LETTER I.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I DO indeed, my dear Fanny, ſincerely rejoice at the pleaſing proſpects which ſeem to open to your new friends; I alſo congratulate you on being in ſo high a degree inſtrumental to their happineſs.—I think I may almoſt ſay, that Pro⯑vidence ſeems to intereſt itſelf in the future ſate of the amiable Laura.

THERE is ſomething very particular in your becoming accidentally acquainted with Lady So⯑merville ſo critically.—Had your meeting with this charming woman been deferred but a month longer, the connection between ye might, in all probability, have been only productive of una⯑vailing good wiſhes, and mutual eſteem;—but the lucky arrival of ſignior Lodovico, has made [6] you a principal performer in the great drama of Laura's life.

THOUGH not an abſolute predeſtinarian, I am apt to believe that there is a ſort of fate in mar⯑riage; and as one abſurdity creates another, I find I muſt lean a little to the Manichean doc⯑trine to eſtabliſh my theſis; by ſuppoſing that there is a good and evil genius, which preſides occaſionally at that great criſis, on which all the colour of our future lives depend. I ſincerely hope that Laura's union with the young Meleſ⯑pini, will be completed under the happieſt auſ⯑pices.—I do not feel one doubt ariſe in my mind, with regard to his father's conſent.—The only cloud which I foreſee to intercept the brighteſt ſunſhine, will ariſe from the ſeparation of lady Somerville and Laura—but that like a cloud alſo will paſs away:—for though the tendereſt affec⯑tion for a huſband does not oppoſe the natural claims of parents or relations, on our hearts, i [...] in ſome meaſure leſſens their force.—Our hopes and fears are directed to another object; and ſelf-love ſtrengthens our attachment to that perſon on whom we find our happineſs depends.

YOU ſee I have a paſſion for philoſophizing upon every ſubject;—where incidents do not abound, it would be impoſſible to keep up even a monthly correſpondence, without theſe little aids; I will not call them arts, for I deteſt the mean idea which is conveyed by that expreſſion.

I SHALL be glad to have my expectations gratified, by hearing of the count's immediate concurrence with his ſon's inclinations.—In the mean time, I beg you to preſent my compliments to lady Somerville, and her fair daughter, and to aſſure them, that I regret my not having the pleaſure of being known to them.—Fanny Weſ⯑ton is quite tranſported at the happy meeting of [7] Lodovico and Laura; but ſays, ſhe can ſo ſcarce believe it true, becauſe it is likely to ſend ſo for⯑tunately.

I CAN perceive that lady Harriet has doubts, with regard to the event; but as ſhe finds me ſanguine on the ſubject, ſhe ſuppreſſes them.—Sir James Thornton, with a ſigh exclaimed, what an happy man is Lodovico, to find the ob⯑ject of his paſſion diſengaged! This has left me more in the dark than ever, with regard to his attachment, for I am pretty ſure lady Harriet is not his object.

I CANNOT help remarking upon this occaſion, how much the particularities of our own ſituati⯑on, affect our judgments with regard to others; and how much more than we are willing to allow, our opinions are warped and biaſſed by it, even in matters that appear indifferent to us.—Adieu, my Fanny!—True love from me and mine, to you and yours.

LETTER II.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

MY dear Emily ſhall from henceforth be our augur.—Be her predictions fortunate, and be they ever verified!

THE wiſhed for pacquet is at length arrived;—it contained a letter for Lodovico, and one for lady Somerville.—The moment he had read his, which was fraught with congratulations from all his friends, and the moſt plenary indulgence from [8] his fond father, to his ardent wiſhes, he intreated me to go with him inſtantly to the cottage.—We almoſt flew there; and Lodovico in the high⯑eſt rapture, acquainted lady Somerville and his loved Laura with the glad tidings.

LADY Somerville received the news with tears of joy; conflicting paſſions warred in Laura's face; gladneſs and grief took turns. The bright ſuffuſion of her cheeks, the brilliant animation of her eyes, expreſſed her heart felt joy; but when ſhe turned thoſe eyes upon her mother, their radiance was obſcured by ſtarting tears; the tranſient roſes fled from her fair cheeks, and left the lily miſtreſs of the field.

LADY Somerville was affected by theſe ſudden emotions, and retired to peruſe her brother's let⯑ter.—She returned ſoon, and giving it into my hands, ſaid with a ſigh, by this you may judge if I flattered my brother by calling him the moſt generous of men. Alas! why muſt I appear unworthy of his kindneſs by declining it? but when he knows my reaſons for ſo doing, I hope he will acquieſce in them and pardon me.

UPON reading the count's letter I found, that after teſtifying his joy at his ſon's attachment to Laura, he added, that it was from the mother's hand he hoped to receive the daughter; and con⯑jured her, by the friendſhip that had ever ſubſiſt⯑ed between them, to return to her native country with her children, to hold the firſt place in his houſe, and to contribute by her preſence, to re⯑ſtore that happineſs, which had been deeply wounded by the loſs of an amiable wife.

WHEN I had finiſhed the letter, which I read aloud, I feel myſelf unhappy, ſaid lady Somer⯑ville, in not being able to comply with my kind brother's requeſt.—It is long, much longer than I thought it would be, ſince I devoted the rem⯑ant [9] of my wretched days to ſolitude.—Here I have lived, and here will paſs that portion of my life which heaven may yet allot me.

AS ſhe ſpoke, I thought I ſaw her expreſſive eyes fixed on her lord's picture, as if addreſ⯑ſing her vows to him. But ſhe had ſcarcely finiſh⯑ed, when Laura, ſpringing from her ſeat, fell at her mother's feet, and catching her hand, cried out, My more than parent! is it poſſible your love for me ſhould have ſo little power! and could you part ſo eaſily with her, whom I have often heard you call the living tranſcript of your dear dead lord? But Laura muſt not, cannot quit her mo⯑ther! all pleaſing proſpects vaniſh at that thought; which makes the word appear even more a ſoli⯑tude than ever I found this cottage.

THE parent's heart was touched.—No, my beloved child, ſaid ſhe, I will not bar your hap⯑pineſs.—Since you deſire it, I will again behold the fatal place which gave me birth, and even ſtrive to loſe the ſad remembrance of my griefs, in your felicity.—I owe this ſacrifice to Laura's filial tenderneſs.—What would my child have more?

TEARS and embraces ſupplied the place of language, or rather ſuperceded it for ſome time; but when their emotions had ſubſided, the young pair expreſſed their joy and gratitude at lady So⯑merville's condeſcenſion in the moſt proper terms; and the evening was ſpent in ſuch a manner as could only be pleaſing to thoſe who are bleſt with feeling hearts.

THE count has accompanied his letter with a very noble preſent, to enable his ſiſter and niece to appear as the widow and daughter of lord So⯑merville.—There is ſomething above pride in that thought.

[10]AS Lodovico and I returned home, he en⯑treated me to uſe my intereſt with lady Somer⯑ville, to conſent to his being privately married by her ladyſhip's chaplain, before they ſet out for Genoa.—I think ſhe can have no objection to this requeſt.

I HOPE I ſhall be able in a few days to ſend my Emily an account, that this affair is happily concluded.

LETTER III.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

WHEN the ſubjects are pleaſing I find narrative writing not ſo dull as I once thought—I begin to fear I ſhall make but a poor figure in the epiſtolary way, when I have con⯑cluded my little novel; for I honeſtly confeſs that my dear Emily beats me all to nothing in the moralizing ſtrain.—Sorry am I, on this account only, that I muſt now proceed to the denoüement of my ſimple yet intereſting ſtory.

LADY Somerville deſired two days to conſider of Lodovico's propoſal; at the end of that time ſhe expreſſed her conſent in a moſt elegant letter to me.—She ſaid, that as ſhe had on every oc⯑caſion concurred with my requeſts, ſhe hoped I would not think her too preſuming to make one to me; which was, that I would accept of her cottage with every thing which it contained, except her lord's picture, and that with my per⯑miſſion ſhe would fill its vacant place with Lau⯑ra's portrait.

I WAS both pleaſed and diſtreſſed at her po⯑liteneſs and generoſity.—I accepted her preſent. [11] —In that charming ſejour, I ſhall ſpend many hours in thinking of its amiable owner, and in reflecting on the inſcrutable ways of Providence, who after ſo many trials has been pleaſed to reſ⯑tore this valuable woman to her country and friends.

SUCH characters as hers, were never meant to droop in obſcurity; ſhe owes herſelf to ſoci⯑ety, and will I hope recover ſome degree of that happineſs ſhe thinks totally loſt, in the ex⯑erciſe of thoſe virtues which in her retired ſtate ſhe could never be called on to exert.

SLIGHT as the preparations were for a wed⯑ding, which it was determined ſhould be pri⯑vate, they took up every moment of our time till yeſterday morning; when Lodovico, Lucy, Sir John, my little Emily and I ſet out together for the cottage before breakfaſt—We were re⯑ceived by lady Somerville and the charming bride, with that graceful eaſe and politeneſs which is the reſult of good ſenſe, and operates equally upon all occaſions. After breakfaſt Sir John led Leura into the chapel. Lady Somerville preſented her hand to Lodovico; the prieſt and alter were prepared; Sir John had the honour of perſonating Laura's father, and had the plea⯑ſure of compleating Lodovico's wiſhes, by beſ⯑towing her hand where ſhe had already given her heart. The ſervour of lady Somerville's devotion was truly edifying; when the ceremony was over, ſhe endeavoured in vain to ſuppreſs her tears; but they were tears of joy.

SIR John preſented the bride with a pair of ear-rings, and a croſs of diamonds, and I had the pleaſure of placing my picture in a bracelet upon lady Somerville's arm. From the elegence of our dinner and ſupper at the cottage, I appre⯑hend that lady Somerville is one of thoſe extra⯑ordinary [12] characters who do not think that the moſt refined underſtanding or the moſt exalted ſentiments, place a woman above the little duties of life.

THE new married couple are to dine with me this day. Sir John is gone to try if he can pre⯑vail upon lady Somerville to accompany them. Next week they ſet out for Genoa; they are to occupy our houſe in town, while they ſtay in London. M [...]y their voyage thither and through life be attended with proſperous gales! Amen, and adieu.

LETTER IV.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I SINCERELY congratulate my dear Fanny on the fortunate denoüement of her pleaſing and intereſting narrative, and join in her good wiſhes for the happineſs of lady Somerville and the new married pair.—As you ſeem inclined to rally me on my turn for moralizing I ſhall not exert it at preſent, though I think lady Somerville's ſtory a very proper ſubject for it.

BUT to deal inge [...]ouſly, I have a ſtronger reaſon for declining to expatiate on it than what I have mentioned, which is my being ſtinted in time, as I am going to dine at lord Withers's, where we ſhall ſtay this night. On Thurſday we are to dine at Sir William Lawſon's, and Friday is fixed for our ſetting out for York.

THIS ſhort letter will probably be the laſt you will receive from me till my return from thence. If I were ſuperſtitious I would not go [13] to York, as I cannot help feeling a kind of preſentiment againſt it. Why did lord Seymour attempt to inſpire me with this diſguſt? I will not reaſon farther upon the ſubject. ‘"Obedience is better than SACRIFICE;’ but pray is not that ſometimes the greateſt we can make?

AFFECTIONATE regards and ſincere congra⯑tulations wait on the hoſts and gueſts at Straffon-Hill, from all this houſe, and from

LETTER V.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

IN juſtice to thoſe friendly apprehenſions which you ſeem to ſuffer on my account, I think I ought to inform you, that the ſo-much dreaded event of an interview with the mar⯑chioneſs, is over without my being ſenſible of the leaſt ill conſequence from it. All lovely! all engaging, as ſhe is! I had armed my heart with the remembrance of her former treatment; and though the little rebel did flutter at her ſight, I think its emotions were rather the effect of re⯑ſentment than a ſofter paſſion.

THE worſt ſymptom I diſcovered in myſelf (I will be perfectly ſincere) was my being piqued, at the compoſure of her air and deportment, when ſhe firſt ſaluted me. Is it poſſible, Sey⯑mour, ſhe can be really indifferent? or is it only the artifice of her ſex, that makes her appear ſo?

AS the room was very full, and ſhe ſtood at ſome diſtance from me, before I could approach her, ſhe was taken out to dance by lord Belling⯑ham.—When her firſt minuet was over, ſhe de⯑ſired [14] I ſhould be called out; and though I felt the utmoſt reluctance to accept the compliment, it was impoſſible to refuſe. I am certain I never acquited myſelf ſo ill in my life. You have ſeen her dance, and therefore know that the eyes of the whole company, were engaged by her, and my confuſion paſſed unnoticed.

AS I led her to her ſeat, ſhe wiſhed me joy, and aſked if the fair cauſe of it was in the room? I anſwered yes.—She then intreated I would pre⯑ſent her to lady Woodville, whom ſhe longed to ſee more than any perſon in England; as lord Seymour had told her that ſhe was a perfect beauty.

I MADE no reply, hut led her to the place where lady Woodville ſat, who received her with the utmoſt eaſe and politeneſs. I ſwear to you my dear Seymour, that Emily never appeared half ſo lovely in my eyes, as at that moment. The innocence and gaiety of her heart, lighted up her charms; and I flattered myſelf that the mar⯑chioneſs's brow ſeemed overcaſt with the pale hue of envy.

LADY Harriet and ſhe renewed their acquain⯑tance; they all, ſoon after, joined your ſiſter Sandford, and continued in the ſame party, for the remainder of the evening. I danced country dances with one of the miſs Broughtons, and re⯑turned home, triumphing in the juſt preference which my heart accorded to lady Woodville, on the compariſon I had drawn, in the ball room, between her and the marchioneſs.

FEAR for me no longer, my too timid friend; but congratulate me on the moſt arduous of all victories, having conquered myſelf.

LETTER VI.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

I Thank you for the attention you have ſhewn to thoſe apprehenſions, which you ſeem to think groundleſs. I did not expect to hear from you, during your ſtay at York. The conſtant hurry and diſſipation of the ſcene, would have been a ſufficient excuſe for your ſilence, both to me and yourſelf, if you had not fancied you had not good news to communicate.

I KNOW you incapable of the ſmalleſt deceit, and am certain that you think your laſt a faithful tranſcript of your heart. But alas, my friend! you impoſe upon yourſelf, if you imagine your paſſion for the marchioneſs extinct; or that it is poſſible for you to give a preference, however juſtly deſerved, to any other woman breathing. Therefore, for the truly amiable lady Woodville's ſake I conjure you to avoid all future compari⯑ſons, as I think it will be highly injurious to her merits, to put her on a level with that object, which your partiality has made you look upon as the ſtandard of perfection.

AFTER the confeſſion of my own weakneſs, I condemn myſelf, for reaſoning with you, upon this ſubject.—I know it is preaching to the winds.—Our paſſions make our fate; and we ought to ſuffer, without repining, thoſe calamities we bring upon ourſelves: but what philoſophy ſhould enable us to bear the heart-rending agonies, of having involved the innocent in our puniſhment, [16] and rendered the amiable, and deſerving unhap⯑py! Who can ſpeak peace to my ſad heart, when I reflect upon the miſeries, in which I have plunged the ever-dear Charlotte Beaumont.

I KNOW this horrid image will ſhock your nature, and, for a time, you will ſhudder at yourſelf. But quickly ſay, theſe are the gloomy viſions of Seymours diſturbed brain. I would not make my Emily unhappy for the world—then fly directly to the marchioneſs to baniſh the ſad thought.—But I have done, for ever, on the theme; for if this picture does not ſpeak to your heart, I cannot paint more ſtrongly.

MY wiſhes for your happineſs but without hope, except in flight, ſhall ſtill attend upon you; and my higheſt eſteem ſhall ever wait upon the lovely lady Woodville.

LETTER VII.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

I Confeſs your laſt letter ſhocked me extreme⯑ly, but not from the motives you may poſſibly imagine. I am truly grieved to find your mind ſo overclouded, or ingrained, with the dark tints of melancholy, as not to allow your reaſon fair play. Anſwer me, were you not juſt then re⯑turned from the methodiſt's chapel, when you ſat down to write? When I expected congratula⯑tions, ſongs of triumph, and the laurel wreath, how could you cruelly pop an old faſhioned pro⯑phecy [17] upon me, of what never was, nor is, nor ever ſhall be!

BUT away with thy diſmal preſages, thou Pſeudo-Magus! Have I not told thee, infidel as thou art, that no action of my life, ſhould ever diſcover the real ſtate of my heart to lady Wood⯑ville, or make her think it was not all her own? Have I not been married above eight months, and am I not, now, juſt as tender, and obliging, as the firſt day we were united?

HADST thou real pity, or compaſſion, thou wouldſt adviſe me to deſiſt from my purſuit of the marchioneſs, on her account, rather than lady Woodville's. O Seymour! what a triumph would it be, if I could humble this proud beauty, and pay her ſcorn for ſcorn! again reduce her to that ſoft trembling voice, with which ſhe firſt uttered thoſe dear ſounds, I love!

RECAL her image to your view, on the firſt night we met her at the Bois do Boulogne.—What perfect beauty, amazing grace, and native modeſty, beamed round her angel form!—There is a picture for you: and I hope much more to the life, than your Tiſiphone.

I HAVE often thought of aſking you, by what taliſman or ſpell, your heart was preſerved, from becoming her inſtant victim? you did not know your Charlotte then. Perhaps you felt the mar⯑chioneſs's power, and loved like me; but in pity to your friend, endeavoured to ſuppreſs your paſſion. I ſhould adore you, if I thought it were ſo.

I DO not think her half ſo beautiful, as ſhe was then, though her perſon is much more im⯑proved.—She can be gazed at, now, without a bluſh; and wears a rouge, I ſuppoſe, in order to heighten the fineſt complexion in the whole world.

[18]WE [...] on the race-ground. She ha [...] [...] [...]old a Pharo-bank for her, at [...] [...]gaged me to prevail on lady Wood⯑ [...] [...] of the party.—She ſeemed vaſtly [...]med with her; but whenever ſhe mentions her, aſſumes a peculiar air of ſenſibility.—I think I heard her ſigh, when ſhe pronounced the name.

WHAT an odd mortal was I, to ſit down to write, when I have ſcarce time to breathe? Sir James Thornton's mare was diſtanced: he has loſt above five hundred pounds; but what is much worſe, I think he has loſt himſelf.—I never ſaw ſuch an alteration in any creature: I am almoſt ſorry I brought him to Woodfort.

THE ladies fancy he is in love, but I cannot get the ſecret out of the ſimpleton. Lady Wood⯑ville and her nymphs are much yours. I intreat you will drink half a dozen bumpers of Burgun⯑dy before you ſit down to write again, to

LETTER VIII.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

AH, Seymour! what a tale have I to unfold to you! I am undone, for ever loſt to vir⯑tue, relapſed again, to all my former follies—I doat, I die for love! Do not deſpiſe me, Sey⯑mour, but once again ſtretch forth thy friendly hand, and ſtrive to ſave a ſinking wretch. Alas, [19] it is in vain! fate overwhelms me, and I muſt yield to the impetuous torrent. But hear my ſtory, firſt, before you pronounce ſtern ſentence on me, and guilty as I am, perhaps you will pity me.

FOR ſome days paſt, the marchioneſs con⯑trived to throw herſelf perpetually in my way, and ſtrove to engage me in the moſt intereſting converſations, by hinting at particular ſcenes, in which we had formerly been actors. Fool that I was, the recollection charmed me, and my weak heart expended with delight, at the repeti⯑tion of its former follies.

LAST night your ſiſter, lady Sandford not be⯑ing well, declined going to the ball. The mar⯑chioneſs ſent to lady Woodville, to deſire ſhe might attend her to the rooms. Emily politely aſſented, and they went together—ſhe returned and ſupped with us.

AFTER ſupper, ſhe ſaid ſhe hated being coop⯑ed up in a carriage, at the courſe, and aſked if I could lend her a horſe, for the next day. The ladies informed her that no woman of faſhion, ever appeared on horſeback, at a race. She re⯑plied, ſhe had no idea of a ſalique law, impoſed by jockies; that ſhe deſpiſed all vulgar prejudices, and would be the firſt to break through this arbi⯑trary rule, if ſhe could engage any lady to ac⯑company her.

SHE ſoon prevailed on miſs Weſton, who rides remarkably well to be of her party, and again applied to me for a horſe. I told her I had not one, that had been uſed to carry a lady, but if ſhe would venture on that which I uſually rode, it ſhould be at her ſervice.

SHE accepted my offer, and after dinner the next day, Fanny Weſton, Ransford, and I, at⯑tended her at lady Sandford's; and ſure there ne⯑ver [20] was ſo lovely a figure as ſhe made on horſe⯑back!

WHEN we came to the race-ground, all the company thronged round her, and though the horſes were then running, ſhe ſeemed to be the ſole object of every one's attention. She affec⯑ted to be diſpleaſed at the general gaze, and ſaid if there was room in lady Woodville's carriage, ſhe would get into it. We rode up immediately to it, but on perceiving that Emily was in the chariot, and lady Harriet with her, ſhe would not ſuffer me to mention her deſign, leſt it might be inconvenient to my wife, whoſe preſent con⯑dition is now very apparent.

THORNTON was by the ſide of the chariot, talking to the ladies who were in it. He imme⯑diately retired to make way for us to come cloſe. A croud had followed us, and ſome one of their horſes ſtruck that on which the marchioneſs rode;—it immediately made an effort to diſengage it⯑ſelf from the throng, and in ſpite of all ſhe could do, ran away with her, with ſuch ama⯑zing ſwiftneſs, that it ſeemed to outgo all the racers.

I FOLLOWED inſtantly—O Seymour judge of my emotions, when I ſaw her fall to the groud! when I came up to her, ſhe was ſenſeleſs, her eyes cloſed, and her face covered with blood and duſt. I raiſed her in my arms, and held her to my breaſt; but unable long to ſuſtain her weight in that poſture, I ſunk down gently, held her on my knees, and gazed in ſtupid ſi⯑lence.

[21]AT that inſtant, numbers came up to us; a⯑mong the reſt, Thornton and lady Woodville, who on perceiving blood upon my cheek, fainted—She might have fallen to the earth, for me. I was inſenſible to all the world! Thornton luck⯑ily caught her in his arms, and conveyed her to her chariot.

NOTWITHSTANDING all the applications that were uſed, the marchioneſs ſeemed irrecove⯑rable, and my deſpair is not to be expreſſed. A gentleman that was preſent, opened a vein in her arm. She then lifted up her languid eyes, and looking round her, cloſed them quick again, and whiſpered, as ſhe lay upon my boſom, ‘"I die my lord; but ought not to repine, ſince I ex⯑pire within your arms."’

A CRIMSON bluſh ſucceeded to her paleneſe, and a vaſt ſhower of tears ſoon followed. I know not what reply I made, but I have reaſon to ſuppoſe it muſt have been expreſſive of the com⯑plicated paſſions which affected me. I carried her in my arms, to lady Winterton's coach, and conveyed her in that manner to your ſiſter's.

We had all the aſſiſtance this place could afford. My ſpirits are ſo extremely harraſſed, that I can⯑not write more, than juſt to give you the ſatis⯑faction to know that ſhe is not in danger—would I could ſay as much.

LETTER IX.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

AS ſoon as the fair invalid was laid on the bed, and the medical tribe who were ſum⯑moned from all quarters had performed their uſual evolutions, of pulſe-feeling, profound looks, and long preſcriptions, I knelt by her bed-ſide, and tenderly inquired her health? She told me, that though much hurt, ſhe did believe, the only incurable wound ſhe had received, was given by herſelf, in the weak confeſſion ſhe had made, when ſhe thought her ſituation had placed her beyond the neceſſity of longer diſguiſing the tender ſentiments, ſhe felt for me. She would give worlds, to recal what ſhe had ſaid; but, as ſhe knew that was impoſſible, begged I would not deſ⯑piſe her, or meanly think her capable of a deſign, to rival lady Woodville; and that the moment ſhe was ſufficiently recovered, ſhe ſhould fly me, and England for ever,

THINK of my ſituation, Seymour! and for⯑give my weakneſs, while I tell you I poured forth all the fondneſs long concealed, even from my⯑ſelf, within my labouring boſom, and ſwore, with too much truth, I never had, one moment ceaſed to love her. She ſighed and wept; I kiſſed her lilly hand, and bathed it with her tears.

HOW much longer we ſhould have continued in this ſituation, I know not, had I not been rouſed by a meſſage from lady Woodville, to in⯑quire the marchioneſs's health, and an excuſe for not making the inquiry in perſon, on account of [23] her own indiſpoſition. I ſtarted, Seymour—and recollected that I had a wife.

I FLEW home inſtantly; found Emily had been blooded, and put to bed.—I rejoiced at be⯑ing able to avoid the ſight of that amiable wo⯑man; ſaid I would not diſturb her, by going into her chamber, and ordered another bed to be got ready for me, againſt night.

CONSCIOUS guilt will make a coward of the braveſt man. I could not bear my own thoughts.—I dreaded being alone. I went to the coffee-houſe, to drown reflection in noiſe and nonſenſe. The converſation turned intirely on the accident that had befallen the marchioneſs, and I replied with the utmoſt complacency, to every trifling queſtion that was aſked, becauſe it related to her.

I SOON grew weary of this ſcene. I walked out, and found my ſteps inſenſibly ſtraying to⯑wards the marchioneſs.—By chance I met Thorn⯑ton, who with more livelineſs in his looks than I have ſeen for a long time, told me lady Wood⯑ville was much better, and would be glad to ſee me; that ſhe had expreſſed ſome uneaſineſs, at their not ſuffering me to go into her chamber, when I called at home, though ſhe was then aſleep.

I WENT directly back with him, and ſaw my Emily; ſhe looked pale, and diſpirited, queſti⯑oned me with great tenderneſs about the marchi⯑oneſs, and ſaid the fright ſhe had ſuffered, on her account, joined to her apprehenſion of my hav⯑ing received ſome hurt, had quite overpowered her; but ſhe would endeavour to become a ſtouter ſoldier. Sweet gentleneſs! how thy ſoft looks upbraid me!

I DETERMINED not to go to the marchioneſs, that night, but ſent to know how ſhe did, and ſat [24] down to write my laſt letter to you. In that, and this, are contained only the tranſactions of one fatal day.—Where my narrative will end, I know not! but the only relief that is, at pre⯑ſent left me, is the pouring out my heart to you.—I again implore you to pity its weakneſs, and pardon its follies.

LETTER X.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

TOO cruel Seymour! how am I to interpret ſuch an obſtinate ſilence? am I ſo far ſunk in your eſteem, that you diſdain even to hold converſe, or correſpondence with me? Now was the time, to have exerted all your friendſhip, and ſtopped me on the very verge of ruin.—But you diſclaim the painful office of counſelling an incorrigible, ſelf-willed man; and I now triumph in your cold neglect. Leſt to myſelf in ſuch a critical juncture, I have a higher pride, in being able, from my own conduct, to claim your fried⯑ſhip and eſteem, than I could have felt, had I acted conformably to your prudent advice, and declined the meeting of my moſt dangerous foe.

THE morning after the date of my laſt, I was ſurprized to find lady Woodville in the dining-room, dreſſed, and waiting breakfaſt for me, when I came down ſtairs, between ſeven and eight o'clock.—I thought ſhe looked paler, and more delicate, than I had ever ſeen her, with an air of reſignation impreſſed upon her countenance, which, added to its natural, ſweet⯑neſs, had rendered her one of the moſt intereſting objects, I had ever beheld, The tenderneſs with [25] which I enquired her health, ſeemed to animate her languid frame, and her eyes quickly reco⯑vered their native luſtre.

AFTER breakfaſt, ſhe propoſed accompanying me to ſee the marchioneſs, I was embarraſſed be⯑yond meaſure; but knew not how to prevent her doing, what appeared to be ſo proper. Juſt then, Thornton luckily came into the room, which afforded me a moment to recollect myſelf. I told her I thought it would be better to ſend firſt, to inquire how the marchioneſs had reſted, and whether ſhe was yet able to receive our viſits? Emily ſeemed to bluſh at her want of conſide⯑ration, and readily aſſented to my propoſal.

WILLIAMS was diſpatched with a card, and ſoon returned with a verbal anſwer, that the marchioneſs was much better, and would be glad to ſee us. I hoped ſhe would have had addreſs enough, to have ſaved me from the embarraſſ⯑ment, which ſuch an interview muſt give me. But there was now no retreating; and Emily and I got into the chariot together.

WHEN we were ſhewn into the marchioneſs's apartment, ſhe was lying on a couch, in the moſt elegant diſhabille.—What a ſubject for an Apel⯑les, Seymour! It was with difficulty I could re⯑ſtrain myſelf from expreſſing the tranſports that I felt. She roſe to receive lady Woodville, with ſuch an air of graceful dignity, as queens might gladly learn. I ſaw that Emily bluſhed, and looked confuſed, at her amazing ſuperiority, but was relieved by the entrance of your ſiſter, lady Sandford.

THE marchioneſs's behaviour towards me, was remarkably cold, and diſtant; and I thought ſhe overacted her part ſo much, that any other woman in the world, but Emily muſt have per⯑ceived ſomething extraordinary, in the change [26] of her manner; but happily lady Woodville is a ſtranger to ſuſpicion.

YOU may ſuppoſe our viſit was not a very long one, yet it appeared to me inſufferably te⯑dious; and I thought myſelf more obliged to Emily, when ſhe roſe to go away, than ever I had been to any one in my life. I had the happineſs to hear that the marchioneſs had recei⯑ved no hurt from her fall, that could be of any ill conſequence; the blood that appeared, was from a ſlight contuſion in her noſe.

RANSFORD came to wait on her, while we were there; and as he handed my wife to her carriage, and I was quitting the room, the mar⯑chioneſs, with the utmoſt fierté, though in a low voice, ſaid, lord Woodville, return inſtantly, or never!

THE manner with which ſhe pronounced theſe words, aſtoniſhed and confounded me. I then ſaw that her behaviour towards me was the effect of reſentment, not art;—yet how had I offended, how forfeited that tenderneſs which ſhe expreſſed for me the day before? Inexplicable creature! myſterious woman! of all riddles, the hardeſt to be expounded by the boaſted wiſ⯑dom of thy vaſſal man!

I BOWED, and withdrew in the utmoſt a⯑mazement at her conduct; and by vainly en⯑deavouring to account for it, I fell into ſuch a profound reverie, that I did not even perceive the motion of the carriage till it ſtopped at our lodgings.

I RHEN felt myſelf aſhamed at not having ta⯑ken the leaſt notice of Emily during our little journey; and by way of ſaying ſomething, told her I had heen conſidering whether we might not ſet out for London the next day, if it was agree⯑able to her. She, ſmiling, ſaid my will was [27] hers; and though quite unprepared for ſuch an expedition, as ſhe did not know I purpoſed going ſo ſoon, ſhe would be ready at what hour I pleaſed.

I KNEW not what I ſaid, when I talked of London, and had not the leaſt intention of car⯑rying her there; but my blunder was lucky, as it gave me an opportunity of paying a well de⯑ſerved compliment to her complacency, and con⯑deſcenſion, and alſo of paying the way to my going without her, if the ſovereign arbitreſs of my fate, ſhould command me to attend her. I likewiſe appeared to have the merit of ſacri⯑ficing my own inclination to hers, by readily conſenting to her returning to Woodfort.

UPON theſe terms we parted, and I ſet out, with a ſlow pace, and a diſturbed mind, to mea⯑ſure back the ground I had juſt paſſed. During my walk, I reflected upon the diſagreeable neceſ⯑ſity I had laid myſelf under, of acting the hypo⯑crite, with a woman whoſe amiable qualities compelled me to eſteem her, and whoſe perſonal charms fully intitled her to the fondeſt affection of an unengaged heart. Deceit cannot dwell long with honour; and I determined either to ſacrifice my paſſion to my virtue, or at once to triumph over character, honour, and every other conſideration in life, and act the villain boldly.

ALMOST diſtracted with the ſtruggles of my mind, I entered the marchioneſs's apartment, I found her lying on a couch, with a handkerchief cloſe to her eyes, which ſhe removed, upon my entrance, and ſhowed her lovely face, all bathed in tears. I advanced with precipitation, and would have kiſſed her hand, but ſhe withdrew it from me, with ſuch an air of coldneſs and diſdain, as almoſt petrified me: then riſing briſkly, ſaid is your wife with you?

[28]I GRAVELY anſwerd, no. She then burſt into a violent paſſion of tears, and exclaimed, Ah, Woodville! after what had paſſed between us, but a few ſhort hours ago, how could you uſe me thus! How did you dare to inſult me with the preſence of that object, whoſe legal claim to your affection, renders mine criminal?

I WAS ſo much alarmed and confounded, at the vehemence of her voice, and manner, that I knew not what anſwer to make, but told her it was lady Woodville who had propoſed our com⯑ing together, and that I knew not how to avoid attending her, without running the hazard of giving her offence.

WHAT, then you fear as well as love her, and you avow it to my face!—I would not willing⯑ly, madam, inflict unneceſſary wounds, upon the victim I have ſacrificed to you, nor add brutality to perfidy.—Her colour [...]o [...]e to crimſon.

SO then, my lord, you vainly hope to keep a flame alive in two ſuch hearts as mine and lady Woodville's! to love en Turk, and play our paſ⯑ſions off, againſt each other, for your ſport!—Amazing vanity! But know it will not do, my lord; her ſoft, inſipid nature might perhaps ſub⯑mit to be the loved ſultana of the day, then yield her place to me, or any other, and meanly take it back again, from your caprice; but I will reign alone, or elſe deſpiſe that tranſitory toy, the empire of your heart.

YOU may remember, madam, there was a time, when more than you now aſk, or I can give, my hand and heart were offered at your feet; you then diſdained to accept them; they are no longer free. For doating on you, as I do, with all the fervor of diſtracted paſſion, I can⯑not be inſenſible to the merits of unoffending [29] innocence, and love; nor ceaſe one hour, to feel the anguiſh of remorſe, for having injured lady Woodville.

IF the frankneſs of this confeſſion, madam, ſhould exclude me for ever from your love, I have the conſolation to know that it muſt inſure me your eſteem.—Without ſome claim to the latter, I ſhould be unworthy of the former. But if under theſe unhappy circumſtances, you ſtill can condeſcend to feel that paſſion, which you have profeſt, let me upon my knees, conjure you to tell me how I may preſerve my honour, without forfeiting what is as dear to me, your love.

I HAD knelt at her feet, during the latter part of this diſcourſe.—Her eyes had ſtreamed.—I do not bluſh to own that mine were not quite dry. She remained ſilent for ſome minutes, and when I preſſed her to ſpeak, ſhe replied with a determined voice and manner: There is no al⯑ternative, my lord; you muſt fly with me, or never ſee me more.

I HAD dreaded ſuch a propoſal, yet could ſcarce believe ſhe would make it, and with the utmoſt agitation cried out, Impoſſible! But be⯑fore I could utter another ſyllable ſhe laid her hand upon my lips, and ſaid, I command you ſilence.—You muſt not, ſhall not anſwer me. I know you are to quit this place immediately: would I had never ſeen it. But as you are now to determine the fate of one whoſe love for you has made her leap the bounds preſcribed to her weak ſex, O do not reply raſhly! but take the laſt moment that can be allowed, before you pronounce the doom of a fond wretch, who has placed more than her l [...]fe—her happineſs or mi⯑ſery—in your power.

I ROSE and bowed, totally unable to ſpeak [30] or even to think, from the confuſion of my ideas. She took advantage of my ſilence to tell me ſhe would not receive any letter upon this ſubject, from me, but that ſhe expected to ſee me at twelve o'clock next day; and ſmiling added, l [...]ſt you ſhould f [...]rget, I will preſent you with a little monitor, which will remind you of your abſent friend.

SHE then gave me her picture, which I had a thouſand times in our firſt acquaintance ſolicited in vain. I kiſſed it with tranſport. See here, ſaid ſhe, and drew a miniature of me, which I had formerly given her, out of her pocket; and now take care that you preſerve my image, as carefully as I have done yours.

THEN looking at her watch, you muſt leave me; it is near lady Sandford's dining hour, and I muſt dreſs. How ſlowly will the miſerable moments creep, till we two meet again! But I ſhall defy time, after that, as it can neither add to, or diminiſh from the felicity or anguiſh, which muſt then irrevocably be my portion.

I INTREATED her to ſpare me on that ſub⯑ject, as ſhe would not permit me to reply. You muſt withdraw, then, immediately, my lord, for I can neither think, or ſpeak, on any other theme. She permitted me to kiſs her hand be⯑fore I left her; and ſeemed to have conquered all thoſe violent paſſions, which poſſeſſed her at my approach. I confeſs I quitted her, with in⯑finite reluctance, and ſo I now muſt you.

LETTER XI.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

I PARTED from the marchioneſs in a more irreſolute and confuſed ſtate of mind, than I had ever before experienced. I well knew that all the colour of my future fate, depended on the reſolution I was compelled to make within a few ſhort hours. I found it abſolutely impoſſible to determine on any thing, from a conſciouſneſs of the importance of my final determination.

NEVER, ſure, had reaſon and paſſion a ſeverer ſtrife. One moment, I reſolved to ſacrifice eve⯑ry thing to love; to fly with my adored Iſabella, into ſome diſtant country, ‘"and live in ſhades with her, and love alone."’ The next in⯑ſtant, the image of the gentle Emily obtruded itſelf upon my imagination, in her preſent ſitu⯑ation; pale, and dying. Methought I heard her laſt ſoft ſigh expreſs my name; I felt myſelf a murderer, and ſtarted at my ſhadow.

IN this diſtracted ſtate, I had wandered a conſiderable way in the field, and ſaw night coming on apace, without power or inclination to think of returning to York, when I heard the ſound of a horſe galloping towards me.—The man who rode him called to me, to direct him the neareſt way to the town, and alſo if I could inform him where lord Woodville lived.

THE ſound of my own name ſurprized me, and I inquired his buſineſs.—The fellow quickly knew me; he inſtantly alighted, and told me he was a ſervant of Sir Harry Ransford's, and had been ſent expreſs, to let his young maſter know that lady Ransford had eloped, two days before, with captain Barnard; and that it was [32] ſuppoſed they were gone either to France or Ireland. He added that the poor old knight was almoſt diſtracted for the loſs of his lady, and wanted his ſon to purſue the raviſher.

THE ſervant preſſed me to mount his horſe, and expreſſed his ſimple aſtoniſhment at my being by myſelf in ſuch a loneſome place at that hour. I refuſed his offer, and we walked on together. It was near eight o'clock when I got home; and as it was the laſt night of the races, I did, ſuppoſe Emily was gone to the ball—but I found her alone.

I THOUGHT ſhe looked as if ſhe had been in tears, though her eyes ſparkled when ſhe ſaw me. This little circumſtance had its full weight; and the unaffected joy ſhe ſhewed at my return, without ſeeming to be alarmed at my abſence, when contraſted with the violence of temper, which the marchioneſs had diſcovered in the morning, ſo far turned the ſcale, as to determine me to remain a ſlave to the obligations I owe to my wife, and the world: and though I am per⯑ſuaded that I ſhall never be able to extract the arrow from my wounded heart, I will ſuffer it to rankle there in ſilence, and endeavour to de⯑rive fortitude ſufficient to bear the anguiſh, from the noble conſideration of having ſacrificed my pleaſure—I muſt, not ſtile it happineſs—to my duty—What would my friend have more?

MY mind grew much calmer, after theſe re⯑flections.—In order to prevent my relapſing, I locked up the marchioneſs's picture in my writ⯑ing box, and threw the key into the fire, that it might not be in my power to gaze away my reaſon, for that night at leaſt.

EMILY was much ſurprized, at the account of lady Ransford, and captain Barnard—her own innocence keeps her a child.—She begged [33] I would not mention the ſtory before lady Har⯑riet.—I knew there had been an attachment between the captain and her, but thought it long ſince over—yet why ſhould I imagine that time could conquer love? O! never, never, Seymour!

LADY Woodville and I ſupped, tête á tête; the young folks, as ſhe calls them, though they are all older than herſelf, ſtaid late at the ball.—I was impatient for Ransford's return, and had ſent to the aſſembly room, to look for him, but he was not there.—I ordered every thing to be in readineſs for his ſetting out immediately on his filial errand.

WHEN the ladies and Thornton came in, I retired to my chamber to wait for Ransford. By frequently revolving my unhappy ſituation in my mind, I began to conſider it in a new light; which at once encreaſed my miſery, and confirmed me in the juſtneſs of the reſolution, I had before taken, of bearing it in ſilence. Upon ſtrict examination, I found I was the only culpable perſon of the three; and therefore ought to be the only ſufferer—

WRETCH that I was, I had deceived myſelf; and in conſequence of that error, I had impoſed upon another! How vain to imagine that the marchioneſs's cruel treatment of my love, her preferring age, and infirmity to me, on account of ſuperior rank and riches, had ſupplied me with arms ſufficient to vindicate my freedom, and break her tyrannic chains. O Seymour! they are twined about my heart, and nought, I fear, but death can looſe them!

IT was near three o'clock, when Ransford came in; he ſeemed in very high ſpirits—when I told him of lady Ransford's ill conduct, he ſaid he was not in the leaſt ſurprized; he had [34] long known that his ſtepdame only waited for a gallant, who had ſpirit enough to engage in ſuch a frolic with her; and he thought his father had a fair riddance.

I WAS ſurprized to hear him treat the affair ſo lightly, as I know him to be a man of nice honour. I then aſked him, whether he intended going immediately to his father? he anſwered no; ſaid he was engaged in a purſuit of the ut⯑moſt conſequence, which he could not quit, and that he did not believe he ſhould ſee Ransford-Hall for ſome time.

I TOLD him I thought his father would have reaſon to reſent his neglect, and preſſed him to wait upon him, though but for one day. He perſiſted in his reſolution, and we parted. I think it odd, that Ransford did not communicate his motives for acting in this manner, to me;—but what have I to do with other people's affairs? my poor tortured mind is ſufficiently incumber⯑ed with its own.

I THINK I need not tell you that I paſſed a ſleepleſs night.—At breakfaſt, I told Emily that I ſhould be ready to ſet out with her for Wood⯑fort, after dinner if ſhe pleaſed. She ſeemed de⯑lighted, and the carriage was ordered, at half an hour after four.—I intreated Sir James Thorn⯑ton to return with us, for a few days; he made a thouſand excuſes; but at length complied, at lady Woodville's requeſt.

I WAS now to enter upon the moſt arduous taſk of my whole life; that of taking an ever⯑laſting leave of the woman whome I doated on—and in this higheſt act of ſelf-denial, I muſt appear to her, a volunteer! I am grieved that Brutus ſhould have ſaid ‘"virtue was but a name,"’ O let me bend before her awful ſhrine, [35] and pay my grateful vows, for the kind aid ſhe lent me, in that hour of trial!

I ENDEAVOURED to aſſume an air of calm⯑neſs on my entering the marchioneſs's apart⯑ment. She fixed her eyes, her piercing eyes, in ſteadfaſt gaze upon me, as if to read my ſoul. A minute paſſed in ſilence. I found ſhe would not ſpeak, and hardly ſeemed to breathe. You ſee before you madam, an unhappy man, who dares not purchaſe tranſport with remorſe; and there⯑fore, turns ſelf-baniſhed from her ſight, whom moſt his ſoul adores!

SHE quick exclaimed, is it poſſible! and am I then diſpiſed, neglected—for a wife! Cold, and unloving Woodville! Why did you ever feign a paſſion for me? Why ſtrive to make me think it ſtill ſubſiſted in your frozen heart? You cannot bear remorſe! Ungrateful man! ſhould not I have ſhared it with you? Is then my fame leſs dear than yours? and did I heſitate one mo⯑ment to ſacrifice that, and myſelf both, to you? Obſcurity and infamy were not bars to me, whilſt you, infirm of mind, deſert the woman you pre⯑tend to love, for fear your wife ſhould cry.

TRUE, madam, I replied, I would not give her cauſe to weep, for worlds—nay what is more, for you! You have acknowledged too, that the ſtep your kindneſs prompted you to take, muſt be attended with ſevere regret alſo, on your own part. What ſhould I feel then, from ren⯑dering you unhappy! I have not fortitude to brave ſuch two fold agony.

O! you have half that guilt to anſwer for al⯑ready.—But my pride revolt at my own mean⯑neſs. Leave me, Sir—leave me for ever, Wood⯑ville! I ſhall obey you, madam, but before we part, for ever, ſuffer me, at leaſt, to ſatisfy your pride, by declaring that no man ever loved, [36] with fonder paſſion than I now feel for you—how far time and abſence may be able to conquer it, I know not; but ſhould they fail of their uſual effects, it is impoſſible that I ſhould bear it long; and now, my Iſabella one laſt embrace—may angels guard you!

I RUSHED out of the houſe, like a diſtracted man, but had not walked a quarter of a mile, before the rectitude of my conduct towards this too lovely woman, began by flattering my pride, to qualify my paſſion; and I returned home, in a more rational ſtate of mind than I have known for ſome time.

REJOICE with me, my friend; the conflict's paſt! and be juſt enough to acknowledge my triumph more compleat, than the much boaſted one of Scipio. He only reſigned an alienated heart—while I forego a ſelf devoted victim!

I AM, this moment, going to ſtep into the coach for Woodfort, where I ſhall impatiently long to ſee you But, O write ſoon, to ſtrengthen, and applaud my growing virtue.

LETTER XII.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

BELIEVE me, Woodville, there is not ano⯑ther event within the power of fortune, which could now give me half the joy that I received from your laſt letter. I do congratulate my noble friend, myſelf, and all the world, on that heroic virtue, which has enabled you to paſs [37] the ordeal fire, unſullied and unhurt. Rather let me ſay, that like the Amianthus ^*, you have gained new whiteneſs, from the flames, and ſhine with brighter luſtre, than even unblemiſhed in⯑nocence can boaſt.

I FIND my ſtile, perhaps, too much elevated, by my ſentiments, but ſudden tranſitions muſt have ſtrong effects. I had ſcarce a hope of your eſcaping the ſnare that was laid for you, and mourned your fall from honour, with infinitely more regret, than I ſhould have done your death. Had the latter happened, my grief would have been ſelfiſh; but in the other caſe, I felt for thoſe pangs which you muſt have inevitably ſuf⯑fered; and for the miſeries, which your crimes muſt have inflicted, upon your amiable, and in⯑nocent wife.

BUT I do not wiſh again to recal this gloomy proſpect to your view; you may now, and ought to look forward, to a long train of hapineſs; for ſurely, if ſuch a thing is to be found en earth, it muſt ariſe from a conſciouſneſs, of having acted rightly. Who then can be better intitled to it than yourſelf?

AS I have found ſome little benefit from theſe waters, I propoſe ſtaying here, ſome time longer—I ſhall then have ſome affairs of conſequence to my fortune, which I have too long neglected, to ſettle in London. So that I cannot hope to ſee you, at Woodfort, in leſs than two months.

I INTREAT to hear from you, often, but muſt inſiſt upon your not mentioning the ſubject of our late correſpondence; forget it, Woodville, and be happy.

Note, The journal, promiſed by lady Wood⯑ville to lady Straffon, is purpoſely omitted, as it contains nothing more, than an account of ſome of thoſe particulars, that have been alrea⯑dy mentioned, which, happened during the week they ſtaid at York races.

LETTER XIII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I FLATTER myſelf that this letter will reach Woodfort ſoon after your arrival there, and that it will find my dear Emily rejoicing in the calm delights of domeſtic happineſs, after the ſcene of hurry and diſſipation ſhe has ſo lately gone through.

I GIVE you credit for the lovely picture you have drawn of the marchioneſs, and alſo for the tender concern you expreſs for the accident that be [...]el her—but I am ſorry your nerves were ſo weak as to occaſion your fainting.

I ALLOW much for your preſent ſituation, but do not let that, or any thing elſe, my dear ſiſter, ſuffer you to indulge, in an habitual lowneſs of ſpirits. There is an air of languid diſcontent, runs through the latter part of the little jour⯑nal, you were ſo good to ſend me, that alarms me much—yet I am certain you endeavoured to conceal your ſentiments, even from me; and I approve your caution, as I am perſua⯑ded, that by ſpeaking, or writing on any ſub⯑ject that affects us, we ſtrengthen our own feel⯑ings of it; and half the ſimple girls, who are now pining for love by murmuring rivulets, or [39] in ſhady groves would forget the dear objects of their paſſion, if they had not a female confidante as ſilly as themſelves, to whom they daily re⯑count the fancied charms of their Adonis, and utter vows of everlaſting conſtancy.

BUT do not now my dear Emily, ſo per⯑verſely miſunderſtand me, as to ſuppoſe that I would wiſh you to conceal any thing that diſ⯑treſſes you from me, or that I ſhould deſire you to let ſorrow prey in ſilence on your heart, merely to ſave mine the pain of ſuffering with you. No, I conjure you to ſpeak freely to me, and if I cannot cure, I will at leaſt ſooth your anxiety, if real, and endeavour to laugh you out of it, if imaginary.

WE have had a very agreeable viſitor for theſe ten days paſt at Straffon-Hill—lord Mount Willis—He lived abroad, chiefly in Italy theſe ten years; yet is not infected with foreign foppe⯑ries, and can reliſh both the food and manners of his native country. Sir John met him laſt, at Paris, from whence he is but juſt returned.

HE tells us that Sir James Miller, and his cara ſpoſa, are univerſally ridiculous. Her lady⯑ſhip affects all the lively gallantry, d'une dame Francoiſe, but is unfortunately incumbered with all the clumſy aukwardneſs of a vulgar Engliſh-woman. Sir James plays deep, and has loſt conſiderably. Lucy ſeems hurt at the latter part of this account. The goodneſs of her heart is inexhauſtible.

THE approach of a certain deſirable event, with that of winter, will, I hope, ſoon afford me the pleaſure of embracing my dear Emily and her lord. We ſhall return to London in ten or twelve days. Have you made any diſco⯑very, in the terra incognita of Sir James Thorn⯑ton's heart? Does Fanny Weſton ſigh in concert [40] with the Aeolian lyre? or have the equinoctial blaſts ſo chilled her flame, that ſhe prefers a warm room and chearful company, to lonely me⯑ditation and ſoft ſounds?

HOW does lady Harriet hear this ſecond in⯑ſtance of captain Barnard's perfidy? and how does the poor old gouty knight ſupport the vul⯑garly called loſs of his deteſtible wife? I find myſelf in a very impertinent mood; and that I may not aſk more queſtions in one letter than you may be inclined to anſwer in two, I ſhall for the preſent bid you adieu.

LETTER XIV.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

YES, my dear Fanny, I am now, thank heaven, ſafely arrived at Woodfort—would I had never left it! I think even the place, and every thing in it, is altered, during a ſhort ab⯑ſence of twelve days. The trees have loſt their verdure, and the birds ceaſe to ſing. But though the autumnal ſeaſon may have produced theſe effects, I begin to fear there is a greater change in me than in any of the objects that ſurround me.

YET am I in the ſpring of life, not ripened even to ſummer; while like a blaſted flower I ſhrink and fade. Say, Fanny, why is this? The animal and vegetable world bloom in their proper ſeaſon, youth—while amongſt thoſe whom we call rational, grief ſteals the roſes from the downy cheek, and flowing tears oft dim the brilliant eye. Lord Seymour is unhappy; [41] Thornton ſighs; and my loved lord, ſeems wretched,—need I go on and cloſe the climax, with my breaking heart.

CHIDE me, or chide me not, the ſecret's out; I am undone, my ſiſter! in vain lord Woodville ſtrives beneath the maſque of tenderneſs, to act a part, which he no longer feels; the piercing eyes of love detect his coldneſs—his kind atten⯑tion is all loſt on me, his ſtifled ſighs belie his face and tongue, and whiſper what he ſuffers when he ſmiles.

O, FANNY! tell me how I have offended him! how loſt that heart, which formed my ut⯑moſt bliſs! let me blot out that paſſage, with my tears; it cannot it muſt not be.—I will not live, if I have loſt his love. Why are you not here, to flatter me—to tell me that my fears are ground⯑leſs, and that he ſighs from habit, or from chance?

AH, no I ſince he whom I adore has failed to blind me, I cannot, if I would be now deceiv⯑ed. Yet if I have erred, why does he not ſpeak out and tell me I have done wrong? Believe me, Fanny I have tried my heart, examined every hidden thought that's there, and cannot find out one that ſhould offend him.

ARE all men thus inconſtant? I was too young to mark Sir John's behaviour, when you were married firſt. A ſudden ray of hope, now dawns upon me; perhaps the great exertion of my lord's ſpirits, while he remained at York, may have occaſioned a proportionate degree of lan⯑guor—perhaps he may again recover his natural chearfulneſs, and your poor Emily may again be happy—perhaps—I will ſtrive to hope the beſt.

I HAVE no thoughts of going to London—I always purpoſed lying in at Woodfort—I had [42] flattered myſelf, you would be with me, at that hour of trial; but I do not now expect it—I know Sir John would not conſent to your run⯑ing the hazard of travelling, in your preſent ſitu⯑ation, as it has formerly been of ill conſeqence to you, I therefore releaſe my dear Fanny, and deſire ſhe may not ſuffer the leaſt anxiety on my account.

I FIND myſelf much more at eaſe, than when I began this letter, and I muſt affirm, though in contradiction to your opinion, that pouring forth our diſtreſſes, in the boſom of a friend, affords, at leaſt, a temporary relief to the afflicted. I am not able to write more at preſent, but will anſwer all your queries by next poſt—

LETTER XV.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

THERE never ſure was ſuch a man as lord Woodville—he is not only determined to preſerve my affection, but to rob me of the poor conſolation, of complaining that I no longer poſſeſs his. In ſpite of all the pains I have taken to conceal the anguiſh of my heart, he has cer⯑tainly perceived it, and by the moſt tender and intereſting converſation, had well nigh led me into a confeſſion, of my being unhappy.

THANK heaven, I ſtopped juſt ſhort of that—had I avowed it, he doubtleſs would have aſked the cauſe, and artfully have drawn me in, [43] at leaſt, tacitly to reproach his conduct. O ne⯑ver! never, Fanny, can I be capable of that indiſcretion.

BUT were I weak, or mean enough, to do it, I have now no reaſon for complaint—his tender⯑neſs, politeneſs, and attention, are unabated. No other perſon, but myſelf could poſſibly per⯑ceive the ſmalleſt alteration in his conduct; and I begin to hope, that my apprehenſions have had no other foundation, than an extremity of delicacy, bordering upon weakneſs in my⯑ſelf. A thouſand, nay ten thouſand women, might, and would be happy, with ſuch an amia⯑ble and tender huſband, nor has your Emily a wiſh ungratified, but that of ſeeing her dear lord quite happy.

I AM ſorry to tell you that Sir James Thorn⯑ton leaves us to-morrow; he is to ſet out immedi⯑ately on the grand tour. My Lord has in vain endeavoured to find out the ſource of his melan⯑choly; we can diſcover nothing but that he is un⯑happy, which I am ſincerely ſorry for, as he really is the moſt agreeable accompliſhed young man, I ever was acquainted with.

LADY Harriet affects to appear thankful for her eſcape from captain Bernard; but finds his elopement a cauſe for ſorrow, on his lady's ac⯑count. Sir Harry is ſo much enraged, at his ſon's neglect of him, that he begins to be recon⯑ciled to his wife's conduct, and ſpeaks of him, with more acrimony than of her. Indeed, I think Mr. Ransford highly to blame, for refuſing to attend his father upon ſuch an occaſion.

FANNY Weſton is a la mort, at Sir James Thornton's quitting us. That love is the cauſe of her mourning, I well know, but I begin now to apprehend that Sir James, and not lord Sey⯑mour, is the object of her paſſion. She has a [44] much better chance in this caſe, than the other, for I am perſuaded if Thornton knew of her af⯑fection for him he would endeavour to make her happy.

ALAS! if he loves another, how impoſſible! I fancy he is enamoured of one of the miſs Wi⯑thers's.—His fortune and family are ſuch, that I do not believe he would be rejected; yet I could not wiſh him ſucceſs for poor Fanny Weſton's ſake.

MEN more eaſily triumph over an unhappy paſſion, than women. Diſſipation, change of place, and objects, all contribute to their cure; while perhaps the poor ſighing fair one is abſo⯑lutely confined to the ſame ſpot, where ſhe firſt beheld her charmer, and where every object re⯑minds her, that here he ſat, walked, or talked.

I AM perſuaded there is a great deal more in theſe local memento's than lovers are willing to allow. I therefore ſhall not oppoſe Fanny Weſ⯑ton's going to London, if ſhe ſhould again pro⯑poſe it.

SIR William and lady Lawſon are to dine with us this day.—I will try to muſter all my ſpirits to receive her. I would not, for the world, make her unhappy, by giving her the leaſt room to ſuſpect that I am ſo.

ADIEU, my deareſt Fanny; to you, and you only, I can, without bluſhing, diſcover all the weakneſs of a heart, that truly, and ſincerely loves you.

P.S. I have this moment, received a meſſage from my lord, to let me know that he ſhall ſpend three or four days, in hunting, with Sir William Atkinſon. I am glad of any thing that can amuſe him.

LETTER XVI.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I CANNOT expreſs how much my dear Emi⯑ly's laſt letters have affected and diſtreſſed me.—Your being unhappy is certainly ſufficient to render me ſo; and what adds to my concern, is, my being abſolutely incapable of affording you the leaſt conſolation, as I am utterly igno⯑rant of the real cauſe of your affliction. I ſome⯑times think, that it is only a phantom, conjured up by your too delicate apprehenſions; and is, of courſe, merely imaginary.—At other times, the natural conſtancy of men alarms me with an idea of lord Woodville's having met, at York, or elſewhere, ſome object, that may, for a time, divide his heart with you.

OBSERVE, my deareſt Emily, that this is mere conjecture;—but we muſt take certain poſitions for granted before we can reaſon upon any thing. Now do not ſtart, when I tell you, I had much rather your uneaſineſs ſhould ariſe from the latter ſource, than the former;—though I ſhould con⯑ſider, even a tranſitory alienation of his affection, as a misfortune.

LET us now ſuppoſe this to be the caſe, and then ſee how far you have reaſon to be diſtreſſed by ſuch an incident. The paſſions of the human mind, are, I fear, as little under our command, as the motions of our pulſe:—you have there⯑fore juſt as much reaſon to reſent your huſ⯑band's becoming enamoured of another perſon, as you would have to be offended at his having a fever.

BUT if, in conſequence of that delirium, he ſhould ſacrifice your peace to the gratification of [46] his paſſions, by an open and avowed purſuit of the beloved object; or otherwiſe render you un⯑happy, by unkindneſs, or neglect, you might then have ſome cauſe to complain; but if he be unfortunate enough to feel an unwarrantable paſ⯑ſion, and keeps that feeling all his own, his me⯑rit riſes above humanity, and he ought to become almoſt an object of adoration to you.

HAS he not fled from this alluring charmer? Has he not hid his paſſion from the world, nor wounded even your pride? Is not his tenderneſs and kind attention ſtill unremitted towards you? Indeed, my Emily, allowing theſe to be matters of fact, you owe him more than you can ever pay. Conſider what his regard to you muſt be, that can prevail on him to ſacrifice his paſſion, to your peace?

THEN do not, I implore you, my dear child, by even the leaſt appearance of diſtreſs, aggra⯑vate his, but be aſſured, that from a heart, where honour is the ruling principle, you have every thing to hope, and that the tranſitory gloom which now affects him, will be ſucceeded by the brighteſt triumph; and that his reaſon and his virtue will both join in ſecuring his affection to you, upon a more ſolid, and permanent founda⯑tion, than it could ever have been, if this acci⯑dent had not happened.

I HAVE gladly laid hold on what you will think the greateſt evil, lord Woodville's having conceived an involuntary paſſion. But formida⯑ble as they may appear to you, believe me, Emily it is of little conſequence, compared to both what he and you muſt ſuffer, ſhould there be found no real cauſe for your diſtreſs. A mind ſo unhappily turned, as yours would then appear to be, muſt be incapable of receiving or admi⯑niſtering [47] content. I am ſhocked at the horrid idea, and will not dwell upon it longer.

AS I kept your letters in a particular drawer of my deſk, in looking for your laſt but one, chance preſented me with your firſt letter from Wood⯑fort, where you ſet out a ſtrenuous advocate for the exiſtence of tereſtrial felicity. Fallacious as the opinion may be, I am truly ſorry you have had any reaſon to alter your ſentiments; but let it, at leaſt, conſole you, that if you are not an example of your own argument, there is no ſuch thing as an exception to the general rule, that happineſs is not, nor ever will be, the lot of hu⯑man nature, till perfection becomes inherent to it.

THE ſubjects of this letter, have ſunk my ſpirits ſo much, that I fear I ſhall rather increaſe, than leſſen your depreſſion, if I purſue them far⯑ther. I will, therefore, change to one that ought to give me pleaſure, and will, I hope, afford you ſome.

LORD Mount Willis, thoroughly apprized of our dear Lucy's former attachment to Sir James Miller, has declared a paſſion for her, in the moſt polite and elegant terms, that can be imagined. Senſibility, he ſays, is, with him, the higheſt mark of virtue; and a heart, that could feel what hers has ſuffered, for an unworthy object, muſt be capable of the higheſt tenderneſs for one who can, at leaſt, boaſt the merit of being ſenſible of her charms.

A LITTLE falſe delicacy has, as yet, preven⯑ted Lucy from declaring her ſentiments, in favour of this charming man, for ſuch, indeed, he is; though I can ſee ſhe likes him full as well, and muſt neceſſarily approve him much more, than ſhe ever did Sir James Miller.

[48]BUT Lucy declared ſhe would never marry, and that ſhe would leave her fortune to my Emi⯑ly.—I know this dwells on her mind, though it never did on mine; for I have as little ſaith, in the vows of diſappointed love, as in the promiſes of ſucceſsful ones. However, I both hope, and believe, that lord Mount Willis will triumph over her ſcruples, and that I ſhall have the pleaſure of ſeeing her the happy wife, of that very amiable man.

I AM ſorry you are to loſe Sir James Thorn⯑ton; but perhaps the want of his company, may induce lord Woodville to come to London; and I ſhould rejoice at any cauſe that could produce that effect, for I cannot bear the thought of your lying-in in the country.

FANNY Weſton is not of a temper to break her heart for love; but I would, by all means, have her come to town. Her aunt, lady Weſton, talks of going to Bath, next month, and if Fanny chuſes to accompany her, I will anſwer for it, that that gay ſcene of diſſipation will ſoon con⯑quer an hopeleſs paſſion, whether lord Seymour, or Sir James Thornton be the object.

WE arrived in Hill-ſtreet laſt Thurſday; to⯑morrow, Sir John is to place my little Edward, at Eton. The ſimple mamma will feel the loſs of her dear play fellow, but the prudent mother will bleſs the memory of Henry the Sixth, who inſtituted that noble foundation.

THE accounts we have received of Sir James Miller, are ſhocking.—He has been obliged to quit Paris, on account of his debts, and is re⯑tired into ſome of the provinces.—His lady re⯑mains in the capital, living away upon credit, without character, I begin to pity the unhappy man.

[49]YOU will eaſily perceive that this letter has been written at different periods. The world breaks in upon me. I am embarked in the ſtream, and muſt be hurried away by the current, with ſticks ſtraws, and a thouſand other inſignificant things.

ADIEU my dear Emily: I hope, ſoon, very ſoon, to ſee you—for, if the mountains will not come to Mahomet, &c.

LETTER XVII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I AM ſincerely ſorry for having given pain to my dear Fanny's gentle heart, as I cannot ſay that her participation has alleviated my diſ⯑treſs. For giving the fulleſt ſcope to the argu⯑ments you have advanced, what do they prove, but that your Emily is unhappy; and that ſhe knew too well before! You ſet lord Woodville's merits in the faireſt light, cruel Fanny! Why could you not find out ſome fault in him, to make me love him leſs? But it is impoſſible; he is, without diſpute, the moſt amiable of mankind.

I TOLD you, in my laſt, that Sir James Thornton was to leave Woodfort the day fol⯑lowing, which was Tueſday. On Monday night he took a very polite leave of us all, and I thought appeared more chearful than he had been for ſome time paſt. When we were at breakfaſt on Tueſday, we were told Sir James had ſet out at ſix o'clock; and immediately after my lords ſervant preſented him with a letter—he appeared to ſhew ſome emotion while he read it, [50] and ſoon withdrew to his cloſet. In leſs than half an hour, I received the following billet, with the aforeſaid letter, incloſed.

O FANNY, I am diſtreſſed beyond meaſure, by theſe two letters! Why did this weak young man place his affections upon me? Why not beſtow them, where they were likely, if not certain, to meet with a return? It is ſaid, that love is involuntarily; but I believe it is only ſo in very young or enervated minds.—If we will not ſtruggle with our paſſions, they will ſurely overcome us; but they may certainly be weeded out before they have taken too deep root.

I AM doubly diſtreſſed, by this unlucky attach⯑ment.—Poor Fanny Weſton! her paſſion for Sir James Thornton is but to viſible;—Would it not be cruel to attempt her cure, by letting her into this ſecret? I know not how to act.—Why did my lord reveal his fooliſh letter? or why did he not ſigh, in ſecret, and conceal his ill-placed love? O theſe audacious men! they dare do any thing.

THERE is however, a degree of modeſty, in his keeping the ſecret, while he was here. I am convinced, if he had given the ſlighteſt hint of it, I ſhould have had deteſted him: even as it is, I feel myſelf offended, and in a very auk⯑ward ſituation. I ſhall certainly bluſh when I ſee my lord; and yet, why ſhould I be humbled by another perſon's folly? What huſband but mine, would have put ſuch a letter into the hands of a wife? Such a mark of confidence [53] ought to raiſe me, in my own opinion, as it is an undoubted proof, that I ſtand high in his. Pleaſing reflection! dwell upon my mind, and baniſh every gloomy thought, that has obtruded there.

AS Lucy's happineſs is of infinite conſequence to mine, I hope ſoon to hear, that ſhe is lady Mount Wills.

LETTER XVIII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I CANNOT ſee why my dear Emily ſhould be hurt or offended at Sir James Thornton's innocent paſſion? had he dared to avow it, to you, it would have loſt that title, and ſhould have been conſidered as an inſult; but let the poor youth ſigh in peace, for a few months, and I will venture to promiſe, that he will get the bet⯑ter of his folly.—Dying for love is a diſorder, that comes not within our bills of mortality.

NOT but I believe that a long and habitual fondneſs founded on reaſonable hopes, will when deſtroyed, deſtroy life, with it.

BUT theſe are not the ſport of feelings, with which maſters and miſſes, who fancy themſelves [54] in love, are commonly affected; for though youth is the ſeaſon, when we are moſt capable of receiving impreſſions, it is alſo the ſeaſon, when they are moſt eaſily eraſed. I think I might venture to pronounce, that there are not five hundred couples in the cities of London and Weſtminſter, who are married to their firſt love, and yet I firmly believe there are, at leaſt, ten times that number of happy pairs; if ſo, what becomes of the firſt paſſion?

TO be ſure we now and then met with a fool⯑iſh obſtinate heart, that cheriſhes its own miſe⯑ry, and preſerves the image of ſome worthleſs object, to the laſt moment of its exiſtence. Among this ſimple claſs, I fear I ſhall be neceſſi⯑tated to rank my ſiſter Lucy; for though ſhe does not pretend to have the ſmalleſt objection to lord Mount Willis, yet can ſhe not be prevail⯑ed upon, to give a final yes.

HIS behaviour, on this occaſion is truly noble; for though I believe that never man was more in love, he has made it a point, both with Sir John and me, not to preſs Lucy, for her conſent. I fear Sir John will grow angry, at laſt, and per⯑haps hurry her into a denial, which ſhe will have reaſon to repent, all the days of her life.

HOWEVER, ſhe will now have ſome time to recollect herſelf, as Sir John has this day, receiv⯑ed a ſummons to attend his aunt lady Aſton, who is dying, and will probably leave Lucy a lage legacy:—That poor idiot, Sir James Miller has mortgaged the laſt foot of his eſtate; but then he has got rid of his wife—She died of a fever at Paris, twelve days ago. Upon the whole, I think fortune has been kinder to him than he de⯑ſerved.

I AM much pleaſed with lord Woodville's be⯑haviour in regard to the letter; but indeed, my [55] dear, you treat theſe trifling matters much too ſeriouſly and leſt I ſhould myſelf grow grave up⯑on the ſubject, I ſhall bid you

LETTER XIX.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I HAVE not been well, theſe three or four days.—Lady Lawſon, who is ſo good as to ſtay with me and all the ſege femmes about me think that a certain event is nearer than I appre⯑hended My lord's foſter ſiſter, who has been brought to bed about five weeks, is now in the houſe, and every thing is prepared for my accou⯑chement.

MY lord's tenderneſs ſeems doubled on this occaſion.—He ſcarce ever leaves my apartment; he reads to me with his eyes oftener fixed on my countenance than the book, and ſeems to watch every change in my looks.—What a wretch I have been, Fanny! to ſuſpect this amiable man of want of love? Would it not be ſinning againſt him, yet more highly, to let him know my crime, by aſking his forgiveneſs, for my unjuſt ſuſpicions?

NO, I will bluſh in ſilence, and humble my⯑ſelf before heaven, and you who alone are con⯑ſcious of my folly.—Pardon thou great firſt au⯑thor of my happineſs! and thou dear parent, ſiſter, guardian of my youth, excuſe my weak⯑neſs, that had well nigh daſhed the cup of [56] bleſſing from me, or mingled it with bitterneſs for ever!

I HEAR my dear lord's tuneful voice inquiring for his Emily? I come, my love;

LETTER XX.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

I HAVE been at home now above a week, yet have purpoſely avoided writing to you, as your laſt interdicted me from mentioning the only ſubject of which I am capable of thinking. O Seymour! it is in vain to diſguiſe it; my head and heart, are filled with her alone! Upon the exertion of any painful act of virtue, we flatter ourſelves that we have abſolutely conquer⯑ed its oppoſite vice, or weakneſs; our vanity triumps, and like the French, we frequently chant out Te Deum, without having gained a victory.

TOO much I feel that this has been my caſe. I begin to fear that I ſhall not even be capable of diſguiſing my unhappineſs; and of practiſing this diſſimulation, which in my ſingular ſituation ſhould be deemed a virtue.

I HAVE diſcovered that lady Woodville has lately wept much; I once ſurprized her alone, in a flood of tears. I could not bear them: they reproached me, Seymour! but it was with ſilent anguiſh; I preſſed to know the cauſe of her diſtreſs: had ſhe revailed it, and but once up⯑braided me, though in the gentleſt terms, I fear I ſhould have thrown away the maſk, avowed my paſſion, and quitted her for ever.

BUT her ſoft nature knew not how to chide, and ſeemed alarmed for fear ſhe had offended. Her ſuffering gentleneſs unmanned me quite, or rather on the inſtant, it reſtored all that is wor⯑thy of the name of man, my reaſon, and my virtue: and I dare hope, that from that time, [58] ſhe has been well deceived, and that I only am the victim of my own weakneſs.

I SHALL addreſs this letter to London; I think it is more likely that it ſhould meet you there at preſent, than at the hot wells. I intreat you will wait upon the marchioneſs, and tell her Seymour, what my heart endures; let me at leaſt have ſome merit, from the ſacrifice I have made, and not be deemed ungrateful, or inſenſible by her.

IF you hear any thing of Ransford, let me know.—His father is outrageous at his con⯑duct, and even I think he is to blame.

LETTER XXI.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

I AM ſincerely ſorry for your relapſing into a ſtate of weakneſs, which muſt be always a ſtate of miſery. I confeſs I thought you in the ſureſt train for happineſs, as the having con⯑quered ourſelves, is the only ſubject I know for real exultation. But as your conduct has been truly noble, and that no perſon has ſuffered from what I now conſider as your own misfortune, no one can have a right to reproach you; and it is for your own ſake alone, that I now intreat you to ſtruggle with your too partial attachment to an unworthy woman,

YOU deſire me to acquaint her with the ſtate of your heart; can you ſuppoſe me ſo weak as to comply with your requeſt, were it within [59] my power? But I muſt travel ſome miles to af⯑ford the fugitive conqueror the triumph you de⯑ſigned.

SHE ſet out from London, five days ago, with your friend Ransford. I hear they intend mak⯑ing the tour of Italy together. Proſperous gales, and calm ſeas, attend them!

YOU ſee when a lady is bent upon travelling ſhe can eaſily ſupply herſelf with a Ciciſbeo; and I fancy that Ransford will be a much more agreeable companion, upon this party, than your lordſhip could poſſibly have been.—He carries not the ſtings of remorſe about him, the bane of joy, or peace! neglect of his father may ſometimes poſſibly cloud his gaiety, but one glance from the bright eyes of the marchioneſs will quickly diſpel the gloom.

WILL you forgive me for owning that I am tranſported at their union? Would to heaven that you could receive joy from it alſo! Had ſhe fallen lower than ſhe has done, it might have mortified your pride; but if you can diveſt yourſelf of ſelf-love, you muſt allow that Rans⯑ford is more calculated for a lover than you are. I think he bows with a better grace, ſings charmingly, dances ſuperlatively well, is more adroit in his perſon, it above an inch taller, and has ten times your vivacity.

I BOTH hope, and believe, that they are married; and as Ransford does not want pene⯑tration, be may poſſibly have diſcovered your attachment to her; he will therefore probably prevent her returning to England, for ſome years. Let her but keep out of your way, and I care not what becomes of her.

DO, my dear Woodville, let me congratulate your eſcape from that Circe! and rejoice with you in the amiable character of her, whom [60] Providence has deſigned to bleſs your future days!

I HAVE buſineſs that will detain me in London, for this month to come; the moment that is fi⯑niſhed I will fly to Woodfort, and hope to find you and every one there, as happy as they ought to be; to wiſh for more is in vain.

LETTER XXII.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

HOW could my cruel friend attempt to jeſt with miſery like mine! It is impoſſible!—It muſt not, cannot, be; the marchioneſs gone off with Ransford! by heaven it is falſe, though thou, my deareſt, trueſt friend, aver it! You thought to cure my paſſion by this legend; but you have blown the ſleeping embers to a flame; and honeſt indignation for the injury ſhe ſuſtains, adds fuel to the fire.

RANSFORD! why Ransford knew her not ſix weeks ago.—Their firſt meeting was at York.—He muſt have ſeen her paſſion.—She could not diſguiſe it; nay, I know ſhe would not—She is above diſguiſe.

WHY, Seymour, ſhould you treat me like a child, and ſtrive to impoſe impoſſibilities upon me? how can a heart, that has felt what yours has done, ſport with a lover's anguiſh? I am impatient till I ſend off this, that by the meſſen⯑ger you may reſtore her peace, and clear my honour. O! you have ſet my boſom all on fire! be quick, and quench the blaze, leſt it conſume [61] the innocent cauſe of all my wretchedneſs, along with your diſtracted friend.

P.S. The ſervant who carries this, muſt nei⯑ther ſleep nor eat, till he brings back your anſwer. I ſhall do neither till I receive it. For pity ſake, my friend, trifle no farther, but at once relieve, and excuſe the diſtraction you have cauſed.

LETTER XXIII.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

WELL mayeſt thou call thyſelf diſtracted Woodville! and I as ſuch, can pity and forgive thee.—Yet muſt I not become infected by thy folly, and treat thee like a wayward child indeed.

AS I would not have deſcended to a falſehood, even to have cured you of your weakneſs, for I cannot call it paſſion, ſo neither ſhall I ſooth you now, by contradicting the truth that I have al⯑ready aſſerted; and however impoſſible it may appear to you, that the marchioneſs ſhould ſo quickly enter into any engagements with Rans⯑ford, it is moſt certain, that they left London, in the ſame poſt-chaiſe, on Monday ſennight, and that ſhe declared her intention of viſiting Italy to my ſiſter Sandford, who was extremely ſcandalized at her behaviour, with regard to Mr. Ransford, during the ſhort time ſhe ſtaid in town, ſince they returned from York.

BE aſſured that I am ſincerely affected by the miſerable condition of your mind.—I cannot [62] help conſidering you as in a ſtate of faſcination; for if your reaſon could operate at all, you could not poſſibly be aſtoniſhed, that a woman, who had jilted you four years ago, and preferred age and diſeaſe to you, when ſhe profeſſed to love you, and when it was in your power to marry her, ſhould abandon you now, that ſhe cannot be your wife, for a lively, agreeable man, who is, probably, as much enamoured of her, though not quite ſo romantic as your lordſhip.

AS you are not, at preſent in a ſituation to receive any benefit from the admonitions of friendſhip, I ſhall reſerve my ſentiments for a fitter occaſion, and not detain your ſervant lon⯑ger, than while I ſubſcribe myſelf

LETTER XXIV.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

YES, Seymour, I will own I have been mad; I wake as from a dream: yet why, my kind, my cruel friend, have you recovered me from that delirium, which, like an opiate, while it weakened, ſoothed my enfeebled ſenſe, and left me ſcarce a wiſh to ſtruggle with my mala⯑dy? Yes, ſhe is gone! my friend repeats it, and it muſt be true.

MARRIED to Ransford! Can I yet believe it? ‘"O may the furies light their nuptial torch!"’ Diſſembling, cruel woman! ſhe ſaw the anguiſh of my breaking heart, when honour triumphed over my ſelf-love, and prevented my accepting the ſacrifice ſhe offered, to her deſtruction.

[63]PERHAPS, that ſtung her pride, perhaps, ſhe loves me ſtill, but could not bear to be rejected by me.—Perhaps, I have undone her peace, as ſhe has mine.—O no! a younger, gayer, newer lover, abſorbs all thoughts of me! I am forgot⯑ten, and I will forget ‘— not Iſabella! my life, my ſoul, my love!’ Do not deteſt me, Seymour; I would, but cannot conquer this diſeaſe.

THE moment I had ſent off Williams, with my laſt to you, I ordered my horſes, and rode off thirty miles, towards London, not only to be ſo much nearer the return of my expreſs, but to prevent lady Woodville from obſerving my diſtraction.

WHEN I had got about five miles from Wood⯑fort, I ſent back my ſervant, to let her know, that I ſhould ſpend three or four days, in hunt⯑ing with Sir William atkinſon, whom I juſt then met, going up to London.

I HAD ſettled my plan with Williams, who returned, even quicker, than I thought is poſſible. I have now ſpent three days at a wretched inn, where, were it in my choice, I would remain for ever. Here I can curſe, and I can weep—but the innocent lady Woodville may be rendered unhappy, by my ſtay.—She loves me, as I loved the—Let me not name her.

SIR James Thornton leaves us in a few days. I muſt return to Woodfort.—O write ſoon! and once more ſay, you pity and forgive,

LETTER XXV.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

I WRITE to you merely becauſe you deſire it; for I am well convinced, that nothing which I, or the greateſt philoſopher that ever exiſted, could ſay to you, would have any effect upon your mind, in its preſent ſtate; and my own is, at this inſtant, ſo extremely agitated, that I am ſcarce capable of writing at all.

I HAVE, this day, received a letter, from Captain Beaumont—The contents will amaze you. About ſix weeks ago, the acknowledged ſon of madame de Beaumont, was taken ill of the ſmall pox; and as her daughter had never had it, the general and ſhe thought proper to ſend her to a friend's houſe, leſt her beauty ſhould be endangered by the infection.

THIS young lady, now about fifteen, who had never been out of her mother's ſight before, happened, in the family ſhe was placed in, to become acquainted with a young muſqueteer, handſome, and accompliſhed, but without rank or fortune. They quickly became enamoured of each other; and, at the end of a fortnight, eloped together, and got ſafe into Holland. They might, poſſibly, have been overtaken, and prevented from marrying, if the lady, to whoſe care Maria Beaumont was entruſted, had not dreaded the violence of madame de Beau⯑mont's temper, ſo much that ſhe did not dare to inform her of the misfortune, till it was paſt re⯑medy.

IN the mean time, the young, and by all ac⯑counts amiable, heir of the family, expired in [65] his father's arms. The violent agitation of ma⯑dame de Beaumont's mind threw her into a rag⯑ing fever.—During her delirium, ſhe raved in⯑ceſſantly, on the ingratitude and baſeneſs of Ma⯑ria, and her own inhumanity to the unhappy Charlotte.

THE general, who now conſidered himſelf as childleſs, gladly laid hold on the opportunity of endeavouring to recover thoſe he had formerly, not loſt, but thrown away—he therefore prevailed on madame de Beaumont to ſee Charlotte. He went himſelf to the convent, and having declared his hitherto concealed affinity to Charlotte, he obtained leave from the abbeſs, to let her viſit her dying mother.

BUT no tongue or pen can expreſs the various emotions of ſurprize, grief, and joy, which were occaſioned by the ſight of his lovely daughter, when ſhe caſt herſelf at his feet, to receive his benediction.—Like poor old Lear he would have knelt to her, and begged forgiveneſs.

BUT when ſhe preſented herſelf on her knees, by the bedſide of madame de Beaumont, the unhappy woman, unable to ſuſtain the ſight of ſo much injured beauty, fainted quite away; but the moment ſhe was recovered to her rea⯑ſon, ſhe called for Charlotte, and never let her quit her ſight, or ceaſed to pour forth bleſ⯑ſings on her, and implore her pardon till ſhe expired.

BEFORE ſhe died, ſhe intreated Charlotte to quit the convent, and remain with her unhappy father while he lived. She deſired that a diſ⯑penſation from her vows might be immediately ſolicited from the Pope, and that captain Beau⯑mont, and lord Seymour might be ſent for, in order to obtain their forgiveneſs. But only one of her wiſhes was accompliſhed.—captain Beau⯑mont [66] arrived, about two hours before her death; ſhe ſaw, and bleſſed him.

HE writes me word, that neither his father, nor himſelf, can prevail on Charlotte, to think of returning into the world again; but that ſhe has conſented to go into the country with them, for a couple of months, merely in hopes of rocon⯑ciling the general to his youngeſt daughter. He deſires me to fly to Belville, that I may at leaſt ſee his ſiſter, before ſhe is again ſecluded from the world for ever.

O WOODVILLE! I want but wings, to obey him! But hark, my chariot wheels rattle, and my impatient heart, much more than beats reſ⯑ponſive to the horſes feet.

LETTER XXVI.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

I KNOW not whither to congratulate or con⯑dole with my dear Seymour, on the very ex⯑traordinary events that have happened in the Beaumont family. His feelings, I know, muſt ariſe from thoſe of his beloved Charlotte; and I am, at preſent, doubtful, whether ſhe will ever again recover in the ſame degree, that peaceful reſignation, which we may ſuppoſe ſhe had ac⯑quired, and was in full poſſeſſion of, a few weeks ago.

ALL the paſſions of that gentle nature muſt now be rouſed to tumult; the ſight of her dear Seymour muſt give her joy, tranſporting joy! which is as much an enemy to peace, as the moſt [67] poignant miſery. And yet, again, muſt ſhe be torn from all the ſocial ties of human life; again be buried in that quick ſepulchre, a convent!

DO not, my friend, indulge a ſingle thought of her returning back, into the world.—It cannot be: Charlotte Beaumont will not be prevailed upon, even by the man ſhe loves, to break her vows to heaven: for though I believe her poſ⯑ſeſſed of the moſt exalted virtue, ſhe cannot, poſ⯑ſibly, be free from ſuperſtition, as ſhe is both a woman and a catholic.

YOU will, perhaps, be ſurprized at my writ⯑ing to you in this ſtrain; but I would wiſh you to guard your heart againſt its greateſt foe, againſt ſelf-deluſion, Seymour! that ſly, ſlow, under⯑miner of our reaſon, and our peace! that lying, whiſpered to my weak preſumption, I might be⯑hold the marchioneſs, unmoved! Fatal,! fatal error! it has undone me, Seymour! But I will think, I mean ſpeak, of her no more.

I HAVE an anecdote to tell you, which con⯑vinces me, that Adam's curſe is intailed on all his offspring.

[68]THORNTON quitted Woodfort, three days ago.—The morning he went off, he left a letter for me, which contained an abſolute decla⯑ration of the moſt ardent paſſion for lady Wood⯑ville! You may perhaps, think he was a little out in the choice of a confidant—by no means, I aſſure you. I incloſed his letter immediately to my wife, and felt myſelf really concerned for his misfortune. Emily is certainly capable of inſpi⯑ring the moſt delicate paſſion; Thornton was a ſecond Cymon, when he firſt ſaw her; and I may with great truth ſay, that with all the beau⯑ties of an Iphigene, ſhe is poſſeſſed of every ami⯑able virtue that can inſpire eſteem and reſpect.—I would give millons to change paſſions with him.

I CAN ſcarce hope to hear from you, while the charming delirium of your happineſs laſts; but when you return again to reaſon and miſery, I ſhall then be a proper companion for your afflic⯑tion. But in every ſituation of life I ſhall remain unalterably,

LETTER XXVII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

AS my dear Emily may yet be conſidered as an invalid, I think myſelf bound to write every day, and every thing that can poſſibly con⯑tribute to her amuſement, without expect⯑ing or waiting for any acknowledgment of my letter.

[69]SIR John returned laſt night, from paying his laſt duty to his aunt lady Aſton, and very well ſhe has paid him for his attendance. She has bequeathed to him the pleaſant manor of Aſhfield, which is worth between eight and nine hundred pounds a year; and made him her reſiduary le⯑gatee, when he has paid her bequeſts of twelve thouſand pounds to Lucy, a thouſand pounds apiece, to my children, and ſome few legacies to old ſervants.

AS ſoon as Sir John had acquainted us with this agreeable news, he aſked Lucy, if ſhe was yet determined, with regard to lord Mount Wil⯑lis? when, to my great pleaſure and ſurprize, ſhe anſwered Yes, I think I ſhall be ready to give him my hand before this day ſe'nnight; though I cannot poſitively fix the day, as lawyers are dilatory folks.

SIR John then began to rally her, on what he imagined to be her attention to ſettlements, &c. and told her that my lord and he would take care of all thoſe matters without her aſſiſtance. She anſwered with a very ſtedfaſt countenance and de⯑termined air, You will pardon me, brother; for once, and only once in my life, I am reſol⯑ved to act for myſelf.—Now hear my reſolution, which I deſire you will communicate to lord Mount Willis to-morrow morning.

WHEN his lordſhip did me the honour to ad⯑dreſs me, I had then but five thouſand pounds, a fortune much too ſmall to be an object of conſi⯑deration, to him; but neither he nor you knew at that time, that I had but a uſe, even in that ſmall ſum for life.

SIR John attempted to interupt her, by inqui⯑ring what ſhe meant? ſhe begged that he would ſuffer her to proceed without interuption, and went on.—The ſevere treatment I met with at the [70] ſame time, from Sir James Miller, made me at that time, reſolve that I would never marry.—We little know our hearts in many particulars of life; but leaſt of all in this.

BUT the extreme kindneſs I met with, at the ſame time, from lady Straffon, laid me under ſuch indeliable obligations, as no time nor cir⯑cumſtance can ever efface. I then determined, nay declared, that I would bequeath my fortune to my niece Emily; and no power on earth ſhall make me alter my reſolution.

FROM my aunt's unmeritted goodneſs to me, it is now in my power to fulfil my intentions be⯑fore my death, and to give a proof of that gra⯑titude, which I owe to my more than ſiſter. Again both Sir John and I would have broken in on her diſcourſe, but ſhe beckoned for ſi⯑lence.

WHEN this, the firſt wiſh of my heart, is accompliſhed, I ſhall ſtill have a much better fortune than lord Mount Willis firſt expected with me.—But it muſt not be all his. Sir James Miller has been in ſome degree conducive to that happineſs, which I expect and hope for from an union with his lordſhip. Sir James is poor and wretched; juſtly puniſhed for his crimes, but not rewarded, for the benefits he has conferred on me.—Some ſmall proviſion muſt be made for him, without his ever knowing from whom he receives it. I formerly looked upon him with horror and averſion; I now conſider him as my benefactor; and the ſaving him from the miſe⯑ries of extreme poverty, will relieve my mind from a ſort of mental debt.

SIR John could forbear no longer, but claſping her in his arms ſaid, Providence had made him rich indeed, when it had beſtowed ſuch meaſures on him, as his wife and ſiſter. Both he and I [71] ſaid every thing to diſſuade her, from her intend⯑ed gift to Emily, but in vain.

SIR John ſeemed to hint as if he thought it would be better that her generous intentions to⯑wards Sir James Miller, ſhould be executed by lord Mount Willis, rather than herſelf. By no means, brother, replied Lucy; were there a re⯑main of tenderneſs for him, in my heart, the world ſhould not bribe me to marry its ſole lord. Generoſity ſhould flow from principle, not from paſ⯑ſion; and, as I can truly boaſt that this action, with regard to Sir James Miller, ariſes from the firſt ſource, nothing muſt change the current of it. My conduct on this occaſion is, I think the high⯑eſt compliment that I can pay to lord Mount Willis, and I have not a doubt of his conſider⯑ing it, in that high light.

WE both acquieſced in her opinion, and Sir John waited on lord Mount Willis this morning, to inform him of Lucy's intentions. He ſays he never ſaw any perſon ſo tranſported as his lord⯑ſhip; he ſaid he had ever looked upon Lucy as the moſt amiable of women, but that her gene⯑roſity to Sir James Miller made him now look up to her, as to a ſuperior being; and that if ſhe gave thouſands he ought to give ten thouſands, to the unhappy man, who had been in any de⯑gree inſtrumental to his felicity.

THIS will be a whimſical conteſt, I think, Emily, but I do not fancy that Lucy will conſent to my lord's interfering with her deſigns. At preſent, ſhe intends to lay out four thouſand pounds, in an annuity for Sir James; which if he continues to live abroad, may ſupport him de⯑cently.

I HAVE been this day to be ſpeak a pair of dia⯑mond buckles, and a very fine egrette, which Sir John and I mean to preſent her with. I know [72] lord Mount Willis's family jewels are very rich, but my dear Lucy's virtues will out ſhine them all—Indeed ſhe is an honour, not only to her ſex, but to human nature.

SHE joins with me in intreating yours, and lord Woodville's company at her wedding. Surely my Emily will not refuſe us both! you can have no doubts but that your little boy will be taken every poſſible care of, and even a little month's abſence, from that dear face, on which your dotage hangs, will make an amazing change for the better in it—He will be as handſome again by the time of your return to Woodfort.

LUCY writes this night to lady Harriet and Fanny Weſton, to attend her nuptials,—All girls will fly to a wedding, ſo that you will be left totally alone, if you are ſo ill natured as to deny our requeſt.

WHO knows what a good example may do?—The penſive lady Harriet may perhaps be prevailed upon to ſigh no more for her perjured ſwain, but may poſſibly be inclined to make ſome worthy man happy. As to Fanny Weſton I am perſuaded that the feſtivity of a wedding will intirely conquer her hopeleſs paſſion for the wandering Thornton. She is no Penelope, be⯑lieve me; and I fancy Mr. Wills, my lord's brother, will be able to baniſh the errant knight quite out of her mind.

ADIEU, my dear Emily. I hope you will make me happy in your next, by telling me that I ſhall ſoon have the pleaſure of ſeeing you. Indeed I want nothing elſe at preſent to compleat my felicity.

LETTER XXVIII.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

I AM extremely charmed, but not ſurprized at Lucy's conduct.—'here is every thing to be expected from ſenſibility and delicacy joined; but indeed I have ſcarce ever known them ſepa⯑rated in a female heart. Refined manners are the natural conſequences of fine feelings, which will even in an untutored mind form a ſpecies both of virtue and good breeding, higher than any thing that is to be acquired, either in courts or ſchools; but when theſe two qualities receive every addition that education and example can beſtow,

THUS do I think of our dear Lucy; yet I muſt ſay that ſhe has been uncommonly fortunate in having ſuch an opportunity of exerting the noble qualities of her heart, and proving how much ſuperior ſhe is to the deteſtable meanneſs of ma⯑lice or revenge. Charming girl! may ſhe be as happy as ſhe deſerves!

SHE, as well as you, has intreated me to par⯑take happineſs.—Alas, Fanny! though grief is contagious, we cannot always symp [...]e with joy—ſtrange perverſeneſs of our natures, that accepts the evil, and rejects the good! Do not [74] from this, ſuſpect me of malevolence, or ſup⯑poſe that I do not truly rejoice in Lucy's felicity. But there is, I know not why, a kind of weight that hangs upon my mind, which I find it im⯑poſſible to remove. Perhaps change of place may help to ſhake it off.—Be that as it may, I ſhall certainly comply with your's and Lucy's requeſt.

MY lord has kindly promiſed to accompany me, and our ſweet little babe is to be left at lady Lawſon's. Indeed, Fanny, you ſcarce can think what a ſacrifice I make to quit him for a day; but he will be under the protection of the beſt of women.

I FEAR there is a ſcene preparing that will trouble her repoſe. That bad miſs Fanning! what a heart muſt hers be? how void of gra⯑titude! and where that virtue is wanting, there can ſubſiſt no other.—Neither precept nor ex⯑ample can operate on baſe minds.

IS it not ſtrange that nature ſhould vary ſo much in the human genius as to create a Lucy Straffon, and a Mary Fanning! ſo nearly of the ſame age too; both deſcended from good fami⯑lies; and both well educated. The animal creation do not differ thus from their own ſpecies. There are no furious ſheep, nor mild tigers.—Nature is uniform in all her works, but man.—Hapleſs variety! ſad ſource of miſery! the tiger and the lamb are not leſs ſimilar than the betray⯑er, and betrayed—yet both wear the ſame form, and only by experience is the difference found.—Nay, ſometimes we have ſeen the faireſt face conceal the vileſt heart; as lurks the ſerpent underneath the roſe.—This is a mortifying ſub⯑ject; I will no more of it.

FANNY Weſton, as you gueſſed, is in high ſpirits, at the idea of Lucy's wedding.—She [75] talks of nothing but dreſs, equipage, and jewels, ever ſince it has been mentioned—but a new ſubject is of infinite uſe in the country; and I do not know whether a great funeral had not en⯑tertained her quite as much.—Nodding plumes and painted eſcutcheons will amuſe the imagina⯑tion, when gilt coaches and gay liveries do not come in the way.—

HAPPY trifler! how I envy her—yet I am ſure ſhe loves Lucy, and fancies that ſhe is really enamoured of Sir James Thornton too.—I am certain that lady Harriet would gladly be excuſed from going to London, but I will not ſeem to ſee which way her inclinations tend.

And a ſort, and tender nurſe it is—but diſſipation may perhaps be good for us all, and lady Harriet ſhall try the recipe as well as

LETTER XXIX.
Lady STRAFFON to Lady WOODVILLE.

I THINK myſelf extremely obliged to my dear Emily, for her compliance with her friend's requeſt.—You cannot conceive what delightful effects the hopes of ſeeing you have produced in Hill-ſtreet.—Sir John talks of nothing elſe but the ſparkler; you know he uſed to call you ſo.—Lucy is all gratitude for your kindneſs, and my little Emily holds up her head moſt amazingly, that her aunt may obſerve what a fine carriage ſhe has, and how much ſhe is grown ſince ſhe ſaw her—The ſervants are all tranſported with double joy for Lucy's wedding, and your arrival. In ſhort, every one wears a ſmiling face, and I ſhall not pardon it, if there ſhould appear the ſmalleſt trace of gloom on yours.

I AM very ſorry for what you hint at, with regard to lady Lawſon—but be aſſured, that a woman ſhould be thoroughly convinced, not only of her huſband's attachment, but of his morals alſo, before ſhe intrudes a female in⯑mate, younger, though perhaps not fairer than herſelf.

THE caution ſhould be equally attended to, with regard to male intimates.—I have ſeldom known an habitual friendſhip, that did not kindle, into what is called love, where there have been youth, beauty, and unceaſing opportunity to fan the flame.

I THINK, if I were in lady Lawſon's caſe, I ſhould not feel much—for the heart of a man who is capable of ſeducing a young creature, that is immediately under his protection, can never be worth regretting. I have always heard [77] that Sir William is a very debauched man; and a truly delicate woman cannot preſerve her af⯑fection for ſuch a one, long—Contempt muſt follow vice; and where we once deſpiſe, we ſoon muſt ceaſe to love.

NOR do I look upon Miſs Fanning as an ob⯑ject of pity—bred up, as ſhe has been, with ſo excellent a woman, one ſhould ſuppoſe her heart replete with every virtue;—but ſhe cannot, poſ⯑ſibly, be poſſeſſed even of the common merits, which we expect from a chambermaid, when ſhe can deſcend to proſtitution, without temp⯑tation.

HAD ſhe been led aſtray by an agreeable young man, I could have pitied, nay, perhaps, have loved, and even eſteemed her; for I am not ſuch an Amazon in ethics, as to conſider a breach of chaſtity, as the higheſt crime that a woman can be guilty of; though it is certainly the moſt un⯑pardonable folly; and I believe there are many women who have erred in that point, who may have more real virtue, aye, and delicacy too, than half the fainted dames who value themſelves on the preſervation of their chaſtity; which, in all probability, has never been aſſailed. She alone who has withſtood the ſolicitations of a man ſhe fondly loves, may boaſt her virtue; and I will venture to ſay, that ſuch an heroine will be more inclined to pity, than deſpiſe the unhappy victims of their own weakneſs.

I HAVE ſported my opinion upon this ſubject very freely; you muſt therefore allow me to ex⯑plain myſelf more clearly. I know your delica⯑cy will be hurt if I do not; and I may expect to be ſeverely attacked by my dear little prude.

FIRST then I confine my fair penitents to the firſt choice; a ſecond error of this ſort is never to be pardoned.—Paſſion is the only excuſe that [78] can poſſibly be made for ſuch a tranſgreſſion; and a woman who has made ſuch a ſacrifice to love alone may be perfectly ſatisfied, that ſhe can never be ſubject to that paſſion in the ſame de⯑gree again. For there never is above one human creature that we can love better than ourſelves.

THE woman who receives two gallants, is in my mind, quite upon a footing with the moſt venal beauties; whoſe capacious hearts ſcorn to be limited to any number. All married ladies I abſolutely exclude from my order of amiable un⯑fortunates—they cannot even pretend to be de⯑ceived;—whereas a ſimple girl, however mean her condition, may flatter herſelf, that her lo⯑ver's intentions are honourable. Old legends tell of king Cophetua and the beggar maid; and your Pamelas, and your Mariannes, encourage hope in young untutored minds, which perhaps the artful deſtroyer takes the utmoſt pains to en⯑creaſe; ‘"'till they can truſt, and he betray no more."’

THIS is, I confeſs, a nice ſubject for a woman to treat upon; but I promiſe you I will endea⯑vour to make my girl diſtinguiſh between vice and weakneſs; and I hope while ſhe deteſts the one, ſhe will be always ready to pity, and if in her power to protect the other.—There is no character I ſo heartily abominate as that of the outrageouſly virtuous. I have ſeen a lady render herſelf hateful to a large company, by repeating perhaps a forged tale of ſome unhappy frail one, with ſuch a degree of rancour and malevolence, as is totally inconſiſtent with the calm dignity of real virtue.

HAVE you ever read a fable, which is bound up with Mr. Moore's, but was written by Mr. Brooke, called the Female Seducers? I think it [79] the prettieſt thing that ever was written upon this ſubject.—To that I refer you for my ſentiments at large.

YOUR remark upon the diverſity of natures, amongſt the human ſpecies, is pretty and ingeni⯑ous;—but when we conſider the amazing vari⯑ety there is in the animal creation, and how ma⯑ny of them are noxious, we cannot wonder that there ſhould be ſome difference in human kind. Had we been all formed with equal virtues, thoſe very virtues would have been rendered uſe⯑leſs;—an inſipid tameneſs would have prevented emulation, and life would have become a per⯑fect ſinecure.

ON the other hand, were we all vicious, diſ⯑order and confuſion muſt take place, and this world be quickly reduced to its primitive chaos. Without temptation, there could be no virtue; and without virtue, this world could not ſubſiſt.—We ſhould not be ſo much pleaſed with the gentleneſs of the lamb, if there was no animal more fierce, nor ſhould we feel the ſweetneſs of the woodlark's note, ſo ſenſibly as we do, if we had never heard the ſcreech owl's voice, or the croak⯑ing of the raven. It is by compariſon alone, that we are capable of eſtimating good and evil, both in the moral and natural ſenſe.

I COULD illuſtrate my argument, as fully amongſt our own ſpecies, as in the brute creati⯑on; but I have drawn this letter to ſuch an im⯑moderate length, that I muſt at leaſt defer the re⯑mainder of my diſcourſe, parſon like, to another opportunity.

EVERY thing is ſettled to Lucy's mind; and lord Mount Willis's happy day is fixed for Sa⯑turday [80] fortnight. I hope you will come to town next week; till then,

LETTER XXX.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

I SHOULD have anſwered your letter by laſt poſt, but was prevented, by having company. The two miſs Withers's ſpent three days with us.—I told you before, they were charming women; but agreeable as I firſt thought them, I now think them ten times more ſo.

THE eldeſt is extremely ſenſible, and perfectly accompliſhed, but of a grave turn; the youngeſt has every merit of her ſiſter, with the moſt en⯑gaging vivacity imaginable. She is ſoon to be married to an Iriſh nobleman.—Happy man, who is to be bleſſed with ſuch a companion!

SHE ſeems to feel ſome regret at the thoughts of quitting her friends and England; but ſays ſhe is ſure that her lord will be ſo good to let her viſit them ſometimes; and ſhe would by no means, wiſh to detach him from his native country, or prevent his ſpending that fortune in it, which he derives from it.

MISS Withers is gone to Ireland, with her ſiſter. I am almoſt ſorry that I ever was ac⯑quainted with theſe ſweet girls, ſince I am to loſe the pleaſure of their ſociety ſo ſoon. They told me a piece of news, which though it ſurprized, did not diſpleaſe me.—Mr. Ransford is married [81] to the marchioneſs of St. Aumont, and they are now in France together.

IS it not odd, that my lord never mentioned this particular, as it is no ſecret in the country? and he muſt certainly know it, as he has been once or twice to ſee Sir Harry Ransford. But I think you deſired me never to pry into his mo⯑tives for any thing; and I obey.

INDEED, Fanny, you appear to me to affect the ſtoic too much, from what you ſay about lady Lawſon; but we can all bear the misfortunes of others with great fortitude,

IN my mind, lady Lawſon's trial is a very fie⯑ry one.—She is, ſhe muſt be doubly diſtreſſed. As to the ſlight infidelities of huſbands, I think the wife muſt be contemptible who reſents them; but every woman, that truly loves her huſband, wiſhes to preſerve his heart; and a conſciouſneſs of his attachment to another object, muſt be pro⯑ductive of the moſt poignant anguiſh. Happy, happy ſiſter! that have never felt that 'Hydra of calamity.'

I GRANT that Sir William Lawſon has ever been a debauched man, but always had, except in this inſtance, ſo much regard to his lady, to decency and humanity as to conceal his vices from her: He therefore, had not forfeited her eſteem, though ſhe had loſt his love—O loſs be⯑yond repair! Then her affection for that wretch miſs Fanning, muſt add to her diſtreſs. Not having been bleſſed with children, ſhe looked up⯑on this worthleſs girl as her own daughter—and can ſhe in a moment forget the tenderneſs [82] ſhe has indulged ſo long, and deteſt the wicked couple, as ſhe ought—impoſſible!

I AM really angry at your philoſophic inſenſi⯑bility upon this occaſion,—for my part, I can ſcarce behave with common civility, either to Sir William or miſs Fanning. But lady Lawſon, who is a ſaint, behaves with her uſual kindneſs to them both, nor has ever ſeemed to have diſ⯑covered or hinted the leaſt ſuſpicion, of what is already too viſible to the whole country.—Yet her lovely face is emaciated and pale; and ſome⯑times, involuntarily ſighs and tears eſcape her.

I KNOW my lord is extremely diſtreſſed, on this occaſion, he loves his ſiſter tenderly; but fears his interpoſing might poſſibly make Sir Wil⯑liam lay aſide all reſtraint, and perhaps, occaſion a ſeparation from his wife. I am glad, for this reaſon, that we are leaving the country, as I imagine miſs Fanning's ſituation will make her removal neceſſary, before we return to Wood⯑fort.

YOU need not have apprehended my diſſent⯑ing from your generous ſentiments with regard to the unhappy victims of love.—Nay I carry my humanity further, and feel for thoſe who, with⯑out ſtrong paſſion, fall a ſacrifice to the vile arts of their ſeducer, and their own weakneſs. That unſuſpecting confidence, which is too frequently the cauſe of womens ruin, muſt certainly ariſe from a generous diſpoſition; and I ſhould look upon a young innocent girl, who was armed at all points like a Moor of Moor-hall, to be an un⯑natural character.

AT the ſame time, I deteſt a vicious woman, more than any thing in the creation; and for this reaſon, my compaſſion does not extend to married ladies in general any more than yours.—They have always a protector to fly to; who [83] upon that occaſion, if upon no other, will with o⯑pen arms receive them—for though every man may not love his wife, every man is certainly jea⯑lous of his honour; and the falſe notions of the world are, at preſent ſo conſtituted, that the fai⯑lure of a woman brings infamy upon her huſ⯑band; while in a much more pitiable caſe, it reſts ſolely upon the injured unfortunate.

HOWEVER, Fanny, I agree with you, this is too nice a ſubject for a female pen; though one is inſenſibly led into reflections that are humilia⯑ting to an honeſt mind. But when he who knew the frailty of our natures, adjudged the convict criminal, his ſentence was not ſevere; for well he knew it was impoſſible there could be found a wretch ſo loſt to humanity as to throw a ſtone.

LET not the young, the gay, the rich, the fortunate, whoſe ſituations in life have prevented their being liable to temptation, like an herd of deer, turn their armed brows againſt their wound⯑ed friend, and give her to the hunters!

MISS Withers and I were laſt night talking upon this ſubject, and ſhe repeated a little poem, that lord Digby, her ſiſter's lover, had ſhewn her. It was written upon a particular occaſion, at a water drinking place in Ireland called Mal⯑low, ſome years ago.—The unfortunate ſubject of it had been a much admired character in that place, a few ſeaſons before, and dignified by the title of Sappho.

THE lines are extremely pretty; turn over, and you will find them in the next page.

A TRUCE for the preſent with this, and every other ſubject, but the pleaſing thought of our meeting, which I hope will be on Tueſday evening next,

P.S. WE have got a furniſhed houſe, in St. James's-ſtreet; and I am ſtrongly tempted to bring my ſweet little Harry with me.—Cruel Fanny, never to mention my little cherub! but I'll be revenged, and love him better for it.

LETTER XXXI.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady LAWSON.

A THOUSAND thanks to my dear lady Lawſon, for the pleaſing account ſhe has given me, of herſelf, and my dear little boy. You will perhaps, think me ill natured, for re⯑joicing that you have no other companion at pre⯑ſent; but I am not ſo ſelfiſh as you imagine, up⯑on this occaſion; for I well know that the moſt agreeable company in the world could not abate your affectionate attention to him.

BUT there are certain ſituations in life, when our deareſt friends become irkſome to us from an apprehenſion that they may poſſibly diſcover what we wiſh to hide.—There needs no other illuſtra⯑tion of my opinion, than a fair confeſſion, that I have ſometimes, ſeen you under theſe very circumſtances, with your brother and myſelf—But I hope and believe you will never again ex⯑perience them. I may now ſpeak freely upon a ſubject, which though your virtue and goodneſs concealed, Sir William has thought proper to mention to my lord with every eulogium on your conduct, which, noble as has been, it could de⯑ſerve.

MISS Fanning ſet out for Yorkſhire this morning, truly ſenſible of your goodneſs, and [86] her own unworthineſs. Sir William ſays he is certain, that it is not in your nature to deteſt her as much as ſhe does herſelf. He told my lord that this affair was by no means ſo unfortu⯑nate an event, with regard to you two as it might at firſt have appeared to be; as your behaviour had not only made him eſteem and admire, but love you alſo, a thouſand degrees more than he ever had done before.

HE declared that he felt the impatience of a lover, to throw himſelf at your feet, and ſaid he never ſhould forgive himſelf for having ren⯑dered you unhappy by his infamous conduct. Joy, joy, to my dear ſiſter! will you forgive my ſaying, that I envy your ſituation?

I WOULD give you an account of lady Mount Willis's wedding, dreſs, equipage, &c. &c. did I not know that your full heart can have no room to entertain ſuch trifling ideas. But I am certain it will give you pleaſure to hear that lord Mount Willis is as amiable and accompliſh⯑ed as his charming bride, and that I think they have the faireſt proſpect of a long uninterrupted courſe of happineſs.

AS the houſe of lords are now ſitting, your brother purpoſes ſtaying in town, till March; but I may whiſper to you what I would not have him hear, that I cannot help regretting ſo long an abſence from Woodfort, from my child, and from yourſelf.

LADY Harriet, my ſiſter Straffon, and Fanny Weſton, preſent their more than compliments, and my lord joins in love and ſincere congratula⯑tions, with your

LETTER XXXII.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

IS it poſſible that my dear Seymour can be ſo totally abſorbed in his own felicity as to make him entirely forget his abſent, his unhappy friend? I have been above two months in London, with⯑out hearing from you! Miſs Straffon's marriage with lord Mount Willis brought lady Woodville and me to town.

I CONFESS I flattered myſelf that a change of objects and a ſcene of diſſipation, would have aſſiſted me, in conquering the gloomy diſeaſe that hangs upon my mind. Far from it, I think it has rather increaſed my malady, by laying me under greater reſtraints than I experienced at Woodfort; as all humours both of the mind and body, acquire additional force if they are denied a vent.

AS my ill fortune would have it, we are lodg⯑ed in the ſame houſe the marchioneſs lived in; and to add to my diſtreſs, there is a picture of hers, which was not finiſhed when ſhe went a⯑way, that is hung up in my dreſſing room. As lady Woodville was coming to ſpeak to me yeſ⯑terday morning, ſhe overheard me in earneſt diſ⯑courſe with the fair ſhadow; ſhe immediately retired, ſuppoſing there was ſome company with me.

WHEN we met at dinner, ſhe ſmiling aſked me who the lady was that came to viſit me, in the morning. I could not for ſome time, conceive the meaning of her queſtion; but when from the naiveté of her diſcourſe, I underſtood it, I was all confuſion, and your ſiſter lady Sandford, who was at table with us, gave me a look, that [88] perfectly convinced me ſhe was acquainted with my folly.

THE inhuman marchioneſs muſt have reveal⯑ed my weakneſs to her.—Seymour could not be⯑tray his friend! Yet may I not from hence de⯑duce a kind of tacit compliment to myſelf, by ſuppoſing ſhe muſt have been vain of her con⯑queſt, when ſhe proclaimed it? weak conſolati⯑on! like a drowning wretch, I catch at ruſhes!

WHY, why can I not tear her fatal image from my breaking heart! you have ſeen her, Seymour? It is a thouſand years ſince I beheld her—Have age and uglineſs yet overtaken her, or is ſhe lovely ſtill? Excuſe my raving—ſuch I know it will appear to you.

I KNOW not whether I told you that lady Woodville had preſented me with a ſon, before we left the country, and appears if poſſible, ſtill more amiable in the character of a mother, than before ſhe was one.—I rejoice to think that her being a parent has added to her happineſs, as well as her merit. Our virtue and our felicity are both increaſed, by the diffuſion of our affections.—What a wretch am I then, Seymour, who feel all mine concentered in one object, where they muſt reſt for ever?

This reflection on myſelf is too ſevere, nay moſt unjuſt! for I declare, that I am ſenſible of the utmoſt tenderneſs, for the lovely, the unof⯑fending lady Woodville and I would die rather than render her unhappy—At the ſame inſtant I adore the cruel, inſolent, ungrateful marchioneſs. What tortures muſt ariſe, from ſuch a ſtate of contradiction!

I AM truly impatient to know whether you have prevailed with your fair veſtal, to renounce her vows, and enter once again into this world of cares? Be aſſured I am ſincerely intereſted in [89] every thing that relates to you; and this, the moſt momentous point of your life, is of the utmoſt conſequence

LETTER XXXIII.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

YES, Woodville, I confeſs it, I have been abſorbed, entranced in the moſt delightful deluſion that ever lull'd the reſtleſs heart of man! I have paſſed three months in paradiſe! I thought not of the world, nor of its cares—I even grudged the hours that nature claimed for reſt, they robbed me of my Charlotte's tuneful voice, though her loved form oft viſited my ſlumbers.—But the gay viſion is now flown, and I indeed awake as from a dream!

YOU may ſuppoſe I reached Belleveue in as ſhort a ſpace of time as it was poſſible.—My Charlotte was prepared to meet me. At our firſt interview, through all the agonizing joy I felt, I perceived a ſteady calmneſs in her manner, that ſpoke the tender, the indulgent friend, not the fond miſtreſs: the gravity of her dreſs added dignity to her deportment, and awed even my tumultuous wiſhes into ſilence. I looked up to her, as to a ſuperior being; and felt myſelf grow little in her ſight. She took advantage of my firſt impreſſions, and ſpoke to me in the fol⯑lowing manner.

YOU ſee before you, ſir, the happieſt of her ſex, now firſt permitted to indulge thoſe fond ſenſations, which nature plants in every human [90] heart, filial, and ſiſterly affection.—I will con⯑feſs myſelf ſtill farther gratified by ſeeing you, the only object of a paſſion, which took its riſe in youth and innocence, but which has long ſince matured into the firmeſt friendſhip, and rendered you—pardon me, my father! the firſt, the conſtant object of my prayers.

BUT let not the fond wiſhes of a father, or your own deſires, tempt you to think that aught on earth can move me to exchange the ſtate of tranquil happineſs, I now enjoy for any other leſs pure, and more precarious. My vows were heard in heaven; they paſſed not forth from feigning or forced lips; for in the very moment I pronounced the words, my heart aſſented to the pious ſounds, nor would I then have chan⯑ged my ſituation, even to be lord Seymour's wife.

Nor do I now repent the choice I made, though fully ſatisfied both of your worth and love. Providence ſeemed to have planted inſu⯑perable bars between us, at the hour when I fixed my purpoſe to renounce the world; and my then torn heart found its ſole peace in my humble acquieſcence to his will.

NOW mark me, Henry, this is the laſt time that I ſhall ever ſpeak upon the ſubject, and it is in order to ſave your heart the pain of fruitleſs ſolicitation, that I explain my reſolution. Should his Holineſs be prevailed upon, by my father's entreaties, to grant me the indulgence he has requeſted, thus far I will, on my part comply with the general's deſire.—I will ſpend one, two or three months, with him in this houſe, whene⯑ver he ſhall command me; but my place of reſi⯑dence muſt be the convent.—There I have ſworn to live, and there I mean to die.

[91]THERE was ſomething ſo commanding and determined in Charlotte's voice and manner, even while ſhe denounced a ſentence ſo ſevere, that neither her brother who was preſent nor I, attempted once to interrupt her. When ſhe had finiſhed, I found my heart ſubdued, and ready to ſacrifice its very wiſh to whatever ſeemed moſt conducive to her happineſs. I was, alas! the fatal cauſe of the vows ſhe had made, how then ſhould I dare to ſolicit the breach of them!

TRUTH, Woodville, flaſhes conviction, even upon our paſſions, as ſwift as light obtrudes upon the eyes. I inſtantly felt the delicate im⯑poſſibility of her being happy in the world, and as quickly reſolved never to importune her to be wretched. It was not however without the ſin⯑cereſt regret, that I beheld my moſt ſanguine hopes of happineſs vaniſh once more into air.

SHE received my acquieſcence with her deter⯑mination, as the higheſt mark of my affection, and told me that ſhe now conſidered me in a light, where the tendereſt regard for my welfare was compatible with her duty; and that hence⯑forward ſhe could know no difference in her affection for captain Beaumont and lord Sey⯑mour.

FROM that time, Woodville, our days have been ſpent in the moſt delightful intercourſe, and have ſtolen away almoſt unperceived by me. Charlotte's voice, which was ever charming, is now ſo highly improved, that no melody on earth can equal it. The good old general, who abſolutely adores her, is frequently melted into tears while ſhe ſings; and upon all occaſions gazes on her with a look of repentant ſorrow and delight, as if conſcious of the injury he has done to the world, by robbing it of ſuch an or⯑nament; [92] while her charming countenance is lighted up with the animated looks of filial love.

SHE has prevailed on the general, to be reconciled to his youngeſt daughter and her huſband. He has obtained the young man's releaſe, and is to purchaſe him a commiſſion immediately As ſoon as that can be effected they will come here, and Charlotte will again retire into the convent, how do I dread the fatal hour of ſeparation! and bluſh to think that even Charlotte's mind ſhould be ſo far ſuperior to my own!

WITHIN theſe few days ſhe has frequently mentioned her going to Paris, with a look and manner almoſt expreſſive of impatience, yet chaſtened by the pain ſhe ſees it gives her father, brother and the unhappy Seymour. Muſt ſhe agaid be torn from my fond eyes! Have I not ſacrificed my wiſhes to her will, and will ſhe rob me of the laſt ſole delight of ſometimes gazing on her?

HER brother tried to prevail on her to let me viſit her at the convent, but ſhe peremptorily refuſed; nor will ſhe even conſent to ſee him, except on particular buſineſs. Her father is the only perſon ſhe will admit within thoſe walls.—This is a ſelf-impoſed reſtraint, for the abbeſs is perfectly inclined to grant her every indulgence ſhe can aſk.

I KNOW nothing of the marchioneſs, Rans⯑ford, nor any other perſon at Paris. I ſhall certainly accompany Charlotte thither; and when there, ſhall acquaint you with every thing I hear about them. I am truly concerned that your inſatuation for that worthleſs woman ſhould ſtill continue—O Woodville! had you loſt ſuch a treaſure as I have, and by your own fault too, what would your ſituation have been! I [93] will think of my miſeries no more—but en⯑deavour to enjoy the ſmall portion of happineſs that yet remains for me.

I CONGRATULATE you on being a father—may that tender tie awaken every pleaſimg ſenſation in your mind, and reſtore your heart to the amiable lady Woodville, who only can deſerve it!

Direct your next to the hotel de —, at Paris; and till I arrive there

LETTER XXXIV.
Lord WOODVILLE to Lord SEYMOUR.

ONCE more returned to Woodfort's peaceful ſhades, eſcaped from crouds and noiſe, to gentle converſe, and the ſweet muſic of my vo⯑cal woods; yet can I not enjoy the pleaſing ſcene I have ſo much longed for—the cauſe of my coming hither embitters the ſatisfaction I hoped to find in being here. My Emily is in a bad ſtate of health, occaſioned as her phyſicians think, by the foggy air and hurry of London.

BUT, O Seymour! to you I will confeſs the ſecret woundings of my troubled ſoul. I fear that ſorrow preys upon her tender heart; for from the time of our being at York, I have fre⯑quently imagined her mind was diſtreſſed; but whenever ſhe ſeemed to perceive that idea riſing in my thought, ſhe has inſtantly baniſhed it, by aſſuming an air of chearfulneſs and vivacity; and the tranſition was made with ſuch amazing eaſe, [94] that I thought it impoſſible ſhe ſhould be inſin⯑cere, and that the gloomy medium of my own reflections, and not hers, had tinctured her appearance with an air of ſorrow. Can it be poſ⯑ſible, Seymour, that a creature ſo young and innocent as lady Woodville, can be capable of diſguiſing her ſentiments, and hiding her grief in ſmiles!

I BEGIN to fear that women are our ſuperiors in every thing. If ſhe has perceived my paſſion for the marchioneſs, and concealed the anguiſh which ſuch a diſcovery muſt occaſion to a heart like hers, for well I know ſhe fondly loves me, the ſtory of the Spartan boy would no longer be repeated; but lady Woodville be henceforth con⯑ſidered as the firſt example of human fortitude—In what a light then muſt her lord appear! I can⯑not bear the thought.

WHEN the phyſicians firſt attended her, they adviſed her ſetting out immediately for the ſouth of France, but ſhe refuſed to go, with a more determined air and manner, than I had ever ſeen her aſſume before. I imagined her diſlike aroſe from the thought of being ſeparated from her ſon, and immediately aſſured her that he ſhould go with us. She thanked me for my condeſcenſion, but ſaid it had only removed one of her objec⯑tions, and that not the ſtrongeſt

THEN, with a tear juſt ſtarting from her eye, ſhe intreated that I would not preſs her farther. I kiſſed away the pearly fugitive, as it ſtole down her cheeks, which was inſtantly lighted up, by the ſoft glow of joy and modeſty.—She told me, then, ſhe wiſhed to return to Woodfort, and, if I pleaſed, ſhe would go to Briſtol when the ſea⯑ſon came on.

I ACQUIESCED in every thing ſhe deſired; and would at that inſtant, as I would at this, [95] have laid down my life to procure her health and happineſs. We ſet out immediately for this place.—For the firſt three or four days I thought her better; ſince that I too plainly perceive that ſhe declines.

IF ſhe ſhould die, Seymour, I ſhall conſider myſelf as her murderer. Surely you would then allow me the painful pre-eminence of wretched⯑neſs, and acknowledge your ſituation, when com⯑pared to mine, to be like beds of roſes to the rack. O no! it muſt not be—ſhe ſhall not die.

I NEVER was ſo impatient for any aera, as for the month of June.—I have great hopes from the Hot-wells, my Emily's youth, and naturally good conſtitution.

I HAD not the leaſt expectation that your Charlotte would have been prevailed on to quit the convent; indeed I ſcarcely hoped that ſhe would have condeſcended as far as ſhe has done, by conſenting to ſpend a portion of every year at Belleveue. Happy Seymour! to have ſuch a ſubject for expectation before you—It is ſurely one of the higheſt degrees of human felicity to look forward with hope.

YOU will pardon me if I think there is ſome faint trait of the coquette in her refuſing to ſee you at the convent. She certainly wiſhes to keep your flame alive; and as ſhe does not mean to feed it with any thing more ſubſtantial than her converſation, ſhe wiſely thinks, that that, like all oth [...]r enjoyments, might poſſibly pall upon the taſte if too often repeated.

SHE has therefore enjoined you a long faſt, in order to heighten your reliſh for the ‘"feaſt of reaſon."’ You, I dare ſay, as a ſtill paſſionate lover, may probably think this little ruſe d'amour unneceſſary; but I am firmly perſuaded, that [96] abſtinence will enhance the value of our mental, as well as corporeal pleaſures.

A SERVANT has juſt informed me that lady Woodville is ready to ride out.—I attend her on horſeback every day.

P.S. I hope this will be a letter of credit for me in your books, as I have not once drawn up⯑on your patience, by mentioning the marchioneſs.—Be generous then, my dear Seymour, and re⯑ward my ſelf-denying virtue.

LETTER XXXV.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

I HAVE made an exchange directly oppoſite to yours, having juſt quitted the ſweet ſcenes of Belleveue and my Charlotte's delightful con⯑verſe for the irkſome crouds and noiſe of this great city.

THE young muſqueteer and his lady arrived at general Beaumont's, about a fortnight ago. Charlotte had fixed the time of her return to the convent, for the tenth day after they came, but her ſiſter, madame de Carignon, being taken violently ill, made her poſtpone her journey, and made me haſten mine.

FROM the time that Maria complained, Char⯑lotte never quitted her apartment.—Belleveue be⯑came a deſert to me, and I fancied I ſhould feel leſs regret, at being ſeparated from her by diſ⯑tance than accident.—But the effects are the ſame, [97] be the cauſe what it may; for there is no place or ſituation that can afford me happineſs in her abſence.

YOU treat Charlotte very ſeverely, nay un⯑juſtly, by charging the higheſt proof of her deli⯑cate affection to the account of coquetry. She is too ſenſible not to perceive that my paſſion for her renders me unhappy, and ſhe, though vainly, flatters herſelf, that time and abſence may effect a cure.

THIS ſhe in confidence declared to captain Beaumont, when preſſed by him to receive my viſits.—Alas! ſhe little knows I would not change my malady for health; and yet I will conform to her preſcription, and drink the bitter draught without a murmur. O Woodville! when we truly love, it is our higheſt tranſport to obey!

I AM truly concerned for the account you give of lady Woodville, but find a ſecret conſolation for her ſufferings in your ſenſibility; as I am al⯑moſt certain that your tenderneſs properly exerted towards her, will reſtore both her health and happineſs.—I dare not truſt myſelf with a doubt of your conduct upon this occaſion.

I THINK nothing can be plainer than her knowledge of your attachment to the marchioneſs.—Her poſitive refuſal of going to France marks it too ſtrongly. Woodville, I fear—but I will not reproach you—your own generous heart muſt ſting you too ſeverely.

I HAVE this moment received a letter from captain Beaumont.—Madame de Garignon's diſ⯑order appears to be the ſmall pox; and as ſhe is pretty far advanced in her pregnancy, they think her life in danger. What has been gained by making her fly from that diſeaſe a few months ago!

[98]BUT I have not time now to moralize. I ſhall ſend off a phyſician immediately, and ſhall follow him myſelf in a few hours; my Charlotte muſt want conſolation, and is at the ſame time, the only perſon capable of adminiſtering it to her unhappy father.

P.S. I ſhould give you credit for not mention⯑ing the marchioneſs in your letter, If I had not heard that ladies and lovers generally poſtponed their moſt material buſineſs to their poſtſcripts. Be that as it may, I can only tell you, the mar⯑chioneſs and her Caro Spoſo are in this town; but where I know not. Captain Barnard and lady Ransford are alſo here.

LETTER XXXVI.
Lord WOODVILLE to Lord SEYMOUR.

LADY Woodville is much better—Sir John and lady Straffon, lord and lady Mount Willis, have been here this fortnight.—The po⯑lite chearfulneſs of their ſociety, has I believe been of infinite ſervice to Emily; but I ſtill flat⯑ter myſelf that my attention and tenderneſs have contributed more to her recovery than any thing elſe.

I HAVE now the real happineſs to think, that every apprehenſion of her mind is entirely re⯑moved; I can therefore, ſcarcely doubt but that health and peace will return together; for I am [99] but too clearly convinced, that the privation of the latter, occaſioned the loſs of the former.

THERE certainly never was a more amiable creature than lady Woodville—ſo unaſſuming in her manners, ſo fearful of giving pain, that ſhe would if poſſible, conceal her complaints, even from her domeſtics who all adore her.

IS it not amazing, Seymour, that perfectly ſenſible as I am, of her uncommon merits, there ſhould be found a being upon earth, who holds a higher place in my affection? How falſely do they flatter our underſtanding, who ſay that eſteem is the baſis of love! if that were true, I ſhould be the happieſt of men, ſhould think no more of the ungrateful Iſabella, ſhould no long⯑er feel the reproaches of a wayward heart, which would then be entirely devoted to the charming Emily.

BUT though I may never be able, entirely to eradicate this fatal diſeaſe from my mind, I have great pleaſure in perceiving, that the conſtant ex⯑ertion of my tenderneſs towards Emily, is atten⯑ded with the ſincereſt delight to myſelf; as it fulfils a duty and flatters my humanity with the idea of conferring happineſs upon an amiable and deſerving object.

THE practice of any virtue is not ſo difficult as we are apt to imagine.—There requires nothing more than reſolution to commence.—Habit will ſoon make it eaſy, if not pleaſant, to us.—Yet ſtill muſt I envy thoſe, who have no need to ſtruggle; and when I behold the ingenuous fond⯑neſs of lord Mount Willis and Sir John Straffon, to their wives, I curſe my fate, and deſpiſe my own weakneſs, for having reduced me to the contemptible neceſſity of ſeigning what they are happy enough to feel.

[100]WE are to return the viſits of our preſent gueſts in our way to Briſtol.—Lord Mount Willis has a very fine ſeat in Somerſetſhire.—He is a very agreeable accompliſhed man. His wife before her marriage, loved Sir James Mil⯑ler—paſſionately loved him—and yet ſhe has withdrawn her ill-placed fondneſs and doats upon her lord. Shall I be weaker, weaker than a pu⯑ny girl? and ſhall the voice of reaſon always plead in vain?—I dare not reply to theſe mortify⯑ing queries.

I MOST ſincerely pity the unhappy general de Beaumont; his misfortunes have been multi⯑plied on him, at a time when he is leaſt able to encounter them. There is a ſpring in youth, which makes us capable of reſiſting almoſt any preſſure; but when a body, which has been nurſed in the ſoft lap of proſperity becomes en⯑feebled by years, the mind alſo partakes of its enervation; and we have ſtill leſs reaſon to ex⯑pect a vigorous exertion of the mental powers, than of muſcular ſtrength at threeſcore.

THE wiſdom therefore, that is in general at⯑tributed to age, ariſes more from a privation of paſſion, than from experience or any other cauſe. As the nerves grow rigid, the heart is inſenſibly rendered callous. The exquiſite ſenſations both of pain and pleaſure, after a certain time of life are imperceptibly blunted, by each returning day; and we at laſt become ſolely indebted to memory for informing us, that we were ever capable of feeling the extremes of joy or ſorrow.

THE only paſſion, which nature ſeems to de⯑ſign ſhould remain in its full force in our decli⯑ning age, is paternal affection; and as the others ſubſide, I ſhould imagine that gains ſtrength—there is a mixture too of ſelf-love in it, which general⯑ly makes its exiſtence equal with our own. The [101] objects of this affection are gradually maturing, under our foſtering care; each day they make ſome advances towards our idea of perfections, a likeneſs to ourſelves; with anxious hopes we watch the tender buds look with delight upon the opening bloſſom, and gaze enraptured on the blooming fruit—It is our own, we planted, and we reared it! In this moſt tender point, then the poor old general is now vounded; his armour and his breaſt plate thrown aſide, the barbed ar⯑row ſinks into his heart.

SHOULD madame de Carignon die, which I hope ſhe will not, there are abundance of good chriſtians, who would immediately conclude her death to be a judgment on him, for his inhuman treatment of Charlotte. But I, who confeſs my⯑ſelf a ſinner, have not a doubt of his having al⯑ready atoned his paſſive guilt, towards her by his contrition.—You are the ſingle perſon, who ap⯑pear to be injured by it,—for I am fully ſatisfied, that Charlotte is no longer unhappy.

I HAVE philoſophized and moralized upon this ſubject, to the extent of my time and paper, perhaps to prevent my entering again upon ano⯑ther on which I am neither philoſopher, nor moraliſt.—I ſhall therefore, fly from it by bid⯑ding you,

LETTER XXXVII.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

MADAME de Carignon is recovered, if it can be called a recovery, for a fine young woman to ſurvive her beauty.—That is indeed, abſolutely deſtroyed; but as her huſ⯑band's fondneſs ſeems unabated by the loſs, her homelineſs may poſſibly become an advantage, rather than a misfortune.—Eew, very few wo⯑men, or men either have ſtrength of mind ſuffi⯑cient to bear univerſal admiration; and when that is derived from beauty alone, there is ſcarce a young perſon who thinks it necceſſary to attain any other qualification or accompliſhment, that does not tend to the embelliſhment of their charms.

I HAVE obſerved through life, that we ſeldom meet with an agreeable man or woman, who have been remarkably handſome. But perhaps, this may be philoſophically accounted for.—As Providence acts by the ſimpleſt means, and beau⯑ty is alone ſufficient to procure the love and ad⯑miration of mankind, great qualities would be unneceſſary to the purpoſe, and perhaps bar the original deſign; for we ſhould be more apt to fear than love a human being, that we conſidered as abſolutely perfect.

I THEREFORE think with Milton, that where there ‘'is beſtowed too much of ornament, in outward ſhew elaborate, the inward's leſs exact;'’ which may be a kind of conſolation to thoſe, whom nature has dealt her perſonal fa⯑vours to, with a ſcanty hand.

[103]IN the country where I am at preſent, neither youth or beauty are of much value. The grand⯑mother and grand daughter are pretty much up⯑on the ſame footing.—What little difference there may be is generally in the dowager's favour; as ſhe may probably be poſſeſſed of more know⯑ledge and experience and a better fortune.—No woman is ever young or old at Paris; for the ſame paint that fills up the furrows of the aged cheek, hides the ſoft down upon the youthful one.

YOU ſee that a word to the wiſe is enough, and that I have followed your plan of philoſo⯑phizing, upon different ſubjects, to avoid re⯑curring to painful ones.—I muſt however ac⯑quaint you, that I am to attend Charlotte to Paris, in three days. She has inſiſted on my re⯑turning to England, as ſoon as ſhe enters the cloiſter; and I have conſented, on her promiſing to meet me here next ſpring, provided the gene⯑ral be then living.

THE poor old man has inſiſted on captain Beaumont's quitting the army, and taking poſ⯑ſeſſion of his fortune, except a ſmall annuity, which he reſerves for charitable uſes. He has behaved nobly to monſieur and madame de Ca⯑rignon, and preſented twenty thouſand crowns to the convent of St. Anthony, as a reward for their kindneſſes to his beloved Charlotte. You would pitty him ſincerely, if you were to behold his diſtreſs at the idea of parting with his favou⯑rite child; but ‘" What are, alas! his woes compared to mine!"’

[104]ADIEU, my friend; if I were capable of joy, I ſhould feel it for lady Woodville's recovery, I ſhall write to you from Paris; and am

LETTER XXXVIII.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

I HAVE once more bid adieu to my dear Charlotte.—But painful as the hour of ſepara⯑tion was, the recollection of what I had former⯑ly endured, from her entrance into the convent, with the fond hope of our re-meeting in a few months, have abated its anguiſh; and ſome very extraordinary accidents, which have happened within theſe few hours, have taken up my whole attention, and carried me, as it were, out of my⯑ſelf.

THE count de Clerembaut, for whom you know I have a ſincere frindſhip, came to ſee me yeſterday morning.—He told me he was juſt come from the tenis-court, where there had been a very warm brouiderie between two Engliſh gentlemen. One of their names, he ſaid, was Ransford, who quitted the field to his antagoniſt, but with a look and manner, that ſeemed to ſay, he was determined to meet him elſewhere.

I WAS alarmed at this account, and immediate⯑ly ordered my chariot, and drove to the marchi⯑oneſs's. Ransford was not at home—I came back to my hotel, and wrote to him; expatiated on the ill conſequences of fighting a duel in Pa⯑ris; begged him to defer his reſentments, till his [105] opponent, whom I underſtood to be an Engliſh⯑man, and he ſhould meet in their own country; but if he ſhould be circumſtanced, as to be under a neceſſity of rejecting my advice, I hoped he would at leaſt accept of my ſervice to attend him to the field, or command me in whatever way he thought proper.

IN about three hours I received the following anſwer.

I INSTANTLY ran, or rather flew to the mar⯑chioneſs, whom I found waiting dinner for Mr. Ransford—She ſeemed ſurprized at my entrance, as ſhe had heard that I had been there in the morning.—The anxiety of my countenance be⯑came contagious; and ſhe enquired with the greateſt earneſtneſs, if I knew any thing about Mr. Ransford? before I could reframe a reply, the lieutenant de Police was on the ſtairs, and I [106] ruſhed out of the room to prevent his coming into it. He paſſed me by and entered.—She did not appear to be alarmed.

IT ſeems there is a law-ſuit between her and her late huſband's heir, for part of her jointure; and ſhe, I ſuppoſe, concluded that he came to execute ſome order of court relative to that affair. But long before he could fully explain the real motives of his coming, ſhe ceaſed to hear, and had ſunk motionleſs upon the ſofa where ſhe ſat.

THE lieutenant and his myrmidons took poſ⯑ſeſſion of every thing au nom du roi, and aſſured us that diligent ſearch would be made for the murderer. I intreated him to leave the unhappy lady's apartment to herſelf, and that I would be anſwerable for every thing in it. He retired with infinite politeneſs, which is the beſt ſubſti⯑tute to humanity: and in this country, which abounds with ſhew and deluſion, is frequently miſ⯑taken for it.

AS the marchioneſs is five months gone with child, it was thought proper to have her blooded.—Every poſſible care has been and ſhall be taken of her. She is diſtreſſingly grateful for my ſmall attentions towards her. But a mind ſub⯑dued by affliction is apt to over-rate every little mark of kindneſs.

THIS unhappy affair will detain me here for ſome time longer.—I will not quit the poſt of guardian to the afflicted fair, till I reſign her into Ransford's hands. You ſhall daily hear from me.

LETTER XXXIX.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

YESTERDAY paſſed away in forming me⯑lancholy conjectures on the recent cauſe of quarrel between captain Barnard and Mr. Ranſ⯑ford; in intermediate ideas, whither he would bend his courſe, and in liſtening to various re⯑ports which were variouſly repeated by the friends, acquaintance, and ſervants of the un⯑happy combatants.

WE had however the ſatisfaction to diſcover, that Ransford had made ſome proviſion for his eſcape, as he had converted above three hundred pounds into poſt bills the morning of the duel, and had ordered a Swiſs ſervant who has lived with him for five years, and is remarkably at⯑tached to him, to attend at a particular place with a couple of the fleeteſt horſes he could hire, or purchaſe. From hence I conclude he will travel to Switzerland, and take up his abode at Berne, till he can return with honour and ſafety into England.

YOU will perhaps ſay why at that particular place more than any other? I grant the idea is formed upon a vague conjecture; but Andre was born at Berne, and the Swiſs are of all nations, the Scotch not excepted, the moſt ſmitten with the love of their country. Ransford's mind muſt be unhinged by this ſad accident, torn from its props, and ready to recline itſelf on the firſt friendly ſtay that will ſupport it. The ho⯑neſt Swiſs looks back with tranſport on thoſe barren hills where firſt his mind found joy, his body ſtrength; and leads his maſter there to [108] ſhare the gifts which he received from nature, and the ſoil. I ſay he will not ſtop till he arrives at Berne.

THE marchioneſs does not agree with my opi⯑nion; ſhe thinks Bruſſels, Holland, Italy, nay England, more agreeable. That is, ſhe could like to ſix her reſidence, in any of thoſe places, rather than at Berne.—They are all equal to me, except England, where I am pretty ſure he will not go.

THERE were too ſealed letters found in cap⯑tain Barnard's pocket, the one addreſſed to lady Ransford, the other to the man who killed him. I will wait upon her ladyſhip to morrow to obtain the latter; it muſt certainly throw ſome extra⯑ordinary light upon the affair.

I HAD written ſo far when I received a ſum⯑mons from the marchioneſs to attend inſtantly. A thouſand apprehenſions crouded on my mind; I feared Ransford might not have eſcaped, and I knew the vindictive ſpirit of his ſtep mother too well to hope that ſhe would not proſecute. I found the marchioneſs in a ſtate little ſhort of madneſs—her expreſſions were ſuch as made me rather fear than feel—her eyes darted fire, and ſhe traverſed the circumference of her dreſſing room, with the air and pace of diſtraction: ſhe ſeemed to be unſexed.

WHERE is he, madam? ſaid I. Let me fly to him and try what gold can do, to purchaſe his enlargemant. This muſt be our only reſource; let them take it all, ſaid ſhe, but let me go—a lettre de cachet! no monarch, nor no miniſter dare ſign it—I will fly to Verſailles—it is already granted, and you ſee me a priſoner at this mo⯑ment—dare you reſcue me?

AMAZEMENT took away the power of ſpeech: I did not underſtand her, it was impoſſible I [109] ſhould.—At that inſtant, a perſon of a very gen⯑tleman like and engaging appearance, entered the chamber.—He ſeemed to be aſtoniſhed at her beauty, and perturbation, and gazed, for an in⯑ſtant, firſt at her, and then at me—at laſt ſeem⯑ing to recollect himſelf, he addreſſed me in thd following words.

I AM ſorry your indiſcretion has permitted our meeting, Sir—It is true I have received no par⯑ticular information againſt you; you are, there⯑fore, at liberty to depart; which I beg you will do inſtantly, as you cannot be ſafe in this houſe a ſingle moment.

I IMMEDIATELY perceived he had miſtaken me for Mr. Ransford, and readily accepting all the good will he had ſhewn to my friend's un⯑happy ſituation, returned him thanks for his in⯑tended humanity, and aſſured him of my grati⯑tude, for a favour, which I did not ſtand in need of. He bluſhed at his miſtake, and ſaid that he had been twelve years in office, and had never exceeded his commiſſion, but in that way. Strange, that a man ſhould bluſh, that had been twelve years in ſuch an office?

HE then explained his buſineſs.—He had a lettre de cachet againſt madame, which the mar⯑quiſs de St. Aumont, her huſband's nephew, had obtained, to prevent her quitting the kingdom, till the ſuit between them ſhould be determined.

HER rage is not to be deſcribed; ſhe accuſed the laws of injuſtice, and its officers of inſolence, and cruelty. Aſked to what priſon a peereſs ſhould be led, and whether ſhe was to be hand⯑cuffed like a malefactor? to all this intemperate language, the officer replied with great calmneſs, that her ladyſhip might put an end to her diſtreſs, by giving ſecurity to the court for her ſtay in Paris. She told him ſhe would not ſtay for all [110] the courts in Europe. He then ſaid ſomething in a low voice, about her being confined.

SHE had ſent for her lawyer, who arrived cri⯑tically, and prevailed on her, at laſt, to paſs her word jointly with us, that ſhe would not quit Paris, without leave of the court, which he ſaid he would apply for the next day.

THE agitation of her ſpirits now ſubſiding, ſhe fell into violent paſſions of tears; bewailed her fate, and ſaid ſhe was the moſt wretched of human beings. I fear ſhe has more reaſon to think ſo than ſhe is yet acquainted with. For after ſhe withdrew to her chamber, her lawyer, at my requeſt, explained the nature of the pro⯑ceſs againſt her, and aſſured me that the late marquiſs de St. Aumont, had no power over thoſe lands, which he ſettled on her for a jointure; that he was, therefore, very glad to find ſhe was married to an Engliſh gentleman of fortune, as he had great reaſon to believe the cauſe would go againſt her.—That he feared ſhe was ex⯑tremely in debt, and that all her perſonalities were already forfeited to the crown, as being the ſuppoſed property of Mr. Ransford. What a ſcene of diſtreſs, Woodville! and what will be⯑come of this unhappy pair?

BEFORE I left the houſe, the marchioneſs ſent for her lawyer into her chamber.—I took that opportunity of retiring to write to you, and ſhall now cloſe this melancholy narrative with wiſhing you good night.

LETTER XL.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

BOTH my mind and my body are ſo extremely harraſſed, that I am ſcarce able to give you [111] an account of the diſtreſſes in which I am in⯑volved.

JUST as I had ſealed my laſt letter to you, I received a billet from captain Beaumont, to in⯑form me, that the general and he were that mo⯑ment arrived in Paris, and that their coming was occaſioned by a very alarming account they had received of my ever-dear Charlotte's being ex⯑tremely indiſpoſed.

I FLEW directly to the general's houſe, and found the poor old man ſinking under the double weight of years and ſorrow. He ſhewed me the abbeſs's letter to him, which ſaid, ‘"that from the time of Charlotte's return into the convent, a fever had preyed upon her ſpirits; that ſhe had concealed her illneſs for ſeveral days, and even made light of it when it was too viſible; that ſhe was now reduced to ſuch a ſtate of weakneſs, that the phyſicians had declared me⯑dicine could be of no uſe to her, and that an immediate change of air was the only chance ſhe had for life."’

NO words can expreſs what I felt on reading this ſad letter; yet will I candidly confeſs, that her father's anguiſh ſeemed to ſurpaſs even mine. He called himſelf her murderer! and ſaid if ſhe ſhould die, he never could have hopes of mercy or ſalvation.—Alas! am I not guilty as himſelf! My fatal raſhneſs made her take thoſe vows, which her fond love for me, in any other caſe, would have rejected

THE general determined to remove Charlotte out of the convent the next day, and convey her as far out of Paris as her ſtrength would permit. He intreated me to accompany them, in their melancholy and ſlow progreſs to Belleveüe. Judge of my diſtreſs, at being obliged to refuſe! But my honour was paſſed to a wretch who has none— [112] the marchioneſs—Captain Beaumont promiſed to bring me a faithful account of his ſiſter's ſitua⯑tion in the morning, and I retired home—not to reſt.

CAPTAIN Beaumont was punctual to his word; he came to me before eight o'clock, and told me that his father and he had ſeen Charlotte, and found her in a very weak ſtate; that ſhe had conſented to ſet out with them for Belleveüe, but that he did not believe they ſhould be able to carry her farther than three or four leagues that day, and intreated me to go with them. I readily con⯑ſented, and determined that I would return to Paris that night, as ſoon as ever Charlotte ſhould retire to bed.

THE captain and I agreed to meet, at the ge⯑neral's houſe, at eleven o'clock, to follow our fair fugitive, who was to ſet out with her father from the convent. He told me that Charlotte had made a thouſand tender inquiries, about my health; that ſhe rejoiced at my being ſtill in Paris, and ſeemed delighted at the thought of ſeeing me that day. I needed not theſe new proofs of her regard to increaſe my ardour for her; my ſoul was on the wing to meet her, yet ſtill the claims of friendſhip were not un⯑heard.

I RESOLVED to go immediately to lady Ranf⯑ford, for the letter that was addreſſed to her ſtep-ſon, and found in Barnard's pocket. Then to wait on the marchioneſs, and make my ex⯑cuſe for abſenting myſelf from her the remain⯑der of that day: but though ſhe had left Paris, it was fated, that I ſhould not quit it for ſome time.

AS I was coming out of my apartment, I was met by the lieutenant de police, who arreſted me as an accomplice with the marchioneſs, in having [113] defrauded his majeſty, by conveying away her moſt valuable effects, which were confiſcated to his uſe, and having fled herſelf, though under an arret.—Never was aſtoniſhment greater than mine.

IN vain I pleaded ignorance of the fact, or the innocence of my intentions, or offered to give ample ſecurity for thoſe effects, which had been ſecreted by that mean, that worthleſs wo⯑man! The officer told me he was not quite ſuch an idiot, as the perſon who had taken my word before, and that no argument I could urge, would have the leaſt weight with him.

AS the laſt and moſt prevailing rhetoric I of⯑fered him my purſe, if he would go with me to general Beaumont's, and take his bail for my ap⯑pearance the next day; but he withſtood my gold, and even refuſed to let me return into my apart⯑ment, to write an apology for not attending my beloved Charlotte.

THIS was the firſt time, I had ever felt ‘"the inſolence of office."’—I ſubmitted to it, though reluctantly, and was immediately con⯑veyed to the Chatelet.—I ſent off a ſervant to captain Beaumont, to deſire him to come to me; but as ſoon as I was lodged in priſon, I was informed that no perſon would be admitted to ſee me, as they conſidered me as a delinquent of ſtate.

I THEN demanded to be confronted with my accuſers, and brought before a judge. They ſmiled at my ignorance, and told me, that as I was not in England I muſt ſubmit to their laws, which were not quite ſo expeditious as ours, and that patience would be my beſt reſource for the preſent.

THOUGH my temper is naturally gentle, and my paſſions have been long ſubdued by affliction, [114] it was with difficulty I could command my rage—yet on whom ſhould I vent it? on wretches brazed by cuſtom to the wild ravings of reſent⯑ment, or the ſoft plaints of ſorrow!

AS ſoon as I was capable of reaſoning with myſelf, I conſidered that a conſciouſneſs of my own integrity ought to ſupport me under the diſagreeable circumſtances I was involved in by another's fault; and am certain it would have done ſo, had I not been diſappointed of the painful pleaſure of ſeeing the lovely, languid Charlotte! I lamented the uneaſineſs which ſhe muſt feel from hearing of my confinement, un⯑knowing of the cauſe; and the apprehenſion of her thinking me guilty of ſome criminal action, and her ſuffering from that thought, almoſt diſ⯑tracted me. I curſed the marchioneſs a thouſand times.—Yes, Woodville, from my heart I curſed her. Bane of your happineſs! diſturber now of mine!

WHEN I grew a little calm, I deſired to ſee the keeper of the priſon, as I wanted to know whither I was at liberty to write to the Engliſh ambaſſador, who I knew was then at Verſailles and to the reſt of my friends. The governor du Chatelet, was immediately announced, and on his entering, my eye was ſtruck with the moſt graceful figuere and engaging countenance, I had ever ſeen. He ſeemed to be turned of fifty, but had ſuch a ſoftneſs of features and complexion, as is rarely to be met with but in extreme youth. His appearance filled me with ſurprize; I was amazed that ſuch a man ſhould be capable of ſuch an office, which I ſuppoſed could not only be ſuited to the moſt inſenſible or brutal natures.

HIS converſation was as pleaſing as his per⯑ſon; he readily aſſented to my requeſt, and ſaid he would take care that my letters ſhould be de⯑livered. [115] He then gave orders that my own ſer⯑vants ſhould be permitted to attend me, and that any perſon whom I deſired to ſee, ſhould be im⯑mediately admitted. I thanked him for his hu⯑manity, in removing every unneceſſary reſtraint, and aſſured him I ſhould make no other uſe of his indulgence, than that of endeavouing to procure my liberty, by the moſt legal means.

HE encreaſed my aſtoniſhment, by replying to me, in Engliſh, that he could not have any doubts of lord Seymour's honour; and that he hoped I would do him and his family the favour to dine with them, and allow them as much of my company as was convenient to me, while I remained in the Chatelet.

MY curioſity to know ſomething more of his family, made me accept his invitation; though heaven knows how little inclined to mix with ſtrangers, or enter into any plan of diſſipation. I have written to the ambaſſader and to my dear Charlotte. By removing her anxiety I have leſſened my own.

I AM not apprehenſive that my confinement can laſt many hours; I will therefore endeavour to keep up my ſpirits, with the fond hopes of flying to my Charlotte, the moment I am re⯑leaſed. In the mean time, I attend the gover⯑nor's ſummons to dinner, and for the preſent bid my dear Woodville

P.S. What is the reaſon that I do not hear from you? whilſt at libetty, I regretted, but in my confinement ſhall lament your ſilence. My affectionate compliments to lady Woodville.

LETTER XLI.
Lady STRAFFON to Lady WOODVILLE.

AND without that charming companion, I think I ſhould not now ſurvive to tell my dear Woodville, that I am juſt releaſed from a confinement of fifteen tedious days. But let me be methodical in my relation.—No, it is im⯑poſſible! my chariot waits to carry me to Bel⯑levüe, to my adored Charlotte! Se is better. I am happy, and moſt ſincerely Your's

LETTER XLII.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

CHARLOTTE recovers daily; my fears for her precious life are abated. Your ſi⯑lence now alarms me.—Why, muſt I never be free from apprehenſions, for thoſe I truly love? But I will, for the preſent, indulge your impa⯑tience, and reſtrain my own.

ON the firſt day of my confinement, I was ſhewn into the governor's apartment, which was elegantly furniſhed, and received by him and his lady, with the utmoſt politeneſs. She was ſurrounded by five beautiful children the eldeſt a girl about ſixteen. I will confeſs it, Wood⯑ville! my eyes were inſenſibly rivetted to this young creature's lovely form; and for the firſt [117] time of my life, my heart received a delight, from gazing on the charms of another woman, beſides Charlotte!

I DID not long indulge the dangerous plea⯑ſure, without calling the wanderer to account, and ſoon perceived that the fair Maria's chief attraction was owing to her remarkable likeneſs to my Charlotte. This obſervation quieted my ſcruples and left me the innocent ſatisfaction of admiring her beauty, with a brother's eye. Yet ſtill my curioſity was increaſed by the reſem⯑blance; and as ſoon as I was left alone with the governor, I took the liberty of aſking him if he was related to general Beaumont?

HE anſwered no; but ſaid his wife was ſiſter to the late madame de Beaumont, though much unlike her both in mind and perſon; that he could well allow madame D'Angueville inferior in reſpect of beauty, but that her underſtanding and heart were fraught with every charm and virtue, that could adorn a woman.

I ASKED him had he never ſeen his niece Charlotte Beaumont? he anſwered with an ho⯑neſt warmth, yes, Sir, when it was too late to make her happy, or reward your merit—would to heaven I had known her ſooner! I bowed and thanked him, even for fruitleſs wiſhes, and for a time forgot my being a priſoner, from the delight I felt at being with one who knew and loved my Charlotte.

WE became totally unreſerved; and the go⯑vernor informed me, that he was of the N— family, deſcended from one of thoſe infatuated men, who had ſacrificed their fortunes, and re⯑nounced their country to ſerve a weak and worthleſs prince, who had neither inclination or power to reward their attachment.

[118]HE told me that his father had died of a bro⯑ken heart, while he was but a child; that his friends had with difficulty obtained him a com⯑miſſion in the Iriſh brigade, where he had ſerved above twenty years without arriving to the rank of captain; and that he might have ſtill remain⯑ed in that ſituation, but that general Beaumont, by his intereſt, had procured him the poſt he then enjoyed, when he and his family had been reduced to the greateſt diſtreſs.

THAT he hoped he had acquitted himſelf in his office, with humanity and compaſſion; and by many circumſtances which he related con⯑vinced me, that none but a perſon of a noble and generous nature, was fit to preſide over the number of unfortunates, that guilt or accident impels to that gloomy manſion. Sad reflection! that thoſe who are fitteſt for the charge, are moſt averſe to accept, and leaſt thought of for the office.

ABOUT ſeven o'clock in the evening, captain Beaumont inquired for me, and was immediate⯑ly admitted. His uncle monſieur D'Angueville, had never ſeen him before.—They were mutual⯑ly eharmed with each other. The captain told me, that as ſoon as my ſervant acquainted him with my ſituation, he wrote a line to the gene⯑ral, to inform him of it, and ſet out on the in⯑ſtant for Verſailles; that he had ſeen the Engliſh ambaſſador, who promiſed to wait on monſieur le duc de N—, the premier miniſter, next morning, and obtain my releaſe as ſoon as poſſi⯑ble.

I THANKED my generous friend for his kind attention to my intereſts, and paſſed the evening with tolerable chearfulneſs. The next day, about noon, I received a viſit from Mr. S— ſecretary to our ambaſſador. He told me that his excellency had been with the miniſter, and [119] deſired that I might be ſet at liberty immediately. That the duc de N— had informed him it was impoſſible to comply with his requeſt, as there was a criminal proceſs inſtituted againſt me for aiding and abetting the marchioneſs de St. Au⯑mont, in open violation of the laws; and the only favour that could be indulged me, was the allowing me counſel, and bringing the affair to a trial with the utmoſt expedition.

I ENDEAVOURED to make a virtue of neceſ⯑ſity, and affected to appear contented with the very ſmall favour that his excellency had obtain⯑ed for me. But not to make the repetition of my confinement as tedious to you as the time was to me, the day of trial came, and by the joint teſ⯑timony of the marchioneſs's lawyer, her ſer⯑vants, and my own, I was acquitted of being concerned in her eſcape, but obliged to give bail for four thouſand pounds, which is the value ſet upon the jewels, plate, &c. which ſhe either car⯑ried off, or ſecreted.

THUS have I been injured, in my honour, perſon, and property, by my humane attention to that moſt worthleſs of humankind. But no matter; and if the meanneſs of her conduct towards me ſets her in the light, in which I wiſh you to behold her, I ſhall think myſelf overpaid, for every injury I have ſuſtained on her account.

THE moment I recovered my liberty I waited on the ambaſſador, who had come to Paris, on purpoſe to know if he could be any way ſer⯑viceable to me. I made my acknowledgments to him, and ſet out that evening with my dear and indefatigable friend, captain Beaumont, for the loved place where my heart's treaſure lay. I have already told you that I had the happineſs of finding her much better; and the joy which [120] ſhe felt at ſeeing her brother and me, has, I flat⯑ter myſelf, contributed to her recovery.

THE marchioneſs's lawyer told me he had re⯑ceived a letter from her, dated at Bruſſels, wherein ſhe exulted at her own cleverneſs, in getting out of the power of the laws, and gave ſome dark hints, of her not being married to Ransford. Heaven grant that this may be true! The ſuit with her huſband's nephew will go againſt her; and for her contempt of the arret ſhe will be outlawed, and her whole fortune confiſcated;—ſo that if, as I hope, ſhe is not Ransford's wife, ſhe may poſſibly be reduced to her original poverty, and meet the contempt due to her vices from all mankind.

THIS is the fifth letter I have written to you without receiving a line from you. I have cer⯑tainly reaſon to apprehend that ſome fatal acci⯑dent has occaſioned your ſilence, for I can never doubt the ſincerity of your attachment to yours

LETTER XLIII.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

PITY me! pray for me, my deareſt ſiſter! for heaven but mocks my prayers! had they been heard, lord Woodville's life had never been in danger. I am diſtracted, Fanny! I would that I were. Though anguiſh ſuch as mine ſtrains every ſenſe, and racks my tortured brain, it will not crack! no, I am ſtill awake to all the mieſeries a wretch can feel, who doats and who deſpairs!

[121]ON Tueſday ſe'n night, fatal day! my lord received a letter from lord Seymour while I was preſent. I obſerved that he was ſtrongly agi⯑tated while he read it, even to a change of coun⯑tenance and colour. I thought there muſt be ſome extraordinary cauſe for his emotion, which perhaps he wiſhed to conceal from me; I there⯑fore roſe ſoftly from my ſeat and attempted to re⯑tire.

O FANNY! can I ever forget the look of ſor⯑row which he wore, when taking me by the hand he ſaid, you muſt not leave me, Emily! but ſhare a painful office with your lord.—You muſt endeavour to conſole poor lady Harriet for Bar⯑nard's death; Ransford has killed him, and is fled from Paris.

HE then turned quick away, as if to hide his grief. It could not be for Barnard that he wept; and Ransford, he as well as I, believed he was ſafe.—O there is another cauſe! let me not think of it, leſt it divide my tears, which ſhould all flow for him, and not for my worthleſs ſelf.

HE told me he would go directly to Sir Harry Ransford, to acquaint him with his ſon's misfor⯑tune, and as he could not do it abruptly, ſaid it was poſſible he might ſtay to dinner there, and begged I would take the moſt immediate oppor⯑tunity of informing lady Harriet of this unhap⯑py affair. His horſes were immediately ordered, and he rode off.

I SENT for Fanny Weſton to aſſiſt me in the painful taſk I had undertaken. But why do I waſte a moment in thinking of any object upon earth but one? About two hours after my lord left Woodfort, one of the ſervants who had at⯑tended him galloped into the court yard, ordered the chariot to be got ready inſtantly, and bid [122] my woman tell me that my lord had fallen from his horſe and much hurt.

I WAS ſitting in lady Harriet's dreſſing room when the ſound of the chariot paſſing haſtily under the window alarmed me.—I rang to know the cauſe, when a ſervant pale as death, told me that my lord had met with a ſad accident. I cried where is he? and ruſhed out of the room. I was met by my woman on the ſtairs. Lady Harriet, Fanny Weſton, and ſhe, prevented my running into the high-way; they poured drops and water down my throat. I knew not what they did or ſaid to me.

AN expreſs was ſent off for a ſurgeon, who arrived in leſs than half an hour after my lord was brought home ſenſeleſs. They would not ſuffer me to ſee him till he had been bled and his wounds dreſſed.—But gracious heaven, when I beheld him!

LET me try to baniſh the ſad idea.—Alas! I fear it will never be effaced! never, my ſiſter, never, unleſs I live to ſee his natural form reſtored to my fond wiſhes, and my ardent prayers!—Oh, join with me, my Fanny! in earneſt ſupplication for his precious life!

THE humane, the tender-hearted ſurgeon, ſaid every thing that could amuſe, but not diſpel my fears. That his wounds, though dangerous in his poor judgment were not mortal; but that he wiſhed for better help than his own.

AN expreſs was diſpatched for Middleton or Ranby.

I CANNOT, but I would not if I could deſ⯑cribe the night I paſſed—my lord remained quite ſenſeleſs; enviable ſtate! yet now and then his languid eyes fixed on me. About five in the morning he fell into a kind of a doſe, and re⯑mained in that ſituation till near ſeven, when he [123] awoke in the moſt violent delirium—he raved in⯑ceſſantly—but not of me.

IN this moſt melancholy ſtate he has continu⯑ed eleven days—‘"a burning fever, and a broken heart!"’ O Fanny, it is too much! but ſhould he recover it I never ſhall.

MR. Ranby and the ſurgeon who firſt attended my dear lord, have both aſſured me that the hurt which he received from his fall, could not endanger his life. But neither they nor the Phy⯑ſicians who viſit him daily, can pretend to ſay what turn his fever will take. Strong opiates have been given, and at length have taken ef⯑fect; he ſleeps, my Fanny! while I who have never cloſed my eyes ſince the ſad accident, in⯑dulge them now in their once pleaſing taſk of writing to my friend, my more than ſiſter! grief weighs my eye-lids down, but not with the ſoft preſſure of an healthful ſlumber.

LETTER XLIV.
Lady STRAFFON to Lady WOODVILLE.

LET not my deareſt Emily condemn her ſincerely affectionate and afflicted Fanny, for not having inſtantly replied in perſon to her moſt affecting letter.

O, my Emily! my child! my ſiſter! how does my heart bleed for you! tears dim my ſight, and yet perhaps your eyes are dry! the burning balls fixed on your dying lord! would you could weep as I do.

AS my ſpirits have been rather weak and lan⯑guid [124] ſince my lying in, even while I was at Woodfort, lady Mount Willis, whoſe attention and tenderneſs to me is without bounds, prevailed upon Sir John and me to paſs a few weeks with her, at a houſe which my lord has hired near Windſor, while his family ſeat is repairing. The old topics of change of air, and moderate exer⯑ciſe were exhauſted, both by Sir John and her, before I would conſent.

AT length I moſt reluctantly complied. I knew not then why I ſhould feel reluctance; but I now begin to think with you, that our preſages ſhould be liſtened to.—Would I had hearkened then to mine! I ſhould now be with my deareſt Emily, and by ſharing her anguiſh and fatigue, perhaps, in ſome degree, might leſſen both—but we now muſt feel the ſad addition to our preſent miſeries, of knowing that each other is unhappy.

ABOUT two hours before the poſt brought your letter to Windſor, lord Mount Willis and Sir John ſet out for his lordſhip's in Oxfordſhire; and while Lucy and I were ſitting at breakfaſt after they were gone, we heard a violent ſcream—I knew the voice to be my little Emily's—I ran up ſtairs to her chamber, without recollecting that ſhe had been ſome time dreſſed, and playing with the houſe keeper's daughter, a child of her own age, in the garden.

LADY Mount Willis followed the ſound, and found my poor little angel lying on the ground with her leg broken, the only words ſhe ſpoke were ‘"Do not let my mama be frighted,"’ and fainted quite away.

IN this condition ſhe was brought into the houſe; I will not attempt to deſcribe mine. Your ſituation is by far more dreadful, yet ſure it was a ſcene of deep diſtreſs. Suffice it now to ſay that the moment ſhe is out of danger, I [125] will fly to ſhare or alleviate my deareſt Emily's affliction. The fond, the tender claims of child and ſiſter, now divide my heart—it almoſt breaks that I muſt ſay

LETTER XLV.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

THIS is the one and twentieth day of my lord's illneſs; and on this day, be it for ever bleſt by me! the phyſicians have obſerved a change in his diſorder, attended with many favourable ſymptoms that gave hopes of life. He lay for many days in a ſtate of inſenſibility, had ceaſed to rave, and hardly moved his limbs.

AT eleven o'clock this morning he ſighed ex⯑tremely; O Fanny! thoſe ſad ſighs too long have pierced my heart! then ſeemed to wake as from a trance. The firſt object he took notice of was me, and with a languid voice he ſaid, my Emily, have you ſat up all night? O go to bed, my love. Then cloſed his eyes and fell into a little ſlumber.

I COULD not anſwer him, tears came to my relief and drowned my utterance. Yes, Fanny, I have wept moſt bitterly, and my poor heart is much relieved. Doctor Fenton inſiſts on bleed⯑ing me immediately. I know he thinks that I have caught the fever from my lord; bleſſed contagion; may it not, Fanny, lighten his diſ⯑eaſe? would I not die to leſſen or remove his heart felt pains! but I much fear that even my death would not now heal his griefs.—She is another's: and never can be his. [126] —I fear I rave, my thoughts are wild; I do not wiſh that you ſhould comprehend them.

YOUR poor, dear Emily! I hope ſhe will re⯑cover.—A broken limb is dreadful! but a broken heart worſe! They ſnatch away the pen. Well! well! I will be blooded. Aye, and I will go to bed; my limbs no longer can ſupport my weight.

LETTER XLVI.
Miſs WESTON to Lady STRAFFON.

I KNOW not how to acquaint you with the ad⯑ditional misfortune that is fallen upon us all. Our dear lady Woodville lies dangerouſly ill of a fever. My heart almoſt breaks while I tell you, that the phyſicians have but little hopes of her life. During the firſt one and twenty days of her lord's illneſs, ſhe never left his chamber, nor could even be prevailed upon to reſt herſelf, except for a few minutes, when quite exhauſted on a couch.

WHAT ſurprized lady Harriet and me moſt was, that ſhe never ſhed a tear, till lord Wood⯑ville firſt recovered his reaſon and ſpoke to her. The ſervants who attended in his chamber have told me, that while he remained inſenſible, ſhe uſed frequently to lay her check upon the pillow, and kiſs his poor parched lips, as if ſhe wiſhed to catch the fever from him. O, madam! why were you not here to ſave her precious life?

LADY Harriet and I have been ſo much uſed to look up to her with reſpect, as well as love [127] (and ſure no human being ever deſerved them more) that we could not attempt to oppoſe her reſolution, farther than by fruitleſs intreaties, though we knew it muſt be hurtful to herſelf. Lady Lawſon was unfortunately gone upon a viſit, into Lincolnſhire, two days before my lord Woodville's accident, ſhe returned yeſterday, and is almoſt diſtracted at lady Woodville's illneſs. But what is her's, or any other perſon's grief to what my lord endures? no words can deſcribe his ſorrow; and I am convinced, if ſhe ſhould die, he never will recover.

HE inſiſted upon being taken out of bed this day, and carried to her chamber. Doctor Fen⯑ton finding him peremptory, conſented though reluctantly. Good God! what a pale and ema⯑ciated figure! Lady Woodville at firſt did not know him: but when he ſpoke to her, ſhe ſtart⯑ed up, claſped her arms round his neck, and cried out with unnatural ſtrength! My deareſt lord! this, this is kind! ſhe ſhall not part us now! yes, we will go together; indeed I will not ſtay for any thing on earth; no not for little Harry.

HER ſpirits became quite exhauſted at theſe words, and ſhe ſunk down in a flood of tears. We thought lord Woodville would have expired on the inſtant. He fainted, and was carried back to his chamber in that ſituation. This was the firſt time that lady Woodville had mentioned her child ſince my lord's illneſs.

THE Doctor thinks it a good ſymptom, and would have the little cherubim brought into her ſight—but who can anſwer for the conſequence if he ſhould catch the fever from her. At this moment, ſhe ſleeps, and lady Lawſon is deter⯑mined to make the experiment; as ſoon ſhe awakes.—God grant it may ſucceed.

[128]I HOPE my little couſin has got the better of her ſad accident, and that I ſhall not hear from, but ſee you as ſoon as poſſible. I ſend this by a ſpecial meſſenger, and ſhall write every day till you come. I am, dear lady Straffon,

LETTER XLVII.
Lady STRAFFON to Miſs WESTON.

O FANNY! humbled in the duſt by the Almighty's chaſtening hand, I ſtrive in vain, to bow my heart to his all-wiſe decrees, and bleſs the arrow that inflicts the wound!

HOW have I vainly vaunted my own forti⯑tude, and thought it proof againſt the ſevereſt trials! Perhaps it is to ſhew me my own weak⯑neſs, that my loved ſiſter and my child are doomed to ſuffer.—I fear there is impiety in that thought. Gracious heaven, look down on my diſtraction! The firſt, the tendereſt object of my youthful fondneſs, my Emily! my ſiſter! given to my care by a much honoured and a dying parent—for her I felt a mother's tenderneſs, a ſiſter's love! Why were the ties thus doubly twined around my ſad heart, if they muſt thus be broken! My daughter too, child of my wed⯑ded love! dear to me for her father's ſake, as for my own.—Both! both, my Emilys at once! Sure I may dare to ſay, the infliction is ſevere!

NOTHING can be more alarming than your account of my dear ſiſter's ſituation; I would fly to her this moment, but that my poor little [129] girl is alſo in a fever—my heart is torn to pieces for the two dear ſufferers; nor does lord Wood⯑ville want his ſhare of my compaſſion.—I will ſtill look up to the throne of mercy, and hope for the recovery of theſe dear, dear friends! Write to me, Fanny, every hour if poſſible: and, O! may your next bring comfort to

LETTER XLVIII.
Miſs WESTON to Lady STRAFFON.

A RAY of conſolation beams upon us: lady Woodville's fever is abated; ſhe raves no more. The diſorder ſeems now to have fallen upon her nerves; and her extreme weakneſs is, at preſent the principal ſource of our apprehen⯑ſions for her. When ſhe awoke out of the ſlumber ſhe was in, during my laſt letter, her recollection returned; ſhe knew lady Lawſon, and every perſon near her; but ſeemed particu⯑larly anxious to remember, what ſhe had ſaid to her lord; and expreſſed great uneaſineſs at doc⯑tor Fenton's having ſuffered him to run the ha⯑zard of leaving his chamber.

LADY Lawſon never quits her bed-ſide; and lady Harriet, who ſeems to have forgotten all her own diſtreſſes, hardly ever leaves my lord—I am a ſort of courier between both; and by ſlattering each in my accounts of the other, hope [130] to forward both their recoveries. My lord ex⯑preſſes the ſtrongeſt impatience to ſee lady Wood⯑ville: doctor Fenton will not conſent to their meeting for ſome days, nor even ſuffer my lord's letters to be delivered to him. I am called to receive a viſitor—who can it be at this improper time?

WHAT a flutter am I in? You would never gueſs who this gueſt was—Sir James Thornton! but ſo altered as I never ſaw any creature! I be⯑gan to fear he was married; though what is it to me if he were? He has been poring his eyes out at Geneva ever ſince he left us; and looks as grave and as wiſe as an old profeſſ [...]r of philo⯑ſophy.

DO not be angry with me for trifling a little, my dear lady Straffon. I confeſs I was very glad to ſee him, and as lord and lady Woodville have had each of them a tolerable night, I think I may be allowed this ſmall indulgence. I have a preſentiment too, that my couſin Emily is better.—In ſhort, every thing ſeems to wear a more chearful aſpect than it did yeſterday.

POOR Thornton was ſo much affected at his friend's illneſs that the tears ſtood in his eyes, and he offered up an ejaculation for their reco⯑very, with almoſt as much devotion as your lady⯑ſhip could, though he is juſt come from a place where they ſay religion is not much in faſhion: but he is the beſt natured creature breathing, and I am ſure he prayed from his heart.

HE told me that a vexatious law-ſuit had brought him to England, and that he meant to have returned to Geneva without ſeeing lord Woodville or any of his friends; but being in⯑formed of the ſituation of this family, he had come from London on purpoſe to make the moſt minute enquiries.

[131]HE begged I would not let lord or lady Wood⯑ville know that he had been here; ſaid he would ſtay a couple of days at Sir William Lawſon's, in hopes of hearing they were out of danger, then return to town to purſue his law-ſuit, and as ſoon as that was over he would go back to Geneva—but I ſhall uſe my beſt crow-quill, to try to perſuade him to viſit Woodfort once more, before he croſſes the ſea again; and if I ſucceed in that, I may perhaps try a little farther.

THIS is the laſt expreſs that I ſhall ſend, as I hope by next poſt, to be able to give you a ſtill more ſatisfactory account of our dear, dear friends. Lady Woodville is very anxious about her niece.—I tell her, I hope with truth, that the ſweet little Emily is much better. I intreat you to confirm my aſſertion in your next; and to believe me,

LETTER XLIX.
Lady STRAFFON to Miſs WESTON.

THE manner more than the matter of your laſt letter, has been a cordial to my heart. You could not ſurely write in ſuch a chearful ſtrain, if our dear lady Woodville was in danger; and yet your account is by no means ſatisfactory; except where you ſay that her reaſon is returned, and that ſhe had a good night—your thoughts were diverted to another object, and your letter is confuſed. Pray be more explicit in your next.

[132]I AM very happy to be able to confirm your aſſertion, in favour of my child.—She is I thank God much better, though ſtill in a dangerous ſtate, as the bone of her leg knits ſlowly, and ſhe ſuffers much, but though I may not be able to learn for⯑titude from her example, I have at leaſt acquired humanity, from ſeeing that a natural mildneſs of diſpoſition can better enable us to ſupport the accidental miſeries of this life than all our boaſted reaſon and philoſophy.

I AM aſhamed of the intemperate lamentations I made uſe of in my laſt letter; and I intreat you to burn it, if you have not already done ſo.

I SHALL continue to offer up my fervent prayers and wiſhes for the recovery of my dear ſiſter and her lord; and am, dear Fanny,

LETTER L.
Miſs WESTON to Lady STRAFFON.

UPON my word, my dear lady Straffon, if I had not very good news to ſend you, and was not very good natured, I do not think I ſhould write to you—how you huff one, for being glad to ſee an old acquaintance. If I did not know that your ladyſhip is married, I ſhould have thought your laſt letter had been written by an old maid: but I am ſo overjoyed, at being able to tell you that lady Woodville is infinitely better, that I cannot keep up my reſentment againſt you any longer.

YES, I am ſincerely glad too, that the little Emily has verified my prediction, and recovers [133] daily.—Now, do not expect me to be metho⯑dical, for I will never be ſo; no, nor will I burn the letter you deſire, for I really do not think there is any thing in it, that you need be aſhamed of.

OUR affections are not given us intirely for our amuſement; they were certainly deſigned to make us feel our mutual dependence upon each other, and the total inſufficiency of individuals to create their own happineſs. They are the links which form ſociety; and though, by being ſtretched or broken they may give us pain, I am certain that we could have no pleaſure without them.

I THINK I have got off of this ſubject very well, conſidering that this is my firſt coup d'eſſai, in the moralizing ſtrain.—Now for particulars—Lady Woodville ſat up two hours this day—She looks weak and languid, but is, I really think, more beautiful than ever.

MY lord wrote her a few lines, which I had the honour of preſenting to her; ſhe ſeemed tranſported with them, but, cruel as ſhe is, ſhe did not let any body ſee them. The doctor would not permit her anſwering them till to-morrow.—If ſhe ſends her letter by me, I ſhall be mightily tempted to peep—but I will not—for I ſhould not like to be ſerved ſo myſelf; and I think that is the beſt way of determining all doubtful matters.

I SAW Sir James Thornton again, laſt night—You ſee I mention him laſt, that you may not ſay he has diverted my thoughts from more in⯑tereſting ſubjects. He perſiſts in not having his viſits announced to lord or lady Woodville. I have promiſed to keep his ſecret, and write to him every poſt, till they are quite recovered. [134] I ſhall begin my correſpondence this night; therefore,

LETTER LI.
Miſs WESTON to Lady STRAFFON.

ENCORE, my dear lady Straffon! do not you really think me very good natured? but this is now the houſe of joy; and we, poor things, who have no character of our own, ca⯑melion like, catch the hue of our next neighbour.—No letter from you by laſt poſt—but no mat⯑ter. I have a little familiar, who tells me that Emily is better—thank you, good ſpirit, for the pleaſing news—and now let me tell you, that lady Woodville is ſo much recovered, that doctor Fenton is to leave us to-morrow.

I THINK I ſhall be ſorry when he goes; he is a pure chatty man, and I have ſome reaſon to imagine, that he likes me vaſtly. Whenever I happen to be ſick, I will certainly ſend for him.

WELL! matrimony is a fine thing, to be ſure! and it is very hard, that I, who am ſo well in⯑clined to enter into that holy ſtate, cannot find an help mate, meet for me. Though I have my doubts, whether there be many ſuch huſbands as lord Woodville. I declare he appears to be in⯑finitely more in love with his wife, than he ever was. Such tender attention, ſuch unaffected fondneſs, I never beheld—He is never out of her chamber, but when he is obliged to leave her [135] to her repoſe, which ſeems now, to be perfectly uninterrupted.

SIR James Thornton is a better correſpondent than your ladyſhip.—I received a letter from him, in anſwer to mine, with ſome very pretty compliments interſperſed through it, upon my eaſy manner of writing. Travelling, I find, has improved him; for I do not recollect that he ever ſaid a civil thing to me before he went abroad. Better late than never, is a good proverb. Poor lady Harriet! her ſpirits are very low, though ſhe has behaved ſurprizingly well on Barnard's death; but I fear her calmneſs, on that occaſion, was owing to the alarming ſituation of lord and lady Woodville; and that her grief will return with their health. I wiſh ſhe would think of marrying, a good huſband would make her forget Barnard. Dear, good Thornton! ano⯑ther letter from him, and more flattery! quelle douceur! quel charme! Adieu, my dear lady Straf⯑fon, I muſt indulge my vanity, this very mo⯑ment, by ſhewing his epiſtle to lord and lady Woodville. Your's, ever.

LETTER LII.
Lady STRAFFON to Miſs WESTON.

THANK you, my good Fanny, for your two lively letters—they have been of infi⯑nite uſe to my poor weak ſpirits; and though I may not be able to compliment as agreeably as Sir James Thornton, I will venture to ſay that I am as well pleaſed as he, with the eaſe and chear⯑fulneſs of your writing. I hope my heart is [136] truly grateful to the Almighty, for the recovery of my dear ſiſter, and her lord, as well as for the reſtoration of my little Emily, whom we now think paſt danger.

YOU ſay, very juſtly, that ‘"our affections were not given us for amuſement."’ No, Fan⯑ny! they were meant to humble the proud heart; to ſhew us our own weakneſs and fallibility, by our frequently beſtowing them on unworthy or improper objects; and even when directed by nature, and reaſon, into their right courſe, to all the tender charities of life, they ſhould re⯑mind us of our intire dependence, on the great Author of our being, by making us ſenſible that the moſt delightful attachments, which can be formed, by love or friendſhip, ſerve but to en⯑large our vulnerary part, and encreaſe our capa⯑city of feeling pain.

YOU, perhaps, may think this moral too ſe⯑vere, but it is not meant to reſtrain us from the indulgence of thoſe fond ſenſations, which are natural to every good heart, but to raiſe our gra⯑titude, to the great Giver of all our bleſſings, and to remind us, that we hold them, by grant, from his bounty, and not from any right, or me⯑rit of our own.

AS my Emily gains ſtrength every day, we purpoſe going into Eſſex, in a ſhort time; and as ſoon as Sir John can ſettle ſome neceſſary affairs there, we ſhall all ſet out for Briſtol in hopes of meeting lord and lady Woodville there.—What a joyful meeting will it be to me! my eyes run over at the delightful idea.

THOUGH lady Mount Willis took every pre⯑caution to conceal her generoſity to Sir James Miller from himſelf, the unhappy man has diſ⯑covered that he is indebted to her for his ſubſiſt⯑ence, and has written her a moſt affecting letter, [137] acknowledging his own unworthineſs, and in⯑treating her to withdraw her bounty, as he de⯑clares he could better ſupport the moſt abject poverty, than the receiving of favours from one, whom he had ſo highly injured and offended. There is ſomething in this ſentiment that inclines me to forgive, even his former baſeneſs, and to pity his preſent miſery. Sure there can be no⯑thing ſo truly humiliating as receiving obligations from thoſe we have wronged.

I SINCERELY wiſh that your epiſtolary cor⯑reſpondence with Sir James Thornton may an⯑ſwer all your expectation.—But, remember, Fanny, that flattery coſts men nothing; and that women are apt to over-rate it, and frequently beſtow their love and eſteem in exchange for what has no aintrinſic worth. I grant that in the general commerce of the world, the perſon whoſe politeneſs and attention are moſt marked to us, deſervedly obtains a preference in our re⯑gard: vanity is in ſome degree inherent to all human kind, and the being rated above our fel⯑lows, is a ſpecies of flattery, which the moſt delicate creature in the world is never offended at. But in a particular intercourſe between man and woman, we ſhould take great care, that our own ſelf-love does not impoſe upon us, and mag⯑nify the common forms or expreſſions of polite⯑neſs into a particular addreſs.—Do not be angry at this hint, Fanny, as it is only meant to ſave your vanity, for I hope your heart is not yet concerned, from the mortification of a diſappoint⯑ment.

Tell my dear lady Woodville, that I moſt im⯑patiently long for a line from her, and that I mu⯑tually congratulate her lord, and her on their re⯑covery. I am, dear Fanny your's ſincerely.

LETTER LIII.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

WHERE, Fanny, ſhall I find words to expreſs my gratitude to the Almighty, for the bleſſings I have received from him? the ſmalleſt of which is my own recovery from the grave! Words are inadequate to what I feel, but he can read my heart! Life is a common bleſſing given to all; and ſure there was a time, now long paſt, when I would moſt willingly have yielded mine, into his hands that gave it—but happineſs, my ſiſter! ſuch bliſs as mine is but the lot of few. O how ſhall I deſerve it! teach me, Fanny; teach me every honeſt art to keep the treaſure I have ſo lately found—lord Woodville's heart.

HOW little alas! are we capable of judging for ourſelves? my lord's late illneſs, which I conſidered as the ſevereſt infliction of Providence, has been the bleſſed means of my preſent and I hope future happineſs! his generous nature, ſtruck with the ſufferings I endured, by one rich gift has overpaid them all—but I muſt, dare not enter into the charming detail of my felicity—my ſpirits will not bear it, but you ſhall know it all. For the preſent let it ſuffice to tell you I have not now a wiſh ungratified, but that of being able to render myſelf worthy of the hap⯑pineſs I enjoy.

MY lord, lady Harriet, who is a mirror of reſignation, and Fanny Weſton, all join with me in ſincere congratulations to you and Sir John, on Emily's recovery. How truly thank⯑ful [139] ought I to be for the dear child's preſervation! for indeed I could not have been happy had you been otherwiſe.

LETTER LIV.
Miſs WESTON to Lady STRAFFON.
[Incloſed in the foregoing.]

I HOPE your ladyſhip will believe me per⯑fectly ſincere, when I tell you that I rejoice at lady Woodville's being able to releaſe me from the office of her ſecretary by anſwering for herſelf. For though I am highly ſenſible of the great honour which your ladyſhip confers on ſuch a mad-cap as me, by condeſcending to write to me, I muſt beg leave to obſerve que la roſe a ſa picque—for indeed your ladyſhip's kind and friendly admonitions upon the ſubject of Sir James Thornton's politeneſs, and my vanity are rather humiliating. But in order to make your mind, as well as my own eaſy upon this ſubject, I will venture to aſſure you that I ſhall require ſtronger proofs of Sir James Thornton's regard than a little flimſy flattery, before I ſuffer my ſelf love to perſuade me that the baronet is ena⯑moured of your ladyſhip's moſt humble ſervant,

P.S. Pray, my dear lady Straffon, do not fancy I am in a huff, for I never was in greater harmony of ſpirits than at preſent; having this [140] moment received a letter from Sir James Thorn⯑ton, in anſwer to an invitation which lord and lady Woodville commiſſioned me to make, and which he will accept in a few days. It is lucky that flattery coſts men nothing, for the poor dear baronet would certainly be a bankrupt if he were to purchaſe all that he beſtows upon

LETTER LV.
Lady STRAFFON to Lady WOODVILLE.

LIKE the rich gales from the Arabian coaſt my Emily's laſt letter came fraught with health and joy.—What an high cordial muſt it have been to a fond ſiſter's heart, who long has mourned, without affecting to perceive thoſe ſecret ſorrows which ſhe could not heal, to hear that they at length have vaniſhed?

I KNOW not which of us is at preſent happi⯑eſt; but were the charming conteſt to be deter⯑mined by the merit of the competitors, the pre⯑cious palm would be adjudged to you. Long may my Emily enjoy the triumph ſhe ſo well deſerves!

I WILL not, cannot wait for a detail of your felicity; I will behold and ſhare it.—It is poſſible to be circumſtantial under the ſevereſt affliction; but happineſs is by much too volatile for narra⯑tive—like a fine and ſubtile eſſence, it evaporates through the activity of its own ſpirit; we can⯑not paint the expreſſive looks which are lighted up by a glad heart; the eye alone can catch the brilliant beam, which brightens by reflection— [141] Therefore expect to meet mine in leſs than four and twenty hours after you receive this. Sir John and my girl will accompany me.

I HAVE had a very pleaſing letter from lady Somerville.—Lodovico, Laura, and ſhe arrived ſafe at Genoa; her friends received them all with open heart and arms.—The young people have been entirely taken up with feaſts, b [...] and maſquerades. To avoid giving offence by refuſing to partake in theſe amuſements, lady Somerville has retired to the very houſe which ſhe quitted upon her marriage, which is twenty leagues from Genoa.—She there continues to indulge that melancholy which time has been on⯑ly able to ſoften, not ſubdue—amiable relict!

TELL Fanny Weſton that the preſent harmo⯑ny of my ſpirits prevents my anſwering her letter as I ought; but ſhe muſt not flatter her⯑ſelf that I do not mean to take any further no⯑tice of it; for the moment I become acquainted with Sir James Thornton, I will inſiſt upon his deviſing a proper puniſhment for her pertneſs, and he ſhall be at once the judge and the ex⯑ecutioner.

ADIEU, my dear Emily: I quit you with pleaſure, at this moment, to haſten to that of our meeting.

LETTER LVI.
Lord WOODVILLE to Lord SEYMOUR.

THE apprehenſions which my dear Seymour expreſſes on account of my ſilence have been but too well founded—I have been upon the verge of ‘"that undiſcovered country from [142] whoſe bourn no traveller returns."’ But how do I now rejoice at not having paſſed the irremeable bounds in a ſtate of inſenſibility to the virtues of my now truly dear, and I hope happy wife! ſhe is an angel, Seymour!

I KNOW what true delight theſe words will give you; they are ſincere, my friend—they flow from my full heart. Blinded as I have been to her perfections, you will ſurely pardon the tran⯑ſports of a man, who waking from a dream of miſery, finds himſelf in Elyſium—ſuch is my preſent ſtate; what was my former one, you, and you only, know too well.

YOU are, doubtleſs impatient to hear what has brought this happy change; with pleaſure will I dwell on every circumſtance, that muſt endear my Emily to my heart, and render her ſtill more amiable to my friend's eyes.

IT is now above two months ſince I received your firſt account of Ransford's duel, and the marchioneſs's diſtreſs. No words can paint the ſtrong emotions of my mind—a thouſand vari⯑ous ſchemes to ſuccour her, ruſhed inſtantly through my diſturbed imagination. My wife was preſent while I read your letter, and ſaw the agitation of my mind. Her delicacy promp⯑ted her to retire; I prevented her, and told her, I know not how of Barnard's death, and begged her to inform lady Harriet of it in the tendereſt manner—needleſs caution.

I THEN told her I would go and acquaint Sir Harry Ransford with the affair; and ordered my horſes to be got ready immediately.

I SET out directly on that purpoſe—but be⯑fore I had rode a quarter of a mile, a ſudden im⯑pulſe ſeized me, a certain foreign and irreſiſtible force, that impelled me to fly to the inſtant relief of the marchioneſs.

[143]THE baſeneſs and madneſs of ſuch a reſolve, ſprang forward to my view at the ſame moment, but the paſſions triumphed as they always muſt do, at the firſt onſet over the feebler reaſon.

I CONSIDERED, that Ransford might proba⯑bly call me to account for interfering in his af⯑fairs; and felt a gloomy ſatisfaction in thinking that the loſs of life might be deemed an atone⯑ment for the cruelty of my conduct towards Emily.

I THEN traverſed the road in order to return home through my park, and got into my cloſet unperceived by my family.

I THERE took out the marchioneſs's picture and hung it round my neck, as a kind of taliſ⯑man, againſt that remorſe which I muſt certainly feel, for abandoning my wife. I then ſat down and wrote a letter to my Emily; and though at that time under the influence of the ſtrongeſt delirium, I am pleaſed and proud to own, that my tears flowed faſter than my ink, while I re⯑flected on the pain which ſhe muſt ſuffer when ſheread thoſe lines.—I reſolved to travel night and day, and not put my letter in the poſt-office till I came to Canterbury.

AS I was ſtepping out of my library, which you know looks into the parterre, I ſaw my little boy at play, cloſe by the window with his maid.—The ſight of my ſon, ſtartled me.—The order of nature ſeemed reverſed—The child admoniſhing the parent. I felt all this, but felt myſelf at the ſame time like one in a dream labouring under an impreſſion of the imagination, without reaſon to correct, or free-will to controul it. I could not paſs into the park without being ſeen by them;—the private manner of my return would have alarmed the family. I was aſhamed to be detected by my [144] ſervant, and ſpent above an hour, which appear⯑ed a ſummer's day to me, in a ſtate of the moſt reſtleſs impatience. I have ſince thought, that this little accident ſeemed as if kindly deſigned by Providence to give me time for reflection. But alas! the delay quickened the vehemence of my purpoſe to purſue my ſcheme.

THE moment I was at liberty, I flew back to the park, bid my ſervants follow me, and ſet off with all the ſpeed my horſe could make.—But I had not got three miles from my demeſne, when by ſome fortunate accident my horſe made a falſe ſtep, which he was incapable of recovering, and threw me ſenſeleſs to the ground.

HOW long I continued there, or what paſſed, during an interval of one and twenty days, has left no trace upon my memory; at the end of that period I awaked, as from unquiet reſt.—Gracious heaven! how ſhall I ever be able to expreſs my aſtoniſhment at beholding lady Woodville ſeated by my bed-ſide, the ſtatue of deſpair; pale, wan, and faded was her youthful cheek, her eyes were raiſed to heaven, as if in ſervent though in hopeleſs prayer! O, Seymour! what a train of horrid images broke in at once upon my burning brain; my unſettled reaſon fluttered on the wing, and ſeemed as if it would depart again for ever.

THE ſtriking object that appeared before me, impreſſed my ſenſes with a kind of awe; yet I had power to ſpeak to her! ſhe could not an⯑ſwer—A flood of tears, but they were tears of joy, ſuppreſſed the power of ſpeech. She was carried out of the room by doctor Fenton's or⯑ders, and I then feigned a ſlumber, in hopes that recollection would afford ſome clue to lead me through the labyrinth of my ſituation.

[145]THE firſt circumſtance that preſented itſelf to my memory, was, my having quitted Woodfort with a deſign of abandoning that amiable crea⯑ture, whom I now beheld reduced to the ſtate I have already deſcribed, by her tenderneſs for me;—the next thing that occurred to me, was my having had the marchioneſs's picture round my neck, which I now ſearched for in vain.—I inſtantly ordered every perſon to leave the room except Williams, and demanded from him an account of my preſent ſituation, and what was become of the picture which I had placed next my heart? I could have no doubt of his faith or ſincerity—he has lived with me ever ſince I was a child, and loved me as if I had been his.

HE fell upon his knees by my bed-ſide, and begged me not to hurry or exhauſt my ſpirits, which he was ſure muſt be extremely weak, as this was the firſt moment the fever had left me, for one and twenty days; during which time he told me lady Woodville had never quitted my apartment for a ſingle hour, nor cloſed her lovely eyes.

THAT on the night I was brought home, the ſurgeon had me ſtripped, in order to know if I had received any wound or bruiſe in my body; that he had taken off the picture, and given it to my wife, ſuppoſing it to be hers; and at that time ſhe took no notice of it; but that he had often ſince ſeen her gaze upon it moſt intently, and ſigh as if her heart would break.

HE ſaid that Thomas had alſo brought her the papers which were found in my pockets; and ſhe gave them all to him, to lock up; but that Mrs. Winter, her woman, who was preſent, told her ladyſhip there was a letter ſealed and di⯑rected for her, which ſhe took, and left the room.

[146]THAT ſhe returned in a few minutes as pale as death, but never diſcloſed the contents; though Mrs. Winter took as much pains as ſhe dared to find them out, as ſhe could not conceive what I could have to ſay to lady Woodville, when I had but juſt left her.

HE told me, Seymour, that Emily has knelt by my bed-ſide for hours in ſpeechleſs agony; has kiſſed my feveriſh lips, and bathed my bur⯑ning hands with her moſt precious tears; and yet ſhe knew I had inhumanly determined to forſake her! to leave ſuch worth as hers a prey to pining grief and diſcontent! For whom?—You have too juſtly named her the moſt unwor⯑thy of her ſex.

YOU may ſuppoſe that during Williams's reci⯑tal, my reaſon tottered in its feeble ſeat; but I had ſtill enough left to rouſe my ſlumbering vir⯑tue, and to reſolve that if I ſhould recover, my future life ſhould be devoted to love, to grati⯑tude, to Emily. This bear me witneſs, heaven! I had determined before I knew, or even thought it poſſible I ever ſhould deſpiſe the marchio⯑neſs.

AS ſoon as I heard all that Williams had to ſay, I begged to ſee my wife. Doctor Fenton abſolutely refuſed my requeſt. I acquieſced upon his telling me ſhe had lain down to reſt.

THE next day I repeated my entreaties with⯑out ſucceſs—On the third I became ſo impati⯑ent, that Williams thought it moſt prudent to let me know the ſad truth, which was, that lady Woodville lay dangerouſly ill of the fever ſhe had caught from me.

I WAS no longer ſenſible of my own weak ſtate.—The tumult of my paſſions gave me a momentary ſtrength.—I ruſhed out of bed [147] upon the inſtant; never, Seymour, did I experi⯑ence ſuch another! All lady Woodville's merits, which I had before but coldly admired, appeared to me now in the warmeſt colours, and roſe even to perfection. But when contraſted with my ingratitude towards her, they overcame me.—I ſunk, into my ſervant's arms, and ſhed a flood of tears.

IN ſpite of all oppoſition I would be carried into my wife's apartment.—I had reſolved to implore her pity, and forgiveneſs of my paſt fol⯑lies, and to aſſure her of my future conduct, which I could no longer entertain a doubt of; as the ſincere and tender affection I then felt for her, would, I hoped, enſure her happineſs, and that I ſhould date mine from her recovery.

THINK of my ſituation, Seymour, when I approached her bedſide—ſhe was delirious! yet the dear angel knew me though ſhe raved, and in ſuch terms, that her words ſtruck daggers to my heart—My ſtrength forſook me; I fainted, and was carried back to my own chamber, the unhappieſt wretch that breathed upon the earth.

IN pity to you, I will draw a veil over the wild ravings of my tortured mind, and make you happy by telling you that I am truly ſo, by knowing that my deareſt Emily is out of dan⯑ger.

THIS letter has been the work of two days; to-morrow I am to ſee my wife.—I count the moments, Seymour, and think them hours till then!

I HAVE heard that perſons who have been once mad, never recover the perfect uſe of their reaſon; or at leaſt are liable to ſome returns of inſanity. This thought ſhocks me! for if I could ſuppoſe it poſſible I ſhould ever again ſink into that ſhameful, that now deteſted delirium, which [148] ſo long poſſeſſed me, I would not wiſh to live another hour—but it it impoſſible.—My Emily's virtues have ſubdued my heart, and time inſtead off leſſening, muſt increaſe their power.

IT is high time that I ſhould condole with you, on the ſufferings you have endured from your generous friendſhip towards the marchioneſs. The meanneſs of her behaviour to you, makes me rejoice in the hope of her not being Ransford's wife.—Yet contemptible as her conduct has made her appear even in my once partial eyes, ſhe muſt not know diſtreſs, I mean with regard to her circumſtances: and while Sir Harry Rans⯑ford lives, it will not be in his ſon's power to ſupport her in the rank which ſhe has held for ſome years paſt.—Let me therefore intreat you to inform me of the event of her law-ſuit with the marquis of St. Aumont.

BE not alarmed at this requeſt, Seymour. It is not paſſion, but compaſſion, that makes me wiſh to ſerve her; for I here ſolemnly declare, that if I were not certain of having intirely con⯑quered the phrenſy, which had ſo long poſſeſſed my enfeebled reaſon, I have ſtill virtue enough left to reſtrain myſelf from ever mentioning her name. But the real luſtre of my Emily's virtues, have triumphed over the falſe glare of Iſabella's charms, that fatal ignis fatuus, which ſo long dazzled and miſled my benighted ſenſes.

I SINCERELY rejoice in your fair veſtal's re⯑covery;—may ſhe live to make you happy, as your uncommon ſituation will admit!

I AM truly concerned for Ransford, and ear⯑neſtly wiſh to know what courſe he has purſued.—I think with you, that he is now in Switzer⯑land; and ſuppoſe he has written to you before this time. What is become of lady Ransford? [149] But I forget that you were prevented from ſeeing her, before you left Paris.

ADIEU, my friend;—let me once more con⯑gratulate you upon my Emily's recovery, and my own reſtoration, to more than life!

LETTER LVII.
Lord WOODVILLE to Lord SEYMOUR.

THE wiſhed for, the charming interview is over! but where, Seymour, ſhall I find words to expreſs the delicacy of my Emily's con⯑duct? when I would have fallen at her feet, and implored her to forgive my having made her mi⯑ſerable, ſhe caught me in her arms, with that modeſt ſenſibility, which accompanies her every action, and ſaid that all the miſery ſhe had ever ſuffered, aroſe from conſidering herſelf as the fatal, though innocent cauſe of my unhappi⯑neſs.

THAT ſhe ſhould ever be truly grateful for the pains I had taken to prevent her being wretch⯑ed, by endeavouring to conceal a paſſion which ſhe was ſure it was as impoſſible for me to conquer, as it had been to diſguiſe.

THAT ſhe had long known of my attachment to the marchioneſs, and that her utmoſt wiſh for many months paſt, was to be conſidered as my firſt friend; that ſhe ſhould never make an im⯑proper uſe of my confidence, but that her utmoſt tenderneſs ſhould be exerted to ſooth the ſorrows, [150] which ſhe could not heal.—A flood of tears oppoſed her farther utterance.

I TOOK that opportunity of aſſuring her, that it was in her power, and hers alone to render me the happieſt of men.

SHE wiped away her tears, and gazed on me, with looks of joy and doubt. Let not your kind⯑neſs, ſaid ſhe, tempt you to deceive me. I feel too well, the impoſſibility of conquering a fond, a real paſſion! but I will ſtrive, my lord.

I CAUGHT her trembling hand, and preſſed it to my lips. O no! I cried, my Emily! my love! indulge your virtuous fondneſs, and deeply as my heart appears to be indebted to you, like a poor bankrupt, it ſhall give its all though it can never pay you what it owes—She quickly exclaimed, O I am overpaid in this bleſſed mo⯑ment, for years of miſery! your heart! but can you give it? is it yours, my lord?—No, Emily! unworthy as it is, it is already yours, and ſhall be ever ſo.

TEARS and embraces cloſed this charming ſcene; and now with truth, my Seymour, can I boaſt I never knew what heart-felt rapture was before that hour.

THE conferring happineſs, on any creature, is certainly the higheſt enjoyment, of any human mind; but the paying it to an amiable, and de⯑ſerving object, muſt heighten the ſentiment, even to tranſport.

SIR James Thornton has been obliged to re⯑turn to England, on account of a law-ſuit. He purpoſed keeping himſelf concealed, but upon hearing of mine, or rather my Emily's illneſs, he poſted down from London, to Sir William Lawſon's, and remained there till ſhe was pro⯑nounced out of danger. Since that time he had frequent accounts of our recovery, from Fanny [151] Weſton, with whom he correſponds in a very gal⯑lant ſtile.

I KNOW ſhe likes the young baronet, and as I flatter myſelf he is cured of his hopeleſs paſ⯑ſion for lady Woodville, or at leaſt, am well aſſured that he will never preſume to purſue it, I have prevailed upon my wife to conſent to his making us a viſit; but neither his being at Woodfort, or any thing elſe, ſhall prevent our going to Briſtol in a few days; for though my lovely invalid is ſurprizingly recovered from her late illneſs, the ſhock which her conſtitution has received, has rendered it almoſt as delicate, as her charming mind. I will watch over them both, and hope to reſtore them to their natural ſtate, which is almoſt perfection.

I HAVE ſhewn Emily all your letters, and told her the ſtory of my connection with the marchioneſs, without concealing a ſingle circum⯑ſtance which paſſed, either at Paris or York. During my narrative, ‘"I often did beguile her of her tears,"’ they flowed ſincerely, when I informed her of the ſtruggles, of my then tor⯑tured mind.

I WELL knew that the confeſſion of my paſt weakneſs, muſt give her pain; but I was certain ſhe would receive it as the ſtrongeſt mark of my preſent ſincerity. The tenderneſs and delicacy of her expreſſions, upon this trying ſubject, have, if poſſible, raiſed her in my eſteem, by convincing me that her underſtanding is as excel⯑lent, as her heart; and that her mind and perſon conſtitute a treaſure almoſt too great for the moſt worthy man. Senſible as I am of my own de⯑merits, can I ever be ſufficiently grateful for ſuch a bleſſing? but I will endeavour to deſerve it, Seymour, by devoting every hour of my future life to her happineſs.

[152]SINCE the recovery of my reaſon, I have re⯑ceived infinite pleaſure from playing with my little boy. How could I be inſenſible to the natural and innocent endearments of ſuch a lovely creature? but I find happineſs and pleaſure crouding in upon me, through a thouſand ave⯑nues, that my delirium had rendered impervious to their ſoft attacks; and I begin to think that I have been new-formed, as well as reformed, ſince my redemption.

LADY Woodville, who is ſincerely grateful for your kind attachment to her, entreats you will at your return to Paris, endeavour to find out Sir James Miller, and purchaſe for him either a commiſſion, employment, or annuity, which may be ſufficient for his ſupport, as the unhappy man has abſolutely refuſed to accept lady Mount Willis's bounty, from the moment he diſcovered that it was to her he owed it. There is ſomething like greatneſs of mind in this circumſtance, which renders him an intereſting object. What mixtures are we compounded of! You may gueſs your pay-miſtreſs incog.

I IMPATIENTLY long for the pleaſure of hear⯑ing from you, and am with the warmeſt affection of friendſhip,

LETTER LVIII.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

THIS letter will probably reach England but a few days before the writer of it; but I [153] would not for a moment delay pouring forth my acknowledgments, for the ſincere pleaſure I have received from your two laſt letters; and my warmeſt congratulations on the charming ſubject of them.

YES, thank heaven, my friend is reſtored to life, to reaſon and to happineſs! can Seymour ſigh while he repeats that ſound! O Woodville! my cup has been ſeverely daſhed with ſorrow, nor has there [...] yet one joy unmixed e'er reached my heart. Yet let me not complain; my own imprudence formed the fatal web, that has enſnared my peace; the unhappy duel that I fought with captain Beaumont ſealed its ruin!

BUT why ſhould I diſtreſs you by tracing my misfortunes to their ſource; it is too much for you to know, that I am wretched—no matter for what cauſe.

THE length of time that has elapſed ſince my laſt letter to you, has been fertile of ſad events; which I ſhall relate to you in as ſuccinct a man⯑ner as I can.

WHEN I had been about a week at Belleveue the good old general was attacked with a diſorder in his ſtomach, which had moſt alarming ſymp⯑toms. He was ſenſible of his ſituation, but ſeemed to wiſh to conceal it from his children, who vied with each other in their tender⯑neſs and affliction for him. It is impoſſible to do juſtice to their merits, or deſcribe the affecting ſcene.

AT the end of twelve days he expiried, and left the moſt diſconſolate family I ever beheld: but Charlotte's grief ſurpaſſed even credibility. Neither her brother, ſiſter, nor I, could prevail upon her to leave the chamber where the body lay, till the moment it was to be i [...]erred. She paſſed the nights and days, in prayers and [...]ars [154] —Judge what I ſuffered from my apprehenſions for her.

AS ſoon as the funeral was over, ſhe re⯑queſted that we would indulge her with the liberty of paſſing a few days without interruption in her chamber. We had no right to treſpaſs on her grief; but yet our fears for her too deli⯑cate conſtitution, made us reluctantly comply with her deſire.

ON the fourth evening of her retirement ſhe ſent for madame de Carignan, who flew to obey her ſummons, but returning in a few minutes to captain Beaumont and me, with an air of diſ⯑traction, cried out, our miſeries are but begun, O haſten quickly, or her angelic ſpirit will be fled! And can I paint the ſad, the ſolemn ſcene! no, Woodville, no! it will live forever, graved upon my heart—but words would wrong my feelings.

CHARLOTTE! my once beloved, my now adored and ſainted maid! ſighed out her ſoul to heaven.

Grief will not kill us, Woodville, or I ſhould not ſurvive to tell her death—I can no more.

LETTER LIX.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

IT was impoſſible for me to have added another word to my laſt letter. I have but a very few more to ſay with regard to the Beaumont family, and then the dear, the fatal [155] name ſhall no more paſs my lips, but remain treaſured up in my ſad heart, a precious hoard for everlaſting grief to brood upon.

I TOLD you in ſome of my former letters, that captain Beaumont viſited me every day, du⯑ring my confinement in the Chatelet. He there beheld and became enamoured of the fair Maria D'Angueville. When he had been about ten days at Belleveue, he acquainted me with his paſſion, and intreated me to ſpeak to his father upon the ſubject. Accident prevented my having an opportunity of obeying him, till the general's illneſs rendered it improper—and the real afflic⯑tion which he has ſince felt, ſeemed to have quenched the new enkindled flame.

BUT a few days after our return to Paris, he again re-aſſumed the ſubject, and begged me to apply to his fair couſin and his uncle, for leave to pay his addreſſes, to her. I told him truly that the ſituation of my mind rendered me total⯑ly unfit to be the ambaſſador of love or joy; but that I was determined before I ſhould leave the Chatelet, to return thanks for the humane and generous treatment I had met with from the go⯑vernor and his fam [...]y, and to intreat Maria's acceptance of the legacy which her uncle the general had bequeathed me of twenty thouſand livres.

I THOUGHT that captain Beaumont appeared diſpleaſed at my intention; as he coolly replied, that he did not want a fortune with his wife, and thought I had better beſtow the legacy I did not chuſe to accept, upon ſome of the younger chil⯑dren of the family, who might poſſibly ſtand in need of my bounty. I told him that Maria's likeneſs to his beloved ſiſter, had made her the principal object of my preſent attention, and [156] that I would put it in her power to diſpoſe of the ſum in queſtion, as ſhe thought proper.

SOON after this converſation the captain with⯑drew, and remained for ſeveral days ſo en⯑tirely abſorbed in grief, that I reflected not upon the unkindneſs of my friend's conduct, who neither came nor ſent to me for near a fortnight.

AT length he entered my chamber one morn⯑ing without being announced, and found me ga⯑zing ſo intently upon Charlotte's picture, that I ſaw him not till he exclaimed with a voice of diſtraction, What unmerited affliction and diſtreſs has the unhappy Seymour brought on all the Beaumont race?

THOUGH the ſeverity of this reproach might have rouzed my reſentment at another time, I was ſo much ſoftened by the object then before me, my angel Charlotte's face! that burſting into tears, I anſwered—O Beaumont! cannot grief like this atone for my involuntary crimes? and does my friend upbraid my miſery?

AT theſe words he ruſhed into my arms, and cried, forgive me, Seymour. Then ſtarted wildly from me and went on—but wherefore flow theſe tears upon a ſenſeleſs object, loſt and forgotten in the grave, when there is now a fair⯑er and kinder maid ready to heal your ſorrows?

I COULD not avoid expreſſing my aſtoniſh⯑ment at this unintelligible diſcourſe, and it was a long time before he explained himſelf, by telling me that the lovely and innocent D'angueville had conceived a paſſion for me during the time I remained a priſoner in the Chatelet; and that upon being preſſed by her father and mother to receive her couſin's hand, ſhe had declared that ſhe would rather paſs her days in a cloiſter than with any other man but lord Seymour. I was extremely affected with this intelligence, as it [157] concerned my friend, the unhappy girl, and my own honour.

I ASSURED captain Beaumont, that I never had ſpoken to her upon the ſubject of love, or made the leaſt attempt to gain her affections; and that I was ready to do every thing in my power to aſſiſt in conquering Maria's weak par⯑tiality to me, that might not injure her delicacy or my own character.

THE frankneſs and ſincerity of my manner, ſoon got the better of his ill-grounded ſuſpicions; he aſked my pardon a thouſand times, for having entertained a doubt of my affection to his dear dead ſiſter; but hoped, as I had been myſelf a lover, I would forgive his raſhneſs.

IT was at laſt agreed upon between us, that I ſhould write to Maria directly, and acquaint her with the real ſtate of my heart, which muſt be for ever incapable of love for any earthly object; that I ſhould not ſee her before I left Paris; and at my ſetting out, ſhould take an everlaſting leave of her by letter. That neither her father, nor any other perſon ſhould preſs her to marry, till time and reaſon might enable her to triumph over a paſſion which oppoſition would certainly increaſe. That captain Beaumont would conti⯑nue his aſſiduities, without mentioning his love.—That ſhe ſhould not know of the preſent I de⯑ſigned her, till a year was elapſed; but if at that time, ſhe refuſed to marry captain Beaumont, I ſhould be at liberty to put her in poſſeſſion of the twenty thouſand livres, and that ſhe ſhould be allowed to diſpoſe of them as ſhe pleaſed.

THIS affair thus ſettled, my friend took his leave with a thouſand acknowledgments for what he called a ſacrifice, and I ſat down to fulfil my promiſe of writing to Maria—when Wilſon an⯑nounced [158] a very unexpected viſitor; it was ma⯑dame de St. Far, the marchioneſs's mother, whom I had never ſeen or heard of ſince the time that you firſt became acquainted with her daughter.

SHE was then, you may recollect, an agree⯑able figure, rather comely than handſome, and plumper than the generality of her country wo⯑men. She is now emaciated to a ſkeleton, and I could not help feeling ſome apprehenſions, that ſhe would expire before ſhe left my apartment, as ſhe was frequently much agitated during the time ſhe ſtaid.

SHE told me, that her daughter had ſuffered her to want even the common neceſſaries of life, and had abſolutely refuſed to ſee her from the mo⯑ment ſhe became a widow. Though I deteſt the marchioneſs, I could not avoid obſerving to ma⯑dame de St. Far, that I imagined the firſt part of her accuſation, muſt be unjuſt, as ſhe had for⯑merly appeared in the world, as a woman of fortune; and therefore muſt certainly be able to ſupport herſelf independent of her daughter's bounty.

SHE told me I was much deceived, and as ſhe had no longer any terms to keep with the un⯑grateful marchioneſs, ſhe would reveal her real ſituation.—She then informed me, that ſhe had lived for ſeveral years with a monſieur de Ver⯑ville at Dijon, by whom ſhe had Iſabella; that at length by the perſuaſion of his friends, mon⯑ſieur de Verville determined to marry, and parted with her and her daughter; but allowed them a decent ſupport, and took every proper care of his child's education.

THAT as ſhe grew up extremely handſome, madame de St. Far determined to bring her to Paris, in hopes of making her fortune; and for [159] that purpoſe aſſumed the name ſhe now uſed' and endeavoured to appear like a perſon of diſ⯑tinction. That the marchioneſs was perfectly acquainted with their circumſtances, and readily entered into the ſcheme; but in order to carry it on, ſhe was obliged to run conſiderably in debt, though they were not above ſix months in Paris, before the marchioneſs had the good fortune to charm both you and the marquis de St. Aumont.

SHE added, that the only reaſon her daughter ever gave for preferring the marquis to you, was the probability of becoming her own miſtreſs by his death, for that ſhe knew her own diſpoſition ſo perfectly, that ſhe was certain ſhe could not confine her affections to any one perſon long.

O Woodville! what an happy eſcape have you had from this vile woman! but to make an end of this tedious tale. She told me, that monſieur de Verville died without a will, ſoon after the marchioneſs's marriage; and that ſhe was by that means deprived even of the ſmall income which he had allowed her. She implored me to aſſiſt her in getting into ſome convent, where ſhe might paſs the remainder of her days without hearing of her undutiful and unnatural daughter. I have deſired her to fix upon a proper place for her retirement, and I will readily pay the ſum ne⯑ceſſary to her admiſſion. I preſented her with my purſe, and deſired to hear from her as ſoon as poſſible.

THIS affair, and lady Woodville's commands to find out Sir James Miller will detain me a few days longer in Paris. How earneſtly do I long to quit it! yet are not all places alike to the unhappy? no, there is one aſylum, and but one, for wretchedneſs like mine—the peace⯑ful grave!

[160]FORGIVE me, Woodville, for talking in this melancholy ſtrain, to my now happy friend—may you be long ſo, is the warmeſt wiſh of

P.S. I know not whether I have told you that I have fought lady Ransford in vain, ever ſince my return to Paris. She quitted her hotel in a few days after Barnard's death, and has left no trace behind her.

LETTER LX.
Lord WOODVILLE to Lord SEYMOUR.

YOUR remark, that neither happineſs nor pleaſure comes to us unmixed, is but too aptly verified in me; for the real and tender concern which your ſituation gives me, is a ſtrong alloy to that tranquil happineſs I ſhould at preſent enjoy, if the friend of my heart were not wretched.—There is ſomething ſo uncom⯑monly diſtreſsful in your circumſtances, that to attempt to leſſen your affliction, would be an in⯑ſult to humanity;—for who that has a heart to feel another's loſs, would wiſh to ſtop the grace⯑ful tears that flow ‘"where reaſon, and where virtue o'er the tomb, are fellow mourners?"’

I AM ſorry for captain Beaumont's diſappoint⯑ment in love, but I have infinitely more pity for [161] the young and innocent Maria. You and I both know how difficult it is to ſtruggle with the firſt fond impreſſions of the heart; and women in ge⯑neral, from a principle of delicacy are much more inclined than men, to cheriſh their firſt paſſion, even when hope is fled.

I HAVE a melancholy proof of this truth too near me—poor lady Harriet Hanbury! She ſtill laments the unworthy Barnard, and I fear will ſoon follow him to an untimely grave,—while Sir James Thornton ſeems to have transferred the paſſion he felt for lady Woodville to Miſs Weſton, who kindly receives his vows, and will, I hope, ſoon crown his wiſhes.

I CANNOT help being extremely ſhocked at the infamous conduct of the marchioneſs towards her mother.—Why need we become volunteers in vice? Our paſſions but too ſtrongly and fre⯑quently impel us to break the bounds preſcribed by virtue; but then thoſe paſſions may, I humbly hope, in ſome degree alleviate our tranſgreſſions; but her unnatural behaviour to the unhappy wo⯑man who gave her birth, admits of no extenua⯑tion. This could not have proceeded from any paſſion, and muſt therefore be a double vice.

I am, however, much better pleaſed to owe my cure to Emily's virtues than to Iſabella's vices; as the knowledge of the former are a per⯑petual ſource of happineſs to me, while the diſ⯑covery of the latter muſt for ever reflect on my own weakneſs, in being ſo groſsly deceived.

MADAME de St. Far's eſtabliſhment in the convent, muſt not be at your expence. My Emily! my lovely generous girl! inſiſts on pay⯑ing her penſion. She muſt not be refuſed what⯑ever ſhe deſires, by Woodville, or his friend.

[162]I MOST impatiently long for your return to England; I wiſh you would meet us at Briſtol, where we purpoſe going in a few days: for though my Emily is ſo much recovered, that neither her phyſician nor herſelf think ſhe has occaſion to drink the waters, I will not be ſatis⯑fied, unleſs ſhe does; as I flatter myſelf they may aſſiſt in confirming that health, which her preſent happineſs ſeems to have perfectly re⯑ſtored.

SIR John, lady Straffon and their daughter, are now at Woodfort; they and my ſiſter Law⯑ſon, are to accompany us to the Hot-wells. La⯑dy Mount Willis has lain in at her houſe in So⯑merſetſhire—we are to pay her a viſit en paſſant—ſhe has got a ſon, and is as happy as ſhe is ami⯑able. We are all anxious to know what is become of Ransford, of his ſtep-mother and Sir James Miller: but I am much more ſo to embrace my ever valued friend, and if I cannot heal, to ſooth his ſorrows—may that at leaſt be in the power of Seymour's moſt affectionate

LETTER LXI.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

YES, Woodville, I will take your counſel, and haſten to lay hold on the poſſeſſion of the only good that is now left me, your generous friendſhip! I will meet you at the Hot-wells in a ſhort time; but I will not live in the ſame houſe with you, nor return from thence to Woodfort. I know the value of your regards too well, to ſuffer it to be productive of miſery to you, or your deſervedly happy wife.—No! Seymour's [163] ſorrows ſhall not caſt a ſhade on the bright ſun⯑ſhine of your future days! nor ſubject you to the unavailing pain of endeavouring to eraſe the dark engrained tints of melancholy, which muſt form the colour of my life to come. Yet I will fre⯑quently behold my friend, and with ſincere de⯑light, contemplate his felicity.

I HAVE at laſt had a letter from Ransford. Sure there is a faſcination in the marchioneſs's charms! He raves and is diſtracted at her having diſowned him as a huſband, which ſhe has for⯑mally done by her ſolicitor, in order to recover the remainder of thoſe effects which were con⯑fiſcated on account of his duel with captain Bar⯑nard. She carried her point; they were reſtored to the marchioneſs de St. Aumont, but her cre⯑ditors have ſeized on every thing ſhe left. Her huſband's nephew has carried his ſuit againſt her, but has allowed her an annuity of four thou⯑ſand livres, while ſhe remains unmarried, in reſpect to his uncle's memory.—I think this in⯑come is quite ſufficient for her wants, and in⯑finitely beyond her merits. I therefore intreat you to reſerve your generoſity for ſome more worthy object.

THE now happy St. Far is ſettled in a convent at Dijon; where ſhe propoſes leading an exem⯑plary life. Lady Woodville's expence, for ſhe muſt be obeyed, will not amount to more than forty pounds a year.

ABOUT ten days ago, a monk came to my apartments, and deſired to ſpeak with me. He told me there was a lady in the Carmelites con⯑vent, who begged to ſee me upon an affair of the utmoſt importance to one of my friends. I en⯑quired very particularly who the lady was: he ſaid he knew nothing more of her than that ſhe was an Engliſhwoman, and was called Jefferſon. [164] He added, that at her requeſt he had been often to ſeek for me, while I was abſent from Paris; that he had given up all hopes of meeting me; but rejoiced at his being more fortunate than he expected, and intreated me to obey the lady's ſummons.

THIS affair would have been matter of ſpe⯑culation to me, if my mind had been ſufficiently at eaſe, to think about it; but without reflecting at all upon the ſubject, I entered the Carmelite's convent at ten o'clock the next morning and en⯑quired for Mrs. Jefferſon.—I did not wait long in the parlour, when a lady dreſſed in deep mour⯑ning approached the grate. I fixed my eyes in⯑tently upon her, and knew her to be lady Rans⯑ford.—A crimſon glow overſpread her cheek when ſhe ſaluted me, and at that moment ſhe appeared a moſt intereſting object.

TO ſave her the trouble of apologizing for ſending for me, I told her how much I had been diſappointed at not being able to diſcover her re⯑treat at my return to Paris, and I begged to know if I could be any way ſerviceable to her; and, at the ſame time intreated ſhe would inform me, of every thing ſhe knew, in relation to the un⯑happy affair, between captain Barnard and my friend.

HER tears flowed faſt and ſilent, while I ſpoke—When ſhe perceived that I waited for her re⯑ply, ſhe took out her pocket book, and preſen⯑ting it to me, ſaid, your lordſhip will there find two letters, which will render any converſation with me upon this painful ſubject, needleſs.—I commit them to your care, in order that every poſſible uſe may be made of them, for Mr. Rans⯑ford's advantage. I bear no enmity to his father, nor do I wiſh to make him an exile from that country to which I never more will return.

[165]I ASKED her with as much delicacy as I poſ⯑ſibly could, what ſcene of life ſhe intended to purſue, and again repeated the offer of my ſer⯑vice to her. She thanked me, and ſaid that captain Barnard's death had made her think dif⯑ferently, from what ſhe had ever done before; that ſhe was too conſcious of the enormity of her conduct, to think of returning into the world; that ſhe therefore determined to paſs her days in a convent, but would always have it in her pow⯑er to quit it, as ſhe did not mean to make any vows.

I REALLY admired the rationality of her ſentiments, and of courſe approved them; but was ignorant by what means ſhe could be ſuppor⯑ted, even in a convent; till ſhe aſſured me, that at her marriage to Sir Harry Ransford, he had ſigned an article allowing her in caſe of ſepara⯑tion, a power of three thouſand pounds, or an annuity of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, during his life; and a jointure of four hundred pounds a year at his death. She ſaid the annuity would be ſufficient for her maintenance; that ſhe deſired no favour from a perſon ſhe was ſuppoſed to have injured, though the fatal con⯑nection, between Sir Harry and her, had been the ſource of all her miſeries.

SHE begged me to forward Barnard's letter to Ransford, and to ſend copies of it to the cap⯑tain's friends in England, in order to pave the way for Ransford's return. I promiſed to obey her, and took my leave; as I now muſt of you, in order to haſten my ſetting out.—You will probably hear from me once more, before you ſee your unhappy, but

LETTER LXII.
Lord SEYMOUR to Lord WOODVILLE.

I HAVE at length taken an everlaſting leave of Paris, and have got ſo far on my way to my native land, but without being ſenſible of that charming enthuſiaſm, which is ſtiled the Amor Patriae, and which I believe has been oftner de⯑ſcribed than felt by voluntary exiles, for I confeſs that I have very little idea of local attachments; perſons, and not places, have engroſſed all the affections of which my heart is capable; and though the ſight of Albion's chalky cliffs, may not inſpire me with much delight, I ſhall cer⯑tainly feel true pleaſure, when I behold my dear Woodville and his amiable wife.

I SHOULD not ſtop on my journey to tell you this, becauſe I am ſure you muſt know it untold, but my worthy, my faithful Wilſon, whom I have long conſidered as my friend, though he ſtill acts as my ſervant, left Paris with a ſlight fever on him: travelling has, perhaps, increaſed his malady, and I purpoſe halting here till he is quite recovered.

I GAVE you an account of my interview with lady Ransford, in my laſt, and will now inform you, of the purport of thoſe letters, which were found in captain Barnard's pocket, after the duel. That which was addreſſed to her ladyſhip, was filled with tender adieus, and ſoft contrition for having involved her in diſtreſs, and leaving her probably expoſed to miſery in a foreign land; with the moſt ſolemn intreaties not to proſecute [167] Mr. Ransford in caſe he ſhould ſurvive, as he there acknowledged, that he had drawn the duel on himſelf.

THAT which he wrote to Ransford was ſhort, yet contained the fulleſt declaration, of his hav⯑ing fought the quarrel, and its conſequences, from a wearineſs of life, which he ſaid muſt be for ever embittered, by reflecting on the baſeneſs of his behaviour towards lady Harriet Hanbury, as well as on the unworthy part he had acted, in ſeducing lady Ransford from her duty. He im⯑plored his forgiveneſs for the injury he commit⯑ted againſt the honour of his family, and for hav⯑ing engaged him to hazard his life, from a too earneſt deſire of getting rid of his own.

HOW inconſiſtent is the conduct of this unfor⯑tunate man! his attention to the preſervation of his antagoniſt's life, is certainly noble; but what an act of inhumanity was it to lay Ransford un⯑der the fatal neceſſity of becoming his executio⯑ner? or how are we to reconcile the ſpirit of this laſt action, with the unworthy te [...]or of his for⯑mer life?

I AM convinced there is no human creature ſo intirely loſt to virtue, as not to be poſſeſſed of one good quality at leaſt, which if known, and properly cultivated, might in ſome meaſure coun⯑terbalance its owner's vices to ſociety; but we are all too apt to reprobate a faulty character; too indolent to ſearch out the latent virtues of another's heart; and find it more for our eaſe, to take it for granted, that a vicious perſon muſt be vicious throughout, than to ſeek for a grain of wheat in a buſhel of chaff.

AFTER many fruitleſs inquiries, I am informed that Sir James Miller has obtained a commiſſion in the Hungarian ſervice, by ſome of his friends here, and that he left Paris about three weeks [168] ago, in order to join his regiment. Rans [...] at Bruſſels, but the marchioneſs and he do [...] live together. I have forwarded Barnard's [...] ⯑ter to him, and flatter myſelf we ſhall ſoon [...] him in England.

MY parting with the dear remains of the Beaumont family was truly affecting, madam de Carignon came to Paris, on purpoſe to bid me adieu. Captain Beaumont preſented me with his and his father's pictures; he had before given me Charlotte's portrait.—Alas! it was an uſeleſs gift, as her dear image is too ſtrongly graved on my ſad heart!

I WILL not dwell upon this ſubject longer; but it is impoſſible that I ſhould turn my thoughts to any other now.—I can therefore only ſay,