CHAP. I.

AN Officer, to whom we ſhall give the name of Clifford, derived from his anceſtors a very honourable deſcent, being able to trace their poſſeſſion of an eſtate in the northern part of England thro' ſeveral centuries. That eſtate, however, was diſſi⯑pated by the imprudence and extravagance of his parents; and Captain Clifford, who had received a very liberal education, and was brought up with the expectation of an ample inheritance, found his only remain⯑ing poſſeſſion was his commiſſion in the army. He married a beautiful young [2] woman, the daughter of a neighbouring family, to whom he had been long attached, and who died a few years after their marriage, leaving him one daughter. To this child he transferred the tenderneſs he had felt for her mother, and undertook himſelf the charge of her education. Diſpirited by his domeſtic misfortune, wounded by the diſ⯑appointment of his early views in life, and the mortification of ſeeing many raiſed a⯑bove him in the army, becauſe he was un⯑able to purchaſe promotion, he retired in diſguſt, and lived upon a captain's half-pay, in a ſmall village in the neighbourhood of London, where his father, who was far ad⯑vanced in years, made a part of his family.

In this retreat Captain Clifford found conſolation and employment, in devoting his time to the improvement of his daugh⯑ter; and his own mind being highly culti⯑vated, ſhe derived greater advantages from his inſtructions than ſhe could have receiv⯑ed from the moſt expenſive education, under a leſs anxious as well as a leſs able preceptor.

[3] Nature had liberally beſtowed upon Julia Clifford the powers of the under⯑ſtanding, and the virtues of the heart: her ſenſibility was quick, her diſpoſition affec⯑tionate, and her taſte was improved by the ſociety of her father, till it attained an un⯑common degree of elegance and refine⯑ment; but of her ſuperiority to others ſhe ſeemed intirely unconſcious. Her manners were perfectly modeſt and unaſſuming; her converſation ſimple and unſtudied; ſhe ſpoke from the impulſe of her heart, and ſhe poſſeſſed the moſt amiable candor and frankneſs of diſpoſition. Julia was above the middle ſize: her figure had not been much molded by the dancing-maſter; but nature had given it a gracefulneſs "be⯑yond the reach of art." She had a madona face, and an expreſſion of intelligence and ſenſibility in her countenance, infinitely engaging.

Captain Clifford's younger brother, after the paternal eſtate was diſpoſed of, went in purſuit of fortune to the Eaſt Indies [4] —he was a man of a plain underſtanding and an excellent heart. Juſt in his princi⯑ples, and generous in his diſpoſition, he acquired wealth ſlowly, but honourably. Mr. Clifford married at Bengal, and his only daughter, Charlotte, was ſent when a child to England for education, and com⯑mitted to the care of her aunt Mrs. Mel⯑bourne, the ſiſter of Charlotte's mother.—At eighteen Charlotte was taken from ſchool at Queen Square, to live with her aunt, till the return of her father from the Eaſt Indies. Charlotte was one of thoſe ſweet lively characters, whoſe unaffected manners and invariable good-humour ſtrongly engage the affections, and with whom one would wiſh to paſs thro' life. The gay powers of wit and fancy are like thoſe brilliant phaenomena which ſome⯑times glow in the ſky, and dazzle the eye of the beholder by their luminous and un⯑common appearances; while ſweetneſs of temper has a reſemblance to that gentle ſtar, whoſe benign influence gilds alike the morn⯑ing [5] and the evening. But the diſtinguiſh⯑ing and moſt amiable trait of Charlotte's character, was her perfect exemption from envy. She was ſenſible of her inferiority to Julia, whom ſhe tenderly loved; and when⯑ever any preference was ſhewn to herſelf ſhe ſeemed conſcious of its injuſtice. Quite content to remain in the back-ground, ſhe embraced with the moſt natural and lively pleaſure every opportunity of diſplaying the accompliſhments of her couſin.—Char⯑lotte was little, her features were not regu⯑lar, but her countenance had a very agree⯑able and animated expreſſion. Her chief motive for rejoicing at her removal from ſehool, was the hope of a more frequent intercourſe with Julia, for her aunt had ſmall hold on her affections.

Mrs. Melbourne's maiden name was Wil⯑ſon—her father, who was an eminent mer⯑chant in the city, became a bankrupt when ſhe had juſt attained her twenty-third year. A young man who had been her father's clerk, and was now married and engaged in a flou⯑riſhing [6] buſineſs, invited Miſs Wilſon, from a principle of gratitude towards her fa⯑ther, to take up her reſidence at his houſe, where his wife received her with great kindneſs. Meanwhile her younger ſiſter, who was then eighteen years of age, was fitted out at the expence of her re⯑lations, and ſent to the Eaſt Indies in purſuit of a huſband; or rather in ſearch of the golden fleece, which is certainly the aim of ſuch adventures, and the huſ⯑band is merely the means of attaining it.—The God of Love in the Eaſt frames his arrows of maſſy gold; takes the fea⯑thers of his quiver not from the ſoft wing of his mother's dove, but from the gaudy plumage of the peacock; and points all his ſhafts with the bright edge of a diamond.—Miſs Charlotte Wilſon was married ſoon after her arrival in Bengal to Mr. Clifford, and died ſome years be⯑fore his return to England.

At the houſe where Miſs Wilſon found an aſylum, Mr. Melbourne frequently viſit⯑ed, [7] the miſtreſs of the houſe being his near relation.—He was a man of parts, and had attained conſiderable eminence in the law, a profeſſion in which above all others emi⯑nence is honourable, ſince it is invariably connected with diſtinction of mind.—Miſs Wilſon was tolerably handſome, and Mr. Melbourne paid her ſome attention: ſhe had an admirable degree of ſagacity, and perceived that this young man, notwith⯑ſtanding his ſuperior underſtanding, was the dupe of vanity. She ſoon betrayed the moſt violent paſſion for him; and this diſplay of fondneſs, which would probably have excited diſguſt and averſion in a man of delicacy, had a very different effect on Mr. Melbourne. He was hand⯑ſome, and vain of his figure, as well as of his talents—he did not think it un⯑likely that he ſhould inſpire a violent paſſion—Miſs Wilſon appeared deſperate in her love; and he married her in good nature, and merely to prevent ſuicide. Mrs. Melbourne continuing with great [8] judgment to flatter his weakneſſes, he made her an excellent huſband, and at his death left her a conſiderable jointure, and her daughter an independent fortune of twenty thouſand pounds.

Mrs. Melbourne had a large acquaint⯑ance, by whom ſhe was reſpected as a woman of ſenſe, but not beloved; for her manners were ſtiff and diſagreeable.—She gave ſome alms to the poor, becauſe ſhe thought a little charity was requiſite to ſecure a good place in heaven; but ſhe found no duty more difficult, and wiſhed that any other had been enjoined in its place. "One cannot help pitying the unfor⯑tunate," (ſhe would exclaim) "and yet there is not one in a thouſand who is not ſo in conſequence of imprudence; one muſt therefore be ſorry for the imprudent, or not ſorry at all." She penetrated with nice diſcernment into the characters of her acquaintances; could perceive all their fol⯑lies, and deſcant upon them with great acuteneſs;—no foible eſcaped her accu⯑rate [9] obſervation; and her friends met with none of that ſpecies of partiality which ſhades the weakneſſes of thoſe we love. Whenever her viſitors departed, they were ſure of being analyſed, and of having their defects weighed in a rigorous ſcale, with⯑out the ſlighteſt peculiarity being omit⯑ted. She had, indeed, too ſtrict a regard for truth to invent any ſlanders of her ac⯑quaintance. All Mrs. Melbourne could be charged with, was interpreting every word and action her own way, which was invariably the worſt way poſſible; and with great perſeverance refuſing to aſſign a good motive for any thing, when a bad one could be found. She often remained ſilent in company, while ſhe was ſtoring her memory with materials for future ani⯑madverſion; and Mrs. Melbourne's me⯑mory was like a bird of prey, which ſeizes on ſuch food as milder natures would re⯑ject. This lady was unfortunately quick in diſcovering imperfection, but very lia⯑ble to overlook what was worthy of re⯑gard: [10] ſhe left others to enjoy the flowers which are ſcattered over the path of life, while ſhe employed herſelf in counting the weeds which grew among them. She might, indeed, have acknowledged with Iago, "that it was her nature's plague to ſpy into abuſes;" and might properly enough have added with him, that "oft her jealouſy ſhap'd faults that were not." In her family Mrs. Melbourne was mo⯑roſe and ill-humoured. She ſcolded her ſervants with little intermiſſion, which ſhe conſidered an indiſpenſable part of the province of a good houſewife; and her ſervants, whom habit had reconciled to reproach, liſtened to her with the moſt perfect indifference; as thoſe who live near the fall of a cataract, or on the banks of the ocean, hear at length the ruſhing of the torrent, or the rage of the billows, without being ſenſible of the ſounds. The only ſeaſons memorable for Mrs. Melbourne's tenderneſs were, when any of her connections or family were ill. [11] She was then the moſt courteous crea⯑ture exiſting, and began to love them with all her might, as if ſhe thought there was no time to loſe, and that ſhe muſt endeavour to crowd ſuch an extraordinary degree of fondneſs into the ſhort ſpace which was left, as might counterbalance her neglect or unkindneſs through the whole courſe of their lives. The way to make her regard permanent was to die—her affection was violent when her friends came to the laſt gaſp; and after having ſettled the matter with her own conſcience by theſe parting demonſtra⯑tions of ſorrow, ſhe ſubmitted with pious reſignation to her loſs. The ruling paſ⯑ſion of Mrs. Melbourne's ſoul was her love of her daughter; but it was carried to an exceſs that rendered it illiberal and ſelfiſh: her mind reſembled a convex glaſs, and every ray of affection in her boſom was concentered in one ſmall point. She conſidered every fine young woman as the rival of Miſs Melbourne, and hated [12] them in proportion as they merited re⯑gard. She could not forgive Julia for being young, beautiful, accompliſhed, and amiable, till her own daughter was mar⯑ried. After that period ſhe pardoned theſe intruſive qualities; and at the re⯑queſt of Charlotte, upon her removal from ſchool, invited Julia to ſpend a ſhort time at her houſe in Hanover-ſquare.

CHAP. II.

JULIA diſcovered at a very early age a particular ſenſibility to poetry. When ſhe was eight years old ſhe compoſed a poem on the departure of one of her young companions, in which ſhe diſplayed, with great diligence, her whole ſtock of claſſical knowledge; and obliged all the heathen gods and goddeſſes, whoſe names ſhe had been taught, to paſs in ſucceſſion, like the ſhades of Banquo's line. Her father did not diſcourage this early fondneſs for the muſe, becauſe he believed that a pro⯑penſity for any elegant art was a ſource of happineſs.

Perhaps more laſting reputation has been acquired by the powers of the ima⯑gination, than by any other faculty of the human mind. But even where the ta⯑lents [14] of the poet are altogether inade⯑quate to the acquiſition of fame, the cul⯑tivation of them may ſtill confer the moſt ſoothing enjoyment. Though the ſoil may not be favourable to the growth of the immortal laurel, it may produce ſome plants of tranſitory verdure. Perhaps the moſt precious property of poetry is, that of leading the mind from the gloomy miſts of care, or the black clouds of misfortune, which ſometimes gather round the path of life, to ſcenes bright with ſunſhine, and blooming with beauty.

We ſhall venture to inſert the follow⯑ing Addreſs to Poetry, written by Julia a ſhort time before her viſit to town, as a proof of her fondneſs for that charming art.

CHAP. III.

JULIA, for the firſt time, accepted with pleaſure Mrs. Melbourne's invi⯑tation; for her former viſits to that lady had been productive only of wearineſs and diſguſt. She had always been treated by Miſs Melbourne with great neglect, and by her moſt intimate companions, the Hon. Miſs C [...]'s, with particular rude⯑neſs. Miſs Melbourne had diſcernment enough to perceive Julia's merit, and, had ſhe been more obliged to fortune, and leſs to nature, would have valued her acquaint⯑ance highly; but no honour could have been gained with people of ton, by an in⯑timacy with one in Julia's ſituation; while, at the ſame time, her engaging qualities would have been perpetually in the way, and obtruded themſelves in a manner very [26] troubleſome to Miſs Melbourne. Her boſom friends, the Hon. Miſs C [...]'s, had an unconquerable antipathy to female beauty: they agreed with many wiſe men in the opinion, that beauty often proves fatal to the poſſeſſor; but, notwithſtand⯑ing this conviction, theſe ladies had the magnanimity to wiſh that this dangerous property had been entirely confined to themſelves.

The eldeſt of theſe ſiſters, who had juſt reached her twenty-eighth year, had alſo an inſuperable averſion to the age of nineteen. Julia, therefore, who had the accumulated misfortune of being beautiful, and juſt nineteen, was the object of general diſlike to theſe ladies. The Miſs C [...]'s, who were of all Mrs. Melbourne's parties, uſually placed themſelves in a corner of the room with Miſs Melbourne, and found amuſement in laughing at the reſt of the company as they entered. When any gentleman approached their circle, the laugh was increaſed; for they were of that [27] order of young ladies who, having heard of the attractions of ſprightlineſs, affect perpetual mirth, and fancy that vivacity conſiſts in a titter, and wit in a pert re⯑mark: yet it was eaſy to diſcern that their gaiety was artificial, becauſe it was always beyond what the occaſion juſtified. It reſembled thoſe flowers which are rear⯑ed in winter by the force of art, and are deſtitute of that delicious fragrance which nature only can beſtow. Miſs Melbourne and the Miſs C [...]'s had long been on a very intimate footing, profeſſed the moſt violent mutual regard, and were common⯑ly called friends: yet this intimacy, which was dignified with the name of friendſhip, had no other foundation than ſelfiſhneſs; for, had Miſs Melbourne renounced her balls and concerts, or the Miſs C [...]'s been deprived of their rank, this ſenti⯑mental intercourſe would inſtantly have terminated: mean while their affection appeared fervent, becauſe it was untried; and durable, becauſe it was yet unſhaken [28] by misfortune. Miſs Melbourne was late⯑ly married; the viſits of the Miſs C [...]'s were therefore no longer frequent at her mother's houſe; and Julia looked for⯑ward to nothing but pleaſure in the ſo⯑ciety of the affectionate and amiable Char⯑lotte. She alſo promiſed herſelf a new kind of gratification, in mixing for awhile with the gay and elegant parties at Mr. Seymour's, the gentleman whom Miſs Melbourne had married, and who indulged her in her fondneſs for ſplendor and diſ⯑ſipation.—Nature, who had been avari⯑cious of the qualities of taſte and ſenſi⯑bility to Mrs. Melbourne, had given an accumulated portion of both to her daugh⯑ter, together with more than an hereditary ſhare of beauty. She was a painter and a muſician; but her vanity perverted every natural and acquired talent, "grew with her growth, and ſtrengthened with her ſtrength," and kept pace with her un⯑derſtanding and accompliſhments. Va⯑nity made her ſelfiſh; for ſhe was ſo extra⯑vagantly [29] fond of admiration, that, in the continual purſuit of it, ſhe could think only of herſelf, and forgot all the claims of others. But ſhe felt that ſentiment was amiable; ſhe was, therefore, made up of ſentiment:—ſhe alſo knew, that perſons of refinement were often, from the wayward circumſtances of life, ex⯑tremely miſerable; ſhe, therefore, deemed diſcontent the teſt of feeling, and, with ſcarcely a wiſh ungratified, ſhe thought that to be happy, with what would make any vulgar mind happy, would be only proving that ſhe was dull.—She ſpoke, therefore, in a plaintive voice, and often complained of melancholy, but left the cauſe of it concealed; which was ſuch as no underſtanding could penetrate, and no heart could gueſs. Sometimes, indeed, ſhe ſmiled, while ſhe deſcanted, in well⯑choſen words, on what was weak, low, or ridiculous; but the penſive caſt of coun⯑tenance quickly returned, and an affected ſigh explained the difficulty ſhe felt in aſ⯑ſuming [30] gaiety. If ſhe carved at table, or made tea, ſhe did both with a ſort of ſlow and ſolemn movement, to convince the company that ſhe was in a frame of mind, from which it coſt her a cruel effort to deſcend to the common offices of life. She ſeemed to think eating a coarſe and vulgar toil; and her converſation frequent⯑ly wandered from a roaſted duck to Mi⯑nerva's owl, or Jove's eagle. She could not hear an Italian air without weeping; ſhe pitied the miſeries of the poor in very pathetic language; and lamented being obliged, in conformity to her ſituation in life, to ſpend much more than ſhe wiſh⯑ed upon dreſs, which put it out of her power, in the account of her annual ex⯑pences, to reckon the claims of benevo⯑lence, and confined her to a negative ſort of good-will towards the unfortunate. Yet ſhe often declared, that ſhe complied with the rules of faſhion, merely becauſe ſhe thought ſuch compliance fit and right. If Mrs. Seymour's notions on this ſubject were [31] juſt, and conformity to faſhion is virtue, how extenſive was her merit! how upright had been the paſt, how perfect was the preſent, and how certain was the proſpect of future excellence!—But ſhe did not recollect that it is eaſy to diſcern whether the motive from which we act be duty or inclination; our obedience is ſo much more exact in the one caſe than in the other. If ſhe had been ſwayed ſolely by the former principle, there would pro⯑bably have been ſometimes a little re⯑laxation in the labours of the toilet; nor would every ribbon and feather have been placed in ſuch unqueſtionable ſubmiſſion to the laſt mode.

When Mrs. Seymour received com⯑pany, ſhe advanced to meet them not with the pleaſure which kindneſs or affec⯑tion dictates. She ſpoke to her viſitors as if ſhe were intereſted in what ſhe ſaid, but ſhe ſcarcely knew what it was. She was not thinking of the perſons who had juſt entered: her concern was that her [32] manner of receiving them might be thought graceful by the ſpectators. She was ſcarcely ever at home, but ſpent her time in lamenting, wherever ſhe went, the fatigues of a large acquaintance. She impoſed upon herſelf the duty of going to every ball, or card-aſſembly, to which ſhe was invited; but performed the riga⯑doon ſtep, and dealt the cards, with ſen⯑timental penſiveneſs, and as if ſhe were fully perſuaded that dancing was vanity, and whiſt vexation of ſpirit. Her com⯑plaints, however gracefully delivered, were often ill timed: ſhe would invite a ſocial party to dinner, and then, inſtead of pro⯑moting chearfulneſs and good-humour, be languiſhingly mournful the whole day. The nightingale judges better than Mrs. Seymour did, for ſhe never begins her elegies of woe amidſt the freſhneſs of the morning, and the luſtre of a bright ho⯑rizon, when we would rather liſten to the rapture of the lark; but waits till the fading ſcenery, and the melancholy [33] of twilight, ſhall diſpoſe us for a dirge. But in truth, though Mrs. Seymour af⯑fected the plaintive notes of the nightin⯑gale, ſhe had no congenial taſte with that pathetic bird for the ſhade, but was as fond of ſunſhine as the lark himſelf.

CHAP. IV.

ON her arrival in town, Julia expreſſed a great deſire to go to the theatre; and Mrs. Seymour engaged a box at Drury-lane for the next evening, when the tragedy of Douglas was performed. Julia admired with enthuſiaſm that charm⯑ing play, which never "overſteps the mo⯑deſty of nature," and is ſo true to her genuine feelings; but which had not, till ſome years after this period, its full effect upon the heart, in having the part of Lady Randolph repreſented by Mrs. Sid⯑dons, whoſe power over the human paſ⯑ſions it is far more eaſy to feel than to delineate.

Julia and her couſin went to dinner at Mrs. Seymour's, and were anxious to reach the theatre before the performance [35] began: Mrs. Seymour affected to wiſh ſo too; but, after the carriage came, ſhe found ſo many pretences for delay, that the firſt act was almoſt over before they reached their box. This was what Mrs. Seymour deſired: ſhe choſe to excite at⯑tention by diſturbing the performance, and drawing the looks of the audience from the ſtage to herſelf. When ſhe was ſeated, ſhe began talking to Julia with great ſeeming earneſtneſs, who was too much engaged by the ſcene before her to pay attention to Mrs. Seymour's remarks; and indeed that lady did not deſire it: her whole mind was occupied in per⯑forming her own part gracefully, while ſhe remained an object of general obſer⯑vation. She ſpoke to be looked at, not to be heard; and her lips moved, or were ſtill, from no other impulſe than as ſhe thought ſpeech or ſilence would have the beſt effect in perſpective.

Julia and Charlotte ſoon became deep⯑ly abſorbed in the ſorrows of Lady Ran⯑dolph, [36] and their tears flowed often and irreſiſtibly. Mrs. Seymour now thought proper to diſplay her ſenſibility too, of which ſhe really poſſeſſed a conſiderable ſhare; but in her eagerneſs to diſcover her feelings in the moſt pathetic parts, to ſhew her admiration of the fineſt paſ⯑ſages, and to weep at the preciſe mo⯑ment when it would do her taſte moſt honour, ſhe loſt the charm of the illuſion; and her ſympathy was ſo interrupted by her vanity, that at length ſhe could ſcarce⯑ly force a tear; and all that was left in her power, was to lean in a penſive atti⯑tude on the ſide of the box, and aſſume a look of dejection.

The next day Julia went with Mrs. Melbourne and Charlotte to dine at Mrs. Seymour's, where a large company was aſſembled.

Mr. Seymour's was a houſe of ſhow, rather than of hoſpitality; a houſe where oſtentatious entertainments were occaſion⯑ally given with the moſt laviſh expence, [37] but where no intimate gueſts were led by friendſhip, and detained by kindneſs; for that cordial welcome which ſprings from the heart, was in this family neither underſtood nor practiſed.

The company were obliged to wait dinner ſome time for Mr. Charles Sey⯑mour, who was always too late by rule, which he very methodically obſerved. Mr. Charles Seymour was the youngeſt brother of Mr. Seymour, and had, thro' his intereſt, obtained a place at court. He was a young man of weak under⯑ſtanding, but he made up in pliability and fineſſe, what he wanted in good ſenſe. His perſon was genteel, he had acquired a graceful eaſe of manner, danced well, dreſſed with elegance, court⯑ed the great by all thoſe little attentions which only little minds can pay, and was rewarded for his aſſiduity by fre⯑quent invitations to ſplendid and faſhion⯑able parties. He was a young man whoſe acquaintance every lady, when ſhe gave a [38] ball, was proud to acknowledge, and happy to embrace; for he ſeemed made on purpoſe for ſuch an occaſion, and, whenever it occurred, was found a trea⯑ſure to ſociety; for he was the leader of cotillons, the example of faſhion, and the oracle of etiquette.

The company who now waited for him at his brother's houſe, began to appear tired. The gentlemen had finiſhed the politics of the day, and the ladies had diſcuſſed the ſubject of the opera; beſides having deſcanted for a conſiderable time on the complexion, features, age, perſon, voice, and manners of a young lady, who had the week before made a great marriage, to which the Hon. Miſs C [...]'s inſiſt⯑ed ſhe had not the ſmalleſt pretenſion. Faſhionable converſation is not very ex⯑tenſive: it goes on rapidly for a while, in a certain routine of topics, and reminds us of our ſtreet-muſicians, who, by turn⯑ing a ſcrew, produce a ſet of tunes on the hand-organ; but when they have gone [39] through a limited number, the inſtrument will do no more, and the performer haſ⯑tens to a diſtant ſtreet, where the ſame ſounds may be repeated to a new ſet of auditors.

Mr. Seymour, with ſome diſpleaſure, rang the bell for dinner, and at that mo⯑ment Mr. Charles Seymour was announ⯑ced. He heard with the moſt polite non⯑chalance, that he had kept the company waiting, muttering however ſomething be⯑tween his teeth of his having been parti⯑cularly hurried that morning.

The converſation at dinner opened a new fund of knowledge to Julia. She found that among the faſhionable world eating had become a ſcience. The gen⯑tlemen were all ſkilled in the complicated art of cookery, talked in a deciſive tone of the proper flavour of every diſh, diſcri⯑minated with the niceſt accuracy the dif⯑ferent ingredients of the ſauces, devoured each other's remarks with "greedy ear," and ſeemed to take as much heart-felt ſa⯑tisfaction [40] in the delineation of a ragoût, as "if to live well, meant nothing but to eat."

The ladies left a diſſertation on French wines unfiniſhed, and returned to the drawing-room. Mrs. Seymour ordered coffee, and the gentlemen ſoon followed. Mr. Seymour, who was much charmed with Julia, though he had no leiſure for admiration at dinner, began a converſa⯑tion with her, which ſhe found extremely agreeable, and which promiſed her ſome compenſation for all ſhe had heard of ra⯑goûts, and French wines; but which was almoſt immediately interrupted by the ar⯑rival of Mrs. Melbourne's carriage; who inſtantly hurried away to a card-aſſembly, followed by Charlotte and Julia, who, as ſhe went down ſtairs, could not help re⯑peating to herſelf, with the author of the Epiſtle to Spleen,

[41] The week following, Mrs. Seymour gave a dance. The ſplendor of the apart⯑ments, elegantly decorated, and illumi⯑nated; the gaiety of the company, the chearfulneſs of muſic, and the animation of dancing, were all highly delightful to Julia, to whom ſuch ſcenes had the charm of novelty. She was much admired, and was aſked to dance by ſome young men of rank, whom the Hon. Miſs C [...]'s had in their own minds appropriated to themſelves. This was at once ſo morti⯑fying, and ſo ſtrange, that the Miſs C [...]'s wiſhed there were no ſuch en⯑tertainment as a ball; or at leaſt, that the men had no ſuch impertinent privilege as a choice of partners, ſince they were ſo apt to chuſe ill, and make the evening diſ⯑agreeable. Envy is a malignant enchan⯑ter, who, when benignant genii have ſcat⯑tered flowers in profuſion over the path of the traveller, waves his evil rod, and con⯑verts the ſcene of fertility into a deſart.

Mr. F [...], the gentleman who paid [42] Julia the moſt marked attention, was a man of family and fortune, as well as of conſiderable talents; and was a parti⯑cular favourite with Mrs. Seymour, who valued ſuperior abilities when they were united with fortune, and could be found within that faſhionable circle, beyond the limits of which no promiſe of intellectual enjoyment could have tempted her to ſtray; for ſhe could perceive no beauty in the gems of wit or fancy, unleſs their light was thrown from a particular ſitua⯑tion, and blended with the luſtre of wealth. Mr. F [...] was intirely occu⯑pied by Julia, and perfectly inſenſible of Mrs. Seymour's mortification; who ſecret⯑ly reſolved not to invite that young lady the next time ſhe gave a dance. She came frequently to that part of the room where Julia was ſitting, and ſpoke to her oftener than was neceſſary, when ſo large a company required her attention. She tried to catch the tone of Mr. F [...]'s mind, advanced with a penſive air when [43] ſhe ſaw him look ſerious, and dreſſed her face in ſmiles when ſhe obſerved that he was converſing with gaiety. Theſe tran⯑ſitions ſhe performed with admirable ſkill; but, far from producing the effect ſhe deſired, they were not even obſerved by the perſon to whom they were direct⯑ed. With inexpreſſible chagrin ſhe per⯑ceived, that when Julia danced with any other perſon, Mr. F [...] ſat down and contemplated her figure. Mrs. Seymour felt the tears of vexation fill her eyes; ſhe had never met with any incident ſo provoking; there is ſurely, thought ſhe, a perverſe and contradictive ſpirit in man, which makes the whole ſex odious. Any evening but this, ſhe would have for⯑given Mr. F [...]; but to chooſe her own ball-room for the theatre of her morti⯑fication, was refining on ill-nature. Any evening but this, ſhe would have attri⯑buted his preference of Julia to ſome ne⯑glect of her own perſon; an unbecoming cap, or too pale a ribbon: but on this [44] occaſion there was no ſuch refuge for her vanity; for ſhe was dreſſed with the moſt ſtudied elegance, and rouged with the moſt careful delicacy. She recalled the general idea of her own figure in the looking-glaſs after the labours of the toilet were finiſhed, and found no room for ſelf-reproach on account of inattention to her appearance. Her retentive me⯑mory then traced each particular part of her dreſs, the poſture of every curl, the arrangement of every flower, and the flow of every feather, and found no ſubject of diſſatisfaction even in this minute retro⯑ſpection. She well remembered that no toil had been omitted, no time had been ſpared, nothing overlooked, or unfiniſhed: her aim had been perfection, and her ef⯑forts were proportionably arduous to at⯑tain it. She determined, however, to hide her real ſenſations under the ap⯑pearance of particular gaiety: ſhe danced continually, and laughed exceſſively when⯑ever ſhe came within ſight or hearing of [45] Mr. F [...], though ſhe would much rather have cried, if ſhe had thought crying would have ſuited her purpoſe as well.

Whenever Miſs C [...] was not aſked to dance by a man of faſhion, ſhe ſud⯑denly grew tired, and choſe to ſit down; where ſhe remained with inquietude in her looks, and ſpite in her converſation. What ſo wretched as a neglected beauty of the ton, when the gay images of co⯑ronets, titles, and equipages, which have long floated in her imagination, and ſeemed within her graſp, at length vaniſh, as the luxuriant colours of an evening ſky fade by degrees into the ſadneſs of twilight? Her feelings are more acute than thoſe of a loſing gameſter, as ſhe is compelled in ſecret to acknowledge ſome deficiency in her own powers of attrac⯑tion, to caſt an oblique reflection on na⯑ture, as well as fortune, and has no hope of retrieving her diſappointments, ſince the fairies have long ago uſed every drop of [46] that precious water which could renew expiring beauty.

Miſs C [...] was ſeated for a ſhort time next Julia, and began to relate anecdotes to the diſadvantage of ſome of the com⯑pany preſent, with whom ſhe appeared to be on a footing of great cordiality: anec⯑dotes of this kind ſhe was careful to col⯑lect, and happy not merely to detail but embelliſh. This lady had ſome powers of ridicule, and could ſprinkle over her diſ⯑courſe a little ſmart repartee, which many people miſtook for talents. She delighted to play at quart and tierce in converſation; but her weapons were very blunt, compar⯑ed to the fine-edged inſtruments of ge⯑nuine wit. Julia, however, made it an invariable rule, not only never to ſpeak ſlander, but never to liſten to it. She conſidered it as one of thoſe poiſons, which not only corrode the frame they touch, but whoſe ſubtile venom infects the purity of the ſurrounding air: ſhe therefore fled from ſuch communication [47] with diſguſt, and obliged Miſs C [...] to go in ſearch of a more willing auditor.

Mr. Charles Seymour danced with the Miſs C [...]'s moſt indefatigably, went with unwearied perſeverance from one ſiſter to the other, and divided his atten⯑tions between them with moſt exact pro⯑priety; repeated to each of them all the faſhionable cant he had acquired; laughed when they laughed, and was of the ſame opinion with them on every ſubject; mut⯑tering every ſyllable with his teeth almoſt cloſed, and his face as cloſe to his fair partners as propriety would admit. When he had fulfilled his duty to the Miſs C [...]'s, he deliberated with himſelf upon the next object of his choice, which re⯑quired a little reflection. Mr. Charles Seymour admired beauty, but he was one of thoſe prudent young men, who are too well trained in the ſchool of the world, to be the dupes of any tender ſenſibility. He choſe his partners at a dance by other rules than the proportion of their features, [48] or the grace of their perſons: the darts poured from bright eyes fell blunted on his heart, unleſs the fair object had the more ſolid recommendation of fortune. To ſuch only he devoted his gallantry; for even when he had no particular view of engaging their regard, he conſidered their acquaintance as uſeful, and their fa⯑vour as tending towards the accompliſh⯑ment of his ultimate aim in life, which was to acquire diſtinction, and obtain in⯑tereſt in the faſhionable world.

Charlotte had the proſpect of a larger fortune than any young woman at the dance, but then it depended on certain contingencies. The other young women had their property in poſſeſſion. Mr. Charles Seymour, after making a haſty calculation of the difference between a hundred thouſand pounds at Bengal, and ten thouſand in the bank of England—af⯑ter gliding in imagination over the bound⯑leſs ocean through which the gold muſt paſs, conſidering the ſtormy Cape which [49] muſt be doubled, and the "moving acci⯑dents by flood and field" which muſt be hazarded—at length recollected how much eaſtern gold had happily ſurmount⯑ed theſe perils, and, without farther deli⯑beration, decided in favour of Charlotte. He endeavoured to entertain her in the ſame manner he had done the Miſs C [...]'s; but Charlotte was equally in⯑ſenſible to all his faſhionable grimace, and indifferent to his converſation. She had, indeed, the happieſt face of the whole group; pleaſure and exultation ſparkled in her eyes. Her manner of thinking on the ſubject of a ball was entirely different from that of the Hon. Miſs C [...]'s: Charlotte loved dancing for its own ſake, and without any other care about her partner than that he did not put her out in the figure. She allowed herſelf no in⯑terval of reſt; for ſhe was never ſo fully convinced of the value of time as at a ball, where ſhe thought not one moment was given to be loſt, and purſued her fa⯑vourite [50] occupation with a degree of de⯑light, of which one muſt have the ex⯑treme youth, the gay ſpirits, and light heart of Charlotte to judge.

Julia, who frequently ſat down, heard ſeveral of the gentlemen complain pathe⯑tically to each other of the hardſhips of dancing, and enumerate the ſucceſſion of private balls, which hung over their future evenings like a cloud. Mr. Charles Sey⯑mour avoided Julia carefully the whole evening, leſt he ſhould be under the neceſ⯑ſity of aſking her to dance: but when he ſaw her preparing to go away, he ſeated himſelf next her, muttering between his teeth, "Miſs Clifford, you come ſo late, and go away ſo ſoon!"—adding, how beautiful ſhe looked that evening, how much her head-dreſs became her, and how cruel ſhe was to bury ſuch a figure in the country.—Julia heard him with a degree of contempt, which ſhe had too much ſweetneſs to diſplay; but his con⯑verſation ever appeared to her of ſuch a [51] barren nature, that ſhe conſidered liſtening to it like travelling over ſands, and left him almoſt immediately; which was no leſs a relief to him than to herſelf. Julia had that evening received much enter⯑tainment from Mr. Seymour's converſa⯑tion, who paid her great attention, and was endued with the powers of pleaſing in a very eminent degree.

CHAP. V.

MR. Seymour, who was poſſeſſed of conſiderable talents, and great taſte for literature, was brilliant in converſa⯑tion. His perſon was elegant, and his manners frank and agreeable. He had a perfect knowledge of the world, and great penetration into character; but his am⯑bition was boundleſs; and his conſtant aim was his own aggrandizement: he courted people of rank and influence with admirable addreſs; and, under an appear⯑ance of infinite candour and plainneſs, was no common flatterer, who ſets about his buſineſs in a clumſy way, and diſ⯑covers his own ſecret. He had judg⯑ment enough to appreciate the under⯑ſtanding of others with nicety, and always began his operations like a wiſe general, [53] by an attack on the weak ſide. Mr. Seymour lived in a continual plot againſt the reſt of his ſpecies—he regarded men and women as puppets moved by various ſprings, which he underſtood perfectly how to govern, and which he could touch ſo ſkilfully, that wiſdom was over-reached as well as folly. His ſchemes were crown⯑ed with ſucceſs, and he obtained a conſi⯑derable poſt under government: yet his pride and ſelfiſhneſs were ſtill unſatisfied. He had married Miſs Melbourne, whoſe perſon he did not admire, and whoſe cha⯑racter he diſliked, becauſe ſhe had twenty thouſand pounds. No man could talk with more energy of the virtues of gene⯑roſity and diſintereſtedneſs than Mr. Sey⯑mour; and this not with an appearance of oſtentation, but as if friendſhip and univerſal good-will were the genuine feelings of his ſoul. Yet, while he thus deſcanted on benevolence, he concealed a mind, the ſole view of which was ſelf⯑intereſt; and ſometimes reminded thoſe [54] who knew his real character, of a ſwan gracefully expanding his plumes of pureſt whiteneſs to the winds, and carefully hid⯑ing his black feet beneath another ele⯑ment. Mr. Seymour poſſeſſed ſtrong feelings, and his heart was capable of tenderneſs; but ambition, and long com⯑merce with the world, had almoſt entirely blunted his ſenſibility; and, to the few perſons for whom he ſtill felt ſome affec⯑tion, he would not have rendered any ſervice, however eſſential to their intereſt, which could in the ſmalleſt poſſible de⯑gree ever interfere with his own. His friendſhip was only to be procured by beſtowing favours upon him, or at leaſt by not requiring any at his hands: to aſk for ſuch proofs of his regard was to forfeit it altogether. Every acquaintance he made was with ſome intereſted view: he had no aſſociates among the com⯑panions of his youth, except thoſe who, like himſelf, had been proſperous in the career of life: the unfortunate he left [55] where misfortune had placed them, and ſhunned all intercourſe with them care⯑fully. He treated Mrs. Seymour with decent attention; but he was a man of gallantry, and made love to every woman who had the attraction of youth or beau⯑ty; and Mrs. Seymour, when ſhe thought the heroics would become her, acted a fit of jealouſy admirably; complained in pathetic terms of his indifference; la⯑mented her hard fate in not having met with a congenial ſoul, and in being ſubject to have her exquiſite ſenſibility ſo cruelly wounded. From ſuch complaints he fled with diſguſt and averſion, and took refuge in company, where he contributed too much to the general entertainment not to be received with pleaſure.

Julia, after ſpending a few days more in town, left it with little regret; for, tho' ſhe was convinced that London furniſhed a more enlarged and liberal ſociety, and more elegant amuſements, than could be met with elſewhere, the manner in which [56] ſhe had paſſed her time was not at all ſuited to her taſte. The mornings had been generally devoted to ſhopping and dreſs, and the evenings to card-aſſem⯑blies. Mrs. Seymour loved to range from one milliner's to another; and at firſt Julia was diverted with the ſerious air with which a cap is recommended, the contemplative ſpirit with which the complexion and the ribbon are compared; while ſhe obſerved the particular good-humour of the handſome, who found every thing they tried becoming, and the diſcontent of the ugly, who quarrelled with the head-dreſs inſtead of the face: but the good-humour, and the diſcontent, became at length equally tireſome to Ju⯑lia. She alſo found that the pleaſures of card-aſſemblies were like fairy gold, which, when touched by a vulgar hand, turns to duſt, and could only be enjoyed by people of ton; while to her, who had acquired no knowledge of cards, and no paſſion for a crowd, ſuch meetings were extremely [57] weariſome. At theſe aſſemblies ſhe was introduced to ſome perſons who had the reputation of wit and talents; but of their pretenſions to either ſhe had no oppor⯑tunity of judging, ſince their converſa⯑tion, to which ſhe liſtened with avidity, was continually interrupted by ſome movement of the crowd, or ſome call to the card-table. She therefore found that underſtanding was of no current value at a card-aſſembly, except to ſerve the pur⯑poſe of applying the rules of whiſt, a ſcience for which her country education had taught her but little reverence.

This young lady lamented nothing ſo much in leaving London, as her ſepara⯑tion from Charlotte; for ſhe found that the joys of diſſipation are like gaudy co⯑lours, which for a moment attract the ſight, but ſoon fatigue and oppreſs it; while the ſatisfactions of home reſemble the green robe of nature, on which the eye loves to reſt, and to which it always returns with a ſenſation of delight.

CHAP. VI.

IT has been mentioned, that Captain Clifford's father made a part of his fa⯑mily. This old man, who was heir to an eſtate which had deſcended to him through a long line of anceſtors, had re⯑ceived a very liberal education, was poſ⯑ſeſſed of a good underſtanding, and a moſt benevolent heart. In truth, his li⯑berality was carried to exceſs, and he practiſed that profuſe hoſpitality which was the faſhion of the laſt century. Every gueſt was received at his houſe with the welcome of ancient times, and both his purſe and his table were open to all thoſe whoſe neceſſities ſeemed to claim his aſ⯑ſiſtance.

His eſtate was a little incumbered, when he came to the poſſeſſion of it. He [59] had engaged early in a military life, and ſerved long abroad, while his affairs were left too much to the management of his wife, a woman of unbounded vanity, who vied in expence with families poſſeſſed of much larger eſtates. She died ſuddenly, in the abſence of her huſband; who, at his re⯑turn from Germany, found that her debts were numerous, and that he had loſt a very conſiderable ſum, for which, in the con⯑fidence of unſuſpicious friendſhip, he be⯑came anſwerable for one, whoſe principles he conſidered as no leſs honourable than his own. He was undeceived too late. The world will blame his imprudence, and think he deſerved to ſuffer from it: but, while foreſight and policy are ſo com⯑mon, let us forgive thoſe few minds of truſting ſimplicity, who are taught in vain the leſſon of ſuſpicion, on whom impreſ⯑ſions are eaſily made, and who think bet⯑ter of human nature than it deſerves. Such perſons are for the moſt part ſuf⯑ficiently puniſhed for their venial error, [60] as was the caſe with Mr. Clifford, who was forced to extricate himſelf from the difficulties in which he was involved by the ſale of his paternal inheritance.

With a degree of anguiſh which can be better felt than deſcribed, he had quitted for ever a ſpot endeared to him by every tie of local attachment, and every feeling of family pride. He flew for refuge to his ſon, and implored his forgiveneſs of the wrongs he had done him: he was re⯑ceived with all the tenderneſs of filial re⯑gard. Captain Clifford ſtudied, by the moſt delicate attentions, to ſoften the gloom and deſpondency of his father's mind: and at length the old man became ſoothed into a leſs painful recollection of the paſt, though at times it wrung his heart with ſorrow.

The endearments of his grand-daughter, who had then reached her ſeventh year, gave him a pleaſure mingled with ſad⯑neſs; and often, when ſhe climbed upon his knees, the old man's tears would [61] fall upon her face; for age had not yet dried their ſource. Yet his temper was naturally cheerful, and in happier mo⯑ments he would ſing to her ſome of his old ſongs, or tell her ſome marvellous ſtory; and, when ſhe was old enough to liſten to the tale of his battles in Ger⯑many, he "ſhewed how fields were won." Nor was he ever ſo eloquent as when he gave theſe deſcriptions: his lan⯑guage became animated, his martial en⯑thuſiam revived, and all the misfortunes of his paſt life were abſorbed in the gratify⯑ing recollection of having ſerved his king and country.

This old man had infinite benevolence and ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, and was one of thoſe few aged perſons who rejoice in the happineſs of the young. To witneſs the mirth and gaiety of youth, was to him a renovation of thoſe ſcenes "where once his careleſs childhood ſtrayed, a ſtranger yet to pain." In conſequence of this diſ⯑poſition, he was adored by Julia, and be⯑loved [62] by all her companions. As ſhe grew up, ſhe was ever ready to ſacrifice every wiſh, and every pleaſure, to his eaſe and comfort. She would leave with ala⯑crity a circle of company where ſhe was happy, to return home, and read for an hour to her grandfather in the old family bible, with a long expoſition; of which he liked to hear a portion every evening. I think I ſee her at this moment; her chair drawn quite cloſe to his, and her voice raiſed, becauſe he heard with dif⯑ficulty. I ſee the old man, placed in his crimſon-damaſk chair, dreſſed in his long green gown, and white night-cap, liſtening to her with a ſort of elevation in his look, and ſometimes aſſenting to an affecting paſ⯑ſage by the lifting up of his hands, and a movement of his lips in a ſhort ejaculation. When ſhe had done reading, ſhe always ſtayed to converſe with him a little; and, when ſhe ſaw him quite cheerful, ſhe bid him good night, and received a kiſs, and a bleſſing.

This old man, who had kept the beſt [63] company in his youth, had much of the old-faſhioned politeneſs. The forms of ancient ceremony muſt have been burden⯑ſome in the intercourſe of ſociety; yet in an old perſon this kind of manner ſtill appears reſpectable. We are charmed with the light and graceful accompani⯑ments with which the taſte of Brown has decorated our modern villas, and rejoice that each alley has no more "a bro⯑ther:" but when we viſit an ancient man⯑ſion, who can wiſh that its long avenues of venerable trees, ſanctified by age, and their connection with the days of former years, and the generations that are paſt, ſhould feel the deſtroying axe, and give place to new improvements?

The old man had a taſte for flowers, which he cultivated with great aſſiduity, and which he planted, with all the variety he could procure, round the borders of a little lawn before the houſe. A green ſlope led from the lawn to the river Thames: one ſolitary willow-tree grew [64] at the top of this bank. The old man had a ſeat made for himſelf under the ſhade of this tree. There he delighted to ſit, and contemplate the green banks of the oppoſite ſhore—the reflected landſcape in the ſtream—the gentle motion of the current—the ſun-beams playing on the wa⯑ters—the long-necked ſwans gliding ma⯑jeſtically by, unleſs tempted towards the bank by the crumbs with which he fed them—the black-bird's ſweet and vari⯑ous note, in ſome neighbouring trees, ſometimes interrupted by the thruſh or the linnet—the boats which were paſſing continually, and added chearfulneſs and animation to the picture.

The old man was viſited every Sa⯑turday morning by a ſet of penſioners, to each of whom he gave a ſmall weekly al⯑lowance. He had not much to give; yet he denied himſelf ſome indulgences his age required, to beſtow that little; which, however trifling, was ſufficient to procure ſome additional comfort to the [65] receivers. The luxuries of the poor are not expenſive, and the rich can make them happy by parting with ſo little, that it can ſcarcely be termed a privation. This benevolent old man felt charity leſs a duty than a pleaſure. He might have made the ſame appeal to Heaven which was made by Job, "if I have eaten my morſel myſelf alone, and the fatherleſs hath not eaten thereof," without dan⯑ger of incurring the forfeiture. He felt none of that admiration of himſelf which the ſelfiſh feel when they perform a kind action; for he could perceive little merit in exertions which were attended with the moſt ſweet and exquiſite ſatiſ⯑faction. That kindneſs which flows from the heart, is like a clear ſtream, that pours its full and rapid current cheer⯑fully along, for ever unobſtructed in its courſe; while thoſe acts of beneficence, which are performed with reluctance, re⯑ſemble ſhallow waters ſupplied by a mud⯑dy fountain, retarded in their noiſy pro⯑greſs [66] by every pebble, dried by heat, and frozen by cold. This old man's chief ſource of happineſs was drawn from reli⯑gion. His devotion was more than ha⯑bitual; for his mind had attained that ſtate in which reflection is but a kind of mental prayer; and every object around him was to him a ſubject of adoration, and a motive for gratitude. Praiſe flow⯑ed from his lips like thoſe natural melo⯑dies, to which the ear has long been ac⯑cuſtomed, and which the voice delights to call forth.

The contemplation of a venerable old man ſinking thus gently into the arms of death, ſupported by filial affection, and animated by religious hope, excites a ſeri⯑ous yet not unpleaſing ſenſation. When the gay and buſy ſcenes of life are paſt, and the years advance which "have no pleaſure in them," what is left for age to wiſh, but that its infirmities may be ſoothed by the watchful ſolicitude of ten⯑derneſs, and its darkneſs cheered by a [67] ray of that light "which cometh from above?" To ſuch perſons life, even in its laſt ſtage, is ſtill agreeable. They do not droop like thoſe flowers, which, when their vigour is paſt, loſe at once their beauty and their fragrance; but have more affinity to the fading roſe, which, when its enchanting colours are fled, ſtill retains its exhilarating ſweetneſs, and is loved and cheriſhed even in decay.

CHAP. VII.

VERSES were ſometimes compoſed by Julia, merely to amuſe her grandfather; who uſed to read them with a degree of ſatisfaction, which may, per⯑haps, be pardoned from the conſideration that the writer was his grand-daughter. Affection is generally ſuppoſed to blind the judgment; and if ſo, ſhe probably throws one of her thickeſt bandages acroſs the critical taſte of a grandfather, while he is peruſing the productions of one, who is the darling of his age, the joy of his eyes, and the ſoother of his infirmi⯑ties.

Julia was walking one morning upon the lawn before the houſe, when ſhe ſaw a black cat ſeize a linnet that was perched upon a neighbouring tree, and to whoſe [69] ſong ſhe had been liſtening. She made an exclamation, which brought a maid-ſervant to the door; Julia pointed eagerly to the black cat; upon which the maid inſtantly ran, and, ſeizing the animal with great intrepidity, reſcued the linnet from its gripe. After breakfaſt Julia ſcrawled the following lines upon this in⯑cident.

CHAP. VIII.

MR. Clifford returned from the Eaſt Indies, and had the ſatisfaction of reaching England time enough to ſee his father again.—The old man had almoſt deſpaired of this meeting. He threw his arms round his ſon's neck, and embraced him for a conſiderable time in ſilence. When he was able to ſpeak, he ſaid to him, in the words of Jacob, for the lan⯑guage of ſcripture was familiar to him, "Now let me die, ſince I have ſeen thy face, becauſe thou art yet alive!"—This happy family experienced thoſe delightful ſenſations in each other's ſociety, which can only be felt after long abſence. Our affections are not conſtantly active, they are called forth by circumſtances; and what can awaken them ſo forcibly, as the [73] renewal of thoſe domeſtic endearments which conſtitute the charm of our ex⯑iſtence?

Mr. Clifford returned with an ample fortune, and without one ſubject of ſelf⯑reproach to embitter the enjoyment of it. He induced the perſon who was in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the old family eſtate to part with it, by giving him a price beyond its value. This event ſeemed a renovation of life to the good old man; who expreſſed ſo earneſt a deſire to end his days in that beloved ſpot, that his ſons determined to remove him thither by ſlow and eaſy journies.

He was accompanied, like the patri⯑arch of old, by his children and grand⯑children. When they reached the ſum⯑mit of a hill which gave him the firſt view of his paternal manſion, he ordered the poſtilions to ſtop; and gazed upon the ſcene before him with a ſort of eleva⯑tion in his look, which ſnewed that his mind was in intercourſe with heaven.

[74] As he deſcended the hill, he ſaw his tenants coming out to meet him.—The women brought their infants in their arms to receive his bleſſing, and the old men crawled to the ſide of the chaiſe as well as they could, and bleſſed God that they had lived to ſee their old maſter again.—His heart was too full for ſpeech; but he pointed to his two lovely grand-daughters, whoſe eyes were ſuffuſed in tears, and at length told the people, in a broken voice, that he had brought thoſe treaſures to make them happy. Amidſt bleſſings and acclamations, this welcome retinue reached the family-ſeat. The tenants were feaſted in the hall; the ale flowed liberally; no⯑thing was heard but the voice of rejoi⯑cing: and the Vicar of Wakefield, who had a taſte for happy human faces, would have found this a charming ſpectacle.

The old manſion, which was ſeated on the ſide of a hill, was emboſomed in trees; and the landſcape around it ex⯑hibited the moſt pictureſque variety. The [75] houſe commanded a view of the cele⯑brated lake of [...]; its boundaries in ſome places frowning in a ſeries of rude broken crags and rocky promontories, and in others riſing into verdant hills, richly wooded to the edge of the water. The ſound of a cataract, which precipi⯑tated itſelf into the lake, was heard, and its foam was ſeen at a diſtance. A hang⯑ing wood, planted on a part of the ſame hill where the houſe ſtood, threw the moſt venerable ſhade from its old majeſtic trees.—A wild irregular path led from the manſion to a deep glen, which opened into a vale where the little village of [...] is built. Its ſmall white ſpire riſes above the ſtraw hamlets, and a clear winding rivulet wanders through this ſweet tranquil vale; which is encompaſſed by mountains, ſome of whoſe tops are cover⯑ed with ſnow, and ſome darkened by the clouds that reſt upon them. The con⯑traſt between this cultivated valley, and [76] its ſavage boundaries, was ſo ſtriking, that it ſeemed like Beauty repoſing in the arms of Horror, and ſheltered in its ſafe retreat from the tempeſts which ſpent their force above.

The old furniture, which had been placed in Mr. Clifford's paternal man⯑ſion, by his anceſtors, ſtill remained; for, the gentleman who had purchaſed the eſtate dying ſoon after, his ſon, a gay and diſſipated young man, had never viſited the place but once, when he came to take poſſeſſion of it upon the death of his fa⯑ther, and had made no alterations.

The walls of the larger apartments were ſtill hung with rich tapeſtry, on ſome of which was repreſented Calypſo's enchant⯑ed iſland, where the blooming Telema⯑chus ſtood ardently gazing on the nymphs, regardleſs of the frown of the venerable Mentor. Some of the hangings diſplayed the defeat of the Spaniſh armada, and the taking of Cadiz, by the Earl of Eſſex. [77] Many tales of other times were related on the ancient walls; but on ſome the colours were ſo faded, and the action ſo defaced, that all that could be per⯑ceived was a half-ſeen figure, or a face that dimly glared from the pale ground⯑work, or an arm that ſeemed ſtretched out in defiance.

The great ſtair-caſe, and the floors of the ſtate apartments, which were of oak, and had been rubbed with careful diligence for the reception of the family, ſhone bright as a mirror, and occaſioned many a falſe ſtep to the London ſervants, who were unuſed to ſuch ſlippery treading. The broad and immoveable chairs of the ſtate-rooms, holding forth their gigantic arms, ſeemed calculated for beings of a larger make than the preſent race of mor⯑tals; and theſe maſſy chairs were covered with damaſk ſo rich and durable, that it appeared to have been made for the uſe of the antediluvian ages.

A long gallery on the firſt floor was [78] hung with the portraits of the Clifford family, in antique dreſſes, with buſhy beards, great ſcymetars, ſhort whiſkers, and ſtiff ruffs; and placed in heavy gilt frames: a collection which, at a ſale of pictures, would perhaps have ſold no bet⯑ter than aunt Deborah and her flock of ſheep. But the venerable owner of the manſion felt as great a reſpect for his an⯑ceſtors, as Sir Oliver himſelf.

Mr. Clifford had too much pride in his family to remove any marks of its an⯑cient magnificence. He left, therefore, the tapeſtry, the maſſy chairs, and the family pictures, undiſturbed, as uſeleſs but proud monuments of antiquity, in the back-ground of his apartments, while he took care to bring forward all the com⯑forts and conveniences of modern lux⯑ury.

On the evening of their arrival at the family-ſeat, Julia walked out with Char⯑lotte, and felt, with particular ſenſibility, the beauties of nature. She had, till now, [79] only ſeen the rich cultivated landſcapes of the ſouth of England; but her ardent imagination had often wandered amidſt the wild ſcenery of the north, and formed a high idea of pleaſure in contemplating its ſolemn aſpect; and ſhe found that the ſublime and awful graces of nature ex⯑ceed even the dream of fancy. The ſet⯑ting ſun painted the glowing horizon with the moſt refulgent colours: imme⯑diately above its broad orb, which was dazzling in brightneſs, hung a black cloud that formed a ſtriking contraſt to the luxuriant tints below: ſome of the hills were thrown into deep ſhadow, others reflected the ſetting beams. When the ſun ſunk below the horizon, every object gradually changed its hue. The form of the ſurrounding hills, and the ſhape of the darkening rocks that hung over the lake, became every moment more doubtful; till at length twilight ſpread over the whole landſcape that pen⯑ſive gloom ſo ſoothing to an enthuſiaſtic [80] fancy. Every other ſound was loſt in the fall of the torrent, a ſound which Julia had never heard before, and which ſeem⯑ed to ſtrike upon her ſoul, and call forth emotions congenial to its ſolemn ca⯑dence.

The moon now aroſe clear and lovely above the dark hills, with a circle of un⯑uſual luſtre round her orb: the beams ſuddenly ſpread their light over the whole lake, except where long deep lines of ſhadow were thrown from the rocks on its ſurface. Julia gazed upon the objects which ſurrounded her with a tranſport of mind which ſhe had never felt before. She uttered frequent exclamations of ad⯑miration and wonder; but ſhe found it impoſſible to expreſs the ſenſations with which her ſoul was overwhelmed. It is in ſuch moments as theſe that the ſoul becomes conſcious of her native dignity: we ſeem to be brought nearer to the Deity; we feel the ſenſe of his ſacred pre⯑ſence; the low-minded cares of earth va⯑niſh; [81] we view all nature beaming with benignity, and with beauty; and we re⯑poſe with divine confidence on him, who has thus embelliſhed his creation. In the country, the mind borrows virtue from the ſcene. When we tread the lofty moun⯑tain, when the ample lake ſpreads its broad expanſe of waters to our view, when we liſten to the fall of the torrent, the awed and aſtoniſhed mind is raiſed above the temptations of guilt; and when we wander amid the ſofter ſcenes of nature, the charms of the landſcape, the ſong of the birds, the mildneſs of the breeze, and the murmurs of the ſtream, ſooth the paſſions into peace, excite the moſt gentle emotions, and have power to cure "all ſadneſs but deſpair." "Can man forbear to ſmile with nature? Can the ſtormy paſſions in his boſom roll, while every gale is peace, and every grove is melody?"

A whole ſummer paſſed delightfully to the happy inhabitants of Mr. Clifford's [82] hoſpitable manſion. He employed him⯑ſelf in arranging his affairs, redreſſing the grievances of which his tenants com⯑plained, and aſſiſting ſuch as wanted his aſſiſtance.

His brother conſented to live with him; and Mr. Clifford, without his knowledge, ſettled five hundred pounds a year upon him for life, by a deed ſo framed, that it was not in his own power to revoke it. He alſo bound himſelf to give Julia ten thouſand pounds at the death of her father. When the deed was executed according to all the forms of law, Mr. Clifford preſented it to his bro⯑ther in a manner too delicate to wound his pride, and too tender not to gratify his affection.

The happineſs of this domeſtic circle was interrupted by the bad health of Mr. Clifford. His conſtitution had ſuffered materially from a hot climate, and his increaſing complaints obliged him to go to Bath; which, however, failed to pro⯑duce [83] any ſalutary effects. His phyſicians thought him unable to bear the ſeverity of the approaching winter in this coun⯑try, and he was ordered to Nice. With this advice he reluctantly complied; and, before he ſet out for the continent, took a journey to the north, to embrace his fa⯑ther once more; whom he left to the care of his brother and Julia, and took Char⯑lotte with him abroad.

The old man, who did not long ſur⯑vive the departure of his ſon, in his dy⯑ing hour expreſſed his ſatisfaction at the thoughts of being buried in the tomb of his fathers: ſo true it is, that, "even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, even in our aſhes live their wonted fires!" He expired calmly, and without a groan; nor could thoſe who witneſſed the pious reſignation of his laſt moments, avoid wiſhing "to die the death of the righ⯑teous, and that their latter end might be like his!"

His corpſe was attended to the place of [84] interment by a long proceſſion of his te⯑nants, who hung over his grave as if un⯑willing to leave it; while the old re⯑counted to the young, all they remember⯑ed of his childhood and his youth.

Mr. Clifford received at Nice the in⯑telligence of his father's death, and felt the moſt ſenſible regret at not having been preſent to perform the laſt duties to his venerable parent. He wrote to his brother, requeſting that he and Julia would prepare for a journey to Nice early in the ſpring; as he himſelf intended to viſit Italy, and wiſhed for the gratification of their ſociety on his tour.

Mean while Mr. Clifford, after two months reſidence at Nice, found his health ſo well eſtabliſhed, that he went from that place to paſs ſome time at Avignon. He there met with Mr. Frederick Sey⯑mour, the ſecond brother of Mr. Sey⯑mour, who had been ſent abroad as ſecre⯑tary to the embaſſy at [...], where he had remained ſome years. When the am⯑baſſador [85] was recalled, Mr. Frederick Seymour was invited to make the tour of France and Italy with a friend, and was on his way to Rome when he became acquainted with Mr. Clifford and Char⯑lotte, neither of whom he had before ſeen; for Mr. Seymour's acquaintance and marriage with Miſs Melbourne had taken place ſome time after Mr. Frede⯑rick Seymour's departure.

This young man was of a different character from either of his brothers, and ſuperior to both. He poſſeſſed the ele⯑vated underſtanding, and the fine taſte, for which his elder brother was conſpi⯑cuous; and he had alſo that love of diſ⯑tinction which belongs to a man of parts and ſpirit; but his ambition was of that nobler kind, which purſues its ends fairly, openly, and honourably. Equally inca⯑pable of the deep-laid plots of one bro⯑ther, and the little artifices of the other, Mr. Frederick Seymour diſdained to tread in the ſerpentine paths of duplicity [86] and cunning; and his character was ſtrongly marked by an impatience of every thing mean, ſelfiſh, or ſordid.—His early intercourſe with the world had not chilled that enthuſiaſm which is awake to every generous impreſſion, and that warmth of feeling which long continues to animate an ardent mind, and which, in ſome, the diſappointment of their deareſt hopes, the experience of the coldneſs and ſelfiſh⯑neſs of mankind, and even the chilling hand of age itſelf, have no power to re⯑preſs. The noble principles which actu⯑ated Seymour's mind, gave it additional force and vigour. It will ever be found that great talents derive new energy from the virtue of the character; as when the ſun-beam plays upon gems, it calls forth all their ſcattered radiance. Mr. Frederick Seymour's perſon was tall and elegant; his eyes were dark, and his countenance was ſtrongly expreſſive of intelligence and ſenſibility. His converſation was highly agreeable, and his manners were infi⯑nitely [87] engaging; and his good under⯑ſtanding had taught him to connect the poliſh of faſhion, with plainneſs and ſim⯑plicity. He had acquired eaſe without negligence, and frankneſs without fami⯑liarity. Perfect good-breeding undoubt⯑edly requires the foundation of good ſenſe; as the oak, which is the moſt ſolid and valuable, is alſo the moſt graceful tree of the foreſt.

Charlotte was conſtantly in Mr. Sey⯑mour's ſociety, and ſhe ſoon felt its pow⯑ers of faſcination. In the mornings they rode out in little parties, amidſt ſcenes the moſt lovely and romantic. They often viſited the fountain of Vaucluſe, and Mr. Seymour ſtill appeared to find inſpiration in its waters. He compoſed ſonnets, which Charlotte read with plea⯑ſure; he pointed out the beauties of the ſcenes they viſited, or traced them with his pencil; and Charlotte gazed on them with delight. He perceived her prepoſſeſſion in his favour, and was ſolicitous to improve [88] her partiality. The ſweetneſs and viva⯑city of her diſpoſition, the ſimplicity of her manners, and the purity of her heart, formed a contraſt to the vanity and le⯑vity of many young women in the gay circle of Avignon, very favourable to Charlotte.

CHAP. IX.

CAPTAIN Clifford and his daughter paſſed the months, previous to their intended journey, in a retirement which was cheared by books, by muſic, and, above all, by the pleaſures of benevo⯑lence. Julia rejoiced in the poſſeſſion of fortune, becauſe ſhe could now indulge the feelings of compaſſion. She was no longer ſubject to the pain of flying from diſtreſs, which ſhe was unable to relieve: ſhe remembered how often her eyes, wet with tears, had been lifted up to heaven, and implored that ſhe might one day have the power of comforting the afflict⯑ed! Her prayer had been accepted, the days of affluence were arrived, and they were devoted to the purpoſes of benevo⯑lence.

[90] Julia ſpread a little circle of happineſs around her. She had too that ſoothing charm in her manner, which proceeds from the moſt delicate attention to the feelings of others: ſhe beſtowed her alms with that gentleneſs and ſympathy, by which the value of her donations was in⯑creaſed, and her pity was almoſt as dear to the poor as her charity.

Meantime, Mr. Clifford, though not very quick in penetration, at length diſ⯑cerned his daughter's partiality for Mr. Frederick Seymour, whoſe talents he ad⯑mired, and whoſe character he eſteemed. This indulgent father, contrary to every eſtabliſhed rule in ſuch caſes, determined to make his daughter happy her own way. He ſuffered her to liſten to Sey⯑mour's addreſſes, and conſented to her marrying the object of her choice, on her return to England the following ſum⯑mer.

They now only waited for the arrival of Captain Clifford and Julia, in order [91] to ſet out for Rome; when Mr. Clifford received the following letter from Julia.

[93] Mr. Clifford did not heſitate a mo⯑ment in obeying the mandate contain⯑ed in this melancholy letter: he and Charlotte left Avignon that night, in their way to England—Mr. Frederick Seymour wiſhed to accompany them, but this they would not allow. He, how⯑ever, obtained their conſent to follow them in a ſhort time to England; and Charlotte promiſed to write to him, on her arrival at home, and inform him of the ſituation of her uncle.

Mr. Clifford had the melancholy con⯑ſolation of reaching home time enough to ſee his beloved brother once more. He found Captain Clifford in a ſtate of great compoſure of mind. He talked with reſignation of his approaching diſſolution, and exerted all the little ſtrength he had left in comforting his friends: he told them he felt the moſt firm perſuaſion that they ſhould meet again in a better region, never more to feel the pang of ſeparation. He then made Julia unlooſe a ribbon from his neck, to which was [94] fixed a locket that hung upon his breaſt, and which contained ſome of his wife's hair—He deſired Julia to cut off a little of his own hair, and put it into the lock⯑et. He begged that his brother would keep his watch, and Charlotte a ring for his ſake. They will ſerve, added he, as Ophelia ſays, "for thoughts, and remem⯑brances." He then graſped Julia's hand while ſhe knelt at his bedſide, and ſaid to her, in a faint voice, "Compoſe your mind, my love! you will ſtill have a fa⯑ther in my brother's protection—I leave you to his care—God Almighty bleſs you, my child—and reward your filial good⯑neſs! You have been the comfort of my life—and death has no pang but leaving you!—but we ſhall meet"—His voice became inarticulate, and in a few minutes he expired. Julia was with difficulty per⯑ſuaded to forſake the breathleſs remains of her father: ſhe clung to his corpſe in an agony of unutterable ſorrow; and in vain Charlotte endeavoured to ſooth [95] her affliction; in vain Mr. Clifford at⯑tempted to conſole her by the aſſurance, that it ſhould be the conſtant aim of his life to promote her happineſs. In the bitterneſs of her ſoul, Julia ſhrunk from theſe aſſurances: the laſt ſigh of her fa⯑ther ſeemed to her the extinction of eve⯑ry earthly hope, and her aching heart re⯑fuſed that happineſs which he could no longer participate.—Her father had al⯑ways treated her as a friend, and her af⯑fection for him was unbounded. When ſhe looked back on the paſt, ſhe recol⯑lected, on his part, a conſtant wiſh to make her happy; and an uniform gentle⯑neſs of diſpoſition, which rendered that wiſh effectual. She could recall no ex⯑preſſion of harſhneſs, none of thoſe fits of moroſeneſs, or caprice, notwithſtand⯑ing which, obedience to a parent ſtill re⯑mains a duty, but ſometimes ceaſes to be a pleaſure.

In the reflection on her own conduct towards her father, Julia felt the ſooth⯑ing [96] conſciouſneſs of having done more than even duty required. She had not only implicitly obeyed every injunction, and complied with every wiſh of her father; but ſhe had lived in the con⯑ſtant habit of making every ſacrifice to his comfort, that the quick ſenſibility of her own heart could ſuggeſt—ſacrifices of eaſe, of convenience, of pleaſure, which aroſe from the confined circumſtances of her father; ſacrifices, which ſhe carefully concealed from his knowledge, and of which ſhe found the ſole reward in her own boſom.

When, at length, the all-ſubduing in⯑fluence of time had compoſed her mind ſufficiently to enjoy the beauties of na⯑ture, the pleaſures of ſociety, and the comforts of affluence, ſhe ſtill frequently lamented, with tears of bitter regret, that her father had not lived to partake longer of thoſe bleſſings. She reflected, that his life had been the conſtant ſtruggle of an high and honourable ſpirit with miſ⯑fortune, [97] poverty, and neglect: ſhe wept at the recollection of thoſe difficulties in which ſhe had often ſeen him involved, of thoſe anxieties he had ſuffered for her ſake; and mourned that the hour of proſ⯑perity had ſcarcely arrived, before the ob⯑ject of her pious affection was moulder⯑ing in the duſt.

The tranquillity ſhe regained, was not like the ſweet glow of a ſummer morning, enlivened by ſunſhine, and the exulting ſong of the birds: it had more affinity to the penſive ſtillneſs of the evening, when the mildneſs of the air, and the fading charms of the landſcape, excite in the mind a ſoft and tender ſenſation, which has a nearer alliance to melancholy than to joy.

CHAP. X.

A FEW months after the death of Captain Clifford, his brother in⯑vited Mrs. Melbourne, and Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, to ſpend ſome time at his coun⯑try ſeat, where Mr. Frederick Seymour was ſoon expected.

Mrs. Melbourne brought with her a young man who was her relation, and for whom ſhe hoped, through Mr. Clifford's intereſt, to obtain an appointment in the Eaſt Indies. She poſſeſſed but a very moderate ſhare of benevolence, either in thought, word, or deed, towards the hu⯑man race in general; but ſhe eagerly em⯑braced this opportunity of providing for her own relation, and placing him above the want of farther aſſiſtance from herſelf.

Lately ſhe had increaſed her income [99] by a prize of ten thouſand pounds in the lottery; but ſhe found the calculation of her own wants increaſe in the ſame pro⯑portion with her fortune; and in eſtimat⯑ing the wants of others, ſhe was leſs exact in her arithmetic. This lady could hear the complaints of miſery with indifference, and ſee the tears of the unfortunate with⯑out ſtretching out a hand to their aſſiſt⯑ance; and yet ſhe contrived to live at peace with herſelf. Soon after her mar⯑riage, ſhe had provided for a couſin, who, by the death of both his parents, was thrown entirely upon her protection; and, whenever her heart reproached her with any deficiency of compaſſion, ſhe inſtant⯑ly called to mind her couſin, and per⯑ſuaded herſelf that ſociety had no farther demands on her benevolence.

The young man whom ſhe now brought to Mr. Clifford's houſe, had loſt his fa⯑ther, and his mother was unable to pro⯑vide for him; but, happily for Mr. Char⯑tres, he was ſo nearly related to Mrs. [100] Melbourne, that her pride came in as an auxiliary to her benevolence in the deter⯑mination to promote his fortunes.

Mrs. Melbourne's occaſional acts of beneficence, which generally proceeded either from oſtentation or fear, reſembled thoſe ſcanty ſpots of verdure to which a ſudden ſhower will ſometimes give birth in a flinty and ſterile ſoil; while pure genuine philanthropy flows like thoſe un⯑ſeen dews which are only marked in their benign effects, ſpreading new charms over creation.

Mr. Chartres had been educated by the curate of a ſmall village in York⯑ſhire, who had taught him Greek, Latin, and mathematics, but had not given him the leaſt knowledge of men and man⯑ners, that being a ſcience of which his preceptor was entirely ignorant. At nineteen Mr. Chartres returned to his mother, who had a ſmall houſe in Lon⯑don. She was a weak vain woman, and, being exceedingly diſguſted with her ſon's [101] awkwardneſs, and quite incapable of judg⯑ing of his claſſical acquiſitions, very thank⯑fully reſigned him to Mrs. Melbourne, who introduced him in all his native ſim⯑plicity to Mr. Clifford.

Mr. Chartres was tall and thin, and ſo perfectly erect, that he had not the ſmalleſt tendency towards a bend in his whole figure. His coat was always buttoned quite cloſe, and diſplayed his ſhape with great exactneſs; his complexion was ſal⯑low, his aſpect ſolemn, and his black hair hung lank down his ſhoulders. He had a good underſtanding, and a warm vene⯑ration for literature; but his extreme awkwardneſs could only be equalled by his ſimplicity. In the company of ſtrangers he was entirely ſilent. When longer ac⯑quaintance gave him courage to ſpeak, his opinions were found to be reſpectable, on account of their antiquity: his ſenti⯑ments were ſtrictly moral; and, though there was no novelty in his ideas, they were generally delivered in a manner pe⯑culiar [102] to himſelf. Chartres had a tender heart, felt the influence of beauty, and wiſhed to ſhow the moſt devoted at⯑tention to the ladies: but whenever he attempted any mark of gallantry, it gene⯑rally ended in his own diſgrace, though he never hazarded any ſuch attempt with⯑out mature deliberation; for he was always obliged, previouſly to the ſlighteſt move⯑ment he made in company, to call forth all his reaſoning faculties, and convince himſelf that it was unmanly, as well as unphiloſophical, to tremble at walking acroſs the room, placing a chair for a lady, or handing her a tea-cup. Yet even after he had ſettled his plans of courteſy in his own mind, much to his ſatisfaction, he was apt to mar them by his mode of performance. But we will leave him to ſtruggle with his baſhful terrors, and re⯑turn to Julia.

One evening, when the party aſſembled at Mr. Clifford's preferred cards to walk⯑ing, ſhe went out alone, and wandered [103] along the border of the lake; gazing at the majeſtic ſcenery around her, which was obſcured by twilight, while imagina⯑tion gave new forms to every half-ſeen object. On her way home ſhe ſtopped at a cottage near the houſe, and, ſeating herſelf on a ſtraw chair at the door, pa⯑tiently liſtened to the good woman's anec⯑dotes of her poultry.

Julia uſually ſpent two hours every day in teaching the children of the cottagers to read. She had a particular fondneſs for children, which is an affection very natural to a tender heart; for what is more intereſting than the innocence, the helpleſſneſs, the endearing ſimplicity of childhood?—The eldeſt child of the good woman who loved to talk of her poultry, was a girl of ſeven years of age, with a ruddy complexion, and auburn ringlets, and was Julia's diſtinguiſhed fa⯑vourite. Little Peggy did not, however, owe this diſtinction to any advantages of beauty over her companions; for roſy [104] cheeks, and curled locks, were in great plenty in the village. Julia's partiality aroſe from an incident we ſhall mention.

One morning, as ſhe paſſed the cot⯑tage, ſhe looked in at the window, and ſaw little Peggy ſtanding at the table, taking ſome flies out of a bowl of water, and placing them in the ſun, where they ſhook their wet wings, and were aſſiſted in the operation of drying themſelves by Peggy; who put her face very cloſe to the table, and endeavoured to revive them with her warm breath. When Ju⯑lia entered the cottage, the child, who knew her well, looked up in her face, and told her to "come and ſee how glad the flies were to get out." Peggy was en⯑deared to Julia by her kindneſs to the flies; for ſhe herſelf felt for every thing that had life, with a degree of ſenſibility which many would account a fooliſh weakneſs. She had frequently been en⯑gaged in the very ſame buſineſs of reſcu⯑ing flies from deſtruction; and, when ſhe [105] ſaw a worm lying in her path, had often conveyed it to a place of ſafety among the untrodden graſs, to prevent its being cruſhed by ſome foot leſs careful than her own. We do not pretend to juſtify theſe actions, which people, who have firm nerves for every pain that does not reach themſelves, may probably ridicule; but we think it our duty to relate the fact.

Julia had indeed no leſſon of humanity left untaught by her grandfather. She had ſeen the linnets and ſparrows, who built their neſts in the neighbourhood of that good old man, ſecure of a comfort⯑able proviſion in winter; and the robins, who ventured to his gate, had always met with an hoſpitable reception. He had often, when recommending tender⯑neſs to animals, pointed out to his grand-daughter that paſſage in ſcripture—‘Are not five ſparrows ſold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten be⯑fore God!’—Dear, and venera⯑ble old man! how congenial to thy ſpirit [106] was this tender aſſurance!—by what heart is univerſal benevolence cheriſhed as it was by thine!—But this beloved old man has led us from the cottage, and little Peggy; who now repeated a hymn Julia had taught her, with her hands joined to⯑gether, and her voice ſcorning all pauſe as long as her breath would hold out. Julia promiſed her a reward if ſhe would mind her ſtops; and ſhe went to play with her brother, a child of three years of age, before the door of the cottage. A few minutes after, Julia ſaw her ſtrug⯑gling to bring her brother to the door, but the little one refuſed to come; upon which Peggy fl [...]w to the door, pointed to her brother, and burſt into tears. Julia roſe haſtily from her ſeat, and, ſtepping forward, ſaw a gentleman and his ſer⯑vant riding at full ſpeed towards them; and ſo near the child, that ſhe had only time to fly, at the hazard of her own life, and ſnatch him away. The ſcreams of his mother, and the appearance of Julia, [107] firſt informed the ſtranger of the child's danger, which the approach of night, and the additional gloom caſt by ſome trees over the road, had prevented him from ſeeing. He inſtantly diſmounted, and, giving the reins to his ſervant, haſt⯑ened to Julia, expreſſed his concern for the alarm he had occaſioned her, and enquired with great earneſtneſs if ſhe had recovered her terror.—After a few mi⯑nutes converſation, he told her that he was on his way to Mr. Clifford's houſe—"That houſe is my home," ſaid Julia. She then diſcovered that ſhe was converſing with Mr. Frederick Seymour, who aſked permiſſion to attend her home. To this ſhe readily conſented; but before they ſet out ſhe wiped away the tears, which ſtill ſtood in the eye of her roſy-cheeked pupil, and told her ſhe would always love her for taking care of little Tom.

Mr. Frederick Seymour followed Julia into the drawing-room without being announced. Charlotte was thrown into [108] ſome confuſion by his ſudden appearance, but ſoon recovered herſelf: the adventure at the cottage was recounted, and the evening paſſed away cheerfully. Even Mrs. Melbourne, whoſe manners were uſually formal and ungracious, caught the univerſal gladneſs. She tried to be agreeable, and ſucceeded as well as could be expected from one not much accuſtomed to make the experiment. In general Mrs. Melbourne ſpoke but little, and never hazarded any ſentiment that aroſe in her heart, till ſhe had firſt made it travel to her head, and examined whe⯑ther it was preciſely ſuch as would do her honour; and ſhe delivered her opi⯑nions, even among her friends, with the moſt laboured correctneſs. Her under⯑ſtanding was always in full dreſs; not like that of the preſent times, eaſy, gay, and graceful; but more reſembling the ſtiff ruffs, and ſtately finery of the days of Queen Elizabeth.

Mr. Seymour alone had ſome unplea⯑ſant [109] reflections. He ſaw that his brother, without the practice of duplicity, had obtained a fortune far ſuperior, and a woman in every view more amiable, than all his own deep-laid ſchemes had ac⯑quired for himſelf. While he made theſe reflections, his heart ſickened at the re⯑collection of all the plots and counter⯑plots of his head; and he lamented, that the labour of years had enſured to him a leſs degree of proſperity than ſeemed, unſolicited, to court the acceptance of his brother.

Mr. Charles Seymour felt nothing but joy at his brother's marriage, which he knew would give the whole family addi⯑tional conſequence, and conſiderably in⯑creaſe its influence. He determined, however, not to be outdone by his bro⯑ther, but to take the firſt opportunity of marrying the daughter of a nabob, him⯑ſelf.

From the moment of his arrival at [110] Mr. Clifford's ſeat, he had endeavoured to inſinuate himſelf into the favour of Julia, by paying her the moſt conſtant diſtinctions. He foreſaw, that, as miſtreſs of her uncle's houſe, which would hap⯑pen on Charlotte's marriage, her impor⯑tance in the faſhionable world would be conſiderable; and, though her fortune was not ſufficient to tempt him to any matrimonial deſigns upon her himſelf, he was ſenſible that, with her beauty and accompliſhments, ſhe could ſcarcely fail to marry advantageouſly; ſince he knew that, though love was much out of faſhion, there ſtill exiſted ſome young men of rank and fortune, who were ad⯑dicted to that weakneſs; and ſome per⯑ſon, of ſuch a temper, might probably abate a few thouſands in his matrimo⯑nial expectations, in conſideration of Ju⯑lia's beauty. He therefore devoted his chief attention to that young lady; for Charlotte he conſidered as an acquiſi⯑tion [111] already made to his family. Mr. Charles Seymour's principles of action were as mechanical as thoſe of a watch, conſtantly regulated by the bright noon⯑day ſun; but all machines are ſubject to imperfection, and Charles's movements of courteſy towards Julia, which had formerly gone too ſlow, now went ſomewhat too faſt. She could not avoid being put in mind of his paſt rude neglect, which ſhe would otherwiſe have forgotten, by his preſent obſequious attention. When he flew to meet her at her entrance into the room, when he handed her with alacrity to the carriage, or rode by her ſide on horſe⯑back, ſhe recollected how often he had formerly ſeen her enter, and depart, with⯑out taking the ſmalleſt notice of either.

A week after the arrival of Mr. Fre⯑derick Seymour, Mrs. Melbourne, and Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, left Mr. Clifford's houſe on their way to Scotland, and Mr. Charles Seymour departed for the ſeat of Lord [...]. Mr. Chartres was left at [112] Mr. Clifford's till the return of the party, a circumſtance which gave him a degree of pleaſure that no one ſuſpected; for he had not yet conquered the terrors his new acquaintances inſpired; and, though he admired and loved them, he had hi⯑therto kept both his admiration and his love a profound ſecret, and had never hazarded more than a monoſyllable at a time to any of the family. His good ſenſe was wrapt up as carefully as a motto within a ſugar-image; and the cruſt of awkwardneſs was not eaſily broken.

The ſatisfaction derived from Mr. Fre⯑derick Seymour's arrival was not confined to Charlotte: his ſociety was felt to be a moſt agreeable acquiſition by the whole family. In his converſation there was originality, wit, and fancy; the ſtrength of a ſuperior underſtanding, and the warmth of a feeling heart. The conver⯑ſation often turned on ſubjects of litera⯑ture, and Charlotte, though much leſs devoted to books than her couſin, had a [113] mind ſufficiently cultivated to bear a part in ſuch converſations; which ſhe enjoyed the more on account of their giving her lover an opportunity of diſplaying his ta⯑lents. Julia, whoſe underſtanding was far ſuperior to Charlotte's, ſoon perceived that the powers of Seymour's mind were not fully diſcerned by her couſin; that often a ſtroke of wit, an emanation of fancy, which ſhe herſelf admired, was not com⯑prehended by Charlotte; and that a mind leſs ſuperior to the general maſs of man⯑kind would have made her happy. Yet ſhe entertained not the leaſt doubt of her felicity in her marriage with Seymour. She knew that Charlotte was tenderly attached to him, and that he was fully ſenſible of all her claims to his affection; that he was charmed with the ſweetneſs of her diſpoſition; and ſhe believed that he would do her merit the juſtice it de⯑ſerved.

Mr. Frederick Seymour and Julia were ſoon the beſt friends poſſible. She already [114] conſidered him as the huſband of Char⯑lotte, and he ſometimes, in a ſort of whiſ⯑per, called her his couſin. A month paſſed ſo agreeably, that its flight was ſcarcely perceived by this domeſtic circle. In the enjoyment of the beauties of nature, the charms of friendſhip, and the delightful intercourſe of elegant and cultivated minds, the ſtream of time flowed not like the turbulent torrent which ruſhes in un⯑equal cadence, as impelled by the tem⯑peſtuous winds, nor like the ſluggiſh pool, whoſe waters reſt in dull ſtagnation: it glided cheerfully along, like the clear rivulet of the valley, whoſe ſurface is un⯑ruffled by the blaſt of the mountains, and whoſe boſom reflects the verdant landſcape through which it paſſes.

Mr. Chartres, encouraged by the gen⯑tleneſs with which he was treated, con⯑quered his baſhful terrors ſufficiently to enjoy the amiable ſociety in which he was placed. He no longer ſat at table with as much apparent uneaſineſs as if he had [115] been ſtretched on the bed of Procruſtus. He raiſed his eyes when he was ſpoken to, found it leſs difficult to diſpoſe of his hands than formerly, loſt his tremulous ac⯑cent, and ſometimes delivered his opi⯑nions with the firm tone of a man at eaſe.

Mr. Clifford had ſome affairs to regu⯑late previouſly to his daughter's marriage, which was therefore deferred two months longer: mean while Charlotte, who de⯑lighted to diſplay the merits of Julia, and wiſhed her beloved friend to be a favourite with her future huſband, was at pains, in her frequent converſations with Seymour, to give him the moſt amiable picture of Julia; deſcribed her filial tenderneſs, her candour, her benevolence, and every ami⯑able quality ſhe poſſeſſed, with all the enthuſiaſm of affection. This was unne⯑ceſſary—Frederick Seymour had, at firſt ſight, greatly admired Julia's beauty; and, as ſhe had converſed with him with the utmoſt frankneſs and cordiality, he found that the purity of her mind, and the good⯑neſs [116] of her heart, were equal to the excel⯑lence of her underſtanding; nor could he refuſe his friendſhip to one ſo dear to Charlotte. He loved to talk to Charlotte of her couſin; he loved to think of her when alone; and at length he diſcovered that Charlotte's ſociety loſt its charm when Julia was abſent. He could de⯑ceive himſelf no longer: Julia had in⯑ſpired him with the moſt violent, the moſt unconquerable paſſion.

The gradations from friendſhip to love are often imperceptible to the mind. Like ſucceſſive ſhades of the ſame colour, they blend ſo finely together, that it is difficult to mark the preciſe point at which their diſtinctions commence. Love comes to the boſom under the gentle forms of eſteem, of ſympathy, of confidence: we liſten with dangerous pleaſure to the ſeducing accents of his voice, till he lifts the fatal veil which concealed him from our view, and reigns a tyrant in the ſoul. Reaſon is then an oracle no longer conſulted; and [117] happineſs, often life itſelf, become his vic⯑tims.

Seymour, called upon by every tie of honour to fulfil his engagements with Charlotte, reſolved to ſtifle his unhappy paſſion for Julia, to treat her with reſerve, and to avoid her as much as poſſible. That young lady had already perceived the ſituation of his mind. A thouſand little circumſtances in his behaviour had betrayed to her penetration the emotions of his heart—but indeed every woman is quick-ſighted on this ſubject. The per⯑turbation of an impaſſioned mind cannot long be concealed from the object of its inquietude. In vain it may aſſume the look of indifference, or wear the ſmile of tranquillity: the moſt trifling occurrences will ſerve to diſcover the agitation of its feelings—as the light breeze, that but gently waves the branches of the other trees of the foreſt, makes every leaf of the poplar tremble.

The knowledge of Seymour's paſſion [118] gave Julia the moſt cruel uneaſineſs. Her heart was too pure to think without horror of ſupplanting Charlotte in the affections of her lover—that amiable Char⯑lotte, whoſe ſweetneſs and generoſity of temper had led her to laviſh upon Julia every diſtinction, every preference ſhe could beſtow; who, in every amuſement, conſulted Julia's taſte, and forgot her own inclinations in ſtudying to prevent Julia's wiſhes.

At firſt, in the fulneſs of her heart, ſhe was on the point of flying to her couſin, of revealing her ſuſpicions, and aſking Charlotte's permiſſion to leave the houſe till her marriage was accompliſhed; but a little reflection convinced her of the im⯑propriety of this meaſure. She knew that Charlotte's affections were deeply en⯑gaged, and was ſenſible that to awaken a ſuſpicion of Seymour's indifference in her mind, would deſtroy her peace for ever. She was convinced that he meant to fulfil his engagements, and ſhe had too [119] much confidence in his honour and integ⯑rity, to doubt that he would treat Char⯑lotte, when his wife, with tenderneſs and attention. She hoped that Charlotte's ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, and the ſeparation which would then take place between Seymour and herſelf, would entirely con⯑quer his unhappy prepoſſeſſion in her fa⯑vour; and ſhe determined, mean while, to lock the fatal ſecret within her own breaſt, and to haſten the marriage by every means in her power.

CHAP. XI.

FREDERICK Seymour and Julia now avoided each other by a ſort of tacit agreement. They never met but at thoſe ſeaſons when the whole family were aſ⯑ſembled; they were careful to place them⯑ſelves at a diſtance from each other at table; and in the walks, which they fre⯑quently took along the wild and rugged boundaries of the lake, where they ſome⯑times wandered near the edge of the cliffs, or deſcended the hills by ſteep and formidable paths, Mr. Seymour, even when Charlotte was eſcorted by any other gentleman, never offered his arm to Julia, if there was any other lady pre⯑ſent. Julia was no leſs reſerved to wards him; but, if ſhe happened to walk behind him, ſhe always obſerved [121] that when the path was dangerous, he could not reſiſt looking back repeatedly, to ſee if ſhe was ſafe. He appeared to be ſolicitous to converſe with any of Char⯑lotte's female viſitors in preference to Ju⯑lia: yet, notwithſtanding this behaviour, it was eaſy for that young lady to per⯑ceive that he was acting a part which he performed with great difficulty; but ſhe was happy, at leaſt ſhe believed ſhe was happy, that he had reſolution enough to obſerve this conduct.

Seymour, by unremitted efforts, con⯑cealed the ſtate of his mind from Char⯑lotte. All her unſuſpecting heart per⯑ceived, was his reſerve towards Julia, for which ſhe could not account; but which gave her uneaſineſs; and with the frank⯑neſs natural to her diſpoſition, ſhe ſome⯑times complained to him of his inatten⯑tion to her couſin, and reminded him of particular inſtances of neglect; which he generally excuſed, by obſerving that he had been wholly occupied by herſelf. [122] Charlotte once mentioned to Julia ſome⯑thing of Seymour's inattention to her. Julia coloured violently; Charlotte thought it the bluſh of reſentment, and ſaid no more on the ſubject.

Had Mr. Clifford been a man of much obſervation, it is probable he would have remarked the change in Seymour's be⯑haviour to his niece. But Mr. Clifford paid little attention to the minuter traits of manners, and being at preſent wholly occupied in arranging his affairs, previouſ⯑ly to his daughter's marriage, and im⯑proving the grounds round his houſe, the ſenſations of Seymour's mind were by him entirely unnoticed. Mr. Clifford was delighted to ſee his lawns aſſume a brighter verdure; his ſhrubbery filled with every plant that could embelliſh it; his woods affording the moſt venerable ſhade, or opening into viſtas, that preſented the moſt ſublime landſcape—and was un⯑conſcious, that to the wounded ſpirit of Seymour, nature had loſt her beauty, and [123] the earth its pleaſantneſs!—Mr. Clifford was in the ſituation of one of thoſe ſhel⯑tered trees, which grew in his own culti⯑vated vallies, protected from the violence of the winds, and feeling only the gen⯑tleſt influence of the ſeaſons; while the unhappy Seymour, agitated by the utmoſt violence of conflicting paſſions, reſembled one of thoſe plants which are ſcattered on the bleak mountains, undefended, and expoſed to all the fury of the elements.

Seymour was ſometimes thrown into great perturbation, by the obſervations which Chartres, in the ſimplicity of his mind, made upon his conduct. One evening, when there were ſome company from the neighbourhood, Seymour was relating, at the tea-table, a ludicrous ad⯑venture which had happened to him in France, and which he embelliſhed with all the graces of wit and fancy. While he was proceeding with great vivacity, a ſervant came, and ſpoke to Julia; upon which ſhe immediately left the room. [124] Seymour fancied he ſaw her change colour as ſhe went out; and occupied in conjec⯑turing what could be the reaſon of it, he made a pauſe in his ſtory.—"Pray go on," ſaid Charlotte.—He reſumed the narrative, but Chartres almoſt inſtantly interrupted him, ſaying, "I beg your pardon Sir, but you have not begun at the place where you left off, and the parts of the ſtory have loſt their connection: you know Sir [...]" Chartres then added a Latin quotation of ſome length, which we believe was very appoſite; but which, as we are entirely ignorant of Latin, we muſt leave our learned readers to gueſs. While Chartres was diſplaying his erudition, Seymour recovered himſelf ſufficiently to proceed in his narrative; but the tone of his voice was changed; the ſpirit of the ſtory evaporated; and when it was finiſhed, every body appeared diſappointed: and though this is a circumſtance which often happens to the retailers of ſtories, many people having an everlaſting propenſity to [125] ſpeak, from the want of ſufficient under⯑ſtanding to be ſilent, Seymour, who poſſeſſed conſiderable talents for narration, was accuſtomed to be heard with applauſe. He perceived the diſappointment of the company, and added, in a confuſed man⯑ner, "I have done my adventure great injuſtice; but a diſagreeable recollection came acroſs me, and I could not for my ſoul get rid of it."—Julia returned juſt as he had done ſpeaking, and Char⯑tres, who thought, that after Seymour's own confeſſion that he had ſpoiled the jeſt, there could be no impropriety in his avow⯑ing the ſame opinion, told Julia, that ſhe had not loſt the moſt agreeable part of the ſtory; "for, ma'am," added he, "Mr. Seymour gave us no more wit after you left the room." Julia tried to ſmile, and Seymour walked to the window, af⯑fecting to join in the general laugh, which was uſually excited by the ſolemn tone in which Chartres delivered his ſentiments. The company preſent were not remarkable [126] for penetration, and were more occupied by the awkward formality of the young man's manner, than by the force of his remark. There was, however, one lady of the party, whoſe obſervation was more acute than that of her companions. Miſs Tomkins had perceived an unaccountable degree of reſtraint in the behaviour of Seymour and Julia towards each other. She had remarked, that Seymour faultered in his ſtory upon Julia's leaving the room; but the effect which Chartres ſpeech had had upon them both, betrayed at once to Miſs Tomkins a ſecret, which ſhe carefully treaſured up in her own mind, and of which ſhe made a moſt ungenerous uſe, as will be ſeen hereafter.

Moſt of the company went to cards, and Chartres followed Seymour to the win⯑dow; who turned towards him with ſuch a reſentful air, that Chartres, terrified at the thoughts of having given offence to one whom he ſo highly reſpected, began in an audible voice to ſolicit pardon. "I am [127] heartily ſorry, Mr. Seymour," ſaid he, "if I have made any comment on the ſtory that is offenſive to you; but I thought Miſs Julia Clifford would like to hear, that as it grew leſs agreeable juſt as ſhe left the room, ſhe had not loſt much by going. I feel an innocent ſatisfaction in ſaying any thing that will pleaſe her, when I have an opportunity." "Pray, Mr. Char⯑tres, talk no more of it," Seymour replied, in an impatient and diſturbed manner. After pauſing a little, he added, "I am not very well this evening; will you come and take a walk with me?" Chartres thankfully conſented. Seymour burthen⯑ed himſelf with this young man's compa⯑ny, becauſe he was afraid, that if left with the ladies, Chartres might make ſome far⯑ther animadverſions on the ſtory; but he excuſed himſelf from converſing with his companion on pretence of indiſpoſition; and wandering along the rocky ſhores of the lake, indulged his own gloomy medi⯑tations.

[128] Julia longed to take a walk; but ſhe confined herſelf to the corner of the card⯑table, becauſe ſhe dreaded meeting Sey⯑mour. When he returned, ſhe retired for a ſhort time to her own apartment, and gave way to that ſorrow which the per⯑plexity of her ſituation wrung from her heart. She was indeed perſuaded, that ſhe felt no other uneaſineſs than what aroſe from the agitation with which ſhe per⯑ceived that Seymour's mind was ſtrug⯑gling; but perhaps there was ſomething of ſelf-deception in this young lady's reflec⯑tions; as to a paſſenger, in a boat that glides rapidly down a ſtream, the current only appears to move, and the boat ſeems perfectly ſtill, while in reality the waves bear it impetuouſly along.

But whatever were Julia's real ſen⯑ſations, her conduct was irreproachable. Her ideas of rectitude were of the moſt exalted kind; and no pain would have been ſo inſufferable to her pure and feel⯑ing boſom, as the conciouſneſs of hav⯑ing [129] in the ſmalleſt degree deviated from thoſe principles of delicacy, truth, inte⯑grity, and honour, which were not only the inviolable ſentiments of her ſoul, but the ſtedfaſt rules of her actions. If her heart was not quite at peace, its exquiſite ſen⯑ſibility was corrected by the influence of reaſon; as the quivering needle, though ſubject to ſome variations, ſtill tends to one fixed point.

CHAP. XII.

MR. and Mrs. Seymour, and Mrs. Melbourne, returned to Mr. Clif⯑ford's ſeat, where they had promiſed to paſs a week or two on their way home. It was the time of the aſſizes at [...], and Mrs. Seymour heard with great ſatisfaction that Mr. Clifford's fa⯑mily were going to a ball at that town the following evening.

Mr. Chartres, on the firſt intelligence he received of the ball, inſtantly aſked Ju⯑lia to dance: "I own," added he, play⯑ing all the time with his fingers, and look⯑ing very fooliſh, for he felt that his re⯑queſt was a bold one; "I own I ſhall appear but aukward, having never been at any ball, except my dancing-maſter's; but I am determined to improve myſelf [131] in dancing, which I think a very pleaſant device, and what reflects honour on the inventor." Some young ladies, as ſecure as Julia of having their choice of many partners, would have refuſed Mr. Chartres without much remorſe; but it was not in her nature to exert power in giving pain when it could be avoided; and though ſhe diſliked her ſhackles, ſhe determined to wear them with chearfulneſs. Frederick Seymour was ſecretly rejoiced that Julia was engaged to Chartres, being conſcious that, had ſhe been provided with a more agreeable partner, it would have given him ſome very unpleaſant ſenſations.

Charlotte mentioned to Mrs. Seymour, at dinner, that ſhe would probably meet her acquaintance, Mr. F [...], at the ball. "Miſs Tomkins", added ſhe, "who is on a viſit at Lord [...]'s ſeat, told me that Mr. F [...] was expected this evening; and what will he do, Julia, when he finds you are engaged?—Mr. Chartres, I adviſe you not to be too happy to-mor⯑row, [132] for I have a ſtrong ſuſpicion that you will be robbed of your partner." "I am conſcious, Madam," ſaid Chartres, laying down his knife and fork with great ſolem⯑nity, "I am very conſcious of my unwor⯑thineſs of Miſs Julia Clifford, and you know, Madam," continued he, turning to Julia "I offered this morning to give up the honour of your hand to Mr. Frede⯑rick Seymour, for a dance or two, if he ſhould happen to aſk it." Julia coloured violently; but it was not perceived by any one preſent except Mr. Seymour; for Frederick Seymour, at that moment, ſpilt a glaſs of wine as he was putting it to his lips, on Charlotte's gown, and occaſioned ſome confuſion. Charlotte again renewed the ſubject of the ball, and Julia, who ſaw that Mr. Seymour's penetrating eyes were fixed upon her, endeavoured to conquer her embarraſſment. Mrs. Seymour aſked her, if the ball-room at [...] was a good one. "Yes," replied Julia; "but it ſeems rather ſtrange, ſince the time of the aſ⯑ſizes [133] is choſen for particular gaiety, that the town-houſe ſhould be made to contain both the aſſembly-room and the priſon: they ſeem placed with little judgment ſo near each other." "I believe," ſaid Mr. Seymour, "the mirth of the company in general will not be much diſturbed by this reflection, though it comes very na⯑turally from the perſon who made it." "A ball-room," ſaid Frederick Seymour, "divided only by a thin partition from a priſon, reminds one of a magical lanthorn, where all the gay colours are thrown on one little ſpot, and every thing round it is involved in complete darkneſs." "Well, pray talk no more of it," ſaid Charlotte." "Indeed," cried Mrs. Sey⯑mour, with a ſigh loud enough to be heard by all preſent, "my feelings are ſo wounded by what has paſſed, that I am ſure I ſhall be miſerable the whole even⯑ing; and I muſt beg of you, Miſs Clif⯑ford, to excuſe my going." "O no," re⯑plied Charlotte, "I will not excuſe you." [134] Mrs. Seymour acquieſced in ſilence, and expreſſed no farther deſire of remaining at home.

The next morning Charlotte propoſed a ride. A carriage was ordered for Mrs. Melbourne, and horſes for the reſt of the company, immediately after breakfaſt; when Charlotte obſerved that Julia looked pale. "I have a ſlight head-ach," ſaid Julia, "and as I intend to dance a great deal at the ball, I hope you will excuſe my going out with you this morning," "Certainly," ſaid Charlotte, "if you wiſh it; but I am ſure you will be quite well in the evening; I never had a head-ach but once, when I was going to a ball, and the ſound of the fiddles carried it off directly." Julia ſmiled at her couſin's remedy for the head-ach, and left the room.

She retired to her own apartment for an hour, and then wandered to a wood on the ſide of a neighbouring hill, completely ſhaded from the ſun by thick intervoven [135] trees. She ſeated herſelf on a green bank, at the foot of an old oak: the lake was ſeen, and the ſound of the torrent was heard foaming down the cliffs at a diſ⯑tance. The trees formed a thouſand wild avenues, and the paths of the wood appeared as if they had never been trod⯑den by any human foot-ſtep. Julia, in this ſolitude, found "room for medita⯑tion even to madneſs." She recalled the beloved image of her father; ſhe thought of the paſt with tender regret, and the preſent ſeemed involved in perplexity and ſadneſs.

The beauties of the landſcape at length ſoothed and elevated her mind. She lifted her eyes to heaven, for her admiration of the works of nature was ever accompanied with emotions of gratitude and praiſe; her heart became full—her tears flowed faſt, but not painfully—when her reverie was diſturbed by the ruſtling of the leaves near her. She looked round, and ſaw Frederick Seymour almoſt cloſe to her, [136] and gazing at her with earneſtneſs. It inſtantly occurred to her, that ſome acci⯑dent had happened, and occaſioned the return of the party; and ſhe enquired with eagerneſs and terror the reaſon of his coming. He told her, in a confuſed man⯑ner, that he had received letters, after ſhe left the room, which required an imme⯑diate anſwer, and had obliged him to re⯑main at home. The truth was, that no ſooner had Julia declared her intention of ſtaying at home, than Frederick Sey⯑mour, who diſliked his ſiſter-in-law, and abhorred Mrs. Melbourne, felt a great diſguſt at the thoughts of going. A few minutes after Julia quitted the room, let⯑ters were brought to him by the poſt, and he could not reſiſt the temptation they of⯑fered him of pretending that they requir⯑ed an immediate anſwer, and of deſiring, on that account, to be excuſed joining the party on horſeback. He was ſenſible that he was acting in direct oppoſition to every rule he had preſcribed for his con⯑duct; [137] he felt that it was madneſs to court that dangerous ſociety, which had already proved ſo fatal to his peace; but the ſenſations which impelled him to re⯑main behind, were too powerful to be combated by any effort of his reaſon. Alas! there are moments when the exertions of reaſon are ineffectually op⯑poſed to the violence of paſſion!—there are moments in which paſſion, like the ocean-flood, overthrows the mounds which were oppoſed to its progreſs!—Char⯑lotte, with her uſual ſweetneſs, accepted Seymour's apology for not attending her in her ride, and went with the reſt of the company.

When Julia diſcovered that Seymour had not joined the party, a conſciouſneſs of his motive for declining it took inſtant poſſeſſion of her mind. Surpriſe gave place to embarraſſment, and a deep bluſh, which overſpread her face, betrayed what was paſſing in her breaſt. She remained ſilent.—"Are you angry with me," ſaid [138] he, in a faultering voice, "for intruding upon your ſolitude?—My letters were finiſhed; I was going to walk; and was it poſſible for me to turn my ſteps another way, when I knew you were here?"—Julia had by this time recovered from her pain⯑ful confuſion. Without taking notice of what he had been ſaying, ſhe expreſſed her regret at having loſt the morning's ride. "The day", added ſhe, "is ſo fa⯑vourable, that the proſpect from the hills will be ſeen to particular advantage." "I am ſorry you regret it," he replied; "I have no ſuch ſenſation—but may the intereſt which all who know Miſs Clifford muſt feel in her happineſs, give me a right to enquire into the cauſe of thoſe tears which only ceaſed upon my intruſion, and which I would ſacrifice my life to wipe away?" "Indeed," ſaid Julia, quickening her pace towards the houſe, "my tears were nothing more than a movement of admiration at the view of nature: the ſolitude and grandeur of the [139] ſcene affected me, and my tears flowed, becauſe I felt pleaſure in ſhedding them." "Oh," exclaimed he, with paſſionate vehemence, "may your téars never pro⯑ceed from any other ſource than that of pleaſure! May you, moſt ámiable of women, be happy, and I can never be quite miſerable!"—"What ſtrange lan⯑guage is this! Mr. Seymour," ſhe anſwer⯑ed, in a tone of reſentment. "I ſuſpect, Sir," ſhe added, "that your letters this morning have conveyed ſome diſagreea⯑ble intelligence; you appear diſordered. If you will return to the ſpot I have juſt quitted, you will find its ſtillneſs more favourable to compoſure of mind than any company whatever." "Ah, Miſs Clif⯑ford," reſumed he, "if I may never hope for compoſure of mind, but in a ſpot which you have juſt quitted, how poor is my chance of attaining tranquillity!" They reached at that moment a little cottage which ſtood between two hills: a clear rivulet ran along the narrow valley, and [140] a plank was thrown acroſs it. A young man was reſting himſelf on the graſs be⯑fore the door of the cottage; his eldeſt child ſtood behind him, peeping over his ſhoulder at a younger infant, who was placed upon his knees; his wife, a pretty clean young woman, ſat at work on the root of an old elm. Joy ſparkled in the looks of the whole family at the approach of Julia. She had ſpent the paſt winter in relieving the diſtreſſes of the neighbouring poor, and, "when the eye ſaw her it bleſſed her!"—She ſtopped a few mi⯑nutes to ſpeak to the cottagers, and then haſtened towards home. "What a charming picture of domeſtic enjoyment we have juſt ſeen!" exclaimed Seymour, with enthuſiaſm. "If in the higher ranks of life we were not the ſlaves of the world, what other ſcheme of happineſs could be ſo precious to a heart endued with ſenſibi⯑lity, as that which this family groupe diſ⯑plays?"—Julia was ſilent.—"But then," he continued, with increaſed ea⯑gerneſs, [141] "the world can only be renounced with pleaſure for the object of all others moſt dear to the affections. It muſt be a connection not formed from intereſt, from a combination of circumſtances, which entangle the mind, and warp its inclina⯑tions; it muſt be the free election of the ſoul! What felicity to live for one be⯑loved object, to prevent every wiſh, to ſtudy every look, to anticipate every de⯑ſire!—And in that beloved object, to diſ⯑cern fidelity never to be ſhaken, even in the greateſt conflicts and convulſions of fortune; to meet with everlaſting ſupport and ſympathy, with the charm of un⯑bounded confidence, the—" "No more Sir," ſaid Julia, interrupting him, "I have no pleaſure in being led into the regions of romance." "By the happy," he replied, "the dream of imagination may be diſcarded; but it is the refuge of miſery, and—" "To me," ſaid Julia, again interrupting him, "the language of diſcontent never appears more unreaſon⯑able [142] than amidſt ſuch beautiful ſcenes as theſe, which ſeem formed to inſpire tranquillity." "Complaint," reſumed he, vehemently, "has indeed no language which can convey an adequate idea of my peculiar wretchedneſs." Julia made no reply, but walked as faſt as ſhe was able. Seymour preſerved a gloomy ſilence till they came to the lawn before the houſe. While they were croſſing the lawn, he ſaid, in a low voice, "I fear I have offended you, from your evident anxiety to get rid of me: Ah! I acknowledge the infatuation, the madneſs of this intru⯑ſion!—could I dare to expect, could I even hope for your ſympathy!—Oh no! I am not ſuch a wretch as to wiſh that your peace ſhould be a moment diſturbed by any pity for the wretchedneſs, the ex⯑treme—I know not what I am ſay⯑ing.—Forgive me, Madam; forgive the incoherent expreſſions of a diſtracted mind—I will not offend again!—never ſhall your ear again be wounded by my com⯑plaints; [143] I will ſuffer in ſilence."—He opened the door of the ſaloon. Julia en⯑tered without ſpeaking, made him a ſlight curteſy as ſhe paſſed him, and haſt⯑ened to her own apartment. He looked after her till ſhe was out of ſight, and then wandered to a diſtant ſcene, unconſcious where he was going, and abſorbed in profound melancholy.

Julia for ſome time gave way to tears; but ſhe wiped the traces of ſorrow from her eyes before the return of Charlotte, and determined to decline no parties in future, however diſagreeable to her, that ſhe might not again be expoſed to an in⯑terview ſo painful to her feelings, as that which had juſt paſt.

CHAP. XIII.

WHEN Charlotte returned from her ride, her firſt care was to haſten to Julia's apartment, and enquire if her head-ach had ceaſed. At that mo⯑ment Julia felt Charlotte's kindneſs like a reproach; her heart was full, and tears ſtarted into her eyes. "What is the matter, my deareſt friend?" ſaid Char⯑lotte: ſhe then enquired if it was the thoughts of going for the firſt time into public ſince the death of her father that affected her. Julia now wept without re⯑ſtraint. "If you are ſo much hurt at go⯑ing, my deareſt girl," reſumed Charlotte, "I will not inſiſt upon it."—Fearing, how⯑ever, that if ſhe remained at home, Frede⯑rick Seymour would attribute it to the ef⯑fects of their meeting, Julia told Char⯑lotte [145] that ſhe was determined to go, and begged that ſhe would take no notice to any one of the depreſſion of her ſpirits. Charlotte threw her arms round her friend's neck, and embraced her tenderly, with the moſt ſoothing expreſſions of af⯑fection. They then parted, in order to dreſs for the ball.

When Charlotte left the room, Julia threw herſelf on her knees, and implored the aſſiſtance of that Being, to whom ſhe had been ever accuſtomed to fly, as to the refuge of calamity. Her heart was formed for devotion, and the conſolation it afforded her will be only diſbelieved by thoſe who have never tried its influence.—Theſe young ladies appeared at dinner dreſſed alike, and with the moſt graceful ſimplicity. Julia's complexion was a lit⯑tle fluſhed by the agitation ſhe had ſuf⯑fered, which ſerved to heighten her beauty; and Charlotte gazed at her with as ſincere delight as if ſhe had not been handſomer than herſelf.

[146] Mrs. Seymour was very fantaſtically arrayed, and her ſenſations at the ap⯑pearance of Julia were of a very oppoſite nature from thoſe which glowed in the generous boſom of Charlotte. Mrs. Mel⯑bourne alſo diſcovered by her looks, and by more than uſual peeviſhneſs of man⯑ner, her entire diſapprobation of the in⯑creaſed bloom of Julia's complexion, who was placed at dinner between Mr. Sey⯑mour and Chartres. "Did you take a long walk this morning, Ma'am?" ſaid Char⯑tres. "No, a very ſhort one," replied Julia. "Why, walking alone is dull enough," ſaid Mr. Seymour, looking at her earneſtly. "I do not think ſo," an⯑ſwered Julia; "but I was not alone, I met Mr. Frederick Seymour." "Oh, ſo he found you out, Ma'am," exclaimed Char⯑tres: "well, I really thought you would have hid yourſelf; for, although woman, as well as man, is certainly a ſocial being, yet there are ſeaſons when ſolitude is more valuable than ſociety." "What does [147] Mr. Chartres ſay about hiding yourſelf, Julia?" ſaid Charlotte, who was ſitting at ſome diſtance. "He ſays," replied Mr. Seymour, "that your fair couſin is very cruel, and ſtays at home to hide herſelf moſt maliciouſly from us, who live only in her ſight." Julia ſmiled faintly, and Mr. Seymour immediately changed the ſub⯑ject.

While they were at tea, Mr. Seymour deſcribed with rapture the falls of the river Clyde, which he had viſited in his tour through Scotland. Mrs. Seymour ſaid, ſhe had been particularly pleaſed with the romantic beauties of the river Evan, as it runs through Hamilton Wood, paſſing by Chat'lherault, to join the Clyde, at a bridge in ſight of Hamilton Houſe. But what, added ſhe, perhaps, impreſſed the beauties of that ſpot upon my mind more ſtrongly than thoſe of any other, was ſome verſes which were given to me by a lady in that neighbourhood, and [148] which, ſhe told me, were written by two intimate friends of her own, in their days of courtſhip. I took a copy of the verſes, together with a little account of the writers, which their friend had ſcrawled on a blank leaf of the paper. Charlotte begged Mrs. Seymour would produce the verſes; which ſhe did immediately, and deſired Mr. Frederick Seymour to read them. He took the paper, and read as follows:

‘A young gentleman, born on the banks of the Evan in Scotland, had formed a ſtrong attachment to a young lady in that neighbourhood; but for⯑tune refuſing even that competency, which would have ſatisfied two min [...]s equally diveſted of ambition and avarice, he accepted of an offer of going to the Eaſt Indies. Time and diſtance had no power to obliterate the traces of a ſacred and ſerious paſſion, ſuch as may perhaps ſtill be found in the boſom of [149] retirement. On the banks of the Gan⯑ges his imagination often wandered to that humbler, but, in his mind, far more beautiful ſtream, which winds in delightful mazes through the wood of Hamilton, and whoſe banks, of a ro⯑mantic height, are covered with the freſheſt verdure, and crowned with trees of the moſt venerable antiquity. This had been the ſcene of his early paſſion. Under the ſhade of thoſe majeſtic trees, by the brink of that beloved ſtream, he had often wandered with his miſtreſs; and in his mind, every impreſſion of beauty, and every idea of happineſs, was connected with the borders of the Evan.’

‘With ſuch feelings, it is not ſur⯑priſing that, having acquired a fortune far greater than would have been ſuf⯑ficient to have fixed him in the arms of love and happineſs in his native coun⯑try, he immediately determined to re⯑turn. A ſhort time before his departure, [150] he compoſed the following ſong; and ſome years after his return; he acci⯑dentally found a little ballad, which his miſtreſs had written during their ſepa⯑ration; an unequivocal proof, among many he daily experienced, that their love was reciprocal.’

When the ſongs were finiſhed, Mrs. Seymour mentioned that her Scotch ac⯑quaintance, who had a ſweet voice, ſung theſe words to ſome of the old ſimple tunes of her own country—"Which was the very circumſtance that made them intereſting," replied Mr. Seymour. [155] "The tricks of execution," he added, "may ſurprize, but are too remote from nature to touch the paſſions: they are more eaſily moved by ſtriking one tender ſtring, than by flying through all the notes of the gamut." "I like Scotch muſic," ſaid Chartres, "be⯑cauſe the tunes are eaſily comprehend⯑ed; whereas, in complicated pieces, I never can underſtand what the com⯑poſer means to expreſs; and the whole appears to me a contrivance, to ſhow how much may be done in a ſhort time." Chartres had juſt finiſhed his ſpeech, when the carriages came to the door, and the party ſet off for the ball.

CHAP. XIV.

MR. F [...], who came to pay his compliments to Mrs. Seymour, on her entering the aſſembly-room, ſoon directed his principal attention to Julia, and obtained her permiſſion to aſk Mr. Chartres to reſign her hand for one dance. Mrs. Seymour had no time to be out of humour at Mr. F [...]'s attention to Julia, being immediately aſked to dance by Lord [...], and after that ſhe felt no inclination; for, if the female brow is ever clouded by ill-temper, it is cer⯑tainly not in thoſe moments when vanity is gratified.

Frederick Seymour danced with Char⯑lotte, and Julia with Chartres; who wore a look of great ſolicitude, while by the moſt ſerious and unremitting attention he [157] made himſelf maſter of the figure of each country dance, before he began to prac⯑tiſe it. His performance of his leſſon was, however, ſomewhat ludicrous. He flung out his arms and legs in a very ſingular manner, and, by his indefatigable efforts to dance with ſpirit, afforded infinite diverſion to the whole company. This young man, whom nature had formed more on the plan of the yew than the oſier, had, while dancing, rather the appearance of a puppet than of a human form; for his figure ſeemed to be framed of wood, and his movements directed by wires: but he believed that extended arms denoted eaſe, and that a high ſpring demonſtrated ſpirit; while, in truth, his performance was as remote from either, as the ſtiff ringlets of our learned counſellors wigs, (thoſe ſtupendous ſymbols of knowledge,) from the graceful flow of natural curls. Julia alone appeared inſenſible to the awkward motions of her partner, becauſe ſhe was not willing to give him pain. She [158] ſaw that he obſerved, with mortification, the tittering of the young ladies whenever he approached; and ſhe determined to appear perfectly ſatisfied with his abilities for dancing; though ſometimes, when he ſprang unuſually high, with out-ſtretch'd arms, ſhe found it difficult to ſuppreſs a ſmile.

Mr. Charters, after the labour of two dances, which, by his mode of perform⯑ance, had been rendered no trifling fa⯑tigue, conſented to a ſuſpenſion of his toils, and reſigned his partner to Mr. F [...], for one dance; telling her, "That he would ſit in the mean time, and medi⯑tate on the paſtime before him, which he thought was very delightful to behold." Frederick Seymour knew nothing of this arrangement till he ſaw them ſtanding up together. He had perſuaded Charlotte to ſit down during that dance, and, as the ball-room was very hot, ſhe propoſed going to the card-room, where Seymour was leading her when he firſt perceived [159] Julia and Mr. F [...] . He felt a pang of jealous anguiſh at the ſight, and an irre⯑ſiſtible deſire to obſerve their behaviour to each other. Suppreſſing his emotion, he turned to Charlotte, with as much careleſſneſs in his manner as he could aſ⯑ſume, and ſaid, "This is a very lively tune, and, if I thought you could forgive me for being ſo whimſical, I ſhould con⯑feſs that I feel a great inclination to go down this dance." "And ſo do I too," replied Charlotte, haſtening to her place, "it's a pleaſure to oblige you, when you chuſe to dance; but one really finds it dif⯑ficult to ſit down; ſo pray don't take that humour again."

After Julia and Mr. F [...] had paſſed them in the dance, Frederick Seymour ſaid to Charlotte, in a tone of indifference, "How has your fair couſin contrived to get rid of her firſt partner?" "She has only got rid of him for one dance," re⯑plied Charlotte. "Mr. F [...] was mi⯑ſerable when he heard ſhe was engaged, [160] and was determined to dance one dance with her at leaſt: I can ſee," added Char⯑lotte, "that Mr. F [...] is in love with Julia." Seymour felt that Mr. F [...]'s love was a ſubject on which he was not likely to ſpeak with much ſucceſs, and therefore prudently forbore to make any reply. When the dance was finiſhed, he could not reſiſt leading Charlotte to the ſame bench where Julia and Mr. F [...] were ſitting; walking himſelf about the room, almoſt unconſcious where he was, or what he was doing.

Mrs. Melbourne ſat and contemplated Mrs. Seymour, while ſhe was dancing, with the fondeſt admiration. Her whole ſtock of applauſe ſhe laviſhed upon her daugh⯑ter; and at length, dazzled with the graces and attractions which ſhe perceived in this favourite object, ſhe turned her eyes for relief upon the reſt of the company, where ſhe eaſily diſcovered ſome ſhades of imperfection; diſtributing the whole number of female defects among the [161] young ladies preſent, and, with laudable impartiality, giving to each of them an equal ſhare. Julia, whoſe beauty eclipſed that of all others, ſhe regarded with as much malignity as if ſhe had herſelf been her rival; held Mr. Clifford's underſtand⯑ing in the higheſt contempt, on account of his having received into his family one, whoſe ſuperior attractions muſt ever bear away the palm from his own daughter; and was ready to exclaim to Charlotte, in the words of Shakeſpeare,

Mrs. Melbourne then reflected how much more ſagaciouſly ſhe would have acted in the ſame circumſtances; at what a prudent diſtance ſhe would have ſe⯑parated a beautiful niece from her own daughter, by leaving her in that ſafe obſcurity, where ſhe would have been ſecure from danger herſelf, and could nei⯑ther [162] have excited admiration or envy in others.

Mr. Chartres, after the interval of repoſe he had enjoyed, felt himſelf prepared for freſh exertions, and claimed his partner the next dance. Charlotte could not be per⯑fectly happy, even in dancing with her beloved Seymour, while ſhe ſaw Julia de⯑voting the evening to ſuch a partner as Chartres. The affectionate Charlotte had long made Julia's happineſs neceſſary to her own. Her heart was attuned to joy; but when ſhe fancied Julia's was not in uniſon, the ſtrings of pleaſure in her own boſom refuſed to vibrate.

She propoſed to Frederick Seymour, that he ſhould aſk Chartres to allow him to dance one dance with Julia, and added, that ſhe herſelf would dance with Chartres "It will really divert me," ſaid Char⯑lotte, "to go down one dance with him; and we ſhall do vaſtly well, for I'll make him get the figure by heart before we ſet off." Seymour, however, appeared but [163] little diverted with Charlotte's plan, which threw him into ſuch perturbation, that he ſcarcely knew what he ſaid. "Yes—cer⯑tainly—if you wiſh it"—he replied, in a ſtammering manner. "Surely it cannot be diſagreeable to you," rejoined Char⯑lotte, with ſome ſurprize at his heſitation. No—I did not mean—I—ſhall I go and aſk Miſs Julia Clifford's permiſſion?" "Certainly," anſwered Charlotte. He went up to Julia, aſked her to dance, and added, in a low voice, that he ſhould not have preſumed to ſolicit that honor, if Miſs Charlotte Clifford had not command⯑ed him. Julia could alledge no pretence to Charlotte for refuſing: ſhe therefore gave her conſent, and he led her to the dance. He was two or three times out in the fi⯑gure, and Julia's countenance wore an ex⯑preſſion of gravity and reſerve. When the dance was finiſhed, Julia, followed by Frederick Seymour, went in ſearch of Charlotte, who was at that moment ſur⯑rounded by a number of her acquaintances; and Julia could find no vacant place ex⯑cept [164] at a little diſtance, where ſhe ſat down, and Frederick Seymour placed himſelf next her. He endeavoured to converſe with her, but his powers of entertainment failed him, and her manner towards him was cold and diſtant. Julia's uſual man⯑ners had the moſt engaging frankneſs: her heart ſeemed to hover on her lips, and every emotion of her ſoul was clearly ſeen in her expreſſive countenance. Frederick Seymour had obſerved that ſhe converſed with Mr. F [...] with the utmoſt ſweet⯑neſs and vivacity; and the contraſt in her behaviour towards himſelf, ſtruck his mind ſo forcibly, that, after a ſilence of ſome mi⯑nutes, during which he had wrought up his feelings to a degree of agony, he ſaid to her, "Miſs Clifford, I am conſcious that I deſerve your reſentment, yet I find the pang it inflicts is inſupportable: from my very ſoul, I implore you, Madam, to for⯑give the frenzy of this morning. If you could look into my mind, if you could know what paſſes within this boſom, you would perhaps think that I am [165] puniſhed enough." "I will endeavour, Sir," replied Julia, "to forget what it is ſo diſagreeable to me to remember." She the roſe haſtily from her ſeat, and joined ſome ladies of her acquaintance.

The company went to tea; and Mr. Chartres, who was conſcious that dancing was not his fort, determined at leaſt to diſtinguiſh himſelf by his ſervices to the ladies during tea. He aroſe with great alacrity to hand ſome bread and butter; but no ſooner did he find himſelf ſtanding upright, a public ſpectacle to the whole circle, than all the excellent arguments, by which he had ſpurred his courage to this enterprize, ſuddenly failed him, and his confuſion was ſo great, that it ſeemed to bereave him of his faculties: he haſtily placed his tea-cup upon the chair on which he had been ſitting, and, while un⯑dergoing the pains of preſenting the cake, let the plate ſlip out of his trembling hand, which fell in pieces on the floor. Overcome with horror at this accident, he immedi⯑ately [166] retreated to his chair, unmindful o the tea-cup which he had placed upon it, the contents of which now flowed up⯑on the ground. Mrs. Seymour fell into convulſions of laughter, nor could Char⯑lotte reſiſt joining with her heartily. Ju⯑lia checked her inclination to laugh, in compaſſion to poor Chartres, whoſe whole face became ſcarlet, and who ſuffered ſuch torments of mind, that though his legs were a good deal ſcalded, he was for ſome time inſenſible to his bodily pains; and when he did feel them, had not cou⯑rage either to complain or move from his ſeat, till Frederick Seymour perceived his ſituation, and offered to accompany him to another apartment. When he had changed his ſtockings, and felt his ſuffer⯑ings aſſuaged, he complained bitterly, that Mrs. Seymour made no more con⯑ſcience of laughing at him, than if he was not related to her by the ties of blood; and lamented that a man's zeal to ſerve the moſt amiable part of the cre⯑ation [167] ſhould expoſe him to ſuch diſ⯑grace.

Mr. Seymour was not unemployed at the ball, though he did not dance, and forbore to play at whiſt, of which he was exceedingly fond. But lady [...] did not chuſe to play, which was Mr. Seymour's reaſon for declining it: he ſeated himſelf next her, and exerted all his brilliant talents for her entertainment. She had been acquainted with him in London, and was ſo dazzled by his wit, and ſo charmed with the warmth and frankneſs of his manner, that he had gain⯑ed a high place in her admiration and eſteem: and he now contrived to blend ſome very delicate and agreeable flattery to herſelf in his remarks on the company. Lady [...] was handſome, amiable, and not inſenſible to praiſe, which was parti⯑cularly grateful to her from Mr. Sey⯑mour, becauſe ſhe reſpected his abilities, and had a firm perſuaſion of his candour and ſincerity. She believed, that had ſhe [168] been in the moſt obſcure ſituation of life, he would have admired her as much, and loved her as fervently. She fancied that ſhe had made a powerful impreſſion on his heart; and, notwithſtanding Lady [...]'s diſpoſition was virtuous, and ſhe was determined never to deviate in eſſential points from the duty ſhe owed to her huſband, her early intercourſe with the faſhionable world had given her mind a laxity in its opinions on the ſubject of gallantry, though it had not power intirely to pervert her principles. She thought there was no harm in a fine woman's in⯑ſpiring paſſion in other men as well as her huſband; and in liſtening to the language of love, or even in feeling the ſentiment in her own boſom, ſo long as her conduct was without reproach. Having hitherto walked ſafely in a dangerous path, though it led along the edge of a precipice, ſhe had now loſt the apprehenſion of falling. Perhaps ſhe would have been in more danger from Mr. Seymour than any of [169] her other admirers, becauſe he purſued the gratification of his paſſions with indefa⯑tigable perſeverance, and with conſum⯑mate powers of inſinuation. But another object, with whom the reader will ſhortly be acquainted, at preſent occupied his heart; and his ſole aim, in this tender at⯑tention to lady [...], was to obtain the exertion of her influence with her lord, which was very conſiderable, to procure Mr. Seymour ſome additional emoluments to the office he held under government. "Well," ſaid ſhe, after they had con⯑verſed together a conſiderable time, "I muſt leave you now—our tête-à-tête has been quite long enough." "Perhaps for you," he replied, with a ſigh. "No, indeed," interrupted lady [...], "I'm not at all tired of you; but, if I ſtay any longer, theſe good country-folks will be making ſome obliging comments upon it." "What! on your chatting with an old married man." I think a tête-à-tête with ſo harmleſs a creature as I am, can [170] ſcarcely furniſh the goſſips with a ſubject, notwithſtanding the dearth of converſation in theſe parts." "If I thought you were harmleſs," anſwered lady [...], "I ſhould like your friendſhip of all things." This confeſſion was followed by the moſt pro⯑fuſe, tender, ardent profeſſions of regard on the part of Mr. Seymour. Their plan of friendſhip was immediately fixed, and he took a future opportunity of diſcloſing his political ſcheme, at the moment when he ſaw it would ſucceed; alledging ſuch plauſible reaſons for the application, that ſhe had not the leaſt ſuſpicion that it ori⯑ginated in the moſt ſordid avarice. Lady [...], who ſcarcely knew the value of money herſelf, was not aware that Mr. Seymour could never be convinced that he poſſeſſed enough, while there was any means left untried of obtaining more. Avarice is a paſſion as deſpicable as it is hateful. It chuſes the moſt inſidious means for the attainment of its ends: it dares not purſue its object with the bold [171] impetuoſity of the ſoaring eagle, but ſkims the ground in narrow circles like the ſwallow.

Mr. F [...] danced with Miſs Tom⯑kins; who, however, perceived that his whole thoughts were bent upon Julia; a diſcovery which produced ſenſations of a very painful nature in the mind of Miſs Tomkins, who had for ſome time formed a ſerious matrimonial plot upon this gen⯑tleman, which ſhe now perceived would very probably be defeated. It is neceſ⯑ſary to give a ſhort ſketch of the charac⯑ter of this young lady.

Miſs Tomkins was of low birth. Her father had a plodding head, and raiſed himſelf by unwearied diligence, and a conſtant and watchful attention to the main chance, from which nothing di⯑verted his thoughts a ſingle moment. He was one of thoſe perſons whom Sterne deſcribes as walking ſtraight forward through the path of this world; turn⯑ing neither to the right hand, nor the [172] left; and his application to buſineſs was at length rewarded by his obtaining the office of ſteward to a nobleman poſſeſſed of a very conſiderable eſtate. His daugh⯑ter, who was at that time in her twenty⯑third year, was a young woman of ſupe⯑rior underſtanding, and quick penetra⯑tion into character. She had received an excellent education; and her mind was highly cultivated. Her talents had intro⯑duced her into a reſpectable ſociety of the middle rank, perhaps the ſociety of all others from which the greateſt improve⯑ment may be derived; for the middle ſtation of life appears to be that tempe⯑rate region, in which the mind, neither enervated by too full a ray from proſpe⯑rity, nor chilled and debaſed by the freezing blaſt of penury, is in the ſituation moſt favourable for every great and generous exertion.

No ſooner was her father appointed ſteward to the earl of [...], than Miſs Tomkins perceived that a new and ſplen⯑did [173] career was opened to her ambition. The counteſs of [...] invited her to ſpend a ſhort time at their country ſeat. Miſs Tomkins availed herſelf of this in⯑vitation with eagerneſs, and ſoon made herſelf well acquainted with the character of lady [...], managed her foibles ſkilfully, and in a ſhort time became a great favourite, and a conſtant viſitor at her houſe. This acquaintance led to others of the ſame conſequence. Miſs Tomkins's friendſhips were formed upon the calculations of intereſt: ſhe was aware that all her proſpects of fortune depended upon her father's life, and was anxious to provide farther ſecurities of future afflu⯑ence, in caſe this ſhould fail. But ſhe concealed the utmoſt ſubtlety of worldly policy, under the appearance of the great⯑eſt diſintereſtedneſs, and the moſt tender and genuine ſenſibility. Among her friends, ſhe could number many people of talents, as well as rank; for her real cha⯑racter was only known to a few, to whom [174] long acquaintance had developed it; but thoſe few had too much honour to betray her, and felt more contempt than indig⯑nation at her total neglect of them, now ſhe was introduced into an higher circle.

Mr. F [...] was a frequent viſitor at the houſe of her patroneſs. Miſs Tom⯑kins found that he poſſeſſed accompliſh⯑ments ſufficient to gratify her pride, and a fortune ample enough to ſatisfy her am⯑bition. He had appeared pleaſed with her converſation, and ſhe hoped, in the courſe of a few weeks paſſed with him at lord [...]'s ſeat, to confirm her empire over his heart; when the ſuperior attractions of Julia at once defeated all her projects. How often do we build a gay palace in the air, decorate it with gold and purple, and almoſt fancy the foundation is a ſubſtan⯑tial one; till a paſſing breeze ſhakes the fair fabric, and ſcarcely leaves even a broken pillar on which the imagination may reſt!

CHAP. XV.

A Few days after the ball, lord and lady [...], Miſs Tomkins, and Mr. F [...], were invited to dinner at Mr. Clifford's. Mr. F [...] devoted his whole attention to Julia, which Mrs Sey⯑mour was in no diſpoſition to witneſs with the ſame complacency ſhe had done at the ball; for lord [...] was placed next another lady, and the other gentlemen at table were plain country ſquires.

Miſs Tomkins affected to diſtinguiſh Julia with particular fondneſs, in order to conceal the envy and averſion which rankled in her heart. The pain ſhe felt in making this effort, was perhaps a ſufficient puniſhment for her malignity; and it would have coſt her leſs trouble to con⯑quer [176] thoſe bad paſſions, than it did to hide them from obſervation.

Charlotte entertained her gueſts in the moſt engaging manner. Her ſweet coun⯑tenance beamed with good-humour and vivacity; nor had ſhe a ſuſpicion that any of her company were ſtrangers to that conſcious ſerenity which filled her own gentle boſom. The pure and delicate ſenſations of a firſt paſſion, which is op⯑poſed by no duty, and embittered by no obſtacle, ſhed over the mind a ſweet en⯑chantment, that renders every object agreeable, and every moment delightful: it is like that firſt freſh and vivid green which the early ſpring awakens; that lovely and tender verdure which is not found amidſt the glow of ſummer, and is as tranſitory as it is charming.

Julia felt nothing but indifference for Mr. F [...]; but ſhe ſaw that her beha⯑viour was watched by Mr. Seymour, and was glad to avoid his ſcrutinizing looks, [177] by engaging in converſation with that gentleman; which ſhe did with an ap⯑pearance of pleaſure that threw Frederick Seymour into the utmoſt perturbation. This did not paſs unnoticed by his brother, who had diſcovered, from many little cir⯑cumſtances ſince his arrival, that unhappy ſecret which Frederick Seymour thought was concealed from all obſervation. Mr. Seymour, however, determined to make no other uſe of his diſcovery than that of haſtening, as far as was in his power, his brother's marriage with Charlotte, which he conſidered as a connection too advan⯑tageous to be loſt for any reaſon what⯑ever; nor did Mr. Seymour think that a paſſion for one woman was the ſmalleſt obſtacle to a marriage with another. He was himſelf a libertine, both in principle and practice: he had converſed chiefly with the moſt worthleſs part of the female ſex, and had conceived a very contempti⯑ble opinion of the principles of the female mind. He thought it was probable that [178] Julia would ſoon marry: he ſaw, or fan⯑cied he ſaw, that his brother was not per⯑fectly indifferent to her, and believed, that if he could not conquer his paſſion, he might at length find it returned.—Mr. Seymour's opinion was founded on his obſervation of Julia's extreme ſenſibility; but the concluſions of this reaſoner were drawn from falſe premiſes: he did not know that in a mind where the principles of religion and integrity are firmly eſta⯑bliſhed, ſenſibility is not merely the ally of weakneſs, or the ſlave of guilt, but ſerves to give a ſtronger impulſe to virtue; nor could his own mind, which was har⯑dened and debaſed by the freedom of a licentious life, form a conjecture of that horror which the idea of vice excites in a pure and ingenuous boſom. He did not know, that to a heart framed like that of Julia's, ſelf-reproach would be the moſt inſupportable of all evils; that ſhe had ſufficient fortitude to ſuſtain any miſery that was not connected with guilt, and [179] ſufficient rectitude never to ſeparate the idea of pleaſure from that of virtue. Vir⯑tue is indeed the only true ſupport of plea⯑ſure; which, when disjoined from it, is like a plant when its fibres are cut, which may ſtill look gay and lovely for a while, but ſoon decays and periſhes.

Mr. Seymour, who had a curioſity to know if Chartres had any ſuſpicion of his brother's partiality for Julia, propoſed a walk to him, and, after a little conver⯑ſation on other ſubjects, ſaid to him, "Well, Mr. Chartres, is your heart in no danger among theſe fine young women? I ſuppoſe you feel no ſmall envy of my happy brother." "Why really, Sir," ſaid Char⯑tres, "if I did not gueſs from my own feelings that it muſt be a pleaſant thing to be on the point of marriage with Miſs Charlotte Clifford, I ſhould never find it out from Mr. Frederick Seymour; for, to tell you the truth, I think if he diſ⯑liked the marriage, he would behave pre⯑ciſely as he does now." "Did you ever [180] make this remark to any one before?" "Yes, Sir; Miſs Julia Clifford and I were walking together, a few days ago, as we ge⯑nerally do; for I believe Mr. Frederick Seymour would ſee her fall down a rock before he would offer to aſſiſt her, ſo I have that honour; and perhaps I acquit myſelf but awkwardly, yet ſhe always ſeems bet⯑ter ſatisfied when I attend her, than when your brother offers his help. I really do not know how it has happened, Sir, but ſhe and Mr. Frederick Seymour ſeem to have taken a great averſion to each other; Is it not very ſtrange?" "Very ſtrange indeed, Mr. Chartres," ſaid Mr. Seymour drily, "that they ſhould feel ſo great an aver⯑ſion as you mention: but let me hear what paſſed in your walk with Miſs Julia Clif⯑ford." Why, Sir, as we walked under the ſhade of that woody hill near the houſe, I heard Miſs Julia ſigh very deeply. "Pray, Ma'am," ſaid I, "don't ſigh ſo heavily, you are not going to be married." "What do you mean, Mr. Chartres?" ſaid ſhe. [181] "Why, Ma'am," I replied, "what I meant was this, that Mr. Frederick Seymour, who is going to be married, does nothing but ſigh all day long; that is, when he and I are alone together; for, when any of you appear, he ſtarts up, rubs his eyes, and puts on quite another ſort of countenance. Now this behaviour ſeems to me quite in⯑conſiſtent with reaſon, if he is happy; and by no means conſonant to philoſophy, if he is otherwiſe." "Well Sir," ſaid Mr. Sey⯑mour, "and what anſwer did the young lady make to theſe obſervations?" "Why, Sir, ſhe was ſilent ſo long, that I thought ſhe was not going to anſwer at all; but at laſt, ſhe ſaid, "that the ſeriouſneſs which I had remarked was probably natural to Mr. Frederick Seymour's diſpoſition, ſince he had certainly great reaſon to be happy at preſent;" ſhe then begged I would not mention his fits of gravity to Charlotte, becauſe ſuch intelligence would give her no pleaſure." "I entirely approve of Julia's advice," "ſaid Mr. Seymour, [182] "and therefore we will keep the ſecret to ourſelves." "With all my heart, Sir," ſaid Chartres; "I own this is the firſt ſe⯑cret with which I was ever entruſted, but I have no doubt I ſhall be able to keep it."

Though ſome circumſtances had be⯑trayed Frederick Seymour's paſſion to his brother, it eſcaped the vigilant obſerva⯑tion of Mrs. Melbourne, who indeed ſel⯑dom ſaw him but at meals. She however perceived that he was ſometimes abſent and thoughtful, which occaſionally hap⯑pened in ſpite of all his efforts, and ſhe ne⯑ver failed to mention what ſhe had remarked to Charlotte, only giving to abſence and thoughtfulneſs, the epithets of ſullenneſs and caprice; immediately after, aſſert⯑ing how much ſuch qualities were to be dreaded in a huſband; aſſuring her, at the ſame time, that the heart of man was com⯑poſed of ſuch ſlippery materials, that it could not long be retained by any plan of conduct, and that, upon the whole mar⯑riage [183] was but another name for misfortune. Charlotte liſtened in ſubmiſſive ſilence to theſe comfortable aſſertions, but felt no inclination to bewail her own fate; and, notwithſtanding the gloomy forebodings of her aunt, thought that the evil, if ſuch it was, of a union with the man ſhe loved, might be ſubmitted to with reſignation. She could not be perſuaded, in conformity to her aunt's doctrine, that happineſs was as rare as the flower of the aloe, and that life was too ſhort for its cultivation; but believed that the bloſſoms of joy were ſcattered as liberally as the primroſe, or the violet, and that every traveller through the path of life might enjoy a ſhare of their ſweetneſs.

Meanwhile Frederick Seymour grew more and more wretched. Sometimes, with a degree of ſophiſtry which paſſion dic⯑tated, he reaſoned himſelf into a perſua⯑ſion that it would be more generous to un⯑deceive Charlotte, by making known to her the real ſtate of his mind, than to [184] impoſe on her credulity, by receiving her hand, when his heart was devoted to ano⯑ther. But a high ſenſe of honor ſoon overturned this wretched caſuiſtry. To in⯑flict anguiſh on a heart which repoſed on him with unſuſpicious confidence, was an idea he could not long ſupport; and he knew Julia's rectitude of mind too well, not to be convinced that ſuch a conduct would baniſh him from her ſight for ever. He felt that every principle of juſtice, and generoſity, demanded the abſolute ſacri⯑fice of his own feelings; and he determined to marry Charlotte, to make her happineſs his chief object, and to confine his wretch⯑edneſs within his own boſom.

Yet, while he formed theſe laudable re⯑ſolutions, he contrived, with ſtrange infa⯑tuation, to cheriſh his unhappy paſſion. One evening Charlotte, while ſhe was making tea, requeſted Julia to try ſome new muſic, which ſhe had received from London, on the piano forte. Julia pulled off her gloves, and placed them haſtily on [185] her lap: one of them dropped on the floor while ſhe was playing. Frederick Sey⯑mour, who was walking up and down the room, ſeized a moment when Charlotte was talking to Mrs. Seymour, and pre⯑tending to be looking over ſome ſongs which lay on the piano forte, dropped one of them on the ſpot where the glove lay, which he contrived to pick up, at the ſame time putting it haſtily into his boſom. When Julia had finiſhed the piece of muſic, ſhe roſe from the piano forte, and miſſed one of her gloves: ſhe ſtooped to look for it, and Frederick Sey⯑mour affected to be buſy in looking for it too; but in a few moments left the room with precipitation. Julia continued a little longer her vain ſearch, and then haſtened to join the company, diſturbed and uneaſy from a ſuſpicion of what had really hap⯑pened, which aroſe in her mind upon Sey⯑mour's leaving the room.

Seymour, when he reached his own apartment, locked the door, pulled the [186] precious prize from his boſom, preſſed it to his heart and lips ten thouſand times, and was guilty of the moſt paſſionate ex⯑travagancies.

Affection, like genius, can build its ſtructures "on the baſeleſs fabric of a vi⯑ſion;" and the eſtimation which things hold in a lover's fancy, can be tried by no cal⯑culations of reaſon. The lover, like the poor Indian, who prefers glaſs, beads and red feathers to more uſeful commodities, ſets his affections upon a trifle, which ſome illuſion of fancy has endeared, and which is to him more valuable than the gems of the eaſtern world, or the mines of the weſt; while reaſon, like the ſage European, who ſcorns beads and feathers, in vain con⯑demns his folly.

When Seymour returned to the draw⯑ing-room, he was more gay, more ani⯑mated, more agreeable than uſual; while Julia marked her reſentment of his con⯑duct in the only way in her power, by [187] behaving to him with the utmoſt reſerve and coldneſs.

Mr. F [...], after finding ſome pre⯑tence every day for a viſit to Mr. Clif⯑ford's, at length ventured to declare to Julia her power over his heart, and to make propoſals of marriage to her. Ju⯑lia was ſenſible that by accepting Mr. F [...], ſhe would put a final end to her preſent perplexities, and perhaps ba⯑niſh for ever, from the mind of Sey⯑mour, that unhappy paſſion which her preſence nouriſhed. She felt too that Charlotte's friendſhip claimed every ſa⯑crifice in her power; and, perhaps, many will think the ſacrifice it now required, might have been very eaſily made; and that, independently of all conſiderations re⯑ſpecting Charlotte, nothing could be more abſurd than to heſitate in accepting ſo advantageous an offer. It muſt be ac⯑knowledged, that the young people of the preſent age have in general the wiſ⯑dom to repreſs thoſe romantic feelings [188] which uſed to triumph over ambition and avarice, and have adopted the prudent maxims of maturer life. Marriage is now founded on the ſolid baſis of convenience, and love is an article commonly omitted in the treaty. But Julia, who had paſſed her life in retirement, was not ſo far ad⯑vanced in the leſſons of the world. Her heart, delicate, yet fervent in its affections, capable of the pureſt attachment, revolted at the idea of marrying where ſhe did not love; and, though ſhe was now unhappy, ſhe determined not to fly from her preſent evils to a ſpecies of wretchedneſs, of all others the moſt intolerable to a mind of her diſpoſition.

She refuſed Mr. F [...] in ſuch a manner as convinced him that he poſ⯑ſeſſed much of her eſteem. He was a man of ſenſe and ſpirit: he did not, there⯑fore, degrade himſelf by abject ſolicita⯑tion, or diſguſt the object of his affection by reiterating thoſe expreſſions of paſſion, which he knew were more likely to change [189] indifference into averſion, than love; as the pale evening flower ſhrinks from the warmth of thoſe beams by which other flowers are cheriſhed. Mr. F [...] ac⯑cepted with gratitude the friendſhip Julia offered him, and was, perhaps, not with⯑out hopes of inſpiring her in time with more tender ſentiments.

Miſs Tomkins, mean while, left lord [...]'s ſeat, and Mr. F [...], with in⯑finite reluctance. But ſhe ſaw that he was an object of perfect indifference to Julia, and believed, that when rejected by that young lady, he would renew his attentions to herſelf.

CHAP. XVI.

ONE morning, when Mr. Clifford and Mr. Seymour were gone on a fiſh⯑ing party, and Mrs. Seymour was engaged in writing letters, Julia, at the requeſt of Charlotte, went out with her on horſeback, accompanied by Frederick Seymour, and Chartres. Charlotte propoſed that they ſhould take a path they had not yet ex⯑plored, near the borders of the lake, which led to the ruins of an old abbey, about ſix miles diſtant.

The country afforded a wild variety of landſcape, but the view was ſometimes obſtructed by hills, and the path ſome⯑times winded under hanging rocks, piled rudely together. At length they came to a narrow road, which led for two miles along the edge of a precipice. A ridge of [191] horrid cliffs frowned above, and at the bottom of this dangerous path was a deep chaſm, through which a noiſy, rapid ſtream, rolling over a ſtony channel, forced its way into the lake. Seymour trembled at every ſtep, not for himſelf, for no life was more indifferent to him than his own; but Julia was mounted on a very ſprightly horſe, who, if ſtartled by any object, would inevitably throw his fair rider into the gloomy abyſs beneath. Seymour's imagination was ſo poſſeſſed by this frightful image, that he was ſome time before he could recover his compo⯑ſure, after they had reached the end of this formidable road, which opened to a wooded hill, near whoſe broad baſe, on a gentle declivity, the ancient abbey was feated; commanding a view of the lake, with its ſublime ſcenery, and ſhaded by large groups of venerable trees.

Before he approached the abbey, Sey⯑mour inſiſted that the ladies ſhould not repaſs that formidable road on horſeback; [192] and they agreed to ſend the ſervants and horſes forward, and walk thoſe two miles. Chartres expatiated on the prudence of this plan, after having made a declama⯑tion of ſome length, on the diſagreeable ſenſations of fear.

The party now came to the remains of an old wall, of conſiderable extent, that appeared to have ſurrounded the build⯑ing. A mouldering gothic gate led to a ſpacious area overgrown with tall graſs: huge fragments of ſtone, which had fallen from the decayed towers, were ſcattered upon the ground, and rendered the acceſs difficult to the inner part of the abbey, which was on this ſide entirely diſman⯑tled; there being only the remains of the ruined walls, and towards the eaſt a large gothic window, which ſhook at every blaſt, and appeared to be entirely ſup⯑ported by the branches of tall elms that had grown in the inſide of the building, among its ſcattered fragments.

On the other ſide of the abbey, a nar⯑row [193] ſtone ſtaircaſe of one of the towers ſtill remained; which Chartres having aſ⯑cended, haſtened to aſſure the ladies that the aſcent was extremely eaſy, and that when they reached the top they would find themſelves amply rewarded for their trouble. Charlotte, however, had not ſuf⯑ficient courage for this expedition; but Julia was eager to explore every part of the ruins, and aſcended the ſtaircaſe with Chartres, notwithſtanding the remon⯑ſtrances of Seymour, who was perſuaded ſhe would meet with ſome accident, and caſt an indignant look at Chartres for making the propoſition. Julia found the ſtaircaſe much decayed: many of the ſteps were broken; the roof was ſo low that one could not ſtand upright; and the light was only admitted through narrow clefts in the thick ſtone wall. This aſcent opened on a turret which commanded a noble proſpect, and connected the ſhattered towers together; leading alſo to a narrow foot⯑way round the top of the chapel, the walls [194] of which were ſtill entire, though the whole roof had fallen in, except one arch, carved with the moſt exquiſite fret-work, and which, when ſurveyed from below, ſeemed ſuſpended in air, and threatened with every breeze to cruſh the prying mortal who trod thoſe hallowed precincts. Sey⯑mour was obliged to remain below with Charlotte; and, when he looked up and ſaw Julia on that dangerous height, felt all his enthuſiaſm for ruined abbies vaniſh, and wiſhed this tottering pile had long ago been levelled to its foundations. Meantime, Julia gazed from the turret on the ſublime landſcape which ſurround⯑ed her, and the venerable ruins, with that ſolemn emotion ſo grateful to a contem⯑plative mind. "Surely," thought ſhe, (in the fervor of an elevated ſpirit,) "ſurely the inhabitants of this retreat were happy!—Ah, could it be difficult to renounce a world, where an ardent heart ſo often finds its hopes diſappointed, its joys embittered, and ſeek for `Peace, the ſacred ſiſter of [195] the cell!' This vaſt expanſe of water, the diſtant ſound of that falling torrent, and thoſe lofty mountains that arreſt the clouds in their progreſs, muſt have inſpir⯑ed a frame of mind, in which the concerns of the world are conſidered in all their littleneſs, and have no power to affect our tranquillity."—Such were the reflections which paſſed in Julia's mind, but which only laſted till ſhe was out of ſight of the abbey.

When ſhe deſcended from the turret, they walked over the floor of the chapel, which was now covered with looſe ſtones, half overgrown with nettles. Under the towers were a number of gloomy ſubter⯑raneous apartments with vaulted roofs, the uſe of which imagination was left to gueſs, and could only appropriate to pu⯑niſhment and horror.

Charlotte, who had in vain reminded Julia ſeveral times of going home, now told her, "That ſhe hoped ſhe was not determined to take up her abode at the [196] abbey; becauſe," added Charlotte, "though our own houſe is leſs ſublime, it has the advantage of being roofed." Julia conſented to go; and, as they paſſed through the area of the building, they heard the ſhrill cry of the daws and rooks, and the twittering note of the ſwallows and martins, which now occupied this habitation, deſerted by man.

When the party had paſſed through the old gateway, they ſtopped to look at the thick moſs, and rich folds of ivy, whoſe mantling branches overſpread, with the wildeſt luxuriance, this haunt of deſola⯑tion. The wind had riſen, and the lake was violently agitated: Julia turned her eyes from the abbey, to contemplate the ſurges of the lake, while Charlotte, who was at a little diſtance behind, leaning on Seymour, ſtopped to look at a cavity in the wall, in which the ſnail had made his neſt. At that moment a guſt of wind ſhook the building, and ſome looſe ſtones fell from the top of the wall and rolled [197] with velocity down the hill, in the di⯑rection where Julia was walking; whom they would inevitably have cruſhed in their paſſage, if Seymour had not flown with impetuoſity and ſnatched her from the impending deſtruction. She received no other injury than a blow from a ſmall ſtone, that ſtruck her ancle, which was bruiſed by the ſtroke, and became ſwelled and painful from the ſwiftneſs with which he had hurried her over the rough and hilly grounds. Supported by Charlotte and Seymour, who, in his preſent agita⯑tion, forgot his uſual ſcruples, and felt no diſpoſition to reſign his charge to Char⯑tres, Julia walked on ſlowly. Chartres was ſent forward to the place where the ſer⯑vants and horſes were waiting, with orders that one of the men ſhould haſten home, and ſend the carriage to that ſpot. In the mean time, Julia walked with great diffi⯑culty along that narrow and dangerous road which has been before deſcribed, and which was two miles in length; but [198] ſhe had not gone far before her ancle ſwelled ſo much, that it could ſupport her weight no longer, and ſhe was unable to proceed. "I will go," ſaid Seymour, "and bring the ſervants to aſſiſt me, in conveying Miſs Clifford to the carriage." "No, no," replied Charlotte, "here is no place for Julia to reſt on: you can ſup⯑port her better than me, and I will run to the top of this riſing ground, and look for the carriage." "Mr. Seymour will go faſter than you," ſaid Julia. "I ſhall be back inſtantly," replied Charlotte; and ſhe flew with a light ſtep up the hill, before Julia had time to frame any farther ob⯑jection to her going. Julia felt uneaſy at being left alone with Seymour: ſhe was obliged to lean on his arm, and he hung over her in ſilence, but with a look that ſpoke his feelings more forcibly than any words he could have uttered.—She wiſh⯑ed to ſpeak, but had no power to make the effort; and appeared to feel conſider⯑able pain. "Oh, why was I not a mo⯑ment [199] ſooner," ſaid Seymour, with much emotion, "that I might have ſaved you thoſe ſufferings!" "They are very tri⯑fling," ſaid Julia, "and you have ſurely no cauſe of ſelf-reproach on that ſcore, ſince you preſerved my life at the riſk of your own." "Oh," cried he with vehe⯑mence, "if you knew in how little eſti⯑mation I hold my life, you would not think I had any merit in having hazarded it:—but the reflection that I have been the inſtrument of your preſervation, I ſhall ever cheriſh as the moſt delightful that can occupy my mind!" He ſpoke, but Julia could no longer liſten: overcome with pain of body, and agitation of mind, ſhe grew faint; and Charlotte, at that mo⯑ment, returned with Chartres: and the ſer⯑vants, who aſſiſted Seymour in conveying Julia to the carriage. She had walked a conſiderable way after the accident: her ancle was violently ſwelled, and bruiſed by the blow, and the pain ſhe ſuffered, joined to more than common fatigue that [200] morning, occaſioned ſome degree of fe⯑ver; and ſhe was confined a few days to her room.

Frederick Seymour now found, that, however painful were his ſenſations in her preſence, the pang which her abſence awakened was more inſupportable than any other. Although ſhe conſtantly treat⯑ed him with a degree of reſerve, which wrung his heart with anguiſh, it was ſtill a conſolation to be near her. It was ſoothing to hear her voice, though her lips to him had loſt their utterance. It was a pleaſure to hang upon her looks, though from him her eyes were averted. He was ſo reſtleſs and uneaſy, that he did little elſe but wander from one apartment to another, ſeizing with avidity the moſt tri⯑vial information he could procure reſpect⯑ing her, from any of the family.

Mr. Seymour was almoſt as anxious as his brother for Julia's recovery; for he ſaw, that if her illneſs laſted much longer, there was ſome reaſon to fear that his behaviour [201] would betray the ſecrets of his heart, and that Charlotte's great fortune would be loſt to the family. When Julia was well enough to leave her room, ſhe was led to the drawing-room by Charlotte, who placed her on the ſofa, and then left her to dreſs for dinner. A ſhort time after, Frederick Seymour entered the room, without knowing ſhe was there. His de⯑light at ſeeing her was too great to be ſup⯑preſſed: he flew to the ſofa, ſeized her hand, which ſhe in vain endeavoured to withdraw, preſſed it to his lips, and poured forth expreſſions of the moſt unbounded rapture at her recovery. "You ſeem de⯑termined, Sir," ſaid Julia, ſnatching her hand from him, "to make me wiſh I was ſtill confined to my room." "How cruel, how inhuman," cried he, "after ſo many days of diſtraction, to forbid the momen⯑tary expreſſion of joy, which ruſhes from my ſoul to my lips at the ſight of you! What have I done? how have I deſerved?"— [202] "Oh heaven!" ſaid Julia, leaning back on the ſofa, and turning very pale, "how have I deſerved this perſecution?—Leave me, Sir, inſtantly; I am too weak at preſent"—She ſtopt, unable to proceed. Seymour, with a frantic look, paſſionately exclaimed, "Oh, wretch that I am!—you are ill—look up, angelic excellence!—what have I ſaid? have I dared to utter a complaint? a complaint of you!—Oh, ſay but you forgive me! men ſtretched upon the rack, in the extremity of their miſery, are ſometimes wicked enough to impeach the guiltleſs."—Mr. Chartres at this mo⯑ment entered the room, and made Julia a low bow, accompanied with all the poſi⯑tions, which were very familiar to him at preſent; for he had practiſed a little dan⯑cing privately in his own room every day ſince the ball, with a laudable wiſh to make himſelf more agreeable to the ladies. He congratulated Julia upon her reco⯑very, informing her, at the ſame time, "that the whole human race were ſubject [203] to accident, and infirmity; that ſuch was the law of our nature, from which nei⯑ther the vigor of youth nor the bloom of beauty were exempt; and recommending to her earneſtly the ſtudy of mathematics, which, if ſhe felt any diſpoſition to repine, would fortify her mind againſt the caſual⯑ties of life."

Julia, though ſhe was unable to liſten to his harangue, found a relief in his pre⯑ſence, and in a few minutes grew better; While Frederick Seymour walked up and down the room in a diſtracted manner, frequently putting his hand to his fore⯑head with the action of a man in deſpair, and enquiring of Julia, a thouſand times over, if ſhe found herſelf better; till the appearance of the reſt of the family obliged him to rouſe his faculties, and aſſume a look of calmneſs to which his heart was a ſtranger.

Charlotte, during Julia's confinement to her room, had found her one morning [204] looking over ſome papers; and ſpied among them a Sonnet to Hope, written by Julia, of which Charlotte took a copy.

CHAP. XVII.

MR. Seymour now fixed the day for his departure from Mr. Clifford's ſeat, where the uniform mode of living began to grow extremely irkſome to him, who required variety of amuſements, who was accuſtomed to a wide range of diſſipa⯑tion and gaiety, and could not long be confined, without diſguſt, to the circle of domeſtic enjoyments. Beſides, every pur⯑poſe of his viſit was now fully anſwered, having ſtaid a ſufficient time to ingratiate himſelf completely into Mr. Clifford's fa⯑vor, who conceived the higheſt opinion of his worth, and offered to aſſiſt him with all his influence, (which his large fortune rendered very conſiderable in the county where he lived,) in ſome electioneering bu⯑ſineſs. Independently, however, of this [206] particular conſideration, Mr. Seymour had foreſeen that Mr. Clifford's intereſt might on many occaſions be of uſe, and had therefore determined to ſecure it himſelf, truſting but little to the mediation of Fre⯑derick Seymour, who he knew was a novice in the arts of ſolicitation, and was not like⯑ly to make any improvement in a ſcience which he diſdained.

Mr. Seymour had ſecured Julia's eſteem by his apparent candour and benevolence, and had obtained her admiration by the brilliancy of his converſation, and his fine taſte for thoſe elegant arts which ſhe loved with the fondeſt enthuſiaſm. She ſaw that he had long diſcovered his brother's paſ⯑ſion for her, and felt grateful to him for the kindneſs and delicacy with which, on many occaſions, he had relieved her em⯑barraſſments, without appearing to ob⯑ſerve them, and had often ſaved Frederick Seymour from betraying his emotions, by giving a playful turn to the converſation. Julia was not aware, that Mr. Seymour's [207] motive for this conduct was neither kind nor delicate; and aroſe merely from his apprehenſion of his brother's loſing an ad⯑vantageous marriage, in which the intereſt of the whole family was concerned. But the real motives which influence men of the world, can be as little known from their actions, as the original hue of ſome muddy ſubſtance, which, by chemical ope⯑rations, has been made to aſſume a tint of the pureſt colour.

The taſk of obtaining Julia's friend⯑ſhip was by no means unpleaſant to Mr. Seymour, who was charmed with her beau⯑ty, and ſometimes extolled it with a free⯑dom of admiration, which he found was extremely diſguſting to a mind ſo delicate, and from which he had therefore at length the prudence to deſiſt.

It was agreed that Frederick Seymour ſhould accompany Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, and Mrs. Melbourne, to London, to ſettle ſome affairs, and to hire a villa which Mr. Seymour recommended to him, about [208] thirty miles from town; where he might bring Charlotte immediately upon her marriage, which was to take place within a fortnight.

Mrs. Melbourne looked forward with ſecret ſatisfaction to the period of her de⯑parture from Mr. Clifford's, for ſhe began to grow exceedingly tired for want of her uſual occupations; having no ſervants to ſcold when alone, and to complain of when in company; and, though in Mr. Clifford's numerous train of domeſtics ſhe ſaw a fine field for action, yet ſhe was not at li⯑berty to diſplay her talents for command, and could take no part in the management of the houſehold, except that of warning Charlotte againſt the impoſitions of ſer⯑vants, whom ſhe always mentioned as the moſt degenerate of the human race. But, unhappily for the ſucceſs of theſe doctrines, Charlotte had already found by experience, that kindneſs awakened gratitude, and that confidence enſured affection. The hu⯑man heart revolts againſt oppreſſion, and [209] is ſoothed by gentleneſs, as the wave of the ocean riſes in proportion to the vio⯑lence of the winds, and ſinks with the breeze into mildneſs and ſerenity. Mrs. Melbourne met with as little encourage⯑ment in the comments which ſhe occaſion⯑ally made upon the viſitors at Mr. Clif⯑ford's houſe; where ſhe could find no perſon to whom ſarcaſm and ſeverity were agreeable, except Mrs. Seymour, and be⯑gan to pine for more auditors.

In this manſion, which was the abode of benevolence and univerſal good-will, Mrs. Melbourne was in the ſituation of an unfortunate waſp who has loſt his ſting, and, though he ſtill feels a great incli⯑nation for miſchief, has no power to gra⯑tify it. The frequent reading parties at Mr. Clifford's afforded that lady as little amuſement as the ſtile of converſation in this family; where the beſt new publica⯑tions were ſent from town, and peruſed with a degree of candour, which gave her no ſmall offence. She felt that, next to [210] beſtowing money, nothing was ſo diſa⯑greeable as beſtowing praiſe; and was almoſt as avaricious of commendation as of gold, to all except her daughter, to whom ſhe was ever ready to give an ac⯑cumulated heap of both. Mrs. Mel⯑bourne was, however, too prudent to diſ⯑pute the merit of thoſe literary perform⯑ances, whoſe claims to applauſe had been long appreciated by the voice of the pub⯑lic; but, where genius was not clad in the ſtrong armour of mature reputation, ſhe crept like the ſnake to the cradle of Her⯑cules, and with better ſucceſs, for ſhe could dart upon an infant author with great ſkill and ingenuity—

But what, more than either her deſire of power, or her fondneſs of ſatire, impelled Mrs. Melbourne to haſten her departure, was, that ſhe had caught a cold, and began to apprehend that the air of the north was too ſharp for her conſtitution. She had a [211] more than common horror at the thoughts of dying, and, whenever that terrific idea obtruded itſelf, haſtened to baniſh it from her affrighted mind by every effort in her power; and, when ſhe failed of ſucceſs, endeavoured to find comfort in recollect⯑ing all the inſtances of longevity ſhe had ever heard, and which were carefully trea⯑ſured in her memory. She found ſome refuge for her fears in ſuch of her ac⯑quaintances as were older, and more in⯑firm than herſelf; and hoped, by an unre⯑mitting care of her own perſon, to extend life to its utmoſt limits: but, when at⯑tacked by the ſlighteſt malady, ſhe in⯑ſtantly fancied that ſhe perceived the ap⯑proaches of the griſly phantom, couched under the head-ach, or advancing in the rear of a cold, and armed herſelf for de⯑fence with a formidable force of medicine. Nor was there a diſorder to which the human frame is liable, of which ſhe had not felt, at ſome period or other, the moſt indubitable ſymptoms. Her phyſician, [212] who was a man of a very liberal mind, ſometimes reaſoned, and ſometimes laughed at her weakneſs; but pleaſantry and reaſon were both adminiſtered in vain to her diſtempered imagination, which pre⯑ferred a preſcription to argument, and a cordial drug to the gayeſt effuſions of wit.

The day of Mr. Seymour's departure arrived, and Mr. Clifford propoſed, with his daughter and niece, to accompany the travellers twenty miles on their journey. The whole family accordingly ſet out to⯑gether. Julia was at ſome pains to avoid going in the ſame carriage with Frede⯑rick Seymour; and, at the inn where the party ſtopped to breakfaſt before they ſe⯑parated, ſhe was careful to place herſelf at a diſtance from him. He did not venture to approach her, but appeared thoughtful and melancholy.

When the carriages were ready, Char⯑lotte took hold of Mrs. Seymour's arm, and they went out together. Frederick [213] Seymour was near the door, and Julia kept back, pretending to look at ſome⯑thing from the window, till ſhe thought he was gone: but he ſuffered the other gentlemen to paſs him, and then, after de⯑ſiring aloud to have the honour of hand⯑ing her down ſtairs, he ſtopt her for a moment, and ſaid, in the greateſt agita⯑tion, "Muſt I, then, leave you under the cruel impreſſion of having entirely for⯑feited your eſteem." "If that, Sir, was of any value to you—" "If," interrupted he, with vehemence, "it was of any va⯑lue to me! What a cruel ſurmiſe!—Ah, when that eſteem is altogether loſt, the link by which I hold my exiſtence will be broken. In pity to the wretchedneſs of my heart, ſay that you will forgive the paſt." "I will remember it no more."

They now reached the door of the inn, and Frederick Seymour, in the perturba⯑tion of his mind, almoſt forgot to bid Charlotte farewel; who, however, attri⯑buted [214] his apparent chagrin to the thoughts of his ſeparation from herſelf.

Mr. Chartres had diſplayed ſo much unaffected ſorrow at the proſpect of leav⯑ing Mr. Clifford's, that he received an in⯑vitation from that gentleman to remain with him till his return to town. This young man had one peculiarity in which he reſembled Mr. Nathaniel Transfer^*; (a perſonage whoſe acquaintance every reader of taſte is, no doubt, proud to ac⯑knowledge). Mr. Chartres only liked thoſe things to which he had been long accuſtomed. He had looked forward to his introduction at Mr. Clifford's with a de⯑gree of apprehenſion which ſometimes deprived him of appetite, and ſometimes of reſt; but, being now accuſtomed to the family, he deſired no happineſs beyond its ſociety, and was in tranſports of joy when he found that happineſs would be pro⯑longed; remarking, in their way home, "That pleaſure, after uneaſineſs, was par⯑ticularly [215] grateful to the heart of man; and, in my opinion," added he, "the country, to thoſe who have a competent knowledge of Greek, Latin, and experi⯑mental philoſophy, is far preferable to a town." "Well, Mr. Chartres," ſaid Charlotte, "I can entertain myſelf in the country without being obliged to any of your auxiliaries." But a man who has lei⯑ſure," rejoined Chartres, "ſhould not live merely for his own entertainment, but have recourſe to ſcience, for the benefit of poſterity." Charlotte aſked him, "if he intended, in kindneſs to poſterity, to adopt thoſe ſtudies when he came back from the Eaſt?" "Certainly," anſwered Char⯑tres; "and although I conſider riches as an ignoble purſuit, my love of experimen⯑tal philoſophy will prompt me to acquire wealth, in the hopes of adding ſomething to the ſtock of uſeful learning at my re⯑turn to my native country."

Mr. Clifford and his party, in their way home, came to the foot of a very ſteep [216] hill, and Charlotte propoſed that they ſhould alight, and walk up the hill. In their way, they paſſed a ſmall cottage, or rather hut, where they ſaw a lovely young woman, who appeared about eighteen years of age, ſitting at the door, and cry⯑ing bitterly: two little girls were crying with her. "What is the matter?" ſaid Charlotte: one of the children anſwered, "that ſhe cried becauſe Hannah cried." "Have you met with any misfortune?" ſaid Charlotte. "My poor dog, Madam," anſwered the young woman, ſobbing, "I have loſt him." "Is that all?" rejoined Charlotte, "you can get another dog." "But he will not have been Harry's dog," replied the young woman; who then, in a voice often choaked by tears, told Char⯑lotte her ſtory. She had been courted by a young peaſant, and the day was fixed for their wedding. Her father and mother were both dead; but her brother, with whom ſhe lived, had bought her a new gown, and a ſet of red ribbands for her [217] marriage; when her lover returning home from his work one ſtormy night, acroſs a rapid ſtream, the boat overſet, and the young man was drowned. His dog, Rover, had jumped into the water, dragged his maſter on ſhore, and then lay down near the dead body moaning moſt piteouſly. Hannah, and her brother, who began to fear, from Harry's long ſtay, that ſome evil had befallen him, went out to look for him, and found his corpſe on the bank of the ſtream, and Rover ſtretched beſide it. Poor Hannah, at the ſight of her dead lover, wiſhed to die too; but her brother intreated her to be comforted, and live for the ſake of her young brothers and ſiſters. It was with difficulty that Han⯑nah could be torn from her lover's corpſe, and Rover ſeemed as unwilling to leave it as herſelf. "Rover," ſhe ſaid, "if he had been a chriſtian, could not have loved his maſter better, or took his loſs more to heart; and ever ſince that time, it had been a ſort of comfort to her to have the [218] poor dog always with her. Many a time," ſhe ſaid, "ſhe had talked to him of his maſter, and often, when they had not vic⯑tuals enough for themſelves and Rover too, ſhe had gone without a morſel, to give it to him; for Rover eat as much as any of the children; and now he had gone and loſt himſelf in the wood." Julia aſked her "if it was not a pleaſure to take care of thoſe pretty children, and ſee them thrive." She ſaid "Yes, ſhe would try and live as long as ſhe could, for their ſakes, but ſhe knew her heart would break at laſt." A countryman now appeared at a diſtance, calling out, "Hannah, Hannah!" He was her brother, with Rover in his arms. Hannah flew to the dog, kiſſed him a thouſand times, and aſked him, how he could leave her? Rover wagged his tail heartily, and ſeemed to partake in the joy of their meeting. There were many marks of extreme poverty diſcernible in theſe poor people, and their habitation, although they made no complaint. But [219] it would ſeem that the precious eſſence of content can be more eaſily extracted from the ſimple materials of the poor, than from the various preparations of the rich. Its pure and fine ſpirit riſes from a few plain ingredients, brighter and clearer than from that magical cup of diſſipation, where the powerful, and the wealthy, with length⯑ened incantations, pour their coſtly infu⯑ſions—"double, double, toil and trou⯑ble!"

Mr. Clifford aſked Peter, "How he could get enough by his work to maintain ſo large a family?" Peter ſaid, "To be ſure it was not eaſy, but they were good children, and moreover, he had promiſed his father, when he lay a dying, to take care of them; but ſometimes he could get no work, and then it went a little hard with them to be ſure." Mr. Clifford, touched by the ſimple goodneſs of this young peaſant, generouſly offered to give him a cottage in his own neighbourhood and to employ him in working in his [220] grounds. The propoſal was accepted with tranſport; and, the very next day, Peter, accompanied by Hannah, the children, and Rover, ſet out for his new habitation.

Julia and Charlotte employed them⯑ſelves in making camlet-gowns and round caps for the children, who were delighted with their new finery; while poor Hannah cried, and ſaid, "ſhe never thought to be ſo happy again; and ſhe wiſhed Harry had but lived to ſee the little ones in their new gowns, for he always loved the children." The happineſs of this poor family was amply ſhared by their kind benefactors. Charlotte was ſo buſy in furniſhing their cottage, and providing for their wants, that ſhe almoſt forgot the abſence of her lover; and Julia aſſiſted, with delighted aſſiduity, in theſe offices of charity.

CHAP. XVIII.

FREDERICK Seymour, in his letters to Charlotte, informed her that buſi⯑neſs would detain him in town longer than he expected; and the day he fixed for his return was only that preceding the day of his marriage. Afraid of truſting his feel⯑ings in ſo critical a ſituation, he deter⯑mined to delay his return as long as it was poſſible.

The day before that on which Seymour was expected, Mr. Clifford was invited to a gentleman's houſe in the neighbour⯑hood, where an old friend of his was juſt arrived from the Eaſt Indies, and was to paſs one night in his way to the habi⯑tation of his parents. Mr. Clifford could not deny himſelf the ſatisfaction of pre⯑ſenting his daughter to his friend; and [222] Charlotte, though her mind was too much occupied by the approaching change in her ſituation, to leave her any inclination for company, determined to go, becauſe her father wiſhed it.

Julia, agitated and oppreſſed, deſired no⯑thing ſo much as a day of ſolitude, in which ſhe might fortify her mind by re⯑flection, form plans for her future conduct, ſettle every account with her own heart, and prepare to meet Frederick Seymour with compoſure, and even chearfulneſs. She therefore complained of being ſlightly indiſpoſed, and requeſted permiſſion to re⯑main at home, which was reluctantly granted. Mr. Chartres accompanied Mr. Clifford and Charlotte, and Julia ſaw them depart with pleaſure, ſoothed with the proſpect of one day of tranquillity. She walked to her favourite nook, that over⯑hung the lake, and contemplated the ma⯑jeſty of nature; paſſed ſome hours in me⯑ditation, and returned home with a mind [223] elevated above the ſadneſs and depreſſion with which ſhe had ſet out.

After dinner ſhe viſited ſome of the cot⯑tagers. It was a bright afternoon in Octo⯑ber, and ſhe loitered in her way home to admire the rich variety of tints which were caſt on the ſurrounding ſcenery; ſhe then ſaw the ſetting ſun ſinking ſlowly behind a hill at ſome diſtance, from which a va⯑pour aſcended that was tinged, as it aroſe, by the glowing rays, and gave the broad ſummit of the hill the appearance of a ſtream of floating flame.

Julia had never before obſerved this ef⯑fect of the ſetting ſun, which ſhe gazed at till the bright viſion gradually diſſolved, and "Twilight grey, had in her ſober liv'ry all things clad." To a lover of nature, the laſt days of autumn are peculiarly intereſt⯑ing. We take leave of the fading beauties of the ſeaſon with a melancholy emotion, ſome⯑what ſimilar to that which we feel in bidding farewell to a lively and agreeable companion, whoſe preſence has diffuſed gladneſs, whoſe [224] ſmile has been the ſignal of pleaſure, and whom we are uncertain of beholding again: for, though the period of his return is fixed, who, amidſt the caſualties of life, can be ſecure, that, in the interval of abſence, his eye ſhall not be cloſed in darkneſs, and his heart have loſt the ſenſation of de⯑light?

When Julia returned to the houſe, ſhe found one of the ſervants was ſent back by Charlotte with a note, inform⯑ing her, that her father had been pre⯑vailed on to remain that night. Julia was thankful for this reprieve. She congratu⯑lated herſelf on the comfort of one even⯑ing of undiſturbed calmneſs, brought a volume of each of her favourite poets, Pope and Thomſon, from the library, and ordered tea, to which ſhe thought that ſtillneſs and poetry gave a more agreeable flavor than uſual, when the door was ſud⯑denly opened by Frederick Seymour. At his appearance, ſhe ſtarted from her ſeat; but, immediately recollecting herfelf, ſpoke [225] to him with all the compoſure ſhe could aſſume. "Mr. Seymour," ſaid ſhe, "you were ſo little expected to-night, that my uncle and Charlotte are gone to pay a vi⯑ſit." "I thought," he anſwered, with great emotion, "that it would not have been in my power to return to-night, but, as my buſineſs was finiſhed, I had little inclination to remain abſent till to-mor⯑row." He appeared in much agitation. Julia, on her part, determined to ſupport the trial of the evening with firmneſs and dignity, talked on ſubjects of indifference. Afraid of any interval of ſilence, ſhe made an effort, the moſt painful, to keep up a con⯑verſation, almoſt intirely unſupported on the part of Seymour; and, without ſeem⯑ing to obſerve his confuſion, continued ſpeaking, till at length he recovered ſome degree of compoſure.

When other topics were exhauſted, Ju⯑lia, diſturbed and unhappy, almoſt unable to ſpeak, and yet terrified to remain ſilent, had recourſe, in her perplexities, to the [226] ſetting ſun, whoſe uncommon appearance that evening ſhe deſcribed; though, in the preſent perturbation of her thoughts, it had loſt all power of affecting her imagi⯑nation: ſhe painted the ſcene with little energy, and the picture ſeemed to intereſt Seymour ſtill leſs than herſelf. She then talked of the country, which was, at pre⯑ſent, as indifferent to her as the ſetting ſun; and obliged Seymour to repeat de⯑ſcriptions of the ſublime ſcenes of Switzer⯑land, which he had often given her before with animation and ſpirit, and which he now gave with the utmoſt coldneſs and difficulty. Thence ſhe took refuge in Italy, and made him lead her through half Europe, glad to be tranſported, as far as poſſible from herſelf.

Tea was protracted as long as ſhe could—it was having ſomething to do. When that reſource failed, ſhe took up her work, affected to be very buſy, and aſked him to read ſome of Pope's moral epiſtles, which lay upon the table. He read very [227] ill, and with ſuch abſence of mind, that, when Julia, at the end of an epiſtle, men⯑tioned the paſſages which particularly pleaſed her, he anſwered in ſuch a manner as ſhewed that he ſcarcely recollected the ſubject. At length the deſcription of Ti⯑mon's villa put him in mind of the contraſt between that and the beautiful villa he had juſt taken; and he laid down the book, to give Julia an account of the diſpoſition of the grounds, with which ſhe appeared ex⯑tremely pleaſed. "And when will you viſit it?" ſaid Seymour, in a tone of emo⯑tion. "Probably next ſummer," ſhe an⯑ſwered. "Not till next ſummer!" rejoined Seymour. "You will, I believe, be ſet⯑tled in town," ſaid Julia, "before my uncle leaves this place; if not, we ſhall certainly come in ſearch of Charlotte." "Charlotte!" he repeated—"ſhe is very amiable." "She is indeed," ſaid Julia, with earneſtneſs, "every thing the heart can wiſh in a do⯑meſtic companion." She then gave Sey⯑mour [228] the hiſtory of the poor peaſant's fa⯑mily, and deſcribed, with enthuſiaſm, Charlotte's active benevolence. "Oh! way," ſaid Seymour, with an emotion he ſeemed wholly unable to controul, "why, when Charlotte poſſeſſes ſo many virtues, ſhould there exiſt one, to whom Charlotte—Oh Julia! your penetration has diſcover⯑ed—" She immediately roſe to leave the room. "Oh ſtay but one moment," he eagerly cried, "in compaſſion, Ma⯑dam, ſtay but while I ſolemnly aſſure you, that you have nothing more to fear from my complaints—that they ſhall never again be uttered in your preſence, that they ſhall never again diſturb your felicity.—Oh may every felicity attend you!—may you be happy, when the grave ſhall have covered my deſpair, and my heart ſhall retain no longer thoſe ſenſations, which are interwoven with my exiſtence." Julia walking towards the door as faſt as ſhe could, he came up to her: "Say but [229] you forgive me—Oh go not, Madam, if you wiſh me to preſerve life or reaſon, go not from me in diſpleaſure!" She turned back: her eyes were filled with tears. "I return, Sir," ſhe ſaid, in a faltering voice, "only to tell you, that another ſcene like this, will force me to forſake the aſylum I have found beneath my uncle's roof, and conceal myſelf where I may never more be heard of." "Oh do not terrify me with ſuch images; in compaſſion forgive the rav⯑ings of madneſs, and never ſhall they again offend you." The anguiſh of his looks, and the extreme perturbation of his voice and manner affected her. "I will forget what is paſt," ſhe faintly pro⯑nounced. He ſeized her hand, and preſſ⯑ed it to his heart. She haſtened out of the room: he held the door open, and looked after her, till ſhe had croſſed the ſaloon, and was out of ſight.

When ſhe had ſufficiently recovered [230] herſelf, ſhe rung the bell for her maid, told her ſhe was not very well, and de⯑ſired, that one of the ſervants would beg of Mr. Seymour to order ſupper for him⯑ſelf at what hour he choſe. Seymour paſſed the evening in an agitation of mind, which gave him reaſon to repent of the weakneſs that had led him to change his reſolution not to return till the next day.

Julia, for a ſhort time, indulged that ſadneſs excited by the painful ſcene which had paſt. She then tried to read, but could not command her attention, and walked to a window, where ſhe ſaw, above ſome dark rocks, that overhung the lake in the ſhape of ruins, the ſky tinged with a variety of colours, which were re⯑flected on the ſurface of the water. The northern lights flaſhed over the hemi⯑ſphere, and their motion was ſtronger than uſual. Julia gazed a conſiderable [231] time on thoſe beautiful appearances of nature, and in ſuch contemplation, which had ever a moſt powerful effect on her mind, regained ſome compoſure before ſhe retired to reſt.

CHAP. XIX.

THE following morning Julia break⯑faſted in her own apartment, and Mr. Clifford and Charlotte returned ſoon after. Through the courſe of this day, Julia avoided, as much as was in her power, the ſight of Seymour, for ſhe trem⯑bled leſt any diſcovery of his feelings ſhould yet prevent the marriage, and earneſt⯑ly wiſhed for the arrival of the ſucceeding day, which would for ever unite him to another, and, by baniſhing all ſuſpence and doubt, lead him to exert the con⯑ſtancy and reſolution of his ſpirit. And ſhe hoped, that when his ſituation was ir⯑revocable, the certainty of its being ſo would prove a great and powerful anti⯑dote againſt the indulgence of unavailing regrets.

[233] Mr. Clifford was in high ſpirits, and Chartres diſplayed, though ſomewhat in a bungling manner, his ſympathy in the fe⯑licity of his friends. The whole houſe was a ſcene of general chearfulneſs; the ſervants were buſy in adjuſting their ſilver favours, and making preparations for the marriage day; and, as Charlotte was be⯑loved by every individual in the family, all were ſolicitous and proud to diſplay their joy and exultation.

Mean while, Seymour paſſed the day in the moſt violent ſtruggles of paſſion, the moſt cruel conflict between honour and inclination. But, when we attempt to de⯑ſcribe the ſtruggles of paſſion, how in⯑adequate is language to its purpoſe!—Where are the words that ſhall convey a juſt idea of the pangs of wounded affec⯑tion?—Alas! the heart can feel more ſtrongly than the imagination can paint; and, even while we heave the ſigh of commiſeration for the ſufferer, we do not reflect on the full force of his ſuffer⯑ings. [234] We cannot exactly judge of the bit⯑terneſs of thoſe moments when the over⯑whelmed ſpirit flies to ſolitude to give vent to its ſtifled agonies; when ſorrow abſorbs every faculty of the ſoul; when it rejects every thought of conſolation, and finds a gloomy indulgence in nouriſhing its own wretchedneſs! Yet Seymour was obliged to appear not merely con⯑tented, but animated and happy. Oh, ſurely the moment in which miſery is moſt intolerable to the human mind, is, when we are condemned to conceal its deſpondency under the maſk of joy! to wear a look of gladneſs, while our ſouls are bleeding with that wound which gives a mortal ſtab to all our future peace! It is then that the anguiſh, which has been for a moment repulſed to make room for other ideas, ruſhes with redoubled force upon the ſickening heart, and oppreſſes it with a ſpecies of torment little ſhort of madneſs. The effuſions of gaiety, which [235] are ſo exhilarating to a mind at eaſe, come to an aching breaſt as a ray of the ſun falls upon ice, too deep to be penetrated by its influence.

Charlotte and Julia, the next morning, went in one carriage, and Mr. Clifford, Seymour, and Chartres, in another, to the church of [...], where the marriage ceremony was performed. They returned, accompanied by the clergyman, to break⯑faſt, after which, the new-married pair were to ſet out for the country ſeat that was prepared for their reception and where they were to paſs ſome weeks. When the car⯑riages which were to convey the married couple, and their attendants, were ready, Charlotte, after embracing Julia, and taking leave of Chartres, felt her heart too full at this awful ſeparation from her fa⯑ther, to bid him farewell before a number of witneſſes: ſhe could not truſt her voice, but, taking his hand, led him to another room. The clergyman and Chartres ſauntered, mean time, to the door of the [236] ſaloon, to examine the equipage in wait⯑ing; and Seymour and Julia were left to⯑gether. "Will you ſuffer me," he ſaid, "Miſs Clifford, before I go, to expreſs the regret—the contrition I feel, for all the uneaſineſs my conduct muſt have given you? May I implore you to baniſh from your remembrance, that perſecution for which I feel the trueſt penitence; and to believe that my reſpect, my admiration of your virtues—" "Talk no more, Sir, of the paſt," ſhe replied: then, riſing from her ſeat, ſhe added, "I muſt go in ſearch of Charlotte." "Will you not," rejoined Seymour, "greatly as I have offended, beſtow one generous wiſh for my peace at parting?" "I ſincerely wiſh, Sir, your felicity, and ſurely no mortal has a fairer proſpect of happineſs than yourſelf." "Of happineſs!" he exclaimed, and, after a moment's pauſe, added, "May you, Ma⯑dam, be happy as your virtues deſerve, happy as I wiſh you!—To hear of your felicity will be the only"—then checking [237] himſelf, he ſaid, "but I will not preſume to detain you." Julia was haſtening out of the room, when Mr. Clifford and Char⯑lotte returned: the two friends again em⯑braced each other in ſilence. Mr. Clif⯑ford led his daughter to the carriage, Sey⯑mour followed, and in a few minutes Charlotte was out of ſight of her paternal dwelling.

Mr. Clifford feaſted his tenants liberal⯑ly; who drank with much vociferation to the happineſs of their fair miſtreſs; and the day was paſſed in feſtivity. Chartres joined heartily in the general mirth, and, when his ſpirits were elevated by repeated toaſts to Charlotte's felicity, ſung his beſt ſongs for the entertainment of the company. He had a very powerful voice, and ſung as he danced, with all his ſtrength and might, and as if he thought the firſt excellence of ſinging was to be loud.

Julia, in an adjoining apartment, thank⯑fully liſtened to this noiſy merriment, which, by engaging Mr. Clifford's atten⯑tion, [238] ſpared her the taſk of ſtruggling with a conſcious ſadneſs that weighed upon her heart, and which, though ſhe determined to ſubdue it, refuſed to be inſtantly repulſed by any effort of her reaſon. Chartres alarmed her not a little, by enquiring of Mr. Clifford, "what could be the reaſon that Mr. Seymour turned as pale as death when he preſented his bride with the wed⯑ding-ring?" Mr. Clifford replied, "That it was not uncommon to be agitated on ſo ſolemn an occaſion." To this Chartres rejoined, "That Mr. Seymour's counte⯑nance that morning, had convinced him, that matrimony was a very ſolemn affair indeed."

CHAP. XX.

JULIA's perplexities were now over. She felt that ſhe ought to be happy, and endeavoured to perſuade herſelf that ſhe was ſo. Nevertheleſs, the ſcenes which had paſſed with Seymour, had left her mind in a ſtate of diſturbance and de⯑preſſion, which ſhe could not immediately conquer, but which ſhe determined not to indulge.

By her affectionate attention, ſhe tried to ſupply to Mr. Clifford the loſs of his daughter; made every effort to be cheer⯑ful; and when, in ſpite of her efforts, her cheerfulneſs forſook her, ſhe imputed it to an anxious ſolicitude which hung upon her mind reſpecting Charlotte's happi⯑neſs.

[240] It was fortunate that Julia had at this time but little leiſure for ſolitude, or reflection, Mr. Clifford's houſe being crouded with a ſucceſſion of viſitors, who came to congratulate him on his daugh⯑ter's marriage. We muſt add, much to the honour of Charlotte, that their congratu⯑lations were not made in oppoſition to their feelings: and what higher eulogium can we beſtow on Charlotte's merit, than to declare that her proſperity excited no envy? Her uniform ſweetneſs of diſpoſi⯑tion, her kind and unaſſuming manners, and conſtant attention to promote the ſa⯑tisfaction of others, had endeared her to all by whom ſhe was known; and even thoſe who had the greateſt inſenſibility of tem⯑per, agreed, that if ſome one in the world muſt be more fortunate, more happy than themſelves, Charlotte was the very perſon who beſt deſerved that diſtinguiſhed lot.

Among Mr. Clifford's viſitors was Mr. F [...], who was dreſſed in deep mourn⯑ing, and appeared in great dejection of [241] ſpirits. In the courſe of a walk, which Mr. Clifford propoſed, Mr. F [...] took an opportunity of telling Julia, that he had lately loſt his only brother. "The circumſtances of his death," ſaid he, "are ſuch as I am unable to relate, but they were particularly affecting, and, if you will give me permiſſion, I will ſend you a packet which contains the account, and which, I believe, will intereſt you." The next morning Julia received the following letters:

Julia found, incloſed in the foregoing letter, a packet which Mr. F [...] had received from the ſame gentleman, ſome weeks after the former.