerable, though cheap, education in one of the northern counties; his friends had placed him under the patronage of the Admiral, who had freely pro⯑miſed, and had ſincerely intended, to make his fortune. He had only rated him as a common ſailor in his ſhip, but conſtantly employed him as his ſecretary; an office he executed with great in⯑telligence, and in which he had not loſt oppor⯑tunities of ſignalizing his courage. By his ſenſe, [237] ſpirit, and affectionate alacrity, he had made himſelf the prime favourite of the Admiral. In a poſt ſo expoſed to envy and ill-will, the engaging manners of Edward Monſon ſtill rendered him univerſally beloved; ſo far was he from being deemed unworthy of the high favour he poſſeſſed, that many perſons thought him entitled to ſupe⯑rior rank, and ſuppoſed, but erroneouſly, from his having the graceful air of a gentleman and an officer, that he was the natural ſon of his patron, In the eyes of the tender and diſcerning Caroline, he ſeemed worthy of the higheſt diſtinction; and ſhe ſoon give him, what he probably thought ſu⯑perior to all naval honours, the full poſſeſſion of her virgin heart. The moſt exquiſite enjoyments are generally loaded with immoderate taxes, and Deſtiny mingled for poor Monſon a cup of honey and gall. As ſoon as the mortified old Admiral diſcovered the amorous triumph of his ſecretary, all his ſplenetic ſoul was poſſeſſed by the demons of jealouſy, hatred, and revenge: he was con⯑verted at once from a generous patron, into a mercileſs tyrant, and implacable perſecutor. His ſtation gave him every advantage againſt his de⯑fenceleſs young rival that a baſe paſſion could wiſh, and he exerted theſe advantages with a mean ferocity diſgraceful to human nature. Un⯑der frivolous or falſe pretences, he condemned the once-favoured Monſon, now the object of his abhorrence and his envy, to corporal puniſhment and rigorous confinement. The tender Caroline, in reaching her native land, where ſhe had fondly promiſed herſelf the full enjoyment of liberty and love, was reduced to the miſery of leaving the [238] man ſhe adored ſecluded from her ſight, and ſuf⯑fering that ruthleſs oppreſſion which his attach⯑ment to her had occaſioned.

I never was more affected in my life than by the touching deſcription which the charming girl gave me of her extreme agony in quitting the ſhip where her lover was impriſoned. She was obliged to fellow the fortunes of her ſick maſter and her foreign miſtreſs; they both died within a twelve-month from the time of their reaching England; and a providential ſeries of incidents threw the deſolate Caroline into the ſervice, or I ſhould ra⯑ther ſay under the protection, of my tender-hearted Cornelia. The cruel and furious old Admiral has had, in the mean time, the infernal gratification of perſecuting, his helpleſs rival dur⯑ing a long and diſtant cruize, from which he is lately returned. Poor Monſon ſtill continues his ſlave and his captive: but I have already taken ſome meaſures to reſtore the brave lad to freedom; and I hope ſoon to enliven you with an account of their ſucceſs. I can only add to this letter a few more particulars that relate to this intereſting girl. Upon my aſking her, if her perſecuted lover did not contrive to write to her after ſhe landed; "O yes," ſhe replied with an impaſſioned ſimpli⯑city, "nothing but his precious letters could have kept me alive; and he has a faithful friend in a young lieutenant of his ſhip, who was ſo good as to ſend me his letters by every poſſible opportuni⯑ty." "May I, my good Caroline," ſaid I in re⯑turn, "may I without impertinence aſk to ſee one love-letter from this brave injured lad, whom you have taught me to eſteem? and will you have the [239] goodneſs to ſhew me the very letter (I will aſk only for one) which you peruſed with moſt plea⯑ſure?" "Dear Sir," replied the grateful Caro⯑line, "after all you have done and ſuffered to ſave me from that barbarous old ruffian, I ſhould be a thankleſs wretch indeed to refu [...]e you ſuch a requeſt." At there words ſhe ſlipt her finger and thumb within the folds of a thick muſlin hand⯑kerchief, and pulled from her boſom a neat little [...]a [...]e of blue ſattin, which was ſuſpended from her neck, by a very narrow ribband of the ſame colour. "Here," ſaid ſhe with a deep ſigh, "here is one letter of my poor Edward, tha [...] I think it my duty to wear upon my heart both by day and night; that I may retain the fuller ſenſe of all his ſuffer⯑ings for me, and conſtantly pray to GOD to bleſs me with the opportunity of making him all the amends that fidelity and affection can make. You may read this, Sir, ſhe continued; but I ſhould tell you, the old barbarian only kept him in cloſe confinement while my maſter and miſtreſs were on board his ſhip; but, after we landed, he was wicked enough to have him inhumanly whipt be⯑fore the maſt. You will ſee how bravely he bore it," ſhe added, dropping a tear as ſhe entruſted the letter on my hand.

I received with eagerneſs this highly valued epiſtle, which had been unfolded ſo often that it was almoſt in pieces. Poor Edward is, in my opinion, much more of a true hero than his baſe commander.

The brave fellow's letter pleaſed me ſo much, that I could not help peruſing it ſeveral times; and I will try if I cannot give you from memory [240] a literal copy of it. I believe it runs exactly thus:

There's tenderneſs and heroiſm for you in a lad of humble birth! The beautiful Caroline per⯑f [...]tly underſtands the real value of ſuch a lover. I [...] I can be fortunate enough, as I hope I may, to redreſs their grievances, and uni [...]e this hand⯑ſome deſerving couple, what a charming ſcene of exultation we ſhall have! I have written to the Ad⯑miral, who, though he has long been under the ma⯑lignant influence of two frantic paſſions, has the credit of having done ſeveral brave and generous things in his life. I never chanced to meet with him before; but I have heard he was intimate with my father when they were both young men; this circumſtance tempted me to write to him. I ex⯑pect his reply with ſingular impatience: when it arrives, you ſhall ſee both the letters. If his an⯑ [...]er does not ſatisfy me, I have reſolved to make a vehement application to the Board of Admiralty, [242] as I have a friend among them who will, I know, be ready to aſſiſt me in reſcuing this brave injured lad from ſuch malevolent opppreſſion. Adieu. Wiſh me ſucceſs in all the multitudinous concerns of Love that I have now on my hands. And be⯑lieve me, with every kind wiſh to you and Lucy,

P. S. You will be no longer anxious concern⯑ing my wound, when I inform you that I have almoſt quarrelled with my ſurgeon for not giving it a more formidable appearance. The ſaucy pleaſant fellow replied, that I have no occaſion to deſcend to the artifice of a beggar, and attempt by fictitious maladies to work on the tenderneſs of the widow. I command, he ſays, without the aid of ſickneſs, all the compaſſionate movements of her heart.—Agreeable flattery!

LETTER XXXIX. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

JOY! Joy! my dear Lucy! let me pour into your ſympathetic boſom ſome portion of that overflowing joy in which every creature of [243] this ſeems to be almoſt overwhelmed. How fre⯑quently and fervently do I wiſh you were with us, that you might completely ſhare the tender jubilee that now reigns in this manſion, where every wall ſeems to re-echo the triumphant ſounds.

Let not your quick imagination, however, conclude from this burthen of our ſong, that your friend Seymour is married to Cornelia. The ſprightly words of Dryden are certainly applicable to them; but at preſent they are ap⯑plied more directly to a happy pair of inferior ſtation, in whoſe tranſports you will take an intereſt as lively as I do, and the more ſo as their happineſs is the noble work of Seymour▪ How you would have wept with delight, my good tender-hearted girl, had you ſeen what we have ſeen!

But I will give you a brief hiſtory of the laſt delightful three days. On Tueſday I was made happy by the return of my dear Audley, accompanied by my father, both in high health and ſpirits: my joy at the ſight of them was in⯑creaſed not a little by the affectionate encomiums which they both beſtowed on my conduct during the abſence of my lord. As he, you know, is always peculiarly alert in the ſervice of his friends, he reſolved to ſet out the next morning on a viſit to the wounded Seymour; and, after a little gentle raillery on our tender widow, he ſettled it for us all to remove to her manſion, [244] and thus aſſiſt her, with due decorum, in pay⯑ing thoſe attentions to the champion of her caſtle, which ſhe certainly wiſhes to pay. I thought I diſcovered that the dear dainty creature was half-pleaſed and half-embarraſſed by the firſt ſound of this project; but ſhe ac [...]ded to it very cor⯑dially. We all arrived here yeſterday about noon, and had the comfort of finding our wound⯑ed hero juſt in that ſtate which renders him pe⯑culiarly intereſting, without giving us any alarm for his life. As he was not permitted to dine with us, our little party, at the requeſt of my good Audley, paid him the compliment of drink⯑ing tea with him in his own apartment. What a zeſt does a little mixture of pity give both to love and to friendſhip! I confeſs, for my own part, that I never thought this agreeable fellow half ſo engaging as in his preſent pall [...]d condi⯑tion; and as to our poor C [...]rnelia, ſhe had ſuch inexpreſſible tenderneſs in her countenance, while ſhe liſtened to the various hiſtory which our hero gave us of his adventures, that I con⯑ceive the ſof [...] widow of Carthage to have [...]een an abſolute ſl [...]nt to her. In ſerious truth, my dear girl, we were all charmed with our evening; and Seymour related the late intereſting occur⯑rences, in which he ha [...] had ſo important a part, with ſuch ſpirit, grace, and even modeſty, that we could all, I believe, [...]ve liſtened to him with pleaſure during the wh [...]le courſe of the night, had not ſom [...] [...] the i [...]val [...] in hi [...] countenance, and at laſt in his voice, given us a ſignal to retire.

[245]You will gueſs how happy I was in this even⯑ing, when I tell you that my father, whom I was, you know, particularly anxious to prepoſ⯑ſeſs in his favour, declared, after we had quitted his room, that Seymour exceeded all that I had ſaid in his praiſe, and is the moſt captivating young man that he ever beheld You, my dear Lucy, are not inclined to contradict this en⯑comium; but, if you were ſo, you would ſtill, I believe, ſubſcribe to it, after hearing the ac⯑count that I have yet to give you of this morn⯑ing, the period of our higheſt delight and exul⯑tation.

As my father had not ſeen the late improve⯑ments in this charming ſpot, he and Audley breakfaſted very early together, and immediately after it ſallied forth for a long ride. Cornelia, under the guard of your humble ſervant and her eldeſt ſon, ventured to place her breakfaſt-table in the apartment of the wounded knight, who had petitioned moſt eagerly for this indulgence. In a few minutes after the tea-things were ſent out, and while Seymour was ingeniouſly holding us his captives, as it were, by a faſcinating de⯑ſcription of ſome incidents at Genoa, and the filial virtues of Giuliana, we were ſurpriſed by the haſty entrance of Caroline. She appeared with a wild April face, full of ſmiles and tears; and, inſtead of apologizing for her intruſion, exclaimed, "Here he is, Sir, and cannot reſt without the liberty of bleſſing our noble delive⯑ [...]!" As ſhe uttered theſe words, a fine mar⯑ [...]al young figure advanced, and throwing himſelf [...]nſtantly on one knee, by the ſide of the bed at [246] whoſe feet Cornelia and I were ſtanding, he ſeized and kiſſed the hand of Seymour; but, in attempting to ſpeak, burſt into tears, "My brave Monſon, cried Seymour with a joyful quickneſs, you are of all men living the man I moſt wiſhed to ſee; but do I ſee you perfectly free? have you got your diſcharge?" The ſtranger could not reply; but continued to kneel, and preſs the hand he held in an agony of gratitude. "Riſe, riſe, my good friend," ſaid Seymour, who began to be much affected; "you over rate my little ſervices." "Good heaven! cried the lover of Caroline, ſtarting up, is it poſſible for any human being to owe more to another than I owe to you? No, Sir, my whole life, devoted to your ſervice, could not thank you ſufficiently! To you alone I am in⯑debted for my liberty, and a bleſſing far dearer than liberty itſelf: I am indebted to you for the pre [...]ervation of this lovely, this faithful, this unſ [...]ducible woman." At theſe words he folded Carol [...]ne to his heart, who, inſtead of being rendered baſhful by our preſence, returned his embrace with all the tender dignity of innocence in paradiſe. Surely there is no ſight more touch⯑ing and pathetic than the meeting of two ſuch meritorious beings, long ſeparated by perſecu⯑tion, and ſuddenly elevated to ſupreme felicity in being reſtored to each other. The ſcene melted us all into ſilent tears; and Seymour wept as plentifully as your humble ſervant, or even the more tender-hearted Cornelia herſelf; but he made the firſt effort to ſubdue his emotion, and ſaid with a pleaſant vivacity to Monſon, [247] "Well, my good friend, ſince the old Admiral has behaved handſomely at laſt, we will forgive him for all the pain he has made us undergo: he is a gallant fellow; and it is no little proof of his heroiſm, let me tell you, that he has ſpirit enough to ſend ſuch a fine lad as you are to the beautiful girl whom he would willingly give his whole fortune to poſſeſs. But what ſaid he to my letter?" "O, I aſk your pardon, ſaid the happy bewildered Monſon, here is his anſwer." He now delivered an epiſtle to Sey⯑mour, which Cornelia and I confeſſed a moſt ardent curioſity to peruſe; but our hero, who had, I ſuppoſe, ſome private reaſons for not gratifying our viſible wiſhes on this point, ſoon gave us a much higher gratification, by ſhewing us what his princely ſpirit had for ſome time pro⯑jected, to complete the happineſs of this inte⯑reſting couple. Deſiring Cornelia to give him his pocket-book, which had been laid on the mantle-piece, he ſaid, as he opened it, "My dear Monſon, though your grateful ſpirit thinks itſelf highly obliged to me, yet in fact, if my zeal to ſerve you ſtopt here, I may have done you, perhaps, more harm than good; for, by ob⯑taining your diſcharge, I have certainly taken you from a noble profeſſion, and left you with⯑out the means of ſubſiſtence: it is a duty that I owe both to you and to our country, whom I have robbed of a gallant ſailor, to provide for you in ſome other line, and render you a uſeful and happy member of ſociety. I am perfectly acquainted with your circumſtances, and your reſolution to marry the truly deſerving Caroline [248] as ſoon as fortune enables you to do ſo. Paſſion and prudence conſpire, for once, to ſecond your wiſhes. I think, in point of diſcretion, you cannot marry too ſoon; not ſo much to ſecure your bride, whoſe fidelity neither fraud nor force can ſubdue, but to prevent this odd furious old man, whoſe peace and honour we would both with to conſult, from relapſing into his amorous frenzy. Let me adviſe you, therefore, as a friend, to marry immediately; and, that my advice may not appear more an inſult than a kindneſs, you muſt allow me to furniſh you with this immediate proviſion, till we can find an opportunity of ſettling you in ſome eligible employment."

After this friendly and delicate addreſs to pre⯑pare the young ſtranger for what might oppreſs him, Seymour gave him a paper: and what think you, my dear Lucy, it contained? You will hardly gueſs, though you, I believe, were the firſt, my dear girl, who diſtinguiſhed our hero by the title of the princely Seymour. Not to put your curioſity on the rack, I will inſtantly tell you, it was a draft for a thouſand pounds. I ſhall never forget the face of Monſon in the moment he perceived its value. Aſtoniſhment, gratitude, pain, and even indignation, were all viſible in his features. "No, Sir, exclaim⯑ed the high-ſpi [...]ted youth, though I adore you for your generoſity, I muſt not receive it. I will appeal to theſe excellent ladies, if I ſhould not render myſelf utterly unworthy of thoſe invalu⯑able benefits you have already conferred upon me, if I accep [...]ed ſuch an immenſe pecuniary [249] obligation from any man, without the ſhadow of deſerving it." At theſe words he held the pa⯑per towards me. You will gueſs that I caught it with no little eagerneſs; and he added, with a ſup⯑plicating and diſtreſſed countenance, "Teach me, dear madam, how I ought to behave towards ſo noble, ſo diſintereſted a friend." "You are quite miſtaken, my good Monſon," cried Seymour, "I am ſo far from being a diſinte⯑reſted friend to you, that in this buſineſs I am the moſt intereſted being imaginable. I will convince you, in a moment, that you will con⯑fer a much higher obligation upon me by ac⯑cepting this ſum, that I can upon you in beſtow⯑ing it. I wiſh you well indeed on your own ac⯑count; but I moſt honeſtly confeſs to you, that I have another, and a much ſtronger motive, for ſupplying you with this immediate proviſion: it is to gratify this lady, whoſe kind heart is deeply intereſted in the ſettlement of Caroline; and, by yielding to me an opportunity of plea⯑ſing her, you will confer an obligation upon me beyond the extent of my whole fortune; and my fortune, in truth, is ſuch, that I ſhall not feel the ſlighteſt inconvenience in parting with a ſum, which, by being applied to your imme⯑diate uſe, may make us all happy." While Seymour was ſaying this, he pointed to Cornelia, whom Monſon had hardly obſerved before; but he now locked in her face with an arch, yet mo⯑d [...]ſt, ſmile. That lovely face was covered with one of the deepeſt bluſhes that I ever beheld. On perceiving this, I ſaid to Caroline, who had [250] ſtood weeping and ſmiling alternately at my ſide, "Come, my good girl, take and diſcipline your charming lover in private, I muſt play the ſchool-miſtreſs here." The happy damſel and her gal⯑lant ſailor inſtantly withdrew. A tender and delicate conteſt then aroſe between the wounded knight and the more deeply wounded widow, concerning the ſhare each ſhould take in pro⯑viding for this lovely couple, who are at all events to be ſpeedily married.—I, who am, you know, an admirable oeconomiſt in ſaving the money of my friends, have, I think, ſettled the buſineſs very ingeniouſly, without any great ex⯑pence on either ſide. My propoſal is, to marry them immediately (for I am ever, you know, a ſtaunch friend to Hymen), and let them act directly as governor and governeſs to the chil⯑dren of this houſe and of ours: this plan will ſucceed if it has the deliberate ſanction of my huſband, with whom I am to talk it over at our leiſure; at preſent we are all too much exhila⯑rated, by the joyous arrival of Monſon, to de⯑bate any point very ſeriouſly.

Cornelia, who is at my elbow, and who, by the way, looks more beautiful to day than ſhe ever d [...]d in her life, will not allow me to ſcribble a moment longer. Here is indeed a grand pac⯑quet already; and my huſband writes alſo to our dear batchelor. So pardon an abrupt adieu, after a hiſtory of ſuch comfort and joy; and be⯑lieve me, my dear Lucy,

LETTER XL. FROM Mr. AUDLEY, TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

IT is with peculiar delight, my dear Edmund, that I ſend you ſuch intelligence of your friend as I know will be moſt welcome to your affec⯑tionate heart, and operate as the moſt animating of cordials on your reviving health.

The brave, the generous, the engaging Sey⯑mour, is, in truth, as great a favourite with us all as you can wiſh him to be. He is admired by one ſex, and idolized by the other. As to my lovely ward, of all the modeſt enamoured wo⯑men that I have happened to meet with, ſhe is by many degrees the moſt deeply impaſſioned. I never ſaw the emotions of genuine love ſo com⯑pletely viſible in a reſerved and delicate charac⯑ter. I have ſtudied her minutely in the few d [...]s we have been here; and there has hardly paſſed an hour in which her attempts to ſtifle or conceal her paſſion have not rendered it more imperious and more apparent. The diſtant pro⯑phecy of my dear Harriot is on the point of being fully accompliſhed. Chance and Nature ſeem to have conſpired in producing every in⯑cident and every feeling moſt likely to promote a match that is ardently wiſhed, I know, not only by the parties themſelves, but by many of their friends. I have formerly expreſſed to you, with my uſual frankneſs, all my fears and ſcru⯑ples [252] on this very delicate buſineſs; it will, I am ſure, make you happy to hear from my own hand, that theſe ſcruples are vanquiſhed by the beneficent virtues of your friend. You well know my private wiſhes concerning both your⯑ſelf and him; and what cordial ſatisfaction it would give me, to ſee two men, whoſe general conduct is ſo conſonant to the pureſt Religion, more ſeriouſly attached to that only ſolid foun⯑dation both of virtue and of happineſs. I do not deſpair of one day poſſeſſing this ſatisfaction. In the mean time, I muſt content myſelf with ſaying of you both, in my own mind, what Pope, I think, ſaid openly of Garth, that "if there are good Chriſtians in the world, without knowing themſelves to be ſo, you and Seymour are ſuch."

Let me requeſt you, for two reaſons, my dear Edmund, to come ſpeedily to us. Firſt, to eſ⯑tabliſh your own recovery, by a ſeaſonable change of air. And, ſecondly, to take charge of your young friend, who cannot, I think, in decen⯑cy, remain here much longer; and had better be ſtationed with you till the period arrives when a marriage ſo univerſally deſired may properly take place How a [...]dently you, Lucy, and Harriot (not to ſpeak of the dear dainty widow herſ [...]f), are panting for that period, I am fully app [...]ized; and, believe me, I am diſpoſed to ſay, with as much cordial [...]y as of any of you,

[253]As my dear Harriot has, with her uſual rapi⯑dity, prepared a little volume of our diurnal hiſ⯑tory, which travels to Lucy with this; I ſay not a word of the joyous occurrences to which I am perſuaded her pen has done ample juſtice. I have only to add, that Seymour ſends you both his kindeſt good wiſhes, with the two letters en⯑cloſed. He has been ſo obliging as to favour me with a peruſal of the two; and, different as they are, they have both entertained me exceed⯑ingly. Adieu. And be aſſured, that your friend, inſtead of finding an enemy in me, will ſoon find it difficult to determine by which of the Audleys he is moſt beloved. He has, believe me, the cordial eſteem and beſt wiſhes of,

LETTER XLI. SEYMOUR TO THE ADMIRAL.

THE wound I have lately received from you, which is in no danger of proving mortal, might juſtify me, perhaps, in addreſ⯑ſing you with the language of hoſtility and defi⯑ance.

[254]But, notwithſtanding what has paſſed between us, I am ambitious of courting your friendſhip; to which I have an hereditary claim. You may have learnt from rumour, that the young man you ſhot in a late haſty ſcuffle is the ſon of a perſon whom, though long deceaſed, you pro⯑bably remember with regard, as the intimate friend of your youth. Allow me, Sir, in right of my father, to ſpeak to you the genuine lan⯑guage of friendſhip; to expreſs a ſincere eſteem for your public character, and a lively intereſt in your glory; to ſolicit your reciprocal regard; to give you information, and let me preſume to ſay advice, of infinite importance to your tran⯑quility and your honour.

You may, perhaps, he incenſed againſt me for my late conduct; but your anger will ceaſe, I truſt, in recollecting that you, in my place, would have acted exactly as I did. I know how difficult it is for a high ſpirit to reliſh the idea of retreating, either in war or in love; but per⯑mit me to remind you, that a retreat in both may be ſometimes more honourable than a vic⯑tory. In the point to which I allude, this max⯑im is ſtrictly true. You may do infinite credit to yourſelf, by relinquiſhing all thoughts of the girl whom you were ſo reſolved to poſſeſs. Be⯑lieve me, Sir, her heart is invariably fixed on the humble, yet gallant lad, whoſe fortune and liberty are in your power. I doubt not but, when you are convinced of this truth, however mort [...]fying it may be to your paſſion, your ſpirit will ſuggeſt to you how a brave man ought to be⯑have towards a ſucceſsful, yet dependant rival. [255] Let me add, that, in the name of my father, and as the higheſt favour you can ſhew to the ſon of a man once ſo dear to you, I moſt fervently and reſpectfully requeſt from you the immediate diſcharge of Edward Monſon.

My connections in life are ſuch that I could ſoon obtain, from the higheſt naval authority, what I would much rather receive from your indulgence.

The ſon of your ſpirited old friend may be permitted to add, as a proof of his legitimacy, that, if his juſt and courteous petitions are re⯑jected, he wants not either reſolution or perſeve⯑rance to carry thoſe points by force, which ho⯑nour and juſtice have excited him to purſue.

I ſhall cloſe this friendly letter by the beſt of good wiſhes, that, as you have gained many laurels by conquering our public enemy, you may now enrich them with a nobler palm, by ſubduing yourſelf. This, as all the great mora⯑liſts aſſure us, is the moſt honourable of victo⯑ries; and that it may be ſoon added to thoſe which have already reflected a luſtre on your name, is the ardent wiſh of, Sir,

LETTER XLII. THE ADMIRAL'S ANSWER.

YOU are a lad of ſpirit; and I am glad to find you inherit the cleverneſs, as well as the courage of your father. Though I certainly thought you a curſed impertinent fellow, I re⯑joice in your eſcape. I would rather have ſent the whole ſex to the devil, than have killed ſo promiſing a ſon of my lively old friend poor Ned.

I thank you for your good advice; and give you this in return. Make the moſt of your youth among the girls, as you ſee what ſlippery and ungrateful jades they are to a grey-headed lover. I diſmiſs, at your requeſt, the happy raſcal who had the art to ſteal from me the fineſt wench in the world.

He comes to you with this and his diſcharge in his pocket. So I hope to hear and to think no more of this d——d fooliſh buſineſs.

LETTER XLIII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

I SEND off a ſervant expreſs to ſtop our dear Edmund, if he is not already on his way to this houſe, ſo lately the ſcene of hope and exultation, and now of deſpondency and wretch⯑edneſs, of wretchedneſs produced from the moſt idle piece of folly that ever was heard of. Alas! my dear Lucy, all our high-raiſed hopes are, I fear, overthrown for ever. Seymour himſelf has ruined all, in a fit of intoxication, or ra⯑ther of frenzy. Surely wine was an invention of the devil, to render man an image of himſelf. My father takes the part I apprehended he would on the ſlighteſt opportunity of this kind. My dear Audley is labouring with his uſual goodneſs to repair the miſchief that intemperance has pro⯑duced; but I am afraid it is irreparable. Poor Cornelia is more dead than alive; but, as the man and horſe are waiting, I will diſpatch this immediately; and ſend you particulars by the poſt. I am anxious that you and my brother ſhould now remain at home, as I am perſuaded your friend will not continue here under his pre⯑ſent diſgrace, but will ſl [...] to you for conſolation and counſel.

No words can expreſs how grieved to the heart I am for this provoking deſtroyer of his own and our felicity, and ſtill more for the unoffending [258] ſufferer. Farewell: the moment I have ſealed this I ſhall begin a full account of the bitter change in our ſcene, as I know you will ſym⯑pathiſe but too deeply with

LETTER XLIV. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

ALAS! my dear Lucy, I feel ſo diſpirited, exaſperated, and bewildered, ſo intoxica⯑ted in ſhort with rage againſt intoxication, that I can hardly collect ſoberneſs of ſpirit ſufficient to give you the ſad circumſtantial hiſtory that I have promiſed. How very grievous is it to have ſeen the moſt delightful of human proſpects ſo fooliſhly and miſerably blaſted in a moment! Ah! my dear girl, what inconſiderate wretches are theſe captivating men! I am almoſt inclined to think you perfectly right, in having renounc⯑ed them entirely. It is no wonder that the com⯑plaints of human infelicity are ſo frequent. How many, many virtues, are required, to form [259] that rare, and lovely ſpectacle, happineſs! and how able is a ſingle vice to produce in an inſtant that common and deplorable ſight, extenſive miſery! You will not be ſurpriſed that I am ſunk into this moralizing fit, ſince, as poor Caliſta ſays on a very different occaſion, ‘Here's room for meditation e'en to madneſs.’

Our preſent trouble is the more bitter, becauſe the prelude to it was a ſcene of the pureſt plea⯑ſure that I ever experienced. I muſt begin by telling you, that yeſterday happened to be the birth-day of the eldeſt Sedley. Seymour, who is paſſionately fond of this charming boy, re⯑queſted that the day might be celebrated with pe⯑culiar feſtivity; and that, to render it a double jubilee, it might be fixed for the wedding-day of Monſon and Caroline; my father, who ex⯑ults in all feſtivity that carries a religious ſanction along with it, not only joined in the requeſt, but deſired to have the pleaſure of uniting this lovely couple: you will believe this buſineſs was readily adjuſted without a diſſentient, or even a heſitating voice; for Caroline, though truly modeſt, has not a grain of prudery in her com⯑poſition. Seymour, who was recovered enough to attend the ceremony, which was performed in the chapel here, acted as father to the bride, with his uſual elegance of manners; and viſibly felt emotions, not inferior to thoſe of a real parent on the occaſion. Here I wiſhed not a little for you, my dear Lucy; for, as you think a wedding where youth and beauty are united, [260] with genuine affection, a very touching drama, you muſt have ſhed many delicious tears had you been with us: there was no creature preſent but ourſelves, and five ſervants of the family: my father read t [...]e ſervice with peculiar energy and feeling, and the whole ſcene was conducted with ſuch devout decency, and univerſal delight, that for my part I wept, I believe, from one end of it to the other: how poor Cornelia was affected I really cannot tell you, for ſhe very ingeniouſly contrived to conceal her face the whole time; but ſhe did not eſcape from the chapel without a viſible crimſon bluſh, which the tender Caroline very innocently occaſioned. The gentlemen, as uſual, paid their compliment to the bride; but, as ſoon as Seymour had touched her lip, this charming girl, who is perfectly the child of nature, dropt on her knee, and, kiſſing his hand, aid to him, with all the enthuſiaſm of ſimplicity and gratitude, "May Heaven, Sir, ſoon make you as happy as you have now made your two grateful dependents! I ſhould deſerve to loſe the huſband you have given me, if I de⯑parted from the altar without uttering this pray⯑er of my heart." Moſt of the party ſmiled at the native innocence and thankful en [...]rgy of her devotion. Seymour raiſed and kiſſed her again in a rapture of reciprocal gratitude, while poor Cornelia was covered, not with one bluſh, but a ſucceſſion of bluſhes; which I leave you, my dear Lucy, to interpret as you pleaſe. You, I know, will interpret them as a ſort of ſilent counterpart to the audible prayer of Caroline. Why, good Heaven, was the prayer of ſo pure [261] and fervent a ſpirit to be rejected? Why was the well-deſerved happineſs of this excellent cou⯑ple to be poiſoned ſo cruelly juſt in its comple⯑tion?—Poiſoned it certainly is; for theſe good graceful creatures are too warmly attached to their benefactor, to enjoy even their union, now they find he is unhappy. He has indeed made himſelf completely ſo for the preſent, and perhaps for the reſt of his days.

I am called from my paper to attend my huſ⯑band and our afflicted hoſteſs. Adieu for ſome hours; I will reſume my narration the firſt mo⯑ment that I am at liberty.

I return to you, my dear Lucy, with a ſpirit both ſaddened and comfor [...]ed by what I have been witneſs to ſince I quitted my pen You will join with me, I am ſure, [...]n loving my dear indul⯑gent Audley ſtill better, if poſsible, [...]an ever, when I tell you what pains he is taking to coun⯑teract the horrid incidents of yeſterday which I am ſtill to relate to you. Before I enter upon them I muſt acquaint you that my huſband has juſt p [...]t Seymour into our chaiſe, to convey him in his preſent humiliated, yet ſtill too fiery ſtate of ſpirits, to a ſcene of ſolitude and friendſhip. They are to paſs two days alone together at our houſe, and return to us on the third; this is a benevolent project of my huſband's, from which he has great expectations; I am to remain here with my father, and to keep him, if poſſible, in a [...]rt of ſilent neutrality, that we may all meet again without any diſcord; paſſing (to uſe my dear Audley's parliamentary phraſe) an act of indemnity and oblivion. I moſt heartily wiſh [262] indeed that we could all ſwallow a cup of Lethe, and entirely forget the evening of yeſterday. As ſoon as I have fulfilled my promiſe of impart⯑ing to you in this pacquet the circumſtances that have rendered it ſo deteſtable, I ſhall ſtrive with all my ſpirit to baniſh them, not only from my own remembrance, but from that of our poor Cornelia, on whoſe tender boſom they have made the moſt deep and cruel impreſſion; an impreſ⯑ſion which, if it is, as my father aſſerted, the provident work of Heaven, I muſt not expect, and I ſhould not wiſh, to eraſe. But there is, as you and I have often agreed, a ſeverity in his doctrine, to which I cannot immediately ſub⯑ſcribe. I was at firſt, indeed, moſt bitterly pro⯑voked againſt Seymour: he ought to have been more on his guard at ſuch a time and in ſuch a place; yet ſuch are the particulars of the caſe, that he ſeems to me much more entitled to com⯑paſſion than to cenſure, and cannot help think⯑ing it a barbarous fatality that made him wretch⯑ed juſt at the ſeaſon when the beneficent exer⯑tion of his many virtues had given him the fair⯑eſt title to happineſs. It was the moſt trifling circumſtance imaginable that produced all the miſchief. You know, my father is no enemy to moderate feſtivity; or, as your brother ſaid of him, he has a true prieſtly reliſh for an or⯑thodox bottle. As our ill fortune would have it, he chanced, two days before our humble wed⯑ding, to commend before Seymour ſome very rich and rare wine; its name I forget; it is not t [...]kay. Seymour recollected that he had a little ſtore of it in his cellar, which a foreign am⯑baſſador [263] had preſented to his father; and he in⯑ſtantly reſolved to produce a hamper of it at the wedding-dinner, and to honour the birth-day of the dear little Sedley. We all exclaimed againſt it as an impoſſibility; it could not arrive in time; no matter, it muſt be attempted: you know the foible of our hero; his ardent ſpirit purſues even a ſportive whim of his fancy, as if it was a point on which the ſafety of an em⯑pire depended. His favourite ſervant was ſent off, and commanded to return with a hamper in a poſt-chaiſe by the time appointed. The fellow travelled day and night; but you know the great diſtance of Seymour's country-ſeat from this houſe. The expected wine did not arrive for the capital toaſts after dinner; yet in the univerſal joy of the day it was hardly regretted. The evening came, and we were all ſober and happy, though the gentlemen ſeemed a little elated by what they had drank. Cornelia, how⯑ever, had drawn them from their bottles to her tea-table, to which, at my particular deſire, the bride and bridegroom were admitted, for I was ſolicitous to ſave the modeſt Caroline from that jocular and coarſe feſtivity which I knew would prevail in the lower part of the houſe: as it was, my father put her once out of countenance be⯑fore us; it is ſtrange that old men are always on theſe occaſions more groſs than young ones. Here, I muſt do him the juſtice to ſay, our fa⯑vourite Seymour appeared to great advantage. His converſation, though very lively, was deli⯑cate in the extreme; and thus far, indeed, it was a day of delight. It was now late in the [264] evening; but, juſt as the tea-table was removed, and preparation was making for a quiet game of cards, the fatal hamper arrived. Seymour in⯑ſtantly exclaimed, Come, Doctor, you ſhall drink the health of the day in your favourite wine. Come, Monſon, it would be barbarous to pin a bridegroom to a card-table, eſpecially as it is high time for the ladies to begin undreſſing the bride. We will leave them to that ceremo⯑ny, and drink to the general joy of the whole hou [...]e below." With this feſtive exclamation he carried off my father to his wine, leading alſo young Sedley in his hand. He promiſed Cornelia, however, that he would only ſuffer the child to have a glaſs of the new wine, and reſtore him inſtantly to her care; a promiſe which he performed very faithfully, and in per⯑ſon imprinting a kiſs on the fair hand of the parent, in placing the charming but tired and ſleepy boy on her boſom.

Would to Heaven he had taken as good care of himſelf! My heart felt a melancholy pre⯑ſage in the very moment when he ſeized my fa⯑ther by the arm, and I gave my huſband a cau⯑tion to watch over them b [...]th; which he would certainly have done, had not a moſt unſeaſonable accident called him from the party. The happy Monſon, who is as temperate as he is brave, could not be tempted beyond a ſecond glaſs; after which, in ſpite of t [...]eir raillery, he ſtole away to the arms of his expecting Caroline. In a few minutes after he l [...]t the company, my dear Audley was moſt unluckily intreated by the old Butler to terminate a fooliſh quarrel between [265] one of our ſervants and one of Cornelia's. This idle fray detained him much longer than he was aware, and on his return to the parlour he found Seymour and my father both fluſhed with wine, and both ſtill more heated by argument, with the large Family Bible lying open between them; my father venting his indignation with great vehemence againſt the prophaneneſs of Seymour; and Seymour playing numerous and unutterable tricks of impious buffoonery. In vain did my dear Audley endeavour to put them into good humour with each other, and get them quietly to bed. Finding this impracticable, he con⯑ceived a deſperate project, of which you will hardly think him capable, but for which you will give him the more credit. This was, to make the two diſputants completely drunk, that they might entirely forget what they had uttered againſt each other, and loſe every trace of their religious diſſention. He ſays, he thought him⯑ſelf ſupremely politic in this ſcheme, and was ſ [...]tered with a momentary gleam of ſucceſs; but Seymour, by an unfortunate alluſion to the marriage in Cana, rekindled the furious zeal of my father, who, after uttering the bittereſt re⯑ [...]ike to the young intoxicated infidel, quitted [...]e room in a tempeſt of pious indignation. S [...]mour, whoſe volatile ſpirits were now raiſed to the moſt frantic merriment, wanted firſt to [...]ain and then to follow him. This, however, my huſband prevented, and by great exertions [...] his wild companion from expoſing himſelf t [...] the ſervants. Alas! my dear Lucy, what a ſtrange night of mingled joy and horror was [266] this! the different ſcenes of it are ſo deeply im⯑preſſed on my mind, that I think they can ne⯑ver depart from my memory as long as I exiſt; and they will frequently appear as actually paſ⯑ſing before me. But you are impatient for the ſequel. Well; after a little pauſe, and a few deep ſighs, I will proceed.

Cornelia and I had juſt attended the lovely bride to her chamber. We had received her laſt maidenly adieu! and left the charming agi⯑tated gi [...]l in a ſweet diſorder of tremors, tender⯑neſs, and tears. From her room we had retired to that of Cornelia, where in two little beds on each ſide her own, and under one canopy, her beautiful boys lay, like two little angels, aſleep. Our lovely friend, whoſe tender nerves had been much affected in taking leave of Caroline, ſeat⯑ed herſelf at the feet of her bed, and looked, as I was ſaucy enough to tell her, like a more hap⯑leſs heroine deſcribed by Rowe, ‘Warm, tender, full of wiſhes.’ While I was rallying the gentle creature on her paſſion for Seymour, and the great chance he would have of ſucceſs if he could preſs her to an immediate marriage at that moment; while the dear candid ſoul more than half confeſſed that I was right in reading the emotions of her heart; the door ſuddenly opened upon us, and in ruſhed my father, to warn the miſtreſs of the manſ [...]o [...] againſt harbouring ſuch an impious wretched as Seymour under her roof

[267]Think, my dear Lucy, what I endured at this moment; and paint to yourſelf the ſweet countenance of our Cornelia, changing at once from the ſoft expreſſion of tenderneſs, love, and hope, to the troubled looks of ſurprize, remorſe, and deſpair. I endeavoured to hurry my father from her chamber; but he was not in a mood to be either wheedled or controuled. He was certainly a little inflamed by wine; yet his fa⯑culties were rather quickened than impaired; and though he ſpoke with great auſterity againſt the favourite object of our wiſhes, I muſt confeſs that I never heard him ſo eloquent in my life▪ He told Cornelia that, after the horrid blaſphe⯑mies to which he had been witneſs below, he ſhould think himſelf deficient in his duty to earth and heaven, if he failed to caution her againſt the peril in which he ſaw her involved. He then repreſented the dangers of marrying a young man of ſtrong paſſions, without a par⯑ticle of religion, with ſuch vehemence of lan⯑guage, and force of imagery, that for my part I felt a cold horror ſtrike through me, and poor Cornelia was thrown into ſobs and tears.

When he perceived her weeping, he grew in⯑finitely gentler in his manner, and, folding her hand within his, ſaid, with a parental emotion, "I pity you from my ſoul: I ſee to what ex⯑ceſs you love this alluring, this pernicious in⯑fidel. And how could you do otherwiſe than love him? He is the moſt ſeducing of mortals▪ a man in who might eaſily tempt half your ſex to make themſelves the greateſt of wretches! But con [...]d [...]r, my dear lady, what dignity and firm⯑neſs [268] of character we have a right to expect from you. I will not argue the matter as a point of reaſon and judgment; but conſult the beſt feel⯑ings of ſenſibility; look at theſe little monitors (pointing to her children) and aſk your own boſom if any partiality, any paſſion, however founded on the moſt dazzling of human attrac⯑tions, can juſtify you to your own heart, if you give to theſe innocents for their example, their guide, their father, an abſolute monſter of im⯑piety." The feeling mother was almoſt ſuffo⯑cated by her tears on this pointed addreſs to her maternal character. Perceiving that ſhe had no power to ſpeak, and wiſhing (to own the truth) that ſhe ſhould not find an opportunity, leſt ſhe ſhould utter ſome precipitate reſolution, for which we might all be ſorry in a cooler moment; I ventured to argue with my father, at the im⯑minent hazard of enraging him ſtill more, in behalf of the dear abominable delinquent. I ſaid, it was cruel to let a few words, however impious, uttered by an intoxicated man, cancel the merit of actions, not only ſplendid in point of generoſity and courage, but diſtinguiſh⯑ed by the true ſpirit of C [...]riſtian charity. In ſhort, I was told in the defence of poor Sey⯑mour, and did ample and affectionate juſtice to thoſe virtues by which he has raiſed himſelf ſo high in our eſteem. My father heard me with a degree of temper and patience that I did not expect. He did not once interrupt me; but He ſaid, as ſoon as I pa [...]ed; "My dear Harriot, I do not blame you for looking with a fond and enthus [...]a [...]t [...]c admiration on the noble and cap⯑tivating [269] accompliſhments of this dangerous Sey⯑mour; but, truſt me, to marry a young man poſſeſſing all theſe attractions, and hiding under them a deep maſs of impiety, is exactly like building a delightful palace in the tempting neighbourhood of Veſuvio. For a while you may be charmed with your ſituation; the air is delicious, the proſpect enchanting; but a ſudden and unexpected burſt of the latent fire converts the gay reſidence of deluſive ſecurity into a ſcene of the moſt terrific devaſtation, Believe me, there is nothing in the human cha⯑racter, on which it is ſafe to build, but the ſolid rock of Religion." Encouraged by the mild⯑neſs with which my father had liſtened to me before, I attempted to moderate in ſome degree the auſterity and intolerance of this maxim. By this attempt I unluckily rekindled his indigna⯑tion; and he ſaid to me in a very ſevere tone, "Harriot, you are the laſt perſon in the world who ought to appear as an advocate for Irreligion; have the gratitude and the decency to recollect, that all the rare happineſs of your own life ariſes from my having given you a man of genuine piety for your huſband." Then turning to Cornelia, he ſaid, "Madam, you know how ardently I love my child: yet, I proteſt to you before God, I would rather have ſeen her ſink into the grave in all the bloom of her youth and beauty, than I would have beſtowed her on ſuch a character as I am now endeavouring to caution you againſt." He added a ſhort, but impaſſioned prayer, that his caution might [270] prove effectual; and then, giving us both his benediction, retired for the night.

As ſoon as we were alone, our lovely friend fell upon my neck, and wept moſt bitterly. She could not yet ſpeak, but graſped my hand with the vehemence of a poor creature in agonies of pain. There was at this time a conflict in her heart and ſoul, more excruciating, perhaps, than any malad [...]es of the body. She traverſed her chamber with an agitated ſtep; pauſed, look⯑ed at her children, wept, and walked again. I tried to ſooth her by making light of what had paſſed; by repre [...]enting it as a fooliſh diſpute over a bottle, that would be utterly forgot the next day; but the lovely angel rebuked me with a look of diſpleaſure, and exclaimed, "No, my dear Harriot, you muſt not any longer flat⯑ter and confirm me in this criminal attachment. I do not vainly ſtrive to hide from you with what exceſs of paſſion I love Seymour at this mo⯑ment. Yes, I love him with that frenzy, that, if only the Perdition of my own ſoul was hazard⯑ed by our union, perhaps I could not reject him; but for theſe dearer ſouls"—Here ſhe caſt her eyes again upon the ſweet ſleeping boys; her voice was ſuſpended; but falling on her knee, at the feet of her own bed, ſo that ſhe had an equal view of the two children, and raiſing to Heaven, perhaps, the moſt beaut [...]ful and impaſſioned countenance that ever looked up to its Creator, ſhe ſaid, with a trembling voice, "By the Al⯑mighty God who gave me the [...]e bleſſed infants, and by the dear ſaint whoſe dying injunction com⯑mended them to my duty, I ſwear that no tempta⯑tions [271] ſhall induce me to make the impious Sey⯑mour their ſecond father. I will never marry again." The laſt words ſhe pronounced in a firmer and even a triumphant accent, for they were the dictates of duty and paſſion united. To ſacrifice the man ſhe doated on to Heaven was a reſolve, which, though her mind was firm in its purpoſe, her lips could hardly utter; but to re⯑nounce all the ſex in honor of this dear victim, was a fond idea in which her heart exulted; it was granting, under the maſk and yet with the ſanction of duty, a ſecondary triumph to Love

Ah! my dear Lucy, do you not ſhudder at the thought of what our poor lovely friend muſt have to endure, either in keeping, or in violating this precipitate vow? For my part, I have the auda⯑city, and I know, my good girl, you will ſup⯑port me in it, ſtill to profeſs myſelf an advocate for this abominable offender. I cannot bear the idea of his being utterly renounced; and I main⯑tain that not only Love and Friendſhip, but Re⯑ligion itſelf ought to induce us all not to irritate and abandon, but to ſoothe him, and labour for his converſion. If we ſucceed, and from the gentle, firm, and perſuaſive ſpirit of my dear Audley, I have great hopes of ſucceſs, the haſty vow of our dear righteous widow becomes void of courſe; we ſhall ſtill be happy, and our happineſs will be truly coeleſtial. I endeavoured to calm our dear Cornelia, by talking to her in this ſtrain as ſoon as ſhe had finiſhed her adjuration; and, troubled as her ſpirit was, it did not turn with abhorrence from this kind of conſolation. See, my dear Lucy, how well it is for a tender ſcrupulous ſweet [272] ſoul, like our Cornelia, to have ſuch kind con⯑ſiderate commentators at her elbow as you and I are, when ſhe is in the raſh humour of vowing a vow! While I was adminiſtering to her the com⯑fort which ſhe found in ſeeing that her haſty pro⯑miſe to Heaven was conditional, I heard a gentle tap at her door. Behold my huſband; "For Heaven's ſake, ſaid I, what have you done with Seymour? has not this fatal wine made him fran⯑tic?" "Be not alarmed, returned my good man, looking keenly on the anxious eager coun⯑tenance of Cornelia. He has, indeed, been a little diſguiſed, by a ſlight exceſs in drinking: but this is not ſurprizing after his recent low regi⯑men, and on ſuch a day as this; his intemper⯑ance only proves the affectionate warmth of his heart; it is now time for us all to retire, as I have put him very peaceably to bed." "Excellent, cried I, in a tranſport of joy, and now we may all ſleep in peace." In ſaying this, I gave a ſig⯑nificant preſſure to the hand of Cornelia, and we both wiſhed her good night. And here, Lucy, I muſt take leave of you alſo with the ſame good wiſh. I can poſitively write no longer at preſent, but will reſume my pen early to-morrow; ſo once more good night.

Not withſtanding my preſage that we ſhould all ſleep in peace, few mortals in health paſs a night ſo ſleepleſs on their pillow as we d [...]d. Corn [...]lia confeſſed to me the next day, that ſhe had hardly cloſed her eyes; and as to Audley and my [...]elf, we were kept awake, find by talking over all the [273] wild vagaries and extravagancies of Seymour in his cups; and, ſecondly, by meditating on the beſt poſſible method of reconciling him and my father, and drawing good out of evil. I have al⯑ready told you the project, my dear girl, which your incomparable brother has deviſed for this purpoſe. He roſe early, awakened the poor un⯑conſcious culprit into a ſenſe of his treſpaſs in the preceding evening; and conveyed him from hence without his ſeeing either of the two perſons who had moſt reaſon to he offended with his con⯑duct. To both, however, he ſent, at my huſband's entreaty, and by his voice, a very humble and ſuppliant embaſſy; and particularly to my father, whom he requeſted to forget every ſyllable, if any ſuch were uttered, in his intoxication, that could appear in any degree offenſive or diſ⯑reſpectful to his character [...] a Divine. To his gentle hoſteſs he made the moſt tender apology; [...]aid, he felt himſelf unworthy to enjoy the de⯑l [...]ht of ſeeing her the next day; but, as he was [...]ing to puniſh himſelf for his tranſgreſſion by an immediate and ſelf impoſed baniſhment from her [...]ence, he truſted he ſhould find her, on his return, more ready to pardon him than he was to forgive himſelf. You will eaſily gueſs how the [...]e meſſages were received by the two parties t [...] w [...]om they were addreſſed, as you know both [...] well. The tender widow ſaid, that no apology [...] neceſſary to her: the rigid Divine declared [...] none was ſufficient for him. I have had, in⯑d [...]d, a terrible taſk to keep the zeal o [...] my father wi [...]in tolerable bounds: but after a long private ſcene of argument, intreaty, and tears, on my [274] part, I have prevailed on him to promiſe me that he will ſay nothing more to Cornelia on the ſub⯑ject at preſent. I have even brought him to ac⯑quieſce in my opinion that the ſtate of Seymour's affection, co-operating with the eloquence of my huſband, may probably produce a very ſalu⯑tary effect on the creed of this enchanting unbe⯑liever. Heaven gra [...]t my earneſt prayer on this point! I need not tell you with what anxiety I expect their return. I wish it were poſſible to give you an account of it in this pacquet, as I know your ſolic [...]tude on the ſubject will not be inferior to my own; but many anxious hours are yet to paſs before the time of their expected arrival; and I have promiſed you this voluminous hiſtory by the very firſt poſt; you muſt accept it, there⯑fore, imperfect as it is in every ſenſe of that word. Be aſſured that you ſhall hear again ſoon; and believe me ever.

P. S. I cannot cloſe the paper without telling you, that the firſt ſight I ſaw in entering Corne⯑lia's chamber yeſterday morning was our po [...] ſleepleſs friend, venting her anguiſh to the ſym⯑pathetic boſom of Caroline. What a contraſt in their ſitua [...]ions! What a picture did their beau⯑tiful [...]t d [...]fferently impaſſioned features preſent to me [...] it was Felicity comforting Deſpair. Fare⯑we [...]l.

LETTER XLV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

YOU, who are ſo familiar with the paſt fol⯑lies of my life, you, my dear Edmund, will not be ſurprized to hear that I have again played the fool more deteſtably than ever. I have made myſelf a wretch; I have diſgraced myſelf in the eyes of my adored Cornelia. I am no longer under her roof. I have committed—but why ſhould I particularize my execrable offences to you, when you have probably learnt (by means of the women who write about every thing) more circumſtances of my miſconduct than I know myſelf.

In fooliſh deſire to ingratiate myſelf with that odious high prieſt Dr. Ay [...]on, who loves his bot⯑tle pontifically, I drank with him, on a double feſtival that we have celebrated here, on the birth⯑day of the brave little Sedley, and the marriage of my ſweet Caroline, till the Doctor loſt his temper, and I my ſenſes. All I can remember of the evening is, that we ſputtered much pious and pro⯑p [...]ane nonſenſe in the face of each other. No⯑thing could be ſo abſurd; nothing ſo ill-timed; n [...]thing ſo injurious to my love, as this execrable contention. I loath the ſight of wine, and ab⯑hor myſelf for my folly. Yet I have found an apologiſt and a comforter, where I little expected, and leſs perhaps deſerved to find him; 'tis with peculiar ſatisfaction that I add—in your Brother. [276] He has kindly hurried me from a ſcene where I have expoſed and diſgraced myſelf ſo egregiouſly, to his own tranquil manſion; with a thoughtful good-nature that proved him really your brother. He ſuggeſted to me, that my beſt mode of apolo⯑gizing for what I moſt bitterly repent, would be to withdraw for a few days, leaving only a conci⯑liatory meſſage for the perſons who have the greateſt right to be offended by my groſs indeco⯑rum. He obſerved, that by thus giving the in⯑ſulted Divine ſufficient time to grow cool, I might probably induce him to forget our diſpute; and by ſhewing Cornelia that I puniſh myſelf for my tranſg [...]eſſion towards her by tearing myſelf from her preſence, I ſhould incline her to receive me with indulgence on my re [...]urn. By the force of theſe friendly reaſons, your brother drew me to his houſe; we have now been under his roof the better part of two days alone, and during that time his inceſſant attention and kind behaviour to me have been ſuch, that I cannot more ſtrongly expreſs my ſenſe of it to you, than by telling you the words I addreſſed to him a few minutes ago, on our cloſing a private conference of ſome hours. They were the word [...]f A [...]rip [...]a to Paul, "Almoſt thou p [...] [...] are to be a Chriſtian!"

It has indeed been the eager wiſh of his bene⯑volent heart to n [...] [...] on this important occaſion; and [...] [...]e impulſe of L [...]ve, or the a [...]uments of Friendſhip, could induce me to ſacr [...]fice my re [...]n or [...]y ſincerity, I ſhould cer⯑tainly [...]ither te [...]l or prof [...]ſs, at this critical junc⯑ture, a perfect reverence for myſteries, which my ſpirit, my dear Edmund, as well as yours, [277] has ever conſidered as a mixture of the unintelli⯑gible and the ridiculous. I reverence, indeed, his ardent philanthropy, and I admire his happi⯑neſs, which is, as I freely allowed him, ſuperior to what you and I have ever enjoyed, or may ever attain; but this, which he aſcribes to his Religion, i [...] the kind work of Nature; it is owing to the conſtitutional equipoiſe of his paſſions, and the peculiar felicity of his temper. He is a man whom ſuperſtition cannot ſpoil; and this, as I told him, is a grand panegyric; for the very beſt kind of ſuperſtition is apt to vitiate whatever it touches. I am not ſure that even the pure, the tender, the generous boſom of my Cornelia her⯑ſelf can reſiſt its influence.

At the inſtigation of that rigid and angry prieſt whom I have fooliſhly made my enemy, ſhe may perhaps reject me for ever— reject the very man to whom ſhe is, in truth, attached by affection, by gratitude, and every honeſt emotion of her frame. My ſoul is in tumult at this idea! I am conſcious that I have deſerved to experience ſome little portion of her anger. I want no Goſpel to tell me, that intoxication is a beaſtly failing. I am ready to purchaſe her forgiveneſs, by re⯑nouncing intemperance for ever; but I have too much noble pride to purchaſe even her perſon, though it is the only jewel in the world to my ap⯑prehenſion, by making myſelf either a fool or a hypocrite. We return to morrow. How ſhe will receive me I know not: but if ſhe treats me with a coldneſs and diſdain which I am ſure are foreign to her nature, I feel it may drive me to diſtraction. Good heavens! to loſe ſuch a lovely [278] and loving creature, juſt when her delicious lips have half declared ſhe is devoted to me by proteſt⯑ing ſhe would have no other! Oh, the very idea is momentary mandeſs! I will baniſh it from my brain. And ſurely the reality, my dear Edmund, would be too heavy a puniſhment for the offences, the involuntary and repented offences, of

LETTER XLVI. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

I TRUST that my laſt letter convinced you, my dear Edmund, how ſincerely my heart is diſpoſed to promote the wiſhes of your engaging friend. His very failings have increaſed my at⯑tachment to him, as they ſhew me, that, with a ſpirit peculiarly benevolent and generous to others, he is a moſt dangerous enemy to himſelf. My dear Harriot, who really feels for him all the ſo⯑licitude [...]f a ſiſter, has given you, I conclude, a very melancholy detail of the fooliſh and provok⯑ing incidents they have produced a moſt uncom⯑fortable change of ſcene in the houſe of Cornelia. I brought Seymour to paſ [...] a few days with me in privacy, u [...]der my own roof, for two reaſons: firſt, I was very deſirous to prevent the renewal, and, if poſſible, to annihilate the memory, of a furious theological diſpute, which aroſe between him and Dr. Ayton, in a luckleſs night of intem⯑perate [279] feſtivity. Secondly, I cheriſhed a hope, that in the quiet of this ſequeſtered ſcene, and in many ſucceſſive hours of unreſerved and friendly converſation, I might be fortunate enough to re⯑move from the mind of this intereſting young man the only obſtacle to his happineſs; I mean, that infidelity which ſeems to have faſtened on his ſpirit, more from the power of accident than from any natural diſpoſition in his character to produce or maintain it. It is with the moſt cordial concern I perceive, that my powers of ar⯑gument and perſuaſion are too weak to accompliſh in your friend, my dear Edmund, as in you, that h [...]ppy converſion which I moſt ardently wiſh to behold in you both. I have ſearched as deeply as I could the ſprings of incredulity in each of you; and I find that theſe ſprings are very different; but, ala! they are equally powerful againſt my wiſh in your behalf. Rouſſeau, I think, has ſaid, that the faith of moſt men is regulated upon earth by their temporal intereſt. This, however, is by no means the caſe with an Engliſh gentleman of independent fortune, whoſe creed has little connexion with his temporal proſperity, that many parents in this rank of like, while they teach worldly maxims to their children, think it unneceſſary to burthen them with religious ideas. Thus young men are left to pick up ſuch a religion as Time and Chance may happen to afford them. Their faith, of courſe, will greatly depend on their early connexions in life, and ſtill more on their particular humours and paſſions. I think, my dear Edmund, that this remark is very ſtrongly exemplified in you and your friend [280] Seymour: in you, as I have often told you, infi⯑delity is the offspring of a vitiated imagination: in Seymour, it is the child of an imperious paſſion, and, I fear, the firmeſt of paſſion [...], pride. It pleaſed Heaven to give you, with a ſtrong under⯑ſtanding, a much greater propenſity to ridicule and ſarca [...]m than is commonly united to a heart ſo tender as yours; the applauſe very juſtly given to your early wit and humour augmented this dangerous pr [...]penſity; thus your mind was allur⯑ed into the habit of conſidering even the moſt ſerious objects in a lud [...]crous point of view; your firſt aſſociates in the world were unfortu⯑nately men who trea [...]ed Chriſtianity with deriſ [...]on; you were amuſed in laughing with them, and pleaſed to increaſe their merriment by your ſupe⯑rior vivacity. But as the fire of youth abated, your natural good ſenſe, my dear Edmund, ſoon taug [...]t you, on theſe articles, a great degree of caution and reſerve; you ceaſed to ridicule Re⯑ligion; but though prudence and good nature conſpired to make you deſiſt from a practice which you could not purſue without creating to yourſelf many enemies, you could not correct the internal miſchief which the habit, too long in⯑dulged, had impreſſed upon your mind. You could, indeed, ceaſe to ridicule Religion; but you could not ceaſe to think Religion ridiculous. The bias given to your youthful fancy was too powerful for your reaſon, even in its maturity, to counteract; and how many men have we ſeen unable, in advanced life, to embrace the com⯑forts of genuine piety, from no other cauſe but the having been idly tempted to laugh at them in their youth! It is difficult in [281] the higheſt degree to bring the human ſpirit to contemplate with reverence what it has once been accuſtomed to treat with deriſion; and as to yourſelf, my dear Edmund, I am convinced, as I have often ſaid to you, by my own ineffec⯑tual but affectionate endeavours to change the caſt of your mind, that nothing but ſome great and unexpected calamity or ſickneſs; nothing, in ſhort, but ſome ſtriking event, that may con⯑vulſe, as it were, like an earthquake, your whole bodily and intellectual frame, can take from your warped imagination that unfortunate bent which I have ſo frequently lamented. With your friend Seymour I had flattered myſelf on a proſpect of better ſucceſs: as his mind has not been ſo much under the faſcination of ridicule, I hoped to find it more open to Reaſon. I was willing to think that even his paſſions might act as my confede⯑rates; and that Love, which has ſettled, as you ſportively ſaid, the creed of many princes, might help me to make a happy convert of him; but Love, I find, in its warmeſt exceſs, is a paſſion much weaker than Pride; at leaſt it proves ſo in your friend. He doats upon Cornelia; but, with a firmneſs of proud incredulity which I both la⯑ment and admire, he will not purchaſe even the idol of his heart by what he conſiders a ſacrifice of his own dignity as a man; nay, ſo tenacious is he of imaginary honour in this point, that if my long and repeated conferences had really convert⯑ed him, he ſays he ſhould be almoſt tempted to ſuppreſs his belief at this juncture, leſt his friends ſhould ſuppoſe that Love had made him an hypo⯑crite in Religion: ſo vehement is his deteſtation to every ſhadow of duplicity and falſhood.

[282]It is impoſſible not to love a character ſo open, ſo ingenuous, ſo ardent, and ſo firm, however deluded he may be: it is equally impoſſible (at leaſt for a man who t [...]nks ſeriouſly of Religion), not to wiſh him poſſeſſed of only thing which can render his enchanting qualities no longer dan⯑gerous to himſelf. You, my dear brother, have both experience and diſcretion, I might even ſay timidity, in the conduct of life, to protect you againſt the perils of your own foibles and paſſions; but it is not ſo with our friend: undi [...]guiſed in all he thinks, and precipitate in all he does, he is peculiarly expoſed to the malice of fortune; and the more I reflect on his preſent ſituation, the more I am alarmed for what is to come.

As to myſelf, he has reduced me to a moſt un⯑comfortable dilemma: I cannot take an active part in oppoſing his wiſhes, without wounding, not only my friendſhip for you, but thoſe ſentiments of regard with which he has inſpired me for himſelf. Nor can I be very earneſt and deciſive in promot⯑ing his hopes of marrying Cornelia, conſiſtently with my conſcience. I have the ſincereſt good wiſhes to them both; I clearly perceive they are ſo deeply enamoured of each other, that they muſt be wretched aſunder; yet, if they are united, there is a proſpect of equal, and perhaps of ſuperior wretchedneſs, from their unhappy difference▪ the great article of Religion: an ar [...]cle which the dying injunction of poor Sedley h [...]s rendered ſo pecul [...]arly imp [...]rtant to Cor [...]elia, that I queſtion induce if Seymour, with the united powers of Love and Friendſhip, with his own attractions, and my recommendation (if I [283] dared to recommend him) could triumph, with⯑out a change in his creed, over the ſcrupulous piety of my lovely ward. I am almoſt convinced that ſhe would periſh in thoſe waſting maladies which are apt to ariſe from vehement diſappoint⯑ed affection, much rather than gratify her heart by a violation of her duty; yet a woman, a tender, young, and impaſſioned woman, is, we all know, a frail creature; and perhaps I ought to take the moſt determinate ſteps to secure the gentle being, bequeathed to my care, from a trial ſo perilous and ſevere.

I am truly bewildered by the various vexations, perplexities, and dangers on every ſide. I feel, [...]owever, that my mind has gained ſome little re⯑lief in thus copiouſly unburthening itſelf to you. I am ſure you will be ready to co-operate with me in what I moſt wiſh at preſent, which is, to keep Seymour as quiet as poſſible; any precipi⯑tate importunity in his addreſſes juſt now would be very cruel to Cornelia, and muſt, I think, be [...]ulvous to himſelf. He appears not a little affect⯑ed by the ſincerity of my zeal for his happineſs, and he promiſes to be guided in a great meaſure, as to his preſent conduct, by me; but I perceive the im [...]etuoſity of his ſpirit, and am perfectly aware that it will be very difficult to keep him from acting according to the ſudden and acciden⯑tal impulſe of his imperious paſſion. As you are the only perſon in the world poſſeſſing long and confirmed influence over this impetuous youth, pray let your letters to him be perſuaſive leſſons of tranquillity and patience. By gaming time, we may do much for his good. I ſhould tell you, [284] he has made one generous and important con⯑ceſſion; he has promiſed, that, if he marries Cornelia, all her children ſhall be educated as devoutly as ſhe and I may think proper. He will never interfere with the religion of his own wife or her family. He even thinks they may be much the happier for being good Chriſtians; yet, ſo in⯑conſiſtent are men, they will take no pains to eradicate from their own minds thoſe early habits and prejudices which have hardened them againſt a faith, whoſe beneficial influence on the happi⯑neſs of its true profeſſors they candidly acknow⯑ledge.

But, leſt you ſhould think I am giving you a ſermon without end, my dear Edmund, I will only add, that we return to-morrow to Sedley-hall; and that I propoſe on the following day to remove the whole party to my houſe; for which I have an excellent plea, in the viſit I expect from my dear Harriot's lively niece, Louiſa Mountmaurice, who is coming to paſs a month with us, and coming as ſhe ſays in a ſaucy note that I found from her here, with a reſolution to rob the lovely widow of her wounded knight, and make a conqueſt of the gallant Seymour for herſelf. Whether ſhe ſucceeds or not, you will be inform⯑ed in due time. Accept my benediction on your⯑ſelf and Lucy; and believe me ever,

LETTER XLVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

BEHOLD me, dear Edmund, reſtored to Sedley-hall; and my good genius himſelf ſeemed to hail my return, in the ſhape of a ſer⯑vant, who informed me, as your brother and I alighted at the door, that Dr. Ayton is gone to London. I could not help exclaiming, in the words of Madeth, ‘Being gone, I am myſelf again.’ In ſober truth, I greatly dreaded a ſecond meet⯑ing with this ſtiff piece of orthodox auſterity. I neither choſe to play the ſervile penitent, or the hypocrite, with him; nor to let him play the inſolent ſchool-maſter and tyrannical bigot with me. I thank my ſtars, that the tidings of a tottering more have hurried him to the metro⯑poli [...], that he may watch it as the witch does the drop on the corner of the moon, and "catch it ere it fall to the ground."

My dear indulgent Cornelia has received me with that graceful gentleneſs which is ſo peculiar to herſelf; and ſhe made ſo kind a reply to my repeated apology for my late tranſgreſſion, that, as I told her, I felt the various pains that I have ſuffered from my folly delightfully repaid in the ſweetneſs of her pardon. There is indeed a de⯑licacy [286] in the manners of Cornelia, which I never found in thoſe of any other woman, and which is the reſult of her genuine, unaffected, and temperate ſenſibility. The whole ſex may, I think, be comprehended in two claſſes, the live⯑ly and the ſerious; the firſt often overwhelm us by their vivacity, and the ſecond by their gloom. But Cornelia is a perfect model of the true hap⯑py medium. Her gaiety is as mild and benig⯑nant as the ſmile of an angel; and her melan⯑choly, inſtead of diffuſing ſadneſs, inſpires only tenderneſs and love. Such ſhe has appeared to me on the many, many reflections which I have made in various humours on this incomparable woman: yet I muſt add with ſorrow, that al⯑though her firſt reception of me was enchant⯑ingly gracious, and perfectly like herſelf, in ſome moments ſince my return I have thought I perceived a new character creeping like a miſt over her mind. Her native eaſe has now and then changed into a cold and ſtately politeneſs, that ſtruck like a falling iſicle on my boſom, and ſeemed both to lacerate and to petr [...]fy my heart. I could not help whiſpering to her, though there was company in the room, "If you treat me with an air of proud indifference, you will very ſoon make a madman of me for life." I believe ſhe was both vexed and pleaſed by this intimation; it had certainly a happy influence on her b [...]iour and my feelings; for ſhe never ſpoke to me afterwards but with ſuch a ſoftneſs of voice that the tones of it ſunk into my ſoul. Oh, Edmund, this dear delicious woman muſt [287] be mine, or my life will not be worth preſerv⯑ing!

What has paſſed in our ſhort abſence I have not yet learned; as I have only had a few en⯑couraging looks from my very good friend Mrs. Audley, and a brief exhortation from her not to be precipitate, but reſign myſelf to Hope and Heaven. She is an indulgent kind creature; and ſhe has been, I underſtand, very warm in my defence, at the hazard of incurring her righ⯑teous father's diſpleaſure. Yet, much as ſhe is my friend, I cannot depend on her imparting to me explicitly all that I want to know. But I have one ſure channel of intelligence. As ſoon as I can get my grateful Caroline alone, I am confident that her gratitude will induce her to reveal to me all the ſecrets of the female cabinet, to which I know ſhe is admitted. It is fortunate for me, that ſhe and her happy Monſon are to return with us and the ladies to your brother's. He has kindly inſiſted on carrying us all to his own hoſpitable manſion to-morrow, where he expects to find a niece of Mrs. Audley's from Ireland, a lovely girl, they ſay, and wonderfully like Cornelia in form and ſhape of her features, but not ſo in the expreſſion of her countenance, ſince vivacity is the characteriſtic of one, and tenderneſs of the other. Mrs. Audley has been jeſting with me, concerning the beauties of her niece, and a deſign, which ſhe ſportively aſcribes to her, of making a conqueſt of me. By Hea⯑ven, I thought that Cornelia, who overheard part of our diſcourſe without our intending it, turned pale at the ſound! O Venus ! if this ſoft [288] creature ſhould really love me well enough to grow ſeriouſly jealous of a young Iriſh hoyden! if ſhe does, I defy the devil himſelf, and a legion of his love-thwarting prieſts, to keep us aſunder. But I muſt bid you very haſtily adieu. Indeed I ſhould not have written till we are all comfortably ſettled for a few weeks at Audley Grove, had I not thought you would be parti⯑cularly anxious for an account of my reception from the dear offended hoſteſs of this manſion. I was eager alſo to inform you of the ſeaſonable departure of the odious high-prieſt, and the proſpect, or rather the glimpſe I have, of new and exquiſite delight, under the friendly roof of your brother. Among all the joys of an enrap⯑tured heart there can be none ſuperior to that of raiſing a ſweet impaſſioned woman, whoſe fond imagination has plunged her in the torments of jealous terror, to the paradiſe of tranquil and confident affection. Farewell; and fail not to wiſh that the joy which I anticipate in my fancy, may ſoon be actually poſſeſſed by

LETTER XLVIII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

YOUR good-natured heart, my dear Lucy, will rejoice in being told that our cloudy proſpect is grown wonderfully clearer; an un⯑expected incident has happened, which contri⯑butes not a little to our general eaſe and comfort, though I am almoſt aſhamed to ſpeak of it, even [...] you, as a ſource of ſatisfaction; for the inci⯑dent I mean is the ſudden departure of my father, who has been haſtily ſummoned, by private buſineſs, to London. I truſt that I revere him a [...] much as I ought to do, and I am ſure I do full juſtice to the goodneſs of his intentions; yet, to own the truth to you, no tender Miſs, watching [...] an opportunity to receive a lover in private, [...]er heard the departing wheels of her father's [...]riage with more heart [...]elt ſati [...]faction than I [...] I had terrified myſelf with the idea, that, [...] being righteous over much, he would ruin, [...] only the happineſs, b [...]t the health of our [...] Cornelia; who, if it is neceſſary at laſt [...] H [...]aven fo [...]d! [...]hat her infantine heart ſ [...]o [...]ld be weaned from [...], muſt be treated, [...] that cruel operation, with a gentleneſs a [...]d indulgence, n [...]t ve [...]y compatible with the [290] inflexible and imperious integrity of my father. But he is gone, and without a proſpect of re⯑turning hither; for which I believe you alſo, my good girl, will be wicked enough to exclaim, "Heaven be praiſed!"— I have ſtill greater news for you. The bewitching offender is returned, and received, and forgiven; whether my good man has brought him back to us exactly what we wiſh, I cannot inform you, as we have had no time for private converſation, and I write in great haſte, to tell you we are all preparing to decamp. My niece Louiſa is by this time at Audley Grove; and our whole party is to ad⯑journ to our houſe, for the better reception of this charming ſprightly girl, who has at length obtained the permiſſion of her father to paſs a few months with us. She is determined, ſhe ſays, to ſet her cap at your gallant and princely Seymour. Do you not tremble for poor Cor⯑nelia? Alas! what hypocri [...]es we weak women would be, if we could, to one another, and to ourſelves! Would you bel [...]eve that our candid friend, on my jeſting with her a few minutes ago about Louiſa and Seymour, had the hypocriſy to ſay, ſhe wiſhed it might be a match! On my anſwering her only with a keen glance of pene⯑tration and reproof ſhe burſt into tears, and [...]aid, with her native ingenuous tenderneſs, "I ſtrive to wiſh it; but I cannot."

Here ſhe comes again into my room, I ſup⯑poſe with ſome anx [...]ous enquiry concerning this formidable Louiſa; but of [...]t is, and all other in⯑tereſting matters, I will write to you very ſoon af [...]er my return; at preſent I can only add, that [291] Cornelia deſires to be moſt kindly remembered to you; and that I am, with much better hopes than when I cloſed my laſt pacquet,

LETTER XLIX. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

YOUR letters, my dear Seymour, have acted as med [...]cine upon my ſpirits in the courſe of an illneſs into which I have relapſed, and from which I am once more recovered. Sometimes indeed the medicine was too ſtrong for the patient; and at one period my anxiety for you, and my terrors of Dr. Ayton, conſiderably increaſed the nervous fever, which has proved ſuch an obſtinate enemy to my health and comfort. But the high-prieſt's moſt ſeaſon⯑able departure, and the very cordial regard which I am now doubly aſſured my brother has conceived for you, inſpire me with ſalutary and enlivening hopes. I clearly perceive that the capricious Goddeſs Good-fortune is haſtening to embrace you, and complete your happineſs. Do not, I conjure you, in your impetuous eagerneſs to meet her, beat the fair Divinity backwards, and overſet all her intended bounty.

[292]You find me, as uſual, ſtill ready to load you with cautionary counſel; and in truth, my deareſt friend, I never knew any period in your event⯑ful life, where I ſaw greater reaſon, or felt a more anvi [...]us deſire, to throw a gentle curb over the native precipitancy of your ſpirit. Indeed, in proportion as you have advanced in that path which is to lead, I truſt, to happineſs, I have felt more and more ſolicitous, leſt one haſty falſe ſtep ſhould prevent your reacting the object of your ambition. You are now happily advanced ſo far, that if you will but truſt patiently to Time, he will complete your wiſhes; and believe me, however nonſenſ [...]cally it may ſound to you both in expreſſion and ſentiment, to ſtand ſtill is your ſureſt was to get forward. You have gained the [...]eart of the woman you love; you have gained the friendſhip of the man whoſe ſituati [...]n, and allow me to ſay, whoſe virtues give him a fair ti [...]le to influence her conduct, but, juſtly regard as you are by both, they are both very full of certain apprehenſions concer⯑ning you; i [...] by any raſh and paſſionate attempts to accelerate the event for which you are ſo eager, you increaſe and exaſperate theſe appre⯑henſions, the conſ [...]quence muſt be univerſal wre [...]ch [...]dn [...] to us all; but if, on the other hand, you a [...]t with the generous forbearance that I am now a [...]dently recommending to you, their fears will gradually evap [...]rate; you will appear to them the d [...]ſintereſted, affect [...]onate, and generous being which you really are; your ſucceſs muſt be inevitable, ſince you have no rivals to appre⯑hend; [293] and, in thus ſecuring your own happi⯑neſs, you will make us all happy.

I could wiſh that my good brother had been ſucceſsful in his very zealous endeavours for your converſion. Since it is otherwiſe, allow me to ſuggeſt to your reflection how far it may be con⯑ſiſtent, I will not ſay with prudence, for I know you deſpiſe that cold-blooded quality; but with love, honour, and generoſity, to aſſume an ap⯑pearance of that creed which your miſtreſs and your friend have ſo affectionately wiſhed to im⯑preſs upon your mind. It is needleſs, I truſt, to aſſure you, that I have an abhorrence as vehe⯑ment as your own for all the arts of a ſordid and ſelfiſh hypocriſy. But when diſſimulation is practiſed for no purpoſe but to enſure the tran⯑quility and happineſs of thoſe we love, it ought ſurely to loſe the name and character of baſeneſs, and to be ranked among the nobleſt of virtues; it is then that we may ſpeak of falſhood in the ſpi⯑rited language of Taſſo, and juſtly ſay,

‘Magnanimous falſhood! when is truth ſo beautiful as to merit the preference to thee!’

I quote an Italian poet, to ſhew you that I have not utterly neglected your injunction con⯑cerning that language; though I reproach myſelf for not having learned it, as I ought to have done, in the happier days of Giuliana.

Were I in your ſituation, I ſhould find a mar⯑vellous delight in cheriſhing ſuch an affectionate illuſion in the mind of my miſtreſs. I ſhould [294] exult in perſuading her that ſhe had made me every thing ſhe wiſhed; how charming muſt it be, to gratify the fond pride of her ſoul in mak⯑ing her believe that by the tenderneſs which miniſtered to your earthly pleaſure ſhe was literal⯑ly leading you to Heaven! How exquiſite muſt the ſoft features of your Cornelia appear, when animated with the mingled fire of triumphant piety and gratified affection! Truſt me, my dear Seymour, thoſe happy rogues (whether hypo⯑crites or not) have had the keeneſt enjoyment of women, who have had the art to mix Devo⯑tion with Love. I cannot ſay I have great hopes of your regarding my ſuggeſtions to you on this ſubject; for I know yon have ſuch a romantic attachment to truth, that you would rather make yourſelf miſerable for life, by adhering to it, than condeſcend t [...] be uſefully and even ge⯑nerouſly deceitful. What a pity it is that the moſt obſtinate votaries are thoſe of imaginary virtue!

I can eaſily conceive how you would exult in raiſing a little jealous apprehenſion in the ſoft boſom of Cornelia; but have a care, my good friend; do not, by attempting to waken jealouſy in one tender heart, inadvertently throw an amorous flame into another. You are too dan⯑gerous a fellow to trifle with an artleſs and glow⯑ing girl of eighteen. Though Louiſa Mount⯑maurice, from the peculiar ſprightlineſs of her character, might be more able to defend her heart againſt your inſinuating attractions than the making Cornelia; yet pray remember that this niece of your good friend Harriot is com⯑poſed, [295] like the reſt of her ſex, of combuſtible atoms; and do not ſuffer your Cupid to ſhake his torch too near her. As to the advantages you ſeem to expect from making Cornelia jea⯑lous, I have many doubts on that article: doubt, you know, is the characteriſtic of my mind, and deciſion of yours. I think much evil might ariſe from it, and a conſequence directly oppoſite to what your quick fancy has ſuggeſted. But I will not peſter you with all the thorny conjectures on a contingency that will hardly happen. I muſt, however, inform you what your very zealous friend Lucy ſays on your idea; ſhe entreats you, whatever degree of pleaſure or influence you may expect to derive from it, ne⯑ver to purſue ſo barbarous an expedient. She ſays, what I am convinced is ſtrictly true, that your fair-one's heart is already as entirely yours as Love can make it; and why ſhould you cruel⯑ly fill it with agonies that cannot encreaſe its affection? Lucy goes ſo far as to affirm, that your tender widow has not ſtrength of mind or body ſufficient to ſupport the pangs of the moſt e [...]teruc [...]ating paſſion; and if you make her really jealous in the preſent perplexed ſtate of her ſpi⯑rits, you muſt inevitably deſtroy either her life or her ſenſes. Though I do not quite ſubſcribe to this fearful idea of my ſiſter's, I cannot help joining her in conjuring you to be cautious. Be aſſured, my deareſt friend, that if you will be but temperate and patient, if you will only al⯑low ſufficient time for that Love which is certain⯑ly the predominant paſſion of her ſoul, to ſubdue and expel the terror that yet adheres to it, you [296] will ſoon make her your wife upon the terms that are moſt agreeable to your own manly ſpirit. I am appriſed of the generous propoſals which you have made to my brother concerning the educa⯑tion of her children; and, truſt me, both your queen and her honeſt privy-counſellor will (if you do not perplex them with your precipitancy) acquieſce in this deſirable union, on the ground you propoſe. But their acquieſcence muſt be the work of deliberation and of time. I will now releaſe you from this tedious lecture; but let me once more repeat our entreaty, for I ſpeak both in Lucy's name and my own, that you will not make yourſelf wretched by too great an eager⯑neſs to be happy. Pardon the prolixity of your timid, affectionate preceptor; and believe me