TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.

I HAVE juſt met the moſt vexatious diſappointment I ever experienced: it puts me out of all manner of patience. I am totally exhauſted already, with diſſem⯑bling a chearfulneſs in which my heart can⯑not take the leaſt ſhare, and concealing a me⯑lancholy that almoſt overwhelms me. I [2]had comforted myſelf with the hopes of a ſpeedy releaſe from this inſupportable re⯑ſtraint. Next week was fixt for our de⯑parture; but Mrs. Domville has taken it into her head to deſire lady Lucy's attend⯑ance on an approaching occaſion, ſo that we ſhall probably be detained above a month.

Sure, of all the longings peculiar to her ſituation, this is one of the moſt unreaſon⯑able, and the moſt provoking. How can lady Lucy, who has never been in a ſimi⯑lar ſituation, be of any ſervice to her? But 'tis I that am unreaſonable; yes, and ill⯑natured too—What can be more ſoothing than the preſence of ſuch a friend, in the hours of ſickneſs and danger?

Lady Lucy, though deſirous of being with her ſiſter, would, on my account, have declined ſtaying; but I could not think of taking any advantage of her very obliging conſideration for me. After the civilities I have received from every branch of the Domville family, I could not avoid paying them ſo ſlight—or, to ſpeak more truly, what muſt have appeared to them ſo [3]ſlight—a compliment, without an unpar⯑donable degree of rudeneſs and ingratitude. I was obliged to promiſe, not to let my. uncle come for me, or Mr. Domville would have inſiſted on leaving me with you, and coming back again for lady Lucy:— diſtreſſing kindneſs!

All the Linfield family leave this place to-morrow; lady Linfield, I believe, be⯑cauſe ſhe does not love the country, which, at this ſeaſon, is aſtoniſhing. Lady Lucy goes pour remplir les fonctions de ſa charge aupres de madame Domville. The gentle⯑men muſt attend their ladies.

The duke, and lady Caryſbrook—whoſe kindneſs frequently reminds me of another and dearer aunt—inſiſt upon my reſiding at Granville-park while I ſtay in England; which I willingly conſented to. Lord and lady Linfield profeſs—and, I have reaſon to think, with ſincerity—that this is a point they would not have yielded to any body but my grandfather.

I like this arrangement much better than returning to London; for ſeveral reaſons, which you will eaſily gueſs:—one of them, [4]and not the weakeſt, is, that I ſhall be re⯑moved from lady Mary Webſter; who was teazingly importunate with me, to tell her who Miſs Ormſby's intended huſband was. She ſaid, it was but an act of juſtice, of common humanity, to let him know her character. Neither juſtice, nor humanity, dictated the reſolve;—'twas malice, and revenge, for imaginary wrongs. What! ruin a young lady's reputation and happi⯑neſs, on ſlight, very ſlight, ſuſpicions! I would not be concerned in it, though ever ſo indirectly, for millions! Let ſouls like lady Mary's ſtoop to ſuch actions!

If I would barely let her know his name, ſhe ſolemnly proteſted mine ſhould never be brought into queſtion. She would keep her word, I doubt not; ſhe could have no temptation to break it: but I have been taught to adhere to what I think right, from much higher motives than the fear of cen⯑ſure, or even than the hope of praiſe.

I believe I have acted properly; yet, I own to you, madam, I am far from being eaſy. I am tortured with ſolicitude for Sir Edward's happineſs. I cannot ſuppreſs my [5]fears, although I know they ſpring only from too creative an imagination, and, alas! too tender a heart: I ſhould hate myſelf, if a want of candour to Miſs Ormſ⯑by had any ſhare in forming them. But this cruel ſubject!—how came I to touch on it? Begin with what I will, I inſenſibly fall into it. This is greatly treſpaſſing on your indulgence, my generous friend.

Let us talk of ſomething elſe.

In my laſt, I attempted a deſcription of this fine place. I deferred giving you any account of its inhabitants, till I ſhould be able to judge of them with more accuracy and certainty than I could pretend to do from firſt impreſſions; for to penetrate im⯑mediately into people's characters, belongs only to thoſe who are bleſſed with a great deal of natural ſagacity, joined to a tho⯑rough knowledge of the world.

I have formed an opinion of the Sedley family on a ſhort acquaintance, which I fancy a long one would not induce me to change. I have ſtudied them—both my uncle and you compliment me with pene⯑tration—commençons.

[6] The duke of Granville is far from being unamiable in his private character. He is an affectionate, careful, and indulgent pa⯑rent; readily forgiving ſlight faults, though—as my poor mother had too good reaſon to know—abſolutely inexorable with regard to great ones. He is a warm friend, a kind maſter, a generous landlord, and a liberal benefactor to the poor. His exceſ⯑ſive pride does not appear in his deport⯑ment to people that are extremely his infe⯑riors; to them he is generally mild, and ſometimes even condeſcending: to his equals—by equals, you may ſuppoſe I cannot exactly mean ſuch only as boaſt a title, birth, and fortune, great as his own; I uſe that term with reſpect to him, to ſig⯑nify all thoſe who have a decided right to keep the firſt company; to ſuch—he is very polite and eaſy; but he is moſt forbiddingly haughty to perſons in genteel middling life; which—par parentheſe, and by your leave, ambition—I take to be the happieſt ſtate in the world. Inferiors of this claſs, his grace cannot ſuffer for a moment to forget their diſtance. At his own table only—and [7]there they are ſeldom invited—he relaxes a little, and treats them with a moderate de⯑gree of complaiſance. In mixed company, he preſerves an air of reſerved ſtatelineſs, ſoftened, however, by good-breeding, of which he has a large ſhare. He is certain⯑ly vindictive; but not often ſo to thoſe whom he has not once loved. His public character is not only good, but great: unſuſ⯑pectedly diſintereſted; unqueſtionably im⯑partial; a firm ſupporter of the juſt prero⯑gatives of the crown; and a zealous aſſerter of the liberties of the ſubject.

Lady Caryſbrook is a ſweet, worthy woman; amiable in every relation of life; adored in her own family, and reſpected and beloved by every body that has the happineſs to know her. In a word, did I ſpeak of her to any other perſon, I ſhould ſay—ſhe is like my aunt Chetwynd.

During the nine years ſhe has been a widow, ſhe has reſided entirely with the duke.

Her eldeſt child, lord Caryſbrook, is now on his travels; ſo I can ſay nothing more of him, than, that if he merits the fine [8]thing his ſiſters ſay of him, he is worthy of ſuch a mother.

Lady Alicia Sedley is turned of eighteen; middle-ſized, has a very good perſon, and an exceedingly graceful air. Her face is not beautiful, yet wonderfully pleaſing: ‘"The body charms, becauſe the ſoul is ſeen."’

That ſoul is fraught with every gentle, endearing virtue, that can adorn her ſex.— She has all that touching ſoftneſs, that dear complacency, that I love in Mrs. Went⯑worth.

Lady Fanny is two years younger: the prettieſt little creature imaginable;—ex⯑tremely lively, indeed even to giddineſs, though ſhe is by no means deficient in good ſenſe. Her vivacity makes her much more ſhewy and entertaining in a large company, than her ſiſter's diffidence will allow her to be; but in a family circle, or a tete-à-tete, lady Alicia ſhines moſt.

Robert Sedley is about thirteen, and re⯑markable tall and manly for that age. He is, in all reſpects, the fineſt boy I ever ſaw. [9]I hope you will not think me partial in this deciſion, when I tell you he is my lover.— He pays me compliments, with an elegance of expreſſion, that is really ſurprizing in ſuch a child. If I ſtand, he flies to reach me a chair: at the tea-table, he will attend me himſelf, if there were ever ſo many ſer⯑vants in the room: when we walk, he ga⯑thers flowers, makes them in a bouquet, puts them to his lips or breaſt, and preſents them to me with an air—quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue:—Robert is at my elbow. I ‘muſt walk—ſo fine a day —every body in the garden—.’ I bid you a haſty farewell, my dear aunt; for, though I have made the beſt bargain I could, I aſſure you, I am obliged to give the monkey two kiſſes, to purchaſe time enough to ſubſcribe myſelf,

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

O, I AM dying, Louiſa!—my brother is in a fever. For the love of Heaven, come to me.—Hold—I forgot your ſituation;—do not, by any means, think of coming: but tell Lord Methuen, his friend is ill—dangerouſly ill.

I thank you for your information and counſel; but I am not able to take the leaſt ſtep in the affair at preſent, terrified and diſtracted as I am with apprehenſions for a life, of ten thouſand times greater moment to me than my own:—my own! frivolous compariſon!—life has long ſince loſt its va⯑lue to me: I regard it not as a bleſſing, for which I ought to be thankful—and, O, for⯑give me, Heaven, if this be ingratitude— but rather as a misfortune, which it is my duty to bear with reſignation.

How forcibly does Edward's ſituation call to my remembrance, a hapleſs wan⯑derer [11]from his friends and country—from his imprudent, innocent, wretched wife!—ſuf⯑fering, amongſt ſtrangers, all that the united pains of mind and body could in⯑flict. Perhaps he wanted care;—his poor Harriet was not permitted to attend him; he had no ſiſter, no wife, no tender female friend to ſooth his dying pillow!—Torturing retroſpect!—unavailing ſorrow! Would that I could forget the paſt, and look only forward—and I fear it is with too much impatience I do look forward —to that hap⯑py period, when my glad ſpirit will be al⯑lowed to ſhake off the bonds of its earthly captivity, and ſeek my Henry in the regions of bliſs:—there, I truſt, we ſhall meet:— alas! I cannot form an idea of a Heaven without him.

My friend, my much eſteemed friend, pardon theſe fruitleſs and involuntary la⯑mentations: 'tis peculiarly ungenerous to trouble you with them.

I again intreat you; forgive me. I ne⯑ver had leſs command over myſelf than at preſent. I feel as if ſome great misfortune threatened me. Gracious, and Omnipo⯑tent [12]BEING! ſpare my brother to me! —O ſpare my brother!—and if it be thy pleaſure that I ſhould be depreſſed by a heavier weight of miſery, condeſcend—in mercy condeſcend—to adopt ſome other mode of chaſtiſement.—Preſumptuous prayer!

Adieu.—I am blinded with tears.

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

I HAVE been about half an hour here; and, late as it is, diſpatch Stephen, to let you know our dear Marchmont is not worſe: but, alas! I dare not ſo far flatter myſelf, or you, as to ſay he is better. Something muſt be done: if the cauſe is not removed, how ſhall the effects ceaſe? Allons, donc, un coup de deſeſpoir.—I ſhall go to Jephſon⯑lodge to-morrow: if the girl has a ſpark of generoſity, I ſhall blow it to a flame. Or, perhaps, it would be better to addreſs myſelf to the father; or to lady Conway—Heaven direct me! I know not what to do. I wiſh the perturbation of my ſpirits had allowed me to conſult with you before I left Poplar-hill. Such is the exceſs of Mrs. Wentworth's affliction, I don't know how to ſpeak to her about any thing.—But I am keeping the man, and ſaying nothing to the purpoſe.

[14] Let our prayers for our much loved friend aſcend together to the throne of mer⯑cy.—O, may they be heard!

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

I AM inexpreſſibly alarmed:—Sir Ed⯑ward's fever is increaſed. I cannot help thinking he is in great danger; though doctor Howard ſays he will do well. I have a high opinion of this gentleman's ſkill in his profeſſion; but, alas! he knows not Sir Edward's caſe: his mind is ſtill more feveriſh than his body.

The unfavourable ſymptoms that have appeared this morning, I, with ſevere com⯑punction, impute to my own imprudence laſt night. Having, with extreme difficul⯑ty, prevailed on Mrs. Wentworth—whoſe delicate conſtitution unfits her for the office of a nurſe—to retire to reſt, I took my place by my dear friend's bed. He lay very quiet: I endeavoured to ſuppreſs a cough for fear of diſturbing him; he per⯑ceived it, and ſpoke to me. ‘I thought you had been aſleep,’ ſaid I.

[16] "Aſleep! my dear Methuen," ſaid he, calmly; ‘I expect my next ſleep to be my laſt. Make every perſon leave the room; I wiſh to ſpeak with you.’

I ordered away his valet de chambre and nurſe-tender; and begging him not to exert his voice, or talk on any ſubject that might diſcompoſe him, deſired to know what he would ſay to me.

‘Why ſhould you give me this caution? —Of what conſequence would it be, were I to ſhorten my life by a few worth⯑leſs hours?’

‘For God's ſake, my dear Edward, do not give way to this deſpondency: your life is not in any danger.’

"I am ſorry," anſwered he, ‘you ſhould think it neceſſary to talk to me in this manner. I do not fear death: it is an object of terror only to the vicious, or the weak; or, at leaſt, to the happy. I truſt you will not claſs me with either of the two firſt mentioned; and you can⯑not aſſign me a place amongſt the laſt.— Death is pleaſing to me, when I conſider it as the only means by which I can avoid [17]fulfilling my fatal engagement. Do not think me ungenerous in allowing myſelf to talk thus. Miſs Ormſby deſerves a better huſband;—but, ah! I have no heart to give her. The too lovely Va⯑leria! —for her only would I live; and 'tis for her I die. Yes, Methuen, I am perſuaded I am on my death-bed; and while I have ſtrength and reaſon ſuffi⯑cient, I would wiſh to ſettle my affairs.’

His words, his manner, pierced my in⯑moſt ſoul. I threw myſelf on my knees; I would have ſpoken, but could not com⯑mand utterance. He preſſed one of my hands in his—‘My dear Auguſtus! my tender, faithful friend! I did not expect leſs affection from you; but I looked for more firmneſs. I ſee I afflict you:— two or three words more, and I have done. I want to have my will drawn, as ſpeedily as poſſible. Mrs. Wentworth is richer than ſhe wiſhes to be; Monſieur de Villemar will make ample proviſion for Miſs Marchmont:—I therefore think myſelf at liberty to diſpoſe of my fortune; and am determined to give myſelf the [18]ſatisfaction of leaving the Marchmont eſtate to Miſs O'Bryen. I have conſi⯑dered the matter maturely, and do not think it can any way hurt her character to accept it. My other little eſtate, and my houſe in London, I muſt preſent to your Arthur. Hold, Methuen,’ ſeeing my lips move, ‘this is a very trifling teſti⯑mony of my friendſhip; and I am going to exact an important one of your's, and your lady's—Take care of my poor ſiſter. I leave her under your protec⯑tion. Conſole her: let her not feel that ſhe has loſt a brother.—I dare not think on what ſhe will ſuffer. Dear, unfortu⯑nate Harriet!’—His eyes filled with tears; he raiſed them to Heaven:—‘Mer⯑ciful God! ſupport and comfort her!’

We were ſeaſonably interrupted by doc⯑tor Howard. He felt his patient's pulſe, and reprimanded me, in a whiſper, for my indiſcretion.

I retired to a corner of the room, and gave vent to my inſuppreſſible ſorrow. Sir Edward's valet came over to me:— "M-m-my lord," ſaid he, ſtammering, [19]"is my dear maſter—". He was not able to finiſh his queſtion. I ſqueezed the honeſt fellow's hand, and ſhook my head. He burſt into tears, and turned away from me. If ſuch is the grief of his ſervant, what can, what ought I to feel? His ſiſter too—I am convinced ſhe could not ſurvive him a week.

But a ray of hope, my Louiſa, breaks through the thick gloom that ſurrounds me. —If Miſs Ormſby is not the meaneſt and baſeſt of her ſex, my viſit to her muſt have the deſired effect. I have juſt ordered my chaiſe; and will ſtep in and ſee my friend once more before I go.

Farewell, my deareſt love. I ſhall write to you again when I return.

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

O, LOUISA, this man is bent on his own deſtruction—ſolicitous for ruin!

As ſoon as I had ſent off my meſſenger to you, I went to his chamber; and having ſtaid there for ſome time, wiſhed the doc⯑tor good morning as I was going out. Edward unfortunately over-heard me, and almoſt throwing himſelf out of bed, eagerly cried, "Where are you going, my lord?" Unprepared to anſwer this ſudden queſtion, I only replied, that I ſhould be back in a few hours. He made a motion with his hand to me to draw nearer to him. I obeyed. "Dear Methuen," ſaid he, graſp⯑ing my hand, and ſpeaking in a low voice, ‘I know that nothing could tempt you to leave me in this extremity, but the hope of being of ſervice to me. Tell me, were you not this moment going to ſome of the Ormſby family, or to Miſs [21]O'Bryen?—Your ſilence convinces me you were. But I intreat you—pardon me if I ſay, I command you—to do no ſuch thing. Do you imagine I could meanly barter my honour for my life?— You ought to have known me better. You ſhall not ſtir from this ſpot, till you have ſworn to me to relinquiſh a project, which nothing but the exceſs of your friendſhip to me could excuſe your form⯑ing.’—'Twas in vain for me to contend.

And now, dear Louiſa, how ſhall I ſup⯑port myſelf? Unable to aſſiſt my friend— almoſt hopeleſs of his recovery—and ſhould he recover, it will be only to be miſerable for the reſt of his days. This is too heavy a tax upon my happineſs;—great as it is, it will not bear it.

He has mentioned his will to me this morning again. I have ſent for the lawyer. Heaven knows I am very ill able to give the neceſſary directions.

I am miſtaken in my opinion of Miſs O'Bryen, if this rich legacy will afford her any ſatisfaction. And, I am ſure, I would much rather my ſon ſhould never have an [22]eſtate, than obtain one in this manner. I expreſs myſelf imperfectly: I would give— pardon me if I hurt your maternal tender⯑neſs—but, by the powers that made me! I would give the ſweet boy's life itſelf, to ſave my friend!

Philip's name need not be mentioned in the will, as he has lived but a ſhort time with Sir Edward; but I ſwear, by the faithful tears I ſaw him ſhed, he ſhall never be obliged to ſerve another maſter.

—

Let us talk no more of ſorrow, of wills, or death:—I have happy, ſurprizing news for you. Juſt now a ſervant brought a let⯑ter for Sir Edward, which he inſiſted upon delivering into his own hand; but being re⯑peatedly aſſured he could have no acceſs to him, conſented to leave it with Mrs. Went⯑worth. As I thought the letter muſt be of importance, and probably required an im⯑mediate anſwer, I perſuaded her to open it; a liberty, which certainly nothing but [23]her brother's condition could warrant.— Read the following, and by your own aſto⯑niſhment judge of our's.

[24] In this letter was incloſed one from Miſs Ormſby to lady Conway, of which I ſend you a tranſcript.

What a ſpecious jilt is that vile Ormſby! —what a finiſhed hypocrite! She has tho⯑roughly attained what is the very maſter⯑piece of cunning—the art of hiding itſelf. My ſurprize at her diſcovered baſeneſs, can only be equalled by my indignation. To what a creature was Marchmont about to unite himſelf! And was it to gratify a low-minded ambition, and to be a conve⯑nient cloak to a moſt infamouſly crimi⯑nal amour, that my invaluable friend would have ſacrificed a tender and violent paſſion, for as deſerving and lovely a woman as lives? I cannot think of it with patience. I reflect on his danger and deliverance, with the ſame mixed ſenſation of uneaſy joy and half-ex⯑tinguiſhed fear, with which a man looks back on a precipice, from the brink of which he has juſt eſcaped.

I think theſe letters ſhould be inſtantly —though very cautiouſly—communicated to Sir Edward, I fear the emotions they may excite may hurt him. I will conſult [25]with doctor Howard; I will tell him every thing: no regard is due to the character of that creature. How I execrate her! Thank God! thank God! my friend has eſcaped her. Honour now permits—com⯑mands him to break with her. Yet ſhould this diſcovery come too late!—My joy would be extravagant, did not this dreadful apprehenſion temper it. But I truſt, that Supreme Juſtice will not ſuffer him to die a martyr to the nobleneſs of his own ſentiments. Louiſa, he will live!—he will be happy!—my heart is filled with trem⯑bling gladneſs.

With what contemptuous pity do I read the latter part of Miſs Ormſby's letter! It is very expreſſive of the ſecret tortures that muſt ever wait on the moſt proſperous wickedneſs. What deſpicable lines are theſe!—‘Heigh-ho!—how melancholy the ſtillneſs of the night makes one! The family are all aſleep. I hate ſilence. I wiſh I ſlept in one of the ſtreet rooms.’ —Poor wretch! Louiſa, my ſenſible, my chaſte, my all-adorable Louiſa! could you have had a notion of clamorous voices [26]and rattling carriage wheels, being prefer⯑red to ſilence and contemplation?

How effectually do people deſtroy their own peace of mind, when, by a vicious conduct, they ſubject themſelves to the low neceſſity of deceiving others! thereby do⯑ing much more harm to themſelves, than ever the deceit can do to any body elſe. Miſs Ormſby, though ſhe thinks her crimes beyond the poſſibility of diſcovery, and her ſchemes beyond the reach of diſappoint⯑ment, dreads—ſhe knows not what; ſtarts at her own ſhadow, and finds nameleſs ter⯑rors in the gloom and ſilence of the night. Had Sir Edward become the dupe of her artifices, and diſcovered too late that he had loſt both happineſs and honour, though to preſerve the latter he nobly reſigned the former; yet, conſcious integrity would ſtill have ſupported his honeſt ſoul! and a thou⯑ſand bright reflections would have broken the impending cloud of woe.

If all be not right within, how vainly do we endeavour to enjoy what we call plea⯑ſure!—how poorly do we ſhrink from the lighteſt touch of mental pain!

Our felicity depends almoſt entirely on the rectitude of our own hearts. Then, while we are daily complaining of the mi⯑ſeries of life, what do we, but tacitly re⯑proach ourſelves? The ſting of misfor⯑tune, indeed, is ſharp; but if it be not poiſoned by the hand of vice, the wound it gives may eaſily be healed. Let a man put on the "armour of righteouſneſs," and the arrows of misfortune will drop at his feet: but if he will go forth to battle, naked and defenceleſs, he muſt bear the puniſh⯑ment juſtly due to his raſhneſs and obſti⯑nacy.

My beloved, you will excuſe me, if my reflections have wandered from my ſubject: for their ſeriouſneſs, I do not apologize; I know you would not think yourſelf obliged to me if I did.

My courier is ready; and I haſten to conclude, that I may not with-hold this in⯑tereſting [28]intelligence from you a moment. Hope with me, that this very fortunate in⯑cident will produce all the good effects it ſeems to promiſe.

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

DOCTOR Howard and I held a con⯑ſultation yeſterday evening;—(perhaps, my dear, you did not before know that I was one of the faculty)—he thought it expedi⯑ent that my medicine ſhould be adminiſter⯑ed immediately. Wanting, however, the conſummate ſkill of the phyſician, and the happy ſelf-confidence of the empiric, I de⯑liberated in anxious fearfulneſs. Often did I hold out to my patient the cup of joy; and as often drew back my hand, and with⯑held the hazardous recipe. I watched by him for ſeveral hours, in the moſt uneaſy ſtate of mind poſſible to be imagined. About twelve o'clock he awoke, a good deal refreſhed, from a ſleep of near three hours; the firſt he has had ſince his illneſs. He pulled back the curtain—‘My dear Auguſtus, why will you ſacrifice your health to me in this manner?’ For God's [30]ſake, go to bed. Where is my ſiſter?— Sure ſhe is not up too?"

I anſwered "No"; which, by the by, was falſe.

The doctor looked at me with meaning, and took Philip out of the room.

I drew my chair cloſe to the bed; and feeling his pulſe—"You are better, my dear Marchmont."

"Are you turned phyſician?" ſaid he, with a faint ſmile.

‘Yes; and, with God's help, will do more for you than doctor Howard has been able to do.’

‘I obſerve you uſe the quack's prudent proviſo—with God's help.’

"Don't put the quack upon me, ſir;" —rearing up my head as proudly as if it had been adorned by the huge faculty wig; —‘I'd have you to know, I pretend to be a phyſician of more eminence than Howard himſelf: he applies his remedies only to the body,—I heal the mind.’

He looked at me wiſtfully: ‘Sure, my lord, you have not—But 'tis impoſſi⯑ble, [31]after the ſolemn promiſe you made me.’

‘I will not clear myſelf from this half accuſation, as I think you muſt have too favourable an opinion of me, to ſuppoſe me capable of breaking my word. But could no hand except mine, think you, looſe your heavy chains?’

He replied, with a look of calm deſpair, ‘Yes; the hand of death:—and that, I hope—’.

‘Huſh! for mercy's ſake! As I hope to be merry for the reſt of my days, you have almoſt broken my heart already.’

‘How ſtrangely you talk! Where is the ſenſibility, the tenderneſs, that diſ⯑tinguiſhes my friend?’

‘Totally exhauſted: and now I'm re⯑ſolved to be gay, and you ſhall be ſo too. Why, man, I've news for you will ſet you on your legs in three days time.’

"I cannot conceive," ſaid he, ſighing, ‘that you ſhould have any thing to tell me, capable of reconciling me to life.’

‘Would not happineſs reconcile you to it?’

[32] ‘Happineſs! Alas! 'tis flown for ever.’

‘You are miſtaken; it flew away, in⯑deed, but you have overtaken it; and, I doubt not, will ſhortly be able to clip its wings.’

‘If you have really any agreeable intel⯑ligence for me, I intreat you tell it, with⯑out all this gaiety; which, excuſe me if I ſay, is a little ill-timed.’

‘By no means ſo. Ought the meſſen⯑ger of joy to wear the livery of ſorrow? I have two letters here’;—taking them from my pocket—‘I wiſh I dare read them to you:—but you will be all emo⯑tion; raiſe your fever; and Howard will come in juſt now, and ſhake his big wig at me.’

"What letters are they?"

‘You ſhall know preſently: but firſt let me aſk you,—have you fortitude enough to bear the loſs of your miſ⯑treſs?’

"My Valeria?" cried he, with extreme eagerneſs.

[33] ‘Not your Valeria; but Miſs Ormſby: you have loſt her for ever.’

"Is the poor girl dead?" demanded he, much ſurprized.

"No. She is dead to you, though."

"Then," ſaid he, haſtily, ‘I hope ſomebody has run away with her.’

"Very lover-like, upon my word!" ob⯑ſerved I, laughing.

‘Dear Methuen, do not trifle with my impatience.’

I read the letters to him; firſt telling him their contents, that I might not ſur⯑prize him. The generoſity that peculiarly marks his character, appeared in its ſull luſtre:—he called Miſs Ormſby's letter to her ſiſter, a forgery; until he had compared it with her hand-writing, which put the matter out of doubt. He framed excuſes for her: ſaid, that Webſter was undoubted⯑ly ſome artful, low-minded fellow, who by the force of perſonal allurements, and per⯑haps by too frequent opportunities of con⯑verſing with her, might have ſtolen into her heart when ſhe was young and inexpe⯑rienced; and whilſt immature reaſon yet [34]wanted ſtrength to hold the reins of paſſion, had taken a baſe advantage of her weakneſs and love. He added, that large allowances were to be made for her renewing her con⯑nexions with her lover, though married:— her reputation being abſolutely in his power, her love for him violent, and a ſecond breach of chaſtity much more difficult to withſtand than the firſt; the conſciouſneſs of worth was extinct, and modeſty and pride, the two great ſafeguards of female ho⯑nour, weakened; with regard to him, per⯑haps wholly ſubdued. Notwithſtanding theſe effuſions of humanity, he was over⯑joyed, enraptured, at his unexpected deli⯑verance; though too ſevere to himſelf, and too indulgent to others, he blamed himſelf for being ſo. "What a wretch I am," cried he, ‘to rejoice at an incident ſo full of horror! I might ſay, with the devil in Milton—Evil, be thou my good.’

I forbore to anſwer him, leſt the length of our converſation ſhould fatigue him too much. He lay ſilent and quiet a good while; but the agitation of his mind was eaſily diſcernible in his ſpeaking counte⯑nance: [35]at length, giving a ſpring, as by the impulſe of ſudden paſſion, he toſſed the bed cloaths off his ſhoulders, and catching faſt hold of both my hands,—‘O Methuen, if my Valeria—.’ He wanted breath to proceed. I intreated him to be com⯑poſed; and endeavoured to make him ſen⯑ſible, that his recovery depended entirely on himſelf.

Although I was obliged to leave his thoughts at full liberty on this ſubject, I was determined to fetter his tongue; and ringing the bell, ſoon brought in the attentive Philip; and a little after him, the doctor.

Sir Edward peremptorily inſiſted on my taking ſome reſt; giving, at the ſame time, a like command to his valet; but the af⯑fectionate creature proteſting—I believe with much leſs truth than good nature— that he had been in bed great part of the day, he was permitted to ſtay; and I re⯑luctantly withdrew: but I could not think of ſleep till I had given you this recital.

Bon ſoir, ma chere Louiſe: ou, pour mieux⯑dire, bon jour, for it is three o'clock.

[36] Heaven be praiſed! he is ſomewhat bet⯑ter this morning. The doctor ſays his diſ⯑order has taken a favourable turn. It is obſerved, that phyſicians generally make the worſt of their patient's diſtemper, in order to give the greater opinion of their ſkill in curing it:—this good-natured ſon of Galen, au contraire, has been all along endeavouring to perſuade us, that Sir Ed⯑ward was in a leſs dangerous way than he really was. I believe Mrs. Wentworth would have been, by this time, as ill as her brother, if Howard had not kept up her ſpirits, by the moſt confident aſſurances of his recovery. However, he now agrees with me, in thinking the moſt unhappy conſequences might have enſued from the vexation of his mind. ‘My ſanguine hopes of him,’ ſaid he, ‘aroſe from my ignorance of the original cauſe of his ill⯑neſs. I ſhould have thought it ſtrange, if four and twenty, and a ſound conſti⯑tution, could not have overcome ſuch a fever: but as he has ſo lively an imagi⯑nation, and was abſolutely determined to die, there is no ſaying what might have [37]happened, But now, my lord,’ added he, with a benevolent ſmile, ‘that I may reaſonably preſume I have his imagina⯑tion on my ſide, and that he is wiſe enough to be determined-to live, my life for his, he will be able to viſit his miſ⯑treſs before this day three weeks.’

I ſhall always think myſelf obliged to this good man, for the conſtant attendance he has paid here: to which, I am convinced, he was prompted more by a ſincere eſteem for his patient, than by any view to intereſt.

Marchmont wanted to conſult with his ſiſ⯑ter and me, on the moſt proper way of break⯑ing off the treaty with Mr. Ormſby, with⯑out injuring the young lady. We both ad⯑viſed him not to perplex himſelf with the affair at preſent: the family has already been informed of his ſevere indiſpoſition:— nothing more need be done till he is well.

He then begged Mrs. Wentworth, or me, to write a line of acknowledgment to lady Mary Webſter; carefully avoiding therein to make unneceſſary reflections on Miſs Ormſby. I ſaid, if he pleaſed, I would go to lady Mary; as I was very cu⯑rious [38]to know how ſhe got Miſs Ormſby's letter. My propoſal was readily aſſented to; accordingly I go to London this even⯑ing; ſleep at my own houſe there to-night; wait on her ladyſhip in the morning; and return to Hermitage to dinner.

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

I HAVE diſcharged my commiſſion à merveilles! Ecoutez.

I paſſed the evening with my worthy friend, dean Domville. We were quite en famille; no company but lady Lucy Domville and myſelf. I enquired of her ladyſhip for the Hibernian beauty. She ſmiled at the epithet. "I wiſh," ſaid ſhe, ‘lady Enmore heard you; it would delight her. When Miſs O'Bryen went to France, they at firſt called her, by way of diſtinction, La belle Angloiſe; but lady Enmore, with a kind of national pride, inſiſted upon its being changed into— Irlandoiſe.’

I aſked what ſtay Miſs O'Bryen made in England.

"I really cannot exactly ſay, my lord," ſhe replied; ‘ſhe and I go together: my ſtay depends on my ſiſter,’ looking archly [40]at Mrs. Domville; ‘and my fair friend has now gotten a nurſery of her own.’

"I heard ſhe was at Granville-park," ſaid I. ‘I hope none of that family is indiſpoſed?’

"They are very well," ſhe anſwered; ‘but her countrywoman and mine, lady Mary Webſter, is extremely ill. She requeſted I would write to Miſs O'Bryen to come to her; which I did yeſterday evening. I had a note from her this morning. She tells me the duke of Granville will not ſuffer her to leave him; but the whole family will come to town this evening, on purpoſe to give her an opportunity of attending lady Mary.’

I was agreeably ſurprized to find lady Lucy knew this lady, and threw out ſome queſtions concerning her as indirectly as I could; though, I dare ſay, notwithſtanding my caution, ſhe thought me very imperti⯑nently curious. The information I drew from her, is, in ſubſtance, as follows:— Lady Mary Webſter is daughter to the late earl Enmore, whoſe title became extinct at his death. He left every thing to his wife, [41]except her own fortune of ten thouſand pounds, which was ſettled on lady Mary.— Lady Enmore took her daughter and Miſs O'Bryen to France with her laſt ſummer. A little time after the latter came over here, lady Mary left France—entirely againſt her mother's approbation and conſent—with Mr. Webſter; a man deſtitute of birth, fortune, or character: "who muſt have married her" ſaid lady Lucy, "only with intereſted views; as her manners and converſation are not engaging, and her perſon ugly, even to deformity. Her mother has not yet received her in⯑to favour; and I ſuppoſe never will. I fancy," added ſhe, "lady Enmore will make Miſs O'Bryen her heir, for ſhe is exceſſively fond of her. I wiſh heartily that ſhe may; though, I am ſure, Va⯑leria herſelf does not wiſh it."

‘Lady Mary is much obliged to your ladyſhip,’ ſaid I.

"O, my lord," putting up her lip, ‘if you knew what a diſagreeable creature it is!’

[42] "And ſo," ſaid the dean, ‘becauſe the one is handſome, and the other ugly—.’

"It is not that, brother," interrupted ſhe; ‘but if you were as well acquainted with the nobleneſs of my friend's mind as I am, I am certain you would join with me in wiſhing her as much diſtinguiſhed by fortune, as ſhe is by birth, under⯑ſtanding, beauty, and accompliſhments.’

We all joined in her juſt panegyric: the dean did ſo in the following words:

‘I eſteem Miſs O'Bryen as much as I admire her; and yet, if I were a ſingle man, I ſhould be very ſorry to be her lover.’

"Why ſo?" demanded Mrs. Domville. ‘I don't think ſhe has any thing of the in⯑ſolence of a beauty.’

"Still," he replied, ‘I could not bear the conſciouſneſs of inferiority; the fear of being thought preſumptuous; the de⯑ſpair of gaining her; and the mortifica⯑tion of ſeeing her ſurrounded by more de⯑ſerving lovers.’

"However," ſaid lady Lucy, ‘your anxieties would be of ſhort duration: [43]Valeria is too generous to trifle in theſe caſes. But you would have a bad chance of ſucceeding, I can tell you: to my know⯑ledge, ſhe has refuſed great matches. Indeed, it cannot be expected that we beauties" — affecting to look grave — ſhould be as eaſily won as other women. The language of admiration when ſeldom heard, and only from one or two parti⯑cular perſons, affects the heart wonder⯑fully: but thoſe, to whom every mouth has addreſſed it, from their very cradles, become at length totally inſenſible to it.’

This converſation naturally threw me in⯑to reflections on my friend's affairs, and excited a fear that Miſs O'Bryen might not countenance his addreſſes. This very diſ⯑agreeable apprehenſion threw a gloom over my mind, and probably over my behaviour, though my friends were too polite to let me ſee they took notice of it. When I left the dean's, and got into my own ſolitary houſe, and ſtill more ſolitary bed, my thoughts reverted to this ſubject: after conſidering the matter a good while, I determined to call on the young beauty in the morning. [44]Be ſhe as obdurate as ſhe may, thought I, ſurely ſhe will not be able to refuſe the fineſt fellow in England, who is actually and li⯑terally dying for her. The more I rumi⯑nated on my project, the more I approved it: I could ſay more in his favour, than he could well do himſelf. I could repreſent his connection with the unworthy Ormſby, more to his advantage than he could allow himſelf to do:—au pis aller, my interpoſi⯑tion could do no hurt; if it did not forward his ſuit, at leaſt it could not retard it, or be any way detrimental to him.

Accordingly, I went to the duke of Granville's this morning, and deſired to know if I might have the honour to ſee Miſs O'Bryen. I was ſhewn into a par⯑lour, and ſent up my name, She came down immediately—out of breath—evident⯑ly trembling—quite diſcompoſed—Je n'en augur ai pas mal. I determined to conquer her heart—don't be alarmed, Louiſa; only to conquer it for Marchmont—par un coup de main. I approached her with a dejected air:—‘'Tis on a very melancholy occa⯑ſion, dear Miſs O'Bryen, that I give you [45]this trouble.’ The bluſh that confuſion had ſpread over her face on her entrance, vaniſhed; ſhe became quite pale. I led her to a ſeat; and cruelly reſolved to pur⯑ſue my advantage. ‘You will pardon me, madam, if I enter abruptly into the occaſion of my viſit?’ She bowed her head. "Sir Edward Marchmont," re⯑ſumed I, ‘loves you to diſtraction: he did ſo from the firſt moment he beheld you. An engagement, into which he had been very artfully drawn, obliged him to conceal his paſſion; the reſtraint has thrown him into a violent fever;—he is dying!’—She fainted. I caught her in my arms, and pulled the bell with violence. A ſervant came in, and ſeeing her condition, ran up ſtairs, without waiting for any orders. In a moment the room was filled; the duke, lady Caryſbrook, her two daugh⯑ters, and a number of ſervants of both ſexes, flew to her aſſiſtance. I carried her to a window;—Granville ſnatched her from me, and ſupported her himſelf. He gazed on her with tenderneſs and concern; and glancing on me a regard of mingled ſcorn, [46]anger, and curioſity—‘Who the devil are you, ſir?—What is the matter with her?—What have you done to her?’ I made no anſwer to theſe uncivil and pe⯑remptory interrogatories; but employed myſelf in throwing up the ſaſh, and inter⯑nally curſing my well-meant ſtratagem.

Lady Caryſbrook adminiſtered drops, cold water, &c. with a countenance full of anxiety.

Lady Alicia Sedley wept; and held one of her couſin's ſnowy hands preſſed in both her own, of ſcarce inferior whiteneſs.

Lady Fanny ſeemed frightened out of her wits; ran up and down the room; joſ⯑tled the ſervants; ſpilt a baſon of water, and broke a bottle of hartſhorn.

At laſt, the lovely cauſe of all this buſtle, opened her fine eyes; fixed them languiſh⯑ingly on me, and held out her hand. I kiſſed it with ardour; I loved her for her ſenſibility; I loved her ſtill more, becauſe my friend was the object of that ſenſibility. The duke looked at me again:—‘Bleſs me!’ exclaimed he, ‘Pray, are you not lord Methuen?’ I bowed my an⯑ſwer. [47]"I am afraid, my lord," ſaid he, ‘I have treated you with indignity: I be⯑ſech you to excuſe me: I really did not recollect your face; and my grand⯑daughter's fit, ſurprized and frightened me ſo much, I was not maſter of my temper.’

I aſſured him there was no occaſion for apologies; and begged, that when the young lady was ſufficiently recovered, I might be permitted to ſpeak a few words to her, on a ſubject that was not likely to diſcompoſe her: if he pleaſed, it ſhould be in preſence of one of the ladies.

He nodded a doubtful aſſent; and or⯑dered the ſervants to retire.

The firſt uſe ſhe made of her returning ſenſes, was to thank his grace, with the ut⯑moſt ſweetneſs, for his attention to her. He kiſſed her; placed her on a chair, and ſat down by her, his arm incloſing her elegant waiſt. He whiſpered to her: I ſuppoſe to aſk, if ſhe choſe to converſe with me; for I heard her anſwer, ‘Yes, my lord, if it be agreeable to you.’ He then requeſt⯑ed I would be kind enough to ſpend the [48]day with him: lady Caryſbrook ſeconded the invitation. I thanked them, but ſaid it was out of my power, as I was indiſpen⯑ſibly obliged to leave town immediately, to attend the ſick room of a dear friend.

After a few compliments on both ſides, he wiſhed me a good morning; and de⯑ſiring the young ladies to take care of their couſin, took lady Caryſbrook out with him.

Lady Alicia took her grandfather's ſeat; I placed myſelf on the other ſide of Miſs O'Bryen; and was preparing to tell her Edward's true ſituation, when ſhe turned to me with a deep ſigh, ‘What can I do, my lord?—What would you have me do? Your friend is engaged. But tell him,’ ſaid ſhe, laying her trembling hand on my arm, ‘tell him, though I can⯑not be his, he ſhall never have the mor⯑tification of ſeeing me another's.’ Her vermillion lips grew pale, and quivered as ſhe ſpoke: a flood of tears prevented her fainting again: ſhe leaned on the gentle Alicia's boſom.—Admire, Louiſa, her extraordinary, her delicate and diſintereſted [49]offer!—Don't you love this girl?— "Charming woman!" cried I, with tranſ⯑port. ‘Juſtly, moſt juſtly, does lady Lucy Domville call you generous and noble-minded. Permit me thus,’ and I put one knee to the ground, ‘to expreſs Edward's obligations to you.’

Lady Fanny ſtarted up, and caught hold of me,—‘Riſe, for pity's ſake: I have a mortal averſion to all tragedy ſcenes.’ I aroſe, ſecretly deſpiſing her levity; but the tears that ſparkled in her pretty eyes, half recovered my good opinion. She drew a chair, and ſitting down beſide me, with a familiar and not unpleaſing air, —‘Now explain this matter to me, my lord. I underſtand no more of it than this:—a gentleman, you call Edward, loves Va⯑leria, and is engaged; ſhe promiſes, be⯑cauſe ſhe cannot marry him, not to mar⯑ry any body elſe. It is very unjuſt, in my opinion, both of you and the gentle⯑man; and, excuſe me,’—ſhaking the powder out of her hair— ‘very like the dog in the manger, to exact ſuch a ſacri⯑fice from her; and very romantic in her [50]to make it. To live ſingle!’ —ſhaking her head again—"to die an old maid!—".

"Fie, Fanny!" ſaid her ſiſter; ‘is this a ſubject for raillery?’

With a view to ſpare Miſs O'Bryen, I addreſſed myſelf to lady Fanny. ‘It would make me ſo unhappy, madam,’ ſaid I, ‘that you ſhould think my conduct cen⯑ſurable, that I muſt beg your attention while I fully explain the whole affair:— I preſume you have ſeen Sir Edward Marchmont?’

‘Yes, in public; but I am not ac⯑quainted with him. He is delightfully handſome; and I have heard him very advantageouſly ſpoken of. One might have compaſſion enough to marry him; but not to take a vow of celibacy for his ſake.’

"Nor would he," I anſwered, ‘deſire any woman to make him ſuch a ſacrifice, as you juſt now properly called it.’

‘But proceed, my lord; you were go⯑ing to tell me ſomething.’

‘Before Miſs O'Bryen came to Eng⯑land, Sir Edward Marchmont made pro⯑poſals [51]of marriage to a young lady of ſeem⯑ing worth; ſolely induced thereto by the be⯑lief that ſhe loved him. Though as well formed to feel, as to inſpire, the ten⯑dereſt of all paſſions, he had a ſtrange— and, as he has ſince found, ill-grounded opinion of the inſenſibility of his heart:— miſtaken gratitude taught him to give a faint preference to the lady in queſtion, and that was all he thought himſelf ca⯑pable of doing. He ſaw Miſs O'Bryen! —the diſcernment that made him ſo nice in his choice, and had hitherto ſecured him from the ſex, now only enabled him the better to diſcover her exquiſite merit. A novice in love, he attributed his new' feelings to juſt admiration, and deſerved friendſhip, till his affections were too far gone ever to be recalled.’

Lady Fanny repeated the following lines of a ſong:—

[52] ‘I hope you will experience the truth of the obſervation,’ ſaid lady Alicia, ‘for your impertinent interruption. Pray go on, my lord.’

I continued—‘Honour, that refinement of aggregated virtues, which never held a more unlimited ſway than in Sir Ed⯑ward's breaſt, directed him to chuſe a life of miſery, rather than take the ſmal⯑leſt ſtep to free himſelf from an engage⯑ment, which the lady gave him every reaſon to ſuppoſe was neceſſary to her happineſs. At length the wedding-day was fixt, and the violence of conflicting paſſions increaſed. The near and certain proſpect of compleat wretchedneſs could not ſhake his reſolution; but it brought on a fever. Actuated by deſpair, he ſhunned not—he courted death; and the continued perturbation of his mind, ad⯑ded hourly ſtrength to his diſorder; 'till Heaven itſelf—I will ſay ſo—interpoſed. The injured wife of a man, to whom my friend's intended bride had ſhewn un⯑bounded favour, ſent him a letter written by her, and addreſſed to her ſiſter:— [53]Miſs O'Bryen will be pleaſed to read theſe letters, while I tell you their contents. You will excuſe my ſuppreſſing names, as Marchmont would not forgive my ex⯑poſing the young lady.’

La belle Irlandoiſe took the papers with an air of confuſion and ſurprize, and went over to a window. When I perceived ſhe had done reading them, I approached her. —"Amazing! abſolutely amazing!" ſaid ſhe, in a low voice, as ſhe gave me back the papers: ‘but can your lordſhip be cer⯑tain that letter was really written by Miſs Ormſby?’

I aſſured her there was not the leaſt room to doubt it. The ſimilarity of her beha⯑viour to Edward's, on the ſame occaſion, ſtruck me.

Lady Alicia joined us. ‘You will ex⯑cuſe us,’ ſaid ſhe to Miſs O'Bryen, ‘if we leave you; it is time to dreſs; you know we have ſome viſits to make before dinner.’ Without waiting for an an⯑ſwer from her, ſhe turned to me— ‘Our acquaintance, my lord, has commenced rather whimſically; yet I flatter myſelf it will be durable: and I ſhall ever re⯑member [54]this day with particular com⯑placency. Be aſſured, your company muſt always give the higheſt pleaſure to every individual of this family; and your friends—you underſtand me—’ ſmiling, ‘may be certain of the beſt wel⯑come in our power to give.’

I made a ſuitable return to her conſide⯑rate politeneſs; and ſhe retired with her ſiſter.

I then begged Miſs O'Bryen's forgive⯑neſs for the alarm I had occaſioned her; candidly telling her my motives for it.— "In ſhort," ſaid I, ‘I feared, that ac⯑cuſtomed only to refuſe, a common plea would not ſuffice to move you: yet I told you no more than would have been true two days ago. Now, thank God! he is recovering, and I truſt will ſoon be out of danger.’

She ſighed gently, as I concluded. ‘My lord,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘you compliment me too highly on the ſide of beauty; but al⯑low me to ſay, you do me not juſtice in other reſpects:—why ſhould you ſuppoſe me hard-hearted? Never did I hear a [55]ſigh, to which the ſigh of ſympathy did not unbidden riſe; nor ſaw a tear, I an⯑ſwered not with tears. Believe me, I am above coquetry; and would neither baſely excite a vain expectation, nor un⯑generouſly delay a favour I meant to grant.’—Here, Louiſa, here is the language of a noble heart! This girl is worthy of my friend.

I converſed with her above an hour, with all the eaſe of friendſhip. I ſpoke of Miſs Ormſby, without ſcrupling to cenſure her as ſhe deſerves. Her beautiful rival for⯑bore to paſs any judgment on her; in which ſhe certainly was extremely right; as it did not belong to virtue to excuſe, nor to the delicacy of her own ſituation to condemn her.

She treated lady Mary's miſconduct with much more tenderneſs than lady Lucy had done: ſaid, though ſhe might be blamed for her imprudent marriage, ſhe was great⯑ly to be pitied in its event. It was hard, ſhe ſhould not find a friend in him, to whom ſhe ſacrificed all her friends.

[56] I aſked what was her ladyſhip's diſorder. —She could not tell; as lady Lucy had not particularly informed her, and ſhe had not yet ſeen her, it being very late when ſhe came to town the preceding evening; but ſhe believed her in the laſt ſtage of a con⯑ſumption.

I told her of my meſſage, which I re⯑queſted her to deliver for me, as I ſuppoſed I could not be permitted to ſee lady Mary. She promiſed to do ſo; and likewiſe to in⯑dulge the curioſity I expreſſed with regard to Miſs Ormſby's letter, if it ſhould be in her power.

I took my leave with reluctance, though well ſatisfied, you may believe, with my ſucceſs. How ſhall I rejoice my friend's heart! How does my own already rejoice in the anticipation of his happineſs!

I muſt conclude, for my dinner waits. It will be the moſt uncomfortable meal I ever ſat down to, for I am quite alone. I be⯑lieve I ſhould go to my ſervants' table, if I did not think my preſence would be a diſa⯑greeable reſtraint on them.

[57] In order to have time to write to you, I ſent to let Mrs. Wentworth know I could not be with her till evening.

I hope to return to you in a few days. In the mean time, continue to write to me, and always tell me how you are: you men⯑tion your own health as ſlightly, as if it was not the moſt important ſubject to me you could poſſibly ſpeak on: but I hear from the ſervants that you are quite well. God preſerve you, my angel!

Embrace your bold boy for me.

TO MRS. CHETWYND, —IRELAND.

I PAY ſuch cloſe attendance to the un⯑happy lady Mary, that I have ſcarcely a moment to myſelf; otherwiſe I ſhould be much to blame for being four days ſilent, as I think—I flatter myſelf—you muſt be im⯑patient and uneaſy to hear how Sir Edward does. Praiſed be God, he is better!

I incloſe you letters I received from him, and my affectionate friend, Mrs. Went⯑worth, the day after I ſaw lord Methuen. — No, excuſe me; I ſend Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and a copy of her brother's.—Don't laugh at me, dear aunt.

I am ſure you will admire the delicacy of his ſtile. How few men, ſituated as he is, —for, doubtleſs, lord Methuen told him every thing—would expreſs himſelf thus delicately!—with ſuch timid reſpect!

I have written to him, and not without tenderneſs; ſince I reproved him for en⯑dangering his health by writing to me, and [59]forbad him the uſe of his pen till he is well enough to leave his bed.

I believe I need not vindicate my beha⯑haviour throughout this aſſair to you. I know you are no friend to coquetry. In⯑deed, wherefore ſhould not I, certain that I poſſeſs his affections, and unconſcious of offence, entirely conſide in him, who con⯑ducted himſelf with ſuch nice honour to⯑wards a woman he did not love; and ſtill wiſhes, and ſtudies, to promote her happi⯑neſs, after receiving the groſſeſt injury and affront it was poſſible for her to offer him?

I think, madam, I never was ſo oddly encompaſſed with pleaſures and ſorrows as I am at preſent:—one copious ſource of pleaſure I need not point out. Another, which I derive from the extreme kindneſs of my grandfather (he will always have me call him ſo), and his family, is likewiſe ſufficiently obvious. I am extremely hap⯑py too, that my wiſhes for Miſs March⯑mont are anſwered: ſhe tells me, that the amiable marquis de St. Clair has declared himſelf her lover. She has impoſed on him a probation of two months: in his particu⯑lar [60]circumſtances, it was both delicate and prudent to do ſo. I queſtion not, how⯑ever, he will find means to perſuade her to ſhorten the time. She writes to me with that warm and cordial friendſhip, which ſubſiſted between us before our little rivalry; and which, I feared of late, was in a great meaſure extinguiſhed on her ſide. She was unjuſt; but I blamed human nature—not Miſs Marchmont; and with a ſecret ſatis⯑faction repeated thoſe very fine lines,—

In ſeeking Leonora's advantage, I found my own: the path of rectitude, I have ever experienced, leads to felicity.—O may I al⯑ways tread it! I endeavoured to ſecure her happineſs, and Heaven took care of mine. So much for my pleaſures:—you may be ſure I mean my lately acquired ones, as I do not mention my dear uncle or you.

[61] My ſorrows are—firſt, an anxious ſolici⯑tude, a thouſand tender fears for Sir Ed⯑ward's health. Secondly, and laſtly—how few people could ſo eaſily reckon up their ſorrows!—a ſincere affliction on lady Mary's account. Her chief phyſician took me aſide yeſterday, and honeſtly told me his attendance was quite unneceſſary; the lady was beyond the power of medicine; might linger out a few weeks, but never could recover. I begged of him to conti⯑nue his viſits, notwithſtanding; and aſked if he did not think it expedient ſhe ſhould be informed of her danger. He ſhook his head, and ſaid ſhe was very deſpondent al⯑ready; but as there were abſolutely no hopes, I might do as I pleaſed. I have a poor opinion of the efficacy of a repentance ex⯑torted only through the fear of death; and imagine, that a dying perſon is far from being capable of properly ſettling even worldly affairs; for as the ſoul, in its em⯑bodied ſtate, muſt have the expreſſion of its powers modified by the nature of the or⯑gans through which it acts, it is clear, that any diſorder in the nice mechaniſm of the body, [62]muſt affect the action of the ſoul. Yet, though every body confeſſes the neceſſity of preparing for an event which cannot be prevented,—unhappily, there are but too many who love to poſtpone all conſidera⯑tion of it: therefore, I think it extremely wrong in a by-ſtander to conceal the cer⯑tain approach of death: it is cruelty, at leaſt it is very ill-judged compaſſion. It is not probable that either ſpiritual or tempo⯑ral concerns will be advantageouſly ſettled at this very awful period, when the vigour both of mind and body is broken: but if it be poſſible they can be ſettled at all, people ſhould have a chance given them for doing it. With the permiſſion of lady Mary's phyſician, I undertook the moſt painful and melancholy office I ever executed. She ſeemed greatly alarmed; though ſhe ſaid ſhe expected it. On the whole, however, ſhe behaved with fortitude; called death a refuge from calamities worſe than death; calamities which ſhe had brought on her⯑ſelf. She mentioned her mother with ten⯑derneſs; lamented her alienation from her; and ſeverely lamented her own diſobedience, [63]which ſhe conſidered as the cauſe of her ſubſequent misfortunes, having thereby in⯑curred the diſpleaſure of the Almighty.— She appeared, altogether, in a frame of mind very ſuitable to her ſtate.

I ventured to aſk, if ſhe choſe to ſee Mr. Webſter. Her placidity was no more; —ſhe bit her lips—called him a villain, who had baſely betrayed, and ungratefully ſacrificed her: loaded Miſs Ormſby with execrations—not to ſay curſes. I ſhudder⯑ed; but as I perceived her paſſions were juſt then too ſtrong to combat, I did not attempt. However, I have ſince taken oc⯑caſion to drop a few gentle hints on the ne⯑ceſſity of forgiving injuries.

I ſuppoſe her unworthy huſband, and his —I muſt add unworthy—miſtreſs, are ſtill at Jephſon-lodge. Both of them, I be⯑lieve, are as yet ignorant of the diſcovery that has been made. Apropos—You are deſirous, I preſume, to know how lady Mary came by the important letter, that has done ſo much harm to herſelf, and ſo much good to ſome others:—lady Con⯑way, who, it ſeems, is extremely giddy and [64]careleſs, left her cabinet open: her maid ſearched it out of curioſity; found that let⯑ter amongſt other papers; which having read, ſhe miſchievouſly brought to lady Mary, who, you may imagine, handſomely rewarded this fatal ſervice.

—

Lady Lucy Domville has juſt been with me. She hears from her mother, that lady Enmore is returned to Ireland. I re⯑queſt you will immediately inform her of her daughter's ſituation. I am ſure her forgiveneſs—for I make no doubt of her granting it—will be very ſoothing to lady Mary. If ſhe holds to her purpoſes, her heart is not ſo good as I have hitherto thought it: tell her I ſay ſo. I know by her anſwer to my pleadings for lady Mary, ſhe is diſpleaſed with me; but I am certain ſhe loves, and—allow me to add—reſpects me; and would be very ſorry I ſhould not think well of her. She ſays I am the moſt ſophiſtical reaſoner ſhe ever knew. My [65]arguments might not have been quite con⯑vincing, but I heartily wiſh ſhe had allowed herſelf to be perſuaded by them; for I am ſure the remembrance of her ſeverity to her daughter, will give her pain as long as ſhe lives.

I have another commiſſion for you, ma⯑dam.—My uncle ſuſpects ſomething par⯑ticular, from your concealing my letters from him, contrary to your wonted cuſ⯑tom. I intreat you will tell him every thing: and, dear, dear aunt, diſpoſe him to think favourably of Sir Edward.

To my great ſatisfaction, he is already approved by the duke, who is well ac⯑quainted with his character. He took an opportunity of throwing out ſome oblique hints with regard to lord Methuen's viſit: I bluſhed—looked out of the window—then on the ground—counted my fingers—; at laſt told him, I thought it contrary to my duty to keep any thing of importance from his knowledge; and taking his hand, though without daring to raiſe my eyes to his face, —"Dear ſir," ſaid I, ‘will you excuſe my ſpeaking, and lady Alicia ſhall tell [66]you all?’ His eyes gliſtened at what he called, my ſweet ſimplicity: he preſſed me cloſe to his breaſt, giving me the moſt flat⯑tering and endearing appellations.

The dear old man ſends every day to enquire about Sir Edward. To-day, when the ſervant returned, his grace read the card aloud, as uſual: the little wicked lady Fanny ſaid, with an air of gravity, ‘You don't know, my lord, what a vile Iriſh tone Miſs O'Bryen has in reading, though you don't perceive it in her ſpeaking— only make her read that card.’

I don't know in what tone I might have read it; but I am afraid my voice would have been none of the ſteadieſt. I ſuppoſe I looked a little fooliſh; for lady Alicia, who cannot bear to ſee any body ſuffer the ſlighteſt pain for a moment, immediately ſaid,—‘Come, Valeria, is it not time for us to go to lady Mary?’ You may be⯑lieve I willingly complied. You muſt know, madam, ſhe often accompanies me to ſee my unfortunate patient:—her gentle heart is open to every diſtreſs.

[67] Lady Caryſbrook wanted to ſend her own maid—who is an elderly woman, and has lived with her a long time—to take care of poor lady Mary, who has nobody about her that can be ſuppoſed any way at⯑tached to her. I refuſed the offer, as I knew it would be inconvenint to my aunt to want her; and the nurſe-tender ſeems very careful and orderly. I have, how⯑ever, placed my Eleanor with her, who is extremely good-natured, and will do every thing ſhe can for her, for my ſake.

Lady Alicia comes to propoſe our ſpend⯑ing an hour with lady Mary before ſupper. She deſired me to give her love to you:—I ſmiled:—ſhe repeated her requeſt; and ſays ſhe will love good people, whether they are perſonally known to her or not;— ſhe may ſafely, for every good perſon muſt love her.

Adieu, my beſt and deareſt friend, adieu.

TO MISS ORMSBY.—JEPHSON-LODGE.

I HAVE told you a thouſand times that Webſter would be your ruin:—but I for⯑get it is you that are to ſcold me.—My vile careleſſneſs! We muſt fix on ſome plan:—to qualify you for it, I ſhall give you a detail of very diſagreeable particu⯑lars. My father and Sir James went yeſ⯑terday morning to ſee Sir Edward March⯑mont, which they would have done ſooner, had they been certain his fever was not epidemical. They were received with fro⯑zen civility by lord Methuen: Mrs. Went⯑worth did not appear. His lordſhip ſaid, Sir Edward was better, but not well enough to ſee them; and coldly thanked them, in his name, for the honour of their viſit. He had not the politeneſs to aſk either for you or me; but ſaid, ſlightly, he hoped Mrs. Ormſby was well. My father profeſſed much concern, that the honour which had been intended his family, had been ſo diſ⯑agreeably [69]deferred. The inſolent peer took no manner of notice of this; but, with a wonderful ſang froid, reſumed a po⯑litical ſubject he had before introduced. He made them take wine, and ſome re⯑freſhments, but did not aſk them to ſtay to dinner, though it was pretty late. My fa⯑ther is monſtrouſly huffed; but Sir James ſeems to think nothing about the matter:— he, you know, is one of thoſe dull, eaſy, mortals, whom it is difficult to vex, and impoſſible to pleaſe.

I was to ſpend the evening at Mrs. Hil⯑ton's rout; and took it into my head that ſome rings, I ſeldom wear on account of their ſlightneſs, would look well enough amongſt my others,; but having ſought them in vain, I was obliged to go without them.

I diſengaged myſelf from the card-table after playing one pool of quadrille, in order to flirt with Frank Preſton. As we chatted together, an officer came up to him; per⯑haps to take a nearer view of me. ‘Well, Bathurſt,’ ſaid my beau, ‘give an ac⯑count of yourſelf. Where were you [70]rambling to-day? I called at your lodg⯑ings, and they told me you had gone out of town. The ſmart widow, to be ſure—.’

‘No, upon my honour: I did not ſee the lady you hinted at theſe three days. I confeſs, however, I was at the houſe of a rich, handſome young widow; but I went there to ſee her brother, Sir Ed⯑ward Marchmont.’

I pricked up my ears.

"How is he?" aſked Preſton: ‘Is he able to ſee company?’

"He keeps his room ſtill," returned the other; ‘and I ſuppoſe admits only parti⯑cular friends.’

Now, Hannah, it is plain he ſaw major Bathurſt, though he was denied to our gentlemen; and if there was not—to borrow my eloquent Sir James's phraſe—ſomething extraordinary in the wind, it is to be ima⯑gined, he would have conſidered your fa⯑ther and brother-in-law as his particular friends. But you have not heard the worſt yet, I can tell you. This morning—Lord knows how I came to be ſo careful—I re⯑newed [71]my ſearch for the rings, but without effect. The uneaſineſs my ſuivante diſco⯑vered, while I ranſacked my drawers, &c. for them, induced me to ſuſpect ſhe had ſtolen them. I called to mind having for⯑gotten my keys on my toilette, about ten days ago, when I dined at my father's; and being alarmed for the ſafety of a little cabi⯑net, wherein I keep things of moſt value— as jewels, money, papers—I ran to ſee if the enemy had carried their depredations ſo far. I miſſed, beſides the rings, ten or twelve guineas, ſome gold pocket-pieces, my grandfather's picture, and that of the reverend gentlewoman, his wife. As to the pictures, if the wench had been con⯑tentented with taking them, I ſhould not have cared a farthing, though they were ſet in gold, which, I preſume, was the reaſon of her ſtealing them; it could not be for their extraordinary beauty, I am certain.— How proud my poor grandfather would have been, had ſomebody, in the ſpirit of pro⯑phecy, foretold what was to befal his pic⯑ture in the latter days! Little did he think that a fair oue would venture her neck to [72]poſſeſs herſelf of it. I'll anſwer for it, no woman went ſuch lengths in his favour, during his life. The Lord ſend Harris a huſband as old and as ugly, to puniſh her for her diſhoneſty.—But I was going to ſay, that, though willing to indulge my maid with the pictures, I did not much re⯑liſh the loſs of the reſt. I was frightened leſt the creature had had the curioſity to look at my letters: there were ſome from —you may gueſs who;—no harm in a little flirtation, Hannah;—I found theſe in a place by themſelves, and they did not appear to have been touched. I preſently miſſed the letter you wrote to me the night before you went to Jephſon-lodge. I don't exactly remember its contents, but I am ſure they were of a nature not to bear my lady Harris's inſpection. After tumbling up and down for it a great while, to no purpoſe, I called her up, and abruptly charged her with robbing me; threatening to ſend her to jail. She denied the fact; and ſaid, if I had loſt any thing, there were other ſer⯑vants in the houſe as liable to be ſuſpected for the theft as ſhe. Accordingly, I aſſem⯑bled [75]the female part of my family, and be⯑gan a general examination. They unani⯑mouſly avowed their innocence: one of them offered to give her oath ſhe had not been in the room; which was echoed by all the reſt, except one of the chambermaids, who ſaid ſhe had been in the room, but would ſwear ſhe had ſtolen nothing. Har⯑ris frowned at her. It inſtantly ſtruck me, this girl knew ſomething of the affair; and thinking, as ſhe is a young, country ſim⯑pleton, ſhe would be eaſily wrought upon, I took her into another room, and there proteſted I ſhould ſend her to jail that mo⯑ment, if ſhe did not tell me the whole truth. She fell upon her knees; cried bit⯑terly; made ſtrong proteſtation of honeſty, and ſo forth; and, begging me to have mercy on her, confeſſed that ſhe had gone into my chamber by accident that evening, and ſaw Mrs. Harris reading a letter, ſtand⯑ing at my cabinet, which was open: her laughing over it, it ſeems, excited Debo⯑rah's curioſity, which the other gratified, by reading it to her. I queſtioned her concerning it; and from the confuſion of [74]her anſwers, had the ſatisfaction to find ſhe did not rightly comprehend it. She af⯑firmed, ſhe did not know of my maid's taking any thing but that letter. I eagerly aſked what had been done with it. She he⯑ſitated: I placed the formidable jail before her eyes once more. She acknowledged, that Harris had told her in confidence, that ſhe had diſpoſed of it to a lady, who had given her a great deal of money for it.— "What was the lady's name?" She did not remember it. ‘Was it lady Mary Webſter?’ "It was." I was beſide myſelf with rage. Only think what a ma⯑licious action it was in the treacherous wretch! I forced her keys from her, and in a little box, in one of her drawers, found the pocket-pieces, rings, and pictures. I demanded my money. She ſaid I owed her as much wages; which I believe was true: ſo after venting my rage on her, as far as impotent words could do it, I turned her away: and very merciful I was, to let her come off ſo eaſily.

What is now to be done, Hannah? I am convinced lady Mary—ſhe is certainly [75]capable of it—has done you ſome ill office with Sir Edward: perhaps ſent him the very letter. You know lord Methuen and he are prodigiouſly intimate: what was known to one, would not long be a ſecret to the other; and, without his lordſhip had ſome good reaſon for it, I cannot believe he would have treated my father and Sir James as he did; for he is confeſſedly exceedingly well-bred.

Can you think on any ſcheme, whereby to extricate yourſelf from this terrible di⯑lemma? You may depend on my bearing any part in it you pleaſe to allot me.— Could we contrive to diſavow the letter, and make the whole appear the effect of lady Mary's malice, and groundleſs jea⯑louſy? She will ſoon be out of a condition to contradict us: ſhe is given over;—there's conſolation for you!

I don't know what part to recommend to you. I think it is well worth your while to go great lengths to ſecure a huſ⯑band of Marchmont's conſequence: but do not advance a ſtep without being ſure of your ground: he is penetrating; and, take [76]my word for it, has not paſſion enough for you to blind him. His demure ſiſter, I ſuppoſe, would be conſulted; and women find out women's artifices much more eaſily than men do. I dread, too, lord Me⯑thuen's cool judgment.

If you think he is irrecoverably loſt—and, not to flatter you, I fear he is—all you can do, is to invent ſome plauſible ſtory to deceive my father, and throw yourſelf on Sir Edward's generoſity to countenance it; for if he diſcovers your intrigue with Web⯑ſter, you are utterly undone: and I don't ſee how he can well avoid diſcovering it, as he will be under the neceſſity of making a ſufficient apology for breaking off a match, which was on the point of being concluded. O, that horrid fever! Nothing ever was ſo mal a propos. Had it ſeized him one week later, you would have been lady Marchmont. A ſeparation would have been the worſt that could have happened; and that is often a very deſirable thing.

I ſuppoſe poor Mr. Webſter is piteouſly grieved for his lady's illneſs. I hope you are humane enough to endeavour to com⯑fort [77]him. 'Tis really melancholy, that ſuch a beautiful woman ſhould be cut off in the bloom of life.

Happen what may, it is my advice to you, never think of taking Webſter ‘for better for worſe:’ ambition and prudence— though they ſeldom give the ſame counſel— equally oppoſe it. He is meanly born; and, entre nous, our blood wants a little refining; on one ſide at leaſt. His wife's fortune— you know he has nothing elſe—will not entitle him to your's: and, depend on it, he would ſoon run through both. Beſides, as you can never expect that my father will conſent to your making ſuch an alliance, you muſt wait till his death, which is pro⯑bably a diſtant event. Add to all this, Webſter will not have any reſpect for you, or confidence in you, after the experience he has had of your character:—excuſe this free remark. Be guided by me; ſet your cap at ſome ſober, leaden-pated fellow, with a good eſtate, over whom your beauty will ſecure you an eaſy dominion. Retain Webſter, ſince he is ſo agreeable to you: and if you conduct yourſelf with common [78]prudence, you have ſuch a gentle, inno⯑cent, ſanctified appearance, you will never be ſuſpected.

O ciel! what a letter is here! the longeſt I ever wrote. I expect you to thank me for it. It puts me in mind of my board⯑ing-ſchool correſpondence with Burton, when I

Let me know what you intend to do, that I may have my leſſon.

My compliments to Bab Jephſon: tell her, her wicked eyes have done a world of miſchief amongſt the beaux:—pierced poor Hammond's heart through and through. Seriouſly, he profeſſes himſelf violently ſmitten with her. She need not doubt his veracity, for every acre of his eſtate is mortgaged; and no lover is ſo paſſionate, as he

[79] Theſe young widows have great attrac⯑tions. Cupid never miſſes his mark, when he takes

Heigh-ho! for a crape fan, to ogle the fellows through.

TO MISS ORMSBY.—JEPHSON-LODGE.

THE uncommon nature of the ſubject whereon I am obliged to trouble you, will, I hope, be a competent excuſe for me, if I ſhould ſeem wanting in that delicacy and reſpect which is due from my ſex to yours. I will not fatigue you with any other pre⯑face but this neceſſary one.

A letter of your's, to lady Conway, was ſent to me by a perſon, with whom I have no manner of connection. I ſee by it, that I am not ſo happy as to poſſeſs your affec⯑tion; I muſt, therefore, beg leave to de⯑cline the honour to which I had aſpired.— As I know not in what way it would be moſt agreeable to you I ſhould declare my intentions to Mr. Ormſby, I requeſt you will take the conduct of that matter on [81]yourſelf. I rely on your having the kind⯑neſs to repreſent my procedure as little to my diſadvantage as circumſtances may ad⯑mit.

I incloſe you your letter, madam, as I cannot think of retaining it; and imagine it will be more to your ſatisfaction to de⯑ſtroy it yourſelf, than if I were to do ſo.— What it may have ſuffered before it came to me, I am ignorant of, and cannot be anſwerable for; but ſince that period, aſ⯑ſure yourſelf, nothing has happened to it that need give you uneaſineſs; though, I confeſs, it has paſſed through a greater number of hands than I could wiſh.— When it arrived here, I was ſo danger⯑ouſly ill, that Mrs. Wentworth and lord Methuen would not deliver it; but, with a freedom their friendſhip fully authorized, they opened it. My lord judged it proper that a thing of ſuch importance ſhould be made known to me; and apprehending that the agitation of mind it would excite, might have bad conſequences, he conſulted with my phyſician; an indiſcretion, of which nothing but the exceſs of his fears for [82]me could have made him guilty. I have ſince exacted a promiſe of ſecrecy from doctor Howard; and, it is my opinion, you may very confidently depend on it. The letter has not been ſeen by any other than the perſons I have mentioned, except a young lady of diſtinguiſhed honour, and unequalled generoſity.

With the ſincereſt good wiſhes for your future happineſs,

TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.

AH! madam, lady Enmore's maternal tenderneſs rekindles too late. Her unfor⯑tunate daughter cannot be made ſenſible of her pardon and affection. She is totally de⯑prived of recollection and reaſon. She nei⯑ther eats, nor ſpeaks, nor moves;—knows nobody, and takes not the leaſt notice of any thing that is done about her. In ſhort, ſhe appears bereft of every faculty of mind and body: ſhe is not dead, but I can ſcarce⯑ly ſay ſhe is alive.

I am extremely glad lady Enmore did not come here; though ſorry it was indiſpoſi⯑tion that prevented her. Let her by no means think of undertaking the journey:— her preſence can avail nothing, for lady Mary has every help, and all the attend⯑ance that could be procured for her; and her ſituation is by much too ſhocking for the eye of a parent to behold.

[84] I directed lady Mary's maid to write to her maſter:—the following is his anſwer, word for word:—

Soon will this inſolent and cruel wretch enjoy the fortune of her, whom he has murdered, without the heavy incumbrance of a hated wife. Perhaps I am too ſevere, in ſaying he has murdered her, as ſhe had ſtrong ſymptoms of a decay, long before they were married: that he has ſhortened her life, however, by ſome months—or, it may be, years—is a circumſtance that will not admit of doubt. The poor creature, I fear, cannot hold out much longer: I ought not to have ſaid, I fear; for, in her dread⯑ful ſtate, it is rather the part of huma⯑nity [85]to wiſh to haſten, than retard her death.

I am ſo much fatigued and diſpirited, that I really am not able to write to lady Enmore. You ſay ſhe is in your neighbourhood;— you will pleaſe to bear her theſe ſorrowful tidings. The ſoothing gentleneſs of your manners, admirably fits you to perform theſe ſorts of melancholy offices; and I know the goodneſs of your heart ever leads you to ſeek them.

I thank you ten thouſand times, for the warmth of your congratulations on a cer⯑tain ſubject: they are juſt ſuch as I expected from the kindeſt friend, and beſt natured woman in the world. My dear uncle, too!—and did he weep over my letters? —As I read your's, I took his picture from my boſom, and preſſed it to my lips; ſhed⯑ding on it ſoft tears of affection and grati⯑tude. How many of his unfeeling ſex would have ſneered at the girl's folly, and made a ſport of her ſufferings? But he happily unites female delicacy of ſentiment, and tenderneſs of heart, to manly firmneſs and intrepidity.

[86] I am delighted with your account of Sir Francis O'Bryen: he is worthy of the no⯑ble name he bears. My uncle was quite right—as he always is—in declining his very generous offer with regard to me. As to the jewels, I ſee no neceſſity for my ac⯑cepting any, and wiſh I might be excuſed; but as he is ſo earneſt, and you ſeem to think there would be a diſobliging formality in my continuing to refuſe them, I ſhall take a few rings, or pins, or ſomething not exceeding the value of one hundred pounds.

I cannot anſwer your queſtion concerning the chevalier du Mornai: I never heard of him before the laſt letter I received from my uncle. If your mentioning Mrs. Wentworth's name in ſo ſlight a manner, was really the cauſe of his diſorder, there muſt certainly be ſomething extraordinary in the affair. I ſuppoſe, by O'Bryen's im⯑mediately retiring with him, he is in his confi⯑dence. I agree with you in thinking he muſt be a lover of Mrs. Wentworth's.— Poſſibly he may have ſeen her at Paris, where ſhe has ſpent ſeveral months. His attachment could hardly have commenced [87]ſince her widowhood; as, during that pe⯑riod, ſhe has lived in almoſt a monaſtic ſe⯑cluſion from the world. If our conjectures are well founded, he is highly deſerving of pity and eſteem, for ſo conſtant and unfor⯑tunate a paſſion. I'll aſk Harriet about him the next time I ſee her. I am not afraid of giving her any diſturbance:—du Mornai may love her; but ſhe, I am con⯑vinced, never did, nor ever will, love any other than the man whom ſhe has loſt for ever.

I had a billet yeſterday from the charming invalid: he begged I would permit him to wait on me this day; but, as I had ſecret information from Mrs. Wentworth that his health was not ſufficiently re-eſtabliſhed, I thought proper to curb his impatience; and have put off his viſit till next week.

I ſhould write to you two hours longer, my dear aunt, if I had time; but it is near our breakfaſt hour, and I muſt ſcribble a few lines to mon petit ſoupirant at Granville⯑park. This is acting en coquette, I think, to correſpond with two lovers at a time.

[88] Robert ſays, he languiſhes to ſee me— by my abſence, the trees have loſt their verdure, the birds their melody—in ſhort, the fair face of ſummer never was ſo de⯑formed before; not even by the iron hand of hoary winter.

May each returning ſeaſon bring health and peace to my maternal friend!

TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.

WILL you, madam, permit Alicia Sedley to addreſs a few lines to you, for your niece, who is at preſent engaged in the very difficult taſk of informing lady En⯑more of her daughter's death? Valeria and I have ſat together this hour, weeping over the remembrance of the ſad ſcene we have been ſo recently witneſſes of; and la⯑menting the hard fate of this moſt unhappy woman.

Miſs O'Bryen, my mother, and I, ſpent ſome part of this morning with lady Mary, without perceiving any alteration in her. As we ſat at dinner, a meſſage came from Miſs O'Bryen's maid—who has attended her ladyſhip ſince we came to town—in⯑forming us, that ſhe was much better with⯑in the laſt half hour; had ſpoken ſeveral times, and, for the moſt part, very ra⯑tionally. Impatient to behold this happy [90]change, my couſin and I drove to Dover⯑ſtreet, the moment we could diſengage ourſelves from the table. On approaching the bed, our too ſanguine hopes immedi⯑ately ſubſided: the wildneſs of her eyes was the only viſible alteration in the death-like appearance our patient had ſo long worn. She would have ſtretched out her hand to Valeria, but could not, from extreme weakneſs. "It is as you told me," ſaid ſhe; "I am juſt going."

"What ſhall we do, Valeria?" whiſ⯑pered I, in great terror. ‘Had we not better diſpatch a meſſenger to Mr. Bailly?’—my grandfather's domeſtic chaplain, madam, who had before admi⯑niſtered the ſacrament, and frequently read prayers to her ladyſhip. We inſtantly ſent to him, and to her two phyſicians.

Miſs O'Bryen then placed herſelf on a chair that ſtood at the head of the bed, and drawing back the curtain a little, was going. to ſpeak; when lady Mary cried out—‘My mother too!—my own mother to refuſe ever to ſee me! And even—’. The remainder of the ſentence was ſo inar⯑ticulately [91]pronounced, I could not under⯑ſtand it.

‘Your mother has entirely forgiven you. —She charged me to aſſure—’.

Lady Mary, without attending to her, exclaimed—‘Webſter! you cruel, trea⯑cherous villain!—’. And immediately afterwards—‘Hannah Ormſby! Hannah Ormſby! may everlaſting curſes—.’

Valeria, with her uſual preſence of mind, prevented her finiſhing this horrid imprecation:—inſtantly riſing, and aſſum⯑ing a tone of authority, that was quite ne⯑ceſſary to reſtrain her fury,—‘What are you doing?’ ſaid ſhe: ‘do you know that a few minutes hence you may be called to account for your ſins—and dare you add this black one to their cata⯑logue? Is this obeying his precepts, who taught us to love, and pray for our enemies? Pardon thoſe that have in⯑jured you, if you would be pardoned yourſelf. Your earthly parent has for⯑given you;—in like manner may your heavenly father pardon all your tranſgreſ⯑ſions!’ So ſaying, ſhe knelt, and with [92]that air of humility, which becomes the creature when addreſſing the creator—joined to a dignity and ſolemnity, that muſt have commanded the reverence of any perſon who had the leaſt remains of reaſon,—ſhe prayed aloud. I was inexpreſſibly awed, and knelt likewiſe, as did the women that were in the room. A faint, but fearful, ſhriek iſſued from the bed: we all ſtarted up, except Miſs O'Bryen. I flew to her: —terrified, leſt the unfortunate lady, in her madneſs, ſhould attempt to hurt her. In my fright I forgot her debility. The firſt look I gave at her, almoſt petrified me with horror. Nothing can be conceived more frightful, than the quick and wild rol⯑lings of her ſunk eyes, and the dreadful diſtortions of her ghaſtly face. I am amaz⯑ed my lovely friend had the courage to re⯑main ſo near her. She ſhrunk not from the bed-ſide, but continued to kneel by her:— now gazing on her with faſt-falling tears of compaſſion; then raiſing her eyes and claſp⯑ed hands to Heaven, her lips moved trem⯑blingly, as in fervent prayer. Perceiving I could ſcarcely ſtand, and that I ſupported [93]myſelf by holding the curtain, ſhe aroſe, and inſiſted upon my allowing her Eleanor to attend me home. I refuſed to leave her. During this friendly conteſt Mr. Bailly ar⯑rived; and one of the phyſicians, who de⯑clared his patient to be in the laſt agonies, and led us both into another room. In about an hour after they told us ſhe was dead. As ſoon as we had a little recovered from this ſhock, Miſs O'Bryen, with the aſſiſtance of lady Mary's maid, locked all the apartments, which it was not neceſſary for the convenience of the ſervants ſhould remain open; and leaving the keys in her ladyſhip's dreſſing-room, and locking the door, and ſetting a ſeal on it, ſhe incloſed the key in a letter ſhe made the waiting⯑woman write to Mr. Webſter, and which ſhe ſent to him by one of our footmen, be⯑fore we quitted the melancholy houſe.

I ſhall now diſmiſs a ſubject, ſo little calculated to pleaſe either the imagination or the heart. If my being ſo circumſtan⯑tial, has been tedious and diſagreeable, it is Valeria, by whoſe deſire I was ſo, that muſt be blamed for it.

[94] I cannot conclude, without expreſſing the earneſt deſire I have to be ranked amongſt the happy number you honour with your acquaintance. I would aſpire to more —to your friendſhip. Miſs O'Bryen paints your character in colours ſo engagingly ami⯑able, it is impoſſible not to love you; and nothing, you know, is more natural than to ſeek a return of affection, however deſ⯑titute one may be of any juſt claim to it.

I hope my grandfather's preſent fondneſs for Valeria—which from the ſteadineſs of his temper, and her uncommon merit, I am perſuaded muſt endure—will obliterate the remembrance of paſt unkindneſſeſs, and extinguiſh the animoſity that has ſo long —and, I may add, ſo cauſeleſsly—ſubſiſted between the O'Bryen and Sedley families.

Aſſure Mr. Chetwynd of my reſpect.

To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.

NO more of your ſoft reproaches, my lovely Louiſa. I fly to you. I ſhall be in my chaiſe to-morrow, as ſoon as Phoebus aſcends his chariot; and before he takes his night's draught of ſea-water—a potation I ſhall not much envy him—I expect to drink a ſocial cup of tea with my angel: and when the god repoſes himſelf on The⯑tis's boſom!—my charming Louiſa!— But I have done. Allow me ſome merit in thus breaking off my bold parallel.

As I would not have the ſhadow of a frown remain on that dear brow when we meet, I muſt repeat to you the cauſe of my ſtay at Hermitage.—Edward, by means of his vigorous conſtitution, and great flow of animal ſpirits, has, I thank God! reco⯑vered as faſt as it was reaſonable to expect he could, from ſo violent a fit of illneſs; [96]but his briſk and ſanguine temper ill brook⯑ed ſuch ſlow advances to health. Ever ſince my conference with Miſs O'Bryen, he has imagined himſelf quite well; and would hardly ſubmit to be treated en malade. He wanted to go to London before we thought it ſafe for him to leave his room. As ſoon as he was permitted to take the air, he renewed his reſolution, and perſiſted in it with a degree of obſtinacy not natural to him. He attributed his ſiſter's oppoſition to the timidity of her ſex, and the appre⯑henſiveneſs of her temper, increaſed by her exceſſive affection for him. She obſerved, that he paid more regard to my remon⯑ſtrances, and begged me not to leave him till he was perfectly recovered. Ill would it have ſuited my friendſhip for them both, not to have complied with her deſire.

I have told you all this before, my love; and yet you almoſt blame me for ſtaying from you. I thank you for this petulance: I would not have you unmoved by my ab⯑ſence, however neceſſary. I am too fond to be always reaſonable myſelf; and I can⯑not ſuffer you to be a bit wiſer, in this re⯑ſpect, [97]than I am. Your general ſuperiority, I behold not without jealouſy,—yet with pride, and with pleaſure. When I hear a man declare—and many ſuch declarations have I heard—that he would not marry a lady of diſtinguiſhed talents, I regard him as a conceited blockhead: no matter whe⯑ther a learned, or an illiterate one. A man of underſtanding would, aſſuredly, prefer a ſenſible and agreeable companion, to a ſilly, or an inſipid one: he that would chuſe the reverſe, is a puppy; and never intends to treat his wife with that reſpect which her ſtation, and even her ſex, entitles her to; and which he ought to pay for his own ſake, if incapable of being actuated by a more generous motive. Puffed up with the imagined ſuperiority of his own ſex—and, at the ſame time, aukwardly conſcious that he does not himſelf poſſeſs it—he would fear to have a wife's underſtanding ſet in contraſt to his own ſhallowneſs. Blinded, or miſled by vanity, he either does not, or will not, perceive how much it is in a ſenſible woman's power to ſupply her huſband's deficiencies. He ſees not that [98]the connection is ſo cloſe, the union of in⯑tereſts ſo perfect, that the merit of one par⯑ty muſt reflect luſtre on the other.

Our education gives us a certain ſuperi⯑ority over the fair ſex; but they, on the other hand, poſſeſs a ſuperiority of a much higher nature—the noble ſuperiority of virtue! In ſome things they are above us, in others on a level with us; in others again ſweetly inferior: on the whole then, my dear Louiſa, balancing one qualification againſt another, I am of opinion that there is nearly an equality of merit between the ſexes; and I am very ſure that he will ne⯑ver find happineſs in matrimony—that is, in its native ſoil—who will not conſider his wife as his equal, his companion, and his friend. Love ſoon languiſhes and dies away, when it is not ſupported and cheriſhed by friendſhip; and though a mutual regard can certainly ſubſiſt between perſons of very different capacities, yet equality, though conſtituted—and perhaps it would be beſt it ſhould be conſtituted—by different qua⯑lities, is indiſpenſibly neceſſary to true and conſummate friendſhip. The warmeſt, the [99]tendereſt, the moſt delightful, and the moſt durable affection, is the delicious melange of love and friendſhip: they ſtrengthen each other; love enlivens friendſhip, and friend⯑ſhip refines love. Happy the man who has judiciouſly choſen his life's companion!— who finds the miſtreſs and the friend united! In a word—for I cannot ſuppreſs the fond boaſt—thrice happy Methuen!

It is with inexpreſſible pleaſure I reflect on my dear Marchmont's being ſoon to en⯑ter on a ſtate of felicity ſimilar to my own. His affairs are in the beſt train imaginable. He wrote to Miſs O'Bryen ſome days ago, to obtain permiſſion to viſit her. I imme⯑diately proteſted againſt his raſhneſs in ven⯑turing abroad ſo ſoon. Mrs. Wentworth, with the moſt tender and earneſt importu⯑nity, beſought him not to go. ‘But, my ſweet ſiſter,’ cried he, pulling her on his knee, ‘I muſt go. How can you have the cruelty thus to compel me to contradict you? Oh! if you knew the half of what I feel—’, putting her hand to his heart. ‘As to Methuen, I won't liſten to him; becauſe I am ſure, [100]if he were in my circumſtances, he would act juſt as I do. What a tardy wretch Miſs O'Bryen might think me!—a froſty-ſpirited fellow, as I remember lady Conway once called me. Beſides, I don't expoſe myſelf to any danger; I am perfectly well; look at me, Harriet?— Have I the leaſt appearance of a ſick man, except this vile robe de chambre?’

"A compromiſe, Edward," ſaid I; ‘you may go to town, provided you wear that robe de chambre.’

"O! not for a thouſand pounds!"

"And ſo you'll throw it off," ſaid Mrs. Wentworth, almoſt crying; ‘and I know what will be the conſequence;—you'll get cold, and relapſe. My dear bro⯑ther," putting her arms round his neck, why will you be ſo obſtinate?’

He looked ſo much diſtreſſed, that I pi⯑tied him; and, winking ſignificantly at his ſiſter, gave it as my opinion, that he might go, if he would wear two waiſtcoats, two pair of ſtockings, and ſomething extraordi⯑nary about his neck. He was charmed [101]with my expedient; and ran up ſtairs to write.

"Ah! my lord," ſaid Mrs. Wentworth, ‘why did you interpoſe? He was juſt going to conſent.’

I thoroughly ſatisfied her, by explaining my intention; which was, that ſhe ſhould ſecretly write to Miſs O'Bryen, to forbid his coming. Accordingly our haſty lover was politely, and —both as to the intention and the manner—kindly repulſed. She deſired him to wait till the end of this week; —no diſputing her ſovereign will;—he was obliged to ſubmit.

The ardently wiſhed-for time draws near. He ſent yeſterday to let the duke of Gran⯑ville know, he ſhould do himſelf the ho⯑nour to wait on him to-morrow. His grace returned a very polite card, requeſt⯑ing the favour of his company to dinner.— You will ſuppoſe the invitation very agree⯑able; ſo, in fact, it was; yet he will not accept it, but prefers dining at his own houſe. Are you not amazed? But the cauſe is ſtill more ſurprizing than the effect: —Mrs. Wentworth accompanies him. Her [102]fear that he will not take ſufficient care of himſelf, is her ſole motive for going. No⯑thing, I believe, but the paſſionate, and well-merited love ſhe bears him, could have induced the lovely recluſe ever again to viſit the gay metropolis. I wiſh ſhe could contrive to ſhake off a little of her melancholy there; but I only wiſh, I do not in the leaſt expect it. Never did I ſee ſo deep, and fixed a ſorrow;—ſuch calm deſpair. How am I pained, my Louiſa, when I behold this amiable young creature a prey to never-ending grief; and conſider that my fatal imprudence was—in a great meaſure, if not ſolely—the cauſe of her ſufferings! Yet how far is her noble mind from reſenting the involuntary injury!— from diſclaiming the friendſhip that has un⯑done her!—O, blind, miſ-judging Wentworth! how could you ſuſpect ſuch an angelic woman? And where did your imagination find the colours that drew me ſuch a villain; for your own heart—yes, unfortunate man! my honoured, and much-lamented foe! your own heart—was good and generous, and, as much as mine, above [103]ſuch wickedneſs? But why, my love, do I thus unneceſſarily diſtreſs you, by calling to your remembrance an event that has occaſioned ſo much affliction to us both.

I will write no more, for this ſubject has made me ſad, and I do not wiſh to make you ſo. If I had ſufficient command over myſelf, I ſhould never make you the part⯑ner of my griefs; but my heart is ſo open to you, that it communicates all its feelings without diſtinction or reſerve. Joy is not joy till I have ſhared it with you; and ſor⯑row loſes its name, when you become my comforter. Say, by what generous art is it, you thus, in ſweet partition, augment all my joys, and ſteal my every ſorrow?— Thou dear ſource of all my happineſs!— farewell. To-morrow I ſhall claſp you to a heart that beats but for you.

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

HUMAN bliſs is never without alloy, ſays the moraliſt. The obſervation is juſt; I ſubſcribe to it with a ſigh. Doubtleſs, this is a right diſpoſition of things: were it otherwiſe, we ſhould be apt to place our affections wholly on the happineſs of this world, without reflecting on its immenſe diſproportion to that of Heaven: and, God knows, this is what we are but too much inclined to do already.—"Marvellous!" you exclaim: ‘a ſermon, inſtead of the gay flights I expected from him! What the deuce ſets the fellow a preaching?’— Why, my dear Methuen, I ſhould this moment be the happieſt man in the world, if I could wrap myſelf up in my own en⯑joyments, without ſuffering for the afflic⯑tions of others. How abominably I expreſs myſelf! What a nonſenſical ſuppoſition! No; the man who feels not for the diſtreſſes [105]of others, cannot be happy himſelf:— and God forbid that he could!—Selfiſh happineſs!—there is no ſuch thing: I can⯑not even frame an idea of it. And great, poignant as the anguiſh is, with which my heart mourns my lovely ſiſter's woe, I would not barter the dear, painful ſympa⯑thy —I will not ſay for inſenſibility, I would not barter it—for happineſs.

My ſpirits are at preſent in a pretty exact equilibrium; though inclining, I believe, to melancholy: for if, on the one ſide, I am powerfully elated by my flattering re⯑ception at the duke of Granville's; on the other, I am ſtrongly depreſſed by what I have ſeen my poor Harriet ſuffer this day. 'T was above three years, you know, ſince ſhe had been in London before. When ſhe left this city, it was to attend the death-bed of a loved and honoured parent; a conſi⯑deration which, alone, would have been but too affecting to ſo feeling a mind: but here, ſhe laſt ſaw her adored, ill-fated huſ⯑band! This was too much for her to ſup⯑port. I endeavoured all the way to divert her thoughts, as much as poſſible, from [106]dwelling on ſuch melancholy ſubjects. She was in tolerable ſpirits till we came near town; her chearfulneſs then gradually ſub⯑ſided. I forced her to taſte ſome wine, I had ordered into the chaiſe on purpoſe to give her; and cauſed the poſtillion to drive faſter, hoping that the quick motion would in ſome degree enliven her; or, at leaſt, ſerve to diſturb her reflections. At length the tears, ſhe had no longer power to ſup⯑preſs, guſhed from her ſweet eyes. I put my arms round her, and laid her lovely face on my breaſt, without attempting to comfort her, otherwiſe than by joining my tears to her's. I was ſeveral times ap⯑prehenſive of her fainting.

I made Bernard take a great round about, to avoid driving through the ſtreet in which my brother Wentworth had reſided. At laſt the carriage ſtopped at my door; and I ſupported, or rather carried, the dear mourner into a parlour.

I knew not what to ſay to her: a me⯑lancholy ſpeech might have increaſed her ſorrow; and I felt, that a ſprightly one would have inſulted it. I judged it beſt to [107]ſtrive to keep her from thinking at all. I brought her up ſtairs, made her walk up and down the dining-room, with drawing-room, &c.—aſked her opinion of this, or that piece of painting, or furniture. I nei⯑ther expected, nor waited for an anſwer:— all I wanted, was to hurry the dear creature a little.

Will you think me a phlegmatic lover, my dear friend, when I own to you, that thus employed, I almoſt forgot my engage⯑ment? Harriet reminded me of it. I was extremely unwilling to leave her; and, feigning a head-ach, would have ſent an apology: but ſhe ſaw through my little de⯑ception, and inſiſted on my going, in ſuch a manner, as ſhewed me ſhe would be diſ⯑treſſed by my perſiſting to ſtay with her.—I went.

As I enquired for the duke, I was ſhewn into his ſtudy. He received me, not only with civility, but kindneſs. We had chat⯑ted together above ten minutes, before I could find courage enough to—hope Miſs O'Bryen was well; not that there was any thing in the duke's deportment, or [108]quality, that intimidated me. He does not appear to me that haughty man you think him; and if he were, his arrogance would be much apter to inſpire me with contempt than awe. I have been uſed to converſe with men of rank; and though I ſhould think myſelf highly blameable, if wanting in due reſpect to them,—I ſhould deſpiſe myſelf, were I ſuffer that reſpect to dege⯑nerate into an aukward and uneaſy fear. I do not conſider myſelf ſo far beneath even a duke, that it need at all dazzle my eyes to look up to him. There a is point of eleva⯑tion, which places a man on a certain de⯑gree of equality, with any rank below that of a ſovereign prince. In ſhort, my back⯑wardneſs to pay this neceſſary compliment to my charming girl, aroſe entirely from the difficulty I find in pronouncing her name. You ſmile,—you examine the con⯑ſtruction of the ſyllables: ‘O'Bryen!— O'Bryen!—a very eaſy name.’ Yes, Methuen, very eaſy to you, perhaps; but the moſt difficult in the world to me. At laſt, however, I contrived to ſtammer out this formidable name. His grace thanked [109]me: replied, ſhe was very well; and, riſing, ſaid he would conduct me up ſtairs: —‘I muſt introduce you to my family, Sir Edward. I have two other grand⯑daughters that I am very proud of, I aſ⯑ſure you; though I don't tell you, they are as handſome as Miſs O'Bryen. There is not an old fellow in England,’ added he, ſmiling, ‘can boaſt three ſuch grand⯑daughters.’ You are quite in the right, thought I, if the two I have not ſeen, be any way equal to her I have.

O, how my heart fluttered as I walked up ſtairs! But why need I take your lord⯑ſhip any further. Your imagination will pre⯑ſent you with the interview. You will eaſily fancy me introduced to the agreeable lady Caryſbrook, and her two daughters; whom, by the way, I ſhould have thought fine wo⯑men, had they choſen their company a lit⯑tle more judiciouſly: but they need not be aſhamed to yield to the ſuperiority of the lovelieſt creature in the univerſe. You will imagine, my low, obſequious bow, to the divine miſtreſs of my foul, inſtead of the rapturous embrace my panting heart [110]would have dictated: but with this bow, I intreat you, connect not the attitude of Hudibraſs, nor the compliment with which he opens his ſpeech:—

You will imagine, too, the roſe uſurp⯑ing the lily's place, on the moſt beautiful face, the moſt ſeducing boſom, that ever the fair-proportioning hand of nature form⯑ed. Her fine black eyes half-raiſed, ſpark⯑ling through their long ſilken laſhes; whilſt her harmonious voice, in ſweetly trembling accents, expreſſed her pleaſure at my reco⯑very.

Half an hour had elapſed in general con⯑verſation, on indifferent ſubjects, when a number of viſitors came in; a circumſtance that pleaſed me, as I have remarked people uſually fall into parties in large companies; and I had already, in imagination, placed myſelf on the ſofa between lady Fanny Sed⯑ley and Miſs O'Bryen. The timidity inſe⯑parable [111]from a love like mine, ſtill with⯑held me, when a ſmart military figure put an end to my deliberation, by ſeizing the object of it. I am aſhamed to tell you how much this diſappointment vexed me: and, you may believe, my chagrin was in no ſmall degree increaſed, when I ſaw the cap⯑tain, determined to draw every advantage from his poſt, laying cloſe ſiege to my little fortreſs. I aroſe; leaned over the back of the ſofa, and ſighed: that ſigh paſſed not unheard, nor unpitied;—ſhe turned to me inſtantly, with a look of expreſſive ſweet⯑neſs: —‘Shall we make room for you, Sir Edward?’ Then offering a pair of ſciſ⯑ſars to the captain, ſhe ſaid, with an air half pleaſant, half contemptuous,—‘Here, Sir, will you cut the cotton of lady Fanny's knotting?’

Her ladyſhip, laughing, praiſed her cou⯑ſin's judgment in the employment ſhe had choſen for him; proteſting, that nothing could better ſuit his delicate, white fingers. His vanity interpreted this piece of irony into a compliment; and, bowing with a ſelf-ſatisfied air, he moved nearer to lady [112]Fanny: while I, to my unſpeakable plea⯑ſure, ſat down between him and Miſs O'Bryen. I began a moſt delicious and intereſting tete à tete with her; which, how⯑ever, he had ſo far his revenge of me, as to interrupt every moment.

‘Pray, ladies, were you at Drury-lane laſt night?’ ſaid he.

"No, Sir."

‘Bleſs me! you had the greateſt loſs— The elegant colonel Bibton ſat in one of the front boxes. You have ſeen him, I ſuppoſe, madam?’ to Miſs O'Bryen.

"Never, Sir."

‘Then you have a great pleaſure to come. He is a perfect Adonis!’—look⯑ing ſideways into a large pier-glaſs.—‘The fineſt eyes!’—ſurveying himſelf again— "The whiteſt teeth too!"—ſtealing another look.

Miſs O'Bryen, ſmiling, repeated the fol⯑lowing lines from Waller:—

[113] Lady Fanny pointed her ſatire more di⯑rectly and ſeverely:—‘If yonder officer could ſpeak,’ ſaid ſhe, pointing to the glaſs, ‘he would certainly tell us, captain Wilſon is much handſomer this colonel Bibton.’

A half coxcomb would have been out of countenance; but on our little warrior's

Vanity was his weapon, offenſive and defenſive, his ſword and ſhield; and did not more ſurely expoſe him to the attacks of deriſion, than effectually preſerve him from being wounded by them. He was ſo completely ſtupified by conceit, that the raillery of the ladies, inſtead of hurting, ſlattered him:—"Pardonez moi, meſdames;" bowing affectedly; ‘very inferior, indeed, to colonel Bibton.’ In which probably he ſpoke the truth, though he neither be⯑lieved it himſelf, nor intended we ſhould. He then, with a very bad grace, pronounced ſome diſqualifying ſpeeches; in which, by [114]the way, vain people always abound. We puniſhed him—and I think very properly— by not contradicting him.

I am not very certain whether his beha⯑viour ſhould be attributed to ſtupidity or aſſurance: moſt likely, indeed, it was the reſult of both. It would be equally unjuſt and ill-natured, to call impudence the com⯑panion of dullneſs; but I may fairly aſſert, that an impudent fellow is generally defi⯑cient in underſtanding; and muſt, of ne⯑ceſſity, be entirely devoid of that delicate mental feeling we call ſentiment.

The captain ſoon became tired of under⯑valuing himſelf to ſo little purpoſe; and, by way of changing the ſubject, aſked lady Fanny what uſe ſhe made of her knotting. She replied, ‘It would anſwer for ſeveral purpoſes;’—leaning a little forward, and looking, with an archneſs not to be de⯑ſcribed, full in my charming Valeria's face, ſhe added, ‘I deſign this to trim Miſs O'Bryen's wedding-gown.’

Surely, her ladyſhip did here, in ſome meaſure, ſacrifice both her delicacy and good-nature to her vivacity. I pitied my [115]bluſhing fair; but her diſtreſs was of too delicate a nature to admit of conſolation from me: I could only increaſe her conſu⯑ſion by appearing to obſerve it. I turned away my admiring eyes, and began to talk to Wilſon. However inattentive I might ſeem to the incident, I felt it!—Auguſtus, how bewitchingly handſome ſhe looked!— How lovely are thoſe effuſions of modeſty! How little did women of faſhion know their own intereſt, when they baniſhed bluſhes from the beau monde!

The recollection of my dear ſiſter's ſitua⯑tion, obliged me to tear myſelf from my charmer's ſide. I whiſpered to her my in⯑tention, and its motive. "I leave you," ſaid I, "ſurrounded with admirers—" for by this time two or three gentlemen had gathered round her, with ſuch an air of at⯑tention, of intereſt, that my fond, jealous heart, regarded them as rivals:—‘I leave you ſurrounded with admirers,—O promiſe me that you will not liſten to any of them, when I go away.’

"How can I make you ſuch a promiſe?" demanded ſhe, with a ſmile. I looked at [116]her with beſeeching fondneſs:—ſhe had the goodneſs to add,—‘My ear may liſten, but my heart ſhall not.’

The duke followed me to the door, and, in an obliging manner, expreſſed his regret at my declining to ſpend the day with him. —"I muſt be paid with intereſt," ſaid he, ‘for relinquiſhing that claim. I ſhall ex⯑pect to ſee you often, and without cere⯑mony: come to us en ami.’ I thanked him in ſuitable terms, and took my leave.

On my return home, I had the ſatisfac⯑tion to ſee Harriet had aſſumed an air of tranquillity: but, alas! her ſwollen eyes told me, it was bought with many tears.

Here is Philip come in, for the third time, to undreſs me. I have not the con⯑ſcience to keep him waiting any longer. I told him to go to bed before, but he would not. Ever ſince my indiſpoſition, it is he that is maſter, not I. I muſt not do this, nor wear that:—but a moment ago, he had the aſſurance to tell me, he would complain to Mrs. Wentworth of my ſitting up ſo late. Upon my word, I am finely documented between my ſiſter and my ſer⯑vant. [117]Don't you think I ſhall be hand⯑ſomely tutored by the time I come into Miſs O'Bryen's hands? If the dear crea⯑ture has a mind to tyrannize, I ſhall have my leſſon of obedience pat.

I have really a great regard for this good⯑natured, officious Philip; and conſider my⯑ſelf highly indebted to him for his affection⯑ate behaviour. The care he took of me during my illneſs, ſhall neither be forgot⯑ten, nor unrewarded. That illneſs, I ſhall always remember with peculiar ſatisfaction and thankfulneſs; as it was made the inſtru⯑ment to deliver me from a connection, which I can never think of without horror.

O this tormenting valet of mine—

Adieu. My love to lady Methuen:— comment ſe porte elle? I would have you tranſlate porte literally. Again adieu, my loved and faithful friend.

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

HOW does the thick, ſmoaky air of London agree with me, you aſk:—Sur⯑prizingly well; I am quite recovered with⯑in the few days I have paſſed here. How⯑ever, I believe I owe much more to the ſociety, than to the air of the place. I am every day at the duke of Granville's; and every day, with delight, read my welcome in my Valeria's ſparkling eyes. I am really in danger of becoming the vaineſt coxcomb alive:—to be diſtinguiſhed by ſuch an an⯑gelic creature!—a woman ſo ſuperior to all other women!—O, ſhe is

To be preferred to ſuch a number of ri⯑vals! —many of them my ſuperiors!— [119] Apropos;—jealous fellow, as you call me, I was right with reſpect to lord Wardour. The duke told me yeſterday, that his lord⯑ſhip had requeſted permiſſion to pay his addreſſes to Miſs O'Bryen. Heavens! how coldly ſome men can act in theſe affairs! I ſhould never have thought of aſking ſuch a permiſſion. I told the duke ſo. He ſaid, ſmiling, ‘Then I ought, in juſtice, to have preferred lord Wardour's ſuit to your's. To own the truth, however, I believe my influence, had I been inclined ſo to ex⯑ert it, would have ſignified very little. Valeria is extremely gentle: but I am miſtaken if ſhe be not, at the ſame time, extremely ſteady.’

I took advantage of our being on this ſubject, to hint a deſire to know, if I was to receive Miſs O'Bryen from his grace, or Mr. Chetwynd. After a pauſe, during which he appeared diſturbed, he replied,— ‘To deal frankly with you, Sir Edward, I have no title to an authority over her, though ſhe is my grand-daughter. Mr. Chetwynd has been a father to her, as ſuch ſhe regards him: to him, therefore, [120]you are to apply. Valeria's mother, as you muſt have heard, married againſt my conſent: my reſentment—and in that, perhaps, I was to blame—deſcended to her. It was my fixed reſolution to con⯑ſider her as a ſtranger to my blood. I ſaw her—heard her—and my reſolution va⯑niſhed. She is an irreſiſtible creature.’

I am ſure, if my looks were true to my heart, they gave a full aſſent to his obſerva⯑tion.

"I ſuppoſe, my dear ſir," continued the duke, ‘you know that Sir William O'Bryen died in debt, and left his daughter—’.

"Enough, my lord." cried I, with im⯑patience; ‘I would not chuſe to receive a fortune with her.’

"And yet you ſhould receive one," an⯑ſwered he, ‘had not Sir William, like the haughty man he was, made it the condi⯑tion of his laſt bleſſing to his daughter, that ſhe ſhould never receive any thing from me. The reſtriction, however, extends not to her children—’.—I had actually the grace to redden at the [121]mention of children. He laughed at me; but quickly reſuming his gravity, went on to tell me, that he would ſettle an eſtate in Nottinghamſhire, worth about a thouſand a year, on her eldeſt ſon; and twenty thou⯑ſand pounds on her younger children; that he would appoint me truſtee, and put me into poſſeſſion on my marriage.

Don't think me too romantic, Auguſtus, when I tell you, I am almoſt vexed to find ſhe will bring me a fortune. But, perhaps, ſhe will not think proper to accept her grandfather's offer. For my own part, I ſee little or no difference between his giving her a fortune in this manner, and the more uſual one. It is in this light I have repre⯑ſented the matter to Mr. Chetwynd. I ſhould be very glad to know her own opi⯑nion; but it would be altogether indelicate to ſpeak to her on the ſubject.

I am to have the honour to accompany the duke's family to Granville-park to⯑morrow. It is no ſmall addition to my ſa⯑tisfaction, that my ſiſter is to be of the par⯑ty. It was with difficulty ſhe was prevailed on to go: the dear, romantic creature, [122]loves to indulge her ſorrows in retirement; and ſeems to think there would be a ſort of impiety, in enjoying any of the pleaſures of that world, of which her Henry is no longer an inhabitant. Lady Caryſbrook, and lady Alicia Sedley, have quite won my heart by their attention to her. They appear to compaſſionate her exceedingly, although they are ignorant of the peculiar na⯑ture of her misfortunes; and, with the reſt of the world, believe Mr. Wentworth's quarrel with you aroſe from a political diſ⯑pute.

The Granville family paſs this day at the duke of Avon's. My divine Valeria, and lady Alicia, have promiſed Mrs. Went⯑worth to ſup with her. It grows late: I begin to fear ſomething may have hap⯑pened to prevent their coming: I ſicken at the thought. I ſhall ſee her to-morrow, to be ſure; but I expected to ſee her to-night, and I cannot bear to be diſappointed. My watch lies by me on the table,—I look more on it than on my paper.

How ſoon do you think, Methuen, I may expect an anſwer from Mr. Chetwynd? I [123]ſent my letter to him by expreſs. Have I, do you imagine, any room to dread his diſapprobation? Perhaps he is ambitious: he may have promiſed his intereſt to ſome competitor of higher rank, or larger for⯑tune; and her gratitude and affection to him may—Away with theſe appre⯑henſions—The thought of loſing her is death to me.

Ah!—ſhe is come!

‘Mrs. Wentworth deſires your compa⯑ny in the drawing-room, ſir.’

By Jupiter, the fellow has electrified me.

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

WHEN I carried off my miſtreſs in tri⯑umph, from all the young nobleſſe and beaux of London, I ſittle thought what a formidable rival I was to encounter in the country. Certainly nothing leſs than a duel can decide the conteſt. Remember, I en⯑gage you for my ſecond.

Imagine, if you can, what muſt have been my aſtoniſhment, confuſion, jealouſy, and rage, when, on our arrival here the other day, a young gentleman flew into my Valeria's open arms, hung round her ſnowy neck, and imprinted a hundred kiſſes on her enchanting lips.

"Hold, maſter Sedley," cried I, ‘do not quite ſmother her, I intreat you.’

"Pray, ſir," demanded he, turning about with great quickneſs, ‘are you moſt careful of the lady, or jealous of me?— My ſweet Valeria!’ again embracing [125]her, ‘I cannot tell you how much I longed to ſee you. Shut your eyes a moment, if you pleaſe—’ ſhe did ſo: ‘yes, you are every bit as handſome as you were before you went to town.’

‘Could not you ſee that ſhe was hand⯑ſome,’ aſked his mother, ‘unleſs ſhe ſhut her eyes?’

‘I ſaw it very plainly, madam; I am not quite blind, I aſſure you: but her eyes are ſo bright, they dazzle mine; and I could not ſee if ſhe was entirely and exactly as beautiful now, as when ſhe went away.’

"Upon my word, Robert," ſaid the duke, ‘you have early applied yourſelf to learn the important art of compliment⯑ing.’

"I think," ſaid Mrs. Wentworth, ‘he is already as good a proficient, as ſome who ſeem to have made that art the chief ſtudy of their lives.’

"A future mignon de couchette!" whiſ⯑pered I to lady Caryſbrook, who ſtood ſmiling at her ſon's gallantry.

[126] The little, buſy, impertinent rogue, has ſome way or other found out my attach⯑ment to Miſs O'Bryen; and you can have no notion how troubleſome he contrives to make himſelf to me: he is continually in⯑terrupting our converſations, placing him⯑ſelf between us, and ſnatching from me the pleaſure of rendering her many of thoſe lit⯑tle, trifling, nameleſs ſervices, which are ſo delightful to an enamoured heart to per⯑form.

—

My ſiſter has juſt now ſurprized me ex⯑ceedingly:—ſhe has received letters from France, which inform her that Miſs March⯑mont is going to be married to the marquis de St. Clair;—the very man, whoſe ſuit to Miſs O'Bryen ſhe ſo earneſtly forwarded. It is really very extraordinary. I muſt go and talk to Harriet about it.

—

She has annihilated me! This St. Clair —this happy St. Clair!—was the favoured [127]lover of Miſs O'Bryen; ſacrificed to her friendſhip for Miſs Marchmont. Did ſhe love him then?—Perhaps ſhe ſtill loves him:—the ſuppoſition diſtracts me: it is— it muſt be falſe. Have I not reaſon to flat⯑ter myſelf, I hold a place in her affections? —and if St. Clair was ever dear to her, could ſhe have forgotten him in ſo ſhort a time? Or, rather, could ſhe—generous as ſhe is—have reſigned him to another?— Could ſhe, on my ſiſter's account, have de⯑ſtroyed at once his happineſs and her own? —Are the rights of friendſhip more tender, more ſacred, than thoſe of love?

My friend, I am diſturbed—extremely diſturbed. I cannot content myſelf with the ſecond place in her heart; no, not in any ſenſe the ſecond place: I would be loved firſt, and beſt. She is my firſt love; and the eye that pierces the inmoſt receſſes of the ſoul, only ſees how dear ſhe is to mine,—with what an exceſs of paſſion I doat on her.

She walks at this moment under my win⯑dow—She looks up—that look invites [128]my attendance—I will go to you, my angel.

O, that I could tell her the anxiety of my mind!—but that I never will—I muſt not—dare not do. It might diſtreſs her; and that I would not do for worlds. It might lead to a confirmation of my ſuſpi⯑cions; and that, too, I could not bear.

Write to me, Auguſtus: tell me that ſhe does not love St. Clair—that I only am dear to her—that you ſaw her weep—faint for me. Recal that gay dream which charmed my ſenſes. O, muſt all my bright hopes be thus clouded in an inſtant!—It is inſup⯑portable!

TO MISS O'BRYEN.—GRANVILLE-PARK.

WILL my dear Miſs O'Bryen allow me, once more, to trouble her on Sir Edward Marchmont's account?—Read his let⯑ter, which I incloſe.—I do not think it a breach of truſt to communicate it, without his knowledge, to a perſon who has a much dearer intereſt in his heart, than I can boaſt of.

You need not be told, that my motive for acting in this manner, is to give you an opportunity of relieving my friend from an uneaſineſs, that a very refined mind only could feel from ſuch a cauſe. Nature wrought Marchmont's ſoul almoſt too deli⯑cate to bear the finiſhing touches of love;— that maſter-poliſher of the mind, has refined his to a nicety. There is a part of the world —and that not the ſmalleſt part—to whom that nicety would appear unaccountable, if not cenſurable or ridiculous; but if Miſs [130]O'Bryen does not both underſtand and ap⯑prove it, I have greatly miſtaken her cha⯑racter.

I am convinced you do not at preſent— and I am ſtrongly inclined to believe you never did—entertain any ſentiments for the marquis de St. Clair, that can interfere with the wiſhes of the gentleman you now favour. Whatever may be the caſe, my procedure can occaſion you no embarraſſment; as I give you my honour, my writing to you ſhall ever be a profound ſecret, unleſs you chuſe to divulge it.

I will not apologize for this, or any other trouble, my attachment to Sir Edward has prompted me to give you. I hope you think the cauſe of ſufficient importance to excuſe the effects. Beſides, I ſhall ſoon have a ſort of claim to your friendſhip; which, believe me, I ſhall conſider as one of the higheſt advantages I derive from Sir Ed⯑ward's.

I am, madam, with the trueſt reſpect, and—permit me to add—affection,

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

METHUEN, I thank you a thouſand times. She loves me!—me only! I am happy beyond expreſſion.

Laſt night, when I retired to my apart⯑ment, I had no inclination to go to bed; ſo diſmiſſed my ſervant, and extinguiſhed the candles, preferring the fairer light of Cynthia, who ſhone full into my windows. It came into my head to take a walk in the garden. My chamber opens to a gallery, from which there is a ſtaircaſe, that leads in⯑to it. I feared the door would be locked at that time of night, but had the ſatisfac⯑tion to find it open. I ſtrayed up and down the walks for ſome time, wrapt in a pleaſing reverie. I admired the moon⯑beams ſhooting through the trees, and playing tremblingly over the water. At length, I became weary of the folitary ſcene; and, caſting a wiſtful eye towards [132]the houſe, ſighed to myſelf—‘What a paradiſe, if ſhe was here!’ I went into a little arbour, to indulge my contempla⯑tions; but was ſoon rouſed by the noiſe of paſſing feet: they ſtopt; and I preſently heard my Valeria ſay, ‘Let us go in here, Harriet, if you are not afraid of taking cold.’

My heart beat as if it would have forced itſelf a paſſage through my breaſt to meet her.

Harriet came in firſt. "Don't be fright⯑ened, ſiſter," ſaid I. She ſcreamed, not⯑withſtanding.

"What is the matter?" demanded her lovely companion, ruſhing in.

"Nothing, my ſoul!" anſwered I, ea⯑gerly preſſing her hand to my breaſt.

‘Indeed, brother, you ſtartled me ex⯑ceedingly, Why, in the name of won⯑der, are you not in bed?’

‘May he not aſk the ſame queſtion, in his turn?’ ſaid Miſs O'Bryen.

"He may," replied Mrs. Wentworth; ‘and I'll leave you to anſwer it, for I'm [133]afraid of ſitting here. You will find me on yonder gravel walk.’

"We will go with you," cried Miſs O'Bryen, haſtily.

"We will not," whiſpered I. Harriet went away without minding her.

I drew her to the ſeat:—my bold, yet trembling arm, encircling her. ‘Are you afraid of being alone with me?’ aſked I.

With a ſoftened voice, ſhe anſwered— ‘No, indeed, Sir Edward, I am not; and I am glad I have met you, for I could not find an opportunity, the whole even⯑ing, of converſing with you on a ſubject —on a ſubject, that I don't know how to introduce.’

I was very deſirous to know what ſubject ſhe meant; but wiſhed firſt to familiarize her to me, as I may ſay, by a little longer converſation, that ſhe might ſpeak with more eaſe and freedom. "Well," ſaid I, ‘you may firſt tell me, as my ſiſter deſired, what kept you up ſo late.’

‘Becauſe I could not ſleep, while you ſuffered any anxiety on my account.— You have no cauſe to be uneaſy, Sir [134]Edward: believe me, I neither do, nor ever did, love the marquis de St. Clair.’

"Heavens! madam:" exclaimed I, in the utmoſt ſurprize, ‘how could you find out I was uneaſy? I did not hint the matter even to my ſiſter; nor to any perſon, but a friend, who is not uſed to betray me.’

"Lord Methuen has written to me," ſaid ſhe: ‘but do not call this betraying you; it deſerves a very different epithet. 'Tis fit that ordinary minds ſhould, in dull ſafety, run the circle cuſtom has marked out: but when a perſon unites ſuch a heart as lord Methuen's, to ſuch a head,—he is above rules, and muſt be allowed to move a little eccentri⯑cally.’

You did not need her pretty apology, my dear Auguſtus. I immediately diſcern⯑ed the whole force of this tour d'ami.

"Tell me, my life," cried I, ‘tell me, ſincerely, did you never love St. Clair?’

‘Never, upon my honour. I will con⯑ceal nothing from you, Sir Edward.— I had a tender friendſhip for him;—a [135]friendſhip you'll allow me ſtill to retain. Had not our better ſtars divided us, I can⯑not abſolutely aſſert, that his charms and merit might not in time have made ſome impreſſion on me; as my affections were entirely diſengaged, and I liked him bet⯑ter than any man I then knew.’

‘I can never, never thank you ſuffi⯑ciently, my Valeria, for this kindneſs— this condeſcenſion—this amiable inge⯑nuity. Now, thou moſt angelic wo⯑man!" ſtraining her to my beating heart, complete my bliſs!—ſay, O, deign to ſay, that you love your adoring March⯑mont.’

Imagine with what rapture I liſtened, while, in half-formed accents, ſhe pro⯑nounced my happineſs! I kiſſed—but half repulſed, yet unreproved, with extaſy I kiſſed—her balmy lips! Wild with tran⯑ſport, I leaned my forehead on her boſom! —the ſofteſt, faireſt boſom, that ever heaved to the emotions of a feeling heart!—She ſprang from me:—"Come," ſays ſhe, "Mrs. Wentworth will get cold."

[136] Both her own health, and my ſiſter's, were too precious to me, to ſuffer me to endanger them, by ſeeking to detain her.

I attended them to the foot of the ſtairs, but would have forborn entering the houſe with them, leſt, if any of the ſervants were ſtill up, and ſhould chance to ſee us, they might make impertinent obſervations on the incident; but neither of the ladies would allow me to ſtay out any longer.

I went to bed, but my thoughts were ſo much engaged, I was not able—nor, in⯑deed, willing—to ſleep till day-break: then the ſoft god ſtrewed his poppies over my pillow; and my delighted fancy flew back to the charming night. Again I beheld my Valeria's matchleſs form; while the moon ſhone reſplendent o'er our heads, and not a zephyr breathed upon the trees.

It was near eleven before Philip could find in his heart (that was his phraſe) to awaken me:—one would think the fellow knew my dreams.

I found all the family aſſembled in the parlour, except the duke, who uſually breakfaſts in his own apartment. My lovely [137]fellow-rakes had juſt made their appearance; the reſt of the ladies had been down ſtairs a good while: upon which, lady Fanny— who, I think, always finds ſomething un⯑lucky to ſay—remarked, that one would imagine we three had been ſitting up toge⯑ther. A conſcious bluſh overſpread the fineſt features in the world.

"Fanny," ſaid lady Caryſbrook, ‘it muſt be confeſſed you are the fartheſt from envy of any woman breathing, or you would not take ſuch delight in heighten⯑ing Miſs O'Bryen's beauty.’

‘I don't at all deſerve your ladyſhip's compliment,’ returned ſhe, ‘for I am far from thinking a bluſh the leaſt im⯑provement to any body.’

"I don't know," ſaid Mrs. Wentworth, ‘whether it may, or may not, be an ad⯑vantage to the complexion. I admire it, as the ſign of a quick and delicate ſenſi⯑bility.’

Lady Fanny briſkly replied, ‘And I— excuſe me, Mrs. Wentworth—diſlike it, as a ſign of ruſtic ſimplicity.’

[138] "Thank you for that, my dear," ſaid Miſs O'Bryen, bowing and ſmiling.

‘Nay, upon my honour, I neither did, nor could mean to reflect on you: your good-breeding cannot be queſtioned. I aſſure you, I have often wondered how you could contrive to unite ſo much eaſe to ſo much modeſty. One would ima⯑gine, that a perſon of your qualifications, who had conſtantly frequented polite company, would be inclined rather to err on the ſide of aſſurance than baſhful⯑neſs.’

Lady Alicia was of opinion, that there were many occaſions, on which a bluſh was beautiful and becoming; but ſaid, ſhe would readily condemn what the French called a mauvaiſe honte.

‘If your ladyſhip chuſes to adopt the French expreſſion,’ ſaid I, ‘I would humbly counſel you, not to allow it the ſame latitude the French do: limit its ſignification as much as poſſible; or your opinion perhaps may—though I am con⯑vinced your conduct never will—encroach on the borders of modeſty. Allow me [139]to ſay, that baſhfulneſs—or, if you pleaſe, mauvaiſe honte—is, in your ſex, much more amiable and engaging, than the leaſt tendency to the oppoſite qua⯑lity.’

"You ſpeak very juſtly, ſir," ſaid lady Caryſbrook: ‘modeſty is certainly a wo⯑man's chief ornament; and even an ex⯑ceſs of it, is at leaſt pardonable. Men, indeed, require ſome aſſurance—.’

"O, an infinity, madam!" interrupted I, gaily, ‘for if we don't ſhew ourſelves, the ladies will never be at the pains to draw us out. But, for us,—we do not love to have a woman's perfections too obvious; there is a pleaſure in the ſearch after them, we do not willingly forego. It is an univerſal maxim amongſt you, ladies, that men do not much prize what they obtain very eaſily. You do not judge amiſs: we love a little difficulty; —but you miſtake the matter widely, when you make a mean and deſpicable coquetry the ſource of our difficulties:— a man muſt, in that caſe, either give up the purſuit, or his reaſon. It is ſweet, [140] retiring modeſty, that prompts us to follow;—modeſty, the moſt diſtinguiſh⯑ing and lovely characteriſtic of your charming ſex, that muſt ever enhance your value to us.’

"I would, by all means," ſaid lady Fanny, ‘have a woman modeſt; yet, I think, every body muſt allow, that baſhfulneſs often makes one appear in a very diſadvantageous light.’

"Do not think ſo," I anſwered:— ‘Though baſhfulneſs may ſometimes ob⯑ſcure the full glare of your charms, the effect is as agreeable, as ſhade to the light of a fine picture: or, I might bet⯑ter compare it to—the gauze with which you cover your boſoms—’, looking archly at her's;—‘and you know very well, that though we love to draw aſide the veil ourſelves, we ſhould be highly diſguſted if you attempted to do it for us." She coloured, and called me im⯑pertinent.’ "You ought to thank me," ſaid I, ‘for you never looked handſomer in your life. If you are wiſe, you will not quarrel with bluſhes. To tell you a [141]ſecret, lady Fanny,—there is no man that does not feel a certain ſenſation, of mingled admiration and love, at the bluſh of a fine woman.’

I muſt this moment bid you adieu, and attend the young ladies, who are going to take an airing on horſeback.

TO SIR EDWARD MARCHMONT, BART.— ENGLAND.

SIR Edward, you have as much ro⯑mance as a girl of fifteen; and I like you for it. I do love the romantic; their hearts are warmed by the fire of their imagina⯑tions. Let cold, unerring reaſon, hold unreſiſted ſway in the becalmed breaſt of the philoſopher:—paſſion, generous paſ⯑ſion, muſt animate the heart of that man, I could wiſh to call my friend. The virtues require a warm ſoil;—I never knew them flouriſh in a cold boſom. If the heart does not burn at twenty, I ſhiver to think, what a frozen lump it will become at forty. If there be a young fellow in the world that could write coolly about ſuch a girl as Va⯑leria, he deſerves to be hanged: or I'd burn the raſcal, and ſupply the want of in⯑ward, by outward heat.

[143] I am a romantic fellow myſelf: indeed, you might have gueſſed as much;—we are ſeldom forward to praiſe a qualification that we do not poſſeſs—or, at leaſt, that we do not imagine we poſſeſs—ourſelves. I married a woman, whoſe fortune was much ſuperior to mine; but I loved her with the moſt diſintereſted tenderneſs:—had the wealth of the Indies been mine, I ſhould have laid it at her feet.

My wife is a generous, romantic woman, who gave me her hand with ten thouſand pounds, when I had nothing but a curacy, and ſome uncertain expectations of church preferment, which I have ſince partly realized.

I give you this ſketch of our characters, to induce you the more readily to accede to our opinion, with reſpect to the duke's propoſal. We do no think there can be any ſufficient reaſon to oppoſe his doing juſtice to his late moſt amiable daughter, in the perſons of her grandchildren: we do not think that, if Sir William O'Bryen himſelf was alive, he would object to it. When he, on his death-bed, became ſenſible that his ex⯑travagance [144]had ruined his child, he feared ſhe might have recourſe to the duke of Granville's protection; and no wonder that his pride was ſo ſeverely wounded, at the thought of leaving her dependent on a man, who had always treated him with ſuch unjuſt contempt. But here the caſe is widely dif⯑ferent; and the duke has little cauſe to tri⯑umph, in being permitted to ſettle on Sir William's grandchildren, what his daughter would not accept, and—I thank God!— does not need.

Allow me to tell you, ſir, that I exceed⯑ingly approve your naming a jointure, ra⯑ther than offering me carte blanche, as a perſon of ordinary generoſity would have done. Very ſenſible you muſt have been, that I neither could nor would have de⯑manded ſo large a jointure. I admire, like⯑wiſe, the delicacy wherewith you hint your knowledge of Miſs O'Bryen's not having a fortune: in that, however, you are miſ⯑taken. —Lady Enmore—who is now at my houſe, and whoſe paternal affection for Valeria gives her a right to know every [145]thing that concerns her—inſiſts on preſent⯑ing her with five thouſand pounds on the approaching occaſion; and will ſecure to her the poſſeſſion of a very conſiderable eſtate, at her deceaſe. Mrs. Chetwynd and I muſt likewiſe give her five thouſand pounds at preſent; and which ever of us is the ſurvivor, will certainly leave the re⯑mainder of our fortune to her.

I am not yet ſo much of an old man, as not to know what muſt be your preſent im⯑patience. I promiſe you ſhall meet no unneceſſary delays on my part. Mrs. Chetwynd and I are every day in anxious expectation of Miſs O'Bryen's return:—I preſume you have not employed your time ſo ill, as not to have already obtained per⯑miſſion to eſcort her. My dear Sir Edward, we ſhall receive you as our friend—as our ſon.

It would give me particular pleaſure, if Mrs. Wentworth could be prevailed on to favour us with her company. I need not ſay how much Mrs. Chetwynd deſires it, as [146]ſhe is herſelf writing to Mrs. Wentworth on that ſubject.

Now ſince I am ſo ready to give you my Valeria—the nobleſt gift that could poſſibly be preſented to any man—I hope you will not ſo ill requite my generoſity, as to ſnatch her from me immediately.—Don't be alarmed; I am not going to raiſe any ob⯑ſtacles to delay your union; but I muſt in⯑ſiſt on your ſtaying three or four months afterwards. This is a point that I will not —I mean that I cannot—give up; for it is already almoſt a year ſince I have ſeen my darling girl; and I imagine you muſt know the value of her ſociety too well, to won⯑der that I prize it as one of the firſt bleſſings of my life.

I was juſt going to conclude, when caſt⯑ing my eye over the paper, it ſtruck me that I ought firſt to make ſome apology for this letter, which is certainly the moſt unceremonious that ever was written on ſuch a ſubject:—not a word of the ho⯑nour of your alliance, and ſo forth. The truth is my beſt excuſe—I already love [147]you; and affection with me, ever baniſhes ceremony, though I hope not politeneſs and attention.

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

VOUS vous trompez, mon ami; I am not at all jealous of lord Oſmore. Far from doing me any injury, he has really been of eſſential ſervice to me: my Valeria, before, received my attentions with complacency, and diſcouraged thoſe of others; but ever ſince his lordſhip came to Granville-park, ſhe has treated me with a preference ſo marked, as to keep all other lovers—even the aſpiring Oſmore himſelf—at a diſtance.

I was very near quarrelling with lady Fanny Sedley this evening:—as I was walking with her and Miſs O'Bryen, I was pouring out my grateful heart in acknow⯑ledgments to the latter, for her generous and conſiderate behaviour with reſpect to lord Oſmore. Lady Fanny interrupted me, by ſaying, ſomething peeviſhly, ‘I declare, Marchmont, you are the ſtupideſt fellow I ever knew: I ſhall abſolutely die with [149] ennui. For Heaven's ſake, do you think this converſation can be any entertain⯑ment to me?’

"Pardon me," ſaid I, ſmiling, ‘I am very inconſiderate. I proteſt, I never thought of aſking myſelf the queſtion whether it was, or was not.’ This, you'll ſay, was not a very polite ſpeech: but nobody thinks of treating lady Fanny with much ceremony. People that ſay free things—eſpecially if they are as good-hu⯑moured as ſhe is—will always have free things ſaid to them. She really is not bold, but her unguarded vivacity deſtroys all dig⯑nity of character. Now, my Valeria, with all the eaſe even of a Pariſian education, preſerves, in her ſprightlieſt moments, a delicate reſerve, that at once inſpires reſpect and tenderneſs.—But I wander.

"Rude creature!" ſaid lady Fanny, in reply to me: ‘lord Oſmore would not have ſpoken to me in this manner for the world; and yet I believe he is as fond of Miſs O'Bryen, and as indifferent to me, as you can be.’

[150] My charming girl ſaid, with ſome warmth, ‘lord Oſmore's politeneſs differs from Sir Edward's, more in kind than in degree:— the one is acquired by education, and perfected by habit; the other evidently flows originally from the heart, and is but methodized—if I may ſo expreſs it— by an acquaintance with the polite world.’

"You make nice diſtinctions," replied her ladyſhip; ‘but, for my part, if I find a perſon polite, I ſhall never trouble my head to enquire, whether it be the reſult of nature or education. Say what you will againſt lord Oſmore, he is a man quite to my taſte: and, poſitively, I am monſtrouſly angry with you for uſing him ſo cruelly as you do.’

"Indeed, lady Fanny," ſaid I, gravely, "I am not at all obliged to you for this."

"Don't mind the madcap," ſaid Miſs O'Bryen.

‘Vain wretch! do I depreciate you, by praiſing Oſmore?’

‘Not in the leaſt; your ladyſhip miſ⯑takes me entirely: you are extremely [151]welcome to praiſe him, but not to re⯑commend him to Valeria's favour.’

"I did not do ſo."

‘You complain of that cruelty to him, which is certainly kindneſs to me; and, vice verſa, kindneſs to him would be cruelty to me.’

‘Not at all: ſhe might be kind enough to you both.’

‘O, madam, if that be your way of thinking—’. I ſtopt ſuddenly. I believe I was going to ſay ſomething too expreſſive of the contempt I at that moment felt for her.

"My dear Fanny," ſaid Miſs O'Bryen, ‘you are not a coquette: both your un⯑derſtanding and your heart, are too good to ſuffer you to be one. Why, then, do you thus allow your ungoverned ſpright⯑lineſs to lead you to affect a character ſo contemptible? Deteſtable as affectation is, there may be ſome ſenſe in endeavour⯑ing to appear poſſeſſed of any praiſe-wor⯑thy quality; though there would be much more, in ſtriving really to acquire it:— [152]but what can be more wretchedly ſilly, than to affect to be unamiable?’

"How charming it is," I exclaimed, ‘to hear ſuch language flowing from the roſy lips of youth and beauty! May rea⯑ſon and virtue,’ added I, affectionately kiſſing her hand, ‘ever have ſuch an advo⯑cate!’

"Now," cried lady Fanny, ‘to be even with you both for this fine lecture, I ſhall, in my turn, find fault with you, Valeria.’

‘Find fault with her! How?—where? —what?’

‘Ha! ha! ha! I dare ſay you do not think ſhe has any faults at all.’

"I do not, upon my honour!" I replied, with emphaſis.

‘Why, to be juſt, ſhe has leſs than moſt people, or conceals them better; yet I could point you out a capital one; and that is in her conduct to lord Oſmore and yourſelf. If ſhe diſlikes him, ſhe ought to refuſe him, without letting him ſee it is for you he is refuſed: by acting as ſhe [153]does, ſhe puts herſelf more in your power than is conſiſtent with prudence.’

I was exceſſively hurt. My dear Valeria ſaw that I was; and, with a look of tender confidence, ſhe laid her hand on mine: that little action, that ſweet look, ſpoke more forcibly than words.

Her ladyſhip reſumed her diſcourſe:— ‘If any thing ſhould happen to prevent your union, it would be an irreparable diſadvantage to Miſs O'Bryen, to have thus publicly favoured you.’

‘What diſadvantage can it be to her, to be known to have ſome conſideration for a man, who loves her almoſt to ido⯑latry? Should your cruel ſuppoſition be realized, yet ſhe would have no mortifi⯑cation to fear on that account;—I would publiſh my paſſion for her to the world— devote my life to her!’

‘Very fine! But ſuppoſe ſhe choſe to marry ſome other gentleman, —how would he—’.

"Ah! no more," ſaid Miſs O'Bryen; "I cannot bear to hear you talk thus."

[154] "Indeed, Valeria," replied the pro⯑voking creature, ‘Sir Edward himſelf would value you more, if you treated him with a prudent reſerve.’

‘This is paſt enduring, madam:—how can you pretend to know my mind? I aſſure you, if any thing could leſſen Miſs O'Bryen in my eſteem, or induce me knowingly to forget her's, it would be her changing that endcaring frankneſs, wherewith ſhe at preſent honours me, for that meanly ſuſpicious prudence you would inculcate. As ſhe has never, I flatter myſelf, had the leaſt reaſon to doubt my ſincerity and honour, a re⯑ſerved behaviour to me, could be dic⯑tated only by a very cold heart; and a cold heart, I am ſure, never was a good one. Believe me, I ſhould deſpiſe my⯑ſelf, were I ungenerous enough to at⯑tempt to take a liberty with any lady, which I ſhould think the worſe of her for ſuffering;—and her I love, is the laſt woman on earth I could think of with indelicacy.’

[155] "Still," ſaid ſhe, ‘I muſt inſiſt on it, ladies and gentlemen do not enter into theſe engagements on equal terms.’

"One would think," ſaid my Valeria, ‘you were talking of the diſpoſitions for a battle.’

‘No, madam; but ſhe is ſtriving to make diſpoſitions for a battle. I thank her for it.’

"Really, child," addreſſing herſelf to Miſs O'Bryen, ‘you ought to conſider, that if your uncle Chetwynd ſhould with⯑hold his conſent, or —.’

"Or what?" demanded I, angrily.

‘Or if Sir Edward ſhould forſake you, you may probably be obliged to lead apes; whereas, he can get a wife when he pleaſes.’

"Whatever," ſaid I, ‘are your lady⯑ſhip's deſigns, happily for me, you have avowed fentiments ſo oppoſite to the de⯑licacy and nobleneſs of Miſs O'Bryen's, that I am not at all afraid you will be able to prevail againſt me.’

"Valeria," ſaid ſhe, ‘I'll be affronted with you theſe ſeven years to come, if [156]you don't revenge me for this cutting rebuke.—Shew him my advice has ſome effect on you.’

‘Excuſe me, my dear: ſo far from in⯑terfering in your behalf, I muſt tell you, that I think his reproof almoſt as juſt as it is ſevere. When lady Fanny acts up to her character, ſhe will find no perſon more ready to defend her intereſts than I; but when ſhe chuſes to ſink ſo much beneath it, ſhe is no longer the lady Fanny that I love.’

"This," ſaid I, ‘is the beſt ſolution of perſonal identity I ever heard: —and re⯑member, lady Fanny, whenever you act thus perverſely, I ſhall conſider you as a different perſon.’

"On that footing," anſwered ſhe, ‘let our diſpute end:—I ſhall be myſelf again, as I ſee we are near the houſe; for, I give you my word, all I ſaid was only for the ſake of taking part in the con⯑verſation, which otherwiſe you would not have permitted me to do. When I have the misfortune to fall into the company of lovers, I always quarrel with [157]them, or ſet them a quarrelling with one another;—'tis the only way a third per⯑ſon can avoid being totally inſignificant. —Well, are we friends, Sir Edward?’

‘No, I'll not forgive you this week. And I'll complain of you to lady Alicia the moment we go in.’

‘Fort bien, Monſieur; then I ſhall look on you as my declared enemy this whole week; and accordingly, play you all the miſchievous tricks I can think of.’

‘No, no; let us be friends: I am half afraid of you, ſince I find you can be ſo ſpiteful. I would not, for any conſider⯑ation, be at enmity with you while lord Oſmore ſtays.’

"Oh!" cried ſhe, ‘it is the moſt de⯑lightful thing imaginable, to have two lovers; they keep each other in ſuch ex⯑cellent order. When a man has no rival, he aſſumes ſo many ſaucy or negligent airs, there is no bearing him. If ever I have one over, and can't get a fellow for him, I'll certainly diſcard him: I would rather go barefooted, than walk with one ſhoe.’

[158] We ſhook hands in token of perfect amity; but the moment we returned to the drawing-room, the little urchin found means to ſet me down to piquet with the duke. I told her in a whiſper, I conſidered this as an abſolute breach of our new-made treaty of peace. "With all my heart:" returned ſhe; ‘you may begin hoſtilities as ſoon as you dare.’

When I was releaſed from the card-table, I ſtept up to lord Oſmore, and begging him to humour whatever I ſhould ſay to lady Fanny, I went over to her, and in a low voice intreated her to walk to the other end of the room with me: quite unſuſpicious of my deſign, ſhe complied; and I lead her directly to Oſmore. ‘You ſee, my lord, I keep my promiſe with you, in giving you an opportunity to thank this lady for the very favourable ſentiments, I have this evening been ſo fortunate as to diſ⯑cover, ſhe entertains for you.’ She looked quite ſurpriſed and confounded.

"I have not words," ſaid Oſmore, ‘to expreſs the ſenſe I have of your lady⯑ſhip's goodneſs.’

[159] ‘Indeed, my lord, I—I—The deuce take you, Marchmont!’

‘Be not diſpleaſed, madam; I was too much the friend of both parties, to con⯑ceal a ſecret, that was ſo neceſſary to your happineſs, and ſo conducive to his lordſhip's, to have mutually known.’

"I declare I could beat you," cried ſhe, in a violent pet.

I anſwered with profound gravity, ‘I ſhould be miſerable if I thought your ladyſhip was really offended at my offi⯑cious zeal.’

"And I," ſaid Oſmore, ‘ſhall be the moſt unhappy of men, ſhould ſhe have the cruelty to doubt—’

"I aſſure you, my lord," interrupted ſhe, ‘this is all a jeſt of Sir Edward's: for which, I promiſe him,’ ſhaking her head threateningly at me, ‘I will be ſuffi⯑ciently revenged.’

She will be as good as her word, I dare ſay.

"Madam," replied I, ‘I underſtand you perfectly; nobody is quicker at tak⯑ing a hint:—but be perſuaded, I have [160]ſerved you without any view to intereſt: I don't deſire the leaſt return, upon my honour.’

‘That I believe, indeed! but if I make you not an ample one,—I give you leave to make a ſimilar declaration for me, to every gentleman of my acquaintance.’

"Generous creature!"

"Moſt generous!" echoed his lordſhip; ‘I am overpowed with gratitude—I have not language—This kind parti⯑ality was as little expected, as deſerved.’

"Sure," ſaid ſhe, ‘it is not poſſible you can believe any thing, this abomi⯑nable, malicious wretch, has told you? My lord, I muſt let you know how this matter comes about—’

"I comprehend your meaning exactly:" ſaid I; ‘you would have me leave you with him. I am gone’—bowing.

"Stay," ſhe cried; ‘You are mighty penetrating to-night.—Stay, when I deſire you.’

‘Madam, I obey the reiterated com⯑mand with pleaſure: I eaſily ſee why it is given;—you would have me ſpare [161]your bluſhes, by making this delicate ex⯑planation for you.—My lord as we walk⯑ed together this evening—’

‘Be ſilent, you vile, provoking ani⯑mal!’

‘—Your lordſhip's name being acci⯑dentally mentioned; ſhe—’

‘O there is no ſtopping the wretch! Don't liſten to him, Oſmore: go away, I entreat you.’

"I dare not diſobey your ladyſhip," and leaving her, was bending his ſteps to the upper end of the room, where was ‘me⯑tal more attractive,’—la belle O'Bryen at work with lady Alicia.

"Now," ſaid I to lady Fanny, ‘this action is more againſt you, than any thing I could have told him.’

"O come back, my lord!" exclaimed ſhe, quite frightened.

He obeyed.

"Ah!" cried I, ‘how weak are our reſolutions when the heart is in a certain ſituation!’

"You'll ſet me mad," ſaid ſhe; flying away from us over to the working-table; [162]where ſhe received no better conſolation than being heartily laughed at.—Every body enjoys a joke againſt lady Fanny; the little chit is ſo very apt to be merry at other people's expence, that ſhe has as many enemies as a miniſter of ſtate.

But do I intend to go to bed to-night? It is juſt three o'clock.

I forgot to tell you, that your friend, dean Domville's lady is ſafely delivered of a fine boy; to the great joy—as the newſ⯑papers will inform you—of that noble fa⯑mily: —which, by the bye, might ſoon be extinct on the part of the two elder bro⯑thers.

TO MISS O'BRYEN.—ENGLAND.

SO, Mrs. Wentworth denies all know⯑ledge of the Chevalier du Mornai:— ſtrange!—That he knows her too well, I am ſufficiently convinced.—Something that happened this morning, increaſes my cu⯑rioſity and ſurprize:—Sir Francis O'Bryen and the chevalier, breakfaſted here. The converſation turned on Mrs. Hervey:—I believe you remember ſeeing her at the earl of Melmont's—ſhe loſt her huſband about three months ago; her grief was ſo extravagant, as to put her friends in fear of her attempting to deſtroy herſelf: however, ſhe changed her mind; and was laſt week married to a Mr. Walſh; a man every way her inferior.—Sir Francis made many gay obſervations on her conduct; and in his uſual lively way, went on to ſay, that wo⯑men never lament the loſs of the huſband, but the want of a huſband.

[164] "I hope," ſaid Mr. Chetwynd, ‘it will ſoon be in my power to introduce you to a lady, in whoſe favour you will be obliged to give up that notion. What do you think, Francis, of a beautiful widow of two and twenty, with an im⯑menſe fortune, devoting herſelf to ſoli⯑tude and celibacy?’

‘Faith! Sir, 'tis very extraordinary; ſo much ſo, that I am ſure it can't laſt long.—You ſaid that you expected the lady here?’

"Yes; very ſoon."

"Then, uncle," tapping him on the knee, "ſhe is the very woman for me."

"You do not know her," ſaid I, ‘or you would reſpect her ſorrows.’

‘Your pardon, madam, I have done. Only—her name?’

"Harriet Wentworth."

A chocolate cup dropt from du Mornai's hand upon the floor: and faintly exclaim⯑ing, "my God!" he fell back in his chair. He remained for ſome minutes inſenſible. As ſoon as he recovered, he made ſome excuſes—awkwardly enough, I thought— [165]for the trouble he ſuppoſed he had given: ſaid, that his health was bad; and he was ſubject to theſe ſudden fits.—Yes, thought I, when Mrs. Wentworth is ſpoken of.

Certainly, my dear Valeria, this is a moſt myſterious and perplexing affair. I feel extremely for the poor chevalier. I am perſuaded, he is deeply unhappy. On a nearer acquaintance, I find him exceed⯑ingly amiable. His abord is ſo very cold, that it almoſt freezes one; but by degrees the reſerve wears off, and allows you to pay due eſteem to his worth,—He ſpeaks Engliſh remarkably well for a foreigner; indeed, quite as well as a native. He ge⯑nerally preſerves a thoughtful and gloomy ſilence; but when he chuſes to talk, his converſation—though always grave—is un⯑commonly ſenſible and entertaining.

Don't you think it was ſomething extra⯑ordinary in him, to cry out, "my God!" ſhould he not rather have ſaid, mon Dieu? In a ſudden and violent agitation of the mind, it is moſt natural and cuſtomary to uſe one's own language.

[166] I cannot get this man out of my head: but I would not have you mention him to Mrs. Wentworth any more, leſt it might prevent her coming here; and I earneſtly wiſh to ſee her.

The moment I received yours, I wrote to lady Alicia. Her deſire of accompany⯑ing you is extremely obliging; and the ready acquieſcence of the duke and lady Caryſbrook, is very flattering both to you and us.

Haſten your return, my lovely child. I long mightily to know your Sir Edward. Mr. Chetwynd is charmed with his letter, which he juſtly calls, a noble one.

Lord Melmont's coach coming up the avenue.—Adieu, ma tres chere amie; Je vous embraſſe.

TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.

LORD Oſmore left us this morning. The precipitance of his departure was, I believe, partly occaſioned by a whimſical little incident I will recount to you:— Chancing to riſe this morning earlier than uſual, I intended to take a ramble before breakfaſt; but finding it rained, I changed my mind, and the door of the breakfaſt-parlour ſtanding open—I ſtroled in. My Valeria alone—ſtanding at a window, writ⯑ing careleſsly with a pencil on the margin of a newſpaper.—I ſtole behind her.—She had written' "Valeria O'Bryen," and un⯑der it, "Valeria Marchmont."—I caught the betwitching charmer in my arms. "Oh! Sir Edward!" Then haſtily, and in extreme confuſion, ſhe would have ef⯑faced the pretty ſcribble. I pulled her away; embracing her with tranſport. She hid her lovely, bluſhing face on my [168]ſhoulder; I preſſed my lips to her fore⯑head; —and in that very moment, who ſhould enter the room but lord Oſmore! as the devil, or his evil genius, would have it. What a ſight for him! it pains me to reflect on what he muſt have ſuffered. At the time however, I felt only for my Vale⯑ria; —I gave her a pretence to retire, by ſaying aloud, ‘Tell me, you forgive me; and I'll not detain you any longer.’

"I thank you," ſaid ſhe, in a low voice; and hurried away.

Aſſuming an air of unconcern, I ſaid, "Your lordſhip is an early riſer this morn⯑ing."

‘So are you, Sir, I perceive. I be⯑lieve we riſe early from a very different cauſe:—you are too happy, I am too miſerable, to ſleep.’

I did not chuſe to underſtand this ſpeech ſeriouſly; to anſwer it with raillery, was repugnant to my feelings;—I was ſilent; and he, malheureuſement, walked over to the window at which Miſs O'Bryen had ſtood. He inſtantly ſaw my name joined [169]to hers; and retreated two ſteps, with a look of ſurpriſe and anguiſh.

‘Let me take away my impertinent ſcribble,’ ſaid I, putting the paper in my pocket: ‘I wiſh I had been wiſe enough to do ſo before ſhe ſaw it.’

He made ſome indiſtinct apology of "Letters to write"—and left me.

I amuſed myſelf with a book, till the family aſſembled to breakfaſt: when lord Oſmore declared he muſt return to London immediately, on buſineſs of importance. Accordingly, he took his congé: and I have now no declared rival, except maſter Ro⯑bert; of whom I ſhould be extremely jea⯑lous if he was ten years older.

A letter from Ireland—How my heart beats!

—

With fearful impatience I broke its ſeal: —from Mr. Chetwynd;—fully anſwerable to my warmeſt wiſhes.—I muſt ſeek my faireſt!

TO LORD METHU N.—POPLAR-HILL.

I HAVE this moment been favoured with your's; and am ſurpriſed you ſhould think me capable of treating you with ſo much neglect: no, be aſſured, my dear Auguſtus, I had not the leaſt intention of leaving England without ſeeing you.

As you ſay, I muſt have a great deal of courage to venture to attend my Hibernian belle to Ireland. If one of her country⯑men does not blow my brains out, or run me through the body, I ſhall have a worſe opinion of the gallantry of the nation, than I have hitherto entertained. And yet, after all the fine women thoſe tall Iriſhmen have carried away from us, it would ill ſuit their characteriſtical generoſity, to grudge an Engliſhman one beauty.

I write this from Marchmont-houſe; where I am at preſent employed in making [171]ſome alterations and arrangements, which will render this fine old ſeat more worthy of its future miſtreſs. I am almoſt certain the little improvements I am making will pleaſe her; for during our ſweet intercourſe of unreſerved friendſhip at the duke's, I ſtu⯑died her taſte; and found it—which moſt agreeably flattered me—perfectly ſimilar to my own.

I muſt tell you ſome news, I have heard from good authority ſince I came down here:—Miſs Ormſby, my old flame— though, Lord knows, ſhe never warmed me much—is going to be married to Sir Peter Ball; a poor city knight; who, I ſuppoſe, is very glad there ſhould be a mutual participation of his title and her fortune. I think knights are quite her game: yet I would fain think, we are not eaſier taken in, than any other ſet of men. You ſee ſhe is determined to be a lady at any rate; and that, as Sir Peter is conſi⯑derably on the wrong ſide of fifty, muſt, I preſume, be her principal inducement to wed him. I am afraid it would not be very uncharitable to conjecture, by his age, that [172]Mr. Webſter is not to loſe any thing by the match.

Poor Sir Peter! Whenever I call to mind ſome late occurrences, I find myſelf exceedingly inclined to compaſſionate any man I think in danger of Acteon's fate. A propos—Pray, my lord, is it not a little ſurpriſing, that the goddeſs of chaſtity, and ladies who are not, Heaven knows, very famous for that virtue,—ſhould have fixed upon the ſame mode of puniſhing our hap⯑leſs ſex?

I have another piece of intelligence to communicate: you perceive I am quite a news-monger to-day:—Sir James Conway has let his eſtate here to Mr. Domville; who, ever ſince his marriage, has been fluctuating between Ireland, France, and England. I find he intends to ſettle here; ſo I ſhall exchange a very undeſirable neigh⯑bour, for a very agreeable one.

The two days I have been obliged to ſpend here, have appeared to me inſuffer⯑ably [173]tedious. The day is, undoubtedly, three times as long here as at Granville⯑park.—I go to London to-morrow; where I expect to diſcharge as much buſineſs in one day, as would take me up four, at ano⯑ther time. Then away to Granville-park —which has more charms for me, at pre⯑ſent, than any other place in the world. From that I ſhall go to Poplar-hill: I be⯑lieve my ſiſter will accompany me; as I am ſure ſhe is deſirous to ſee lady Methuen before our excurſion to Ireland, which is fixed for next week. I was afraid ſhe would not have conſented to undertake this little voyage: but her gentle temper could not withſtand Mrs. Chetwynd's preſſing in⯑vitation, which was equally friendly and polite; joined to Miſs O'Bryen's perſuaſive eloquence, and my earneſt ſolicitations.— It would have thrown a ſhade of regret over my joys, to have left this ſweet, me⯑lancholy creature, unprotected and alone. —If my love for my Valeria could admit of any heightening, it would receive it from her tenderneſs to this dear, unfortunate fiſter; who hangs about my heart, in a [174]manner I cannot deſcribe. How cloſely does pity tie the band of friendſhip!

Tell my dear lady Methuen, I long to ſee whether your daughter or Arthur has grown moſt, ſince I was at Poplar-hill: there was then, I remember, a powerful emulation between them; though their am⯑bition was ſomewhat differently directed; ſhe aiming entirely at bulk, and he chiefly at height.

O, Methuen, how oppoſite is my pre⯑ſent ſituation, to that in which I laſt viſited your amiable family! Crooked and thorny was my path to happineſs; but I have ar⯑rived at it! Praiſed be the Hand that led me! May the ſame mighty and merciful Hand pour its beſt bleſſings on the head of that dear friend, whoſe feeling and generous heart equally participates my afflictions and my joys!

TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.

THIS is my third letter from Ireland: you ſee you are getting deep into debt: I warn you, you will find me a moſt merci⯑leſs creditor. My firſt from Dublin, I pre⯑ſume, you have received by this time.— The ladies are perfectly recovered of their little fatigue: and we are all as well and as happy as poſſible at Chetwynd⯑villa.

Our agreeable fellow - travellers, Mr. Domville and lady Lucy, are ſtill at lord Melmont's houſe in Dublin; but are to-mor⯑row expected at Firdale, a ſeat of his lord⯑ſhip's, within ſix or ſeven miles of this place.

I am charmed with my future relations: —they already treat me ‘as their friend— as their ſon.’—With Mrs. Chetwynd I am almoſt as much in love, as with her [176]beautiful niece. She is ſtill extremely agree⯑able in her perſon, though I ſuppoſe ſhe muſt be about forty. Her underſtanding is very good; and her converſation and manners evidently ſhew a perfect know⯑ledge of the grand monde. But what prin⯑cipally attracts me, is the affectionate ſenſi⯑bility of her heart; which is eaſily diſcerni⯑ble to the moſt ſuperficial obſerver. There is a tenderneſs—an air of intereſt, in her behaviour to any perſon in diſtreſs, that is unſpeakably pleaſing and amiable: I have ſeen tears in her eyes as ſhe ſurveyed my ſiſter; to whom her whole behaviour—as, indeed, that of every individual of this fa⯑mily—is aſſiduouſly attentive and obliging.

Mr. Chetwynd is a ſenſible, and moſt worthy man. His temper is warm, even to enthuſiaſm. The fire of the man is catching;—I frequently feel my heart glow as I converſe with him.—From this warmth of diſpoſition proceed moſt of his virtues, and all his faults: here I may juſtly apply a line of that character, ſo admirably drawn by Goldſmith,

[177] He can hardly behave with common ci⯑vility to a man he deſpiſes; he would ſcorn to take off his hat to a ſcoundrel, though he lolled in a coach adorned by a coronet; —but he would kneel in the dirt to kiſs the hand of an honeſt man in rags.—Do not figure to yourſelf a ſour cynic, ſnarling at the world:—no man is more ready to overlook any errors that do not flow from the depravity of the mind. He is polite, frank, hoſpitable, ſprightly, and good-hu⯑moured; enjoying the world freely, but enjoying it with reaſon and innocence; and quarrelling as much with the meanneſs, as with the ſinfulneſs of vice. In ſhort, I never yet knew a heart, every way ſo to⯑tally uncorrupted by five-and-forty years commerce with the world.

Such are the parents of my Valeria,— for it is in that light ſhe conſiders them; and moſt gladly ſhall I render them the duty and affection of a ſon. They abſo⯑lutely doat on their niece—How ſhould they do otherwiſe?—They treat her in ſuch a manner, that I am ſeriouſly ſurpriſed ſhe is not as vain as ſhe is lovely. And per⯑haps [178]it was well for her ſhe did not loſe her real parents, till her mind had acquired ſuf⯑ficient ſolidity to reſiſt the attacks of va⯑nity. Yet ſhe was but ſeventeen, when ſhe came under the guardianſhip of Mr. Chetwynd and his lady;—a moſt dangerous period in life, to a woman of her uncom⯑mon beauty: ſhe has now lived with them near four years,—and is it not amazing, that their inceſſant flattery, their unbounded indulgence, joined to the univerſal admira⯑tion, has not quite turned her head? Yet is ſhe not the moſt modeſt, the moſt un⯑aſſuming of women? Can I ever enough admire the excellence of her judgment, the ſteadineſs of her mind?—It has been ob⯑ſerved, that wherever nature is laviſh of perſonal beauties, ſhe is extremely ſparing of mental ones;—or perhaps we might as well ſay, that the former have a natural tendency to deſtroy the latter, by laying open the youthful mind to the deſtructive, the almoſt reſiſtleſs power of vanity:— and how very rarely do we ſee united, as in Miſs O'Bryen,—every grace, every [179]charm of perſon and mind? There is none like her—

And that one—O my exulting heart!— that moſt perfect work of nature, was made for me!

Philip to dreſs my hair for dinner.—I fancy your are not diſpleaſed with him for the interruption.

—

Congratulate me, Auguſtus:—my hap⯑pineſs is fixed at the diſtance of a fort⯑night.

Fourteen tedious days!—Is not the charmer cruel, to delay my bliſs ſo long? Yet, I aſſure you, if Mr. Chetwynd had not been warmly my friend, ſhe would have put me off a whole month.

—

[180] Sir Francis O'Bryen—couſin-german to the lovelieſt of women—dined here to-day. I like him much. He is an agreeable, ele⯑gant fellow, of two or three and twenty. A great favourite of his uncle Chetwynd's; which is a powerful recommendation to me.—I regretted that he did not bring the chevalier du Mornai with him:—I ſuppoſe you recollect what I told you I had heard from my Valeria concerning that gentle⯑man.

Mr. Chetwynd aſked for the chevalier: —Sir Francis replied, that he hoped he was well; he had been at Cork theſe ten days.

Lady Enmore—did not I tell you in my laſt ſhe was at Chetwynd-villa?—repeated with ſome ſurpriſe, ‘At Cork! What could have carried him to ſuch a diſ⯑tance? —Eighty miles hence: Is it not?’

"Thereabouts," anſwered Mr. Chet⯑wynd: ‘Pray, Sir Francis, has the che⯑valier any acquaintance there?’

‘None, Sir.—He went to ſee the place.’

[181] It ſurpriſes me exceedingly, my lord, that ſuch a man, as Sir Francis appears to be, ſhould allow his friend—a ſtranger and a foreigner—to travel alone. But perhaps he went with a party. However, 'tis cer⯑tainly no concern of mine; and rather im⯑pertinent in me to trouble my head about the matter.

O! I muſt throw away my pen—I can't write in this room—what is worſe, I can't ſleep in it—Yet there is but one in the houſe I would exchange it for—the very one, which, by its vicinity, puts it out of my power to reſt in this. The partition wall is ſo thick, I cannot hear the leaſt noiſe;—but the very idea of her being in the next room!—Come, ſweet Morpheus; bear away that cruel partition!—Obſerve my inconſiſtency—I tell you firſt I cannot ſleep, then immediately begin to invoke the god of dreams:—I give you leave to laugh at me. Since the Hibernian air has ſuch an effect on me already, in a ſhort time you may expect to hear me ſing.

[182] After all, I am not ſo very inconſiſtent; for what are a lover's thoughts but waking dreams?—Not very clear, however, that it is Morpheus inſpires thoſe waking dreams.

Adieu: it is time for me to go to bed; —you ſee I am almoſt dreaming already.

TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.

HEAVENS! my dear du Mornai, leave Ireland!—As you prize my friendſhip do not think of it. Why this ſudden reſolve? And why ſo ſoon revoke your promiſe of ſpending the winter with me? You do not care to ſee her—Well, ſhe will not follow you to Cork, I warrant. But I will, as ſoon as I poſſibly can; which will be in a day or two. In the mean time, ſeek amuſement, baniſh thought, baniſh care. I hope you find the families, to whom my letters introduced you, agreeable. When I join you, we will take a tour through ſome parts of this iſland; and I will ſhew you whatever it produces moſt worthy your obſervation.

I have been to pay mes devoirs to Miſs O'Bryen. An amazing fine woman!—I wiſh you could ſee her: unmeaning wiſh! [184]with all her attractions, ſhe would be an unintereſting object to you.—I take it ſtrongly into my head, that ſhe is the cauſe of Sir Edward Marchmont's viſit to Ire⯑land; for I don't think he knew either my uncle or aunt Chetwynd before he came, and his whole behaviour to her is moſt tenderly and reſpectfully aſſiduous. His eyes follow her with a fond—nay, a jealous attention; they languiſh as ſhe retires, and ſparkle at her approach.—Entre nous, if I did not abſolutely deſpair of ſupplanting ſuch a man as this Sir Edward, I ſhould find my⯑ſelf exceedingly inclined to feel ſomething more than friendſhip for this beautiful rela⯑tion.

There is another young lady at Chet⯑wynd-villa —beſides one I will not mention to you—who is aſſez jolie, and very pleaſ⯑ing: her name is Sedley, daughter to the late lord Caryſbrook; the ſame relation to Miſs O'Bryen on her mother's ſide, that I am on her father's.

Shall I, or ſhall I not, ſay any thing of —By what name ſhall I call her to you?— Pale; but extremely lovely—An air of [185]touching ſadneſs—Dreſſed in doleful black—.

O woman—woman, thou art deceitful! Who could look in Mrs. Wentworth's face, and not pronounce that tender ſorrow, the reſult of ſuffering innocence, rather than repenting guilt?—But enough on a ſubject I ought not to have introduced at all.

Adieu, mon cher chevalier: amuſez vous; ſoyez gai.

TO SIR FRANCIS O'BRYEN, BART.— O'BRYEN-CASTLE.

PALE! ſad! in mourning!—O, Sir Francis, how this deſcription melts my ſoul!—But fool—fool that I am! 'tis not for the wretched Henry ſhe is pale, ſad, or in mourning: for him, even ‘the mockery of woe,’ is by this time laid aſide. If ſhe be melancholy, it is becauſe, perhaps, ſhe is forſaken by—. His name ſhall not ſtain my paper.

Pardon my weakneſs; I cannot write— I cannot think on any other ſubject. In vain does my reaſon recal the inſufferable wrongs ſhe has done me: and time, that ſhould have effaced my love, has only lul⯑led my reſentment to ſleep.—O cruel Har⯑riet! falſe, ungrateful woman! to what endleſs—to what unſpeakable miſery, have you doomed a man, who, while he thought you innocent, would have ſhed his heart's [187]deareſt drops for you! Nay, by Heaven! I would do ſo at this moment!

I am almoſt aſhamed to confeſs to you, I have been ſo weak as to write to her in my feigned character. I have diſguiſed my hand—vain caution! I have doubtleſs no place in her remembrance.

I told her—that I had ſeen her at Paris with lady Marchmont: that I there imbibed for her a paſſion, which marked my future days with woe.—I had been married by my father, when I was extremely young, to a woman for whom I never had the leaſt af⯑fection: this unfortunate engagement put it out of my power to declare my love for her. Reſpecting her virtue—

Her virtue!—O 'twas profaning the fa⯑cred name—Yet ſhe has more perfections, and fewer faults, than many who have not her frailty.—But of what account are a woman's virtues, if chaſtity be not amongſt the number? 'Tis that which brightens and refines all the reſt: without it, every other virtue under the ſun cannot render a woman amiable; and with it, ſhe can hardly ever be thoroughly contemptible.

[188] —I ſaid—that reſpecting her virtue, I ſhunned her ſight; and determined to im⯑poſe on myſelf an eternal ſilence. About a year after this, my wife died; and re⯑ſolving to go immediately to England, I waited on Monſieur de Villemar, and re⯑queſted he would favour me with a recom⯑mendatory letter to Sir George Marchmont. He informed me Miſs Marchmont was al⯑ready married!—This dreadful and unex⯑pected ſtroke was near depriving me of my exiſtence. I quitted my friends and coun⯑try: rambled over moſt part of Europe; hopeleſs of happineſs, and wholly regard⯑leſs of life.—At Rome I contracted a friendſhip with Sir Francis O'Bryen; by whoſe ſolicitations I was induced to come to Ireland: Heaven directing my ſteps! for here I learned ſhe was again free.—I concluded with earneſtly intreating permiſ⯑ſion to throw myſelf at her feet.

Such, in brief, was the purport of an addreſs, every way calculated to ſooth the vanity of her ſex. It agrees very well with the diſorder, the mention of her fatal name excited in me; and of which, I doubt not, [189]ſhe has been informed.—The real agitation of my mind, and the mixture of truth con⯑tained in this fiction—gives, I think, an air of ſincerity to the whole.

You will aſk me why I wrote:—I can⯑not tell you; I had no ſort of purpoſe to anſwer by it; I was actuated by an impulſe I could not reſiſt. If ſhe rejects du Mor⯑nai, it will not be for me, he is rejected; but for the curſed murderer of my peace and honour. If ſhe grants the permiſſion I affect ſo much to deſire—do not think I could be ſo meanly irreſolute, as to make myſelf known to her.—I do not wiſh to upbraid her—Alas! I could not upbraid her—Her preſence would be more dread⯑ful to me, than mine could be to her.—I acknowledge, with ſhame I acknowledge, I love her ſtill; yet, do me the juſtice to believe, that no conſideration could induce me to renew my connexions with her. No, my friend; lovely as ſhe is, I ſhould

And could I—which I never could—de⯑pend on the ſtability of that heart,—yet the [190]delicacy of my love is mortally wounded; —I never could be happy.

I am inexpreſſibly impatient for an an⯑ſwer to my ill-judged and unneceſſary let⯑ter; although that anſwer, of whatſoever nature it may be, cannot, in any degree, alleviate, or even alter my miſery.—Pity me, dear O'Bryen: pity, and deſpiſe me not. You have never felt the all-ſubduing power of love; you know not to what va⯑rious inconſiſtencies it prompts us;—great then will be your candour, if you can ex⯑cuſe the weakneſs of your unfortunate friend.

I ſhould intreat you not to come here, if I did not know, by experience, how im⯑poſſible it is to diſſuade you from any thing that is good-natured. Come, my dear Sir Francis: but expect not that I can join you in parties, either of pleaſure or improve⯑ment: —I have no taſte for pleaſure; and to what purpoſe ſhould I ſeek to improve my mind? There is none I wiſh to pleaſe; the world is to me a deſart.

You muſt not inſiſt on the performance of my promiſe: when I gave it, I could [191]not foreſee its conſequences. I cannot re⯑main in a place where there is a probabi⯑lity —a bare poſſibility—of again ſeeing her, I muſt for ever love, and will for ever ſhun.

In whatſoever place or circumſtances I may drag on the remains of a hated ex⯑iſtence —be aſſured, I ſhall always conſerve the livelieſt remembrance of your generous friendſhip.

TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.

MY heart is penetrated with your diſtreſs. My dear Chevalier, you ſhall not go:—I cannot ſupport the thought of your ram⯑bling about the world, a joyleſs, friendleſs, unconnected being; perhaps wanting even the neceſſaries of life. And can I be hap⯑py while you are miſerable? Can I riot in abundance while you want? No, du Mor⯑nai; you know not my honeſt heart, if you think I can.—The world, you ſay, is to you a deſart;—you cannot, therefore, have a particular liking to any place; then why not fix your reſidence in Ireland? The only obſtacle will ſoon be removed; ſhe is but on a viſit;—and this preference is due to my affection, though not to my merit.— You ſhall never go: we will live together; we will have but one houſe, one purſe, one heart. If my vivacity is diſagreeable to [193]you—I can, and will ſuppreſs it: I will be ſerious, melancholy—any thing, to pleaſe and ſooth you.

It was not my intention to make you this propoſal, until time had rendered—as I flattered myſelf it would—my friendſhip and ſociety dearer to you; that you might, of conſequence, be the leſs able to reject an offer I ſo paſſionately wiſh you to ac⯑cept: but your precipitance, of neceſſity, hurries me.—If you deny me—I ſhall think you one of the proudeſt, and moſt hard⯑hearted of men: if you comply—I ſwear to you, my dear chevalier, I ſhall conſider your condeſcending to be indebted to me, as the higheſt obligation that can poſſibly be conferred on me.

For God's ſake, du Mornai, let me hear no more apologies for your feelings:—I more than excuſe—I admire

In me, behold not a cold, unfeeling cen⯑ſor, but a warm and ſympathetic friend. And yet, my friend, allow me gently to obſerve, that love or honour muſt be con⯑quered: [194]—the firſt, I fear, is unconquer⯑able; the laſt I dare not adviſe you to combat. I do not preſume to offer my counſel in a caſe ſo very delicate: I ſhall never recommend to my friend—no, nor to my enemy—a conduct which I think I ought not to purſue myſelf; and on the other hand, I ſhall never take upon me to cenſure any man for acting, as I might perhaps myſelf do, in his circumſtances.

I am ſure it was hard for my buſineſs to proſper within the laſt fortnight; for I have curſed by the hour every thing that has kept me from you. The affair which, you know, principally detained me, is yet unfiniſhed; but that, and every thing, ſhall give way to friendſhip: nothing ſhall pre⯑vent my going to Cork to-morrow.

TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.

I AM pained, Monſieur, to be obliged to convey to you my ſiſter's ſentiments. To well have I known the agonizing pangs of hopeleſs love, not to feel the deepeſt compaſſion for any man condemned to bear them. I reſpect, I love, and I lament, the noble conſtancy of your unfortunate paſſion. Would to Heaven it was in my power, in any degree, to ſoften the wound my unwilling hand muſt give! If the man⯑ner of a refuſal can conſole—be conſoled, chevalier:—Mrs. Wentworth rejects, but ſhe inſults you not; ſhe refuſes you ſteadi⯑ly; but it is with gratitude, it is with tears. —She cannot love; her heart was buried in the grave of her huſband! A huſband, who, as her brother I would ſay, deſerved her not: but as a man—bound to allow for the frailties incident to humanity—I can par⯑don [196]his errors, and grieve for his misfor⯑tunes.

You merit Mrs. Wentworth's friend⯑ſhip; —but let the confidence ſhe allows me to repoſe in you, evince that ſhe with⯑holds it not:—the incloſed I may call a hiſtory of her misfortunes: it was written by Miſs O'Bryen for Mrs. Chetwynd. I need only add to it, that by the prudence of my moſt amiable friend, lord Metheun, —theſe melancholy tranſactions were kept from the public knowledge: the world—ever prone to look on the dark ſide of things—would not have believed that a woman, ſo perfectly innocent, could be ſo very unfortunate. I do not pretend to ac⯑quit her wholly of the charge of impru⯑dence: but very ſlight was the fault; and ſuch as a woman of a leſs unſuſpecting heart, with half her underſtanding, might have avoided: the fault, I repeat, was tri⯑vial; and the puniſhment ſevere, indeed! —Whilſt the fair mourner weeps inceſſant for her Henry—you, chevalier, I am per⯑ſuaded, will drop a generous tear to the misfortunes of both.

[197] I think ſo highly of your delicacy, and imagine you muſt have ſo good an opinion of Mrs. Wentworth's, that after you have read theſe papers, I will not ſuppoſe it ne⯑ceſſary to tell you, that you muſt not ex⯑pect time can make any change in your favour.

TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.

GRACIOUS Heaven! my dear friend, what an amazing tale have I to unſold!— Should I tell you that Harry Wentworth lives,—will you not believe that I rave, or that I mock you? Yet, I have received a letter from him within this half hour. It is impoſſible to deſcribe the emotion the peruſal of it gave me. With what aftoniſh⯑ment, what tumultuous joy—joy checked by doubt—did I regard it! My head grew dizzy; and my behaviour, I believe, was abſolutely frantic. By an impulſe almoſt involuntary, I flew to the dear partner of my ſoul:—her ſoothing ſoftneſs has, in ſome degree, compoſed my agitated ſpirits; yet ſtill my heart beats ſtrangely, and my blood ſeems to circulate in an unuſual way. —I was in my own chamber when the let⯑ter was brought to me; and having heard [199]Miſs O'Bryen enter her's, without reflect⯑ing on the boldneſs and impropriety of ſuch an intruſion—

The carriage waits—Imagine with what impatience I go to embrace my long-loſt brother.

I ſhall requeſt my Valeria to add a few lines, and ſeal this.—She knows that I have already told you every thing relative to this pretended Frenchman's addreſſes to my ſiſter.

—

I eſteem myſelf ſingularly fortunate, to have at once an opportunity of teſtifying my ſenſe of the favours I have received from lord Methuen, conveying pleaſure to him, and obliging Sir Edward Marchmont. —Your lordſhip will loſe by the change of your correſpondent.—But it would be un⯑pardonable to tire you with tedious apolo⯑gies, inſtead of entering immediately on a ſubject ſo intereſting to you. Where am I to take it up? Let me ſee.—At my own room door, I think.—I had juſt ſat down to write to Miſs Marchmont, when I heard a haſty [200]tap at my door. "Come in, Sir," ſaid I, ſuppoſing it was my uncle; and riſing, I walked towards the door:—I was extreme⯑ly ſurpriſed to ſee it opened by Sir Edward. He claſped me in his arms without ſpeak⯑ing a word: he was in violent diſorder; and changed colour every inſtant. ‘My God!’ cried I, ‘what is the matter? —You are ill!—O ſit here’—I led him to a large elbow-chair as I ſpoke: he ſat down, and placed me beſide him; ſaying, with great emotion, ‘O, Valeria! my ſiſter’—He laid an open letter on my lap; and burſt into tears.—I cannot ex⯑preſs how much he frightened me:—Har⯑riet had gone out a little before to take the air with lady Enmore;—an over-turned carriage, and broken limbs, were the firſt ideas that roſe in my mind;—I graſped his hand in ſpeechleſs terror.—‘I have diſ⯑compoſed you, my love,’ ſaid he: ‘How could I be ſo thoughtleſs? But how, at ſuch a moment, could I be otherwiſe?—You ſhall not ſee this yet.’ He would have taken away Mr. Went⯑worth's letter—I ſnatched it eagerly— [201]What a ſudden tranſition from affliction to joy!—But, my lord, it will be a great deal more to the purpoſe, to give you ſome ac⯑count of the letter itſelf, than to attempt to tell the effect it had, either on myſelf or on Sir Edward.—It is written in a ſtyle I can⯑not do juſtice to: irregular, elevated, warm, and pathetic. After moſt paſſionately la⯑menting the pain his unworthy ſuſpicions occaſioned to his Harriet—ſeverely con⯑demning himſelf, for giving way to thoughts ſo injurious to her—earneſtly begging his brother's forgiveneſs—and generouſly praiſing the candour of the writer of the little narrative Sir Edward ſo fortunately ſent to him—he proceeds to applaud your lordſhip's behaviour in your unhappy duel: he ſays, you in the gentleſt, though moſt intrepid manner, ineffectually demanded what cauſe of offence you had given; and refuſed to fight, until provoked by the moſt opprobrious language.—When you fell bleeding and ſenſeleſs to the ground, he thought you dead; yet ſtill animated by a furious reſentment, he was going to ſtab you through the heart; but every feeling [202]of the man and the gentleman, riſing againſt ſo baſe an action, he threw away the bloody ſword with horror, and precipitately quit⯑ted the place.

He embarked on board a merchant ſhip bound to Cadiz; taking with him bills on that city to the amount of about two thou⯑ſand pounds: this ſum he thought would be ſufficient for a year or two; and his me⯑lancholy imagination naturally enough ſug⯑geſted, that he could not ſurvive his mis⯑fortunes beyond that time.

He was received with all the friendſhip he expected by Don Juan d'Almagro; to whom he diſcloſed the ſecret cauſe of his voluntary exile. The jealous, haughty, vin⯑dictive temper of the Spaniard, highly ap⯑proved his conduct; and confirmed him in his reſolution of eſtranging himſelf for ever from England.—Sir Edward's enquiry em⯑barraſſed them very much: neither were willing to acknowledge the truth; both ſcorned a lie; and Don Juan's politeneſs re⯑jected the idea of leaving the letter unan⯑ſwered. An accident at length determined them; and induced them to adopt as wild [203]a ſcheme as ever a romantic brain ſug⯑geſted: truth, they relunctantly obliged to give way to a ſuppoſed neceſſity.—Mr. Wentworth's ſervant was thrown from his horſe, and died in a few days after of his bruiſes and a fever, which was their conſe⯑quence. During his illneſs, he expreſſed ſo ſtrong a concern at the thought of being buried in a foreign country, that his maſter humanely promiſed, that if he died he would be at the expence of having him conveyed to England. The ſequel is eaſily ima⯑gined: —Mr. Wentworth, to put a final ſtop to the enquiries of his friends, thought fit to make the corps paſs for his own; and dictated to Don Juan that letter, which drew ſo many tears from the faireſt eyes in England. This ſtrange deceit was not eaſily detected: the body of a perſon dying in ſuch circumſtances would be expected to be altered and disfigured; and this man, though unlike him in bulk and complexion, was about his age, nearly of the ſame ſta⯑ture, had ſome reſemblance in his features, and hair of the ſame colour.

[204] Some time after this, from a reſtleſſneſs of diſpoſition, he left Cadiz; and, as he himſelf phraſed it, when he wrote in his aſſumed character to Mrs. Wentworth— ‘rambled over moſt part of Europe, hope⯑leſs of happineſs, and wholly regardleſs of life.’

Paſſing one night through the ſtreets of Rome, he ſaw a young gentleman leaning his back againſt a wall, defending himſelf with great bravery againſt three men. Our generous unfortunate immediately drew his ſword, in aid of the perſon who fought ſo unequal a combat:—the daſtardly aſſaſſins were ſoon put to flight.—Mr. O'Bryen— for you will gueſs it was he—thanked his deliverer in the warmeſt terms.—‘You owe me nothing,’ returned Mr. Went⯑worth gravely: ‘I am happy to have aſ⯑ſiſted to preſerve your life; and only wiſh I had been fortunate enough to have loſt my own.’

‘Ah! Signior, I fear you are unhappy: if by my fortune, my friendſhip, my life itſelf, I can render you any ſervice, freely command me.’

[205] ‘My misfortunes are not of a nature to admit of remedy. At preſent, how⯑ever, I think of nothing but your ſafety: allow me to attend you.’

Such an incident as this naturally led to an intimacy between them. O'Bryen was of a temper too grateful and generous, not to ſeek to return ſo great an obligation: but the reſerve of the man he wiſhed to oblige, put it out of his power to do more than endeavour to divert a melan⯑choly, of which he knew not the cauſe. Though Mr. Wentworth's mind was ſoured by misfortune, he could not long be inſen⯑ſible to ſuch attention;—the moſt perfect friendſhip was quickly founded on the ſtrong baſis of mutual worth and mutual gratitude: the fulleſt confidence ſoon ſuc⯑ceeded. They became inſeparable compa⯑nions; viſited ſeveral places in Italy toge⯑ther; and when Sir John O'Bryen's death called home his ſon, he found means to perſuade his friend to accompany him: though not without much difficulty; and after repeatedly urging the improbability of his being known, under the diſguiſe of [206]a Frenchman, in a kingdom where he had never been; eſpecially as his perfect know⯑ledge of the French nation and language gave him no room to apprehend ſuſpi⯑cion.

You know all the reſt, my lord;—I have only to tell you, that Mr. Went⯑worth and Sir Francis O'Bryen left Cork immediately on the receipt of Sir Ed⯑ward's letter, and late laſt night returned to O'Bryen caſtle; where Sir Edward is now gone.—I preſume he will return to⯑night, as the diſtance is not more than eight miles.

It is well Mrs. Wentworth happened to be abroad this morning:—our exceſſive joy might have betrayed more than it would be proper for her yet to know. I dread the conſequences of a full diſcovery: —but we muſt be cautious, and hope the beſt.

I will bid you adieu, and return to my letter to Miſs Marchmont:—now, what a joyful letter!—How peculiarly happy am I to be able to convey pleaſure to three ſuch perſons, as your lordſhip, lady Me⯑thuen, [207]and Miſs Marchmont; To give happineſs is, certainly, to feel it in a very ſuperior degree: then, am not I highly favoured by fortune, in having ſuch an ad⯑dition made to my own happineſs?

Make my affectionate compliments ac⯑ceptable to lady Methuen.

To the Right Honourable LADY METHUEN.— ENGLAND.

O MY dear lady Methuen, my heart is ſtrangely agitated! They tell me that my Henry lives! Is it—can it be poſſible?

There is here—I mean in this neigh⯑bourhood —a gentleman, who profeſſes to entertain for me a paſſion, I as little deſire as deſerve. I always diſliked ſecond mar⯑riages; I thought they betrayed a want of delicacy;—but ever ſince I have been a widow, I have abhorred them; I have al⯑moſt thought them criminal. I bluſh that any man ſhould love me: I do not, ſome⯑how, think myſelf at liberty—I am ſure, at leaſt, my heart is not free—to receive addreſſes of this nature; they even ſtrike me with a kind of horror. I pity Du Mornai; and yet inconſiſtently hate him: unjuſt and ungenerous that I am, to hate a [209]man only becauſe I have done him an in⯑jury! —I, however, allowed my brother to impart to him the circumſtances that at⯑tended the loſs of my huſband. O, my friend, I blot the laſt ſentence with my tears. No woman ever loved a huſband more tenderly, more ardently, nor more delicately, than I did; and yet my unjuſt, my cruel—but ſtill dear, ever-to-be-la⯑mented Henry, could think me falſe! Alas!—my burſting heart!—he dying thought me ſo! Ye powers! that I ſhould live to have my virtue ſuſpected! and that too, by the man whom, next to Heaven, I eſteemed and loved!

I am writing in the moſt incoherent manner—I meant to have told you, that my brother has been to viſit Monſieur du Mornai; the morning after he returned, he told me—after many pauſes, hints, and much circumlocution—that the chevalier was of opinion, that Mr. Wentworth is ſtill alive; and had only made uſe of an arti⯑fice —which might, he ſaid, be eaſily ma⯑naged —to induce us to believe him dead. To my infinite ſurpriſe, my brother him⯑ſelf, [210]and all my friends here, agree in thinking this conjecture founded on pro⯑bability. They ſay a great deal in ſupport of this opinion;—they particularly urge the congruity of ſuch a procedure in Mr. Wentworth, with his abrupt departure from England, and earneſt requeſt to my father and brother never to make any en⯑quiry after him.—What, Louiſa, do you think of all this? For my part, I know not what to believe. I am perplexed and anxious beyond meaſure. I am a thouſand times more miſerable than ever.—Can Sir Edward, do you imagine, have heard any thing concerning Mr. Wentworth, which he fears to impart to me immediately? I know his tender conſideration for me—But from what quarter ſhould he receive ſuch intelli⯑gence? 'Tis, however, extremely unlikely that this Chevalier du Mornai ſhould have ſo much more penetration than every body elſe.—I diſtract myſelf with conjectures— My ſoul is on the rack.

[211] —

Yes, Louiſa, Edward certainly knows ſomething which he chuſes not to commu⯑nicate: I have told him that he does;— he did not deny it; but ſqueezing my hand, ſaid, ‘If I conceal any thing from my dear Harriet, I truſt ſhe is no ſtranger to the motive of that concealment.’ I ſhould have importuned him, had not the entrance of lady Alicia Sedley put an end to our converſation. I like not to talk on this ſubject before her or lady Enmore; though I find my brother has made them acquainted with all my affairs; Was it right, my dear lady Methuen, to make them my confidants without my leave? This behaviour is not conſonant to his uſual delicacy;—it muſt mean ſomething.

Write to me immediately, my friend: tell me, do you think it poſſible that my Henry lives?—Why will not they tell me all they know? There is no bearing this torturing ſuſpenſe.

[212] Lady Enmore is obliged to go to Dublin for a few days;—the wedding is deferred till her return; a compliment, to which her generous friendſhip for Miſs O'Bryen certainly entitles her: yet I fancy Sir Ed⯑ward paid it with reluctance.

I am interrupted by Mrs. Chetwynd. I am not allowed to be a moment alone. However, Mrs. Chetwynd can never be an intruder to me: I love her from my ſoul; and could with pleaſure join Edward and Valeria when they call her mother, as they both frequently do.

Farewel.

TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.

I AM this moment honoured with your lordſhip's very polite letter. Some people cannot bear encouragement:—ſee, what an encroacher I am! I no ſooner learn that you tolerate one letter, than I commence another. However, 'tis at Sir Edward's deſire. Not that the ſaucy fellow has yet a right to command me; but as my day of power will—alas!—be very ſhort, it is po⯑litic to uſe it generouſly, in order to ſet him a good example.

Now, my lord, prepare yourſelf to read one of the longeſt letters that ever was written.—Your friend has told you all the artifices we have been obliged to uſe with his ſiſter, during the laſt fortnight. We were tortured to behold the diſquietude occaſioned by the ſuſpenſe we excited; yet none of us dared to ſpeak out. Mr. Went⯑worth [214]has, if poſſible, ſuffered more than her:—his impatience to behold her could have been checked only by his fears.

When I aroſe yeſterday morning, I ſent, as uſual, to enquire how Mrs. Wentworth had paſſed the night. Her woman came to me, and told me, ſhe feared her lady would abſolutely deſtroy herſelf, by giving way to ſo violent an anxiety; that ſhe had been up the greateſt part of the night; one time throwing herſelf on her bed, or walk⯑ing ſlowly about the room, ſhe ſilently wept; then moving with a quicker pace, ſhe beat her breaſt, and threw out many expreſſions, denoting the ſevereſt anguiſh of mind.

I went to her chamber immediately. I met Sir Edward at the door. ‘I have been with poor Harriet,’ ſaid he.—In⯑deed, he had no need to tell me ſo; I ſaw by his tearful eyes where he had been.— "What ſhall I do?" added he: ‘my heart bleeds for her.’

"Have you told her nothing more," aſked I, "than ſhe knew before?"

[215] ‘I have not. I was ſeveral times going to ſpeak; but had not the courage. O, Valeria, ſhould I tell her all, perhaps—’ he ſtopt;—it was, as a feeling writer ſays, "a perhaps not to be borne."

"In my opinion, Sir Edward," ſaid I, ‘no hazard can be greater, than that of ſuffering her to remain much longer in her preſent ſtate of mind. It is four days ſince you told her that Du Mornai ſaw Mr. Wenworth in Italy, ſince the time ſhe believed him dead: conſequent⯑ly, ſhe has now accuſtomed herſelf to think him alive:—it is time ſhe ſhould know more: and more ſhe ſhall know, if you give me leave.’

‘I do.—Yet, my dear creature, con⯑ſider.’ —"I will not be diſcouraged," cried I, abruptly quitting him.

I found his ſiſter, as I expected, in tears. I ſat down by her. ‘I muſt ſcold you, Harriet, I am angry with you.’

"What have I done?"

‘You have been careleſs of your health: you have ſat up almoſt all night.’

[216] ‘I could not ſleep. It is impoſſible for me to reſt either by day or night.’

‘And why impoſſible? Are you not moſt unreaſonable? While you were entirely without hope, you combated your af⯑flictions; you were calm, though un⯑happy: now, when you know certainly that Mr. Wentworth lives, you aban⯑don yourſelf to grief.’

"I know he did live: but, oh:" cried ſhe, weeping afreſh, ‘how do I know that he lives ſtill? In what part of the world am I to ſeek him?’

‘You will know all in time:—has not your brother written to his friends in Italy?’

‘Yes, yes; he has written:—I knew the time he would have gone. But I am unreaſonable: pardon me.’

"I cannot pardon you." The tears I had with much difficulty reſtrained before, fell from my eyes in ſpite of me. ‘I un⯑derſtand your hint very well," added I; but I ſwear to you, my cruel friend, were matters ſituated, as you ſuppoſe, I ſhould be the firſt to perſuade him to go. If [217]leaving me was an obſtacle, I would go with him.’

‘Forgive me; I knew not what I ſaid; —I did not intend to wrong either his friendſhip or yours. But what did you ſay, Valeria? If matters were, as I ſup⯑poſe —What meant my friend?’

‘I am afraid to tell you. You can bear nothing with equanimity but de⯑ſpair.’

‘For God's ſake! if you know any thing of my huſband, do not hide it from me! O, my friend—my ſiſter!’ throwing her arms round my neck—‘if you know any thing of my Henry, do not hide it from me!’

‘What would you that I ſhould tell you?’

"Is he living? Where is he?"

‘Mark me then, Harriet—he undoubt⯑edly is living; and in perfect health.’— She ſunk down on her knees, and ſilently raiſed her hands and eyes to Heaven, with a look of tranſport and gratitude unutter⯑able. I did not attempt to move her from a poſition that ſo well became her ſitua⯑tion; [218]but haſtily mixing ſome ſal-volatile with water, I gave her a glaſs of it: ſhe drank it almoſt mechanically: and think⯑ing ſhe would chuſe to be alone, I left the room.

Knowing how uneaſy Sir Edward would be till he ſaw me, I flew to the breakfaſt-parlour; —he met me at the door, with open arms, and looks of anxious enquiry. I recounted my proceedings; and had the pleaſure to receive his approbation.

My aunt obſerving that ſhe ſhould not be left long alone, I was returning to her apartment, when I met her in the hall. She affectionately embraced and thanked me. ‘But, Valeria, you only half an⯑ſwered my queſtion—Where is he?’

"I cannot tell you."

"Good God!" ſhe exclaimed, with the moſt diſappointed air; ‘you cannot tell! —How then do you know if he is living?’

‘You miſunderſtand me; I did not mean that I could not, but—excuſe me —that I would not as yet inform you. Let me ſee you eaſy and chearful till [219]after dinner, and upon my honour I will then tell you in what prince's dominions he is.’

"Were I treated thus," ſaid ſhe, ‘by any perſon of whoſe good-nature I could entertain the leaſt doubt, I ſhould una⯑voidably accuſe them of playing with my miſery.’

‘You would be moſt unjuſt if you thought ſo of me. Be aſſured, my Har⯑riet, if I did not fear to overpower you with joy, I ſhould with rapture gratify you.’

"Your motive is kind, indeed," re⯑turned ſhe; ‘but the conduct reſulting from it is moſt cruel.’

My uncle hearing us in the hall, came out, and took us both into the parlour.

The dear ſufferer made viſible efforts to appear chearful till the expiration of the ſtated time.—As ſoon as the ſervants were withdrawn after dinner, ſhe turned to me, as I ſat by her;—‘Now, Valeria, have I not been patient? Do I not deſerve to be pitied?’

[220] Sir Edward left his ſeat, and leaned on the back of her chair;—his intelligent countenance ſpeaking what he felt for her.

Her expreſſion filled my eyes with tears: —"Indeed, Harriet," ſaid I, ‘you do.— Aſk your queſtion.’

"Where is he?" demanded ſhe ea⯑gerly.

‘He is in the dominions of the King of—.’

"Dare I gueſs England?"

"You are right."

"O merciful Heaven!" cried ſhe, claſp⯑ing her hands together; ‘is he then in England? This is expected happineſs indeed! Well might you fear to over⯑power me with joy! O Valeria!’ falling on my boſom—‘are you ſure my Henry is in England?’

The ſweet, extravagant creature pro⯑poſed ſetting out for Dublin inſtantly; that ſhe might be ready to embrace the firſt op⯑portunity of returning to England.

"Sure" ſaid my uncle, ‘you would not go till you have ſeen the chevalier du Mornai;—'twas entirely by his means [221]you have recovered Mr. Wentworth;— your thanks are certainly due to him.’

‘Well, Sir, I'll write them. I would not ſee him on any account.’

"Pardon me, madam," he replied, ‘I believe you ought.’

She did not contend with him; but ad⯑dreſſed herſelf to my aunt: ‘Favour me with your advice, my dear Mrs. Chet⯑wynd: I will follow it implicitly. Think you not there would be an indelicacy in my receiving a viſit from him? Should I not be wanting in what I owe Mr. Wentworth?’

I ſaw my aunt was perplexed for an an⯑ſwer; and particularly as ſhe could not but approve her refuſing to ſee her ima⯑ginary lover:—to diſembarraſs her, I ſaid, that I thought Mrs. Wentworth judged perfectly right with regard to Monſieur: "But indeed, Harriet," added I, ‘I can⯑not ſo readily approve of your going to England. It is certainly Mr. Went⯑worth's buſineſs to come to you. And he will do ſo, the moment he obtains your permiſſion; for lord Methuen has [222]explained to him every thing he unhap⯑pily miſunderſtood.’

"And is he then convinced—" of my innocence, ſhe would have ſaid, but de⯑licacy and tears joined to break the ſen⯑tence.

"My excellent Valeria!" whiſpered Sir Edward tenderly; and he had the aſſurance to kiſs my cheek. But why do I tell you this? I forget I am not writing to my aunt Chetwynd.

"Your brother," reſumed I, ‘will write to him immediately. Not a word, my dear Harriet;’ for ſhe was opening her lips to ſpeak—‘you muſt not write a line to him.’

‘I muſt, I muſt: wherefore ſhould I wear the appearance of a reſentment I do not feel? You ſpeak from the feelings of a ſingle woman;—I would act from thoſe of a wife.’

"I do not want you," ſaid I, ‘to re⯑ſent an error that brought its own pu⯑niſhment with it: yet, for reaſons you will yourſelf approve, when you come to conſider the matter diſpaſſionately.—I [223]intreat you, leave it to Sir Edward to write.’

‘And I, my deareſt ſiſter, requeſt that you will allow yourſelf to be directed, in this affair, by Miſs O'Bryen's coun⯑ſel. —I will tell my brother that you wiſhed to write.’ He put his arms round her:—tears trembled in his fine eyes: —‘I know, my gentle ſiſter, our con⯑duct has a ſtrange, and even a barbar⯑ous appearance to you: but I beſeech you to rely on our friendſhip:—in a ſhort time you will be convinced of the propriety of our meaſures.’

I thought it would not be amiſs to en⯑deavour to give the converſation a gayer turn:—"Go to your place, Sir Edward," ſaid I, ‘and take your wine. As ſoon as the ſervants have dined I'll call for the coach; for be it known to you, ladies and gentlemen, we are all to drink tea with lady Melmont this evening.’

"With all my heart," cried my uncle.

"I ſhall go and write my letter then," ſaid Sir Edward.

[224] "Very well," ſaid I, ‘you have no⯑thing elſe to do, for you are as well dreſſed as poſſible. So are you, Sir. Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Chetwynd, you are quite elegant. Now, do you three go and take a turn in the garden till the carriage is ready.—Lady Alicia, I don't like your cap; it does not be⯑come you; you muſt change it.—How am I?" going to the glaſs"—paſſable⯑ment bien; but I muſt mend my hair a little.—Lady Alicia, you ſhall dreſs at lord Uvedon's:—Mr. Melmont for me. If the fine Miſs Stanley be there ſtill—Sir Edward ſhall have his choice of her, or lady Anne Melmont.’

"Were there ever ſuch airs?" ſaid my aunt, ſmiling.

"Upon my word, madam," cried lady Alicia, ‘I think ſhe takes a great deal too much upon her.’

"I think ſo too," ſaid Mr. Chetwynd; ‘but as it muſt be confeſſed her commands are very reaſonable, we had better ſub⯑mit. Allons meſdames,’ preſenting one hand to Mrs. Wentworth and the other to [225]my aunt, ‘We were ordered to walk in the garden.’ They obeyed with a very good grace; and we three ran up ſtairs to our ſeveral employments.

On our way to Firdale, Mrs. Went⯑worth preſſed to know the occaſion of her huſband's return to England—how he came to an eclairciſſement with lord Methuen, &c.—As I could not refuſe to ſatisfy a cu⯑rioſity ſo very natural and reaſonable, I was obliged to acknowledge how far I had deceived her; and fairly diſcovered to her the whole truth; only concealing his being at O'Bryen-caſtle, as I imagined it would too much diſcompoſe her to know he was ſo near her, ſo as I had already been com⯑pelled to tell her ſo many lies, I eaſily ſtretched my conſcience a little further, and ſaid he was at Cork.

Her boundleſs joy was expreſſed more by tears than words.

She leaned upon my ſhoulder for near a quarter of an hour without ſpeaking: then ſuddenly raiſing her head, ſhe cried, ‘Dear Valeria, may I depend on what you tell me now?’ I could not forbear to ſmile [226]at her well-grounded doubts of my vera⯑city; and maliciouſly drew in my aunt and lady Alicia to confirm my falſehood, by appealing to them for the truth of what I ſaid.

"How ſoon," aſked Mrs. Wentworth, her eyes flaſhing fire—‘how ſoon may I expect to ſee him?’

"Courage, my fair friend," replied Mrs. Chetwynd; ‘he will certainly be with you to-morrow evening.’

A lively red overſpread her lovely face, but inſtantly gave way to a death-like pale⯑neſs: —we let down the coach windows for air; which, with the application of lady Alicia's eau de luce, prevented her fainting, and, happily, ſhe was quite recovered by the time we reached Firdale.

Our gentlemen, who rode, arrived ſome time before us: a very fortunate circum⯑ſtance; for almoſt the firſt perſons they ſaw, as they entered the drawing-room, were our quondam Chevalier and Sir Francis O'Bryen. The former took an opportu⯑nity of whiſpering to his brother, an earn⯑eſt enquiry for his Harriet. Sir Francis, [227]gueſſing their ſubject, joined them: ‘Well, Sir Edward,’ ſaid he, ‘when ſhall I ſee my friend happy.’

He anſwered, "Very ſoon."

"Soon let it be," returned he, ‘un⯑leſs you would chuſe to have him be⯑come a mere ſtatue: he is little different from one at preſent, except the not be⯑ing quite ſo paſſive. The poor fellow is conſcious he is but bad company, for you cannot conceive any thing more dif⯑ficult than to get him to ſtir from home.’

"How, my dear O'Bryen," cried Mr. Wentworth, ‘will not you preſerve ſome conſiſtency in your cenſures? you up⯑braid me now with total ſuſpenſion of my faculties—yet how often do you talk to me of the unreaſonable efferveſcence of my paſſions?’

"Why," replied Sir Francis, ‘you are ſometimes paſſionate to madneſs; but more generally quite exanimate. In ſhort, though it ſounds a little harſhly, I am ſure, if your affairs continue much longer in the ſame train, you muſt ne⯑ceſſarily [228]become either a madman or a fool.’

"A terrible alternative!" ſaid Sir Ed⯑ward.

Lord Uvedon ſeeing our carriage at a diſtance, came up to Mr. Wentworth, ſaying, ‘I fancy, Sir, you would do well to retire, until Mrs. Wentworth can be prepared to ſee you.’ This counſel be⯑ing ſtrongly enforced by every perſon pre⯑ſent, he caſt a wiſhful look towards the carriage, and heaving a deep ſigh, ſuffered lord Uvedon to conduct him to another room.

Some explanation is neceſſary here; as your lordſhip will be ſurpriſed at the Mel⯑mont family's appearing to be ſo well ac⯑quainted with the ſituation of our friends. —As Mr. Wentworth's happy reconcilia⯑tion with his lady obliged him to drop the name of Du Mornai, and re-aſſume his own: to avoid an unpleaſingly myſterious appearance, it was requiſite that ſome rea⯑ſons ſhould be given for the change to Sir Francis's acquaintance, who firſt knew him in his French character. All his Engliſh [229]friends thinking him dead, to them a ſtill clearer explanation was neceſſary. Ac⯑cordingly, he has fabricated a tale that he deſigns ſhould ſatisfy both:—his delicacy for his Harriet not allowing him to let the world know he had ſuſpected her.—Your ſuppoſed coffee-houſe diſpute, your conſe⯑quent duel, his ſubſequent flight to Cadiz, and believing you killed—all ſtands as it was.—As nobody knew his addreſs, all the letters written to him miſcarried: ſo that he ſtill remained in his error; and being ſtruck with a remorſe ſo violent, as in ſome degree to diſorder his reaſon, for having murdered, upon a frivolous quarrel, a man of worth and honour, and his brother's friend, he determined to exclude himſelf for ever from the ſociety of his wife, his friends—in ſhort, to reſign every thing he held valuable. Knowing how averſe his relations would be to this reſolution, he concealed himſelf from them, until his dy⯑ing ſervant's wiſh to mix with his native duſt, ſuggeſted to him a method of freeing himſelf from their oppoſition.—The le⯑nient hand of Time healing, in a good [230]meaſure, both his head and heart, he be⯑gan to repent of the part he had acted; and hearing, by accident from Sir Francis O'Bryen, that lord Methuen was ſtill alive, he ſuddenly reſolved to return to his coun⯑try. —I don't know if your lordſhip will think this ſtory probable; but I believe you will agree with me in thinking, that the truth of it will not be queſtioned. Every body of ſenſe and experience, knows that things frequently happen in real life, which a judicious author would not introduce into a fictitious ſtory. It is a very juſt, though trite obſervation, that—probability is not always on the ſide of truth.

When the two gentlemen left the room, lady Melmont ſaid it would be proper for ſome of the ladies to drink tea with them; which lady Lucy Domville and Miſs Stan⯑ley did. On our enquiring for them, lady Anne ſaid that her ſiſter was with Miſs Stanley, who was confined to her chamber by a cold. Lady Melmont told my aunt, in a low voice, how matters really ſtood. Sir Edward gave me the like information: at the ſame time, telling me that he thought [231]it would be highly imprudent to venture to let her know he was in the houſe. I thought ſo at firſt myſelf; but when I conſidered the uneaſy and unſettled ſtate of mind in which ſhe muſt remain while this important affair depended, I could not help thinking it would be moſt adviſable to put a ſpeedy period to her anxieties. Knowing how dif⯑ficult it would be to bring him over to my opinion, I pretended to aſſent to his; but ſecretly reſolved to be guided by my own. His love for his ſiſter makes him act in direct oppoſition to the native fire of his character; rendering him as timid, as de⯑liberate, as nature made him bold and de⯑ciſive.

After tea, lady Anne ſaying ſhe would go to Miſs Stanley, and ſend lady Lucy to us, I begged leave to attend her; my aunt joined in the ſame requeſt, from a de⯑ſire to ſee Mr. Wentworth, for whom ſhe has a great friendſhip. We found him lean⯑ing on a ſofa, in a poſture of deep thought⯑fulneſs. He ſaluted Mrs. Chetwynd very cordially; and bowing low to me, ſaid, [232]with great gallantry, ‘Such beauty can belong only to Miſs O'Bryen.’

When we were ſeated, he ſaid, directing himſelf to my aunt, ‘O, madam, will the dear treaſure I threw away in my folly never be reſtored to me again?’

‘It ſhall be reſtored to you imme⯑diately,’ replied I, with ſome ſpirit.

"What do you mean, my dear?" aſked my aunt.

‘I mean to elude Sir Edward's caution; and this very evening to re-unite this de⯑ſerving pair.’

He aroſe, and preſſing one of my hands between both his, ſaid, ‘Then, madam, I ſhall ſay that my Harriet was firſt given me by Hymen, and the ſecond time by an angel!’

I returned to the drawing-room with lady Lucy.—We found lady Melmont, lady Alicia, my uncle, and Mr. Domville, juſt ſitting down to quadrille. The reſt of the company was going to make another table; but Sir Francis proteſting it was a ſin to waſte ſuch a fine evening at cards, lord [233]Melmont propoſed a walk, to which we all agreed.

As we walked, I ſecretly begged Sir Francis would draw off Sir Edward; tell⯑ing him my motive for the requeſt: he warmly approved my deſign; and promiſed to take away all the gentlemen if he could.

"Sir Edward," ſaid he, ‘have you ſeen my lord's canal improvements?’ Being anſwered in the negative, he pro⯑poſed going to view them. Your friend ſaid, he had no objection, if it were agree⯑able to the ladies. Mrs. Wentworth would have complied, but lady Lucy and I had our own reaſons for oppoſing it.

"Let us go, however," ſaid O'Bryen.

"No, no," replied Sir Edward, ‘we'll take another opportunity.—Sir Francis,’ added he, with a ſmile, ‘I ſhould not have ſuſpected you for ſuch a propoſition.’

Lord Melmont did not give up the point ſo eaſily; being extremely fond, as O'Bryen well knew, of having his improvements admired, he ſeconded the motion ſo ſtrenu⯑ouſly, [234]that Sir Edward could not civilly withhold his conſent any longer.

Sir Francis perceiving that Mr. Mel⯑mont meant to attach himſelf to our party, took hold of his arm, ſaying, ‘Come along, Melmont. Deuce take me if you, or any man living, ſhall quietly en⯑joy a bleſſing I chuſe to reſign.—Servi⯑teur, meſdames; we ſhall return in a mo⯑ment,’ kiſſing his hand to us, with his uſual air of graceful ſprightlineſs.

"Saucy fellows!" ſaid lady Lucy, when they left us; ‘we'll take care they ſhall not. Come, my friends, ſhall we go in?’

I aſſented; ſaying, ‘Since we are for⯑ſaken by one ſet of beaux, we muſt only have recourſe to another.’

‘They are too buſy with their cards to mind you,’ ſaid Mrs. Wentworth.

I anſwered, that I did not mean the gen⯑tlemen of the card party.

"Who then?" ſhe demanded careleſs⯑ly: ‘I preſume lord Uvedon is not at home.’

[235] ‘He is; and I wiſh to Heaven I dare bring you to the place he is in.’

"What is your reaſon for ſuch a wiſh?" aſked ſhe, with ſome ſurpriſe.

‘Cannot you gueſs? Does Sir Francis's being here ſuggeſt nothing to you?’

"O, Valeria, is my Henry here?"

"He is:—be compoſed."

She trembled violently; and there was a wildneſs in her looks which froze my blood. My good-natured friend, alarmed at her diſorder, gently reproved my precipitance; and ſupported her by holding one arm, while I held the other. I was exceedingly agitated myſelf; and really ſtood in need of the aſſiſtance I endeavoured to give her.

"O God! ſupport me!" ſaid ſhe, in a voice hardly articulate.

We placed her on a garden-chair. Nei⯑ther of us was able to refrain from weep⯑ing: —tears are ſoftly infectious;—ſhe wept likewiſe; which conſiderably relieved her. Starting up, ſhe cried, ‘Come, my dear Valeria, will you not conduct me to my Henry?’

[236] "I will," ſaid I; again taking hold of her arm, and preſſing her hand to my breaſt. ‘But, my deareſt Harriet, ſum⯑mon all your courage:—ſhould you ſuf⯑fer by my conduct, Edward will never forgive me. Promiſe me that you will not faint.’

She replied with an amiable ſimplicity, "Indeed I will not, if I can help it." With trembling ſteps ſhe haſted towards the houſe, leaning on lady Lucy and me.

I took her into a ſmall parlour, adjoin⯑ing that in which Mr. Wentworth was; begging lady Lucy would direct him to us. He came inſtantly, accompanied by my aunt only. He flew to her; his arms in⯑voluntarily extended to embrace her; but, as if impelled by a ſudden recollection of his injurious conduct, he threw himſelf on his knees at her feet; paſſionately kiſſing her hand, and the tears falling faſt down his face, he cried, "O, Harriet! forgive me!" She ſunk from my arms, almoſt lifeleſs, into his, faintly murmuring, "My Henry!"

They remained ſeveral minutes in a cloſe embrace, without ſpeech or motion.—O, [237]my lord, what muſt have been their feel⯑ings!

At length, he gently raiſing her, ſaid, ‘My dear, my injured wife! ſay that you forgive—ſay that you love me!’ She was not able to reply:—I thought I ſaw her juſt expiring; and kneeling by her, I exclaimed in the moſt frantic manner, ‘O, Harriet! ſpeak! live!—Edward, dear Edward! forgive me!’ My beloved aunt, inexpreſſibly terrified at my beha⯑viour, raiſed me from the ground; and weeping, folded me to her fond heart:— "My child—my darling child!" ſaid the tendereſt of parents, ‘be not alarmed;— ſhe will recover preſently.’

Mr. Wentworth, with a diſtracted air, cried, ‘Revive, my only love! Let me not loſe my dearer life in you!—Oh! thou injured angel! what a barbarian have I been to thee!’

Had ſhe continued much longer inſen⯑ſible, I don't know what might have been the conſequence.—Opening her lovely eyes, ſhe gazed on her huſband with a tenderneſs not to be deſcribed.—‘My ſoul! my [238]heart's treaſure! ſpeak to me!’ ſaid he, kiſſing her with eager tranſport.—In the moſt melting accents, ſhe replied, ‘My dear Henry.’

Enraptured to hear again the ſound of that ſoft voice, I ſprung from my aunt, and again threw myſelf by her on the floor. "My lovely ſiſter!" ſaid the ſweet crea⯑ture. —Mr. Wentworth, in the ſame affec⯑tionate tone, kindly repeated, ‘And my lovely ſiſter!’ putting one arm round my waiſt, he lifted us both; ſaying to me, with an air of politeneſs and ſincerity, ‘Miſs O'Bryen, I have obligations to you that words cannot repay.’

My aunt obſerving that Mrs. Went⯑worth's ſpirits were weak and exhauſted, called for Sir Francis's chaiſe; and ſtept up to lady Melmont, requeſting ſhe would let them go unnoticed; to which her lady⯑ſhip conſented, on the obliging condition, that the reſt of the family ſhould ſtay to ſup with her.

My aunt, Mrs. Wentworth, and her happy Henry, were juſt departed, when the gentlemen returned. O'Bryen danced [239]up to me:—‘What have you done ſince, my fair couſin?’

"Sent them home together."

"Are you ſerious?" his eyes ſparkling with pleaſure.

‘Serious, upon my honour. And you muſt ſleep at Chetwynd-villa, for they have taken your carriage:—you ſhall have your choice of the two vacant ſeats in our coach.’

"Do what you pleaſe with me," ſaid he.

Lord Uvedon overhearing him, ſaid, with a pretty affected ſigh, ‘Alas! O'Bryen, how many of our ſex are there, with whom that lady does what ſhe pleaſes!’

"Faith," replied my gay relation, ‘ſhe does what ſhe pleaſes with both ſexes; as Sir Edward Marchmont may know to his coſt.’

Sir Edward bowing to me, with his ac⯑cuſtomed grace, ſaid, ‘Miſs O'Bryen's power over my ſex, no man can be more ſenſible of than myſelf; but I confeſs I do not perceive how any influence ſhe [240]may have over the ladies can affect me.’

"It affects you very nearly," anſwered Sir Francis, ‘for ſhe has diſpoſed of your ſiſter without your knowledge; and mon petit chevalier is gone off with her.’

Your dear friend's ſuſceptible heart was too much overjoyed to be reſtrained by the laws of cold propriety, from diſcover⯑ing its emotions;—the preſence of ſo large a company did not prevent his expreſſing the acknowledgments, he generouſly ima⯑gined, due to me, in terms but too flatter⯑ingly particular.

What an unconſcionable letter have I written! Was I not in the right, to prepare you for a long one? I aſſure you it has furniſhed me with conſtant employment for two days—or nights, rather. I have not the confidence to expect you can read it tout de ſuite; but as Sir Edward tells me he has amply experienced your patience, I am not without hopes, that you will be able to get through it in ſome little time.

[241] Lady Methuen has my moſt ardent wiſhes for her ſafety.

I hope her ladyſhip is not jealous of our correſpondence:—do you know that Sir Edward has the impertinence to declare that he is? Though I write merely in com⯑pliance with his own requeſt! the unrea⯑ſonable creature! He urges, however, that I comply with pleaſure; which cer⯑tainly cannot be controverted. Mr. Went⯑worth, who was preſent, ſaid, that, ‘If there could be any excuſe for cauſe⯑leſs jealouſy, Lord Methuen's engaging qualities would form one.’—One word for you, my lord; and two for himſelf. But ſeriouſly, he ſpeaks of you in the juſt⯑eſt, that is to ſay, in the higheſt terms; and you may be aſſured, that a ſincere and lively eſteem now holds the place of the enmity he formerly bore you. He men⯑tions your anſwer to his letter, with great encomiums on your politeneſs; candour, and generoſity.—Noble minds, betrayed by ſome fatal miſtake or inadvertency, may undeſigningly injure; but they are ever [242]ſure to make all the amends in their power to the perſon they have wronged.

TO MRS. CHETWYND.—CHETWYND-VILLA.

I AM infinitely ſorry it is not in my power to return to Chetwynd-villa to-day; —when I came home laſt night, I found a letter from my mother, wherein ſhe com⯑plains very much of her health: I cannot diſpenſe with viſiting her immediately; and am juſt on the wing for Dublin.

The little box that accompanies this, I did not get out of the jeweller's hands till late laſt night; though the things have been beſpoken theſe two months. I thought the raſcal would never let me have them. I ſhall be much indebted to you, if you will take the trouble to order Miſs O'Bryen's woman to leave them on her lady's toil⯑lette.

I know what my dear, ſagacious uncle, will think of my journey to town; but it is [244]no ſuch matter, I aſſure you. I own there have lately been overtures made to me from that quarter, through lady O'Bryen: ſhe approves them; but I do not. I hate theſe ſober, formal, patched-up family-matches. To think of my going expreſsly to pay my addreſſes to a woman I never ſaw!—and whoſe temper and character— whoſe very face—I know only on report from the opinion of others! ridiculous! deteſtable! No, I will judge for myſelf, chuſe for myſelf; and if ever I marry a woman that does not wait till I aſk her,— may I be a cuckold in the honey-moon! —I am aſtoniſhed that gentlemen have not more pride—more delicacy—for their fe⯑male relations. Had I a ſiſter or a daugh⯑ter, ſhe might die an old maid ſooner than I would offer her to any man. I could not endure to have a ſaucy coxcomb exult— even in thought—at having rejected her.

One word a l'oreille:—lady Anne Mel⯑mont—amiable, elegant, accompliſhed, ſen⯑ſible, and unaffected; of a noble and wor⯑thy family, with a reſpectable fortune.— It will do, aunt; but—mum!

[245] Tell my dear Wentworth I have not time for a line at preſent, but ſhall write to him from Dublin.

I hope I ſhall be able to prevail on my mother to return with me to O'Bryen-caſtle. The country air agrees beſt with her; be⯑ſides, ſhe muſt come and pay her reſpects to lady Marchmont.

Adieu, my dear madam, I kiſs your hands.

TO SIR FRANCIS O'BRYEN, BART.— DUBLIN.

I AM extremely glad you found lady O'Bryen ſo much better than you expect⯑ed; though, I confeſs, I am not a little angry with her, for contriving to be indiſ⯑poſed ſo very mal a propos. You have miſſed a wedding, my friend:—yeſterday Mr. Chetwynd joined the hands of the love⯑lieſt pair I ever beheld.—We had no com⯑pany but the ladies of the Melmont family. Lady Alicia Sedley, and lady Anne Mel⯑mont, were bridemaids. Your admired lady Anne looked more than uſually pretty. I regretted that you were not preſent: what an opportunity to ſay ſoft things!—I took care, however, that ſhe ſhould think of you.—"Dear lady Anne," whiſpered I, [247] ‘what would Sir Francis O'Bryen give to be here now!’ She was ſilent, bluſhed, looked down, and opened and ſhut her fan with the ſweeteſt confuſion imaginable. How eaſy to read the language of an ingenuous heart!

'Twould be vain for me to attempt to mention the bride: your own lively imagi⯑nation will ſcarcely be able to do her juſ⯑tice;—judge then if my pen can.

This obſervation is rather quaintly ex⯑preſſed; but I think you would with me have ſubſcribed to its juſtneſs, had you ſeen your charming couſin yeſterday morning; her fine complexion heightened by pleaſure, and modeſty again improving the rouge of joy.

I wonder not at the ardour of my bro⯑ther's paſſion for her. I acknowledge that I never ſaw a woman, who in perſon, mind, and manners, would appear ſo completely [248]and engagingly beautiful to an unprejudiced man: but my fond eye diſcovers more at⯑tractions in another;—my gentle Harriet is to me a hundred times more lovely.

Sir Edward calls himſelf the happieſt of men: but ſurely the cup of happineſs muſt have a higher flavour to me, who have drunk ſo deeply of its bitter reverſe. Yet perhaps his aſſertion may be juſt; for he feels not, as I do, the pang of having in⯑jured her he loves.—I look back on my paſt conduct with amazement:—how could I ſuſpect her? The moſt delicate—the moſt virtuous of women!

Even to myſelf reſerved, though fond.— Never, never can I make her ſufficient amends for what ſhe has ſuffered for me. Yet the dear, too generous girl, thinks herſelf recompenſed for years of heart⯑rending anguiſh, only by the return of that affection and confidence I never had a right to withdraw.

[249] I propoſe to myſelf a very ſingular grati⯑fication on my return to England;—'tis to viſit my own ſuperb monument!—You will chide me if I purſue this ſubject. I remember, when you were here, you told me, that—even my happineſs was melan⯑choly. True; it is;—refined and exqui⯑ſite joy almoſt touches ſorrow.

I had a letter from England by laſt poſt, from a proud old fellow, who is my re⯑lation; —he ſuppoſes I ſhall immediately have my ſervant's body removed from the vault of my anceſtors.—Did you ever hear any thing ſo ridiculous?—Honeſt, faithful fellow! let thy aſhes mix with theirs, and welcome!

All this happy family wiſh for you, my dear O'Bryen. I am impatient to ſee you: I long to have you better acquainted with my Harriet: I am ſure you will ad⯑mire her. Fear not my jealouſy;—O, truſt me, I am cured of that!—I have already prepared her to love you as you deſerve.

[250] Adieu, my friend—the friend of my ad⯑verſity! I will not wound your delicacy by acknowledging how much I owe you.

TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.

KISSING, with glowing lips, the whit⯑eſt hand in the world—I had juſt ſworn that my felicity could not admit of increaſe, when your letter arrived to contradict me. —My dear Auguſtus, you have conſider⯑ably augmented my happineſs: both lady Marchmont and I inexpreſſibly rejoice at your loved Louiſa's ſafety.

My Valeria and Mr. Wentworth requeſt the honour of being ſponſors. However, I need not have ſpoken for my brother; he is writing to you himſelf.

I preſume your little girl will be named after the late Mrs. Sidney.—I ſhall take it as a particular favour, if you will add my wife's pretty, romantic name:—your lord⯑ſhip may think it is with an air of no ſmall importance, I write—my wife!

[252] On the day I wrote to you laſt— ‘"O day the faireſt, ſure, that ever roſe!"’ —I was ſo much out of my ſenſes, that I don't know what I may, or may not have ſaid; but I think I could not have omitted telling you, that we have prevailed on Mr. and Mrs. Chetwynd to live with us. I am delighted beyond meaſure at their com⯑pliance: every day renders me more ſenſi⯑ble of their ineſtimable worth, and more attached to their ſociety. I doubt if their charming niece herſelf can love them better than I do.

My little French ſiſter is married:—Ma⯑dame la marquiſe de St. Claire! nothing leſs!—The marquis has promiſed me a viſit in England next ſpring. I long ex⯑tremely to ſee them both: my Valeria and lady Enmore have very much prepoſſeſſed me in their favour.

Lady Enmore purpoſes ſpending much of her time with us. I like this lady very well:—ſhe is exceedingly fond of my Va⯑leria, is generous, well-tempered, and agree⯑able; has a great deal of good ſenſe, and [253]ſome knowledge of the world;—yet ſtill I cannot give her ſuch a place in my affec⯑tion, as Mrs. Chetwynd holds:—her mind is not ſufficiently above the common claſs. The friend of my heart—and more parti⯑cularly if that friend be a woman—muſt be exquiſitely refined; muſt breath the very ſoul of ſentiment.

I wiſh to Heaven you could tranſport yourſelf to Chetwynd-villa for five or ſix hours;—I ſhould not aſk to keep you longer from lady Methuen at preſent. I am impatient to have you acquainted with my uncle and aunt Chetwynd; I know you will be charmed with them. What plea⯑ſure too would it give your generous heart, to behold my brother and ſiſter Went⯑worth's happineſs!—Beſides, I want to ſhew you my angel! lady Marchmont— with pride I give her that name—is, if poſſible, more lovely than Miſs O'Bryen was.

[254] My boundleſs and unutterable love gains hourly ſtrength; nay, each moment ſhe is dearer than the laſt.—Methuen, I ſhall for ever join with you in heart and voice, to condemn the unfeeling libertine, who ſtu⯑pidly calls matrimony the bane of happi⯑neſs and love.

Sir Francis O'Bryen ſent my Valeria ſome very fine diamonds a few days before our marriage. I hope he will ſoon give me an opportunity of acknowledging the fa⯑vour, by a ſimilar preſent to his wife.

He has been here theſe two days, but returns to Dublin to-morrow, in order to eſcort his mother to O'Bryen-caſtle.—He is a moſt engaging fellow:—Wentworth and he are exceedingly attached to each other. If Methuen was not my friend, I ſhould almoſt envy my brother.—O'Bryen has a vaſt deal of ſenſibility, though ap⯑parently gay and inconſiderate: when he looks round on this family, his expreſſive eyes ſeem to ſpeak the good-natured lan⯑guage of a French writer; ‘Qu'il eſt doux de voir des beureux!’—Happy the man, whoſe clear mind, unſullied by ſelfiſhneſs or [255]envy, ſhines with the reflected light of others joys!

I juſt caſt my eye out of the window, which commands a view of the garden;— the divine lady Marchmont tete a tete with Sir Francis.—What a form! what move⯑ments! —The ſportive zephyrs play through her auburn ringlets; and artfully ſteal fra⯑grance from her boſom, while they pretend to add unneceſſary freſhneſs to her cheek.

She leans on O'Bryen's arm;—ſhe ſmiles —Ah! the happy fellow! I'll ſupplant him in a moment.