LETTER XXXI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

MY ſtory is already prefaced; ſo I need but proceed, repeating as before, after Mrs. Walter.

For the firſt ten or twelve days that I paſſed at Paris, the novelty of the ſcene, with the grandeur and brilliancy of the objects that ſurrounded me, lifted me, as it were, out of myſelf, and helped me for that time almoſt to forget my misfortunes. The marchioneſs made me ſeveral very [2] conſiderable preſents, and ordered her trade's people to attend me, that I might chuſe my own cloaths, only deſiring they might be handſome enough to appear in along with her.

Madame de Fribourg received a vaſt deal of company, and kept very late hours; monſieur de Lovaine was ſeldom of her parties, and ſometimes withdrew himſelf intirely from the houſe, for a fort⯑night together; ſhe uſed to appear diſſatis⯑fied at his abſence, and frequently com⯑plained to me of the coldneſs and con⯑ſtraint of his manners towards her.—He uſed ſometimes, to viſit me, in my apart⯑ment, ſeemed fond of my little Olivia, and often wiſhed that he had ſuch an⯑other child—He ſaid the marchioneſs's mode of living, was by much too gay and [3] diſſipated for him, and that he languiſhed for the pleaſures of ſociety in a more rational courſe of life.

Small as was my knowlege of the world, I could not help perceiving that there was ſomething particular in mon⯑ſieur de Lovaine's addreſs, whenever he ſpoke to me; but this circumſtance, how⯑ever, was not of a nature to give offence, as it amounted to nothing more than an additional ſoftneſs, in his looks and voice.

The marchioneſs certainly perceived it as well as I, and would often fix her piercing eyes upon me, and aſk me if Colonel Walter was as handſome as monſieur de Lovaine? I always replied, as I really thought, that the Colonel was by far the handſomeſt man I had ever [4] ſeen—She uſed to appear pleaſed with what ſhe called my ſimplicity—At other times her manners were ſevere towards me; and, though perfectly convinced of my own innocence, I began ſoon to fear that I was become the object of her jealouſy.

This idea was productive of the moſt fatal conſequences to my peace; it ren⯑dered my behaviour timid and con⯑ſtrained, before her, and totally depriv⯑ed me of that eaſe and chearfulneſs which I had before endeavoured to aſ⯑ſume, in hopes of rendering myſelf agree⯑able to my kind benefactreſs—This al⯑teration in me, which her own manners had occaſioned, ſhe conſtrued into the effect of guilt, and became every day more cold and reſerved towards me, [5] ſcarce ever aſked me to go out with her, and as often affected to be ſurpriſed, when ſhe ſaw me come into her drawing-room.

Though my ſituation with the mar⯑chioneſs was by no means the ne plus ul⯑tra of my hopes and wiſhes, which con⯑tinually preſſed forward to the meeting of Olivia's father, my ſtill loved, cruel huſband! yet certainly I had reaſon to conſider it as an happy aſylum for my child, and me; her bounty had reſcued both of us from the iron hand of pover⯑ty, and placed us in the lap of plenty, of honour, and of eaſe! How then could I bear the being ſuſpected of repaying ſuch benefits with the baſeſt ſort of in⯑gratitude! It was impoſſible! I deter⯑mined, therefore, to come to an expla⯑nation [6] with the marchioneſs, if poſſible; to convince her of my innocence, and do all in my power to recover her eſteem; but if I failed of removing her ſuſpicions, I firmly reſolved to quit her directly, to throw myſelf and my infant once more into a mercileſs world, to la⯑bour for our bread, and ſuffer any miſe⯑ry that poverty could afflict me with, ra⯑ther than that of embittering her life, to whom I owed the generous ſupport of my own.

I had revolved this ſubject in my thoughts for ſeveral days, and impati⯑ently waited for an opportunity of exe⯑cuting my ſcheme, but the diſtance and hauteur of madame de Fribourg's man⯑ner, overawed me ſtill. I found I could not muſter up ſpirit ſufficient to ſpeak [7] to her on ſuch an intereſting topic, and I reſolved, therefore, to communicate my ſentiments to her in writing.

One evening that ſhe went to the Ita⯑lian comedy, I retired to my chamber, in order to execute my purpoſe; and, that I might not be interrupted, I deſired the maid who attended Olivia, to take her down ſtairs and amuſe her, till I ſhould ring for her to come up, as I had ſome letters of conſequence to write—She withdrew, I bolted my chamber door, ſat down to the taſk I had aſſigned myſelf—I found it infinitely more diffi⯑cult than I had imagined; I wrote, and burned ſeveral ſheets of paper, and blot⯑ted, others, with my tears.

In this ſituation, I heard a key turn, as it were behind the arras, and ſaw [8] monſieur de Lovaine entering by a door which had been till then concealed from me. I ſtarted up, when he threw him⯑ſelf, inſtantly, at my feet, ſaid he had long waited in vain for the opportunity of finding me alone, for a moment, and hoped I would pardon his acquainting me, perhaps, a little too abruptly, with a ſecret on which more than his life, his happineſs, depended—to be ſhort, he then declared his love for me, with all the aſſeverations, proteſtations, and tranſ⯑ports, that the moſt violent paſſion could ſuggeſt.

No words can paint the ſurpriſe and confuſion of my mind, which I thought it was impoſſible to augment, till I ſaw the marchioneſs come in at the door which monſieur de Lovaine had left open, [9] and find him on his knees before me. Luckily for me, I was ſaved from diſtrac⯑tion, by the total ſuſpenſion of all my faculties; and I ſunk motionleſs in my chair.

Many hours paſſed, before my reaſon returned—My recollection of the events that had happened on the preceding night, was ſuch as one feels on awaking from a painful dream; yet I flattered myſelf I ſhould ſtill be able to undeceive the marchioneſs, by the moſt ſolemn aſſu⯑rances of my innocence, and though I could never hope to regain her favour, juſtice methought ought to have reſtor⯑ed me to the place I had before obtained in her eſteem—Alas! I knew not then that jealouſy, like the adder, is at once ſharpſighted, deaf, and venomous.

[10]I roſe as ſoon as it was day, and upon inquiring for the papers which I left up⯑on my table, was informed that the mar⯑chioneſs had taken them away—I waited impatiently for her riſing, I was deter⯑mined to throw myſelf at her feet, the moment I ſhould be permitted to ſee her, to acquaint her with every ſentiment of my heart, and to ſet hers at eaſe, on my account, by withdrawing myſelf from her's, and monſieur de Lovaine's ſight, for ever.

While I was ruminating on my un⯑happy ſituation, a ſervant brought me the following letter.

I ſat down, on the inſtant, and wrote to the marchioneſs, and, in the ſtrongeſt and moſt affecting terms, implored her to admit me to her preſence, for a few mi⯑nutes—but in vain; ſhe returned my let⯑ter unopened, with a meſſage by her wo⯑man, [14] that ſhe would never read a line that I ſhould write, or ever ſuffer me into her preſence more.

I grew almoſt diſtracted at this treat⯑ment, and tried to force my way into her apartment, but was prevented from entering by her ſervants, and treated like what I really then was, a poor fran⯑tic wretch!

The conſciouſneſs of my integrity might poſſibly have ſupported my ſpirits, at any other time, but the terrors I felt, leſt the marchioneſs ſhould ſee my huſ⯑band before I did, and poiſon his mind with her unjuſt ſuſpicions, were not to be endured—My ſituation was as com⯑pletely miſerable, as any thing, but guilt, could poſſibly have rendered it.

[15]While I laboured under theſe agoniz⯑ing ſenſations, monſieur de Lovaine entered my apartment—The moment I beheld him, rage, for the firſt time of my life, became the predominant paſ⯑ſion of my ſoul. I accuſed him as the author of all my wretchedneſs, would not ſuffer him to ſpeak, though he was proſtrate at my feet, and commanded him to fly from my ſight for ever—Un⯑willing to irritate me farther, he roſe and retired; and had there been an inſtru⯑ment of death within my reach, I fear I might at that inſtant have put an end to a wretched being, which ſaw itſelf mark⯑ed out for deſtruction.

I was at laſt informed by the marchi⯑oneſs's orders, that a fiacre waited to car⯑ry me where I pleaſed.—Though I had [16] been near ten months at Paris, I was as much a ſtranger in that great city, as on the day I firſt arrived there. I im⯑plored the ſervant who had attended Oli⯑via, not to forſake me, and to direct whither I ſhould go, and what courſe I ſhould take! She applied to her lady for leave to attend me, but ſhe had not hu⯑manity ſufficient to grant her requeſt.—The girl had, however, reſolution and compaſſion enough to diſobey her com⯑mands, and accompanied me to a ſmall houſe in the ſuburbs of St. Germains, that belonged to her ſiſter.

As ſoon as ſhe had brought me there, ſhe returned again to the hotel de Fribourg, without my knowledge, to pack up my cloaths, and her own—When ſhe came back, ſhe gave me a [17] pocket book, which ſhe ſaid I had left behind me; as ſoon as I ſaw it, I knew it was not mine, and deſired ſhe would find the owner, and reſtore it—She open⯑ed it, and a letter dropped out, addreſ⯑ſed to me—the hand appeared to be the marchioneſs's, and it occurred to me that ſhe might have ſo far relented, as to acquaint me with what ſhe knew of Co⯑lonel Walter—I inſtantly broke the ſeal, and read as follows.

Encloſed in this letter there was a bank note, for two hundred louis d'ors, which I immediately ſealed up with it, and ſent Maria to deliver back into the hands of monſieur de Lovaine; but he had quitted the marchioneſs's houſe, an [20] hour before that time, and no perſon could tell where he was gone to.

The violent agitation of ſpirits I had gone through brought on a feveriſh complaint, and though I had reſolved to go, alas! I knew not where, in pur⯑ſuit of Colonel Walter, I found myſelf unable to ſit up, and was obliged to ſub⯑mit to my diſorder—I grew worſe every hour, and by the next morning I be⯑came delirious—The phyſician who at⯑tended me, thought it was impoſſible that I ſhould recover, and at the end of ſix weeks, my being able to crawl acroſs the chamber was deemed a prodigy.

The anxiety of my mind, doubtleſs retarded my recovery; my impatience to ſee Colonel Walter, or at leaſt to hear [21] ſomething of him, increaſed every day; and Maria's ſiſter was ſent to inquire for him, at all the hotels, and houſes of Engliſh reſort, in Paris, but without ever receiving the leaſt glimmering of light to trace him by.

As ſoon as my ſtrength would permit, I was carried in a ſedan to the Luxem⯑burg gardens; Maria attended, that I might lean on her, in caſe I ſhould be able to walk.—I was moving ſlowly on, in one of the moſt retired walks, when I heard Colonel Walter's voice; I turn⯑ed quick to look for him, and ſaw him coming towards me, with another gen⯑tleman—But I ſaw no more, my ſenſes forſook me; in ſpite of Maria's ſuſ⯑taining arm, I fell motionleſs on the ground.

[22]The firſt emotions of humanity natu⯑rally brought both theſe perſons to my aſ⯑ſiſtance, the colonel raiſed me in his arms, and carried me to the next ſeat; but the moment he beheld my face, he ſtarted from me, and cried out, Come away, my lord, and leave that abandoned wo⯑man to practiſe her arts on other men, for here they cannot be ſucceſsful.

He then took hold of his companion, dragged him off, and quitted the gardens with the utmoſt precipitation—And though Maria had ſenſe enough to know that this muſt have been the perſon we had ſo long been in ſearch of, yet it was impoſſible for her to quit me, in the ſitua⯑tion I then was, in order to purſue and watch his haunts.

[23]This laſt ſhock quite overcame my ſpirits; I was conveyed home in a ſtate of inſenſibility, fell from one fainting fit into another, and for ſeveral weeks my exiſtence was marked only by the hourly expectation of my diſſolution—Yet was I at that time more anxious to live, than I had ever been before; I had ſeen my huſband, and hoped there was a poſſibi⯑lity of ſeeing him again, of clearing my innocence, and at leaſt of placing my be⯑loved child under the protection of her father! Theſe were ſtrong motives, and they operated accordingly—I recovered, to the amazement of every creature that knew me; and again vainly renewed my ſearch after my unkind fugitive.

Maria uſed ſometimes to viſit a fa⯑vourite fellow-ſervant at the marchion⯑neſs's, [24] who told her it was univerſally believed in the family, that I had had an amour with Monſieur de Lovaine; that he had entirely abſented himſelf from his lady; and that ſhe ſeemed inclined to conſole herſelf for his loſs, by a particu⯑lar intimacy with an Engliſh gentleman, who made one in all her parties, and was going with her in a few days, to the waters of Barege—The deſcription ſhe gave of his perſon exactly reſembled Co⯑nel Walter, and I was perfectly convin⯑ced that this new friend of the marchi⯑oneſs's was my ſtill beloved, deceived, and unkind huſband!

I had no perſon to conſult, who was capable of adviſing me how I ſhould act upon this occaſion; and amidſt a variety of wild and romantic ſchemes, I at laſt [25] pitched on that of writing to him, and requeſting the favour of an interview, in the character of a ſtranger. I had no doubt that if he accepted my invitation, nature would recover her rights in his heart; and that the ſight of a woman whom he had once fondly loved, and cruelly deſerted, with the additional influence of his lovely child, would melt his obdurate nature, or at leaſt ſoften it ſo far as to allow me to aſſert my innocence, and endeavour to awaken the feelings of parental affection, if every other ſpecies of tenderneſs were even totally extinguiſhed.

Full of theſe fond ideas, I wrote to him in an ambiguous ſtile, diſguiſed my hand as much as poſſible, and would not even venture to direct my letter, leſt the recollection of my writing, which is ra⯑ther [26] particular, ſhould prevent his open⯑ing it.—Maria prevailed on her friend, who lived at the marchioneſs's, to deliver this billet to his ſervant, and to deſire that the anſwer might be left with her.

Every thing anſwered to my expec⯑tations, and, the morning follow⯑ing, I received a very galant note, aſ⯑ſuring me that the perſon I had honoured with my invitation, would moſt gladly accept of the favour I intended him, and have the happineſs of waiting on me, at eight o'clock that evening.

My poor fooliſh heart exulted with joy, at the ſucceſs of my little ſtratagem. I dreſſed and undreſſed Olivia, an hun⯑dred times, in order to try if I could add any ornament to her natural beauty, and [27] render her more lovely in her father's eyes—as to myſelf I diſdained the aid of dreſs, well knowing that my wan com⯑plexion, and my waſted form, could only furniſh him with ſuch a reproachful idea as my ghoſt might have done, of what I was when he forſook me.

I counted the minutes quicker than they paſſed, and thought them ages, till the appointed hour arrived—but, gracious Heaven! how ſhall I expreſs the aſtoniſhment I felt, when I ſaw an utter ſtranger enter the room, with a mixture of libertiniſm and freedom, in his looks and manners; I let go Olivia's hand, which I had held in mine, gave a loud ſhriek, and fainted.

Maria ran to my aſſiſtance, the ſtran⯑ger gazed intently on me, and ſaid to her, [28] with a kind of ſneer, it was a pity that her lady was ſubject to ſuch violent diſ⯑orders, but hoped ſhe would recover her health before ſhe made another aſſig⯑nation with him; for he had ſeen her faint twice, and he did not think fits were the leaſt addition to female beauty—How⯑ever, as he believed ſhe might be in diſ⯑treſs, he would make her a preſent of five guineas, for the ſake of an old friend of her's, honeſt Jack Walter—and that when he came back from Barege, he would call upon her again, in hopes of finding her in a more ſociable ſtate than ſhe appeared to be, at preſent.

Maria inſtantly recollected that this gentleman was with the Colonel, the day we met him in the Luxemburg gardens, and endeavoured to convince him, that [29] he was not the perſon I expected to ſee: he ſaid that was impoſſible, for he had my note in his pocket, and had ſhewn it to Colonel Walter, who knew my writ⯑ing perfectly well, though I had at⯑tempted to diſguiſe it.—She tried every argument to make him take back his money, but in vain; and as he found that I did not immediately come to my⯑ſelf, he quitted the houſe, with ſtrong expreſſions of diſſatisfaction at his diſap⯑pointment.

This laſt ſtroke was infinitely more ſevere than all that I had yet endured; I now ſaw the impoſſibility of ever clear⯑ing my conduct to my huſband, and de⯑voted as I was, by him, to infamy, the peaceful aſylum of the ſheltering grave was now become my only hope, or wiſh; [30] even a mother's tenderneſs could not re⯑concile me to ſuch unmerited and end⯑leſs ſufferings; that virtuous fondneſs which had ſuſtained me through all my former trials, was now abſorbed in mean ſelf-love, and I could not refrain from praying for an end of my miſery, though certain that my Olivia's misfortunes muſt commence from the concluſion of mine.

I languiſhed on, for many months, in this ſtate of paſſive deſpair, when the fight of the good father Guillaume, whom I had never heard from ſince I left Mar⯑ſeilles, and of courſe concluded to be dead, brought back a gleam of joy.

He told me that after his return to Marſeilles, he had a long and ſevere ill⯑neſs, and on his recovery had been obliged [31] to go to Rome, on buſineſs; that he had written to me, ſeveral times, and was grieved to find that his letters had miſ⯑carried.—He informed me, that Nan⯑nette had died, in about ſix weeks after I left her; that ſhe was extremely pe⯑nitent for the injuries ſhe had done me; and retracted every thing ſhe had ſaid to my prejudice—I dropped tears at her untimely fate—while my own miſery taught me to envy that lot, which my humanity lamented.

The marchioneſs had written to fa⯑ther Guillaume, and accuſed me of the baſeſt ingratitude to her, and the moſt infamous conduct with regard to myſelf; and the good man had come on purpoſe, to Paris, to be, as he ſaid, convinced of my innocence, or to relinquiſh his opinion [32] of female virtue. The ſituation he found me in, afforded him ſufficient conviction of my integrity; and when I related the circumſtances in which I had been in⯑volved, the gracious drops of pity that he ſhed for my diſtreſs, were like a heal⯑ing balm to my poor wounded heart.

He would have gone directly to the marchioneſs, and tried to undeceive her, but ſhe had been at Barege, for ſome time, and no one knew whether ſhe would go from thence to Paris, or Mar⯑ſeilles.—He undertook to find out Co⯑lonel Walter for me, if he remained in Paris; and cheared my ſpirits with the hope that he would at leaſt vindicate my injured character, and leave him no ex⯑cuſe for the inhumanity of his beha⯑viour.

[33]After a fruitleſs ſearch of ſeveral weeks, he learned that Colonel Walter was then at Genoa—He wrote to him, in the moſt forcible terms, in my favour; but to this, and many other letters, he never deigned an anſwer, though we were ſatisfied that he had received them from the hand of a perſon that Father Guillaume could de⯑pend on; who afterwards informed us of the Colonel's ſetting out for England, and of his deſign of returning to ſettle in his native country.

As to myſelf, I had now no hope left of ever recovering his eſteem, or my re⯑putation—To my great joy I perceived I was going faſt into a conſumption; but though I longed for my releaſe, it was impoſſible to quit my little charge ex⯑poſed to all the miſeries of unfriended [34] youth, without ſuffering the ſevereſt agonies; and after many conſultations, upon the ſubject, I at laſt acquieſced in Father Guillaume's opinion, that it was my duty not to leave her totally an or⯑phan, but to place her and myſelf under the protection of her father, before I ſhould be taken from her.

Upon this principle I ſet out for Ireland, as ſoon as I had received information, through Father Guillaume's means, of my huſband's being there. I arrived about four months ago: my reception ſur⯑paſſed even my apprehenſions! inhumani⯑ty and inſult were added to unkindneſs, and my not being turned out to periſh in the highway, was accounted a favour far beyond my deſert.—What account the Colonel gave of me to his ſervants, I [35] can only ſuppoſe; but he told me that if ever I attempted to converſe with one of them, I ſhould not remain another mo⯑ment in his houſe; he commanded me never again to appear in his ſight, and confined me to a wretched garret, where I am ſupplied with ſuch food as his ſervants think proper to afford me.

Unworthy as I am, I have often re⯑pined at the continuance of my exiſtence; but I now bleſs the chaſtening hand that has enabled me to ſupport my miſeries to this auſpicious hour; when I can no longer doubt that my child ſhall find pro⯑tection from your humanity, and no more be involved in the unhappy fate that has ſo long attended her truly wretched mother!

[36]The agonies which Mrs. Walter ſuſ⯑tained, during the recital of her affecting ſtory, made me fear that her death would bring it to a period, before ſhe had fi⯑niſhed the relation—But my appearing, as I really was, ſincerely intereſted in her misfortunes, ſeemed to furniſh her with ſuch a recruit of ſtrength and ſpirits, as enabled her to undergo the reflection and recital of her unmerited ſorrows.

The morning was pretty far advanced, by the time Mrs. Walter had concluded her narrative; I gave her the ſtrongeſt aſſurances of my doing every thing in my power, both for herſelf, and her child—I preſſed her to take ſhare of my bed, for a few hours, which ſhe refuſed, though ſhe ſeemed ſo faint and exhauſted, as to be ſcarce able to get up ſtairs. She ſaid, [37] if Olivia ſhould awaken and miſs her, ſhe would be alarmed, and might diſturb the family. She added that one of her greateſt anxieties, for ſome time paſt, had been for what her child ſhould feel, if ſhe ſhould happen to expire in the night, and that the little helpleſs innocent ſhould find her cold and inſenſible to her ſoft touch and voice!

As ſoon as ſhe left me, I went to bed, but found it impoſſible to reſt—I knew not in what manner to act; Sir Wil⯑liam would probably be diſpleaſed at my interfering in Colonel Walter's affairs, yet was I determined, at all events, to fulfil my promiſe to this amiable unfor⯑tunate, and protect her and her child, as far as it might be in my power!

[38]With this reſolution I ſhall now take leave of my deareſt Fanny, as I am ex⯑tremely fatigued with writing; yet would not treſpaſs ſo far on your patience, as to break off again, till I had concluded Mrs Walter's ſtory.—But, intereſted as I am for her, be aſſured that I am much more ſo for my beloved Fanny, and Sir George.

Where is he now, my ſiſter? has Mrs. Colville's myſtery been explained? is his heart more at eaſe after it? and has your's yet recovered that tranquility, which ſhould be the portion of the good and amiable? Alas! why is it not unalienably ſo? Yet Mrs Walter waſtes her days in ſorrow, my Fanny mourns her ill-requited love, Sir George hangs penſive o'er his Delia's tomb, and my ſad heart, too much in uniſon with mournful tones, [39] reſponſive echoes back the ſighs of all, and mingles plaintive notes for its own woes!

LETTER XXXII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

A Thouſand thanks to my dear Louiſa, for the pleaſing painful entertain⯑ment which ſhe has taken the trouble of affording me—which is at preſent more particularly ſuited to my ſituation, than any other that could poſſibly be deviſed.

In queſt of happineſs we ſhould for ever caſt our eyes downward, and the [40] tears that flow from them, in contem⯑plating the miſeries of thoſe who are more wretched than ourſelves, will at elaſt ſtifle the voice of ſelf-love, and ſilence the complaints that ariſe from leſſer ſor⯑rows—ſometimes imaginary ones.

When I compare my ſufferings with thoſe of the unfortunate Olivia, I am ſhocked at my own ingratitude and im⯑piety, for having ever dared to ſay I was unhappy! The greateſt miſery I have en⯑dured, falls infinitely ſhort of the leaſt of hers.—

Like her, I have been forſaken by the man I love; but then I have not, like her, been expoſed to want and ignominy. Sheltered in the foſtering arms of tender and affectionate friends, who ſympathize [41] even with my weakneſs in lamenting an inconſtant lover, bleſſed with reputation, health, and fortune—theſe circumſtances render the compariſon ſo very unfair, that it muſt be diſadvantageous to make it. No, ſhe is alone the paragon of unearned ſufferings; and I hope there is not any one perſon living who has a right to diſpute the ‘"painful preeminence"’ with her.—

But where is ſhe, now, Louiſa? It is not poſſible that you can have left her in that Pandaemonium, which the great fiend inhabits! I cannot ſpeak of Colonel Walter in milder terms. I am provoked that the infernal ſhould have any ſhadow of pretence, for his barbarity to his angelic wife.—When the world once gets hold of a tale of ſcandal, is it not eaſy [42] to wreſt it from them.—That wicked marchioneſs—but there will be no end to my letter, if I go on entering into par⯑ticulars.

All I can ſay upon the whole, is this, that I fear your bringing her to South⯑field may engage Sir William in a ſtrife, either with the Colonel, or yourſelf: no one can tell which part; he will take, I ſhould rather apprehend his ſiding with the monſter, and quarrelling with you for intermeddling.

To avoid all this apprehenſion, if Mrs. Walter be able to bear the journey, on the eaſieſt terms it can be made to her, requeſt you to ſend her and her child over to me, as quick as poſſible. I will receive her with open arms, and do [43] every thing in my power to procure her health, and peace: I have no perſon to whom I am accountable for my conduct, and therefore ſtand clearer from diffi⯑culty in this affair than you do.

I hope theſe reaſons will incline both Mrs. Walter and you to comply with my entreaty, and that I ſhall ſoon have the happineſs of embracing the two lovely Olivias.—She may depend on my ſecrecy: I can prepare this family, in half an hour, for the reception of a lady and her daughter from France, whom I have invited to ſpend ſome time with me; I will carry her to Briſtol, or any other place that may aid her recovery—She muſt not die Louiſa; and, for Heaven's ſake, let me have the happi⯑neſs of being concerned in her preſerva⯑tion.

[44]I fear ſelf his predominated too much in this wiſh, for indeed I look forward with an uncommon degree of impati⯑ence, to the pleaſure of having it in my power to ſerve ſuch an amiable creature—Do, my Louiſa, then, indulge me with the true enjoyment of the fortune I am poſſeſſed of—Let me know the tranſport of ſuccouring merit in diſtreſs, and I ſhall henceforward look upon riches as a real bleſſing!

I have this moment received a letter from our dear brother, that has amazed me.—What think you is the pretended requeſt of the dying Delia? Why no⯑thing more, than that Sir George ſhould marry her mother! I have long ſuſpected her paſſion for my brother; I knew her to be an artful, that is, in other words, [45] a vile woman! I cannot help the evil thoughts which obtrude themſelves on my mind, with regard to my dear De⯑lia's death—If Mrs. Colville be innocent, Heaven forgive me!—But I have not charity enough to pray for her, if ſhe ſhould be guilty.

Sir George does not expreſs half the horror that I feel at this ſhocking pro⯑poſal! the gratification which our va⯑nity receives in knowing we are beloved, even by the moſt worthleſs perſon, can, I perceive, ſoften our contempt into compaſſion, and deceive us ſo far as to make us think ſuch pity the offspring of our virtue—However, do not be alarmed; for though he ſpeaks ſomewhat too ten⯑derly of her pretended ſorrow, I am cer⯑tain no power on earth could ever make [46] him think of ſuch an unnatural al⯑liance.

I have little to ſay of myſelf; nothing of moment has happened to me ſince I wrote laſt; and I endeavour to think as little as poſſible, of what happened be⯑fore.—Adieu, my dear Louiſa! I hope there is a letter of yours now travelling towards me, for I am moſt extremely impatient to know what you have done, or intend to do, with Mrs. Walter. I beg you to aſſure her of my affectionate regard, and to believe me ever

LETTER XXXIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

THIS letter, my Fanny, ſhall go on in the narrative ſtile, at leaſt ſo far as it relates to Mrs. Walter; for as her adventures are intirely detached from any thing relative to us, I will not min⯑gle them with mine.

I lay till it was very late, on the morning that the fair unfortunate had re⯑lated her ſtory, yet I had neither ſlept, nor fixed upon any ſcheme for deliver⯑ing her from her hated priſon, except that of bringing her and her child to Southfield, which I foreſaw muſt be at⯑tended with very hazardous conſequen⯑ces; [48] I therefore ſummoned a little coun⯑cil, the moment I aroſe, and after com⯑municating the moſt diſtreſsful circum⯑ſtances of her ſituation to Lucy, Har⯑riet, and my faithful Benſon, I deſired them to give me their advice how to act, on this critical occaſion; having firſt informed them, that I was determined not to deſert the cauſe I had undertaken, by leaving this amiable woman to periſh at Walterſburgh.

Various, as you may ſuppoſe, were the plans offered and rejected—It was at laſt agreed, that we ſhould return home as ſoon as poſſible; and that Mrs. Wal⯑ter ſhould remain where ſhe was, for three or four days after our departure; that, in that time, Benſon ſhould be em⯑ployed in fitting up a chamber for her [49] reception in the houſe of one of our tenants, whom I formerly mention⯑ed to you, as having his houſe burned, and who had now got a very comfort⯑able, though ſmall, habitation, within a ſhort walk of Southfield; that as ſoon as every thing was prepared, Benſon ſhould come for her in my chaiſe, to a particu⯑lar ſpot, at a time appointed, and con⯑vey her and the little Olivia to this houſe, where ſhe was to remain in pro⯑found ſecrecy, till we ſaw what effect this innocent elopement might produce, till every thing in our power ſhould have been done for the recovery of her health, and till we could fix upon ſome more eli⯑gible plan for her future happineſs.

As the Colonel's ſervants gave them⯑ſelves not the leaſt trouble about the fair [50] recluſe, we found it very eaſy to convey proper food to her, unobſerved; and as I thought it right that ſhe ſhould have time to conſider of our ſcheme, I wrote to her directly, and deſired to have the pleaſure of another interview with her, in my apartment, that night.—I gave her to underſtand, in the politeſt man⯑ner I could, my reaſons for declining to bring her directly to Southfield, at leaſt till I had conſulted my huſband; and aſ⯑ſured her in the ſtrongeſt terms, that while I lived, neither ſhe, or her child, ſhould ever be reduced to the miſery of ſeeking ſupport or protection from the inhuman Colonel Walter. I added every thing that I thought could ſoothe her mind, and implored her to take care of her health, for the ſake of her lovely in⯑fant.

[51]She replied almoſt inſtantly to my let⯑ter, poured forth the warmeſt acknow⯑ledgments for my goodneſs, again call⯑ed me her guardian angel, and ſaid ſhe was ready to be guided by me in every thing; and that, as the ſtrongeſt mark of her gratitude, ſhe would at my com⯑mand endeavour to live, were it only to bleſs and thank me!

The impatience of Lucy and Harriet to ſee Mrs. Walter was extreme; they looked at their watches an hundred times, and would fain have perſuaded themſelves they did not, go from the mo⯑ment it grew duſk till our hour of retir⯑ing; though it was yet a moot point, whether they were to ſee her or no, as I meant firſt to aſk her permiſſion, cer⯑tainly, before I ſhould preſent them to her.

[52]When ſhe entered my apartment, her countenance ſeemed at once more animat⯑ed and compoſed than it had been the preceding night—the effuſions of her gratitude were ſuch as muſt flow from a heart like hers, and were more fully expreſſed by the ſilent eloquence of tears, than by the pomp of words—She rea⯑dily and moſt gracefully complied with the requeſt I made her, of giving me leave to introduce Lucy and Harriet to her; who, notwithſtanding the deſcrip⯑tion I had given them of the delicacy and elegance of her form, were both amazed when they beheld her, and could hardly conſider her as of fleſh and blood, but rather a form of unſubſtantial air, or elſe compoſed of that fine ether with which we ſuppoſe angels indue themſelves, when they deign to become viſible on earth.

[53]As both Mrs. Walter and I wanted reſt, we parted ſooner than we had done the foregoing night, after having firſt ſettled every thing for the execution of our project, and fixed on the day follow⯑ing for my quitting Walterſburg. Ben⯑ſon packed up a part of hers and Olivia's cloaths with mine, and we contrived to leave her every little neceſſary that could be conducive to her comfort or conveni⯑ence, while ſhe remained behind us.

I have now the pleaſure to tell you that every thing ſucceeded to our wiſhes, and that ſhe and her ſweet girl are ſafely and privately lodged at ho⯑neſt farmer Wilſon's, for the preſent. I write to her every day by Benſon, but have not yet ventured to ſee her, as I am not able to walk, and the eclat of my [54] carriage ſtopping at a farm-houſe, might occaſion ſuſpicion.

Benſon aſſures me that ſhe already per⯑ceives a change for the better in her ap⯑pearance; and I begin to hope ſhe may recover both her health and peace of mind. The little Olivia is quite wild with ſpirits, and is trying to learn Eng⯑liſh from Lucy, who viſits Mrs. Wal⯑ter every day, and the firſt words ſhe de⯑ſired to be taught, were meant to ex⯑preſs her thanks to me for my kindneſs to her mamma.

Though I reflect with ſincere pleaſure on having been able to reſcue this ami⯑able woman from a ſcene of the ſevereſt diſtreſs, yet I cannot help feeling an anxiety for her future fate, which gives [55] me extreme pain—She cannot long re⯑main where ſhe is, undiſcovered, and no one can tell what ſtep that barbarian, her huſband, may take to diſtreſs her yet far⯑ther—My apprehenſions are, that he will force Olivia from her; and the loſs of her child would, I am certain, occaſion the loſs of her life.

But ſuppoſing that he ſhould never diſcover her retreat, or even inquire about her, I ſee no aſylum, except a con⯑vent, where her youth and beauty will not ſubject her to a thouſand misfor⯑tunes.—You are ſufficiently acquainted [...]ith my ſentiments on the ſubject of mo⯑naſteries, to know how very unwilling I ſhould be to recommend a ſtate of ſe⯑cluſion to any creature I either love or eſteem; yet, in her unhappy ſituation, [56] I ſee no other reſource—However, I ſhall not adviſe precipitately.

Not but that I ſhould approve ex⯑tremely of an eſtabliſhment of this kind, in our own country, under our own re⯑ligion and laws; both equally free from tyranny—An aſylum for unhappy wo⯑men to retreat to—not from the world, but from the misfortunes, or the ſlander of it—for female orphans, young wi⯑dows, or ſtill more unhappy objects, for⯑ſaken, or ill treated wives, to betake themſelves to, in ſuch diſtreſſes. For in all theſe circumſtances, women who live alone, have need of ſomething more than either prudence or a fair character, to guard them from rudeneſs or cenſure.

Now ſome ſort of foundation, under the government of a reſpectable matron⯑age, [57] endowed for ſuch a purpoſe, would certainly be an inſtitution moſt devout⯑ly to be wiſhed for, as a relief in the dif⯑ficulties of thoſe ſituations I have juſt mentioned. Here women might enjoy all the pleaſures and advantages of living ſtill in the world, have their conduct re⯑ciprocally vouched by one another, and be ſcreened from thoſe artful and inſidi⯑ous eſſays, which young or pretty wo⯑men, when once become helpleſs adjec⯑tives of ſociety, are generally liable to.

I have had a letter from Sir William, and for once he ſeems pleaſed with my determination of ſtaying in the country. This has made me very happy—tho' had he commanded my attendance in Dub⯑lin, I would have obeyed; for I will at leaſt endeavour to deſerve the character [58] which the offended Moor gives of the gentle Deſdemona—‘"As you ſay, obe⯑dient,—very obedient!"’—and, as I have already told my Fanny, that is all that I can at preſent promiſe.

I think it is a little century ſince I have heard from you; I ſuppoſe you did not chuſe to interrupt me in my narrative, but I expect, and I think reaſonably, that you ſhould now hold forth, in your turn, and allow me credit for the enter⯑tainment which I am certain you muſt have received, from Mrs. Walter's ſtory. I have this moment got a card from Miſs Aſhford, to congratulate me, on my re⯑covery, and to let me know that Lord Lucan and ſhe will wait on me, this afternoon.

[59]Is it not odd, Fanny, that I ſhould not have heard of his being at Sir Arthur Aſhford's, till now? Perhaps he went there directly from Walterſburgh; if ſo, he muſt certainly be attached to Miſs Aſhford. But of what conſequence are his engagements to me!

I ſhall not know how to behave to him, uncertain as I am with regard to that unaccountable adventure, at Co⯑lonel Walter's.—If he is innocent of that inſult, he will be aſtoniſhed at the cold⯑neſs and diſtance of my manners towards him; if guilty, ſurely his own confuſion will betray him, and he ſhall never ſee my face again.

But why ſhould he bring Miſs Aſh⯑ford with him, to Southfield? Does not [60] this look as if he feared an explanation? Guilty, guilty, upon honour!

LETTER XXXIV.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

I Have ſuch a variety of ſubjects to treat of, that I know not which to be⯑gin with; but I think I ought to pay my dear Fanny the compliment of attending firſt to her long wiſhed-for and truly welcome letter.

I had not a doubt but that your huma⯑nity would be both affected and intereſted for the unhappy Mrs. Walter. The good⯑neſs both of your head and heart is eminently conſpicious in the proper uſe [61] you have made of her misfortunes. To lighten and invalidate our own ſufferings, by comparing them with thoſe of others, is truly philoſophic: but that firmneſs of mind, or rather toughneſs of heart, which enables us to bear our own miſeries with patience and compoſure, is, in general, but too apt to render us callous to thoſe tender feelings, which ſhould be excited by the woes of others.—Let me then con⯑gratulate myſelf on having a ſiſter whoſe Stoiciſm is confined only to herſelf, while her tenderneſs and compaſſion are ex⯑tended to the numerous, the unbounded circle of the unhappy!

Yes, my Fanny, your requeſt ſhall be complied with; Mrs. Walter is al⯑ready made happy in the hope of being known to ſuch a generous mind as yours. [62] She has confeſſed to me, that, in her pre⯑ſent ſituation, ſhe had ſuffered a thouſand apprehenſions, leſt my kindneſs to her might involve me in difficulties with Sir William; but that ſhe could think of no expedient to prevent this evil, but flying to a convent, which ſhe feared to pro⯑poſe, as her going there muſt be attended with what ſhe thought too conſiderable an expence.

I ſhould have ſtrongly objected to this ſcheme, from her ill ſtate of health, though ſhe is, however, amazingly recovered, ſince her enlargement from that worſe than priſon, where her poor mind was fettered, though her limbs were free—And I have great hopes, from the calm ſtate in which ſhe now appears, of her recovery.—She has really an extraordi⯑nary [63] underſtanding, allowing for her youth and inexperience; and from that, I truſt, that ſhe will be able to conquer the tenderneſs ſhe formerly felt for the moſt worthleſs of his ſex.

She is to ſet out this night for Corke, where ſhe is conſigned to the care of an eminent merchant, a particular friend of Lucy Leiſter's, who will enſure her a paſſage in one of the beſt ſhips that ſails from thence to Briſtol.—On her ar⯑rival there, ſhe is to be put into the care of Benſon's niece, who is married to a ſtationer, and is commanded by her aunt to attend her up to London, and lodge her ſafe under your kind protection. One of farmer Wilſon's daughters goes with her, to attend the little Olivia—The girl has lived in ſome creditable families, [64] and is tolerably clever—Both Mrs. Wal⯑ter and her lovely child have made an aſtoniſhing progreſs in learning Engliſh; they have capacities for every thing.

When the moment arrives of bidding her adieu, which it ſhortly muſt, I ſhall be ſenſible of a more mixed ſenſation than I have ever felt before; I know that I ought to rejoice at our ſeparation, for her ſake; but I cannot help being ſelfiſh enough to regret it, for my own.

Amazement falls infinitely ſhort of what I felt, when I read the paragraph in your letter relative to Mrs. Colville! I am ſhocked as well as you at the train of ideas which obtruded themſelves upon me, in conſequence of her unnatural pro⯑poſal—‘"Alarmed about my brother!"’ [65] No, Heaven forbid that I ſhould ever think of him in ſuch a light! He ever diſliked, and he muſt now deteſt her—But Sir George is of a mild and gentle nature, not apt to give the reins to his reſentments; his natural and acquired good breeding muſt prevent his ſpeak⯑ing hardly of a woman who even pretends to love him; and the involuntary reſpect with which he is inſpired for Delia's mo⯑ther, muſt increaſe his reſtraint, and ſi⯑lence every ſarcaſtical reflection.

Now for myſelf—I know not what to think about Lord Lucan; never was confuſion equal to mine, at ſeeing him—this rendered me incapable of obſerving him; but Lucy, who was preſent at our interview, aſſured me there was nothing particular in his appearance, except the [66] paleneſs of his countenance, and his ſur⯑priſe at my manner, which I am ſure muſt have been perfectly diſtrait.

Why did he bring Miſs Aſhford here? She doubtleſs remarked the alteration in my behaviour; and I am perhaps, at this moment, the object of their ridicule.—I never ſaw her look ſo handſome as ſhe did that evening—I ſuppoſe they will ſoon be married: I wiſh it was over, and that they were both gone to his ſeat in the North.

I have been extremely uneaſy, theſe three days, about my little Harriet—ſhe looks ill, and neither eats, or ſleeps, yet will not allow that ſhe is ſick. I ſhould certainly apprehend her being in love, if ſhe had ſeen any object lately, that could have inſpired her with that paſſion.

[67]No, my dear Fanny! my adventure at Walterſburgh was not a dream; yet I ſometimes think with you, that Lord Lucan could never have been guilty of ſuch an indecorum; tho' I do not now agree with you, that he is at all affected with any particular ſentiment towards me. And I ſincerely rejoice in diſſenting from your opinion, on this ſubject.

By ſending Mrs. Walter to you, I have barred my own hopes of ſeeing you in Ireland; and I, alas! have none of meet⯑ing you, in England—I cannot let this effort of generoſity paſs, without marking it, for perhaps it is the higheſt exertion of that virtue which I may ever have an opportunity of diſplaying.

I go now to bid adieu to your future charge—She will have the happineſs of [68] ſeeing my Fanny, almoſt as ſoon as this can reach her hands.—An involuntary ſigh has juſt eſcaped me! Down, ſelfiſh thoughts!

LETTER XXXV.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

I Have received your letter, my Lou⯑iſa, and I have alſo received your fair, your lovely friend! Mrs. Walter arrived in Dover-ſtreet laſt night—Prepared as I was, by your deſcription, the extreme delicacy of her form ſurpaſſed my im⯑agination—I can ſcarcely perſuade my⯑ſelf that ſhe is compounded of the ſame materials of which common mortals are made; at leaſt I am certain that there [69] muſt be as much difference, as there is between the clay of which the fineſt por⯑celain is formed, and that which makes the coarſeſt earthen-ware.

I am ſorry to ſay the ſimile is ſtrength⯑ened by an appearance of extreme fragi⯑lity and weakneſs, which alarms one's tenderneſs into a kind of apprehenſion for her ſafety, every moment; and is, in my mind infinitely more intereſting, than the moſt healthful glow of beauty in its higheſt bloom—I am ſure if I were a man, I ſhould be in love with her, and of courſe miſerable, for I could not help conſidering her but as a mere beauteous ſhadow, which arough blaſt too quickly might diſſolve—But though not a lover, I am determined to cheriſh this fair idea, and for that purpoſe I ſhall take lodg⯑ings [70] at Kenſington Gravel-pits, tomorrow, for three weeks, or a month; as I do not think the ſeaſon far enough advan⯑ced, to carry her to the Hot-wells, or venture her even ſo far as Cleveland-hall.

There is, as you have already obſerv⯑ed, ſomething uncommonly engaging in her manner of ſpeaking; but her ſenti⯑ments need no addition—I never heard ſuch warm, yet elegant expreſſions of gratitude, as ſhe uſed in ſpeaking of you; her tears flowed faſt while ſhe uttered them. The little Olivia took her hand, and ſaid, ‘"Mamma, Lady Barton is ſo good, that I know it would grieve her to think ſhe made you weep; for I am ſure ſhe meant to dry your tears."’

But Mrs. Walter is at this moment writing to you, I will therefore leave her [71] to expreſs her own ſentiments, which ſhe will do much better than I can, becauſe ſhe feels more.

I am charmed with your ſcheme of an Engliſh proteſtant monaſtery, though I am much afraid that both you wrote, and I read, that paſſage in your letter, with too ſelfiſh feelings and reflections. The general idea of convents I am as much averſe to as you are; and I am ſure that none of thoſe abroad, would be a proper retreat for our fair client—The ſtrictneſs of their inſtitutions, and the harſhneſs of their diſcipline, would ſoon diſpatch her to the region of ſaints. Be⯑ſides, ſuch a place would be as unfit for one in her ſtate of mind, as well as of bo⯑dy—Need the already unhappy afflict themſelves ſtill further, with auſterities?

[72]There is a paragraph in your letter, which gives me infinite concern: my dear Louiſa muſt no longer boaſt a heart quite free from love—She is, I am afraid, a ſtricken deer; but I will hope that the wound is not mortal, and that it may yet be healed, though not with⯑out a cicatrice.—Why!—Aſk yourſelf, my ſiſter, why all theſe apprehenſions about Miſs Aſhford? Why is ſhe to be married to Lord Lucan, merely becauſe ſhe came with him to viſit you? And why ſhould you ſuſpect an amiable young woman of ſuch mean malice, as, without provocation, to attempt to render you ridiculous?—Theſe are not the genu⯑ine feelings of my Louiſa's heart! the ſtings of jealouſy have inſtilled its ve⯑nom, and this paſſion has but two ſources, pride and love.

[73]I moſt ſincerely wiſh that Lord Lu⯑can and Miſs Aſhford were married, and that they were gone to his lordſhip's ſeat in the North, or to any other point of the compaſs that may be moſt re⯑mote from the neighbourhood of South⯑field.

I cannot help trembling for your hap⯑pineſs, Louiſa—I well know that I have nothing elſe to fear for; but is not that ſufficient! I have, with pain, long beheld your growing partiality for his lordſhip; yet I hoped, againſt the conviction of my own heart, which ſtill overflows with tenderneſs for an unworthy object, that you would be able to conquer it—But let me here obſerve, Louiſa, that our ſituations are ſo widely different, that the weakneſs which may in mine, not [74] only be pardoned, but pitied, becomes criminal in yours.

This you may poſſibly ſay, is hard meaſure; but as we were none of us in a condition to make terms for ourſelves, before we came into the world, we muſt ſubmit to thoſe that this ſame world has impoſed on us ſince; and believe me, that they who ſtruggle leaſt againſt thoſe chains which cuſtom has forged for our ſex are leaſt likely to feel their weight.—The world is jealous of its rites; it haughtily reſents, and harſhly chaſtizes, the ſmalleſt breach of them; nor did I ever know a man or woman, who boaſt⯑ed that they deſpiſed its laws, and truſt⯑ed to their own integrity, who were not ſoon ſeverely puniſhed by its contempt or cenſure.

[75]So much by way of cenſor; now let the friend and ſiſter plead for the preſer⯑vation of your peace, which cannot be maintained with loſs of fame, though conſcious innocence might plead your juſtification ever ſo ſtrongly—Should your character happen to be impeach⯑ed, from any miſconduct of yours, remember that your huſband has a right to reſent your having forfeited the high⯑eſt truſt which manly confidence can commit to female delicacy, the preſer⯑vation both of his honour and her own! and that from that moment you muſt appear in the light of a criminal, towards him at leaſt, tho' you ſtand ever ſo clear, with regard to yourſelf. How truly hu⯑miliating muſt ſuch a ſituation be, to a mind like yours!

[76]I have drawn this ſad proſpect in the ſtrongeſt colours, in hopes that my Loui⯑ſa will ſtart from the brink of the pre⯑cipice where ſhe now ſtands, and in⯑ſtantly retreat into the gentle path of do⯑meſtic happineſs.—I am truly grieved that the roughneſs of Sir William's man⯑ners may render this walk leſs ſmooth and pleaſing than it ſhould be; yet ſure⯑ly it is eaſier to tread on pebbles than on thorns! And with the latter we ſhall cer⯑tainly find thoſe ways ſtrewed, that lead from the road which Providence has marked out for us.

I ſhould deteſt myſelf if I were able to add another line on this ſubject, yet I hope that my tears have not ſo much blotted what I have already written, as to prevent your reading it.

[77]Mrs. Walter is determined to write to her huſband, and I think her right in it, for ſome of the reaſons given above; though Heaven knows ſhe owes him no compliment, nor ſcarcely duty—She ſhall not, however, if I can prevent her, write for ſome days, as it muſt hurry her poor weak ſpirits, which want much to be recruited.

I have not heard from my brother, for ſome time. Adieu,

LETTER XXXVI.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

IF I were not perfectly convinced of the fallacy of judicial aſtrology, I ſhould fancy you were a conjurer, Lu⯑can; and that you had calculated Mar⯑garita's nativity—How elſe could you, at ſuch a diſtance, diſcover that ſhe was compounded of art; while I, who ſaw her every day, and all the day, was ſo thoroughly hoodwinked by her beau⯑ty, as to imagine her mind as faultleſs as her form! What a numſcull! what a coxcomb have I been? She had cunning enough to perſuade, and I folly enough to believe, that ſhe loved me to diſtrac⯑tion—For the reſt of my life I ſhall con⯑ſider [79] myſelf as an idiot; though yon are to take notice, that I will not be called ſo, even by you—But the worſt of it is that I am a ruined fool too.—Don't laugh, Lucan; I ſhall be ready to cut your throat if you do; but I know you will not, when I tell you that I am ſevere⯑ly hurt.

In my laſt I acquainted you, that I had loſt a large ſum at play, and was wait⯑ing at Venice for remittances, which ar⯑rived in a few days—Margarita had a mind, as ſhe ſaid, that we ſhould quit Venice with a coup d'eclat, and prevailed on me to hire jewels, to the amount of two thouſand pounds, to ornament her⯑ſelf on the laſt night of our appearance at the carnival. I readily complied with her requeſt, though I had before laid [80] out very near that ſum in the ſame ſort of trumpery for her.

She looked like an angel when ſhe was dreſſed, that I muſt acknowledge; and I never once thought of ſearching for the cloven foot, beneath ſuch a dazzling brightneſs.

We went together to the maſque⯑rade, and with us a man ſhe called her brother, whom I have ſince diſcovered to be her galant, and a notorious ſharper. I ſoon engaged at play—fortune favoured me, for a time; but before the concluſion of the night, ſhe was at her old tricks again, and I loſt five-hundred guineas.

The agitation, naturally attendant on the viciſſitudes of play, had taken off [81] my attention, even from Margarita, ſo that I felt no anxiety at not having ſeen her for ſeveral hours. It was very late when I went home; and judge of my amazement when I was told ſhe had not returned, from the time we ſet out to⯑gether—I flew back again into the ſtreet, and ran, like a diſtracted man, into every houſe that was open; but the company were retired from every place, and I could find no trace of her.

I will not pretend to give you an idea of my ſituation, for I can now hardly recollect the ſtate of my mind at that time, much leſs deſcribe it.—About nine o'clock in the morning, a Mendicant friar brought a letter to my door, in which were contained theſe words.

The reading of this letter intirely conquered every paſſion of my mind, but rage; and I think I could at that moment, have ſtranged the inſolent gypſy who wrote it—But I was not ſuffered to brood over it long; for the Jew, from whom I had hired the jewels, came to demand them.—I knew not what to do; I had ſettled with my banker the day before, and as I intended leaving Venice, I had withdrawn my letter of credit, and had [84] not half ſo much caſh as would anſwer the Iſraelite's demand.—Lord Stormont happened luckily to come in, to pay me a viſit; I frankly told him my diſtreſs, and he kindly lent me a draft on his ban⯑ker, which ſatisfied old Shylock.

I wrote on the inſtant to my agent, to cut down a wood that was planted, for ought I know, by my great-grand⯑father; and thus my good tall oaks, that have been at leaſt fourſcore years grow⯑ing, have vaniſhed into the hands of Jews, and jades, for one night's no diverſion at the carnival.

Indeed, Lucan, I begin to think that we Engliſh are very ſilly fellows. But why ſhould I lump my countrymen, when I am really convinced that there is not [85] ſuch another noodle in the world, as myſelf?

How go on your love affairs? They can't be in ſuch a deſperate ſtate as mine.—Our countrywomen have not ſpirit enough to ſtrike ſuch a ſtroke as my Diàvoleſſa has done, and I now begin to think that a man had better be con⯑tented with the wholſome home-brewed beer of old England, than pay too dear for Tokay.

Now I talk of England, I ſhould like very well to return there, if I were not aſhamed to ſee Fanny Cleveland, and afraid of being laughed at by my old friends at Almac's, and Boodle's, and in ſhort every where.—Do, my dear Lucan, tell me what I ſhall do with myſelf? [86] for I am at preſent the moſt deſolate, as well as deſultory of mortals.—But in all ſtates I ſhall continue affectionately yours,

LETTER XXXVII.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

AS you have made it a point, I will not laugh at what you ſeem to con⯑ſider as a misfortune, but you muſt per⯑mit me to ſay, that I have not received ſo much pleaſure, for a long time, as from your account of Margarita's elope⯑ment.—Believe me, my friend, you have got cheaply off, even with the loſs of ſome thouſands—Character is of infinite⯑ly more value than fortune—But I am [87] perſuaded that both yours would have been totally ruined, had you continued much longer connected with that moſt in⯑famous and artful woman.

There is nothing ſo very particular in your adventure, as to make you ap⯑prehend yourſelf peculiarly ridiculous; for I will take upon me to ſay, that there is not one in ten of our countrymen, that has made the ſame tour which you have done, who has not been duped by ſome ‘"Jay of Italy."’—Don't publiſh the ſtory yourſelf, and others will be cau⯑tious how they mention it to you.—I will alſo venture to promiſe that Miſs Cleveland has too much delicacy herſelf, to wound yours, though I have not the honour of knowing her.

[88]If you have no other objections but thoſe I have alluded to, and which I have ſufficiently obviated, I would, by all means, wiſh you to return immedi⯑ately to England.—But pr'ythee why, my dear Hume, have you made a com⯑pariſon ſo extremely injurious to our fair countrywomen? whoſe beauty, is at leaſt the boaſt of Europe; nor do I believe that either Georgia, or the Grecian iſles, can produce any thing that ſurpaſſes them, in lovelineſs or elegance of form: your home-brewed beer was a ſimile for a porter, or at beſt for a mere hunt⯑ing 'ſquire.

I am firmly perſuaded, from this in⯑ſtance, that you have converſed more with Engliſhmen than foreigners, ſince you have been on the continent—This is [89] one of the unpardonable abſurdities com⯑mon to our nation.—We go, or are ſent abroad, by our friends—I had almoſt ſaid our enemies—at great expence; and then, inſtead of informing ourſelves of the manners and police of the places we are in, our firſt purſuit is to find out our countrymen, and herd with them con⯑tinually, merely becauſe they are ſo; by which conduct we contrive ſtill to re⯑tain thoſe prejudices we ſhould have left at home, and cultivate only the follies and vices we meet with abroad.

But a truce with reflections of every kind: and in anſwer to your query, with regard to the ſituation of my heart, I can with truth aſſure you, that it is infi⯑nitely more wretched than your own.—I never had the leaſt reaſon to flatter my⯑ſelf [90] with the moſt diſtant idea of being beloved by the object of my paſſion, yet had my vanity inſpired me with the fond hope of having obtained ſome ſmall ſhare in her friendſhip and eſteem—How I have forfeited this bleſſing I know not; but it now is fled, my friend, and with it all my happineſs.

I have been, for ſome time paſt, at the ſeat of Sir Arthur Aſhford; you muſt remember him at college; he has a ſiſter, who is both handſome and agreeable; and had I a diſengaged heart, I know no woman to whom I would ſooner offer my hand—But never ſhall I be guilty of ſuch, baſeneſs, as to defraud an innocent and amiable woman of her affections, while, like a wretched bankrupt, I have not an equivalent to make.

[91]The circumſtance of Miſs Aſhford's living with her brother, will prevent my ſpending as much of my time with him as I could wiſh.—The world will be apt to ſuppoſe that her attractions might have drawn me thither, and this may poſſibly prevent a real and deſerving lover from making his addreſſes there—I will, therefore, ſpeedily retire to my own ſeat, to ſolitude and ſorrow.

You are incapable of forming any idea of the charming, delicate, but diſtracted ſituation of my mind—May happier days be yours! Adieu,

LETTER XXXVIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

YES, Fanny, I confeſs it! you have ſearched my boſom, and found the arrow rankling in my heart! Too cruel ſiſ⯑ter! better, ſure far better, that you had re⯑mained ignorant of my diſeaſe, unleſs you can preſcribe a cure! I now deteſt myſelf; and all that generous confidence, which is the true reſult and firm ſupport of real vir⯑tue, is for ever fled! I ſhrink even from the mild eye of friendſhip—The tender, the affectionate looks of Harriet and Lu⯑cy, now diſtreſs me! How then ſhall I endure the ſtern expreſſion of contempt and rage, from an offended huſband's angry brow! There is but one thing [93] that could be more dreadful—I mean his kindneſs—That alone could add new horrors to my wretched ſtate, and make me feel the humiliating ſituation of a criminal ſtill more than I now do.

I am, I am a criminal! Alas! you know not to what degree I am ſo! But I will tell you all, lay bare my heart be⯑fore you, and beg you not to ſoothe, but probe its wounds.

At about a quarter of a mile from our houſe, there is an octagon temple, which overlooks a fine piece of water, adjoining to which there is a beautiful and extenſive wood; this room then, I have fitted up in a very elegant taſte, as a ſmall library, or muſeum, for myſelf, and it is intirely devoted to my hours of [94] retirement—Here I read, write, draw, or ruminate. In this ſpot, on the day after I laſt wrote to you, was I ſitting and mu⯑ſing, I will confeſs it, on the happineſs which might have been my portion, had I happened to have met Lord Lucan be⯑fore I was Sir William Barton's wife.

The tears ſtreamed inſenſibly from my eyes, and ſo much dimmed my ſight, as to make it doubtful whether the figure I then ſaw of Lord Lucan, walking by the canal, was real, or viſionary—I roſe immeditaely to the window, and per⯑ceived it to be him.

He came ſlowly on, gazing intently on a miniature picture, which he ſome⯑times preſſed to his lips, and ſometimes held at a diſtance, as if to place it in dif⯑ferent [95] points of view. Bluſhing, I own it, Fanny, I felt the pangs of jealouſy; I doubted not but it was Miſs Aſhford's picture, and inſtantly deteſted the origi⯑ginal—How unworthy, how unjuſt, do I now appear, in my own ſight!

My feet became as much rivetted to the place where I ſtood, as Lord Lu⯑can's eyes were to the picture—He ſaw me not, till he came cloſe to the window, and then, in the utmoſt confuſion, ſlipt the portrait into his pocket.

He came into the temple, covered with bluſhes, made a thouſand apologies for having intruded upon my retirement, though he ſaid he had come on purpoſe to take his leave, as he meant to quit Sir Arthur Aſhford's, and ſet out for his own ſeat, the next day.

[96]With more pique than prudence, I told him that I was ſurpriſed at his hav⯑ing reſolution ſufficient to tear himſelf from a perſon, whoſe picture was ſo dear to him as I ſuppoſed that to be, to which I had ſeen him pay his adorations, when I fancied he might have the ori⯑ginal as a companion for life, if he choſe it.

I never ſaw ſurpriſe ſo ſtrongly paint⯑ed, as in his countenance—His voice faltered while he replied, ‘"Were that poſſible, madam, I ſhould be the hap⯑pieſt man alive—But, alas! there is a bar, an inſuperable bar, which cannot be ſurmounted! therefore, madam, do I tear myſelf from the too lovely object of a deſpairing paſſion."’

[97]I was very near as much confuſed as Lord Lucan, and, without knowing what I ſaid, replied, ‘"I pity you, my Lord, and am truly ſorry."’—At that inſtant, he in an extacy, exclaimed, O ſtop! moſt honoured! moſt beloved of women! nor raiſe my tranſports to that dangerous height, which may exceed to madneſs! yet, yet again repeat the charming ſound! and by your pity overpay my ſufferings.

It was impoſſible for any one, not quite an idiot, to miſunderſtand this declar⯑ation—Yet was I abſurd enough to ſeem ignorant of his meaning, and anſwered that I did not conceive of what uſe my pity could be to him, as I could not hope to have more influence on Miſs Aſhford, than himſelf.

[98]He ſtarted from his ſeat, and, with a look that ſeemed to pierce through all my little artifice, cried out ‘"Miſs Aſh⯑ford, Madam! how is it her concern? Surely, my Lord, I replied, I thought it was that Lady's picture, with which you ſeemed ſo much delighted, as you walked along."’

He gazed on me again with earneſt⯑neſs, as he would read my thoughts, and then with downcaſt looks, as ſpeaking to himſelf, he ſaid—‘"It muſt be ſo! that form, that angel form, cannot deceive, and my temerity is yet a ſecret—It ſhall remain ſo; for I will fly, for ever, from her ſight."’

He turned away his face, to hide his tears; and had I ſuffered our converſation to have ended there, I had been far leſs [99] guilty than I am.—But vanity, that bane of female virtue, led me on, to tell him that I could not be ſatisfied, without a farther explanation on this ſubject; and that, as he had declared Miſs Aſhford was not the object of his paſſion, I hoped he could have no objection to ſhewing me the picture of a perſon, whom, in all probability, I neither did, nor poſſibly might ever know.

He looked at me then, with a counte⯑nance more ſolemn than I had ever ſeen him wear: I bluſhed exceſſively, from a conſciouſneſs of my own inſincerity; he ſaw into my thoughts, and, with a firm, and yet affecting manner, ſpoke thus.

‘"Do not, for your own ſake, Madam, extend the cruelty of your triumph be⯑yond [100] my demerits, nor wantonly ſport with the miſeries of one, whom yon have, though innocently, rendered wretched. Nature formed you in her moſt perfect model, and gave me ſuſceptibility to ad⯑mire thoſe charms, which, to my endleſs grief, were then devoted to another.—I ſought, not Madam, to invade his right, or ſoil the purity of your fair boſom, with one improper thought. Your friend⯑ſhip, your eſteem, I wiſhed to gain; and for that purpoſe kept my love concealed. Chance only has revealed it—How am I to blame? or wherefore ſhould I now become the object of your hatred, or contempt? Your pity was the ſole indul⯑gence I ever ſhould have dared to have ſolicited and that you might, without a crime, have beſtowed. The wildneſs of my paſſion flattered my fond hopes that you [101] had juſt now granted it—Judge of its value by my tranſports, Madam—But you recal the precious gift; and all that I now dare preſume to aſk, is your for⯑giveneſs; allow me that, and never more ſhall the unhappy Lucan offend your eyes, or feaſt his own, with gazing on your charms."’

Tears ſtopped his utterance—O, Fan⯑ny! was it poſſible that my eyes ſhould be dry? they ſtreamed too ſurely—I con⯑feſs my weakneſs—At that moment my heart firſt felt the luxury of tears—The ſoft effuſion flowed from pity, from ten⯑derneſs, from—dare I pronounce it, love!

The emotion he diſcovered at ſeeing me weep, was quite extravagant—He [102] threw himſelf at my feet, ſnatched my hand, and preſſed it to his lips, and vowed he would never riſe till I pro⯑nounced his pardon. At that inſtant, I heard the ſound of voices that ap⯑proached us, and exclaimed, ‘"Riſe, my Lord, I pardon, and I pity you."’

He had ſcarce time to obey me, before Colonel Walter, Lucy, and Harriet en⯑tered the temple—The apparent con⯑fuſion, both of Lord Lucan's looks, and mine, with the tears that ſtill trembled in our eyes, was but too viſible to paſs unnoticed; Lucy appeared ſurpriſed at the ſight of Lord Lucan, Harriet's face was covered with bluſhes, and the Co⯑lonel, by a malignant ſmile, ſhewed that he enjoyed our diſtreſs.

[103]He preſented me with a letrer from Sir William, whom he had left in Dublin, and ſaid he hoped that would plead his excuſe, for having interrupted what he thought the moſt agreeable party in the world, a ſentimental tête à tête; and turning briſkly to Lord Lucan, aſked him if he had been relating the melancholy ſtory of Eloiſe and Abelard, or the more diſ⯑aſtrous loves of Hero and Leander?

Pique now got the better of my con⯑fuſion, and, without waiting for Lord Lucan's reply, I anſwered, that we need not go ſo far back, for melancholy tales; for that I was acquainted with ſome per⯑ſons now living, whoſe ſufferings far exceeded thoſe of the unfortunate ladies he had mentioned. He turned his pier⯑cing eyes quick upon me, at theſe words, [104] and for the firſt time of his life, I be⯑lieve, bluſhed.

O, Fanny, what an indiſcreet, and conſequently unhappy wretch, is your ſiſ⯑ter! Thank Heaven, Mrs. Walter is out of his reach! But have I not, by this un⯑guarded ſpeech, betrayed the ſecret to her tyrant! I never ſhall forgive myſelf.

My Lucy, ever kind and attentive to her now unworthy friend, relieved us all from our embarraſſment, by rendering the converſation general, and propoſed our returning to the houſe, as there was hardly time for me to dreſs, before dinner; and added, that ſhe would either endea⯑vour to entertain the gentlemen at the harpſichord, or engage with them at billiards.

[105]We then all ſet out, ſeemingly at eaſe—But who can read the human heart, or the various ſprings that actuate its move⯑ments! Mine, wretched as it is, had then received a hateful gueſt, unknown to it before! Conſciouſneſs of having erred! its ſure attendants, fear, and ſhame, now followed cloſe, and when I reached my toilet, and viewed my ſha⯑dow in the glaſs, my colour varied, as theſe paſſions worked, and I became al⯑ternate red and pale.

Poor Benſon ſaw the effect, without the cauſe, and was alarmed—She would have got me drops, which I refuſed: ſick, ſick at heart I was, but where is the medicine that can abate its conflicts! Le⯑the! O for a draught of it!—A ſhower of tears ſomewhat relieved me; I read [106] Sir William's letter; cruelleſt of huſ⯑and's! it was the kindeſt that he had ever wrote, ſince he obtained that title! He will return to Southfield, in a few days—How ſhall I look upon him, Fanny?

I cannot now go on, my next ſhall tell you all.

P.S. I have read Mrs. Walter's let⯑ter, and yours; but am at preſent inca⯑pable of anſwering either.

LETTER XXXIX.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

AMIDST the variety of diſagree⯑able thoughts which had diſturbed me, curioſity aſſerted its rights in a fe⯑male breaſt, and increaſed my uneaſineſs, by a wiſh to know how Lord Lucan had obtained my picture.—I never had but two miniatures taken of me; one, in my happy days, for my dear Fanny; and a ſecond, laſt winter, in Dublin, at the earneſt requeſt of my niece, ſoon after ſhe came to live with us.—It was impoſſible that he ſhould be in poſſeſſion of the firſt, and a train of very unpleaſant ideas ſucceeded to the thought of Harriet's having given him the latter.

[108]I ſent for her directly—When ſhe came into my dreſſing-room, I perceived ſhe had been weeping, and I alſo perceived my picture on her arm—This put a ſtop to the inquiry I had deſigned to make; and by way of ſaying ſomething, I aſked her where Lord Lucan was? She ſaid ſhe had juſt then left him in Sir Wil⯑liam's library.

My curioſity was again raiſed to know the cauſe of Harriet's tears; I could not aſk her—But my heart informed me—She loves Lord Lucan.—Unhappy girl! yet ſtill far happier than I! ſhe may, with⯑out a bluſh, avow her paſſion; while mine muſt cover me with endleſs ſhame.

Yet wherefore ſhould there be this falſe diſtinction? If paſſion is involuntary, [109] it cannot be criminal; 'tis conſequences only that can make it ſo; and Harriet and Louiſa both may love, with inno⯑cence.—

Flattering ſophiſtry! Alas! I would deceive myſelf, but cannot! Have I not vowed, even at the altar vowed, to love another? Yet can that vow be binding, which promiſes what is not in our pow⯑er, even at the time we make it? But grant it were, the contract ſure is mutual; and when one fails, the other ſhould be free.

Wretched Louiſa! ſtrive no more to varniſh o'er thy faults—Thou wert a cri⯑minal, in the firſt act, who wedded with⯑out love; and all the miſeries which pro⯑ceed from thence, too juſtly are thy due.

[110]Yes, Fanny, I will take your counſel, and will patiently ſubmit to thoſe cor⯑roſive chains, which I myſelf have rivet⯑ed; I will not murmur, but I muſt com⯑plain to you, and you alone, my friend, my ſiſter! Deſert me not, while I deſerve your pity, and I will ſtill endeavour to deſerve it!

Lord Lucan is gone! My intreaties have prevailed, he returns not to Aſh-park, or Southfield, any more.—Do not congratulate me on this imaginary tri⯑umph; I have bought the conceſſion but too dear—I have avowed my love! Do not deteſt me, Fanny! I ſaw no other way to ſecure my virtue—By confeſſing my paſſion, I have put it out of my pow⯑er ever to ſee, or converſe with the object or it more—He is baniſhed for ever from [111] my ſight—What would my ſiſter, or what the rigid world, have more!

With infinite difficulty I diſcovered that the innocent and undeſigning Har⯑riet had lent him my picture, and he ſent off his ſervant to France, to get it copied, who returned with it to Aſh-park, on the day I firſt ſaw it in his hand.

I ſhall never take notice of this affair, to her, as I too well know how difficult it muſt be to refuſe the requeſt of one we love—But ſurely his making this re⯑queſt muſt have ſeverely pained her ten⯑der heart—Sweet, gentle innocent! I moſt ſincerely pity her diſtreſs.

The deteſtable Colonel Walter ſtays with us ſtill, though unaſked—I think [112] he looks with prying eyes, on all my actions; yet what are they to him? He has no friendſhip, either for Sir Wil⯑liam, for me, or any one elſe.—Cruel conſciouſneſs that compelled me to ban⯑iſh Lord Lucan, and ſuffer Colonel Wal⯑ter to remain in my houſe! Have I not, Fanny, ſufficiently ſacrificed to forms and ſcruples?

I have this moment received a letter from Sir William; buſineſs detains him for a month longer in town—I rejoice, for his ſake, as much as my own; as I hope I ſhall recover a greater degree of com⯑poſure, than I am at preſent miſtreſs of, by the time he returns.

I deteſt diſſimulation, yet as Lucilla ſays, ‘"Diſſembling may for once be [113] virtuous,"’ ^* at leaſt ſo far as to con⯑ceal that fault which cannot now be pre⯑vented—Yet truſt me, Sir William, truſt me, my honoured brother, and beloved ſiſter, no ſtain ſhall ever reſt upon your names, from my miſconduct! I only ought, and I alone will ſuffer—My vow is paſſed to heaven, and to you.

This unhappy ſubject has ſo totally en⯑groſſed my thoughts, that I find it im⯑poſſible to think of any other; excuſe me, therefore, to our amiable friend, Mrs. Walter; embrace her, and kiſs the young Olivia, for me. Tell me of all your healths, and happineſs, which will ſupply ſome to your ever

P.S. The Colonel has never taken the leaſt notice of the ſuſpicious appearances in the temple—He has informed us, that his intended match with Mrs. Layton is quite off; ſeems perfectly gay and alert, and appears inclined to pay his addreſſes to Miſs Aſhford.—I have injured her, without deſign; but ſhould he have the leaſt chance to ſucceed there, I will atone the injury I have done her, by preventing the connection.

Lucy ſets off this moment—An ex⯑preſs from her lover, who lies dangerouſly ill in Dublin, hurries her away—She is diſtracted—I envy her diſtraction—She may to all the world declare her grief, her love, for the deſerving Creſwell!

LETTER XL.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

INDEED, my Louiſa, your two laſt letters have afflicted me beyond mea⯑ſure: my heart bleeds for your ſufferings, yet reaſon and virtue both forbid my en⯑deavouring to ſoothe your grief, or ſtop your flowing tears, unleſs I could remove the cauſe from whence they ſpring—That, alas! can only be hoped for, from the lenient hand of time, and your own fortitude.

I know how very difficult it is to enter ſo far into another perſon's ſituation, as is neceſſary to judge their actions with candor; we muſt firſt feel and think as they do, before it can become poſſible [116] —I have, therefore, endeavoured by a thorough recollection of your temper and ſentiments, joined to the ſimilarity of our natures, to put myſelf as it were in your place, in order to be able, with juſtice and preciſion, to give my opi⯑nion freely, both with regard to your paſt and future conduct.

I will now venture to tell you that the ſource of your preſent unhappineſs is to be traced much higher than the aera you date it from, your marriage with Sir William Barton—Though I ad⯑mit your own confeſſion, that your firſt fault was committed then—It muſt be the joining of hearts, not hands, that can inſure the marriage rights—I don't miſpell the word^*—And the woman who ſtretches out an empty hand, at the altar, [117] but mocks the inſtitution; and, if I may hazard the boldneſs of the expreſſion, becomes guilty, before her crime; receives an antepaſt of miſery, ‘"And puts her truſt in miracles, for ſafety."’

But the partiality of our ever dear and reſpected parents, ſowed the firſt ſeeds of vanity, in my Louiſa's mind; they lived not long enough to be alarmed at its growth, and to eradicate the poiſon⯑ous weed—By their death, you became your own miſtreſs, at an age when ſelf-applauſe is predominant, in every female breaſt—Young, beautiful, rich, and accompliſhed, how was it poſſible you ſhould eſcape the ſnares of flattery? They twined about your heart; and I have great reaſon now to believe, and lament, that the envied preference you [118] gave to Sir William Barton, by becom⯑ing his wife, was owing more to his having perſevered longer than the reſt of your admirers, in his attentions and at⯑tendance on you, than to that juſt ſelec⯑tion, which ſhould be the reward of diſ⯑tinguiſhed merit, and in which both love and eſteem ſhould happily unite.

At the time of your marriage, I had made but very ſlight obſervations on the matrimonial ſtate, and therefore did not doubt, that though you declared yourſelf inſenſible of any paſſion for Sir William, you might be perfectly happy with him, all the days of your life—I am now convinced of the fallacy of this opi⯑nion, as well as of the imprudence of the declaration you then too openly and unguardedly made.

[119]Believe me, Louiſa, that this was the firſt thing that ſoured your huſband's temper—Men are naturally proud and jealous; they do not eaſily brook diſap⯑pointments, or mortifications; a hope⯑leſs purſuit muſt be attended with both—We are not then to wonder either at Sir William's declining it, or reſenting his ill ſucceſs.

In a former letter you ſay, that ‘"had Sir William continued to ſolicit your affections a little longer, they would have been all his."’ You know not that, Louiſa; your vanity was flattered by the aſſiduities of a lover, and your pride revolted at the authority of a huſband—Neither of theſe ſentiments have any thing to do with paſſion—Had you loved the man you married, you would have wiſhed [120] to preſerve his affection, without being vain of it; and had you ſeen it declining, you would have tried every means to re⯑cover it, without conſidering how much your pride would be hurt by its loſs.

There are, I am convinced, abun⯑dance of ingredients neceſſary to form an happy union for life; but love is, in my opinion, of all others the moſt neceſſary—Like the ſun, it not only brightens and gilds every amiable quality of the beloved object, but draws forth every latent vir⯑tue in our hearts, and excites us to be⯑come as perfect as we can, in order to merit that affection which conſtitutes our true happineſs.

Milton ſeems to be of my opinion, when he makes the firſt of lovers, and of men, ſay thus to Eve,—

I know not why, or how I have launch⯑ed out into this diſſertation upon matri⯑mony, unleſs it be that I wiſh to avoid the painful ſubject of your laſt letters, and yet cannot turn my thoughts upon any thing quite foreign to it—I think I ought, at leaſt, to acknowledge that I am pleaſed with the reſolution you have ſhewn in baniſhing Lord Lucan; and the delica⯑cy of your motive for confeſſing your paſſion to him, is the only poſſible excuſe that can be urged for ſuch an hazardous impropriety.

But let me now hope that my dear Louiſa's virtue will ſoon enable her to [122] riſe above the want of an apology, and that a proper conſciouſneſs of what ſhe owes to herſelf, will aſſiſt her to triumph over that unhappy weakneſs, which ſhe ſo pathetically deſcribes, as the harbinger of fear and ſhame—Hateful, deſtructive paſſions! O be they baniſhed far from every generous breaſt! and, in their room, may hope and joy expand my ſiſter's heart!

Mrs. Walter's health continues ex⯑tremely delicate; the phyſicians, who at⯑tend her, give me hopes that ſhe may re⯑cover, though ſlowly—If it were not for that ſweet promiſer Hope, I ſhould at this moment be the moſt wretched of mor⯑tals, for at this moment every creature that I truly love, is unhappy—Can I then be otherwiſe? I ſhould be ſorry if I could.

[123]My brother has given his final nega⯑tive to Mrs. Colville's propoſal: on her account he will not ſtay longer in Paris; and on his own, he will not return to England—He intends to croſs the Alps, in purſuit of amuſement—May he find that, and every thing elſe he wiſhes!

LETTER XLI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

I Cannot help ſaying, Fanny, that theſe lines ſeem but too applicable to your laſt letter. When I poured forth the an⯑guiſh of my breaking heart before you, had I not a right to expect that my friend and ſiſter would have ſpoken peace to its ſorrows, and poured wine and oil on its wounds? You tell me that ‘"reaſon and virtue forbid theſe tender offices, in my unhappy caſe."’ Are reaſon and virtue, then, at war with wretchedneſs? And muſt guilt be al⯑ways [125] connected with miſery? Or is it, can it be true, that misfortunes looſen the ties of blood as well as friendſhip, and leave the wretch infected by them, to be hurried down the ſtream of life, at the mercy of their own wild paſſions, more deſtructive far than raging winds and ſeas!

Forgive me, Fanny, for this horrid thought! I know your heart is generous and good, and that you did not mean to add to my diſtreſs—Nay, I am cer⯑tain that each wound you gave, was doubly felt by you—Yet why, my ſiſter, ſhould you think it neceſſary to deal ſe⯑verely with me? If, as you ſeem to think, vanity is my predominant foible, why did not my fair philoſopher find out its uſe, and play it off againſt my [126] preſent weakneſs? We ſhould never humble that heart too much, which we have any hopes of reclaiming.

When we become completely vile in our own ſight, we have but little reaſon to hope for the good opinion of others, which, I much fear, is one of our ſtrong⯑eſt incitements to virtue; and when, as you have before obſerved, we are totally indifferent to what the world thinks of us, we too generally not only meet, but deſerve, its cenſure and contempt.

A woman ſtill, my Fanny, under all my diſtreſſes, I am inclined to juſtify the foible you hint at; nay more, to prove that it approaches to the very pro⯑vince of virtue; as it is at leaſt capable of rouſing it to action, and ſometimes of aſſiſting its operations.

[127] ‘"Reſpect thyſelf"’ is certainly one of the beſt tenets, that has ever been con⯑veyed to us—Yet ſurely it ſavours a lit⯑tle of l'amour propre; which term, though exactly tranſlated by the words, ſelf love, conveys yet a different idea to my mind, and appears to have ſome⯑what more of the lightneſs of vanity, than of a ſelf-applauſe, in material matters.

Bravo! Louiſa! How admirably have you trifled through this page, on a ſub⯑ject abſolutely foreign to your heart? But has not my Fanny ſet me the exam⯑ple? And ſhall I not endeavour to imi⯑tate her? Alas! like all other copyiſts, I fall ſhort of the original, for if I write on, I ſhall again recur to the ſad ſource of all my ſorrows,

[128]For your ſake, then, my Fanny, I will reſtrain my pen, and ſuffer this let⯑ter to reach your hands, free from the ſevere tax which has been too often im⯑poſed on you, by my late correſpondence. ‘"For indeed I am not merry, but do beguile the thing I am, by ſeeming otherwiſe."’

I am running into quotations; but they are natural to a diſturbed mind; as perſons in ſuch a ſtate would rather uſe any body's ſenſe, than their own—For whatever can divert the mind, or turn it from its own reflections, muſt be a point gained from miſery. Therefore do I en⯑deavour thus to ſport, I find, in vain; for laughter without mirth, is but hyſterical, and may end in tears.

My ſincereſt good wiſhes attend Mrs. Walter, and I may venture to add, that [129] I am both to her, and you, much more than to myſelf,

LETTER XLII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

I Might with great truth and juſtice re⯑ply to the lemma of my dear Louiſa's letter, by quoting the words that follow it, in the original;^* but though I may not expreſs myſelf as elegantly as Mr. Rowe, I will truſt my defence to the feelings of my heart, on a ſubject where it is ſo truly intereſted.

[130]If ſoothing could alleviate your ſuffer⯑ings, my pen ſhould be taken from the cygnet's wing, and dipped in the honey of Hybla! But alas! my ſiſter, yours is a diſeaſe that will increaſe by indulgence, and which ſeverity alone can cure!

There have been inſtances where the hand of a ſurgeon has trembled, from a conſciouſneſs of the miſery he was obliged to inflict on his patient.

Judge then how unſteadily I now hold the pen that is to wound the heart of my Louiſa, by telling her that I fear ſhe has committed an almoſt irreparable error?

I have already told you that it is long ſince I with grief beheld your partiality [131] for Lord Lucan; but from the idea which you taught me to form of him, and from my thorough knowlege of the deli⯑cacy and propriety of your ſentiments, joined to your ſituation, I had lulled my⯑ſelf into a perfect ſecurity, that Lord Lu⯑can would never dare to inſult the wife of Sir William Barton, with a declaration of his paſſion; and that finding it intirely hopeleſs, he would either conquer or transfer it to ſome other object, from whom he might reaſonably expect a pro⯑per return.

Such an attachment as Lord Lucan's be may compared to winter plants, which, by the aid of hot-houſes, are ren⯑dered capable of producing ſummer fruits, but muſt decay and die without ſuch artificial aid. Hope is the nurſe of [132] love—without it, I am certain it cannot long exiſt, even in the moſt romantic boſom.

Can I then conſider my Louiſa's con⯑duct as blameleſs, when I find Lord Lu⯑can has avowed his paſſion? But what is the ſentence which you would have pro⯑nounced, twelve months ago, upon a married woman who had declared that paſſion to be mutual? Guilty, guilty upon honour! ^*

You have ſtill candour enough to judge yourſelf as ſeverely, as you could any one elſe; you acknowlege yourſelf a criminal; but whither are your candor, and your judgment both fled, when you endeavour to derive merit from what you [133] allow to be a crime, and ſay, that ‘"You confeſſed your paſſion, to preſerve your virtue?"’

I begin to be extremely apprehenſive that reaſon is a very uſeleſs property to man, and can ſeldom do more than di⯑rect our choice, in things that are merely indifferent to us. Apathy is not natural to the human mind; and yet from the mo⯑ment our paſſions begin to operate with any degree of vigour, that ſame boaſted reaſon, which philoſophers tell us ſupplies its place, by controuling their emotions, and directing their purſuits, not only be⯑comes inſtantly ſubſervient to them, but meanly condeſcends to enter into the de⯑fence of their moſt pernicious conſequen⯑ces, and readily engages in the pleaſing, but baneful office, of aſſiſting us to im⯑poſe upon ourſelves.

[134]This is, and muſt be true—At leaſt I wiſh to think ſo; for I would much ra⯑ther attribute my Louiſa's errors to the general defects of our nature, than ac⯑count for them by ſuppoſing any parti⯑cular weakneſs, either in her reaſon, or her virtue—And ſurely ſhe muſt herſelf acknowlege a failure in that judgment, that can be perſuaded we may ſet bounds to the encroachments of a lover, by tell⯑ing him that he is beloved!

Alas, Louiſa! Lord Lucan is not baniſhed from Aſh-park, from Southfield, from your ſight, for ever! But both the world, and I, without being over rigid, have a right to expect that he ſhould no more be permitted to plead his paſſion, or avail himſelf of yours.

If you ſhould be inclined to diſpute the authority which demands this ſacrifice, [135] let me remind you that there is one, who has an undoubted right to claim it; let your honour then make a willing ſa⯑crifice of all future connection with Lord Lucan, as the only atonement you can now make for the injury you have done Sir William Barton.

By this means, and this alone, you may again recover your happineſs; for I know you too well to ſuppoſe that it can ever be compatible with a conſciouſneſs of continuing to act in oppoſition to the ſtricteſt rectitude—I know too, that you have ſtrength of mind ſufficient to accom⯑pliſh this arduous taſk; and that our men⯑tal, like our bodily ſtrength, is increaſed and invigorated by uſe. That generous frankneſs, which is the genuine offspring of virtue, ſhall again reanimate my be⯑loved [136] Louiſa's face, the mild eye of friend⯑ſhip ſhall no longer be painful to her, and ſhe ſhall endure the piercing look of inquiry from her huſband's eyes, with ſoft, yet ſteady dignity.—O may my wiſhes be prophetic! Amen, Amen!

I will now venture to tell you that I am truly grieved for the young, the in⯑nocent, and amiable Harriet! My con⯑cern may poſſibly remind you of Swift's lines,

I acknowledge the ſympathy between us, and would do much to cure her ma⯑lady.

She has, however, the advantage of me in every reſpect;—ſhe is younger, and, of courſe, the impreſſion which her [137] heart has received is more likely be eraſ⯑ed.—The letters we carve on ſaplings, wear out with their growth, while thoſe that are imprinted on the perfect tree re⯑main indelible.

Beſides, it is by no means impoſſible that Lord Lucan may love her yet; for I repeat my opinion, that his paſſion for you is quite a ſickly plant, which muſt neceſſarily periſh, as I am perfectly con⯑vinced that you don't mean to cheriſh it longer.

For all theſe good and weighty rea⯑ſons, I think ſhe may hope, or, at leaſt, I will do ſo for her, that, one way or other, her heart may be ſet at eaſe.—I am in a praying mood, and will ſay, amen! to this wiſh alſo.

[138]I would add another petition to thoſe I have already made, if I hoped it would ſucceed; but I almoſt begin to deſpair of Mrs. Walter's recovery—She conti⯑nues to languiſh, without any viſible ſign of amendment, and the phyſicians now think that the air of a more ſouth⯑ern clime, is the only chance ſhe has for life.

She has written to the good Pere Guil⯑laume, to recommend her to a convent that will receive her and her child, as penſioners, and allow her the liberty of going out in a carriage, for exerciſe, which is abſolutely neceſſary to her ex⯑iſtence.

Were I only to conſider myſelf, the pain I feel at the thought of parting [139] with this charming woman would tempt me to wiſh that I had never known her; but how amply am I recompenſed for that, and a thouſand other ſufferings, by the delightful reflection of having ren⯑dered her mind perfectly tranquil, nay happy, by indulging myſelf in ſettling a ſmall, but decent proviſion, on her darl⯑ing child.

Can all the diamonds that ever iſſued from the Indian mines afford to their poſſeſſors that heart-felt glow of ſatisfac⯑tion I enjoyed, when I had perfected the deed which conveyed two thouſand pounds into the hands of truſtees, for the uſe of the young Olivia Walter?

I was ſo apprehenſive that the ſtrong emotions of the mother's gratitude, [140] might have affected her delicate frame, that I was almoſt tempted to conceal this matter from her; yet I wiſhed to remove every fear or doubt, which the weakneſs and languor of her ſpirits might ſuggeſt, with regard to her child's future fate.

I wrote her a few lines, to tell her what I had done; and added, that I would de⯑bar myſelf from the pleaſure of ſeeing her, till ſhe ſhould give me a promiſe un⯑der her hand, never to mention this bu⯑ſineſs to me.

She promiſed, indeed, what was im⯑poſſible for her to perform; and, at our next interview, I was convinced, that, as the Peruvian princeſs ſays, ‘"To be thoroughly generous, you muſt liſten to acknowledgments."’

[141]I have promiſed, that if it ſhould pleaſe Providence to call her to a ſtate of bliſs, I will immediately take the little Olivia under my care; and, if I live, I will moſt faithfully diſcharge the pleaſing and im⯑portant truſt.

My ſpirits, not much elevated before, ſink under the ſad idea of Mrs. Walter's death.—I cannot at preſent ſay more, than that I am, with unabated tender⯑neſs,

LETTER XLIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

SEEK no longer, my Fanny, to ſave me from the miſeries which I have brought upon myſelf, but try, my ſiſter, to ſecure your own peace, by devoting to oblivion, the memory of a wretch that ſeems marked for deſtruction.—I feel the ſnares of fate wound round me, and I but vainly ſtruggle to eſcape the toils.

A little gleam of comfort had beamed upon me, from your laſt letter;—the kindneſs of your wiſhes had raiſed an ar⯑dor in my mind, for their accompliſh⯑ment, which amounted almoſt to a hope of ſucceſs; and I looked forward, with anxious deſire, to ſome future aera, when [143] my happineſs ſhould confirm your pro⯑phecy.

In this temper of mind, I walked ſlow⯑ly and lonely along to the temple, which I have already mentioned to you; and if now and then a few vagrant tears ſtray⯑ed down my cheeks I conſidered them as drops of ſalutary woe, and did not once wiſh to reſtrain the healthful cur⯑rent.—In fine, I may truly ſay, that many weeks have paſſed ſince my poor harraſſ⯑ed mind enjoyed ſo ſweet a calm before.—When I had reached my little aſy⯑lum, I re-read your letter, and found but one paſſage in it that gave me pain; I will not now ſay which it was, for that anguiſh has been entirely abſorbed in a far greater one.

I took up a pen to write to you, which inſtantly dropped from my hand, at the [144] ſight of Lord Lucan's portrait, which lay before me on the table.—By an involun⯑tary motion I took up the picture, and, looking on it, exclaimed,—‘"It is too true, Louiſa! Lord Lucan is not baniſh⯑ed from Southfield, from Aſh-park, from my ſight, for ever!"—’encroaching and pre⯑ſuming man! cou'dſt thou not be con⯑tent with that ideal likeneſs, which my too fond fancy had already traced upon my mind, but at the hazard of my reputa⯑tion would obtrude this mimic reſem⯑blance on my ſight.

While I pronounced theſe words, the door opened, and Colonel Walter ſtood before me.—I dropped the picture—he took it up,—ſeated himſelf by me, and addreſſed me in pretty near the ſame [145] words, which Polydore uſes, when he finds Monimia in tears.

I had juſt preſence of mind enough to ſay, that I was not then diſpoſed to play the fool.—He inſtantly aſſumed a more ſerious air, caught hold of my hand, and inſolently declared a paſſion for me, which, he boaſted, had commenced at the ſame moment with Lord Lucan's—That reſpect had hitherto kept him ſilent, till he found that his rival was likely to carry away the prize by his audacity, and that this alone had determined him to urge his equal attachment to me.

Surprize had hitherto kept me ſilent, grief now ſtopt my utterance.—I ſaw myſelf in the power of a wretch, whom I knew to be devoid of generoſity or pi⯑ty [146] —I ſaw my ruin plain—I ſee it ſtill!—it was in vain to deny my regard for Lord Lucan;—the words which he had heard me utter, and the fatal picture which was then in his poſſeſſion, were proofs incontrovertible.

My tears had no effect upon him—He purſued his brutal diſcourſe, by ſay⯑ing that Lord Lucan was certainly more calculated for inſpiring a romantic child⯑iſh paſſion than himſelf, and that he moſt willingly reſigned all the ſentimental and platonic part of my affection to him, but that I had charms ſufficient to render them both happy, which he hoped my prudence would incline me to, when I reflected that he was not the confident of my choice, and had therefore a right to expect that he ſhould be bribed to ſe⯑creſy.

[147]I could contain my reſentment no longer, but, with eyes ſparkling with in⯑dignation, bad him fly that moment from my ſight, and make whatever uſe his villainy might ſuggeſt, of the ſecret which his meanneſs and inſolence had obtained—That I would rely for my juſ⯑tification from his malice, on my own in⯑nocence, and the candour of Sir Wil⯑liam Barton, who ſhould certainly be acquainted with the return he made to his friendſhip.

He replied, with the moſt inſulting froideur, that if Sir William had really a friendſhip for him, he would certainly give him a preference, in the purchaſe of a jewel, which he neither knew how to value or preſerve, and in which he ſeem⯑ed to have nothing more at preſent than [148] a nominal property.—‘"In ſhort, Ma⯑dam,"’ continued he, ‘"though I have been a ſoldier, I am not ſo much in⯑clined to cutting of throats, as to de⯑liver you from Sir William's tyran⯑ny, merely to leave you at liberty to beſtow yourſelf on Lord Lucan; but, if you will condeſcend to make a con⯑ceſſion to the warmth of that paſſion your charms have inſpired me with, I will protect you from your huſband, and the whole world beſide, at the ha⯑zard of my life and fortune.—In love, at leaſt, I am a Swiſs, and will not fight without pay—Remember, Madam, that you are much more in my power than I am in yours, and that if you ſhould attempt to raiſe Sir William's reſentment towards me, I can, with the greateſt eaſe, return it upon yourſelf—This picture, Madam!"—’

[149] ‘"Reſtore it, Sir, this moment."’—‘"On certain terms, you may command it, Madam."’—‘"What are they?"’—‘"Make me as happy as you have made the original of it, and all my future life ſhall be devoted to you."’—‘"Hear me, Sir, while I call Heaven to wit⯑neſs, that Lord Lucan never ſolicited a criminal indulgence from me! and that my heart has never yet admitted a thought that could reflect diſhonour on my huſband."’

‘"Yet criminal to him, and Heaven, I am, perhaps, for having yielded a ſecret, though involuntary preference, to another object.—The puniſhment of this my greateſt guilt, I now receive from you; and if there be a ſpark of honour or humanity remaining in your [150] breaſt, you will not only ceaſe to per⯑ſecute an unhappy woman, who has confeſſed her weakneſs to you, but convert the unworthy paſſion you have dared to urge, to pity—Alas! I dare not ſay, eſteem!"’

He was ſilent, I ventured to look up, and through the dim medium of my tears, I thought he ſeemed affected.—‘"Charming! angelic tyrant! (he ex⯑claimed) O were that tender weakneſs you have now avowed, but felt for me, how ſhould I worſhip even that falſe delicacy, which deems it criminal—But it is deceitful all—Lord Lucan, Madam, has ſolicited."’—‘"Never! ne⯑ver, Sir!"’—‘"Recal the morning ſcene, at Walterſburgh."’—Conviction flaſhed upon me, at the inſtant, and reſentment [151] hurried me beyond all tamer conſidera⯑tions.—‘"I do, Sir; and am now con⯑vinced you were the perſon who then inſulted me—You only could have had the preſumption to attempt ſo baſe an outrage, and your knowing it, has now revealed the myſtery; you were the audacious monſter, who violated at once the laws of decency, and hoſ⯑pitality! would to Heaven my death had been the conſequence! But let what will happen now, I will no longer hold a moment's parley with you."’

I ſtrove at that inſtant to ruſh out of the temple, but he prevented me, by ſeizing one of my hands, and ſaying, ‘"I plead guilty, Madam; but be aſſured I never ſhould have made ſo daring an eſſay, but that I thought, in ſuch a [152] ſituation, Lord Lucan might have ſuc⯑ceeded; a thouſand circumſtances con⯑curred to make me think ſo; I looked upon the ſtraining of his leg as a con⯑trivance to excuſe his going out with the reſt of the hunters, that he might ſpend his time more happily with you—And had it been ſo, could you blame me, madam? My love, my admira⯑tion are as ſtrong as his."’

‘"Deteſted love, deteſted admiration!"’ was all that I could utter.—‘"I know it, Madam?"’—‘"Then leave me, Sir, this moment."’—‘"Not till you have pardoned a fault, for which I never can forgive myſelf, as it has diſtreſſed, or offended you."’—‘"On one condi⯑tion I will pardon you, Sir, and on no other."’—‘"Name it, Madam."’— [153] ‘"That you ſhall never preſume to hint your hateful paſſion more."’—‘"Impoſ⯑ſible! as well not bid me breathe! But let not your ſentence be too ſevere, for I have terms to make, as well as you—Suppoſe that I—"’

At that inſtant I heard the footſteps of a perſon running towards the temple; it was Harriet, who came to tell me that her uncle was arrived—‘"Gracious Hea⯑ven! (I exclaimed, in a low voice) What will become of me?"’ The Co⯑lonel replied, in the ſame tone, ‘"Rely upon my friendſhip, and be happy."’—Harriet looked amazed; but with the utmoſt tenderneſs begged that I would compoſe myſelf, as ſhe was ſure Sir Wil⯑liam would be ſhocked, were he to ſee my agitation.

[154] ‘"Not if he knew the cauſe,"’ ſaid Colonel Walter. I ſtared upon him wildly; he proceeded, ‘"Lady Barton has had a fall, and ſprained her ancle, the ſhock has hurried her ſpirits, and I was this moment going to the houſe, to order the cabriole to bring her home."’

Harriet looked as if ſhe doubted, but took the hint, and ſaid, ‘"you had beſt do ſo, Sir, and let my uncle know of the accident, as it will account for my aunt's delay."’—I was ſilent; yet ſure my ſituation was truly pitiable, in being reduced to the ſad dilemma, either of joining in a deceit with a perſon whom I deteſted, or of expoſing myſelf to the prying eyes of my huſband, under ſuch circumſtances as muſt alarm him, and call for explanation.

[155]The Colonel then turned to me, and ſaid, ‘"Is it your pleaſure, Madam, that I ſhould go?"’—‘"Yes! yes!"’ was all that I could utter, and the moment he was gone, burſt again into a paſſion of tears; upon which Harriet cried out, ‘"Why is not Lucy here? I have no in⯑fluence upon my aunt, I am not wor⯑thy to adviſe."’

‘"You are, you are, my dear, what would you have me do?"’—‘"Have pity on Sir William, and yourſelf, and try to calm your ſpirits; for ſure he never will believe they could be ruffled thus, by ſo ſlight an accident.—Believe me, Madam, I would lay down my life, to make you happy, though that is but a ſmall compliment, for it is of very little value to myſelf."’ [156] She turned aſide, to hide a ſtarting tear—I claſped her to my breaſt, and ſaid, ‘"Do not, my Harriet, add to my diſ⯑treſs, by ſuffering me to think you are unhappy."’

Sir William and the cabriole came together; he embraced me very affec⯑tionately, and rallied me on my coward⯑ice in being ſo affected by my fall; wanted much to ſee my ancle, which I declined, took me up in his arms, and ſeated me in the chair, walked by my ſide, till we got to the houſe, and again lifted me out of it into my dreſſing-room.

O think, my ſiſter! what I then endured! But you can never know it; deceit has ever been a ſtranger to your heart, and [157] the ſharp ſtings of ſelf contempt have ne⯑ver entered there.

Benſon flew to me with arquebuſade, vinegar, &c. The conſciouſneſs of the mean part I then acted, rendered me peeviſh, and I haſtily bid her leave the room.—I bluſhed as the words eſcaped me—was it her fault that I was become contemptible!—When ſhe was gone out, Harriet ſaid, ‘"I fear, Madam, you are much hurt, indeed!"’—‘"Yes, Harri⯑et, to the heart!"’ I ſunk down upon the couch, and covered my face with my handkerchief.—She threw herſelf at my feet, and, without attempting to pry in⯑to the cauſe, implored me to let her put a bandage round my ancle, leſt Sir Wil⯑liam ſhould be alarmed at my ſuppoſed obſtinacy, and ſend for a ſurgeon.

[158]This I refuſed, and, on the inſtant, re⯑ſolved to extricate myſelf from the hate⯑ful appearance of having entered into a mean colluſion with Colonel Walter. I rang the bell for Benſon, and, aſſuming as chearful a countenance as I could put on, told her that I had not received any hurt that required particular application, and that time ſhould be my only phyſi⯑cian.

I then dreſſed myſelf as uſual, and, when the laſt dinner bell rung, I deſired Harriet to accompany me to the parlour.—Sir William ſeemed ſurprized at ſeeing me walk, and ſaid he was juſt then com⯑ing to aſſiſt me, or, as the old ballad ſaid, to take up his load of vanity.

When I ſat down to table, I found my⯑ſelf extremely ill;—I tried to eat, but in [159] vain.—I ſoon retired after dinner, and ſat down to write this account of my morti⯑fication to you.—It is now eight o' clock, and I can no longer ſupport the violent pain in my head, or hold the pen.—

P.S. By whom, or how contrived, the picture had been laid on the table in the temple, I cannot gueſs; nor know I yet through what medium to inquire about it.

LETTER XLIV.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

MANY days have elapſed ſince I concluded my laſt letter to my Fanny, ſome of them have paſſed like the arrow that flieth through the air, and leaves no trace behind—Would I had accompanied their flight! but, alas! it will not be! and by the ſame Almighty fiat which firſt called me into being, I am again recalled from the confines of eternity—May that gracious Power that has been pleaſed to prolong my exiſt⯑ence, endue me with reſignation to his all-wiſe decrees!

I am at preſent but ill able to write; the account I can give you of myſelf, [161] muſt therefore be ſhort, but it will tell my ſiſter that I live, and, notwithſtand⯑ing my deſiring her to forget me, I ſtill flatter myſelf that my life is of conſe⯑quence to her happineſs.

The moment I had ſealed my laſt let⯑ter to you, I found myſelf unable to ſit up, and went to bed, but not to reſt. About eleven Sir William came into my chamber, and on finding me extremely feveriſh, muttered ſomething about fine ladies being always vapouriſh, or indiſ⯑poſed, and wiſhed me a good night.

Never was health more ſincerely wel⯑comed by a dying wretch, than ſickneſs was now by me—I hoped, I truſted, I ſhould be releaſed! and invoked the king of terrors, with the unhappy Conſtance,

In this manner did I paſs the night, rejoicing in the increaſe of my diſorder, till the delirium which it brought on ren⯑dered me inſenſible to it, and every thing elſe: for five days I continued in a ſtate of mental annihilation, the return of my reaſon, was like the appearance of an ignis fatuus, it glimmered, and va⯑niſhed, ſeveral times, as if unwilling to return to the wretched habitation which it had forſaken.

Harriet, my beloved, my gentle Har⯑riet, whoſe tenderneſs and attention to me has been unremitted, aſſures me [163] that Sir William was much afflicted dur⯑ing my illneſs; and that though Colonel Walter endeavoured to conſole him, yet he alſo appeared much affected, and quitted the houſe the next day.

May the miſeries which he has brought upon me, make a proper impreſſion on his heart, and turn his deteſted paſſion into contrition for his crimes, and com⯑paſſion for the ſufferings of his injured wife! As ſoon as I was pronounced out of danger, Sir William went to viſit a diſtant part of his eſtate, where he is eſtabliſhing a manufacture.—He has been gone ten days, and in that time, I think both my mind and body have ac⯑quired ſtrength; perhaps it is owing to the weakneſs of the latter, that the former is more compoſed. But I will [164] endeavour to enjoy the temporary calm, though I fear that the ſtorm has only ſubſided, and may perhaps return with double fury, to wreck this feeble bark—Be that as it may, I ſhall ever remain

P.S. Where and how is Mrs. Walter? aſſure her of my kindeſt remembrance: her ſufferings are ſo deeply engraved on my heart, that not even my own can efface them—Happy Fanny! that have been able to mitigate even a part of her ſorrows, by removing the bitter pangs of maternal anxiety for the fate of a be⯑loved child!

LETTER XLV.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

THE ſeeing my letter dated from this place, will in ſome meaſure account to my dear Louiſa, for my ſilence, at a time when ſhe ſtood moſt in need of every conſolation that friendſhip could beſtow on a tenderly beloved and ſuffering ſiſter—I am however ſelfiſh enough to rejoice that I was unacquaint⯑ed with the danger that threatened your life, till it was paſt, for I had the painful pleaſure of receiving both your letters, on my arrival here, laſt night.

Truly diſtreſſing and affecting as they are, my head is at preſent ſo filled with [166] the extraordinary events which have hap⯑pened within a very ſhort ſpace, that though my heart is truly ſenſible of your afflictions, I find it impoſſible to give its feelings vent, till I have informed you of a circumſtance which I am certain will afford you the ſincereſt pleaſure.

Delia! my brother's beloved Delia! Delia Colville lives! as Zanga ſays, ‘"Firſt recover that, and then you ſhall hear further."’—Our good angel! our dear Mrs. Walter! received a letter from Pere Guillaume, about the middle of laſt month, acquainting her that he would meet her at Calais, and attend her to what part of France ſhe pleaſed; but were he to recommend any particular convent, it ſhould be Les Dames Urſu⯑lines, at St. Omers, as the ſuperior [167] was his near relation, and particular friend.

This reeommendation was perfectly agreeable to Mrs. Walter, for many rea⯑ſons; the vicinity of St. Omers to Eng⯑land, was perhaps the ſtrongeſt, as it flattered her with the hopes of ſeeing me, at ſome time or other, if ſhe lived; and rendered the immediate removal of her daughter convenient, in caſe of her death.

I accompanied her to Dover, and feared that I had taken my laſt farewell of my amiable friend, when I ſaw her embark for Calais—I heard from her, in a few days after our parting, and ſhe was not worſe—I had then determined to ſpend the remainder of the ſummer [168] at Cleveland-hall, in executing ſome lit⯑tle romantic plans of improvement, in order to amuſe myſelf, and ſurpriſe Sir George at his return from Italy, which he had promiſed ſhould be before winter. But a ſecond letter from Mrs. Walter afforded me an opportunity of ſurpriſing him, indeed! She told me that in the convent where ſhe then reſided, there was a very beautiful young Engliſh lady, who went by the name of Wilſon, who, upon having ſeen the addreſs of her let⯑ter to me, as it went to the tour, in or⯑der to be ſent to the poſt office, implored her permiſſion to ſpeak to her in pri⯑vate; that ſome time had elaſped before ſhe could find an opportunity, and when ſhe did, ſhe informed her that her name was Colville, Delia Colville! I again re⯑peat it! That ſhe had been placed there, [169] by her mother, without her knowledge, or conſent, who had deſired that ſhe might be cloſely confined, debarred the uſe of pen and ink, and prevented from even going into the parlour, or converſ⯑ing with any of the penſioners; as ſhe was repreſented to be ſo artful, that ſhe would corrupt and impoſe on them by the inſincere plauſibility of her manners, and was actually upon the point of diſ⯑gracing her family, by a ſhameful con⯑nection with a man of inferior rank and fortune.—That in conſequence of this cruel aſperſion, ſhe had been treated with the utmoſt ſeverity that the rules of the convent would admit of, and that from the time of her entrance, till that moment, ſhe had never heard from her mother, or any other perſon what⯑ſoever.

[170]She then, bluſhing, mentioned Sir George Cleveland, and ſaid ſhe had long vainly flattered herſelf, that he would have ſought her out, and releaſed her from ſo inquitous and cruel a confine⯑ment; but that if even he had forgot⯑ten and forſaken her, ſhe was convinced that his ſiſter's humanity would intereſt itſelf in behalf of an oppreſſed and injur⯑ed perſon, whom ſhe had once honoured with the name of friend!

She added, that the mildneſs of her temper, and the perfect acquieſcence ſhe had ſhewn under the ſevere reſtraints that were impoſed on her, had influenced the nuns to treat her with leſs harſhneſs than at firſt, and that ſhe had been lately al⯑lowed the honour of converſing with the ſuperior; but that the moment ſhe at⯑tempted [171] to juſtify herſelf from her mo⯑ther's ſlander, ſhe was enjoined ſilence, and obliged to retire to her cell; after having this reflection urged againſt her, that it muſt be always more natural to ſup⯑poſe children to be undutiful or ungrateful, than that parents ſhould be unkind or un⯑juſt. This maxim is certainly true, in ge⯑neral; but there are ſometimes inſtances which occur in life, that baffle all philo⯑ſophy, with regard to the human mind.

O, my Louiſa, does not your heart grieve for the ſufferings of the innocent and unoffending Delia? When Mrs. Walter promiſed her to acquaint me with her ſituation, ſhe cried out, ‘"It is enough! I know Miſs Cleveland; I ſhall be releaſed! Yet ſure Sir George will at leaſt accompany his ſiſter, if [172] ſhe ſhould come to take me out of my confinement, and I ſhall ſee him once again."’

Mrs. Walter told her, ſhe believed that would be impoſſible, for—She in⯑terrupted her, by exclaiming, ‘"Is he married? If he is, I may as well ſtay here; Miſs Cleveland's kindneſs will be uſeleſs to me."’—On Mrs. Walter's telling her that he was in Italy, and not married, ſhe kiſſed her hand, and bathed it with her tears, and ſaid, ‘"Do not deſpiſe me, madam, for loving the moſt amiable of men—He is the coun⯑terpart of your Miſs Cleveland; and if you knew him, you would love him alſo!"’

The moment I received Mrs. Walter's letter, I went immediately to councellor [173] W—, to know what were the proper and legal ſteps to be taken for the reco⯑very of my beloved Delia: he told me he would wait on the lord chancellor, next day, and furniſh me with pro⯑per powers to compel Mrs. Colville to produce her daughter in the chancery-chamber, who, as a minor, was to be conſidered as a ward of the court, though the guardianſhip of her perſon and for⯑tune had been before granted to her deteſtable mother.

I then returned home, wrote to Mrs. Walter, and encloſed a few lines to De⯑lia, entreating her to keep up her ſpirits, till I could effect her releaſe, which I promiſed to do with the utmoſt expedi⯑tion.—I ordered my cloaths to be pack⯑ed up, and a chaiſe with four horſes to [274] be in readineſs, the next day; and the moment Counſellor W— furniſhed me with my inſtructions, I ſet out for Dover, accompanied by my maid and two men ſervants.—There was a meſ⯑ſenger diſpatched at the ſame time, with his lordſhip's order, to Mrs. Colville; but if ſhe ſhould not be found, or ſhould ab⯑ſcond upon receiving it, I am to apply to Lord H—, our ambaſſador in France, whom I have the honour of being very well acquainted with, to procure a ſpe⯑cial mandate from the court of Ver⯑ſailles, for her releaſe.

I wrote to my brother, who is now at Naples, in a very ambiguous ſtile, hint⯑ing as if I had heard ſome vague report of Delia's being alive; for I durſt not truſt him with the mighty joy at once, [175] as I have been told that the ſudden ef⯑fects of that paſſion have ſometimes been as fatal in their conſequences, as thoſe of grief.

I then informed him of my intention of going to Paris; and ſaid, as I knew all places were indifferent to him, I hoped he would have galantry enough to meet me there, as the pleaſure I pro⯑miſed myſelf in ſeeing him, was the principal cauſe of my undertaking the journey.

The moment of my arrival at St. Omers, I was met by Mrs. Walter: I need not deſcribe to you the effects of our interview.—I flatter myſelf that ſhe looks better than ſhe did: ſhe ſays the joy ſhe feels at having been, though ac⯑cidentally, [176] the inſtrument of good to the amiable Delia, has rouſed her ſpirits from the torpid ſtate they had continued in, while ſhe conſidered herſelf but as an uſeleſs burthen, or, at beſt, an inſignifi⯑cant blank, in life.

She told me ſhe had not had an oppor⯑tunity of ſeeing Miſs Colville ſince ſhe received my letter, but at prayers; that ſhe had endeavoured to render her looks as expreſſive as poſſible, by the chear⯑fulneſs of her air; and that Delia ſeemed to underſtand the hint in her favour. She adviſed me not to go to the convent, as it was certain that I ſhould not be permitted to ſee Miſs Colville; and her hearing that I had been there, might throw her off her guard, ſo far, as to alarm the nuns, and make them con⯑fine [177] her ſtill more cloſely, or perhaps, tranfer her, as is ſometimes the caſe, over to ſome other convent.

I was convinced by her reaſons, and, reſtraining my fond impatience, I ſet out the next morning for Paris, where I arrived laſt night, and have the mortifi⯑cation to learn, this morning, that Mrs. Colville is gone to Toulouſe, as it is thought, to ſettle there.—The lord chancellor's meſſenger is gone off poſt to her; and here muſt I remain till his return.

And now let me aſſure my Louiſa, that not even the joy I feel at the cer⯑tainty of Delia's reſtoration, can prevent me for a moment from ſympathizing, in the tendereſt manner, with her diſtreſs; [178] the circumſtances of which are certainly equally difficult and mortifying.

There never was any thing ſo unfor⯑tunately critical as your ſituation with that vile Walter, when Sir William's ar⯑rival was announced: the ſnare, as you ſay, ſeemed contrived by fate—I honour your ſtruggling through it, and not let⯑ing the wretch triumph in the ſucceſs of his ſcheme, which he certainly would have done, had you carried on the de⯑ceit beyond the moment that it was ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary—I am grieved, but not ſurpriſed, at the effect which the anguiſh of your mind has had upon your conſti⯑tution; and am, I hope, truly thankful for your recovery—And may it be a perfect one!

[179]Surely, Louiſa, you ought to think Lord Lucan to blame, with regard to the picture; he muſt have hazarded your reputation, by making a confidante of the perſon who placed it on your table. Can it be poſſible that the enamoured Harriet can have verified, nay exceeded, the romantic ideas of ſubmiſſive tender⯑neſs, which Prior has given us in the character of his Emma.

I know not what to think; but if Har⯑riet be indeed the confidante of Lord Lucan, ſhe claims the higheſt degree of admiration, that the ſtrongeſt fortitude, joined with the tendereſt ſenſibility, can poſſibly excite—But this character com⯑prehends, perhaps, ſomething more than woman. Do not be outdone by her, my ſiſter, but ſtrive to emulate the vir⯑tue which you muſt admire.

[180]Were you to look minutely into the ſituation of my heart, you would find that I can practiſe, as well as preach; for though I perhaps may never be in⯑tirely able to eradicate all traces of my weakneſs for Lord Hume, I have, by a kind of diſcipline, more ſevere than any in the Romiſh church, conquered my deſire of ſpeaking of him; nor do I al⯑low even my thoughts the fond, though ſad indulgence of contemplating either his faults or merits; for the moment his idea obtrudes itſelf upon my mind, I ſnatch up a book, or pen, and drive him directly from that place which he was not worthy to inhabit.

Take notice, that the poets are ba⯑niſhed out of my library; and that my preſent ſtudies are of the reaſoning kind, [181] and call for all my attention—I wiſh you could be prevailed upon to try this re⯑cipe—For indeed I am, for many reaſons, more anxious for your recovery even than for my own! My malady can only injure an individual, and that myſelf: yours, like a contagion, muſt be fatal to many—Stop the infection then, be⯑fore it ſpreads, and you will hereafter reflect, with pleaſure, that ſo many per⯑ſons, who are, and ought to be, dear to you, are indebted for their happineſs, to your virtue.—I am convinced that this ſentiment will have more weight with you, than any ſelfiſh conſideration could; for full well I know the nobleneſs of my Louiſa's nature.

I was much pleaſed with Sir William's behaviour, on account of your ſuppoſed [182] lameneſs; and ſtill more ſo, with your candour, in relating it to me; as there is no doubt but that his kindneſs muſt have luckily increaſed your own ſelf-condemnation.

I wiſh Harriet would make you the confidante of her innocent paſſion for Lord Lucan; as your tenderneſs for her, joined to your own delicacy, would then reſtrain you from the too dangerous in⯑dulgence of talking of him, at leaſt be⯑fore her; and I ſhould then wiſh that ſhe might not be a moment out of your ſight.

Forgive me, my ever dear and ami⯑able ſiſter! for preſuming to dictate to a heart and underſtanding like yours; but the greateſt phyſician will not pre⯑ſcribe [183] for himſelf when ſick, and will even condeſcend to take the advice of a perſon whoſe ſkill he knows to be infe⯑rior to his own—All I can plead in fa⯑vour of my preſent preſcription is, that I have tried it myſelf with ſucceſs, and that it is recommended to you by the warmeſt affection of

LETTER XLVI.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

I Verily believe, my dear Lucan, that there never was a more unfortunate kinght-errant than myſelf, and that the renowned hero of La Mancha was but a prototype, both of my folly and my [184] ſufferings. I think, I want nothing but a 'ſquire as triſtful as yourſelf, to record my miſadventures in the ſtile of a ballad, called the Diſaſtrous Traveller, or Lord Hume's Garland—which would certain⯑ly ſuperſede the Babes in the Wood, and Barbara Allen, in the Engliſh Chronicle; and ſet all the nurſery-maids and chil⯑dren in our nation a-blubbering.

My laſt informed you how completely I was duped at Venice; that I had loſt my miſtreſs, and my money: ‘"Baga⯑telles! not worth thinking of, ſay you; cheaply off, for ſome thouſands,"’ &c. &c.—Well! philoſophy is a fine thing, ſaid I to myſelf! and I will endeavour to think like Lord Lucan—But I had better have recollected the famous ſen⯑tence recorded to have been uttered [185] from the pulpit, by an Iriſh biſhop (who by the way was an Engliſhman,) and prepared myſelf for what was to follow—‘"Single misfortunes, (ſaid his reve⯑rence) never come alone, and the greateſt of evils is attended by greater."’

Now to apply my text.—In a very ill temper, and with about a hundred pieces in my pocket, I ſet out from Venice; and journeying by land and by water, arrived ſafe in the Eccleſiaſtical territories. About two leagues from Tivoli my car⯑riage broke down; I had no attendants but one ſervant, who ſat in the carriage with me, and very ill ſupplied the place of my former fellow-traveller; I had left one footman ſick at Venice, who was to follow me, and diſcharged all the reſt of my uſeleſs parade.

[186]I did not chuſe to leave my baggage to the care, or rather mercy, of the poſti⯑lion, and as it was not quite dark, I or⯑dered Saunders, you know old Robert, to ſtay by the chaiſe, till I could ſend people from Tivoli, either to mend it, or aſſiſt him to bring my trunks to ſome place of ſafety.

I had not walked half a league, when I was attacked by banditti, who de⯑manded my purſe, and on my attempt⯑ing to make ſome reſiſtance, as I wore a couteau de chaſſe, they knocked me down, gave me ſeveral cuts over the head, ſtript me of my money, cloaths, and watch, and left me for dead on the ſpot.

As it grew late, Saunders became alarmed for my ſafety, and tried to pre⯑vail [187] on the poſtilion to let him have one of the horſes, in order to overtake and guard me on the road to the town. The fellow either was, or pretended to be, afraid to ſtay by himſelf, they therefore mounted the pair, and ſet out together for Tivoli.

As I was left directly in the highway, the horſes ſtarted as they came up to me, and when the men alighted to ſee what was the matter, they found me weltering in my blood, but with ſo much appear⯑ance of life that I ſtill breathed, and ſometimes groaned.—Poor old Saunders tore off his ſhirt to bind up my wounds, as well as he could in the dark, and co⯑vered me with his own cloaths, while the poſtilion rode off in ſearch of a ſur⯑geon and a litter, to convey me to ſome ſhelter.

[188]My ſenſes did not return till the next day, when I found myſelf covered with bandages, and ſo faint and weak with loſs of blood that I could not ſpeak. Saun⯑ders gave a ſcream of joy, at ſeeing me open my eyes, and recounted what had befallen me.

I lay in this ſtate of miſery above three weeks, and when I was able to riſe, I had not a ſingle garment of any ſort to put on; for the poſtilion, I preſume, conſidering that I ſhould have no further occaſion for them, had aſſumed to himſelf the office of an executor, and carried off my baggage, with the chaiſe and horſes, and got clear out of his Holineſs's dominions before there was any inquiry made after him.

I ſent Saunders off immediately to Rome, with a draught on my banker, [189] which he received, and returned as quick as poſſible; but I was ſtill unable to travel, and a wound which I had re⯑ceived in my right arm, prevented my being able to uſe a pen, without ſuffer⯑ing extremely—Let this account for your not hearing from me during my con⯑finement.

As I had a good deal of leiſure to re⯑flect upon my own folly, I determined to grow wiſe incontinently; and thought the beſt proof I could give of my diſcretion, was to turn my ſteps towards England—I was however obliged to go to Rome, for a few days, to ſettle with my banker—As ſoon as my buſineſs was diſpatch⯑ed, I ſet out, in purſuance of my plan, and have arrived thus far, on my route over.

[190]I went, as was natural, to the houſe where I had formerly lived with Marga⯑rita; and could not help making ſome inquiries after her: to my great ſurpriſe, they told me that ſhe was then in this city, and lived in a moſt exemplary man⯑ner, with an eccleſiaſtic, who was be⯑lieved to be her brother.

A ſpirit of revenge took poſſeſſion of me the moment that I heard of this pre⯑tended prieſt and brother, and I deter⯑mined to ſee my fallen angel, upbraid her with her perfidy, and puniſh the vil⯑lain who had robbed me of my miſtreſs, and cheated me of my money.

I wandered about Naples, for ſeveral days, without being able to diſcover any trace of her: at laſt I bethought myſelf [191] of viſiting the churches, for as ſhe now pre⯑tended to be a devotee, I might poſſibly meet her in one of them—Accordingly I one day ſaw a woman kneeling at a confeſſional, who, though ſhe was veiled, I immediately knew to be Margarita.

I waited for a long time before ſhe had concluded her devotions, and joined her juſt as ſhe was going out of the porch; when I ſpoke to her, ſhe lifted up her veil, and looked at me with a counte⯑nance ſo full of ſweetneſs, that I inſtant⯑ly forgot my reſentment, and could have fallen at her feet, and entreated her to be reconciled to me.

She ſpoke to me in a low voice, and ſaid, ‘"I have uſed you ill, my lord, but I have been ſeverely puniſhed for my [192] crime; I dare not hope you ſhould again receive me into your favour, but come and accept of all the reſtitution that is now in my power to make you; I live in the Strada del Santo Marco; my tyrant will be aſleep by eleven o'clock, I ſhall then at leaſt have an opportunity of imploring your for⯑giveneſs—I dare not talk to you longer, adieu."’

Deſpiſe me as you will, Lucan, I con⯑feſs that I felt my tenderneſs for this infa⯑mous woman revive, and inſtead of go⯑ing directly to a magiſtrate, or endea⯑vouring to do myſelf juſtice on her, and her vile accomplice, I counted the mi⯑nutes with impatient expectation of that happy one, which ſhould again reſtore me to the pleaſure of ſeeing and con⯑verſing with her.

[193]At the time appointed I repaired to my rendezvous, which was at a conſider⯑able diſtance from the place where I lived, and in a very retired part of the town: as I paſſed through an unfre⯑quented ſtreet, I was ſet upon by four bravos; I inſtantly drew my ſword, and determined to ſell my life as dear as poſ⯑ſible—As I had the advantage of a wall at my back, I defended myſelf ſucceſs⯑fully, for a few minutes; but ſhould have been overpowered if providence had not ſent Sir George Cleveland, and another gentleman, to my reſcue. At their approach the bravoes would have fled, but I ſecured one of them whom I had wounded, and who proved to be the pretended prieſt and brother of Mar⯑garita.

[194]When we had lodged him properly, and I had got a ſlight wound, which I had received, dreſſed, I communicated the whole of my adventure frankly to Sir George, and wiſhed him to accompany me in purſuit of that worthleſs woman, whom I ſuppoſed to be an accomplice in the intended aſſaſſination, and whom I now reſolved to give up to juſtice.

Sir George is a gallant fellow, Lucan. He talked ſo very rationally, that he diſ⯑ſuaded me from my purpoſe, as he ſaid the bringing Margarita to puniſhment, if I ſhould have reſolution ſufficient to do ſo, muſt of neceſſity expoſe myſelf; obſerving alſo, that I ought not to pur⯑ſue a wretch with too much rigour, whom I had formerly contributed to render abandoned.

[195]His remarks upon the folly and baſe⯑neſs of men, in their commerce with the unhappy of the other ſex, were truly ge⯑nerous—I remember but one of them at preſent. I think he ſaid, ‘"That we firſt take pains to deſtroy the founda⯑tion of every female virtue, modeſty; and are then ſurpriſed to find the ſu⯑perſtructure totter."’—That is fooliſh enough to be ſure, though we practiſe it every day.

But to conclude, for I begin to think you are heartily tired, as even I grow a little weary, though I am talking of my⯑ſelf, which is the pleaſanteſt of all ſub⯑jects.—The next morning brought me a moſt doleful letter, from my Fair Peni⯑tent, entreating me, for the love I once bore her, not to proſecute her brother, [196] as ſhe ſtill affected to ſtile him, declaring herſelf intirely innocent of any evil inten⯑tions of his, with regard to my life, and offering to refund whatever remained of the jewels ſhe had robbed me of, provid⯑ed I would but remit the proſecution.

I conſulted with Cleveland, who ad⯑viſed me not to be prevailed on to ſuffer ſuch a peſt to ſociety, as Pere Jacques, to eſcape; but if he would give up his accomplices, to uſe my intereſt to get them all ſent to the gallies together; as to la bella Signora, he thought I ſhould make terms with her alſo, and let her compound for her crimes by a life of re⯑pentance—That the jewels ſhe men⯑tioned, ſhould be ſold, in order to pay her penſion among les Filles repenties, where ſhe ſhould be obliged to enter on her probation immediately.

[197]I was charmed with this ſcheme, and by his aſſiſtance have happily put it in execution.—Would he could be as ſuc⯑ceſsful in reſtoring me to the eſteem of an amiable woman, as he has been in extricating me from the artifices of a vile one—But I have never yet dared to name Miſs Cleveland to him; and I will patiently go through a year of probation under his eye, before I even preſume to hope that he will favour my ſuit.—In the mean time I am happy to find, from his behaviour, that he is a ſtranger to mine, upon that occaſion.

He talks of returning to England in a few months.—I am determined to ac⯑company him, and I hope that you will have got ſo far the better of your ro⯑mantic paſſion, by that time, as to quit [198] your ſorrowful ſolitude, and meet us there.

Here ends my woeful ſtory, which however, has had a fortunate concluſion. May all your adventures terminate as happily, ſincerely wiſhes your

P.S. I have this moment received a billet from Sir George Cleveland, ac⯑quainting me that he means to ſet out immediately for Paris—This is a ſudden flight, but I am determined to accom⯑pany him. Direct to me accordingly.

LETTER XLVII.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

I Sincerely congratulate you on the operatical denouèment of your Ita⯑lian comedie; and think that even Me⯑taſtaſio has not wound up any of his cataſtrophes with more poetical juſtice, than you have ſhewn in the diſpoſal of your dramatis perſonae.

But the moſt enviable part of your good fortune, is the having met with ſuch a friend as Sir George Cleveland, whoſe knowlege of the world, joined to an ex⯑cellent underſtanding, and an amiable heart, (all which he has ſhewn in the ma⯑nagement of your affair with Margarita) muſt render him at once an object of your [200] affection and reſpect; and afford you an opportunity of benefiting, both by his precepts and example.

I have not the honour of knowing Sir George, but have heard his character, deſcription, and ſtory. He is neither older, wiſer, nor better principled than you are; to what then are we to impute the difference between the preceptor and the pupil? To nothing more than a cir⯑cumſtance which I am glad to lay hold of, for your inſtruction. He had con⯑ceived a ſtrong, but chaſte paſſion, for a woman of merit, whoſe name I know not; than which, nothing in nature more elevates the mind, improves the underſtanding, refines the manners, and purges the affections of man. His miſ⯑treſs is dead, I hear lately, but the influ⯑ence [201] of virtue reaches beyond the grave; for a heart once rendered pure, like a tranſmuted metal, can never degenerate into its original baſeneſs again.

I have often thought that many of the errors of our young men of quality, are owing to a wrong choice of the govern⯑ors to whom they are intruſted, at the moſt critical aera of their lives, when their paſſions are ſtrongeſt, and their judgment weakeſt—I mean when they are thought old enough to be ſent abroad for improvement, and not deemed wiſe enough to conduct themſelves.

Fathers and guardians, on this occa⯑ſion, generally fix on ſome perſon of learning, which by the ignorant is fre⯑quently miſtaken for ſenſe; as what is [202] called a liberal education, is as falſly, and frequently, ſuppoſed to be as ſynonimous with a liberal mind.

The greateſt blockheads I have ever known, have been bred in college—Neither abſurdity nor meanneſs pre⯑vent a man from becoming maſter of a language, nor of arriving at a competent knowlege in any particular branch of ſcience.

But theſe are not the qualifications ne⯑ceſſary to form a noble mind; and yet an ignorant pedant, is not only the firſt perſon from whom we receive the rudi⯑ments of education, but is too often the laſt, to whoſe final care we are conſigned, to receive that fine poliſh, to which our mind and manners owe their moſt diſtin⯑guiſhed [203] luſtre—that moral enamel, which both brightens and preſerves.

If I ſhould ever be happy enough to ſee a ſon of mine at a fit age to ſend abroad, I ſhall endeavour to find out a governor for him, qui a vecú; I mean one who, with a complete experience of the world, has both ſenſe and virtue ſuf⯑ficient to deteſt vice, admire virtue, and yield indulgence to the foibles and irre⯑gularities of youth and inexperience; whoſe morality ſhould exceed

and whoſe principles of religion, though perfectly conformable to our eſtabliſhed mode of worſhip, ſhould, with regard to the beſt characteriſtic of it, know no dif⯑ference of ſect, but extend itſelf to the [204] outermoſt line of the great circle of cha⯑rity, which embraces all mankind.

You will, perhaps, ſay that I have drawn an ideal character, like that of a patriot king.—It may be ſo; but the perſon I ſhould ſelect for ſuch a purpoſe, of entering a young man of rank or for⯑tune into the world at large, ſhould be ſome reduced officer, whoſe humanity had been rather ſoftened, than hardened, by danger and diſappointment; one who had been trained up in the ſchool of ho⯑nour, which may be ſtyled the true ſu⯑blime of morals—And ſuch a guardian, preceptor, or paſſport through life, I ſhould prefer to the whole conclave of parſons; out of which claſs of men are too generally choſen the bear-leaders to our modern cubs of quality.—So much for governors.

[205]I think you judge rightly, in not men⯑tioning Miſs Cleveland to Sir George, while your amour with Margarita is ſo recent—There is ſomething extremely indelicate in profeſſing a paſſion for a virtuous woman, before we have under⯑gone a ſufficient quarantine, after the con⯑tagion of an abandoned one—A man in ſuch a ſituation reſembles a centaur, half human, half brute—Or at beſt he can but ſay with Cyrus's friend Araſpes, ‘"I have two ſouls!"’ Sir George is too good a judge of human nature, not to excuſe your infatuation in favour of an artful beauty; but how ſhall Miſs Cleve⯑land be reconciled to your infidelity? or on what ſecurity ſhall ſhe reſt her hope, that you may not be ſubject to a ſecond delirium? Indeed, my dear Hume, a year is too ſhort for a term of probation, [206] or rather of atonement, though you were to ſpend it in the ſevere penance which your prototype Don Quixote endured, for the diſenchantment of Dulcinea, upon the Black Mountain.

By the way, I think the conſtancy and ſufferings of that renowned knight bear a much greater ſimilitude to my ſuffer⯑ings than to yours; for I do not find that you reſemble him in any point but your miſadventures, which like his, were the natural and neceſſary conſequences of madneſs, enthuſiaſm, and folly—I hope I may venture to ſay this without offence, as you have ſo ſeriouſly declar⯑ed your determination of becoming wiſe incontinently.

If any thing could have tempted me to leave Ireland, at preſent, it would [207] have been to meet you in London; but as you have now a much ſtronger in⯑ducement than my company, to urge your return, I ſhall remain in what you call my ſorrowful ſolitude, as it is now not only become pleaſant, but dear to me; for ſolitude is ſometimes the nurſe of contentment, as well as of woe.

From this hint, you will conclude my heart to be more at eaſe, than when I wrote laſt to you, and your concluſion will be juſt.—It is, indeed, much more at eaſe, yet more anxious ſtill—Love deals in contradictions you ſee.

I ſhall now conclude, with ſubſcrib⯑ing myſelf, my dear Hume's

LETTER XLVIII.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

I Tell you, Lucan, there is no ſuch thing as reſiſting fate—Here am I, with as good and ſober diſpoſitions as any man of two and twenty in Europe, for ever getting into ſome ſcrape or other, without temptation, or excuſe; or even knowing how, or why, I became engaged! Well, then, a knight errant I certainly am, of nature's own dubbing, and I will now courteouſly relate to you, myſelf, for want of a 'ſquire, my new achievement.

But firſt I muſt acquaint you, that ever ſince our arrival here, Sir George [209] Cleveland has been ſo totally taken up with ſome private buſineſs of his own, that poor melancholy I have been left to the pleaſant amuſement of contemplating my own extravagance, and folly, which has, you know, deprived me of the hap⯑pineſs of ſeeing, or converſing with his charming ſiſter, who has met him here; and as I quitted Naples almoſt at a mi⯑nute's warning, I left old Robert to pack up my cloaths, and bring them after me.

In this ſituation I could not poſſibly make my appearance in public, or even venture to viſit any of my quondam ac⯑quaintance, in my travelling-dreſs.—I ſpent two days, tout ſeul, and found an unlucky truth, that any company would be leſs dull to me than my own.

[210]On this diſcovery I ſallied forth, and in ſauntering along the Boulevard, I happened to meet Jack Wilſon, of the guards, who is as diſſipated a genius as myſelf. I propoſed to him our going to dine at ſome of the environs of Paris, to which he readily agreed—A chaiſe was ordered directly, we drove of to Noiſy le Sec.

We walked about while dinner was preparing, and at a little diſtance ob⯑ſerved a caſtle, defended by a deep moat, great iron gates, a draw-bridge, and im⯑menſe high walls.—The appearance of this extraordinary manſion, rouſed my chivalry; I figured to myſelf a beaute⯑ous damſel confined there by ſome hor⯑rid enchanter, or giant, and determined that I would, if poſſible, ſet the fair cap⯑tive [211] free. Wilſon laughed at my ro⯑mantic ideas, but they had taken too ſtrong poſſeſſion of me to be eaſily baffled.

When we returned to our inn, we in⯑quired from our hoſt, who were the in⯑habitants of that Gothic fortreſs.—He told us they were two very beautiful young ladies, of high birth and large fortunes, who being determined never to marry, yet diſliking the ſeverities of a convent, had choſe to ſeclude them⯑ſelves from the world in that retirement.

He added, that the curioſity of all the neighbouring gentry, was ſo highly raiſed, that many attempts had been made to get a ſight of theſe fair recluſes, but in vain; for no mortal had ever ſeen [212] them, ſince their arrival there, though it was known they walked in their gardens every day.

Curioſity began now to operate upon Wilſon, as much as romance had done before on me, and we reſolved that we would take a peep at theſe voluntary vo⯑taries of Madam Diana, coute qui coute—Many and various were the ſchemes which we framed, and rejected, for the gratification of our idle and impertinent inquiſitiveneſs, during the courſe of that night: we lay in the ſame room, in or⯑der to continue our conſultations; but when the dawn appeared, we were juſt as undetermined on what method to purſue, as we were at the moment we lay down.

[213]We roſe, and called our hoſt into council, who aſſured us that the caſtle was inacceſſible, unleſs we were mad enough to venture our lives by ſwim⯑ming over a deep foſſé, which defended it in front, or ſcrambling through a thicket of briars, which prevented our approach on the other ſide; and that if we ſhould even be able to ſubdue theſe difficulties, there was ſtill an immenſe high wall to climb, which no man could get over without hazarding life or limb.

Oppoſition but increaſed our ardor, and we at laſt reſolved to attempt the thicket, in preference to the foſſé, as we thought we ſhould make a better ap⯑pearance in the eyes of theſe ſuppoſed charmers, even with our cloaths torn, than after emerging dripping wet out of [214] a dirty ditch.—And by the way, Lucan, I think that all the water in and about Paris, wants waſhing, as was ſaid once, by a witty friend of mine. I never ſaw ſuch a muddy puddle in my life, as their boaſted Seine—The yellow Tiber, or the Briſtol Severn, are cryſtal to it.

I will not detain you by repeating the fatigues and difficulties we ſuffered, in this attempt; ſuffice it to ſay that our cloaths were torn, and our hands, legs, and faces, as much ſcratched, as if we had made a party on the pantiles with a groupe of amorous tabbies.—But what are not patience and perſeverance able to ſubdue?

In ſhort we ſcaled the walls, and ſeated ourſelves in a good pleaſant arbour, in [215] a corner of the garden, valuing ourſelves on our heroic achievement, and impa⯑tiently expecting the reward of our toils, by being bleſt at laſt with a view of theſe fair veſtals.

In a ſhort time after we had made our lodgment in this redoubt, to our inex⯑preſſible delight, we heard the ſound of female voices talking in a chearful lively tone; and ſoon ſaw two ladies walking towards us, down an alley that fronted the harbour we were in.

But no language will ever be able to deſcribe our amazement, when the ſpeak⯑ers had advanced near enough to be clearly ſeen, and diſtinctly heard by us.—No idea either of Venus or the Graces, or Diana and her Nymphs, will ſuit the deſcription—But if you can rumage up [216] any recollection of Cybele, or for that matter you need not go ſo far back, as mother Shipton will ſerve as well, to re⯑preſent the two old hags, that appeared then before us.

‘"It muſt be enchantment,"’ ſaid I, to Wilſon.—He replied, ‘"I ſee nothing en⯑chanting about them; they are both ugly and old."’—‘"No woman is old in France, remember that, Wilſon; or at leaſt let us endeavour to perſuade theſe grannams that we think ſo, for civility is the only paſſport by which we can hope to get over the draw⯑bridge in ſafety.’

When they approached the arbour, perceiving us they ſtarted too, in their turn, and would have fled back, if their [217] old ſhanks had been ſupple enough to have correſponded with their fears; but we ſoon quieted their apprehenſions, by the mildneſs of our demeanour, and the frank confeſſion we made of the romantic curioſity which had prompted us to this frolic.

Being thus recovered from this alarm, they both laughed immoderately at the aukward confuſion which appeared in our faces; and one of them, addreſſing us with infinite good humour and vi⯑vacity, ſaid, ‘"We are extremely obliged to you gentlemen, or rather courteous knights, for the perils you have encoun⯑tered, for our ſakes; and alſo for convin⯑cing us that the noble ſpirit of chivalry, is not yet quite extinct in the world. Be⯑lieve me, we wiſh rather more earneſtly [218] than you, that we were poſſeſſed of thoſe charms which you expected to have met with, in this galant adventure; but youth and beauty are tranſitory things, and with them we have loſt the admiration of your ſex, and merely in ſport had yet a mind to try if it was not ſtill in our power to occaſion a diſappointment as great, though not indeed ſo ſevere, as any young and beautiful coquette might make her lover feel. If I may judge by your countenances, I think we have ſo far ſuc⯑ceeded; and the only amends we can make you, for having ſped our frolic, is to deſire the favour of your compa⯑ny to dinner, and to promiſe to convey you back again, by a ſhorter and plea⯑ſanter road than you came, to Noiſy le Sec, without any further damages than what the view of our perſons ſeems [219] already to have made you pay for your peeping."’

You may ſuppoſe how confoundedly ſilly Wilſon and I looked all this while; but I was ſo much pleaſed with the ſpirit and good humour of this lively dowager, that I wiſhed her thirty years younger, intirely for her own ſake. We accepted her invitation with the beſt grace we could, and entered into a very chearful converſation with them both, during which they diſcovered that we were Eng⯑liſhmen, and informed us, that they were our country-women. The one, who ſeemed to take the lead in every thing, is a ſiſter of Lord D—'s, and had been, while ſhe lived in England, an intimate acquaintance of my mother's—Who the other lady was, did not tranſpire.

[220]Before we parted, Wilſon and I both promiſed her not to diſcloſe their ſecrets, if ſhe choſe to carry on the jeſt for any further time; but ſhe gave us leave to publiſh it to our friends, if we pleaſed, as ſhe meant to quit that place immedi⯑ately; ſaid ſhe and her companion were both tired of their voluntary confine⯑ment, and did not believe that, if they were to remain there ſeven years longer, any Frenchman would ever give himſelf as much trouble about them as we had had done.

I charged myſelf with ſome commiſ⯑ſions, pour mes belles antiques, which I ſhall execute in England with the moſt knightly punctuality imaginable, and re⯑turned laughing to Paris, about an hour ago.—Robert is arrived with my bag⯑gage: [221] I ſhall dreſs and go to the Co⯑medie, though I believe it will be near over, before I get there.

As I am reſolved to attend Sir George Cleveland's motions, and that he ſeems to be upon the wing, I ſhall not expect to hear from you, while I remain upon the continent, but hope to find a pacquet from you, at my arrival in old England; till then, adieu, my dear Lucan, ſays

LETTER XLIX.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

PLeaſure! Joy! they are both ina⯑dequate to what I feel, from your account of Delia Colville! my brother! my beloved! my happy brother! what will his tranſports be! He may certainly ſay, with Lord Townly, ‘"Long parted friends, that paſs through common voyages in life, receive but common gladneſs at their meeting—But from a ſhipwreck ſaved! we mingle tears with our embraces!"’ And ſurely the recovery, I might almoſt ſay the reſur⯑rection, of the beloved and lamented Delia, is a ſtill higher cauſe for rap⯑ture.

[223]I ſhould fear for his life, or ſenſes, if this ſecret was in any other hands but yours—Yet even for you, I think it will be a difficult taſk to moderate his extaſy—Were I now to meet him, I ſhould fly into his arms, and cry out, She lives! I know you will not do ſo; but though you may reſtrain your tongue, will not your eyes betray the mighty joy? will they not ſparkle with unuſual luſtre, and ſpeak of Delia Colville? Mine do ſo at this moment, though their weak beams have long been quenched in tears.—I wait impatiently for another letter from you—Do but tell me they have met, and my mind will be at peace, for I ſhall then ſuppoſe, that nought but death can part them.

I do not wiſh to mix one gloomy line with this joyful ſubject, I ſhall, therefore, [224] ſay little of myſelf.—I am recovering from my late illneſs, though ſlowly; Sir William is returned, in an alarming ſtate; he fell from his horſe, about a fortnight ago; his phyſician apprehends that he has received ſome inward hurt, as he ſpits blood ever ſince.—My attention to him is unremitted, he ſeems pleaſed with it; and I begin once more to flatter my⯑ſelf that my Fanny's prediction may yet be verified.

Colonel Walter has renewed his viſit, and made ſeveral attempts to ſpeak to me alone, which I have happily evaded; for when I am abſent from Sir William, I take care to keep Harriet conſtantly with me—I perceive he is mortified at my caution, in which, however, I am deter⯑mined to perſevere.

[225]Laſt night, when our letters came from the poſt the Colonel took them from the ſervant, and conveyed one out of his pocket into the parcel: quick as his motions were, this action did not eſcape me; and the moment I had re⯑ceived thoſe that were addreſſed to me, I retired, and immediately encloſed the letter which bore no poſt mark on it, in a blank cover, directed to the Colonel, and ordered it to be inſtantly delivered to him. When I returned into the par⯑lour to ſupper, there were ſtrong traces of reſentment in his countenance, and he talked rather at, than to me, for the re⯑mainder of the evening.

This morning he went from hence, before I was up—Surely he will at length deſiſt from an hopeleſs purſuit—Twice [226] have his deteſted and unſucceſsful at⯑tempts brought me near the grave—Heaven preſerve me from a third! I ſhudder at the bare apprehenſion!

Your wiſhes with regard to my becom⯑ing Harriet's confidante, are almoſt ac⯑compliſhed; for ſhe has confeſſed to me that ſhe correſponded with Lord Lucan during my illneſs, and alſo that ſhe con⯑cealed my danger from him, as ſhe judged what his ſufferings would be, on that oc⯑caſion, by her own.—Was ever any thing more truly delicate, than her endeavour⯑ing to ſave him pain?

She offered to ſhew me his letters; I refuſed to ſee them, and told her I had no doubt of his friendſhip for me, or the propriety and politeneſs of his [227] manners towards her, but that I could not help obſerving to her, as a friend, without the authority of a parent, that I feared there was ſomething inconſiſtent with the ſtrict rules of decorum, in her carrying on ſuch a correſpondence.

She bluſhed extremely, and I could perceive there was ſomething more ſtill labouring in her artleſs boſom—Lord Lucan's picture came into my thoughts, at the ſame time, yet I had not reſolu⯑tion ſufficient to aſk her a ſingle queſtion relative to it.

After a minute's ſilence, I ſaw that her face was bathed with tears, ſhe caught my hand, and ſaid, ‘"I have been much more imprudent, Madam, than you yet know of; but if you will be my [228] friend, indeed—Alas! I have no other! and conceal what is paſt, from my uncle, I will tell you all my folly, and ſubmit my future conduct to your di⯑rection."’—I gave her every poſſible aſ⯑ſurance that the tendereſt friendſhip could ſuggeſt, and I know not which of us was moſt agitated during this ſcene—She owned her having lent my picture to Lord Lucan, at his moſt earneſt intreaty, on condition that he ſhould give her his; that he had kept his promiſe, but that ſhe had been ſo unfortunate as to loſe his gift; and that ſhe had lived in perpetual apprehenſion, ever ſince, leſt any acci⯑dent might betray this act of indiſcretion to her uncle, or to me.—But that ſhe ſtill more dreaded its injuring Lord Lu⯑can, by raiſing a ſuſpicion of his being her lover, when heaven, and ſhe could tell, he had not ſuch a thought!

[229]Her colour roſe to crimſon, as ſhe pro⯑nounced the laſt ſentence with claſped hands and ſtreaming eyes—I never be⯑held a more animated figure.—Generous Harriet! I ſaid ſoftly to myſelf, and my heart reverberated the ſound—What pains has it coſt her to defend the fide⯑lity of the man ſhe loves, to her rival!—Yes, Fanny, I will emulate the virtue I admire; every effort of my life ſhall be exerted to promote Harriet's happineſs, and from that pure and unſullied ſource I will endeavour to derive my own!

I confeſs I am pleaſed at being able to acquit Lord Lucan of the indiſcretion of having made a confidante; his picture muſt have fallen into the hands of Co⯑lonel Walter, when Harriet loſt it, and the vile artful wretch contrived to place [230] it as a ſnare for me, and watched the moment.

How to recover it for the innocent owner, is now the queſtion? I cannot think of any prudent, and therefore poſ⯑ſible means, of effecting this, at preſent. I can neither aſk it as a favour, with a ſafe condeſcenſion, nor demand it as a right, without danger.

The variety of diſtreſsful ſubjects with which my late letters have been filled, have ſo much engroſſed my thoughts while writing to you, that I have never mentioned a circumſtance which has given me ſincere ſatisfaction, the recovery of Mr. Creſwell, Lucy Leiſter's lover—His father is ſince dead, by which he is now be⯑come Sir Harry Creſwell—Ma chere amie [231] eſt au comble de ſes voeux, but delays the completion both of her own and her lover's happineſs, till I am able to be pre⯑ſent at the joining of thoſe hands, whoſe hearts have long been united.

Sir William's indiſpoſition prevents me from having their nuptials celebrated here, as the cuſtom of this country would, on that occaſion, require ſuch an exertion of what is called hoſpitality, which is an⯑other term for drinking, as might be pre⯑judicial to him; and my attendance on him reſtrains me from going up to Dublin to her, ſo that our wiſhes alone can attend upon this happy union.

Sir William is not calculated for ſoli⯑tude; he is now debarred from field-ſports, and every kind of exerciſe, and [232] he ſeeks for amuſement from books, in vain—That taſte which can alone render reading pleaſant, or uſeful to us, muſt be acquired in youth; the Muſes, like the reſt of their ſex, reſent neglect, and may be wooed, but not won, by thoſe who only ſeek them as a ſupplement to more lively pleaſures, ‘"Youth's the ſea⯑ſon made for joy,"’ and for literature alſo.

Colonel Walter's houſekeeper has been to viſit Benſon, ſeveral times of late, and has endeavoured, with a com⯑petent ſhare of art, to diſcover how Mrs. Walter had eſcaped, and where ſhe now is: you may ſuppoſe that ſhe has not gained the wiſhed-for intelligence—Ben⯑ſon would die ſooner than betray me.

[233]Harriet and I have often wondered that no hint relative to Mrs. Walter has ever eſcaped the Colonel—I am ſometimes tempted to think that he believes us ignorant of that affair; but when I recollect his bluſhing, in the tem⯑ple, upon ſome hint of mine relative to it, I change my opinion.—What a heart muſt that man have! How black! and of courſe, how wretched! I am inclined to believe, that the wicked expiate a great part of their ſins, in this world, by their conſtant fear of detection.

Sir Arthur and Miſs Aſhford are often with us. I begin to apprehend that ſhe has a partiality for Colonel Walter, and am diſtreſſed how to act on this occa⯑ſion—Should I ſpeak of him as I think, ſhe may attribute my ſentiments, either [234] to private pique, or a general love of ſlander, as I am not at liberty to ac⯑quaint her with thoſe facts, on which my diſlike to him are too juſtly founded—Yet will it not be an act of baſeneſs, to ſuffer this charming girl to throw away her affections on ſuch a wretch? Think for me, Fanny, and direct me how to conduct myſelf, in this critical ſituation.

Give a thouſand loves and congratu⯑lations for me, to my brother, and his

Wiſhes for their happineſs muſt be ſu⯑perfluous, yet they have mine moſt truly—accept the ſame from your ever

P.S. I find I cannot write a ſhort let⯑ter to you—When I began this, I deter⯑mined not to exceed a page, but, like Eloiſe,

And wherefore ſhould I reſtrain them, or debar myſelf from the greateſt ſatis⯑faction I enjoy? I am not good catholic enough to have faith in the merits of voluntary penances, eſpecially as I feel that I am not without my ſhare of thoſe that are impoſed on us—No works of ſu⯑pererogation for me—Once more, adieu.

LETTER L.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

PARIS ſtill, but on the point of quitting it, in a few hours.—My brother arrived here, on Sunday night, and with him—but no matter—He is not of ſufficient conſequence to interrupt a narrative in which we are all ſo much intereſted.—You may be curious tho'—Lord Hume then came with Sir George, from Naples! he has had a thouſand ridi⯑culous adventures in Italy—I have not ſeen him yet, and do not know when I ſhall.

My eyes, as you apprehended, certain⯑ly told tales; for the moment Sir George ſaw me, he ſaid there is a glad expreſſion in my ſiſter's face, that would almoſt [237] tempt me to hope, beyond the bounds of reaſon; but, alas! Fanny, there is no redemption from the grave!

True, Sir George, I anſwered, but perhaps your treaſure may not yet be conſigned to that ſtrong cheſt.—He caught my hand, and preſſing it to his heart, cried out, it is impoſſible that you ſhould mean to trifle with my anguiſh! Yet did ſhe not expire at Amiens?

She never was at Amiens, I replied—Where! where then did her pure ſpirit take its flight, and quit her lovely form?—You muſt be more compoſed, Sir George, before I can talk further on this ſubject.—Why was it ſtarted, Fanny? Why are my wounds all made to bleed afreſh? Can you delight in cruelty!

[238]Far from it, you know how tenderly I ſympathized with your diſtreſs, when I believed her dead—If there is a cauſe in nature, that can make you doubt it now, O! ſpeak it quickly, and eaſe my anxious heart!

I have ſtrong reaſons to believe ſhe lives, or I ſhould not thus have alarmed you—My friend, Mrs Walter, has ſeen and converſed with a young lady, of the name of Delia Colville, in a convent at Saint Omer's, who may be her.

He dropped upon his knees—and ex⯑claimed—Gracious Heaven! but realize this bleſſed viſion, let me no longer mourn my Delia's loſs, and unrepining will I then ſubmit to all that fate or fortune can inflict upon my future days! [239] Speak, ſpeak on, my ſiſter! and ſay again that you believe ſhe lives!—Indeed I do believe ſo, my dear brother—He roſe and caught me in his arms, while the large drops ran plenteous down his cheeks—Tears relieved us both.

I then proceeded to acquaint him with thoſe circumſtances which I have already informed you of; as I thought I might now venture to ſpeak to him with more certainty, and that I felt too much pain in keeping him longer doubtful—His tranſports increaſed, and it is utterly impoſſible to give any idea of the exceſs of his joy.

It was with difficulty I could prevent his going at midnight to Lord H—; but though I prevailed on him to defer his [240] viſit till morning, I could not perſuade him to go to bed, or attempt to take any reſt or food, except a little wine and water, and the whole night was ſpent in repeating what I had told him before, and re-reading Mrs. Walter's letter.

Selfiſh mortal! as he is, he barely mentioned his having extricated Lord Hume out of ſome doleful diſaſters, that befel him at Naples, in which an opera-ſinger was the principal performer.—But what conſequence could he ſuppoſe the ſtory to be of, to me?

Though I neither am, or ever mean to be connected with his Lordſhip, I am pleaſed that my brother ſaved his life, and that by his means he has got quit of an artful woman, who might pro⯑bably [241] have ruined his fortune; and I have a kind of ſatisfied pride alſo, in think⯑ing that he is ſo much indebted to our family.

I am afraid there is ſomething mean in the above reflection—but I am not now at leiſure enough to trace it back to its ſource—at ſome other time I will fair⯑ly and philoſophically inveſtigate its na⯑ture, and receive or reject it, according as I find it derived from a good or bad origin.

Long before the ambaſſador's ſer⯑vants were ſtirring, my brother attempted his door, and I think he returned three times before his excellency was viſible. As ſoon as he had acquainted him with his buſineſs, Lord H— very obligingly [242] ſet out with him, for Verſailles, and has promiſed to get the order for Delia's en⯑largement as much expedited as poſſible.

My brother, as you may ſuppoſe, re⯑mains in waiting, till it is finiſhed, and is then to call on me, and fly to St. Omers, without ſtaying for the return of the chancellor's meſſenger from Tou⯑louſe. I have ſat all day in my travelling dreſs, as I would not delay him for any conſideration.

I mentioned your joy on the recovery of Delia; he returns your love, an hun⯑dred-fold, and ſays he will write both to you and Sir William, as ſoon as his ſpirits are a little more compoſed.

I fear to attempt anſwering my dear Louiſa's letter, at preſent, as I expect [243] to be ſummoned by my brother every inſtant.

His carriage turns into the porte co⯑chere, this moment. Adieu,

LETTER LI.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

THOUGH I have been here three days, my head is ſtill giddy with the violent motion and emotion I have gone through, ſince I left Paris.—We ſet out the moment I had ſealed my laſt letter to you, and travelled with as much expedition as French roads, horſes, and poſt-boys would permit. Sir George [244] was determined to ſtop at Amiens, and notwithſtanding the certain aſſurances I had given him that his Delia was alive, he ſeemed to be ſtrongly agitated when we drove into the town.

He inquired from our landlord, whe⯑ther he recollected a young Engliſh lady's dying there, at ſuch a time? And being anſwered in the affirmative, the colour forſook his cheek, he fell almoſt lifeleſs on a ſettee that was near him, and ſighed out, ‘"Ah Fanny! why have you deceived me!"’

I could not help being provoked at his weakneſs, and told him I did not know that he was to be a mourner for all the young Engliſh women that ſhould die in France; that I was perfectly convin⯑ced [245] Miſs Colville was alive and well, or I ſhould not have ſet out on our preſent expedition; but if he was inclined to think otherways, he had better not purſue the journey any farther.

He replied, with his uſual mildneſs—

But my reliance on you has baniſhed my apprehenſions, and I now only de⯑ſire to inquire into this affair, to know by what means Mrs. Colville could avail herſelf of a ſtranger's death, to carry on the vile deceit ſhe has practiſed.

Our hoſt, like moſt others, was very well inclined to be communicative, and informed us of the following particulars; that on ſuch a day, the diligence that [246] goes to Paris, ſtopped at his houſe, and ſet down a very pretty young woman, who was ſo extremely ill, that ſhe was not able to travel farther; and that not⯑withſtanding all poſſible care was taken of her, ſhe expired on the fourth day after her coming there.

They had diſcovered before ſhe died, that ſhe was an Engliſh heretic, as ſhe abſolutely refuſed to let any of their cler⯑gy attend her during her illneſs; but they knew not even her name, nor whom ſhe belonged to; and though her cloaths and effects were ſufficient to defray the expences of her funeral, yet as ſhe was not a catholic, ſhe could not be interred in conſecrated ground; and mine hoſt, to uſe his own phraſe, ſaid he was in a perfect quondary, to know how he ſhould diſpoſe of the body.

[247]But as good luck would have it, a lady and her maid arrived at his houſe the next day, in a poſt-chaiſe—As they were Engliſh, he acquainted them with his diſtreſs; and the maid was ſent to look at the dead perſon, in order to know if ſhe could give any account of her—She returned to her miſtreſs, and they were for ſome time ſhut up together—At laſt the lady herſelf went to look at this lifeleſs beauty, and the moment ſhe ſaw her, ſhe gave a loud ſcream, and ran back into her apartment.

Some time after, the maid called for him, and told him that it was her lady's daughter who had died there, and gave ſome hints of her having eloped from her friends—She deſired that every thing might be prepared in the beſt manner, [248] for ſending the body to England; and ſtrictly charged him not to let any per⯑ſon go into the chamber where ſhe lay, but thoſe who were immediately con⯑cerned about the body.

She added, that he might diſpoſe of the young lady's effects as he thought proper, except a ſmall trunk, which con⯑tained only a miniature picture, a pocket book, and ſome letters; and the lady would pay all the neceſſary expences on this melancholy occaſion.—Every thing was then done as ſhe directed, to the mutual ſatisfaction of mine hoſt, and that burier of the living and robber of the dead, Mrs. Colville.

I have not now leiſure to expatiate on this extraordinary coincidence of circum⯑ſtances, [249] yet I muſt obſerve that fortune ſeemed inclined to favour Mrs. Colville's deceit, by the particular ſituation of the young woman at Amiens, whoſe inter⯑ment had impoſed on all Delia's friends, even on her lover, and prevented any further inquiry about her.

I dare ſay you are by this time very impatient to get us to our journey's end; but don't be in a hurry, Louiſa, for our haſte in ſetting out before the next day occaſioned a very diſagreable delay, as it brought us to the gates of St. Omers, an hour after they were ſhut, and obli⯑ged us to paſs a miſerable night, in what they call an auberge, but in our coun⯑try, I think it might more juſtly be ſtiled a barn.

[250]At laſt the wiſhed-for morning came, and we purſued our way directly to the convent.—It is impoſſible to give you any idea of my brother's emotion—When we were ſhewn into the parlour, I deſired to ſee the ſuperior—I know that I muſt not ſtop here to give you a deſcription of her perſon, but indeed ſhe is a fine old lady.

As ſoon as ſhe appeared, I delivered the king's mandate to her, which ſhe read with great dignity, but not with⯑out ſurpriſe; and ſaid if ſhe had been im⯑poſed on, with regard to the young lady in queſtion, ſhe was not to blame; and added that ſhe was ready, on the inſtant, to obey the king's order, by delivering Miſs Colville to my care.

Sir George in a tranſport exclaimed, ‘"Let me but ſee her, Madam"’—There I [251] interpoſed my negative, for Delia's ſake, as I feared the effects which ſo unexpected an interview might have upon her ſpirits.—It was therefore at laſt agreed to that I ſhould go into another parlour, ſee Mrs. Walter, and ſend her to prepare De⯑lia for ſuch a joyful event.

Our amiable friend ſoon came to me, and I have the happineſs to tell you, that ſhe is moſt wonderfully recovered; but, in pity to my brother's impatience, I ſcarce waited to inquire her health, be⯑fore I appointed her the meſſenger of glad tidings to our dear Delia.

She returned with her, in an inſtant; but when the lovely girl beheld me, ſhe could not ſpeak; ſhe made an effort to put her hand through the grate, and funk down on a chair that ſtood near her— [252] Tears came to her relief, and ſhe at laſt articulated, ‘"O, my beloved Fanny! my more than ſiſter!"’ At that word ſhe bluſhed, and hid her face, as if to wipe away the tears.

I inſtantly replied, you are, my dear, the ſiſter of my choice; and by that ten⯑der name, and for my brother's ſake, I beg you to compoſe yourſelf—He is now in the houſe, and moſt ardently longs to ſee you, but muſt not be indulged at the expence of injuring your health, by an increaſe of agitation—If you were calm, he ſhould appear this moment.—I am quite calm, ſhe ſaid, and fainted away.

I do not think I was ever ſo terrified in my life—By the aſſiſtance of the nuns [253] ſhe was brought to herſelf in about ten minutes, and, by the ſuperior's permiſſion, Sir George was admitted into the par⯑lour with me—I thought their meeting would have killed us all—Even an old nun wept, while ſhe adminiſtered drops and water to the whole company.—I feel myſelf too much affected, even at this inſtant, to be able to repeat the no-con⯑verſation that paſſed at the time. Sir George embraced me, as if I had been his miſtreſs, and Delia clung round Mrs. Walter's neck, calling her deliverer, guardian angel! &c.

When our tranſports had a little ſub⯑ſided, I propoſed our adjourning to the inn, till we could be accommodated with private lodgings; for we had before agreed to wait the return of the chancel⯑lor's [254] meſſenger at St. Omers, as it was abſolutely neceſſary that my brother ſhould have a little reſt, after his fatigue both of mind and body—But he was not fated to taſte repoſe as ſpeedily as I then hoped for.

I received Miſs Colville in due form, from the hands of the ſuperior, by whom many compliments and apologies were made to her late priſoner.—Delia's beha⯑viour was charming, for inſtead of re⯑proaches for the ſeverity ſhe had ſuffer⯑ed, ſhe returned thanks for the great care that had been taken of her, and took a moſt polite and even affectionate leave of the whole community.

Mrs. Walter and Olivia accompanied us to the inn, and we paſſed the day in [255] mutual congratulations, and in mora⯑lizing on the providential ſeries of inci⯑dents that had procured Delia's deliver⯑ance—But towards evening we all per⯑ceived a viſible change in her coun⯑tenance, and before midnight there ap⯑peared ſtrong ſymptoms of a fever.

My brother was almoſt diſtracted; my heart bleeds for him—Should ſhe again be torn from his fond heart, I think it would be impoſſible that he ſhould ſur⯑vive the ſecond blow—But I will hope the beſt—He has not gone to bed, ſince we left Paris; he never ſtirs from the ante-chamber of the room where ſhe lies, and looks ſo dreadfully, that I am ſhock⯑ed at ſeeing him.

The phyſicians here ſay that ſhe is not in danger, but they are ſo miſerably [256] ignorant, that I cannot rely on their judgment in a caſe where I am ſo ſin⯑cerely intereſted. Mrs. Walter and I ſit up by turns, and never leave the dear invalid a moment; I fear ſhe ſuffers from her concern for us, but ſhe promiſes, and I hope will perform her engagement, to be well in a few days.

On the very day that we took her out of the convent, there came a letter from her mother, intreating the ſuperior to ſend Delia to ſome other nunnery, and charging her to deny her ever having been there, to any perſon who ſhould in⯑quire after her.—Thank God, we have counter-acted her wicked ſcheme, and I truſt he will reſtore her to our prayers and wiſhes!

[257]Again excuſe me, my Louiſa, for not entering upon the ſubjects mentioned in your laſt letter, as the preſent ſituation of our beloved brother, and adopted ſiſ⯑ter, engroſſes all my thoughts, and I can⯑not even allow a minute's attention to what appears a very extraordinary cir⯑cumſtance, which is Lord Hume's fol⯑lowing us from Paris, and lodging direct⯑ly oppoſite to us, at St. Omers! He ſends five or ſix times a day to inquire Delia's health, and writes a letter once a day to Sir George.

I can't help being pleaſed with this appearance of attention and good-nature to my brother, and at the proper reſpect he ſhews, in not taking the advantage which he might, of obtruding himſelf into my preſence, under pretence of viſit⯑ing his friend.

[258]Why, O why, has he fooliſhly depriv⯑ed himſelf and me, of what once appear⯑ed to have been ſo great a pleaſure to us both! But that is paſt—I do not, nor I will not, think of him—

P.S. You know that Sir George, Mrs. Walter, Delia, and Olivia, all love you, forgive me then for uniting their af⯑fections with mine, and preſenting them in one bouquet together, inſtead of of⯑fering them to your acceptance in de⯑tached ſprigs.

Delia has ſlept all the time I have been writing; ſhe wakes this moment; ſhe is much refreſhed—I fly to tell Sir George.

LETTER LII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

OUR fears have been much increaſ⯑ed for Delia's life, ſince I wrote laſt, but, thank Heaven, they are now happily over; her diſorder turned out to be the meaſles: the phyſicians have pronounced her out of danger, and all our ſpirits are attuned to the ſweet har⯑mony of love and joy—If I had not been witneſs of them, I ſhould not eaſily have credited an account of the extravagan⯑cies which Sir George was guilty of, dur⯑ing her illneſs.

I find, Louiſa, that when theſe philo⯑ſophic gentlemen are thrown the leaſt [260] out of their bias, they are not a bit more ſteady than ourſelves; and ‘"Hang up philoſophy"’ ſhould be the motto of them all, whenever their paſſions are thoroughly intereſted.—But not to treat my brother too ſeverely, his was a very particular caſe; and had his treaſure been ſnatched from his arms, almoſt in the moment he had recovered it, the trial would, I think, have been too ſevere for human fortitude.

The meſſenger returned from Toulouſe while Delia was in the utmoſt danger; we did not therefore at that time trouble ourſelves to inquire what Mrs. Colville had ſaid, or done, on this extraordinary occaſion; but we are ſince informed, that ſhe abſolutely inſiſts on her daugh⯑ter's being dead and buried, and denies [261] her having placed her in the convent—It is ſhocking to think how very near ſhe was to ſpeaking truth, at the very time ſhe uttered this falſehood.

She ſent off another expreſs to the ſu⯑perior of the Urſulines, with a letter to tell her, that more than her life depend⯑ed on her ſteadineſs in denying her ever having received Delia into the convent; and promiſing to give a thouſand guineas to the foundation, provided ſhe took care to ſecrete her effectually.

The good old lady has put this let⯑ter into my brother's poſſeſſion, and he in return, has made a preſent to the ſiſter⯑hood of five hundred pounds.—This paper would be proof ſufficient againſt Mrs Colville, if we had not a ſtill more [262] undoubted evidence in the perſon of our dear Delia.

The moment her health is eſtabliſhed, we ſhall return to England, and, notwith⯑ſtanding my joy at her recovery, ſhall quit St. Omers with regret, as I can⯑not prevail on my beloved Mrs. Walter to accompany us.—She and her ſweet lit⯑tle girl are perfectly idolized in the con⯑vent; and I fear if Mrs. Walter's ſitu⯑ation would admit of her taking the veil, that ſhe would certainly paſs the remain⯑der of her days in that quiet aſylum.

To prevent this, I wiſh long life to the moſt worthleſs being upon earth—I ſhould not ſpecify Colonel Walter here, if Mrs. Colville were not alive.—I wiſh they were married together, and then I [263] am pretty ſure there is not a pair, in the drawing-room of Pandaemonium, that would not readily give them due place and precedence—But I will have done with theſe infernals—and now for your long, too long unanſwered letter.

I hope by this time Sir William's re⯑covery has removed the anxiety you muſt neceſſarily feel on his illneſs, and releaſed you from a confinement that might poſ⯑ſibly injure your health—Were it not for theſe conſiderations, I know of few of⯑fices more pleaſing than attending a per⯑ſon we love, in ſlight diſorders—There is ſomething extremely flattering to a generous mind, in the idea of adminiſ⯑tering relief to another's pains—To

What a delightful employment! and when crowned with ſucceſs by the reco⯑very [264] of our patient, we are conſcious of a certain exultation in the mind, which can only ariſe from the certainty of hav⯑ing done what nature claims, and cha⯑rity enjoins.

I have of late experienced great plea⯑ſure in the execution of this duty, from my attendance on Mrs. Walter, and De⯑lia, and am therefore inclined to elevate the office of nurſe-tending, by placing it amongſt our rational pleaſures, and reſcuing it from the mean character of one of the mere duties of life.

Yet I fear I ſhall make but few con⯑verts to my opinion; eſpecially amongſt the gay world, who, looking upon it in ſuch a ſervile light, rank it with faſting, penitence and prayer; and too often poſtpone them together, till they may [265] need them all themſelves, and then are left, in their turn, to the care of ſervants and other mercenaries.—Mais aſſez ſur ce point.

If Miſs Aſhford be a woman of ſenſe, you run no hazard in truſting her with your opinion of Colonel Walter, though ſhe were ever ſo much in love:—If ſhe be weak, ſhe ſtands more in need of ſuch a friendly warning; and if ſhe ſhould break with you, in conſequence of it, I think you may eaſily conſole yourſelf for the loſs of ſuch an acquaintance, by re⯑flecting that you acted from a ſpirit of friendſhip, of which ſhe has ſhewn her⯑ſelf unworthy.

I perfectly approve of your conduct towards the perſon himſelf; and am, for your ſake, glad to exculpate Lord Lu⯑can [266] from the weakneſs, might I not add the diſhonour, of having made a confi⯑dant.—What a charming girl is our Har⯑riet!—I muſt call her ſo; for indeed, I have a very great claim to her affection, from having, unſolicited, beſtowed ſo large a portion of mine on her, which I hope, when ſhe is Lady Lucan—don't ſtart, Louiſa—and her heart quite at eaſe, ſhe will generouſly repay.

Now, pray let me be indulged in talking a little of myſelf, et mon pauvre amant humilié et humiliant,—for I be⯑lieve one, and confeſs the other.—My brother has informed me of Lord Hume's miſadventures at Naples; the particulars of which I ſhall not trouble you with at preſent, as they are nothing different from the too general pranks and hazards of youthful ſpirits, and may ſerve us better [267] to laugh at, on the firſt tête-a-tête we may ever have the pleaſure of enjoying together.

I beſtow a generous wiſh that Sir George's notion about this matter may prove true; that as he has not only ſeen, but felt, his folly and extravagance, he may be more likely to act prudently, for the reſt of his life, than if he had never erred.

This is a maxim univerſally propa⯑gated, and may in ſome inſtances be true; but I can ſcarce think it a ſufficient found⯑ation for a woman of ſenſe, to build her happineſs on—To a man who has been accuſtomed to the artful blandiſhments of an abandoned woman, I ſhould much fear that the delicate endearments of a [268] wife would appear as taſteleſs and in⯑ſipid, as true wit to the epigrammatiſt, or the ſweeteſt viand to the ſpiced palate.

But all this is merely matter of ſpecu⯑lation, and of no manner of conſequence to me; for Lord Hume has never yet attempted to pay me a viſit, either at Paris, or here; and Sir George has not hitherto been in a ſituation to invite him, eſpecially as, from a very proper deli⯑cacy, he has never acquainted him with the circumſtances of Miſs Colville's ſtory; and though we ſet out from Paris at the ſame time, he kept different ſtages from us, all the way.

The account that my brother has juſt given me of that particular, is this, that they had agreed at Naples, to travel to⯑gether [269] to England, but on their arrival at Paris, and his hinting to him that I had come to meet him there, on account of ſome ſingular piece of buſineſs or other, he had immediately eſtranged himſelf from any further connection with him; ſaying, after his lively manner, that as he looked upon himſelf to be in the nature of a redeemed knight, he thought it his bounden duty to attend his deli⯑verer, in the quality of an humble 'ſquire, till he had eſcorted him ſafe into his own country; but ſhould wait upon him at ſuch a reſpectful and unprying diſtance, as might leave the privacy, both of his converſation and tranſactions, perfectly free from any manner of reſtraint.

My brother, you know, was abroad, when our affections commenced and [270] grew together, while I was under the matronage of my aunt Marriot; when he returned, I had not courage enough to acquaint him with a ſecret, which would better have become Lord Hume himſelf to have informed him of, as they have ever lived on the moſt friendly terms to⯑gether; and in the preſent ſituation of the affair, it would be extremely indiſ⯑creet and abſurd to breathe the leaſt hints of it now.

Our childiſh affections, as they muſt naturally be formed without judgment, are generally unfortunate attachments, as they ſometimes leave ſuch traces on the heart, as a long life of maturer reaſon can ſcarcely wear away; and to you I will not bluſh to own, that were it not for that fatal letter which Lord Hume wrote [271] to me from Naples, and which is as in⯑delibly engraved on my heart as the firſt impreſſion he made there, I could again be weak enough, were he to ſolicit it, to reaſſume thoſe roſy fetters which I fan⯑cied our juvenile hands had formed ſuffi⯑ciently ſtrong to hold us both for life.—But that letter, Louiſa! I cannot forget it—I muſt therefore try to forget the wri⯑ter of it!

I am, however, vaſtly pleaſed with the delicacy of his preſent behaviour.—I told you, in my laſt, that he lodges oppoſite to us; he is generally planted at his win⯑dow, but whenever I approach mine, he bows and retires immediately.—He has, it ſeems, no kind of buſineſs in this place, but ſtays here from the mere poſſibility of his being in ſome degree, or by ſome [272] chance or other, uſeful to my brother, to whom he thinks himſelf everlaſtingly indebted for his kindneſs to him at Naples.

Gratitude cannot exiſt in a baſe mind.—How then can gratitude and ingrati⯑tude ſubſiſt in the ſame heart?—How can the ſame man run ſo far in ar⯑rear to the account of love, and be ſo ready to overpay the debt of friendſhip? Were he a man hackneyed in the ways of the world, I ſhould not be ſo much ſur⯑priſed at this inconſiſtency of charac⯑ter.

Men of galantry, I have heard, con⯑ſider women as bigotted catholics do heretics, and hold no faith with them;—And that ſweet line which Shakeſpeare has put into the mouth of the innocent [273] Juliet, is repeated, with perhaps an equal degree of contemptible exultation, by the abandoned courtier, and the apeing cit,

But Lord Hume is young, and youth is the ſpring of virtue; at leaſt it is the ſeaſon when we are moſt liable to feel

in conſequence of our treſpaſſing againſt her laws, by injuring the peace or hap⯑pineſs of others.

But I am myſelf treſpaſſing againſt her firſt emotion, that of ſelf-preſervation, by dwelling on a ſubject which muſt for ever be productive of pain, notwith⯑ſtanding my repeated efforts to blunt the arrow's point.

[274]I congratulate you on the near pro⯑ſpect of happineſs which opens to your friend, Miſs Leiſter—May it terminate in the poſſeſſion of all her wiſhes! I hope ſhe is by this time Lady Creſwell; and that my ſweet little Harriet had the pleaſure and honour of being her para⯑nymph—I conſider this office as a ſtep to advancement, and I ſuppoſe moſt young ladies are of my opinion, as they are generally very deſirous of it.

I think I have now, though ſlightly, touched upon every article of your laſt letter; and I hope to find a pacquet from you, at my return to Dover-ſtreet, and that ſoon, very ſoon after, I ſhall be able to give you an account of the joining of a pair, whoſe hearts are, I believe, as firmly united, as any that ever took [275] hands, from the firſt wedding in Eden, down to this preſent day.

Adieu, my dear Louiſa; you are loved and remembered by all here, but by none more affectionately than

LETTER LIII.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

HERE I am, and here, like a fool as I am, I have been loitering, theſe three weeks, without any kind of buſineſs or pleaſure to purſue, or even a creature to converſe with, except honeſt old Saunders, who wonders mightily at my lordſhip, for paſſing my time ſo lone⯑ſomely, as he phraſes it.

[276]You will, perhaps, wonder too, till I inform you that I have the pleaſure of ſeeing Fanny Cleveland, every day—Don't envy me, Lucan! for I am only permitted to gaze at her, acroſs the ſtreet, where we both live, at preſent—I wiſh I had a little of the faſcinating power of the baſiliſk in my eyes, that might make the dear girl throw herſelf into my arms; and may I periſh if I would injure her, when ſhe was folded there.

But how came I here in the midſt of my friends, alone, you'll be curious enough to aſk? To which I can make no other anſwer than to repeat the hint I gave you, from Paris, with regard to ſome myſtery or other, relative to Sir George's concerns. It cannot be any af⯑fair of galantry, or a ſiſter would not be [277] his confidante—it cannot be a buſineſs of honour, or I ſhould probably have been let into the ſecret—we may fairly conclude then, that it muſt certainly be ſome ſecond love engagement, or other, of difficulty, which his romantic punc⯑tilio may not leave him yet at liberty to divulge—For he appeared to be one of the knights of the ſorrowful countenance, as well as your lordſhip, when I met him firſt at Naples—However that matter may be, I have taken care, ever ſince his reſerved communication to me, never to diſtreſs him by my viſits; and though we travel the ſame road together, I may be rather ſaid to attend on, than accompany him, all the way.

I remember when my infatuation for Margarita was at the height, your [278] telling me that I loved Fanny Cleve⯑land notwithſtanding—I was ſurpriſed at an aſſertion then, which I now find to be true—But allowing this fact, which I ſuppoſe ſhe muſt be certain of, as well as you, by my hankering after her at this rate, and the timid reſpect I treat her with, from my window, which is directly oppoſite to her's—

Don't you think ſhe uſes me rather too ſeverely? But all lover's are unreaſon⯑able—and falſe one's deſerve mortifi⯑cation.

Though perhaps it may be my own fault that I am kept thus aloof; for I am ſuch a baſhful penitent, that I have not courage enough to deſire leave to [279] wait on her, though ſurely ſome favour⯑able interval might be contrived, even amidſt the occupation of the moſt ſecret family intercourſe, to afford ſufficient leiſure for the common decencies of friendſhip, or politeneſs.

I would give any conſideration that the [...]rſt interview was over, end as it may; but I do noturge it, though I am con⯑vinced that Sir George knows nothing, either of the engagements, or the breach, between his ſiſter and me—I wiſh I could pluck up heart of grace enough to tell him all about it. For, as I told you before, he is a very ſenſible man; and though he had lately ſome honour⯑able attachment or other, and may per⯑haps have entered into a new one ſince—without any manner of imputation—for [280] conſtancy to the grave, is both madneſs and folly—yet I think it is at leaſt ten to one, that he has had ſome little gayeté de coeur, in the Margarita ſtile, himſelf, at ſome time of his life, and therefore would not make ſuch a fuſs about a man's having ſtrayed a little out of his road, on a common, as his prudiſh ſiſter might do, who to be ſure, like all other Dianas, ſteers exactly by rule and compaſs.

I wiſh you were here, this moment, to adviſe me how to conduct myſelf un⯑der my preſent difficulty, for I am in con⯑founded aukward circumſtances; and though you pretend to be a much modeſt⯑er youth than me, I will be hanged, were you in my ſituation, if you would not extricate yourſelf much eaſier than I can poſſibly contrive to do.

[281]But whither has my former undaunted ſpirit taken its flight to, of late? I had once the courage to give a bold affront, and yet tremble now at the juſtice of aſking pardon for it—Thus conſcience, conſcience, Lucan, makes cowards of us all.

If they get over to England before I have obtained leave to wait on Miſs Cleveland, it is all over with me; for I may viſit Sir George ſeven years, and never ſee his ſiſter. My laſt reſource muſt be to get into the ſame pacquet-boat with her, and pray moſt devoutly for a good ſtorm, in our paſſage, that we may be caſt away, and that I may have an opportunity, like Jaffier—

Or elſe, that the waves may ſwallow me [280] and my folly together, and ſo leave no trace behind of your affectionate friend,

P.S. You are ſo confoundedly dry, and uncommunicative, that I have left off aſking you any more queſtions about your miſtreſs—If ſhe ſhould turn out a diavola, like mine—I mean Margarita—I am ſure you won't be ſuch a ſimpleton as to tell me; and yet it would be but good-natured of you, to let me laugh in turn.

Write to me, however, and direct to Almack's; for I hear we are all to ſet out for old England next week.

LETTER LIV.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

ST. Omer's ſtill, and my tutelar Saint ſhall Omer be, as long as I exiſt—Little did I think, my dear Lucan, when I concluded my laſt letter, that I ſhould write to you again from this place, where the dull uniformity of my life ſeemed nothing calculated to afford the leaſt ſub⯑ject matter for another line; but chance—how much are we all indebted to chance!—has happily furniſhed me with materials ſufficient to write an epic poem, if I were but as good a poet Homer as, who muſt certainly have taken his name from this place—H non eſt litera, you know—For I inſiſt upon it, that the burning of three real good and ſubſtantial houſes in this [284] town, is to the full as intereſting a ſub⯑ject, to all mortals now living, as the famous conflagration of his imaginary Troy.

I further affirm, that Helen was but a ſun-burnt dowdy, to the lovely Fanny Cleveland, whom I, happier far than any hero, living or dead, have juſt now re⯑ſcued from the flames! and that the gentle Delia Colville is much handſomer than Madam Andromache, who, I think, ranked next to her in beauty; that Sir George Cleveland is as brave as Hec⯑tor; and that your friend Hume, is at leaſt as much in love as monſieur Paris: I do not mean either the Taylor, or the Saint of that name, but the very identical Trojan, with whom Leda's daughter ventured herſelf on ſhip-board, as my adorable Fanny will preſently with me.

[285]May proſperous gales attend our Ar⯑gos; a richer ſure than ever ſailed from Colchis! for I do not now ſtand in need of the machinery of a ſtorm—The glorious element of fire has purged away my foulneſs, and, like the aſbeſtos, I am rendered pure again. My Fanny, too, riſes a new-born phoenix from her neſt.

I am in ſuch ſpirits, Lucan, that I find it impoſſible to give you a rational ac⯑count of this charming adventure—Suf⯑fice it then to ſay, that I had the hap⯑pineſs—that expreſſion is too faint—an⯑agogy ^* is the word—to ſave my Fanny's life! may I not add—I dare not pro⯑nounce it—She muſt, ſhe will be grate⯑ful; in her ſoft looks and downcaſt eyes, I read my pardon ſigned—The regards [286] of anger are erect and fierce; thoſe of diſdain, oblique and ſcornful—But Fan⯑ny's eyes! they never were ſo beautiful as now—ſcarce raiſe their lovely lids, and only ſparkle through their ſable fringe, like ſtars in a clear ſky.—I think that is a poetical image; beat it, Lucan, and I'll allow you to be about half as much in love as I am.

I cannot ſtay to ſcribble any more to you, rejoice with me, congratulate me, and believe me yours, ſincerely

P.S. If I ever recover my wits again, I'll deal out the particulars of my trial ordeal—but believe me I would prefer my preſent inebriation to all the ſober ſenſe that ever was, from Solomon down to Samuel—need I add the ſir-name of Johnſon here?

LETTER LV.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

I Received both your letters, my dear Hume, by the ſame pacquet, and as I think it much pleaſanter to congratulate than condole, I ſhall only reply to the laſt of them; for if you are, as I now be⯑gin to think, a true lover, your preſent happineſs muſt have baniſhed every trace of your former diſquiet.

You have, indeed, my lively friend, been mightily indebted to chance, and I hope you will pardon me for ſaying, that it has done more in your favour than you had any right to have hoped for—But you careleſs fellows ſometimes pro⯑fit more by getting into ſcrapes, than we ſober ones do by keeping out of them.

[288]I think it requires the utmoſt effort of diſintereſted friendſhip, not to envy you the happineſs of having been ſervice⯑able to the woman you love—And ſuch a woman too! whoſe generous nature can be ſoftened into a forgiveneſs of in⯑juries, by the ſmall merit of having done an act, that any man in the world, though not a lover, would have been proud to have performed. But who is Delia Col⯑ville, pray? This is another perſonage added to your former drama—being her firſt appearance on the ſtage—But ſhe muſt be the new miſtreſs of Sir George, I ſuppoſe, whom you hinted at before, and ſo that myſtery is unravelled at laſt.

Helas! que mon ſort eſt plus bizarre—The object of my adoration has been ill, dangerouſly ill, for ſome time; and I [289] have not even dared to expreſs my ſor⯑row for her ſufferings, or relieve my anxiety by inceſſant and minute inqui⯑ries about her health—We are many, many miles, aſunder, almoſt at the oppo⯑ſite extremes of this kingdom; and I am debarred even the poor indulgence of lamenting by ſecret correſpon⯑dence, the pangs I hourly feel from ab⯑ſence—But ſhe is the ruler of my deſti⯑ny, and I will not murmur or repine at whatever ſhe ſhall ordain.

Do I not then deſerve that chance or fortune ſhould do ſomething in favour of ſuch an humble and patient ſufferer, as I am?—Yet what can it do for me! circumſtanced as my unhappy paſſion is, it muſt be criminal even to hope that thoſe inſuperable bars which now [290] divide us, ſhould ever be removed—And yet my weak, my guilty heart, even at this moment, feels a gleam of joy, in thinking that there is a chance, which ſoon may ſet her free—Let me not dwell upon the ſubject, or breathe a wiſh that muſt render me unworthy of her.

I have received an invitation to attend the nuptials of an intimate friend of mine, who has been long in love with a very amiable young woman, but till now, ‘"With-held by parents."’—Though utterly unfit for any ſcene of feſtivity, I cannot refuſe this ſummons, as I am truly intereſted in the happineſs both of the bride and bridegroom—I ſhall, therefore, ſet out immediately for Dublin. The wedding will be ce⯑lebrated [291] a few miles from it; but di⯑rect to me there.

And if you have yet deſcended from your hyperbolical heights, pray let me have a ſimple news-paper paragraph about the fire, and the facts that at⯑tended it. Your hopeleſs ſtate has been bettered, I find, by the ſame unnatural means that the wretched farmers of this country uſe with their land; when their crops begin to grow thin, they burn it. But you are a lucky fellow in every thing—Even your ill behaviour to Miſs Cleveland, turns out now to your ad⯑vantage—A woman affords an irrefra⯑gable proof of her love, who forgives ſuch an affront; for if ſhe does, believe me, that 'tis her own paſſion, not your chivalry, that has recovered her to you.

LETTER LVI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

THANK you, my Fanny, for the pleaſure I have received from all your letters, but particularly for the laſt, which announces the glad tidings of Delia's recovery, of my brother's ap⯑proaching happineſs, and of your return to England.

You will ſee, by the date of this, that I have made an excurſion from South⯑field, ſince my laſt—Sir William, who is now, I hope, in a fair way of recovery, has at laſt conſented to Lucy's moſt ear⯑neſt and repeated requeſt, and has kindly permitted me to attend her nup⯑tials [293] —He intends to paſs the time of my abſence with Colonel Walter—I am ſorry he has choſen him for his companion, but what arguments could I oppoſe to his inclinations?

On my arrival in Dublin, yeſterday morning, I was met by my beloved Lucy, and her beloved lover—I never ſaw de⯑licate happineſs ſo ſtrongly impreſſed upon elegant features, as it appeared in both their countenances; yet there was a little mixture of timidity in Lucy's eyes, which abated their vivacity, but encreaſed that charming look of ſenſibi⯑lity which is the natural reſult of refined tenderneſs—the moſt irreſiſtible of female charms.

Harriet, who came with me, is in high ſpirits; ſhe is to have the honour [294] you wiſhed her, of being bride-maid, on this occaſion—Young girls are always delighted at the proſpect of a wedding, and conſider that moſt ſolemn and hazardous act of our lives merely as a feſtival—When, alas!—But this wedding will, I hope, and believe, juſ⯑tify their opinion, and make a holiday for both their lives. Amen, Iſay, with all my heart!

Mrs. Layton, Lucy, Harriet, and I, came here yeſterday, in my coach. This morning I have been all about the place, and never ſaw a ſweeter ſpot; the proſ⯑pects are delightful; there is an ample view of the bay of Dublin, and of the oppoſite hills, which for many miles are richly cultivated and adorned with numberleſs gardens and villas—There [295] is nothing in the environs of London, half ſo beautiful; as neither the Thames or Medway, can pretend to vie, in beauty or in grandeur, with the ocean.

This lovely ſeat Sir Harry Creſwell has juſt purchaſed, and ſettled it as a jointure houſe, on my fair friend; leav⯑ing his family-manſion to deſcend in the uſual courſe, to his heirs male.—I am pleaſed with the propriety and delicacy of this action, as I have always thought it extremely cruel that a woman ſhould be obliged to quit her houſe, on the death of her huſband, and be as it were turned adrift in the world, at the time ſhe has loſt her chief ſtay and ſupport in it.

Sir Harry is to dine with us here, this day, and to go back to Dublin, [296] which is juſt ſix miles off, at night: to⯑morrow he returns here again, to part from his Lucy no more. The ceremo⯑ny is then to be performed in a neat private chapel within the demeſne—Miſs Creſwell, a ſiſter of Sir Harry's, is to be the other bride-maid; and his bride-men, whoever they are to be, will I ſuppoſe, attend him hither.

I hear a carriage driving furiouſly, and am not yet dreſſed—It muſt be Sir Harry—Lovers are impatient—'Tis he, indeed; but can I believe my ſight? Lord Lucan with him! My fate pur⯑ſues me! O Fanny! I can write no more.