LETTER the Firſt.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

WHY all this diſtreſs my kind Harriot, why ſo much anxiety on your Iſabella's account? I hoped my laſt would have con⯑vinced [2] you I am by no means ſo unhappy, as your fears would perſuade you; no doubt we have ſuffered, ſeverely ſuffered: the un⯑expected change in our ſituation is certainly a very mortifying cir⯑cumſtance; but, remember my dear, we are not the firſt, would to heaven we might be the laſt, who have been ruined by that deſtructive vice; 'twas my poor father's only foible; do not then let us be too ſevere on his memory; nor are we Harriot left quite deſ⯑titute as you ſuppoſe, far from it: my Orlando's commiſſion is alone ſufficient to maintain him as a gentleman, had he no more, but [3] he has more—after paying all my father's debts, and ſorry, ſorry, am I to ſay, they were moſtly what is falſely called debts of honor; we find a reverſion of near two thouſand pounds. What is this, you will perhaps aſk, when com⯑pared to the noble eſtate he has loſt at the gaming table?—nothing—yet Harriot, how many, no leſs worthy than ourſelves are there at this moment, who would look upon even our preſent ſituation as enviable; 'tis by reflections of this nature I endeavour to re⯑concile myſelf to my fate, and, thank heaven, I am reconciled to it.—O ſpare then, my dear Harriot [4] yours on the memory of my unfor⯑tunate father. I know they are the effects of your tender affection to me; but they hurt my feelings, I can pity, I can lament his ſitu⯑ation; this I can allow you to do; but, indeed you muſt ſpare your cenſures on a conduct, which, though faulty, a daughter ought not to condemn: alas, he ſuffered moſt ſeverely—his agony—his re⯑morſe in his laſt moments would have pierced the moſt flinty heart.—Orlando's behaviour—but no words can do it juſtice—'twas great—'twas noble—not a mur⯑mur—not even a ſigh eſcaped him for his own fate, all his feelings [5] were for the ſufferings of a father whoſe failings he pitied, and wiſhed to forget—he, Harriot, has indeed, a degree of manly fortitude, to which your poor Iſabella has no pretenſions: my reſignation proceeds rather from an indifference for the ſuperfluities of life, from a happy flow of ſpirits, which has ever led me to look on the bright ſide of the picture, and let me add, which ſhould indeed have been firſt men⯑tioned, a firm perſuaſion, that, the Almighty never wholly for⯑ſakes the virtuous, nor lays heavier burdens on any of his creatures, than they are able to bear. What [6] have I then to fear?—poverty—be it ſo, far be it from me to be⯑lieve all who are deſtitute of riches are miſerable—nor can I be deemed abſolutely poor, having ſuch a brother as my Orlando—he may—nay, he muſt riſe in his profeſſion, if merit can entitle him to it; and though that does not always fol⯑low, yet a very ſuperior degree of it, is ſeldom wholly overlooked, and ſuch is his—have I not a kind affectionate friend too in my Har⯑riot, who, I am poſitively certain will love me more truly now, if poſſible, than in my days of proſ⯑perity?—adverſity is juſtly ſaid to be the teſt of friendſhip; I am under no apprehenſions for the loſs [7] of yours—thoſe who may now look cool upon me, I have pride enough to deſpiſe, and thus we are quits—it will ſhew me their real value, and that, let me tell you, is gaining no inconſiderable know⯑ledge.—Are you convinced my dear Harriot, that I am not ſo much to be pitied as you have hitherto kindly feared? believe me, happineſs is an imaginary bleſſing, at leaſt, 'tis in the mind we muſt ſeek for it, not in thoſe outward trappings, which wealth beſtows, and can only beſtow. I am very much perſuaded, I ſhall find myſelf as thoroughly ſatisfied and content, nay, as vain of my [8] charms too, in a neat linen or muſlin gown, as ever I was when adorned with more coſtly attire; indeed, I have ſomewhere read, that beauty when unadorned, is adorned the moſt—'tis a doctrine I am now determined to adopt, and, who knows, what may yet happen; if that maxim may be depended on, my days of conqueſt are yet to begin, that is to ſay, I am to be more capable of it than ever.—I feared, you ſee, you ſhould fancy I had lived to nearly my nineteenth year, without having done any execution, and, humbled as I am, felt my pride alarmed at ſuch an idea—thank heaven, [9] however, I am ſetting out in my new plan of life, with my heart perfectly at eaſe—no ſmall con⯑ſolation that, let me tell you—not ſo, my darling Orlando; and that pains it indeed, more than any other wound it could have re⯑ceived—he has now, I fear, a hopeleſs paſſion to ſtruggle with, beſide all his other misfortunes—you are no ſtranger to his atach⯑ment to the lovely Caroline, nor her wretch of a brother's rooted averſion to mine—an averſion, founded on his ſuperiority; they were fellow collegians—he there conceived that envy for his ſupe⯑rior talents; and the univerſal [10] eſteem he met with from every creature, (himſelf excepted,) and by ſome other trifling circum⯑ſtances which has ſince occurred, of which you have ſeen many proofs; it has, from that period, been his conſtant endeavour to do him every injury in his power, though, till now, he has met with few or no opportunities—and, there is nothing more certain, I firmly believe, than that.

Now, I ſay, he has it amply in his power, to mortify the amiable [11] object of his averſion, ſince Ca⯑roline is, till of age, wholly in his power, then indeed ſhe may chuſe for herſelf; and I have every reaſon to believe her choice is al⯑ready made, but till then, ſhe cannot marry without the wretch's conſent; this however, is not the worſt; time would of courſe re⯑move this obſtacle, but the ſcene is changed—my Orlando's ſenti⯑ments are of a nature ſo delicate, that I am fully perſuaded he will, or rather has, from the moment, he knew he had no longer a for⯑tune to offer, worthy her acccept⯑ance, given up every hope of poſſeſſing the miſtreſs of his tend⯑ereſt [12] affections. Sir John will therefore be again diſappointed, in his hopes of mortifying him, for never will he put it in any woman's power, to ſuſpect intereſt could have any influence over him. The lovely Caroline, I well know, would rejoice in thus having it in her power, to reſtore the man of her heart, to that affluence from which he has ſo unhappily fallen, indeed, I can hardly form an idea of a greater gratification than that muſt be to a noble mind, except being able, like Orlando, thus to ſacrifice all his proſpects of feli⯑city to his ideas of honor—'tis the pangs, which I am ſenſible, at this [13] moment, wrings his generous heart, that pains mine moſt, in this our fallen ſtate—all other ills I can look forward to with tolerable for⯑titude; but where my brother's peace of mind is concerned, I feel moſt ſeverely; 'tis only while re⯑flections on this ſubject occur, that my heroiſm forſakes me; 'tis then, I mourn our loſs, and the little probability there is of his ever being ſo happy as he juſtly deſerves to be, or as my affectionate heart could wiſh—for, alas, we may truly be ſtiled orphans. Since, I know not one relation we have in the world, on whom we have any poſſible claim: my poor father, [14] had no brothers—my amiable and ever to be lamented mother had but one, and he died when Or⯑lando and I were infants, at leaſt we have every reaſon to believe ſo, as we have never heard of him ſince.—On Providence, Harriot we muſt place our truſt—but had we hundreds of relations, are there any on whom we could, or ought with ſo much confidence to rely? ſurely there are not, for they, though poſſeſſed of millions, might behold our wants with an eye of indif⯑ference; all our hopes of ſharing their wealth might poſſibly be diſ⯑appointed, for 'tis not thoſe who poſſeſs moſt, who are always rea⯑dieſt [15] to beſtow—but, in putting our truſt in Providence, we not only do our duty, but cannot fail in being rewarded, either in this world or a better—yet, alas, my dear Harriot, this, I fear, is in general, a laſt reſource—certain it is, your poor Iſabella has no other; I fear, if I had, you might not have found me capable of making ſo many pious reflections.—I dare not too minutely enter into the ſcrutiny, conſcious, that 'tis much eaſier to preach than practice—of this, however, I am abſolutely certain, that the ſentiments I have expreſſed, are ſuch, as I ought moſt firmly to believe, and though my [16] faith may be weak, I truſt it will never wholly fail—do not be ſhocked my dear Harriot, when I inform you where to addreſs your next letter, forget, as I endeavour to do, the elegant manſion, in which I formerly enjoyed the pleaſure of your correſpondence, reflect only, that your pleaſing epiſtles will now be doubly dear to me, robbed as I am, of ſo many other ſources of ſatisfaction,—do not ſuffer a tear to drop on it in remembrance of the paſt, 'tis fruitleſs, a thouſand things may yet happen to cheer my preſent proſpects. I do not deſpair; and why, my good girl, ſhould you: [17] Let me find in your next your uſual vivacity, that will help to reſtore mine, indeed, for my Or⯑lando's ſake, I will do my utmoſt, not only to appear, but really to be chearful; not for worlds, would I give him one moments uneaſineſs, nay, in this, and only this caſe, would I deceive him; and, if poſſible, perſuade him, I am more reſigned, than 'tis in nature to be—you have not, I am ſure, forgot our worthy teacher at Mrs. Maſon's; ſhe was ever extremely partial, both to you and your Iſabella; our governeſs, was of a more haughty, more forbid⯑ding caſt; of courſe, Mrs. Bell⯑mour [18] was our favorite—to what can all this poſſibly tend, cries, my Harriot; what has Mrs. Bell⯑mour to do with the addreſs you was talking of?—a great deal my dear—ſhe has lately left our ſchool, and has now a houſe in London, where ſhe has half a dozen young women conſtantly employed in embroidery, and other elegant works; ſhe has a very numerous acquaintance amongſt people of faſhion, and I hear, has great buſineſs in that line; her houſe is an excecding good one, in an airy ſituation—no ſhop—pray let that conſole you—with her I have determined to reſide for a time— [19] my pride forbad my continuing in the country; I dreaded the pity of my former acquaintance, and truſt I ſhall never require it; as it is one of the leaſt pleaſing of all con⯑ſolations, and for that reaſon, I fear, given ſo freely.—In town, I can live as retired as I pleaſe, and what is ſtill better, enjoy my Orlando's ſociety daily—he is now my only protector; could I then do better than take up my reſidence near him.—Mrs. Belmour is a woman of family, of a fine underſtanding, well bred, and accompliſhed; our ſituations are in ſome degree ſimilar—true there is this difference; ſhe, though as [20] I ſaid, of a good family, never had hopes of a fortune: Her father was a younger brother—married againſt the conſent of his friends; was never pardoned, and died when ſhe was an infant; ſhe was of courſe brought up without higher views than ſhe has attained to; perhaps, her father's misfortunes might deter her from entering into the ſtate of matrimony; be that as it will, ſhe never did, though ſhe has certainly been a fine woman in her day—with her, I doubt not I ſhall find myſelf very com⯑modiouſly ſituated; my faithful Fanny, begged to continue with me, indeed, I had no thoughts of [21] parting from her; but, when ſhe ſaw all the other ſervants diſmiſſed, ſhe feared it was to be her fate alſo; ſhe is a good creature, and, I believe ſincerely attached to me, indeed, having lived in our family, from a girl I can hardly doubt it—nor is this deſire a ſmall proof of it.—My dear Orlando wiſhed me much, alſo to retain my own man—but this I at once declared I would not conſent to—could I poſſibly think of putting him to an expence for a gratification I could ſo eaſily diſpence with—no, Harriot—far, far, rather would I make ſhift with the bare neceſſaries of life, than encroach on his [22] generoſity—'tis for his dear ſake too, I chuſe to live retired; in London, I am an abſolute ſtranger; I mean to continue ſo.—Reading, muſic, drawing, and needle work, with ſometimes his loved com⯑pany, will abundantly amuſe me; thank heaven, my mind is not ſuch a blank as that I ſhould, like too many others of my ſex, be compelled to kill time, inſtead of uſing it to rational pur⯑poſes: Lord help thoſe inſigni⯑ficant ſouls, who find every moment of it heavy, when not engaged in diſſipation—much in⯑deed are they to be pitied, and many, many ſuch there are, in [23] this ſmall town.—'tis now I think full time to bid you adieu; when I am ſettled in my new habitation, you ſhall hear from me again—in the mean time, be under no ap⯑prehenſions for me. I have made up my mind. All will do mighty well. Continue to love me, and believe me,

LETTER the Second.
Same to the Same.

HERE I am, my deareſt Har⯑riot, and I aſſure you, very comfortably ſettled—comfortably, you cry, ſhocked at the homely phraſe—but why ſhocked?—you have been ſo long accuſtomed to think of your Iſabella, as enjoy⯑ing every elegance, every luxury of life, that the idea of being re⯑duced [25] to the mere comfortable, it appears, I ſuppoſe, a mighty uncomfortable expreſſion—now, I, on the contrary, by caſting my eyes around me, and viewing the thouſands who every moment paſs my windows, viſibly deſtitute of even that bleſſing, think 'tis no ſmall mercy, conſidering, that another unlucky caſt of the dice, might have put me on a level with the moſt wretched—'tis by reflecting in this manner, my dear Harriot, one finds conſolation; in fact, I have loſt nothing eſſentially neceſſary to happineſs, were it not a truth, how very very few, in this world have any pretenſions to [26] it—few I mean, in compariſon of thoſe, who are even in a far worſe ſituation than I am at this mo⯑ment; have I not a kind affectionate brother, a friend, no leſs tenderly attached to me?—in ſhort, I am de⯑termined to bid defiance to adver⯑ſity; I will bear it, not only with reſignation, but, if poſſible, cheer⯑fully, which I am poſitively certain, will ſtrip it of half its horrors; no more condolence then, no more fruitleſs repining, let us remember, this misfortune was brought upon us by a father, a kind, an in⯑dulgent, though an imprudent one; be his faults and failings forgot, and, may I ever reflect with gra⯑titude, [27] on the thouſand benefits we have received from him—a good education, well informed underſtanding, ſentiments we need not bluſh to acknowledge; theſe, Harriot, we owe to his paternal care, but for thoſe inſtructions, I might not have been able, as thank Heaven, I now can, to look back without a ſigh, to thoſe ample poſſeſſions, once ours—now in the poſſeſſion of others, perhaps, leſs deſerving—why wonder at the fall of a private family—'tis a fate from which even the greateſt em⯑pires are not exempt—but, let me farther convince my kind Harriot, I am not an object of pity, by giv⯑ing [28] her a more minute account of my ſituation; I found Mrs. Bell⯑mour's houſe infinitely more ele⯑gant, yes, elegant, than I had any idea of; I have three apartments, which we will call my drawing room, dreſſing room, and bed chamber, more than that number I did not aſpire to, in my father's houſe, 'tis true, my ſecond is not quite ſo ſpacious as my former one there, but for that very reaſon, is now preferable, as it is more ſuitable to my circumſtances—the furniture is all chintz—my dear Orlando, has ſupplied me with a few well choſen books; I have my harpſichord, my materials for [29] drawing; and, as for all ſorts of elegant works, have only to ſtep down to Mrs. Bellmour, and there I may at all times, ſee and copy the greateſt variety—ſhe is de⯑lighted with the honor I have done her, in making choice of her houſe, and pays me as much re⯑ſpect, as if ſhe were a ſtranger to my misfortunes; ſhe has no other lodgers, though ſhe has another ſet of apartments, as good as mine, which ſhe can ſpare, but has made a point of taking no perſon, who is not particulaly recommended, nor is ſhe very anxious about it, as ſhe is in a fair way to make a fortune in a few years, by her bu⯑ſineſs— [30] now, tell me, honeſtly, have I not great reaſon to bleſs Heaven, that I ſtill enjoy ſo many comforts—ſurely, I have—you'll perhaps, tell me, I am excluded from all ſociety, or at leaſt, from ſuch as I have hitherto been ac⯑cuſtomed to—'tis very true, and ſociety is undoubtedly, the firſt ſatisfaction in life—but, though I had a numerous acquaintance, it by no means follows, that in their company, I found what I call ſociety—'tis, in my opinion, a thing no longer underſtood, 'tis ſtill like friendſhip, much talked of, but where do we find it—not at public places, not at card par⯑ties, [31] ſociety, according to my ideas, conſiſts in rational converſation, with ſenſible well informed peo⯑ple—where are they to be met with? that there are many ſuch, I make no doubt, but, what avails it—a man, or woman, of ſuperior underſtanding, makes no better figure—nay, I am apt to think, a worſe figure at a public place, or, card aſſembly, than one who can only talk of the weather—the faſhions, the opera, or the laſt new play—and, where does one meet any ſoul, but at places of this nature? not in London; ſo my loſs, you ſee, is not great in that article—do you, Harriot, in [32] your conſcience, think they un⯑derſtand the matter much better in the country—I do not—during the few months people of faſhion ſpend there, do they not to the utmoſt of their power, live exactly as they do in town—where then is ſociety to be found—I ſay, 'tis wholly aboliſhed, and in its ſtead, we have only an eternal round of inſipid diſſipation, in which, as I ſaid above, the fool, makes juſt as good a figure as the man of ſenſe—I never paſſed a winter in town, except one—and upon my honor, I never was ſo tired of any ſix months, ſince I was born, yet, I was then in the firſt company, [33] nay, admired too, as a beauty, that circumſtance one would think, might have kept one awake, but I declare to you, I have found on many occaſions, more uſe for my fan to conceal a yawn, than for any other purpoſe; how often have I been, one of a large circle of belles and beaux, for hours to⯑gether, without hearing a ſingle ſentence uttered worth attending to; yet all affect amazing vi⯑vacity, and a laugh is frequently heard, when not a ſoul amongſt them, if aſked, what gave riſe to it, could poſſibly tell—'tis, as ſomebody very juſtly obſerved, when talking on this very ſubject— [34] all laugh, and no joke—this is ſociety—and this I am likely to be debarred of, if I have not it in my power, to mix as formerly, with the beau monde—am I to be pitied—not one bit—beſides, my new ſituation has the charm of novelty to reccommend it, and that, let me tell you, is no ſmall matter—did ever mortal, you cry, hear any one ſo eloquent in praiſe of adverſity—perhaps not—but 'tis my way, Harriot, to make the beſt I can of a bad bargain—and, after all, ſhould I be one jot the happier, had I given myſelf up a prey to deſpair—had I, inſtead of thus endeavour⯑ing [35] to forget the paſt, tormented both you and myſelf, with un⯑availing lamentation—I doubt the fact, my dear—my Orlando too, who makes it my ſtudy to keep up my ſpirits—ſhall I not do all in my power to aſſiſt him in his kind purpoſe; I ſhould little merit his affectionate attention, if I did not—here comes the dear creature, I hear his voice below—farewell—let me hear from you ſoon, and believe me,

LETTER the Third.
Same to the Same.

WHAT an angel is Caroline, my dear Harriot—Oh! ſhe has proved herſelf the moſt generous, the moſt exalted of women—you may remember, that I broke off abruptly hearing my Orlando's voice, enquiring for me—read that, my Iſabella, cried [37] he, giving me a letter, and confeſs that the charming Caroline is, as I ever believed her, a noble minded creature—I have his permiſſion to ſend you the following copy of it, that you may yourſelf, judge whether ſhe does not juſtly merit the encomiums, I have given her

P. S. Do not fancy I have formed the above reſolution, without mature reflection—no—I am [43] too wiſe, too prudent for that, believe me—I have weighed the matter, as thus—in one ſcale, I put myſelf▪ and my twenty thouſand pounds—in the other, your worſhip, your colonel's commiſſion, with all your accom⯑pliſhments of mind, and per⯑ſon—when, behold, my Lady⯑ſhip's ſcale inſtantly kicked the beam, nay, ſo very unequal were they, that I am poſitively certain, could I have thrown fifty thouſand more into it, there it would have ſtuck—the duce is in it then, if I ſhall not have the beſt bargain—adieu.—

[44] You have now, I preſume, read the delightful girls letter—what do you think of her, my dear Har⯑riot—is ſhe not a ſpirited, charm⯑ing creature?—there are thoſe, ſhe ſays, who might poſſibly con⯑demn her—you, I truſt, are not of the ſtupid number; for my part, I adore her for her inge⯑nuous candour—ſhe knows, Or⯑lando's whole happineſs centers in her—ſhe knows his worth—who then, but the moſt ridiculouſly prudiſh, ſhall preſume to ſay, ſhe has not acted like an angel—yes, an angel, I repeat, for, alas, I fear 'tis not like the generality of our ſex—well, my dear Or⯑lando, [45] cryed I, when I had read her epiſtle—what ſays your heart, to this proof of your Caroline's folly?—folly, Iſabella—certainly replied I—muſt ſhe not be a very weak creature, thus, to perſiſt in loving you, merely for thoſe good qualities, which no reverſe of fortune can rob you of—what are thoſe, compared to an eſtate of two thouſand a year?—nothing indeed, I believe, ſaid he, in the eſtimation of too many of your ſex, Iſabella, but my engaging Caroline has a mind—to play the fool, cryed I, interrupting him, thats all—but ſeriouſly, con⯑tinued I, do not now, my dear [46] brother, carry your ſentiments of honor or generoſity, too far—there are obſtacles enough to your felicity already; let it be your buſineſs to remove, not by a falſe delicacy, to add to them; remember, the lively affectionate Carolines happineſs is at ſtake, as well as yours—has ſhe not freely confeſſed it?—ſhe has, cryed he in raptures, and I am the hap⯑pieſt of mortals; yes, Iſabella, I will look forward with hope—hope, replied I, nay, with cer⯑tainty—only, beware of that wretch, her brother, I know no villainy of which he is not capable, ſuffer him to believe you have now [47] given up all thoughts of his ſiſter; be cautious how you conduct yourſelf; beware, that none of your letters fall into his hands; I have no fears, on your account, my dear Orlando, 'tis for your Carolines ſafety I tremble, wholly in his power, as ſhe is at preſent, who can ſay, what his hatred to to you, and his ſordid avarice may prompt him to?—go, my beloved brother, go, and anſwer the charming girl's letter, as it de⯑ſerves, but, as I ſaid before, take care that 'tis ſafely conveyed to her—he left me, the happieſt of beings—yet, a thouſand delicate ſcruples damped his joy, but I [48] think, conſcious as he is, that her felicity, as I told him, depends upon him, he will conquer them—thus my dear friend, all my ſorrows are at an end—my Orlando will yet be happy—can I then fail to be compleatly ſo?—im⯑poſſible—no more repining, no more reflections then on the paſt, who can ſay, what a day can bring forth? this has been a happy one, to morrow may be no leſs ſo—

LETTER the Fourth.
Miſs LENOX, TO Miſs ROCHLEY.

YOU are perſuaded, you ſay, in one of your letters, I ſhall love you with more ſincerity now, in your adverſity, than ever I did in your days of proſperity—why, really my dear Iſabella, the thing [50] is mighty eaſily accounted for, though, 'tis not exactly according to the modern ideas of friendſhip; have I not, by this change in your ſituation, had an opportunity to diſcover a thouſand good qualities in you, which, but for that, neither you nor I might ever have ſuſpected you poſſeſſed?—how could it ever have entered my head, that Iſabella Rochly, born and bred in affluence, accuſtomed from her infancy, to all the luxuries, all the gratifications wealth could beſtow, ſhould, when unexpectedly robbed of them all, continue the ſame lively, chear⯑ful creature ſhe ever was—who, I ſay▪ [51] could have believed it?—well, may you ſay, you bid defiance to poverty—with a mind, as yours evidently is formed, what, as you ſay, have you to fear?—all this is great—is noble, my dear Iſabella, yet, though convinced your ſentiments are right, rational, and all that—I cannot help feeling—aye, and fearing too—but you will tell me, I am a Job's comforter—'tis very true—the fact is, had you, as every other mortal in your caſe, would have done, filled your letters with ſighs and tears with ahs!—and ohs! as long as my arm—I ſhould have taken [...]he other ſide of the queſtion, and [52] have endeavoured to conſole you, by every means in my power—but your aſtoniſhing reſignation—your truly chriſtian philoſophy, leaves me nothing to ſay—I can only wonder and admire—and love you moſt affectionately.

Having therefore, nothing more to do, let us chat as uſual, [...] on a late event, merely, a [...] on an unpleaſant dream—and firſt, for the charming Caroline—no, no, believe me, I am not one of the ſtupid number, who condemn her, if any ſuch there be, which I very much doubt—at leaſt, if they are acquainted with Orlando Rochley, I pronounce the thing [53] impoſſible—one there is—him, I had forgot, but, he is a wretch, not worth naming, her brother, I mean—but, though, not worth naming—he is an object to be feared—do you know, Iſabella, I am aſſured, he is at this moment in treaty with one of his gambling companions, who has taken it into his head, to fancy himſelf capable of being deſperately in love [...]th the dear girl; Sir John, has loſt a very conſiderable ſum of money to him—I believe, at the laſt Newmarket races; this ſum he has promiſed to give up, on condition he receives the h [...]nd of Caroline, in its ſtead; [54] and alſo, to accept fifteen thou⯑ſand, inſtead of the twenty, to which ſhe is entitled, on the day ſhe is of age—this, I am informed, and from pretty good authority, is the bargain theſe two worthy Baronets have ſtruck; judge you, whether they will leave any ſtone unturned to accompliſh their vile plot; Sir John, 'tis well known, is over head and ears in debt—Sir James Henderſon, rich as a jew, and though incapable of a real attachment, ſpares no expence to gratify his paſſions—or, the whim of the moment—I tell you this, my dear Iſabella, not that I have any apprehenſions, [55] farther than the trouble they may occaſion—thank heaven, we live in a land of liberty; a woman cannot be forced into matrimony againſt her will—and of all women, Caroline Weſtbury, is leaſt likely; ſhe has more ſenſe, more ſpirit, than half the fellows in England, conſequently, they will make but a bungling hand of the buſineſs, but, as I ſaid above, they may torment, and give her a great deal of trouble—you may do as you pleaſe, in regard to informing your dear brother, of what I now tell you; I think it may not be amiſs, knowing ones enemies, one may the better guard [56] againſt their machinations; indeed, being maſter of her generous heart, I think he has nothing to fear, he has only to have patience, and, as you ſay, all will do mighty well—but why, my dear Iſabella, this very retired plan of yours?—I ſee no reaſon for it, why not enjoy a little ſociety, I was going to ſay—forgetting you had proved to me, 'tis a thing no longer ex⯑iſting—perhaps, not according to your antiquated notions; but you in your turn forget, that all one has to do in this world of ours, is to take things as we find them; while thus indulging your ſimple plan, (the only ſimple one by the [57] way, you ever formed)—the world will take it for granted, you are weeping and wailing your miſ⯑fortunes unable to bear this re⯑verſe with proper reſignation, take my word for it, they will never be kind enough to impute your conduct to the real motive, they will be glad to find a defect in a character hitherto deemed perfect, diſappoint them, my dear Iſabella, convince them, your happineſs depended not on ſo fickle a being, as Madam Fortune, nor, could her ill favoured daughter, Miſs, rob you of your felicity—give them not ſuch a triumph, my dear girl, but, let them ſee, [58] you are ſtill the lively, chearful companion you ever were; I know you have but few acquaintance in town, but, if amongſt thoſe, there are any, whoſe company can afford you an hours amuſement, why not enjoy it—I am not without hopes of ſpending a few months in London this winter; if I do, emerge you muſt, for that I ſhall ſpoil your philoſophical plan, is moſt certain, ſo you may as well drop it at once; my love to Or⯑lando—let me hear from you ſoon, and tell me whether you have obeyed my commands; re⯑member me alſo to our old friend [59] Mrs. Bellmour, and doubt not, the affection of your un⯑alterable,

LETTER the Fifth.
Same to the Same.

I WRITE this in haſte, be not too much alarmed, my dear Iſabella—I wiſh I could ſpare you the anxiety theſe lines I well know muſt occaſion, but I cannot anſwer it to my heart, were I to conceal, what ſo nearly concerns your peace—Sir John, I am in⯑formed [61] by one, who is acquaint⯑ed with all his motions, has by ſome baſe means or other, ſeen your brothers letter to Miſs Weſtbury. I ſuſpect he alſo knew of hers to him—be that as it will, he is outrageous, and ſwears he will ſhoot the colonel through the head, rather than ſhe ſhall give herſelf and fortune to a beggar; that was his elegant phraſe—but, above all, to the man he deteſts—'tis ſaid, but this I cannot affirm, he ſet off for London yeſterday—accompanyed by that wretch Henderſon—did they poſſeſs one ſpark of honor between them, I ſhould be leſs apprehenſive, but [62] they do not—they dare not—I am certain—they have not ſufficient ſpirit to demand ſatisfaction, as it is called, like gentlemen—they are too conſcious of his ſuperiority, openly to avow their deſigns, his courage is too well known for that—they are mere bullies—and cowards of courſe—all I mean by telling you this, is, that you may caution your brother—charge him to be on his guard—I really, hardly know what it is I fear—but, ſuch is my affection for you both, that even the ſhadow of danger makes me tremble; ſhould Sir John really, be gone to town, they may chance to meet, and [63] who can ſay, what may be the conſequence—warn Orlando then to avoid him—I have time for no more, leſt, my well meant intelligence ſhould come too late—heaven, bleſs you both, prays, your affectionate,

LETTER the Sixth.
Miſs WESTBURY, TO Lady BELL SYDNEY.

YOUR ladyſhip is impatient, you ſay, to hear how I have ſettled matters with my gallant colonel—why, my dear Lady Bell, had the affair been left to my management, it would have been [65] happily ſettled, long ago, for I think I could, in ſpite of his heroics, have prevailed on the dear creature, to have taken me for better, for worſe—yet, ſuch are his obſolete notions of honor—generoſity, and other equally abſurd ideas, that I ſhould, I believe in my conſcience, have had enough to do—but I told you, nay, I ſent you a copy of the epiſtle I wrote him, on hearing the ſituation his imprudent father left him in—the loſs of his fortune, never gave me one hours concern, on my own account, perſuaded mine, is abundantly ſufficient to ſatisfy any two reaſonable people, [66] and reaſonable, I have ever found him, except in this inſtance—here truly, his pride ſteps in, can he think of giving a beggar to the woman he adores?—that is, the burden of his melancholy ſong—however, as I was ſaying, I be⯑lieve my eloquence might have prevailed, had I been at liberty to argue the caſe with him, as I wiſhed, but behold, my good for nothing brother, has found means to ſtop all farther proceedings at preſent—and, by ſuch means, as none but a being, like himſelf, actuated by the baſeſt of all motives, could have ſtooped too—he naturally ſuſpected the change, [67] in Colonel Rochley's ſituation, could make none in my ſenti⯑ments, my attachment, he knew, was built on a more permanent foundation—he therefore, made ſeveral attemps to diſcover my thoughts on the ſubject, but to no purpoſe, well did I know his, and therefore, choſe to diſappoint him—however, he was too artful for me—he bribed my maid—ſhe knew I had received a letter from him, though I never make people in that line my confidents as too many Miſſes do—but, having a better opinion of her, than I find ſhe deſerved, made no ſecret of it—ſhe knew our at⯑tachment, [68] ſhe knew his hand writing—and, in ſhort, when queſtioned on the ſubject, at the ſame time, eyeing a purſe of gold—ſhe anſwered, as he wiſhed, and promiſed, I preſume, to get him a ſight of the letter—how ſhe contrived this, I know not, unleſs by a falſe key to my cabinet, as I think, I could not be ſo careleſs as to leave it open—be that as it will—a few days ago, while at breakfaſt with my Tyrant, he with rage, malice, and a thou⯑ſand other amiable paſſions, ſtrongly depicted on his expreſſive coun⯑tenance, produced the ſaid epiſtle, at the ſame time, abuſing us both [69] in a language, which wou'd have done credit to an inhabitant of Bil⯑lingſgate—I bore the ſtorm with moſt provoking philoſophic calm⯑neſs—this, he, poor ſoul, could not bear—we females, my dear Lady Bell, have a thouſand times more command of our tempers, than theſe lords of the creation, as they ſtyle themſelves—ſo you have really been mean ſpirited enough, cried he, half choaked with paſſion, to offer yourſelf to this fellow?—even, ſo replied I, and pray brother, what can you poſſibly have to ſay to it—it cannot ſurely, interfere with your hap⯑pineſs, you, fond, as you ever [70] were of me, cannot marry me yourſelf, what, in the name of common ſenſe, then is it to you who does? provided he is a gen⯑tleman, a man of worth, of character—he is neither, cried he, he is a d—nd—ſtop, my good friend, ſaid I, interrupting him—no naughty words I beſeech you—you know—yes, well do you know, Colonel Rochley is all I have deſcribed, but I alſo know, not only, that you have long en⯑tertained ſentiments for him, which do no great credit to your under⯑ſtanding, but I know alſo the cauſe—his evident ſuperiority, not his inferiority, Sir John, is [71] the crime you cannot pardon; he has made you look rather ſimple, on more occaſions than one, 'tis no ſecret, my good brother, you know it is not—I might not now, or ever, have reproached you with it, had you not thus compelled me to it, in order to juſtify my partiality, by proving to you, he has no other fault, even in your eyes—ſurely, he is not anſwer⯑able for the miſconduct of his father, more than I am, for that of my brother, his family—his—d—n—his family, cryed he—well, if you inſiſt upon it, replied I, with a provoking ſmile I fear, I can't help it, but pray, [72] ſpare the colonel—my dear Lady Bell, I actually thought he would have beat me—and, perhaps I did deſerve a box on the ear—to cut this matter ſhort, continued I, and to ſave all farther altercation on the ſubject, I now declare to you freely, and candidly; I am fully determined to give my hand to this beggar, the very day I can alſo preſent him with it, my for⯑tune—till then, I have no ſuch intention, nor ſhall you then be ſuch a curſed fool, cried he, if I can help it, and I think I ſhall find ways for that—ſo ſaying, away he bounced—I ſoon followed, in order to lecture my abigail, [73] fully perſuaded, ſhe had betrayed me, if I may call it ſo, though, as I never truſted her, I believe, 'tis not exactly the caſe—on queſtioning her, ſhe denied the whole, but in ſuch a manner, that I was fully convinced in her guilt, and accordingly diſmiſſed her without farther ceremony—thus have I given thoſe particulars you wiſh to be acquainted with, my preſent ſituation is none of the pleaſanteſt, but, thank heaven, I am not very apt to give way to deſpair; the time is at no great diſtance, when I ſhall be at full liberty, to act as I think proper; teazed in the mean time, I expect [74] to be, but have made up my mind to bear it; I might, no doubt, quit our family manſion, and take up my reſidence with ſome of my friends, but it would anſwer no good purpoſe, for the fact is, they, one and all, pronounce me im⯑prudent at leaſt, thus to throw myſelf and fortune away, as they call it, on a man, who cannot, now, make ſuch ſettlements as I am intitled to—I, on the contrary, tell them, he has made all I ever had an ambition for—he has ſettled his heart upon me—I hear his charming ſiſter choſe to live in London, rather than continue in the country, where the miſ⯑fortunes [75] of her family, will of courſe, be a ſubject of converſation for ages—I think, ſhe judged perfectly right—there too, ſhe is more immediately under the pro⯑tection of her generous noble minded brother; Oh! how much contraſt to mine! I am told, ſhe reſembles him, both in mind and perſon—happy, my dear Lady Bell, ſhould I have been, had it been in my power, to offer the lovely girl an aſylum with me—ſuch a companion would have been the moſt deſirable thing in life, but my brother's rooted averſion to her whole family, puts that out of the queſtion at preſent—when the [76] happy day arrives, that he is no longer my maſter, I ſhall make it my firſt requeſt, to my dear Rochley—till then, Imuſt deny myſelf that pleaſure—in ſpite of the pretty trick that has been played me, I ſhall contrive ſome means to continue a correſ⯑pondence with him, but there is no hurry, we know each others ſentiments, that is the moſt ma⯑terial point—and ſo the matter reſts, adieu, my deareſt friend—you ſee I am in a fair way to be one of the poor perſecuted dam⯑ſels—this comes of falling in love—take care how you, my dear, get into this unfortunate [77] ſcrape—and believe me, moſt truly,

LETTER the Seventh.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

A Thouſand thanks, my deareſt Harriot, for your friendly intelligence, I inſtantly made my brother acquainted with it, who had the civility to laugh at our [79] feminine apprehenſions—how can you, my dear Orlando, ſaid I, make a joke of what, to us appears a very ſerious cauſe of alarm? why, my ſweet Iſabella, replied he, becauſe fighting is my profeſſion, would you then, have me like you, tremble at the thoughts of a ſword, or piſtol?—no, certainly cried I, Heaven forbid, had you a man of honor to deal with, but who can ſay, what a wretch like Sir John may be capable of—I vow I ſhould not wonder, if he had you aſſaſſinated—no, no, Iſa⯑bella, when you form plans of that nature, you muſt lay the ſcene in Spain, or Portugal, there [80] we hear of adventures of that nature, though I'll be ſworn, where one ſtory of the kind is true, fifty are falſe; depend upon it, you have nothing of that kind to apprehend—certain it is, I ſhould be ſorry, on my Carolines account, to have a fracas with him, nay, for her ſake, and for yours too, my dear Iſabella, I will not ſeek an occaſion of meeting him; as far as I can with honor, I will even avoid it—but, if by chance we do meet—and he ſhould preſume to inſult me, by look or word, why my dear, I ſhall en⯑deavour to teach him better man⯑ners—but take my word for it, [81] he has too much regard for his perſon to put it needleſsly in danger—I know him of old—he has adopted Hudibras's maxim

but ſhould it come to that, be aſſured he will be wiſe enough to conſider, that

was it poſſible Harriot, to forbear laughing in ſpite of my fears, at the idea this gave me of his an⯑tagoniſt [82] —I confeſs his agreeable vivacity put them almoſt to flight, I begin to think the creature will not have courage to face him, for according to Shakeſpeare, "con⯑ſcience makes cowards of us all"; and I am ſure, his muſt accuſe him of envy, malice, and a thou⯑ſand other diabolical paſſions—I again begged my brother for my ſake, to be on his guard, he ſmiled, ſaying, he was on the point of obeying me, as he was juſt going to be on guard, at the Tower—you chuſe to be witty, my dear Orlando, ſaid I, but, though this duty will prevent me ſeeing you for ſome time, I re⯑joice [83] to hear you are obliged to be there, as I think the wretch will not have courage to follow you to a place ſo capable of making a vigorous defence—he now, kindly kiſſed my cheek, bid me fear nothing, be chearful, amuſe myſelf the beſt way I could, till he ſaw me again, and left me much more at eaſe, than when he entered; certain of his Carolines attach⯑ment, maſter of her invaluable heart, he is as happy as this world can make him.

You do not, my dear Harriot, altogether approve my retired plan of life—I have made no vows [84] to ſeclude myſelf from the world, ſhould I ever meet with a temptation to enter into its amuſements—far from it, I am of too ſociable a diſpo⯑ſition for that, but I think, decency, propriety, not to men⯑tion my own feelings, forbid it at preſent—you forget Harriot, 'tis not many months ſince my dear father's death, and however we may have ſuffered by his imprudent conduct—I lament it moſt un⯑feignedly—another reaſon I have too, which you have alſo forgot—ſhall I—can I, do you think take advantage of my Orlando's generoſity, and run into any un⯑neceſſary [85] expences? forbit it, heaven—no, no, Harriot—I will content myſelf for a while with ſuch amuſements as I can enjoy, without robbing him of the little he is now maſter of—a time may come, when he can better ſpare it, and I am not ſo old, as to fear a decay in my charms, before I have an opportunity to diſplay them to the world—in the mean time, aſſure yourſelf, I am not merely comfortable, but, as happy as a queen—I am upon my honor, and as a proof of it, I am juſt going to ſing, and play Seaton Cliff—a new ſong, my Orlando [86] brought me this morning, he tells me I ſhall like it—adieu,

LETTER the Eighth.
Miſs WESTBURY, TO Lady▪ BELL SIDNEY.

I HAVE ſince you laſt heard from me, my dear Lady Bell, met with a trifle which gave (and very fooliſhly) half an hour's uneaſineſs—not more, for a moment's cool reflection con⯑vinced [88] me, 'twas an artifice of my brothers, and his friend, Sir James Henderſon—but take the particulars.

A few days ago we had dined, tete a tete—he was in better temper than uſual, not a word of the colonel was ſaid—'tis a ſubject I never ſtart, though of all others, the moſt pleaſing to me; he choſe to be very eloquent in praiſe of Sir James, was aſtoniſhed I did not ſee him in the ſame favourable light, ſo fine a fortune—ſuch great connections, &c. and then ſo diſtractedly in love with me, ſo conſtant, in ſpite of the cold [89] reception his addreſſes met with—I owned it was very aſtoniſhing, as I was reckoned a girl of taſte, but there was no help for it, ſome people were blind to their own intereſt, and I ſuppoſed I was one of the unlucky number—he did not, I believe, greatly reliſh my manner of expreſſing myſelf, but ſaid no more.

On his quitting the room, I ob⯑ſerved a letter lying by the chair he had ſat on—it was open—I cannot ſay I felt any ſort of cu⯑rioſity to view the contents, nor ſhould I, had I not, by mere chance, ſeen the name of Rochley; [90] I am now perſuaded he had dropped it in that open manner, that I might ſee it, ſenſible, nothing leſs would tempt me to peruſe it, and in this inſtance, he really did diſcover ſome ſhare of ſagacity.

Here follows a copy of the de⯑lectable ſcrawl; I own, as I ſaid before, I was weak enough to be fluttered, for about half an hour—

How do you like it Lady Bell?—artful, and really better manu⯑factered than I believed either of them capable of—I hope you will own it was enough to ſtagger one at the firſt reading—I confeſs it did me—for after all, men are but men. [95] However, I am fully determined not to believe one word of the matter—and, as I love to do things openly and honeſtly, I have treated my colonel with a copy of it, incloſed in a few lines from myſelf; civilly deſiring he will himſelf tell me, whether there is any truth in it, as I would ſooner take his word, than that of any other perſon—at the ſame time, adding my opinion, which as I have already told you is, that 'tis an abominable falſehood—I did not think it quite convenient to tell him, who was the eloquent author of this epiſtle, that might [96] have led to diſagreeable conſe⯑quences—but, what you will grant, is ſtill a better joke, I have taken no notice of having found it, though, that it was dropped on purpoſe for me to pick up, is as clear as noon day—I could expire with laughing at the thoughts of my having thus diſappointed the dear creatures, by pretending to know nothing of the matter.

When we met at tea—I found my brother was brimfull of ex⯑pectation—I affected to be more gay, more lively than uſual—yet, took care not to over act my part; I [97] was humming a favourite air, when he came in, and continued it; he was viſibly in the fidgets—tried firſt one chair, then an⯑other—but all in vain—I made the tea with all imaginable com⯑poſure—and at laſt, finding I would not break the ice, and of courſe, fearing the matter would come to an untimely end, if he did not lend a helping hand to reſtore it.

Caroline ſaid he, looking very like a fool; pray did you find a letter? I have dropped one ſome where, and cannot, for my ſoul, find it.

[98] You ſee, my dear Lady Bell, I had nothing for it, but to tell an abſo⯑lute lye mincing the matter would have ſpoiled the joke—no, replied I, I really ſaw none—no, cried he, ſhocked to death at the very idea that his plot ſhould have miſ⯑carried—ſurely you muſt, for I am pretty certain, I had it in my pocket at dinner—are you equally certain, ſaid I, you have not loſt it out of doors? O! quite ſo, replied he, it muſt have fallen in the dining room, while taking out my hand⯑kerchief, 'tis very likely, ſaid I, I will ring, and order a ſervant to look for it, it may be there ſtill, [99] perhaps, or ſome of them may have picked it up—I hope it is of no great importance, in caſe it is not to be ſound?—this was an aukward ſort of a queſtion, was it not, my dear Lady Bell? he felt it to be ſo, and looked more fooliſh, if poſſible, than before, and waved giving an anſwer—I rung the bell—John ſtep into the dining room, and ſee if you can find a letter there, your maſter has dropped one, and fancies it was in that room—away went John.

I need hardly tell you the poor epiſtle was not to be found—make [100] farther enquiries ſaid I, amongſt the ſervants, ſome of them may have got it—loſt, it cannot be, in the houſe, and, unleſs there were bank bills in it, I can hardly ſuppoſe any of them can have motives for, not reſtoring it—I hope it contained none, brother.

Such was the command I had of my countenance, my dear friend, that, I ſaw plainly, I had fairly taken him in—no, you never ſaw mortal in ſo ridiculous a ſitu⯑ation—'tis impoſſible to conceive it—what was now to be done? here was a fine well concerted plot blown to air, he had ſenſe [101] enough to ſee, that telling me the contents would never do—'twas too late—I ſhould immediately ſuſpect he had dropped it on pur⯑poſe, or, why not have told me the mighty news at dinner, if he could do it now—this argument might have no weight, had the buſineſs been of an honeſt nature▪ I am ſenſible—but, here the caſe was different, he felt I ſhould not believe one word of the ſtory, if told ſimply, without all the coro⯑berating circumſtances contained in the unfortunate epiſtle—it was to do it juſtice, wrote moſt plau⯑ſibly—Sir James begging he would not inform me of it, for in⯑ſtance [102] —how now, tell it without diſobeying that injunction, and of courſe, robbing his poor friend of the merit, he hoped to acquire, by that very injunction: This was a dilema not to be got over.

What then could the ſilly ſoul do better than let the matter drop? and this, he very prudently did—whether this diſaſter will cure them of ploting, heaven only knows—you ſee not a doubt re⯑mains with me, that it was a plot—though I have not yet had it cleared up, by my dear Rochley.

[103] This I hope to have in a few days, as I have taken effectual care, neither my letter, nor his anſwer ſhall again fall into my brothers hands—and he, I fancy, fearing his anſwer to his confederate, might, by ſome unlucky chance, fall into mine, has thought proper to ſet off full ſpeed, for London, to tell the ſtory in perſon

I would give ſomething to hear their dialogue on the ſubject; poor Sir John can make but a very ſo, ſo, figure on the occaſion, his friend will ſet him down as a mere marplot, though, I think I have [104] the beſt title to that appellation—for, 'twas certainly I that marr'd it.

I flatter myſelf the ſtory will divert your ladyſhip, and ſo I leave you, that you may laugh without interruption.

LETTER the Ninth.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

ALAS, my dear Harriot, your fears, your kind apprehen⯑ſions were but too well founded!—I may now ſay, I am as wretched a being as ever exiſted—compleatly wretched—'tis poſſible, the dread⯑ful [106] news may, e'er this have reached you, but the particulars cannot, and well I know the melancholy ſtory will be told by my loved brothers enemies, with every poſſible aggravation, for 'tis known only to them—the parti⯑culars I mean, alas! the event can be no ſecret!—I am almoſt blind with weeping, and can ſcarce ſee what I write, yet, what other conſolation is now left me?—little did your poor Iſabella think, when ſhe laſt wrote to you in ſuch good ſpirits, that ſhe was in a few days to be reduced to ſuch deplorable diſtreſs, you have ſeen me bear the loſs of fortune with⯑out [107] a ſigh, ſtill bleſſed with the tender affection of a beloved brother, I found nothing wanting to my happineſs—he was all the world to me—but I have, perhaps, ſeen him for the laſt time—Oh my Harriot! do I live to write it? I cannot proceed—my heart is torn with anguiſh, it bleeds for the misfortunes of my amiable Orlando—yes, my dear Harriot, 'tis ſtill for him I mourn—all his proſpects of felicity are now for ever blaſted—fate has done its worſt, he has mortally wounded the brother of his Caroline—judge then the condition I am in at this diſtracting moment.

[108] Sitting ſome days ago at my harpſichord, in order to practiſe another new ſong the dear creature had ſent me, that I might ſing it to him, when next he called—the following letter was brought me.

Happily for me, the worthy Mrs. Bellmour came with it her⯑ſelf—I had no ſooner caſt my eyes over the diſtracting contents, then I fell lifeleſs on the ſopha where I ſat—but my grief you will naturally conceive, ſo need not attempt to deſcribe what I felt at that terrible moment, or, what I ſtill feel—I am unable to [114] write any more at preſent—alas! why ſhould I, what can I ſay that will not diſtreſs you, as well as myſelf?—I am dying with impa⯑tience, to hear again from my poor Orlando—Mrs. Bellmour informs me this moment, the vile Sir John is ſtill alive, though, there are no hopes of his recovery—wretched as he has made me, I, yet, for my beloved brothers ſake, earneſtly pray that he may ſurvive it; Oh! Harriot▪ pity me, and join your prayers to thoſe of your

LETTER the Tenth.
Miſs WESTBURY TO Lady BELL SIDNEY.

I Would ſooner have acknow⯑ledged the favor of your kind, your affectionate letter, my dear Lady Bell, had it been in my power—but what with the dread⯑ful ſhock I have met with, and [116] the hurry of my journey, it was impoſſible—I know you will for⯑give the ſeeming want of attention, at a time like this—I arrived in town ſooner by ſome hours, than I believed it could have been done, indeed I never quitted the carriage, but drove night and day, ſuch was my impatience to ſee my poor brother. Alas, I no longer re⯑member his unkindneſs, his preſent ſituation alone engroſſes all my care—he ſtill lives, my dear friend, and the ſurgeons tell me, he may linger for ſome time; but they give me no farther hopes—he ap⯑peared ſenſible of my attention, in [117] thus hurrying to town? but ſhocked me beyond expreſſion, by the un⯑generous manner in which he mentioned Colonel Rochley—un⯑generous I muſt call it, ſince no power on earth will ever be able to perſuade me he could act in a diſhonorable manner—this, my dear Lady Bell, is a point from which I never will recede, in what⯑ever light the reſt of the world may look upon the unfortunate affair.

He is my brother 'tis true—but this circumſtance alone, ſhall not tempt me to do injuſtice to the [118] moſt amiable, the moſt worthy of men; though, alas! that man can now be nothing to me, my hopes of happineſs are for ever deſtroyed, whether he is innocent or guilty, but ſtill I will be juſt—Oh no!—it was not in his nature to take undue advantage of even his greateſt enemy—never ſhall they perſuade me of it—who, but the prejudiced can give credit to ſo cruel an aſ⯑perſion; nay, were not appearances ſtrongly againſt (muſt I ſay) my unfortunate brother? ſurely they were—he was accompanied by his friend—Colonel Rochley was alone when they met—this, even they [119] themſelves cannot deny—but they add, he was the agreſſor, he ſought the quarrel, by firſt inſulting Sir John—never will I believe it—no, his regard for me, I am well aſſured, would have prevented that, I know it perfectly; nay, I am no leſs certain, he would, on my account, have put up with more from him, than from any man breathing, I know it well—great muſt have been the provocation, that could tempt him to an action, which he could not but be ſenſible muſt put an end to all his hopes of obtaining the hand of your Caroline—ſo that whatever happens—whether my [120] brother lives, or dies, he is as far as the nature of the ſhocking caſe will admit juſtified in my opinion—Oh! how my heart bleeds for his amiable ſiſter, my dear Lady Bell, what muſt her diſtreſs be at this cruel moment? did I but know where to find her, I would fly to offer every conſolation in my power—indeed I would let the ill⯑judging world ſay what they pleaſed, my own feelings would acquit me, my heart tells me it would be an act of humanity, and I would truſt to its dictates—but I have not the ſmalleſt clue to guide me to the lovely mourner. She may by this [121] time poſſibly have left London—my brother aſks for me, I hear, I muſt bid your Lordſhip adieu,

LETTER the Eleventh.
Colonel ROCHLEY TO ISABELLA.

DURST I but flatter myſel?, this would find my deareſt ſiſter tolerably recovered from the ſhock, I am but too ſenſible my laſt letter would give her, half my [123] diſtreſs would be at an end—after a few hours ſailing, I arrived ſafely here, and ſafely I may remain here, till my unfortunate affair can be hap⯑pily adjuſted; let this conſole you, my beloved Iſabella, during my ab⯑ſence, long it will not be, I hope, hap⯑pen what will; I have friends, and powerful ones too, who will do all they poſſibly can to ſerve me; I am, therefore, under no apprehenſions for the conſequences, your Or⯑lando's honor, has never yet, thank Heaven, been called in queſtion, nor will it now.

I have ſent over the real ſtate of the caſe to my worthy General, I [124] have received many proofs of his friendſhip and regard, and am cer⯑tain he will not now withdraw them—the ungenerous account Sir John wiſhed to propagate, be aſ⯑ſured, my Iſabella will not gain credit, my character is too well known, ſo is his—I ſay not this by way of reflection on him, I ſcorn the thought—I mention it merely as a matter from which you my ſiſter may draw ſome con⯑ſolation—he ſtill lives, I find by a letter I received yeſterday from a friend—who can ſay, but he may yet recover?—independent of my own ſafety it would give me un⯑ſpeakable [125] ſatisfaction—believe me I am not one of thoſe who can, however honorably, be the death of a fellow creature, without re⯑morſe; I, my dear Iſablla, though conſcious the fatal deed was done in ſelf-defence, feel it a very ſerious matter, and truſt that circum⯑ſtance will acquit me in the ſight of Heaven, in the opinion of the world, I cannot doubt but it will—let me hear from you immediately, I will give you my addreſs before I ſeal my letter, let me have the happineſs of hearing you have exerted yourſelf on this occaſion, that you bear the trial as becomes [126] one of your excellent underſtand⯑ing; tell me alſo, whether Mrs. Bellmour is as attentive, as anxious to render your ſituation agreeable and convenient, as ſhe was when I left you—and tell me truly—I will not knowingly, ſuffer my Iſabella to be treated with diſreſpect▪—I think ſhe is incapable of it—I have been thinking, I know not how juſtly, that it might perhaps ſave you ſome trouble, were you to change your name till my re⯑turn; what I mean is, the friends of Sir John may poſſibly be indeli⯑cate enough, ſhould they by chance find out your place of reſidence to [127] make ſome impertinent inquiries about me—this may not—indeed 'tis not very probable it ſhould happen; but I would, to the ut⯑moſt of my power, guard my be⯑loved ſiſter from even the ſhadow of an inſult, and I ſhould look upon any enquiry they might think proper to trouble you with, in re⯑gard to the affair in that light; at any rate, it can have no bad effects, the idea occured to me, I there⯑fore mention it, though I believe on reflection 'tis quite unneceſſary, ſo do as you pleaſe my dear.

You may poſſibly wonder how I have been able to write ſo long [128] a letter, without once naming Miſs Weſtbury—no longer you ſee, dare I indulge myſelf in calling her my Caroline—that is a feli⯑city I muſt now reſign—yet, ſhe is dear, infinitely dear to me, and muſt ever be ſo while I have life—but, though all my fond, my flat⯑tering hopes are thus cruelly blaſted, I would not willingly for⯑feit her eſteem, I have therefore preſumed (unhappily circumſtan⯑ced as I am) to write to her, that I might as far as is conſiſtent, with truth and honor, juſtify myſelf; I have the vanity to believe ſhe will not readily give credit to any [129] report ſhe may hear, if any ſuch there are that will throw a ſtain on my character, I think ſhe will do me more juſtice—even the word of a dying brother, ſhould he dare to perſiſt in his firſt unge⯑nerous, ungentleman like aſſertion, will not, I am confident, induce her, to believe I could act diſhon⯑ourably.

I have frequently regretted my dear Iſabella, that with minds ſo congenial as yours and my beloved Caroline's, you ſhould be ſtrangers to each other—yet, alas! what would it now have availed?—you [130] would only have been more ſen⯑ſible of her worth, and of courſe, have felt your Orlandos diſappoint⯑ment the more ſeverely—adieu, my ſiſter, my friend, let me ſoon receive ſuch a letter from you, as you think, will give pleaſure to the heart of your tenderly attached,

LETTER the Twelfth
ISABELLA, TO Colonel ROCHLEY.

YES—I will endeavour to write ſuch a letter as I think will give pleaſure to the heart of the moſt amiable of brothers, is there any effort in my power, I would not exert to the utmoſt, for this dear [132] purpoſe? oh no!—I have recovered the ſad ſhock your former letter gave me, indeed I have—I am quite well again—even you my Orlando, who give me credit for ſo large a ſhare of fortitude, would be amazed to ſee how well I bear it—are you not pleaſed with your poor Iſabella for this? but I am ſure you are—through Mrs. Bell⯑mours means, I hear daily of Sir John, and have at length the inex⯑preſſible happineſs of informing you he is not only ſtill alive, but the doctors begin to have hopes—faint hopes they are, I believe, but this is ſomething, I ſhall, with [133] the probability of that wiſhed event, his recovery I mean, be able to bear your abſence without re⯑pining—for not, for worlds, would I have you return till you can do it with perfect ſafety, and this cannot be till he is pronounced out of danger, which is yet very far from being the caſe—at preſent he has not only his wounds to contend with, but a violent fever, occaſioned by them, they ſay—alas what will they not ſay, to aggravate the melancholy event? indeed Mrs. Bellmour tells me, ſhould he thus linger for a twelvemonth, and dye at the end of it, the ſurgeons may [134] pronounce them the cauſe of his death—is this poſſible?—yet it may to be ſure, bring on a bad ſtate of health, which may—but let me not think of it—I will believe better things.

I rejoice to hear you have wrote to Miſs Weſtbury—or, ſhall I ſay your Caroline? yes, I will indulge the dear hope that ſhe may yet be yours—ſhould her brother live, who can prevent it—and is there not now a pro⯑bability? what would I not have given for this a few days ago—I miſtake the charming girls cha⯑racter exceedingly, my dear Or⯑lando, if ſhe can ſo far miſtake [135] yours, as to harbour a thought in⯑jurious to your honor—ſhe knows you too well—and I muſt ſay ſhe knows her brother too well alſo, to take his word for—an impoſſibility.

And now let me do juſtice to my good friend Mrs. Bellmour, by anſwering your ſweetly kind enquiries—believe me, ſhe is more attentive, more obliging, if poſ⯑ſible, every day; I really can never be ſufficiently grateful for her tender care of me, when I firſt heard of the ſad affair which has robbed me of your dear ſociety—I will, now I have pretty well got over the ſhock, confeſs I thought [136] it would have killed me, ſo did my truly kind friend, I believe, and, but for ſuch a friend I cannot ſay what might happened—but I am now as I before aſſured you, quite well, and you ſee, in better ſpirits than my Orlando expect⯑ed—a-propos—I had almoſt forgot to anſwer one part of your dear letter, I mean in regard to changing my name for a while—I cannot ſee any neceſſity for it, that is cer⯑tain—yet, two circumſtances have determined me to do it—the firſt, becauſe the idea took its riſe from my ever kind and conſiderate bro⯑thers care of his grateful Iſabella, [137] none but a mind delicate, and anxious as yours, could have form⯑ed one of that nature—had I no other motive, that alone, would have induced me to adopt the plan; the ſecond is as follows:

The day before yeſterday, a perſon quite a ſtranger to Mrs. Bell⯑mour, ſtopped her as ſhe was going out at the door, and ſhe ſays, in an aukward kind of a manner, aſked the young lady's name, who lodged with her—pray let me firſt aſk you, replied ſhe; what is your reaſon for deſiring to know?—the man not being pre⯑pared [138] ſor this very prudent queſtion I preſume, heſitated, and was at a loſs how to anſwer it—but again begged ſhe would tell him—you muſt excuſe me, Sir, ſaid ſhe, I do not think myſelf authorized to do it without her permiſſion—you are a ſtranger to me, and of courſe, to the lady, ſince you do not even know her name—I have ſeveral young people in my houſe, and conſequently cannot be certain which of them you mean, if your buſineſs is of a nature neceſſary for any one of them to be acquainted with, you muſt contrive to inform [139] her of it in a proper manner—but I am perſuaded you are miſtaken—indeed I am not, replied he—ſhe left him, but inſtead of going out as ſhe intended, very prudently returned into the houſe, in order to warn her family to be on their guard, in caſe he ſhould make any farther enquiries, or knock at the door—ſhe came up to me to tell me, thinking it might afford me a moments amuſement—now, though I have very little reaſon to fancy he really did mean me—yet, 'tis poſſible he might; theſe are my two reaſons—which, tho' both trifling, when taken ſepe⯑rately, [140] yet, when joined, they amount to ſomething, and ſo my deareſt brother, addreſs your let⯑ters for the future, to—to—any Miſs you pleaſe—not ſo neither—'tis neceſſary to fix on one, though no matter what—Miſs Beverly, then let it be.

I ſhall tell Mrs. Bellmour, and give the latter circumſtance only, as my reaſon for the change—ſhe, I well know, will approve what⯑ever has prudence for its motive, and, as I am ſituated, one cannot be too cautious, a ſtranger as I am, and now deprived of my dear [141] protector—adieu, my beloved brother, may Heaven preſerve, and ſoon reſtore you to your,

LETTER the Thirteenth.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

REjoice with me, my dear Har⯑riot, I have had a ſecond letter from my Orlando, he is well, is ſafe, and writes in as good ſpirits, as a feeling mind in his unfor⯑tunate ſituation, can be ſuppoſed to do—what a brother am I bleſ⯑ſed [143] with, how kind, how affec⯑tionately attentive to every thing that concerns his poor Iſabella, I might name ten thouſand in⯑ſtances, but one ſhall ſuffice at preſent, nor need I indeed have mentioned this, ſince you my Harriot, know him well—but it is in ſome degree neceſſary to clear up what is to follow, or what in fact may as well go before.

Know then, that for a while, th at is to ſay, till his anxiouſly wiſhed return, you are to addreſs your letters to me, by the name of Beverly.—You are, I preſume, amazed; but I am going to ex⯑plain [144] the matter, he tells me, that while reflecting on my preſent un⯑protected ſtate, it occured to him, that it was poſſible Sir John's family, ſhould they diſcover where I was to be found, might be in⯑delicate enough to trouble me with enquiries about him; and, as he kindly wiſhes to guard me againſt every poſſibility of being inſulted, he propoſed my taking another name during his abſence.—Now, though I think there is no pro⯑bability of this happening, yet as it was an idea that occured to my Orlando, whoſe ſentiments are more delicate, more refined in [145] regard to what concerns our ſex, than any mortal I know—I could not refuſe to gratify him, not that he makes a point of it—by no means, on the contrary, he afterwards ſays, he is perſuaded it is unneceſſary, adding, do as you pleaſe.—I will certainly do it, as it can have no diſagreeable con⯑ſequences, and may ſave me the trouble, he ſo kindly apprehends—Miſs Beverly, then my dear Har⯑riot, muſt for ſome time be your friend and correſpondent.

I have the ſatisfaction to tell you, I hear Sir John, it is thought, may [146] yet get over it—but he is ſtill ex⯑ceedingly ill, if he does recover, it muſt be a work of time, he had lived a very irregular life, his con⯑ſtitution by no means a good one, and rendered ſtill worſe by every kind of intemperance, yet ſhould he unfortunately die within the twelve month, I am told it may be imputed to that miſerable ren contre—how dreadful is this, my dear Harriot—how very hard upon my darling brother—but, as I perpetually ſay, let us hope the beſt.

And, now for want of a more important ſubject to fill the reſt [147] of my paper, let me tell you, I have lately had a peep at ſome of the beau monde, whoſe ſociety you ſo much wiſh me to enjoy—a peep I ſay, for it was no more—Mrs. Bellmour is buſily employed at preſent, in embroidering a trim⯑ming for the birth-day—it is for a Lady Beningfield, a young and handſome widow—I never beheld any thing more truly elegant, I often ſit by her while ſhe is at work at it, by way of ſpending an hour agreeably, when tired of my book or muſic—A day or two ago, I was thus engaged, when the fair widow's carriage drove to [148] the door—I would have retired, but unluckily they were in the paſſage before I could reach it, the ſtreet door being open, a ſer⯑vant having that inſtant came in, of courſe I muſt have met them there—I returned to my ſeat very eaſy about the matter—in ſhe ſwam moſt affectedly—followed by a⯑nother Lady and a Beau—a Belle without a Beau, you know my Harriot, would be as aukward as—as—I leave you my dear to find a ſimile—the beauty—elegance, and expreſſive countenance of her fair friend ſtruck me exceedingly; never did I behold ſo much ſweetneſs, [149] yet a great deal of vivacity in any mortal before, no affectation, no airs—the other made up of both to her very finger ends—now for the Beau, cries my Harriot?—why, I muſt do him the juſtice to ſay, he appears, if I may judge from ſo ſlight a knowledge of him as if he deſerved a more manly ap⯑pelation—except my dear Orlando, I never beheld ſo fine a figure, nor a man ſo perfectly graceful—mighty fine cries Harriot, upon my word Iſabella, you have a pretty knack at deſcription.—

Muſt I add, Harriot, your poor friend ſeemed to attract ſome de⯑gree [148] [...] [149] [...] [150] of their notice? in ſpite of the enchanting, the divine trimming, as her ladyſhip every moment called it. The young lady gazed upon me in ſo particular a manner, yet with ſo much reſpect and ſweetneſs in her manner, that I really fancied ſhe was endeavouring to recollect me believing ſhe had ſeen me be⯑fore—how true this is I know not, but in that light her glances ſtruck me—as for his lordſhip—for he was a lord, I ſoon found—he of courſe could not overlook a female, who has been reckoned ſomething more than tolerable, I caught him peeping—ſo, alas! did Lady Beningfield, and many a [151] gentle tap on the ſhoulder ſhe gave him, for not paying quite enough attention to the dear trimming; twenty times did ſhe call him an inſenſible wretch! and other ſuch phraſes peculiar to the bon ton—ſhe too once or twice deigned to caſt an eye upon me, but ſoon changed them to a more pleaſing object, by turning to a large mirror, which was placed moſt commo⯑diouſly before her—all matters ſettled—a thouſand orders given, they at length took their leave, her ladyſhip crying, ‘come creature, why don't you lead me to my carriage,’ for the Beau was un⯑fortunately [152] ſtretching his neck over Mrs. Bellmour's ſhoulder, to get a laſt look at your Iſabella—no ſmall ſhare of vanity you'll cry—I only relate facts, my dear, and as I am not overwhelmed with the variety of my amuſe⯑ments, choſe to make the moſt of this ſubject, and ſo farewell.

I am going to write to my be⯑loved Orlando, and muſt now bid you adieu, not however, till I have told you, I am ever moſt truly yours,

LETTER the Fourteenth.
Miſs WESTBURY TO Lady BELL SIDNEY.

THANK heaven! my dear Lady Bell, my brother is rather better, the fever is abated, but he is ſtill in a miſerable way, the doctors, however, ſay he may poſſibly live; I am willing to be⯑lieve [154] the beſt, though, alas! I fear this is not their real ſentiments—I muſt tell your Ladyſhip an inci⯑dent which happened a few days ago—'tis ridiculous I grant, but has nevertheleſs, made ſuch an impreſſion on me, that I am tempt⯑ed to doubt my ſenſes—Lady Be⯑ningfield called on me the other morning, and inſiſted on my going with her to an embroiderers to ſee a trimming ſhe has ordered for the birth-day. She is no favourite of mine, you know, however, as I had been ſo long confined to a ſick room, I thought a drive for an hour might raiſe my ſpirits—Lord Tem⯑pleton as uſual was with her, and [155] is abſolutely, if poſſible, more ir⯑reſiſtable than ever—you ſee I can be juſt though I have given my heart to another; perhaps had her Lady⯑ſhip not known of my attachment ſhe might not have aſked my com⯑pany, ſince ſhe fears every woman who preſumes to caſt an eye upon him has a deſign upon his heart, which ſhe is determined to conquer or die in the attempt.—entre nous I am fully convinced he does not care three ſtraws ſor her; but let her Ladyſhip make this flattering diſcovery, 'tis no affair of mine.—

All this is nothing to my ſtory however, and my ſtory is a very [156] abſurd one when you get at it—to the embroiderers we went, my dear Lady Bell—and there had my Rochley's name been Beverly, I ſhould not heſitate to ſwear I ſaw his beautiful ſiſter, the reſemblance ſtruck me ſo forcibly I could not keep my eyes off the elegant crea⯑ture, in my life I never beheld two beings ſo ſtrikingly alike—the ſame expreſſive dark eyes, the ſame lovely mouth, the very dimples that ſo enchantingly play about it, the teeth—in ſhort, I am very ridi⯑culous—her name as I ſaid above I found on ſomebody ſpeaking to her is Beverly, and ſo ends my ſtory— [157] not ſo hers, or I am much deceived, for be ſhe who, or what ſhe will, I will lay my life his Lordſhip is fairly caught—'tis no wonder, that's certain,—he had no ſooner caſt his eyes upon her, than fare⯑well common ſenſe; not a rational anſwer could either her Ladyſhip or I get from him, though many an inrational queſtion did ſhe tor⯑ment him with,—he looked and ſighed, and ſighed and looked again—ſo did her Ladyſhip I believe, but with very different ſenſations—ſhe ſmiled, ſhe ogled, ſhe chid, but could make nothing of him, he was indeed, as ſhe perpetually [158] calls him a ſtupid wretch, which being interpreted, means neither more nor leſs in the mouth of a very fine lady, than—you are a di⯑vine fellow.

On this unfortunate occaſion, however, I fear ſhe meant it lite⯑rally; and to mend the matter, we were no ſooner ſeated in the car⯑riage, than he cried, what a lovely creature was that we have juſt ſeen!—Where, for heavens ſake? aſk⯑ed Lady B. (affecting to look out of the window, by way of making us believe ſhe fancied he ſpoke of ſomebody in the ſtreet)—Where? anſwered his lordſhip,—how, my [159] dear Lady Beningfield, can you aſk that queſtion? Surely, you muſt have obſerved her at Mrs. Bellmours,—not I, truly, returned ſhe, I obſerved nothing, lovely there, I give you my word, except my trimming; that is a fib, thought I, and ſo thought ſomebody elſe. I'll be ſworn. Did you too overlook the charming girl, Miſs Weſtbury, ſaid he, turning to me? Surely, you could not as you had no trimming to engage your attention. Indeed, I did not, my lord, nor can I be⯑lieve her ladyſhip could do it either, replied I, ſhe is joking, depend upon it; not I truly, cried ſhe, [160] brideling, I ſee no joke in it, ex⯑cept that ſome people are very apt to diſcover beauties where others can find none—the truth is, I ſup⯑poſe you are both joking, for I can hardly imagine ſuch a prodigy as you deſcribe could be there, and I not ſee her. There was now I re⯑collect it a tall, ſtarched looking thing ſtuck up there, who gave herſelf all the airs of a beauty—aye, and all the graces too, Lady Beningfield, cried his lordſhip.—At this inſtant, the wheel of the carriage by ſome unlucky—indeed, I ſhould rather ſay, lucky means or other, got entangled in that of a [161] coach paſſing by us. She took this favourable opportunity to be amazingly alarmed, ſcreamed, flung herſelf into his lordſhip's arms, and there fainted, as it were—he could do no leſs, you know, my dear Lady Bell than be alarmed alſo; the matters were ſoon adjuſted be⯑tween the honeſt folks without, but not ſo within: in vain I held my eau de luce to her noſe; in vain my lord ſaid and did all that lord could do.—I cannot ſay I was un⯑der any violent apprehenſions, nor he neither I believe; however, as one muſt get the better of a fright ſooner or later, ſhe at length thought [162] proper to open her languid eyes faintly exclaiming, "Where am I?"

I had very near replied as Scrub does in the Beaux Stratagem, to the ſame queſtion on a ſimilar oc⯑caſion.—Here, my lady, ſince this was certainly the ſtratagem of a Belle,—my lord in pity to her weakneſs forbear to renew the ſub⯑ject we were on before, conſcious, I believe, that had more to anſwer for than the poor wheel.—They ſoon after ſat me down, and what then paſſed between them I know not; but I fear his lordſhip's [163] thoughts would be too much en⯑groſſed by the charming Miſs Be⯑verley, to permit him to play the lover with a good grace—indeed I never believed he wiſhed to be looked upon in that light by Lady B, yet, the world ſays it is to be a match—that ſhe wiſhes it is abun⯑dantly clear, but I cannot bring myſelf to fancy he has any ſuch intention. The lady is handſome, no doubt, and rich too—ſo is he—fortune can be no object to him—but theſe widows, my dear Lady Bell, are a dangerous ſet of beings,—there is nothing impoſſible, ſhe may draw him in perhaps—'tis [164] certain there has long been a vio⯑lent flirtation between them, ſhe is artful, and doats upon him to diſ⯑traction—how it will end heaven knows if Miſs Beverly has, as I verily think ſhe has, made a ſerious impreſſion on him; he cannot do a wiſer thing than to make the moſt of the fracas above men⯑tioned, 'tis a fine foundation for a quarrel, he has only to perſiſt in doing juſtice to that lovely girl, and the buſineſs is done.

I would give the world to know who ſhe is, and how ſhe came there, for ſhe appeared to be at home, [165] yet, 'tis utterly impoſſible ſhe can belong to Mrs. Bellmour,—im⯑poſſible,—her air, her manner, in ſhort, her whole appearance for⯑bids an idea of that nature.—Adieu, 'tis ridiculous to think any more about it.

LETTER the Fifteenth.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

WOULD you believe it Har⯑riot?—yet, after all, why not? Did I not formerly tell you my days of conqueſt were yet to come?—Lord Templeton has actually been to call upon Mrs. [167] Bellmour, by way of ordering a waiſtcoat, &c. &c.—but in fact, as ſhe tells the ſtory, to make a thou⯑ſand enquiries about your friend Iſa⯑bella,—and pray, ſaid I, a good deal ſtartled, you may well believe, (fearing he had looked upon me in a light it hurts my pride—my de⯑licacy, to think of)—what anſwer did you, my dear Mrs. Bellmour make to his impertinent queſtions?—Had his lordſhip replied ſhe made any that merited that term, be aſſured my dear Miſs Rochley you ſhould never have been ſhocked by the knowledge of them from me.—I beg your pardon, my good [168] friend, ſaid I; I ought, indeed, to have done you more juſtice than to believe you would have men⯑tioned a ſubject you thought could give me offence; but thoſe ſort of gay men are but too apt to take liberties with our ſex, eſpecially if friendleſs and unprotected as I am, 'tis too true, replied ſhe, but his lordſhip, I believe, though young, and a man of faſhion, as 'tis called, has fewer of the faſhionable vices than moſt of his ſex,—I know his character well, 'tis a moſt amiable one, I never indeed ſaw him till the morning he firſt came here with Lady Beningfield; but much [169] I have heard in his praiſe I do aſſure you.

I own I was a good deal ſur⯑prized at the manner in which he ſpoke of you, as I have heard he is paying his addreſſes to Lady B; this circumſtance made me more reſerved in my anſwers than per⯑haps I ſhould otherwiſe have been▪—Ah! you could not be too much ſo, my dear Madam, cried I, piqued at what ſhe mentioned—for however polite, however ſpe⯑cious his behaviour, all the enqui⯑ries he could make, that being the caſe, muſt be looked upon as [170] very impertinent—I am hurt—ex⯑ceeedingly hurt by them I con⯑feſs, and muſt intreat you to anſwer no more of them—hear me patiently, ſaid my worthy friend, pray do not condemn, either his lordſhip or me, till you have heard all that paſſed—again I begged her pardon, and promiſed to be attentive—he ſpoke in rap⯑tures, continued ſhe, yet with the higheſt reſpect, begged I would tell him who you were, of what family, and a thouſand things of that nature—to this, I replied, your name was Beverly—that you was a young lady of faſhion and [171] family—particular buſineſs had brought you to town, and as I had had the charge of your education, you had done me the honor to prefer my houſe to any other, being a ſtranger in London—

And now my lord, continued I, permit me in my turn to aſk your reaſons, for wiſhing to know thoſe circumſtances? Miſs Beverly is at preſent under my care, ſhe is extremely dear to me, and I am of courſe deeply intereſted in all that concerns her—I honor you for it, replied he, you have certainly a right to queſtion me in your turn— [172] I can only ſay, my motives are ſuch, as even the charming Miſs Beverly could not juſtly condemn; I was ſtruck with the uncommon ele⯑gance of her perſon, her graceful manner—I will be very candid my lord, ſaid I, finding he now made a pauſe—in talking of my accom⯑pliſhed friend, your lordſhip uſes the language of a lover—pardon me, if I take the liberty of obſerving this is a language; I do not think you can uſe with propriety on this oc⯑caſion—I am not to learn, my lord, that the world talks loudly, that you are paying your addreſſes to—Lady Beningfield—no man ſo cir⯑cumſtanced [173] ſhould—I will be candid, alſo, cried he, interrupting me—the world is very much de⯑ceived, if that is its opinion; be aſſured, had that been the caſe, I would have ſpared you the trouble I have now given you—of this I give you my honor—ſo ſaying, my dear Miſs Rochley, he took his leave—and I hope you will now acquit me of having been guilty of any impropriety.

Indeed I do, replied I; I ought to have known you were incapable of it, my dear Mrs. Bellmour; yet you cannot, I think, wonder [174] that a circumſtance of this kind ſhould ſurpriſe me, nor after all, can I conceive what his lordſhip means, I wiſh it may not be ſomething relating to my deareſt brother—but that is abſurd—I for⯑get he believes my name Beverly—ſhe ſmiled at my ſpeech; ſaying, ‘indeed Miſs Rochley, were you not more void of vanity than thouſands are, who have ſmaller pretenſions to it, you could not, I think, be at a loſs to gueſs’—he was as he ſays, and I will take upon me to affirm, he ſays truth, ſtruck with your beauty—nothing could be more natural—he has not [175] the character of a libertine—he has a very large fortune—is his own maſter—the enquiries he has made, are a convincing proof to me, that the wound you have made in his heart is not a ſlight one—whether it will heal without his, applying to you for a cure, I can⯑not ſay, though I rather doubt it—O! no fear of its proving mortal, replied I, men are not ſo vul⯑nerable in theſe days, as they were formerly; the arrow muſt be tipped with gold, that now hopes to kill.—Could you my good friend have added with truth, when kindly [176] giving him the catalogue of my virtues, that I was alſo poſſeſſed of conſiderable fortune; I have the vanity to think, he might have been ſeriouſly wounded; but as it is, be under no apprehenſions, de⯑pend upon it, his lordſhip will re⯑cover—beſides, what's to be done with his preſent flame, Lady Ben⯑ingfield?—nay, cried ſhe, he gave me his honor, the world was wholly miſtaken in regard to that matter—that ſhe is violently in love with him I know, from pretty good authority, indeed 'tis one of thoſe ſecrets known by the whole town; but I firmly believe he has [177] no more thoughts of marrying her Ladyſhip, than he has of doing me that honor—well ſaid I, be that as it will, I am no leſs certain he will not marry me, and ſo let the matter reſt—all I intreat, is my dear Mrs. Bellmour, in caſe he ſhould take it in his head to mention me again, that you will be cautious; you know I am particularly cir⯑cumſtanced at preſent. I wiſh to avoid making any new acquaint⯑ance, till my brother's return—and eſpecially under a feigned name.

Thus Harriot have I laid this important buſineſs fully before you [178] —happy was it, I gave you my opinion of him in my laſt letter—were it ſtill to do, you might fancy the picture a little flattered, in return for the portion he has beſtowed upon me—adieu, my dear, let me hear from you ſoon, do not give me cauſe to think you more negligent than formerly,

LETTER the Sixteenth.
Miſs LENOX, TO Miſs ROCHLEY.

WOULD you believe it, cries my dear Iſabella? this lord has actually been making a thou⯑ſand impertinent enquiries about me—no to be ſure—who could [180] be ſimple enough to credit ſo great an improbability—the ſtory wont go down with me child.

Iſabella, I am more than half out of my wits with joy—my father knows your adorer well—I will not tell you what he ſays of him, leſt you ſhould be out of your wits too, in caſe he makes no more in⯑quiries—why, my dear creature, he is of all men upon the face of the earth, the very being formed to make a woman, too happy in al [...] conſcience—I die to hear more of him, from you I mean—I can [181] neither eat, drink, nor ſleep, ſince I heard of his impertinence.

Mrs. Bellmour behaved like an angel in the affair—don't be ſilly Iſabella—don't play the fool—there's a medium in all things, one may be over prudiſh—be aſ⯑ſured his lordſhip is a man of real honor, were I not certain of it, I would blot out the laſt ſentence—Lady Beningfield will poiſon you, beyond a doubt, but that's a trifle—ſhe is the greateſt flirt breathing—and has made herſelf tolerably ridiculous about him al⯑ready; but take my word for it he [182] will never make himſelf ſo by marrying her—I could treat you with a bit of ſcandal, my dear, concerning her ladyſhip; but it would be thrown away upon you, as I know you have no taſte for it.

Pray how is that miſerable wretch Sir John, is he determined to make a die of it, out of mere ſpite to your brother? I believe, in my conſcience, he will at leaſt make the utmoſt of the diſaſter; though, he may perhaps heſitate a little about carrying the joke quite ſo far as death—do let me hear how [183] things go on; but above all, tell me, if my lord has had the tem⯑merity to be again impertinent—adieu—I am going a journey of five miles for a dinner; don't you think I ſhall have a good appetite? that is one of the many delights of a country life,—the carriage is at the door, ſo fare ye well my Iſabella,

LETTER the Seventeenth.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

IS it poſſible—and does your worthy father really know Lord Templeton, and is he indeed ſuch a prodigy?—I will not be over prudiſh, Harriot, and ſay— [185] what is all that to me?—no, I will not; for the truth is, I am ex⯑ceedingly glad to hear it in caſe of accidents—but before I beſtow another line upon him, let me tell you, I have heard from my dear Orlando twice, ſince I wrote laſt to you—do not, my dear Har⯑riot, now look ſtately, and ſay, ‘I might have heard ten times inſtead of twice:’—forgive my too long ſilence—I own my fault, and promiſe amendment—he is, thank Heaven! in perfect health and good ſpirits; his friend, the General, has promiſed to repreſent the affair in its true colours, and [186] is of opinion, he has nothing to apprehend, ſhould the worſt hap⯑pen, yet adviſes him to ſtay abroad a while, as the ſafeſt plan.

I am ſorry to tell you, Sir John has had a return of his fever, and is again thought in danger—he was ſo well a few days ago, that I hear they talked of getting him conveyed, by eaſy journies to the country; but all thoughts of that ſort are over for the preſent—Heaven forbid he ſhould make a die of it, as you call it—moſt un⯑feignedly would his death be la⯑mented, my dear Harriot!—not [187] altogether on his own account in⯑deed; but the conſequences would be fatal to my dear brothers hopes—however, I would gladly flatter myſelf, as he has lived ſo long after the unfortunate rencontre, he may ſtill get over it.

And now for another line or two about this ſame lord, my dear—what he means, Heaven only knows; but certain it is, he has repeatedly called on Mrs. Bell⯑mour, imploring her to contrive ſome way or other for him to ſee me again—this ſhe ſaid, was a favour, ſhe could on no account [188] 'twas a liberty ſhe had no right to take with Miſs Beverley, ſhe was intitled to more reſpect—would ſhe then indulge him ſo ſar, as acquaint him candidly with every particular of the charming girl's ſituation?—no, certainly—was again her anſwer, ſhe had no authority to do it; though, of this be aſſured, added the worthy woman, the more your lordſhip knows of Miſs Beverly's character, the more reaſon you will have to eſteem her, ſince I can from a thorough knowledge of her, with truth, declare that beauty, which ſeems to have made ſo deep an [189] impreſſion on your lordſhip, is her leaſt perfection; I have known her from a child my lord—I had the charge of her education, as I be⯑lieve, I had the honor of telling you before—ſhe is deſcended from one of the moſt reſpectable families in the kingdom—at leaſt, few can boaſt of a better—but will you, my dear Mrs. Bellmour, ſaid he, only inform me why the lovely creature lives thus retired? I can meet with no mortal who is ac⯑quainted with her, though I have made every poſſible enquiry for that purpoſe, in hopes I might by that means procure the honor [190] of being properly introduced to her, but all in vain—this aſtoniſhes me,—I will freely own to you Mrs. Bellmour, ſhe has made a very ſerious impreſſion on me, my heart ſubſcribes to all you have ſaid in her praiſe, I have not a doubt of her worth—are you not cruel then my dear Madam, thus to deny me an opportunity to be ſtill farther convinced you do her no more than juſtice?—indeed my lord, could I gratify your wiſhes with propriety, I would—I have too good an opinion of you, to be⯑lieve your intentions are diſhonour⯑able, I will not ſhock my own [191] feelings ſo much, as to ſuppoſe you would take this liberty with me if they were—I can only add, your lordſhip muſt have patience, I truſt the time is not far diſtant, when Miſs Beverly will have a lation with her, to whom your lordſhip may, without impropriety, apply for an introduction—till then, I am perſuaded, ſhe will on no account ſee any ſtranger—a relation?—yes, my lord, a near one—and one juſtly dear to her, ſhould he have no objections to your lordſhip's being introduced to Miſs Beverly; I think I may venture to ſay—ſhe will have none, [192] as he is well worthy that defe⯑rence ſhe ever pays to his judg⯑ment.

You alarm me, Mrs. Bellmour—is this ſo highly favoured relation a young man? perhaps—ſhe ſmiling, replied; ‘he is a young man my lord; but you need not be ſo much alarmed, as your ex⯑preſſive, perhaps, implies you are:’—he now begged ſhe would tell him his name, where he was—why abſent—when I ex⯑pected his return?—and in ſhort a thouſand ſilly queſtions of that nature: but to no purpoſe.

[193] I had charged her to be cau⯑tious, you know, and ſhe was moſt prudently ſo—provokingly ſo he ſeemed to think—and now my dear Harriot, let me know your thoughts on the matter alſo—as for mine, I have not yet been able to bring them into any ſort of order; certain it is, I find his lord⯑ſhip has ſome times a ſhare in them; but in ſo confuſed a man⯑ner, that I can give no account of it—'tis poſſible, I may be able to arrange them more methodically by and by—one ſight of him is not quite ſufficient for that pur⯑poſe—were it conſiſtent with pro⯑priety, [194] I ſhould have no violent objections to take a ſecond view, particularly after reading the cha⯑racter you give of him; but it certainly is not, ſo I muſt, as Mrs. Bellmour, very wiſely adviſed his lordſhip to do; wait till my Or⯑lando's return, they may then adjuſt all the neceſſary preleminaries, in caſe the wonderful impreſſion my charms have made upon him, ſhould not, before that time, be worn out, to make room for ſome other—Lady Beningfield, you ſay, will undoubtedly treat me with a cup of poiſon, ſhould I rob her of his heart—I vow, I never [195] ſaw a woman, who appears more capable of it, but that's a trifle, as you ſay—and ſo, my dear Harriot, adieu,

LETTER the Eighteenth.
Miſs WESTBURY, TO Lady BELL SYDNEY.

I Hoped to have left town before now, my brother was ſo much better, that the doctors thought he might be removed without danger, and wiſhed it, as change [197] of air would have been of ſervice to him—but his fever is returned with violence—Heaven knows what may be the conſequence of this relapſe.

What a miſerable time have I had of it my dear Lady Bell—and what but a continuation of miſery have I to expect, ſhould he not recover?—alas! 'tis not the loſs of him alone I ſhall have to deplore—my amiable Rochley [...]oo muſt be the object of my ſorrow, for in that wretched caſe he never can be mine—but let me drop the melancholy ſubject, it ſinks my ſpirits—why ſhould I alſo ſink yours.

[198] You may poſſibly recollect my telling you, how violently Lord Templeton was ſtruck with the charms of the elegant creature we ſaw ſome time ago at Mrs. Bell⯑mours—I was convinced her charms had made a very deep impreſſion—I however thought no more of it, till calling one day laſt week to enquire for my brother, I ſaw him—and by way of a little chat, aſked, if he had been ſo fortunate as to get another ſight of the lovely Miſs Beverley?—I have not, yet I confeſs to you Miſs Weſtbury, but I would give half my eſtate, could I obtain that happineſs—are you [199] ſerious my lord? (cried I, quite aſtoniſhed to find him ſo very far gone)—upon my honor I am, re⯑plied he with fervor—I never beheld a creature ſo formed to captivate, ſhe has abſolutely robbed me of my peace—of your heart that is to ſay, I preſume my lord—why in fact I believe the terms on this occaſion are ſynonimous—yet 'tis not according to my ideas of love—I never till now could perſuade myſelf, that paſſion could be ex⯑cited by beauty alone, and except that ſhe is beautiful as an angel, I ▪know little more of her—but how comes that my lord, ſurely [200] you might before now have con⯑trived to learn, whether her mind is as lovely as her perſon? for my own part, I confeſs I have not a doubt of it, for never did I ſee a countenance ſo expreſſive of every thing that is amiable.

You are miſtaken my dear Miſs Weſtbury—it has been my prin⯑cipal employment from that time to this, but without ſucceſs—the only intelligence I can gather concerning the charming girl, is from the perſon of the houſe where ſhe reſides—ſhe in⯑deed talks of her in terms of the higheſt reſpect, ſays ſhe had the [201] charge of her education, has known her from a child, that ſhe is of a good family—but I am as great a ſtranger to her, as to her lovely friend, all this may be true—nay▪ my heart aſſures me of it—yet ſtill there is ſomething miſterious—why this retired life? in ſo young a perſon it is wonderful, and creates a doubt, which I would give world's to have explained, and to be intro⯑duced to her—this Mrs. Bellmour could certainly do my lord.

Oh, no! this I aſked, but was re⯑fuſed—'twas a liberty ſhe could not preſume to take, Miſs Beverly made a point of ſeeing no ſtrangers—

[202] It is very odd, ſaid I; yet, certainly, all this my lord is greatly in the the charming girl's favour—no doubt of it; ſhe has, it ſeems, a relation, who is at preſent abſent, and till his return has reaſons for this reſerve—a relation, my lord—is it a father, uncle, brother? good Heavens!—yet it cannot be—her name is Beverly—who is this relation, where is he?—none of theſe particulars could I learn, an⯑ſwered his lordſhip, except that he is a young man, and this information I got by mere chance—but why▪ my dear Miſs Weſtbury that ex⯑clamation, what if her name was [203] not Beverly?—O! my lord, were it not, I could lay my life ſhe is ſiſter to my friend Colonel Rochley—never did I in any two creatures behold ſo ſtriking a reſemblance—I could not refrain from ſcru⯑tinizing her any more than your lordſhip; added I, ſmiling, though not merely on account of her un⯑common beauty, but the aſtoniſh⯑ing likeneſs I found between them—Ah! would to Heaven, replied he, your conjecture was true, all my anxiety about what now ap⯑pears ſo perplexing, would in⯑ſtantly vaniſh my only buſineſs, then would be to endeavour to [204] gain her affections, could I but do that, I ſhould think myſelf the happieſt of men—fortune is no ob⯑ject to me, to raiſe an amiable, a de⯑ſerving woman, to that rank ſhe is ſo formed by nature, to adorn, would be the ſublimeſt of all gra⯑tifications—but it cannot be—my cruel, my lovely enſlavers name is Beverly—and I am, really, my dear Miſs Weſtbury, at this moment in a moſt painful ſuſpence.

But pray my lord, ſaid I, give me leave to aſk what lady Beningfield ſays to this new paſſion?—ſhe at leaſt would perſuade the world, ſhe is ſole miſtreſs of your heart— [205] upon my honor, replied he, if ſhe is, 'tis more than I know; for I can with ſtrict truth declare, I never had an idea of putting it into her ladyſhip's poſſeſſion; nay, I am no leſs certain it was in my own, till I beheld the lovely Miſs Beverly, from that hour I con⯑feſs 'tis rather a doubt with me, whether 'tis ſtill in mine or not—if your lordſhip was to aſk my opinion of the matter, I ſhould pro⯑nounce all doubt out of the queſtion—I believe you are right, madam; yet I own, I am unwilling to believe my caſe, quite ſo deſperate, till better acquainted with the ob⯑ject of its attachment, and how to [206] manage that, I cannot for my ſoul contrive—I am ſorry for it, I do aſſure you my lord, for both your ſakes. As I own myſelf ſo exceedingly prejudiced in her favour, that I think ſhe muſt be worthy, even of your lordſhip's eſteem, and that is ſay⯑ing a great deal—he gracefully bowed in return for my compli⯑ment, and bid me good morning—and now my dear lady Bell, I muſt wiſh you good night, I have ſat ſcrib⯑ling here till my fingers are cramped.

LETTER the Nineteenth.
Miſs ROCHLEY, TO Miſs LENOX.

MRS. Bellmour came up to me this morning my dear Harriot to aſk me a queſtion, which ſhe was polite enough to ſay I ſhould abſolutely decide as I thought proper [206] [...] [207] [...] [208] —it ſeems, a perſon to whom ſhe is under ſome obligations had juſt ſent to her (knowing her houſe was ſpacious and genteel) to aſk whether ſhe could conveniently accommodate a gentleman with an apartment in it for a month or ſix weeks, perhaps it might not be lo long, as he was only come to town on buſineſs which might poſſibly be ſettled in a ſhorter time; he wiſhed to be near this family, who live it ſeems in the next ſtreet, is a man of fortune, and not young.

How could I, you know my dear Harriot, make any objections, ſup⯑poſing it had really been diſagree⯑able [209] to me, particularly as ſhe was ſo good as to put it upon that foot⯑ing?—none in the world, ſaid I, my dear Mrs. Bellmour, I can have none; had it been a gay young man indeed—but in that caſe I well know that you yourſelf would have been the firſt to object,—moſt cer⯑tainly, replied ſhe, independently my dear Madam of your being in my houſe;—and pray, when is he to come?—this very evening; he only waits for my anſwer, which I could not think of ſending till I had mentioned it firſt to you.—Be aſſured, replied I, I am exceedingly ſenſible of your very polite attention [210] to me on this as well as every other occaſion—on this ſhe left me in order to ſend an immediate affir⯑mative to her friend; ſo much for that buſineſs.

Now, Harriot, you muſt know as Lord Templeton and I are not likely to be farther acquainted, though to ſay truth, he has done his utmoſt endeavours towards it, I have ſome thoughts of ſetting my cap at this old neighbour of mine that is to be, he is it ſeems a man of fortune, and ſhould▪ I find it equal to my ambition, I will give him credit for all other perfections. Are you [211] not ſurpriſed, my dear, to find me in ſo flippant a humour? I have good reaſon—the vile Sir John is once more pronounced out of danger.—I may now you know venture to abuſe him a little, though while I believed the wretch dying, I hope you obſerved I ſpared thoſe flattering epithets; he is go⯑ing to Briſtol by the advice of his phyſicians—moſt heartily do I wiſh him a ſpeedy recovery, but ſpeedy or not, my beloved Orlando may now return when he chuſes.

I have juſt diſpatched this im⯑portant intelligence to the dear [212] creature, and truſt it will not now be long e'er I ſhall have the ſu⯑preme happineſs to tell you that he is ſafely landed in England,—you no longer wonder at my ſpirits I preſume—I am half, nay more than half out of my wits with joy, and am determined he ſhall find me married to this rich old ſoul on his arrival: it will be ſuch an agree⯑able ſurpriſe you know, Harriot—to be ſure we ſhall rather be hur⯑ried in the article of courtſhip, but as my▪ conſent is ready 'tis the leſs matter, we may make love after we are fettered, ſince we have not time for it before, that will be [213] ſomething new, quite out of the common ſtile.—Poor Lord Tem⯑pleton, 'tis really a pity, but there's no help for it, by the by he does not ſeem to have given up all hopes—perhaps, indeed, he has con⯑tracted a habit of calling here in his round of viſits, for ſcarce a day paſſes without his aſking Mrs. Bellmour how ſhe does, and ſhe ſays, how I do alſo?—The truth is, he made her very conſiderable offers, on con⯑dition ſhe would contrive to let him meet me in her company—bnt ſhe is not the kind of woman for that purpoſe, unleſs convinced beyond a doubt his deſigns were ho⯑nourable.

[214] She has no idea of my ſubmit⯑ting to be looked at with a view to ſee whether he may happen to ap⯑prove of me—this, however, was my way of expreſſing the matter,—marriage, and another pleaſant circumſtance they ſay, Harriot, goes by deſtiny—ſo if it is to be decreed we are to be united in the holy band of matrimony, the thing will of courſe come to paſs with⯑out our troubling our heads about it; would his Lordſhip but adopt this doctrine, it would ſave his horſes a conſiderable deal of labour. Lady Beningfield alſo calls here fre⯑quently, though her divine trim⯑ming [215] has been finiſhed ſome time; but ſhe is an excellent cuſtomer to Mrs. Bellmour, yet, the latter ſuſpects jealouſy brings her lady⯑ſhip as often as buſineſs, for ſhe perpetually aſks a thouſand ridicu⯑culous queſtions about me, evi⯑dently wiſhing to find out whether his lordſhip has ever ſeen me again? To this you know Mrs. B. has it in her power to give a ſatisfactory anſwer in the negative, which of courſe ſhe does,—happily ſhe does not enquire whether he has made any attempts of that nature, taking it for granted I ſuppoſe if he had, I ſhould have been too much flat⯑tered [216] by ſo great a diſtinction to have let him ſigh in vain for an interview.—Silly creature, ſhe knows but little of your friend if this is her opinion,—Adieu, my dear Harriot, let me have your congratulations on the good news I ſend you, and believe me as uſual moſt affectionately,