LETTER I. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

I AM ſorry you have been ſo alarmed for the dear bachelor; and give you both joy and praiſe, my good girl, for having nurſed him once more into his uſual ſaucy health. Behold us all hap⯑pily arrived at Audley-Grove, where the gay Louiſa was ready and delighted to receive us. She is wonderfully improved, ſince we ſaw her laſt, in ſtature, beauty, and ſenſe—but more of her in her turn; I have a thouſand things to talk of firſt. I ſhall not waſte my paper in tel⯑ling you what a fine numerous cavalcade we formed in returning hither, nor what a graceful figure our lovely widow made on her beautiful Portugueze palfrey. No, my dear, not a word of all this. I muſt begin like a true mother, by [2] talking of my chits, and telling you, that your little nameſake, and Charles, and William, are all highly pleaſed, as we are, with the Monſons, our new governor and governeſs, who came hither in our party, and are very ſoon to be ſettled in the white farm-houſe lately incloſed within the park, where the little folks under their care are to reſide. But methinks I hear you cry, Piſh! why does ſhe begin talk⯑ing to me of the brats, who are all well, when I am dying to hear of the poor Cornelia, who is "perplexed in the extreme?"

Would I could ſay that our gentle friend en⯑joys, as our aſſociated children do (for her little ones are here),

But, alas! I perceive too clearly, that her tender boſom is becoming the victim of "the fury-paſſions." I may with too much propriety ſpeak of them in the plural number; for, by a little incident which I will tell you preſently, you will find that ſhe is tormented by more than one; and that Jealouſy has added new ſtings to diſcontented and ſelf tormenting Love. I ſee, my dear Lucy, that you begin to form a hun⯑dred ſurmiſes, and want to aſk me a hundred queſtions. What! (I hear you exclaim) is the romantic Seymour ſo fickle? Is he really cap⯑tivated by the girliſh bloom of Louiſa? Patience my good girl; it is not fair, when you get a new play in your hand, to peep at the laſt act before you have well finiſhed the firſt. Allow me to proceed in my own way, and I will ſoon [3] make you better acquainted with all the charac⯑ters and conduct of our buſy drama: which is to end, I hope, according to the good old eſtab⯑liſhed cuſtom, with a happy marriage.—Firſt then for our heroine, our dear Cornelia: there is an air of deep dejection fixing itſelf on her features (in ſpite of all our attempts to diſperſe it) which alarms me much. She is even me⯑lancholy in the preſence of Seymour; and much more ſo when he is out of her ſight: yet ſhe has ſuch a dread of paſſing a few minutes alone with him, that ſhe conjures me to watch over her inceſſantly, and never allow him an oppor⯑tunity of ſpeaking to her in private. But my good man, though he has not made him a con⯑vert, as I moſt devoutly hoped he would, has yet made him ſo tractable, and ſo willing to beſtow a religious education on the children that Cornelia has, and may have, that I am in great hopes their deſirable union may, in due time, be happily accompliſhed, in ſpite of the dear raſh creature's too righteous vow on the fatal night that I deſcribed to you. This cruel vow preſſes like an engine of torture on her heart. She frequently ſays to me, that their marriage muſt never take place; but ſhe ſays this with ſuch a voice, and ſuch a countenance, as convince me that, if it does not, her health and peace are utterly ruined for ever. I have not mentioned a word of this diſtreſſing vow to Seymour; and indeed I would not have him know of it for the world, eſpecially juſt now, when I have brought his turbulent ſpirits to a moſt comfortable calm. I flatter myſelf that I am his favourite confidante; and, by telling him no more than literal truth on the various little [4] proofs of Cornelia's entire affection for him, I have brought him to make me a promiſe very eſſential to our preſent tranquillity; and this is, not to addreſs a ſyllable concerning marriage to her, till the year of her widowhood is expired. In the mean time, it will be the great object of us all to calm her agitated ſpirits by every thing that can divert and amuſe her. I was in great hopes that my lively niece Louiſa might be of great uſe to us in this friendly purpoſe! but, alas! how frequently does pain flow from thoſe ſources whence we expect only pleaſure! Now, Lucy, you ſhall have the incident I pro⯑miſed; but firſt I muſt give you a little deſcripti⯑on of the charming girl, whom you have not ſeen ſince ſhe was a mere child. Though ſhe was always a beautiful child, ſhe has now, I think, ſtill more beauty than her infancy pro⯑miſed, and will, I preſume, be reckoned much handſomer than our admired Cornelia herſelf, by all men who prefer a lively countenance to a tender one. They are exactly of the ſame height; and Louiſa, with the elegant ſhape of our friend, has a ſmiling ſet of features, that ſeem to ſay there is no ſuch thing as ſorrow in the world. Happily, indeed, it has hitherto been as much a ſtranger to her as if it did not exiſt; and as to the ſolicitudes of Love, you will gueſs what experience ſhe has of them, when I tell you ſhe has yet found them only fit ſubjects for laughter.

I never ſee our tender widow and this ſpright⯑ly girl together, but I have the two following lines of Shakſpeare at the end of my tongue: [5] though I muſt confeſs my application of them appears rather cruel,

To play, indeed, from morning to night ſeems the ruling propenſity of Louiſa. Beſides ſinging ſprightly ſongs with great humour and pleaſantry, this laughter-loving gypſey is a moſt admirable mimic. She half-delighted and half-provoked me and Caroline yeſterday, by taking off what ſhe calls the impaſſioned langour of the widow and the ſolemn ſympathy of Seymour: ſhe is, however, much too delicate and well-bred to attempt any thing of this kind in the pre⯑ſence of Cornelia; but when my huſband and Seymour have got the ſaucy arch girl to them⯑ſelves, ſhe does not ſpare the inamorato, as I learn from a ſcene that paſſed yeſterday in the garden, and produced a very ſingular effect with⯑in doors, though at the moment it eſcaped my obſervation.

It happened that I and Caroline (I cannot yet familiarize myſelf to the formal ſound of Mrs. Monſon) were ſtanding to chat with Cor⯑nelia at her toilet. The windows of her dreſſ⯑ing-room, you know, have a perfect command of the new terrace where Louiſa, I find was ſauntering, in one of her gayeſt moods, between the two gentlemen. As I chanced to turn my back to the window, I had not perceived the party in the garden, and had indeed my eyes and attention fully engaged by the features and dreſs of our lovely friend; who, between our⯑ſelves, appears to me a little more curious in [6] ſetting her cap than ſhe uſed to be before the ar⯑rival of my niece. She had borrowed Caroline's aſſiſtance to adjuſt ſome feathers after the Spa⯑niſh faſhion; and, while they were both thus en⯑gaged, I was ſuddenly alarmed by ſeeing Cor⯑nelia turn as pale as death; a cold trembling ſeized her whole frame, and all the lovelineſs of her ſweet countenance was loſt in a ſtrange ex⯑preſſion of deſponding wretchedneſs, or rather of lifeleſs vacancy. Not ſuſpecting the real ſource of her diſorder, and apprehenſive that ſhe was on the point of falling into a fainting fit from mere weakneſs of body, I led her to the ſopha, and was very buſy with my bottle of hartſhorn. The moment I had placed her in a poſture of eaſe and quiet, ſhe was relieved by a violent burſt of tears; and preſſing my hand, ſhe ſaid, in a broken voice, "Be not ſo terrifi⯑ed, my dear Harriot: I have no malady to ſtruggle with, but my own folly; and I ſhall ſubdue that preſently, if you and Caroline will have the goodneſs to leave me for a few mi⯑nutes alone." Unwilling as I was to quit her, I did not heſitate to comply with her requeſt, becauſe I perceived, by the looks of Caroline, that ſhe had ſome thoughts on the occaſion that ſhe wiſhed to communicate in private.— We accordingly withdrew together; and the moment we got into my room, "For Heaven's ſake, my dear Caroline, ſaid I, can you account for all this?" "Oh, Madam, replied the warm-hearted and grateful Caroline, ſhe muſt, indeed ſhe muſt, be the wife of Mr. Seymour; pray do not let Mr. Audley oppoſe it; I would venture my life on their being happy together. Though Mr. Seymour it not quite ſo devout as [7] he ſhould be, yet he has a thouſand noble vir⯑tues; and ſhe loves him to diſtraction." "I think with you entirely, my dear Caroline, I replied; but this is no anſwer to my queſtion: I thought by your manner that you had diſco⯑vered the immediate cauſe of my poor friend's agitation." "Diſcovered it! cried Caroline, Ah, Madam, you would have ſeen it plain e⯑nough, if you had caſt an eye towards the win⯑dow at the moment that Mrs. Sedley and I hap⯑pened to do ſo. Poor lady! ſhe is far gone in⯑deed; but, I believe, in her caſe I ſhould have been affected as much." "Affected at what! dear Caroline, don't torture my curioſity ſo bar⯑barouſly. For heaven's ſake what did you ſee?" "Nothing, madam, but an idle frolic of Mr. Seymour with Miſs Louiſa. She had provoked him, I ſuppoſe, by mimicking the poor lady who doats on him; how that might be I can't tell; but juſt as Mrs. Sedley turned ſo ſick, I happened to ſpy Mr. Seymour catching hold of Miſs Louiſa, who had tried to run from him, and kiſſing her moſt unmercifully." "Poor Cornelia! I exclaimed with a ſigh, can a ſight like this affect thee ſo woefully! Well, my good Caroline, I continued, pray do not men⯑tion a ſyllable of this idle affair to any crea⯑ture except your huſband. I will inſtantly re⯑turn to my poor friend, and ſee if ſhe has ho⯑neſty, or rather ſtrength enough, to avow to me of her own accord the real cauſe of her ſuffering." I found Cornelia greatly recovered, yet ſo anxi⯑ous to evade all diſcourſe that might lead to an explanation of what had paſſed, that from a ſin⯑cere deſire not to diſtreſs her tender ſpirits, I ſa⯑crificed my deſign of leading her to a full confeſ⯑ſion. [8] Yet, to ſhew to what an uncommon degree of amiable ingenuouſneſs reigns in the heart of this admirable creature, I muſt tell you how ſhe behaved to me on our retiring at night: ſhe took me to her own chamber, and ſending away her ſervant, began to apologize for her reſerve to⯑wards me before dinner. "I feel that I am guilty of ingratitude, my dear Harriot, ſaid this tendereſt of friends, in attempting to con⯑ceal any exceſſes of my folly from you, whoſe indulgence, and whoſe zeal to comfort me, have ever kept pace with my hapleſs propenſity to torment myſelf. To-day, indeed, I was aſhamed to confeſs my extreme weakneſs to you in the moment; perhaps our gentle Caroline, who perceived it all, though ſhe was too delicate to utter a ſyllable before me that proved her con⯑ſcious of my folly, perhaps Caroline has explain⯑ed to you all the myſtery of my fooliſh agitation. Ah! my too indulgent Harriot, to what an ex⯑travagant and ſilly pitch of fondneſs have you raiſed my dangerous partiality for a man to whom I muſt never be united! My reaſon tells me ſufficiently that I have no right to be jealous of him; yet I cannot behold him careſſ⯑ing even your niece Louiſa, in a romping fro⯑lic, without ſuch wretched and unjuſtifiable ſen⯑ſations as I am ready to deteſt, and deſpiſe my own heart for feeling. I did not think that any human boſom could be ſo very weak and unjuſt; and much leſs did I ſuſpect myſelf to be capa⯑ble of the extreme weakneſs and injuſtice which I am now deploring; but ſince it is ſo, my dear Harriot, pray contrive for me to make a decent retreat to-morrow to my own quiet manſion; and inſtead of encouraging"—

[9]I heard the tender ſoul with the moſt patient ſilence thus far; but here I could not refrain from entering into a very warm oppoſition, both to her ſentiments and her project of retiring from our party. We had a curious diſſertation on the paſſion of jealouſy, in which I affirmed, that a woman never feels it ſo painfully, as when ſhe fancies ſhe has no right to feel it at all. We ran over all the old and new ground of argument for and againſt Seymour; in ſhort, we ſpent half the night in a very diver⯑ſified converſation, during which I laughed and wept, and ſcolded and ſoothed our dear ſelf-torturing friend alternately, till at laſt I left her a little reconciled both to herſelf and her lover. In wiſhing her a good night I added a ſaucy declaration, that I ſhould act as queen in my own caſtle; that if ſhe talked again of re⯑moving, I ſhould iſſue an order for her cloſe confinement; and publiſh an edict at the ſame time, in which Seymour ſhould be threatened with inſtant death if he was ſeen to touch any lips but her own.

Thus, my dear Lucy, by a mixture of ſeri⯑ouſneſs and ſport, I endeavour to preſerve the mind of our gentle friend from purſuing any immediate and deſperate reſolution that might prove fatal to her future peace. Would to Hea⯑ven I could as eaſily remove Seymour's diſtreſſ⯑ing infidelity in religion as I can annihilate the vehement reſolves which poor Cornelia will ſometimes utter of renouncing his ſociety for ever! My huſband encourages me to hope that time may do much in promoting the happineſs of this intereſting couple, if we can but prevent the eagerneſs of Love on one ſide, and of Fear [10] on the other, from taking any precipi⯑tate meaſures to accelerate or preclude their union. He wiſhes to keep them for a few months in an abſolute neutrality. But this is a project which even his friendly zeal, and his perſuaſive addreſs, will hardly be able to accom⯑pliſh. We cannot utterly change the diſpoſi⯑tions of Nature. Love, in a boſom like Sey⯑mour's, will be impetuous; and Terror, in a frame like Cornelia's, will be precipitate. For my part, I ſhould not be ſurprized if our dear conſcientious friend ſhould be terrified ſtill more than ſhe is, by a viſion of the poor departed Sed⯑ley, and ſhould ſteal away from us in the night. The conflict of the various paſſions that agitate her mind is truly pitiable; and at the very mo⯑ment when I attempt to relieve her by laughing at her perplexities, my heart inwardly bleeds for the anguiſh of hers. Yet perhaps ſhe ſays truly, my dear Lucy, that you, from the pecu⯑liar incidents of your paſt life, are more able to enter into her preſent feelings than I am. From this idea ſhe will have great ſatisfaction in un⯑burthening her full ſoul to you; and as you will certainly have a letter from her very ſoon, you will the more readily allow me to cloſe this long pacquet. Pray tell our dear Edmund that we think a change of air would have ſecured him from a relapſe, and that we wiſh him to take that precaution againſt a ſecond. Cannot you make it ſuit you both to come to us at this critical time; when the ſage Edmund might prove a very uſeful Mentor to our young Tele⯑machus, not in driving him away from the en⯑joyments of Love, but in teaching him how to ſecure them? If, however, we muſt not ex⯑pect [11] the pleaſure of adding you to our party, as I fear we muſt not; be aſſured that I ſhall ſend you quick tidings of every intereſting occur⯑rence relative to the great object of our general ſolicitude. Louiſa longs to renew her acquaint⯑ance with you, and unites her kind wiſhes to thoſe of

LETTER II. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

IF you wiſh, my dear Edmund, to be plea⯑ſantly laughed out of all the ſingularities belong⯑ing to the condition of a confirmed bachelor, aye, and out of the condition itſelf, let me ad⯑viſe you to haſten hither. Here have we a pretty madcap from Ireland, whoſe magical powers are ſtrong enough, I believe, to meta⯑morphoſe the ſtiffeſt advocate for a ſingle life [12] into the ſuppleſt of all ſupple creatures, an uxo⯑rious and contented huſband. In ſerious truth, our young Louiſa is a moſt lovely girl, and play⯑ful as the air which ſports with every feather that flies acroſs it. How it would delight me to ſee our dear diſcreet Edmond moſt profound⯑ly in love with this ſweet ſportive damſel! By Heaven, ſhe has all the vivacity and frolic of your Sylvia, with good-nature and innocence into the bargain. She is the richeſt anti⯑dote that Nature can furniſh you with againſt thoſe poiſonous vapours of ſpleen and timidity which you ſometimes feel and lament, and which ſeldom fail, I believe, to infeſt the ſingle in the latter ſtages of life. She is the very thing for you; perfectly qualified, though a child of Nature, to reliſh your wit, and to repay you for it, by a lighter and more copious coin of her own. Why, man, ſhe would de⯑ſtroy all your troubleſome doubts, ſcruples, and depreſſions, as St. Patrick deſtroyed the rats of her country by rhyming them to death. She will ſpout you verſes like a young prieſteſs of Apollo; yet the lovely creature has not an atom of pedantry or affectation about her; ſhe has, however, the dangerous diverting talent of mi⯑mickry to perfection. If my love to Cornelia had not been thoroughly rooted in my heart, I believe this gay gypſey would have beat it out of my boſom, by the mere force of her wit and humour. She took me off, the other day, as we were ſtrolling, with only your brother, in the garden, with ſuch provoking powers of ri⯑dicule, that, having little to ſay in my defence, I was forced to take vengeance on her lips. I believe ſhe will not ſpeedily renew the provoca⯑tion; for, ſeizing her with all my force, I not [13] only kiſſed her without mercy, but refuſed to releaſe her till ſhe, in her turn, beſtowed a few kiſſes on me; and the warm luxuriant crea⯑ture

"Theſe are dangerous frolicks, Seymour, very dangerous indeed." This, I know, will be the exclamation of my dear timid monitor in peruſing this little anecdote; and dangerous, I grant you, my good man of caution, ſuch a frolic might be, had your ſerious worſhip been in my place. Had your ſolidity ventured ſo near as I did to this flaming beauty, I am con⯑fident ſhe would have ſet you in a blaze; but I bear a charmed heart. The image of my lovely widow is ſo magically engraven there, that no other enchantreſs has power to affect it. As to that danger which you, in the friendly abun⯑dance of your fears, have apprehended for the damſel herſelf, believe me, ſhe is perfectly ſe⯑cure. Louiſa is one of thoſe happy girls whoſe ſenſe and ſpirit enable them to jeſt, and even to romp, without endangering the freedom of their affections, and the delicacy of their cha⯑racter; or, as you will ſay of her when you are as much in love with this lively charmer as I wiſh you to be, ſhe is a Venus, who can ſport with Momus, without forgetting that ſhe is the Queen of the Graces. And now, though you have not ſeen her, I underſtand, ſince ſhe was an infant, I ſha [...]l deem you a very barbarous fellow if you do not inſtantly fall in love with her upon my ſuggeſtion; eſpecially as I have actually opened the campaign as your aid-du⯑camp, [14] and have laid ſtrong ſiege to her heart in your name: I may venture to add, that I have made conſiderable advances in this exploit; ſo pray hear what they are. Firſt, I have made her intimately acquainted with all your virtues, talents, and perfections; but this is the leaſt important part of my ſervice; my capital ſtroke in your favour is the following. Secondly, I have made her equally acquainted with your oddities and foibles. A pretty method (you will ſay) of ſerving a friend. But hear me out, Edmund. In making her thus intimately ac⯑quainted with your oddities and foibles, I have ſhewn her, at the ſame time, how exactly ſuit⯑ed her own charms and accompliſhments are to correct, improve, and make you a perfect crea⯑ture. This I have done for you, my dear diffi⯑dent philoſopher; and I defy you, after all your profound meditations on the virtues and ca⯑prices of the fair ſex, to point out to me any conduct by which I could more effectually create for you a tender intereſt in the boſom of the lady. Though you are often a champion for the fair, I believe in your private thoughts you do not think ſo highly of women as I do. For my own part, I am perſuaded that a young, artleſs, ſenſible, inexperienced woman, is ge⯑nerally actuated by a ſincere and ardent deſire to make her own tender virtues of real utility to the world. This, by the way, will explain the reaſon why ſo many of this deſcription have married in the hope of reforming a rake. It is not, as the vulgar phraſe will have it, that wo⯑men love to ſee a ſpice of the devil in man, or that they have a vain confidence in their own perſonal attractions; no, it is becauſe nothing is ſo bewitching to a virtuous mind without ex⯑perience, [15] as the expectation of rendering its own virtue an inſtrument of good.

But what a ſad pedantic varlet am I growing, to run on in this fine moral diſſertation upon you and your laughing Louiſa (for ſhe muſt be yours), without beſtowing a ſyllable on my pale, penſive, perplexed, yet adorable and faithfully adored Cornelia! But here comes my youngeſt female monitor, my little Mentor in petticoats, the grateful Caroline; who has juſt entered my room to fulfil her promiſe of indulg⯑ing me in a long private conference, in which I have a million of queſtions to aſk. By the arch ſmile on her countenance ſhe has ſome pleaſant tidings to give me concerning my idol; but, as ſhe tells me the courier of the houſe is waiting for this letter, I muſt reſerve her good news to enliven my next. At preſent you have food enough for your imagination and your heart, in what I have ſaid of Louiſa.—So good digeſtion wait on appetite, and health on both!

LETTER III. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

IT is from you alone, my dear Lucy, that I can expect perfect ſympathy and compaſſion for the various agitations of heart and mind which I continually endure. Though our ex⯑cellent Harriot has certainly one of the tendereſt hearts in the world, and is all kindneſs to me; yet having known, in her own happy lot, no⯑thing but the felicity of a moſt fortunate affec⯑tion, ſhe cannot thoroughly enter into all the diverſified wretchedneſs ariſing from a paſſion that we can neither renounce nor ſubdue. You, my dear girl, have paſſed through the fiery or⯑deal, which is now conſuming my peace, and perhaps ſome portion of my integrity; for I fear I am acting very wrong, in ſpite of all that our too indulgent Harriot alledges in my de⯑fence, to remain here in the ſociety of a faſci⯑nating creature, from whom I ought, I think, both for his ſake and my own, to hide myſelf for ever. But I will unburthen my full boſom to you, my dear Lucy, and lay my whole ſoul before you, in the hope that your experience, as well as your tenderneſs, may miniſter in ſome degree to my relief.

[17]You have known, my good girl, what it is to love in ſpite of reaſon, and without a hope of being united to the object of your regard. Ah, my dear Lucy, how ſincerely do I admire that nobleneſs of ſpirit with which you have finally triumphed over feelings that ſeem to annihilate the beſt faculties of the mind! But your can⯑dour will allow that you had one great advan⯑tage which I am very far from poſſeſſing: in diſcovering the baſeneſs of the man who had artfully engaged your affections, you had an op⯑portunity of ſummoning your pride to your ſupport: ‘Your bane and antidote were both before you.’

But, alas, the caſe is far otherwiſe with me! "The gallant, the princely Seymour," to give him the titles conferred on him by yourſelf, has, I find, no qualities (as you have often told me when arguing in his favour) "to awaken either contempt or indifference; and to love him once, is to love him for ever." How often, my dear friend, has that forcible expreſſion of yours recur⯑red upon my heart! and how many wonderful occurrences, ſince you and I parted, have con⯑ſpired to make me feel the truth of it as I do at this moment; but, while I am thoroughly convinced that my affection for him is become a part of my exiſtence, I feel with equal convic⯑tion the cruel neceſſity if rejecting him as a huſ⯑band. Why am I here then in his company? Why do I linger thus, like a guilty ghoſt, in a ſcene that I ought and wiſh to abandon? Ah, my dear Lucy, if you could ſee how pale and thin your poor Cornelia is grown, you would not think the word ghoſt miſapplied; and that I [18] am in ſome degree guilty, my conſcience tells me every hour; for, by ſtaying here, I ſeem to practiſe an ungenerous deceit towards Seymour, and may lead him perhaps to cheriſh a diſtant hope of accompliſhing what never muſt come to paſs. Why, then, do I ſtay? Why, truly, becauſe your good brother and ſiſter will have it ſo. They would perſuade me, that time may do wonders in removing the great and only ob⯑ſtacle to this much-deſired, yet impoſſible, union. Your brother, this very morning, re⯑fuſed to hear a petition that I attempted to make to him, for leave to depart; and turned from me, with the following parody on a couplet of Gray's:

Ah, my dear Lucy, I will confeſs to you there are times when this tranſporting idea takes full poſſeſſion of my ſoul. When I fond⯑ly imagine myſelf deſtined by Heaven to reſcue the generous Seymour from the vain illuſions and arrogant ſophiſtry of the world, and to make him a true ſervant of that Divine Maſter whoſe laws are ſo conſonant to the purity and the benevolence of his heart, how exquiſite is the delight of this heavenly idea! With what enthuſiaſtic tranſport have I frequently in my own mind applied to Seymour and myſelf the following charming lines from the Royal Con⯑vert of Rowe:

Yet, in ſpite of this holy fortitude and fer⯑vor, which ſeem in ſome or my private moments to render me a new and more exalted being, I ſoon relapſe again into my poor trembling ſelf. Though I feel, at times, as if I had ſufficient powers of language and reaſoning to produce a total and immediate change in the religious ſen⯑timents of Seymour; and though I love him with ſo pure and diſintereſted a paſſion that I would moſt willingly ſacrifice my life to enſure his converſion; yet ſuch a poor, weak wretch am I, my dear Lucy, by nature, that I dare not even utter a ſyllable to him on the ſubject of Religion; and a cold involuntary tremor runs through my whole frame, if the conver⯑ſation ſeems to be taking that turn, whenever we are in company together. Still our dear encouraging Harriot would induce me to hope that the mild engaging piety of her huſband, and his conciliating manners, united to the ſecret influence of Love, may gradually accom⯑pliſh what I have not faculties to attempt, and give to us at laſt the happy convert that we ſo ardently wiſh to behold. "Why ſhould we deſpair, ſays this indulgent friend and moſt in⯑defatigable of advocates, why ſhould we deſpair of ſeeing a candid, a magnanimous young man relinquiſh the accidental prejudice of his youth? If Seymour were one of thoſe lawleſs libertines who abhor, in the Goſpel, an inſupportable curb to their ſenſual and imperious paſſions; or if he were one of thoſe cold-hearted and arro⯑gant [20] ſophiſts who decide every thing that does not ſquare with their own infallible reaſon; we might indeed deſpair of his converſion. But Seymour is a character very different from theſe. In embracing the law of Chriſt, he will ſubject himſelf to no reſtraint from which his heart can feel a wiſh to revolt: on the contrary, he will ſecure to himſelf, by this meaſure, the only object of his paſſion to att [...]chment." Ah, my dear Lucy, you, I am ſure, will forgive me, for liſtening ſometimes with the fondeſt credulity to theſe inſinuating arguments. Alas! how deeply am I puniſhed for that credulity, when⯑ever my own poor wavering mind flies back again, as it frequently does, to the oppoſite per⯑ſuaſion! I then think myſelf the moſt culpable of creatures. I ſeem to have deſerted my prime duty to my dear children, by ſuffering myſelf to be thus more and more entangled in a con⯑nexion, which might ultimately lead me to vi⯑olate the dying injunction of their father, and expoſe them to the worſt of evils. But no, my dear Lucy, this ſhall never be. I have taken a moſt ſacred oath, as Harriot has told you, that I will never be the wife of an infidel. Seymour is too noble to delude me with hypocriſy; and whatever d [...]ſtiny may await me, I am ſecure againſt this deepeſt of calamities. Why, then, am I tormented with ſuch a dread and horror of what never can befall me? For, O, my dear friend, I am tormented to a degree that I can hardly impart, without a ſcruple, to your ten⯑der boſom. I know how you will feel for me, when I tell you (what I have not confeſſed to Harriot) that I am haunted by viſions which almoſt freeze my blood, and render me an ob⯑ject [21] of deteſtation to m [...]ſelf. You will ſuppoſe I am perſecuted in my dreams by the image of the poor departed Sedley: but it is not ſo; to my great ſurpriſe, I have never dreamt of him in all my preſent agitation of ſpirits. No; my viſions are much more horrid, for I have dream⯑ed that my exceſſive paſſion for Seymour had annihilated all my natural affection for my chil⯑dren. O GOD! my dear Lucy, this is a hor⯑ror of which you can form no adequate concep⯑tion. I had hardly cloſed my eyes laſt night when I ſeemed to behold the miſery of my alie⯑nated children. I heard William ſhriek out, to the poor little affrighted Charles, "Our mother is turned into a treacherous friend!" Their looks of terror and abhorrence pierced me to the ſoul. I ſtrove to convince them of my fondneſs; the poor bewildered innocents fled from me. I purſued them through innumera⯑ble difficulties; till at laſt I awoke in a burſt of convulſive anguiſh, and found myſelf actually kneeling and weeping over the little bed in my chamber where the two dear boys were happily aſleep. At firſt I could hardly believe my own happineſs, in finding them ſo tranquil; and I took the light which I always burn in my room to convince myſelf of its truth, by a full ſurvey of their ſweet little placid features. The con⯑traſt of their ſoft delicious ſlumber, and the ago⯑ny which I had dreamed they were ſuffering, threw me into freſh floods of tears. In retiring to my own pillow, I addreſſed a moſt ardent prayer to Heaven, not only to preſerve theſe dear infants from all the evil which my weak⯑neſs might draw upon them, but to deliver both myſelf and Seymour from this diſquieting paſ⯑ſion, [22] which ſeems ſo likely to prove a misfor⯑tune to both. I am afraid you will think me hardly ſincere in this prayer; yet believe me, my dear friend, if I know my own heart and ſoul, I was ſo moſt truly. But to you, my dear Lucy, I ſhall not heſitate to confeſs, that the more I ſtruggle to free myſelf from this faſcinat⯑ing attachment, the more I feel myſelf the ſlave of an unfortunate affection, which has ſo much to plead in its excuſe. My reaſon and my con⯑ſcience continually ſuggeſt to me that I am wrong; and there are times when I feel a ſort of hatred towards Seymour, for having led me to a ſtate of mind ſo full of pain and diſtreſs. Even in my private meditations my heart will often ſeem to ſhrink from him, and hold it as a crime even to think of his perfections. But theſe feelings are tranſient; and they are generally followed by ſuch a relapſe of tender paſſions, that I am ready to addreſs the image of this dear enemy to my peace in the words of Ethe⯑linda:

You, my dear friend, you and Harriot have been cruelly inſtrumental to my diſquietude and diſtreſs, by your well-intended, but fatal indul⯑gence to me, at the early period of my attach⯑ment; when you ridiculed my honeſt endea⯑vours to conceal and ſubdue my affection, when you delighted to fan the flame that I was vainly labouring to extinguiſh. Time and chance have conſpired ſtill more cruelly to give this [23] moſt enchanting of men a dominion over my heart. I have a ſtrange mixture of pain and delight in reflecting on the great obligation that I owe him. He has indeed, as you have often ſaid of him, ſo many attractive accom⯑pliſhments and virtues, that it is hardly poſſible for any woman to ſee him frequently without feeling an affectionate admiration of his charac⯑ter. Surely no man ever poſſeſſed in ſo high a degree that rare union of tenderneſs and ſpirit which is ſo particularly engaging to our ſex, or ſuch admirable delicacy of manners, without a ſhadow of artifice or affectation. O Lucy, I could ſcribble a volume on the excellence and peculiarity of his attractions; but though his perfections will more than juſtify, my good girl, your ardent friendſhip for him, I feel that, great as they are, they cannot afford a ſufficient ſanction to my love. It is enough that my conſcience repeatedly informs me I muſt not in⯑dulge it. Conſcience, my good Lucy, is a much ſafer guide than Friendſhip herſelf, however zealous and enlightened; and when we act a⯑gainſt the dictates of this internal monitor, e⯑ven in points that ſeem hardly material, how deeply are we puniſhed! Alas, I am a ſad ex⯑ample how deeply I offended this inflexible judge, when I complied with the preſſing ſoli⯑citations of our dear Harriot in attending her hither. What I have endured ſince I came under her friendly roof you may partly gueſs, from what I have told you already. But, alas! my dear Lucy, I have not yet told you all my weak⯑neſſes or my ſufferings. You have probably heard what I allude to from our communica⯑tive Harriot, becauſe it was a weakneſs that I con⯑feſſed [24] to her, and confiding in your kindneſs and ſecrecy, I lay her under no reſtraint in what ſhe ſays of me to you; yet her tenderneſs, perhaps, in this point, may have ſpared me. I will there⯑fore be frank enough to tell you under my own hand, that I have within theſe few days been the weakeſt and moſt unjuſt of women; I have been fool enough to grow moſt abſurdly jealous of him whoſe addreſſes I had determined to re⯑ject. Oh, Lucy, I did not think there had been ſuch inconſiſtency in woman; much leſs in my own heart. You, I know, will rather pity than ridicule me, when I tell you that up⯑on accidentally ſeeing Seymour careſſing our young Louiſa in a mere frolic, I felt as if my whole frame was ſhattered on the rack. Of all the ſenſations that I remember to have endured in my life, this, my dear friend, was the moſt hideouſly painful; it ſeemed as if my heart was abſolutely torn away from its ſeat, and there was nothing but drear vacuity in my boſom. Heaven have mercy upon the jealous, if ſuch are the tortures they endure! But my pain could not be owing to mere jealouſy; it was ra⯑ther the effect of a ſudden ſurprize, upon nerves that have been dreadfully ſhaken. I think I could ſee the ſame thing again without feeling any emotion at the ſight; yet I will not pre⯑tend to more fortitude, or more juſtice, than I have. You have often very feelingly lament⯑ed your own weakneſs to me, my dear friend; and I am now abundantly returning your con⯑fidence. I have a double reaſon for thus un⯑folding to you every inſtance of my folly. Firſt, as proof of my perfect regard for you. Second⯑ly, becauſe I hope, in thus ſhewing how tho⯑roughly [25] I am aware of my own infirmity, I may gain credit with you for the ſtrength and wiſdom that I mean to recover and exert. I have formed a plan, in my own mind, for my deliverance; upon which I am particularly ſoli⯑citous to have your opinion, becauſe I think no one can enter into my feelings ſo thoroughly as yourſelf. Our dear Harriot, and her moſt friendly huſband, judge me too hardly, or ra⯑ther too tenderly. From their eager wiſh to exempt me from pain, they ſuppoſe me unable to endure it; they both believe me ſo incurably enamoured of Seymour, that they think no e⯑vent but our marriage can preſerve my exiſt⯑ence; but, weak as I feel and confeſs myſelf to be, I have ſtill, I am convinced, a ſtrength of ſpirit far ſuperior to what they imagine. Our dear and zealous Harriot is ſo vehement for this impoſſible marriage, that ſhe wants me to overlook the grand and inſuperable objection. She tells me, that I ought to be ſatisfied by ſuch conceſſions as Seymour, ſhe ſays, is very will⯑ing to make. That if I have the moſt unqueſti⯑onable aſſurance that all my children ſhall be re⯑ligiouſly educated in the Chriſtian Faith, and my own principles unmoleſted by oppoſition, I have no reaſon to diſturb myſelf concerning the private creed of my huſband. But, ſituated as I am, I feel it is my prime duty to regard the dying injunction of poor Sedley, and to main⯑tain the voluntary oath which I was induced to take from an exceſs of anxiety for my children. I might indeed confide in any promiſe of Sey⯑mour's; for, ſtranger as he moſt unhappily is to the only true Religion, in all other points he is truth itſelf. If he gave his word to this arti⯑cle, [26] I can believe that he never would urge a ſingle argument, or attempt by ridicule to ſhake the faith of my children or of his own. But, if he did not poiſon their young minds by his doctrine, might he not miſlead them by his in⯑ſinuating example? Might he not induce even me to grow cold and negligent in the moſt important duty of life, and to relinquiſh imper⯑ceptibly the worſhip of my Redeemer? Yes, my dear friend, I will confeſs to you, that I could not promiſe for my own firmneſs, were I to place myſelf in ſo perilous a ſituation; even now I often contemplate the irreligion of the man I love in too favourable a light. I am too ready to ſay, like Zayre, in my favourite French play,

By conſidering his infidelity as the natural conſequence of a faſhionable education, I fre⯑quently loſe all the horror with which it ought to inſpire me. I ſhould not be able perhaps to ſtruggle with this weakneſs of my heart and [27] mind ſo effectually as I now hope to do, had not the forcible admonitions of my dear Har⯑riot's father awakened me to the fulleſt ſenſe of my dangers and my duty. Good daughter as ſhe is, ſhe could hardly forgive him for his ve⯑hemence againſt Seymour, in that diſtreſſed night of which ſhe ſays ſhe gave you a very mi⯑nute deſcription; yet he certainly acted only the part that became him, as a friend and a divine. The more I reflect on the many ſtrong and juſt things he ſaid, the more I feel myſelf indebted to his virtue, and the more I hope to profit by his advice; though, as I have already confeſſed to you, there are times when it has not the ſlighteſt influence on my feelings. In my more diſcreet hours I endeavour to fortify my ſpirit by calling his very powerful lecture to my mind. One of his remarks made a very deep impreſſion upon me. In entering minutely in⯑to the character of Seymour, after doing full juſtice to his courage, his generoſity, and his engaging accompliſhments, he ſaid, "I will grant you, that he is a moſt delightful compa⯑nion for your ſex at his preſent period of life; there is a vivacity and good-nature in youth that can hide all the hideouſneſs of impiety it⯑ſelf; but the main queſtion is, what ſort of a huſband will this man make towards the middle and latter end of his days, when his gaiety be⯑gins to languiſh, from the emptineſs of human pleaſures, and his lively temper is rendered more ſplenetic and imperious by the inevitable vexations of the world? Theſe are the trying ſeaſons of our exiſtence; and if he is deſtitute of Religion, as we know but too well he is, believe me he is deſtitute of every thing that [28] can tranquillize his own ſpirit at the period I am ſpeaking of, and enable him to diffuſe light and comfort to his domeſtic circle." I have given you, I believe, very near the exact words of my vehement and venerable counſellor; for, agitated as I was, every ſyllable that he uttered ſunk deep into my ſoul; and as there is, you know, a ſtrange ſpirit of contradiction in our nature, I believe I remember his expreſſions the more accurately, becauſe the too indulgent Har⯑riot has wiſhed me to forget them: the laſt time that I recalled ſome of theſe to her recollection, ſhe was almoſt angry with me, and ſaid, in her ſpirited manner, that I ſhould realize the ſtory of the poor Lady Clementina, and drive myſelf quite out of my ſenſes by my religious ſcruples. But, as I told her in my reply our caſes are widely different; that enchanting cha⯑racter, whether true or ideal, had many cir⯑cumſtances to diſtract her, from which I am happily exempt: ſhe was perſecuted by proud and imperious relations; the little difference be⯑tween her own creed and that of Grandiſon was not ſufficiently viſible and weighty to make her mind clear and reſolute in her deciſion againſt him. Alas! how different is my caſe! I diſ⯑tinctly ſee my own duty; and I truſt I am now compleatly determined to fulfil it. I ſhall, how⯑ever take a hint from the noble Clementina. I am ſtrongly inclined to ſolicit the well-known generoſity of my lover to ſupport me againſt himſelf. This, my dear Lucy, is the plan upon which I am anxious for your opinion. Our dear Harriot has very innocently increaſed my miſery, by her eagerneſs to relieve it; though I had not power to refuſe her preſſing [29] intreaties, I am now too painfully convinced, by my own ſufferings, that I ought not to have made one of the party here. My peace is fled, and my health is waſting rapidly away. I have no chance of recovering a tolerable degree of quiet, but in a reſolute and haſty retreat to my own ſolitary manſion. I muſt take, however, my dear boys along with me; for all my force and fortitude originates in them. The Mon⯑ſons, I know, will follow me with their other little pupils. In the grateful and ſenſible Caro⯑line I have a valuable boſom-friend, moſt anxi⯑ous for my laſting happineſs, though confeſſedly in the intereſt of her generous protector.

Our dear Harriot thinks me ſo totally unfit to be my own guide, that I know ſhe would not patiently hear of this project, neceſſary as I feel it is to my peace. I think, therefore, of accompliſhing my departure without her ſuſ⯑pecting it. All this I have ſettled in my own mind, and am much eaſier ſince I formed the reſolution. But now, my dear ſympathetic friend, decide for me the great point that per⯑plexes me: ſhall I, or ſhall I not, leave a long letter for Seymour; unfolding moſt frankly to him all the painful paſt conflicts in my boſom; and conjuring him, by the ſincerity of that diſ⯑intereſted love which he profeſſes, to let me peaceably purſue the only line of conduct that can poſſibly ſecure to me the laſting approba⯑tion of my heart, and the tranquillity of my mind? I know, if I aſked Harriot the queſtion that I have now propoſed to you, my dear Lu⯑cy, ſhe would wickedly laugh in my face, and tell me, that the ardent imagination of Seymour would conſider ſuch an epiſtle as a delicate hint [30] to purſue me to Sedley-hall. But our ſprightly friend does not, I think, perfectly underſtand either Seymour or me. As to myſelf, I ſhould aſſuredly wiſh to be underſtood as literally ſin⯑cere in my requeſt; and I am willing to think that Seymour, with all his impetuous ſpirit, has too much penetration, and too much delicacy, to put ſo wrong a conſtruction on the language of a woman, when ſhe candidly reveals her whole ſoul to him without a ſhadow of reſerve. But tell me what you think; and tell me ſpeedi⯑ly, my dear girl. Suppoſe yourſelf exactly in my ſituation, and tell me how you would act: yet you cannot do ſo completely; your imagi⯑nation, lively and powerful as it is, cannot perfectly ſuggeſt to you all the ſtrong feelings of a mother ſituated as I am. But how many ſtriking circumſtances have I to impreſs upon my heart all the great duties of that important character! The extreme lovelineſs of my chil⯑dren, the dying requeſt of my poor Sedley, the admonitions of my own excellent father, who, delighting in the uncommon name that he gave me, uſed frequently to bid me remember that he gave it me, not becauſe it ſounded well, and was ſingular, but becauſe it had belonged to a Roman lady diſtinguiſhed by the luſtre of her maternal virtues, and becauſe he hoped that if Heaven bleſſed me with children, it might make me as attentive as ſhe was to the care of their education. O you benevolent ſpirits who were once on earth the kind monitors of your Cornelia, and are now perhaps looking down upon her from Heaven, I will not forget you, and the principles which you infuſed into my [31] ſoul! I will baniſh all love from my boſom, but the love of thoſe dear little ones whom you commended to my care. I will live only for them. Write, and confirm me, my dear Lu⯑cy, in this only ſafe, this triumphant reſolution. No words can expreſs the relief that I have found already in thus pouring forth my whole heart to you. You will comprehend all its com⯑plicated emotions. You will compaſſionate all its weakneſs. You will rejoice in its reviving energy. You will applaud my conſcientious deciſion; and your applauſe will operate as a cordial on the ſtill trembling ſpirits of

P. S. Alas! what a poor ſlave am I to Time and Chance! Five minutes ago I was exulting in the cloſe of this immenſe pacquet, and in the comfort I anticipated from your expected an⯑ſwer; and now I have a great mind to throw all theſe cloſely-ſcribbled ſheets into the fire; for, behold, the great queſtion, on which I was ſo anxious to conſult you, is ſuddenly be⯑come no queſtion at all; my maid has juſt told me, that Mr. Seymour is going from us to-mor⯑row. Ah, my dear Lucy, what a weak, what a deſpicable creature is your poor vaunting Cornelia! Though I had firmly reſolved to fly from him myſelf, I muſt own to you that I feel mortified to death by his thus retiring from me. Oh, abominable vanity! This is a weakneſs [32] that deſerves no quarter. But I truſt it is only the laſt fluttering momentary flame of an ex⯑hauſted fire, juſt on the point of extinction. Write to me—reprove me—comfort me—exhort and command me to ſtruggle and triumph over all my follies; and to maintain that calm dig⯑nity of character which you have a peculiar right to recommend, from the force and felicity of your example. Adieu; pray remember that I have implicit confidence in your honour, and that I depend on your not ſhewing even a line of this letter to your brother.

LETTER IV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

IF I ever entruſt to any man, my dear Sey⯑mour, a commiſſion to chuſe a wife for me, it ſhall certainly be to you; for I know not in the world a man more entitled to the old claſſical compliment of "elegans formarum ſpectator." You are indeed an accompliſhed judge, both of exterior and internal beauty; of the perſons and [33] the minds of women; but to chuſe a wife is an arduous buſineſs, where good luck, as well as good ſenſe, is ſo eſſentially requiſite, that, without doubting your diſcernment, I may diſ⯑truſt your fortune; and the more ſo, becauſe, after making one choice for yourſelf with con⯑ſummate ſucceſs (for no woman, in my opinion, can be more ſuited to you than Cornelia), you cannot reaſonably expect a ſecond inſtance of marvellous felicity in chuſing for your friend. Did you ever hear of a lottery in which the two twenty thouſands were ſelected by one perſon? As to myſelf, I am, you know, ſo far from be⯑ing ſanguine in my expectations of all matters depending on chance, that I ſhall probably paſs through the world without once venturing on one of theſe richly promiſing matrimonial tick⯑ets; yet, believe me, it is not becauſe I think leſs highly of the ſex than you do; no, indeed, after all that Wit and Satire have written againſt women and wedlock, I am convinced that life is hardly ſupportable without ſome female con⯑nexion; and there is certainly no connexion ſo likely to produce laſting pleaſure and comfort as a marriage where Love may be conſidered as prime miniſter, under the ſovereign authority of Reaſon. But our lot, as to marriage or celi⯑bacy, is generally decided by ſome little inci⯑dent that ſtarts up in the early part of life, and hurries us we know not whither. It was my deſtinity, as you are perfectly apprized, to be ſtrangely entangled in a tender attachment, that I could never entirely approve, that time and experience induce me ſtill more to condemn. and that I yet want the fortitude or the cruelty (call it which you will) to terminate in the [34] manner that would be moſt conducive to my quiet, my intereſt, and my reputation. Man is by nature ſo ſubtile a logician in his own de⯑fence, that he is hardly ever without a very ſpecious reaſon for ſuch conduct as his private inclinations impel him to purſue. Thus I im⯑pute my celibacy not ſolely to my ſecret bondage under the dominion of the too fond and way⯑ward Sylvia, but to circumſtances of a more honourable complexion. My good ſiſter Lucy ſtands forth as the fair and oſtenſible motive for my ſingle life. Indeed the bitter diſappoint⯑ment which this excellent girl met with in her matrimonial proſpect, made me very deſirous of ſettling her where ſhe might at leaſt enjoy the authority of a wife. She has now preſided over my houſe ſo long, has "borne her faculties ſo meekly, and been ſo clear in her great office," that I am inclined to believe we are happier in thus mutually ſupporting our liberties, than ei⯑ther of us would have been under matrimonial dominion.

This being the eaſe, you muſt allow the con⯑firmed bachelor to remain in the quiet enjoy⯑ment of his various odities. I have juſt paſſed the period at which Ariſtotle ſays the good citi⯑zen ought to marry; and ſince I have let the ſeaſon ſlip, I muſt content myſelf with exhort⯑ing you to make ample amends for my omiſſion. Do not, however, ſuppoſe that I mean to throw a double duty upon you, or adviſe you to make love alternately to the virgin and the widow; which you ſeem half inclined to do. Dangerous frolics indeed! Pray be a little more conſtant in your devoirs and a little more temperate in your revenge.—Heaven preſerve your lively [35] Louiſa! I hope ſhe will ſoon be kiſſed by lips leſs vindictive than yours, and much younger than thoſe of the half-hoary ſwain whom your partiality has ſo unſeaſonably recommended to be made young again by her ‘Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles.’

Ah, Seymour, you will find perhaps, when you are on the verge of forty, that you are a better judge of ſuch diſparity. But if I were younger than I am, I ſhould ſtill dread a compa⯑riſon with a ſwain ſo ardent; I ſhould fancy that even the ga [...] Louiſa, though ſhe looked like roſy Mirth when panting under your fiery embrace, might be metamorphoſed into green and yellow Melancholy, upon exchanging that embrace for the more phlegmatic careſſes of your friend. Leave me, therefore to my ſingularities. Let Providence provide for Louiſa; and do you confine all your gentle ſolicitude, all your ten⯑der attention, to the intereſting and deeply en⯑amoured Cornelia;

to expreſs my good wiſhes to you in the words of a play which, Lucy tells me, is a great fa⯑vourite with your lovely and accompliſhed fair-one.

Accept our united benedictions; and believe me ever

LETTER V. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

IN cloſing my laſt to you, my dear Edmund, I gave you reaſon to expect very ſpeedily ſome gay tidings in favour of my love, that were juſt announced to me by the arch ſmile of the good, grateful Caroline. That moſt ſincere and moſt zealous friend to my paſſion had indeed ſome very delicious intelligence to give me; but the excellent creature was ſo divided and confuſed, between her ardent deſire to ſerve me, and her dread of betraying her patroneſs, that I had ſome difficulty in drawing from her lips what ſhe came on purpoſe to communicate. At length, however, my faithful miniſter opened the bud⯑get, and preſented to me ſuch a ſtatement of af⯑fairs, that my heart bounded in my boſom with vanity and joy. My grand wiſh is accom⯑pliſhed; my exquiſitely tender Cornelia is jea⯑lous of me to diſtraction. She happened to ſpy me from her window, folding Louiſa in my arms, and almoſt fainted at the ſight. "If I do not take pity of her, as Benedick, ſays, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew." I ſhall not add, in the words of the play, "I will [37] go get her picture;" but I will haſten to get poſſeſſion of the enchanting original. Shake not thy head, my dear timorous monitor; and tell me no more of caution and delay. Shall I keep ſuch endearing ſenſibility on the rack of her own affectionate doubts and fears! "Aye, but, Seymour, I hear you exclaim, remember the great impediment in your way; which only time and patience can enable you to o'erleap." Fear not, my good friend: I am not blind to all the obſtacles before me; and have lately diſ⯑covered one, of which my ſagacious monitor himſelf, perhaps, is not aware. Your kind ſiſ⯑ter, Harriot, has not dealt quite ſo frankly with me as ſhe profeſſes to do; but I ſhall ſhew her in my turn, that when I meet with reſerve and diſguiſe, I alſo can make myſteries of my own, and conceal from my intimate friends both what I know and what I intend. After the docility and obedience which I have ſhewn to her man⯑dates, Harriot ought to have imparted to me a ſecret that I accidentally got a ſuſpicion of, and at laſt with great difficulty extorted from the honeſt boſom of Caroline, who nobly choſe rather to break a promiſe which ſhe had incon⯑ſiderately made to Mrs. Audley, than appear barbarous and ungrateful to me. So the good creature reluctantly confeſſed to me, that my dear idol has made a haſty and deſperate vow, you may gueſs of what nature. Pray obſerve, that the ſoft Cornelia can be precipitate as well as her lover. But what are vows, my dear timid preceptor? Do we not know, from the experi⯑ence of ages, that fond women make them as they make ſugar toys with concealed mottos, chiefly for the pleaſure of ſeeing them broken. [38] I have juſt formed a glorious and delightful pro⯑ject for demoliſhing this paſte-like but unpalata⯑ble vow of my lovely widow. As the ſweet creature will ſwear, I muſt make her exchange her rough oath, for one of gentler form. Be not terrified at this intimation, my good cheriſh⯑er of unneceſſary apprehenſions; I am not go⯑ing to play the terrific Jupiter, in all his fire, with this fond jealous Semele, and reduce the tender creature to aſhes; though ſhe ſeems by her provoking vow to invite all my powers. I will not explain to you what my project is, be⯑cauſe I know there is a tardy caution and timi⯑dity in your nature that would not allow you to approve it. Reſt however aſſured, that there is nothing diſhonourable, nothing ungentle, in the ſcheme. Trouble not yourſelf to ſend me any wiſe remonſtrances; for if you do I can only anſwer them thus,

However I may proſper, believe me ever,

P. S. Pray do not write to this houſe till you hear from me again; at leaſt on my account. I am departing immediately for London, where I have ſome ſhort buſineſs to diſpatch. I am de⯑ſirous of relieving my tender Cornelia from the torments of jealouſy, and of ſpeculating, at the ſame time, on the effects which my unexpected [39] departure may produce on her heart, before I enter on my grand and at preſent unutterable project. Adieu! my brain is working with anxiety, like that of an alchemiſt in the ap⯑proach of the hour which is to make him either a Croeſus or a beggar.

LETTER VI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

YOU do me juſtice, my very dear friend, in giving me credit for the moſt perfect ſympathy in all you endure. Indeed, I ſympathize with you ſo entirely, that my ſentiments and wiſhes ſeem to follow every variation of yours; and the little judgment that Nature gave me is re⯑duced, I fear, to an abſolute nothing, by the exceſs of my anxiety for your very delicate and diſtreſſing ſituation. I feel at once flattered, delighted, grieved, perplexed, and overwhelm⯑ed, by your moſt friendly and endearing letter; for, to imitate your charming frankneſs, I [40] muſt tell you that I feel myſelf utterly unwor⯑thy to ſuſtain the part of your adviſer and your guide, which, in your kind partiality, you ſeem to wiſh me to aſſume. You pay me a moſt ani⯑mating compliment on the triumph that I gain⯑ed over my own unfortunate and ill-placed affec⯑tion. But what, my ſweet friend, what was my trial, compared to yours? To alienate a fond and ſimple heart from a man whole baſe character had been publickly detected, and who clearly deſerved general contempt, requires, I own, ſome painful efforts; but ſuch efforts few women, I believe, would fail to make with ſucceſs; becauſe, as you juſtly remark, our Pride in ſuch a conflict affords a very powerful ſupport to our Reaſon. But to relinquiſh the moſt accompliſhed, the moſt admired, the moſt engaging of men; to relinquiſh ſuch a being, when you know he doats on you with the moſt paſſionate attachment, and when he has awak⯑ened all the feelings of reciprocal affection; to relinquiſh him for one unhappy circumſtance, which is rather his misfortune than his fault; to reſolve and to preſevere in all this, may per⯑haps be within the power of our angelic Cornelia. I ſhall be ready to adore you, if you make the ſacrifice; but I muſt confeſs that the poor mor⯑tal Lucy would hardly be able to purchaſe Hea⯑ven itſelf at ſuch a price. Do not abhor me as an impious creature, my dear devout friend, for this confeſſion. Believe me, though I am a very weak, yet I am ſtill a very ſincere Chriſ⯑tian; but I am convinced that our feeble brains may think even of Religion too much; and as [41] a poet, who was very far from wanting piety, has very happily told us, ‘The worſt of madmen is a ſaint run mad.’

Do not imagine that I think the religious faith of a huſband is a matter of little conſe⯑quence to a wife: on the contrary, in a con⯑nexion where unexpected diſcord is ſo apt to a⯑riſe, I think the two minds ſhould be as nearly in uniſon as poſſible, upon all the great objects of human contemplation. But where, my dear friend, is ſuch complete uniſon to be found? Perhaps not upon earth. Marriage would be a rare thing indeed if it were never to be ſolem⯑nized till ſuch uniſon could be proved. It is the faſhion therefore, in this neceſſary and univer⯑ſal ceremony, to take a great deal upon truſt: and many a good wife, if ſhe ſees her huſband go decently to church, troubles her head very little concerning his private notions either of GOD or the Devil. Our ladies indeed, in for⯑mer times, were more piouſly inquiſitive. I have read, I think in Hudibras, of certain de⯑vout dames of quality, who tied their huſbands to a bed-poſt, and whipped them too, to ren⯑der them more godly.

Do not think, my dear gentle friend, that I mean to treat your ſcruples with a barbarous, unbecoming ridicule; no I only mean, though I attempt it but aukwardly, to divert your thoughts from dwelling too ſeriouſly and intenſe⯑ly on a ſubject which, if you ſuffer it to prey ſo continually on your ſpirits, may undermine your health, without promoting any good end whatever. You entreat me to ſuppoſe myſelf [42] exactly in your ſituation, and tell you how I ſhould act; you allow, however, that I cannot exactly conceive all your ſenſations. I am glad you furniſh me with ſuch a comfortable excuſe for my ſuperior weakneſs; for I am dreadfully afraid that in ſuch a trial I ſhould not poſſeſs even a moiety of your virtue and reſolution; my preſent partiality, as a mere friend to this faſ⯑cinating Seymour, convinces me of the turn that my feebler reaſon would take in his behalf. I ſhould eaſily perſuade myſelf that a man, whoſe heart I thought had all the tender benevolence of the Goſpel, and whoſe life, I hoped, would have much of its purity, might be ultimately more favoured by its Divine Author, than ma⯑ny mortals who conceal an antipathy for his laws under a boaſted reverence for his name. My romantic fancy would ſuggeſt to me, that if I endangered my own ſoul by accepting ſuch a lover, I ſhould ſtill more deeply endanger his by refuſing him; and, in ſuch an alternative, I need not tell you for which hazard a fond, ge⯑nerous, romantic ſpirit might decide. But, if I cannot ſtrengthen your reſolution, as you ex⯑pect me to do, by ſincerely profeſſing myſelf equal to ſuch a great ſacrifice as you meditate, I certainly ought, in owning my weakneſs, to own at the ſame time my apprehenſions of its conſequence. I am one, I believe of thoſe very common characters, juſt fooliſh and weak e⯑nough to act wrong on a very ſevere trial; and juſt wiſe and virtuous enough to feel inceſſant remorſe for having done ſo. Were I to marry Seymour in your ſituation, I am perſuaded I ſhould be wretched if I failed in the hope of leading him by gentle degrees, to my own re⯑ligious [43] perſuaſion. To act on a vain confi⯑dence in ſuch a hope would be, I acknowledge to act like a fool. Yet I feel that this folly, for⯑tified as it would be by all the illuſive powers of Love, would be infinitely too ſtrong for my feeble reaſon. I ſhould moſt probably act ill from good affectionate motives, and be the dupe and victim of my own abſurdity. Alas! what a bitter enemy is the tendereſt of paſſions to the ſweet chearful ſerenity of female life! Yet what different effects does it produce in the dif⯑ferent characters of our ſex! To the gentle, the artleſs, the open-hearted, Love is often a deep tragedy: to the notable and diſcreet, it is a ſort of heavy ſentimental comedy: to the per⯑fectly vain and capricious, it is neither better nor worſe than an abſolute farce. Now, my deareſt Cornelia, in my meditation upon Love and You (two ideas moſt eaſily united!) I have conceived a wiſh and a hope that you may diſ⯑arm the cruelty of this tyrant, by treating him with a little levity, which, though foreign, I confeſſ, to your natural temper, may be ſalutary and graceful in your preſent very ſingular ſitu⯑ation. I think you are at preſent ſo circum⯑ſtanced, and your agitated ſpirits are in ſuch a tender ſtate, that you cannot decide either for or againſt your lover, without incurring ſuch ſevere pain as all who have the delight of know⯑ing you muſt be anxious for your avoiding. But what neceſſity is there for any immediate deciſion? Truſt me, there is none. Pray let me teach you to play the coquette a little. Tell this precipitate Seymour, that young and ad⯑mired [44] as you are, you muſt take ſome time to look round the world, and ſee what multitudes of accompliſhed men it exhibits, before you deign to beſtow your invaluable ſelf on any one of the crew. Tell him, he has not paſſed through a period of probation half long enough to convince you of his attachment. Diſpatch him as your ambaſſador to our divine Giuliana; and bid him liſten to that heavenly enthuſiaſt for a twelvemonth. Truſt me, my dear friend, you may venture to ſend him round the world, without any danger of his nor returning to you with all the loyalty of Love. But you, dear jealous creature, would have a thouſand ap⯑prehenſions. O how I love you for the very frank confeſſion in your poſtſcript concerning his unexpected departure! I ſhould have be⯑gun to ſtand in dreadful awe of you, as an abſo⯑lute angel, but for that comfortable, endearing confeſſion.—There I ſee my fellow-creature; there, my dear, you are a true woman; for we can none of us bear to be deſerted, even by the man whom we are reſolute to diſcard. But I can ſafely aſſure you, that Seymour is no more able to deſert you, than the poor ſparrow, whoſe little leg is fettered, is able to fly away from the half-happy and half-terrified girl, who holds him in her ſtring. Be gentle, betranquil your⯑ſelf; and in time, I am perſuaded, you will in⯑ſpire this wild flutterer with as much patience and docility as you can wiſh him to poſſeſs.— That Heaven, my dear friend, may proportion your happineſs, even on earth, to the exquiſite [45] tenderneſs and purity of your heart, is the cor⯑dial and ardent prayer of

LETTER VII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

PRAY, my good girl, can you ſend us any comfortable tidings of the run-away Seymour? To my utter aſtoniſhment, we are all in a ſtate of diſmal darkneſs concerning him. He left us rather abruptly, on the pretence of ſudden bu⯑ſineſs in London. An odd ſeaſon this for bu⯑ſineſs in the metropolis! From thence he has written me a letter that is very unlike himſelf, Very aenigmatical, and full of cold and formal [46] civility. I thought I diſcovered a great cloudi⯑neſs on his brow for ſome days before he left us; and I am perſuaded that ſomething preſſed with unuſual weight upon his mind, though he would not confeſſ it to me. I ſeem to have diſobliged him, yet I know not how; and my dear Audley aſſured me, on Seymour's ſudden departure, that he was as much puzzled as I am to account for the ſtriking change in the be⯑haviour of our gueſt. The lovers cannot have had one of the petty quarrels ſo apt to ariſe be⯑tween lovers, becauſe, with a marvelous ſingu⯑larity of diſcretion and reſerve, they have ab⯑ſtained from all private interviews. I know not what to think. Sometimes I fancy that his haſty and unexpected decampment is a mere a⯑morous ſtratagem, to try the real force of his fair-one's affection; yet Seymour is by no means a creature of artifice. Sometimes I am ready to fear that, like others of his volatile ſex and age, he is become a traitor in love, and that his heart has been ſeduced by the ſprightli⯑neſs and bloom of Louiſa to forget its loyalty to the poor, penſive, and pale Cornelia, who is in truth moſt grievouſly altered of late, and ſeems to ſuffer a daily diminution of her beau⯑ty and her health, that wounds me to the ſoul. Yet, as his penetrating eyes muſt have diſco⯑vered that this cruel effect has been occaſioned by her unquiet love for him, I am rather inclin⯑ed to believe that it would more increaſe than diminiſh the attachment of a heart ſo generous and ſo tender. But, "I am weary of conjec⯑tures:" and, alas! I know not how "to end them," unleſs you can furniſh us with ſome au⯑thentic intelligence of our too intereſting fugi⯑tive. [47] If there is any one here who is more in his confidence than I am, it muſt he his grate⯑ful Caroline, as he calls her; but if Caroline is really his prime confidante (as I a little ſuſpect) ſhe is a very cloſe and truſty one indeed, as I cannot force a ſyllable from her lips that will en⯑able me to gueſs at his preſent intentions. The warm-hearted creature will only ſay of her pro⯑tector, whom ſhe deems it a crime to mention without confidence and reſpect, that ſhe will pawn her life for the ſincerity and continuance of his friendſhip for me, and of his love for Cor⯑nelia. Alas, the poor Cornelia! ſhe declares herſelf greatly relieved by Seymour's ſudden de⯑parture; and ſuch is this great relief, that ſhe can hardly ſpeak of it without dropping a tear; but whether a tear of heavenly gratitude, or of mortal regret, I ſhall leave you, my dear ſaga⯑cious ſiſter, to gueſs. For my part, I am quite out of luck, in my attempts to ſtudy and to cor⯑rect the reſtleſs feelings of both our friends; and as it often happens to a well-meaning me⯑diator, I have partly loſt the favour and confi⯑dence of each. Seymour is apparently diſpleaſ⯑ed with me; and I have offended the gentle Cornelia too, by repreſenting, perhaps too forcibly, the inability of her tender frame to perſevere without riſking her life in an utter ab⯑juration of the man ſhe adores. Her delicate pride was a little wounded by my diſtruſting her fortitude; but I hope I have made my peace with her, by a lucky quotation of a paſ⯑ſage from an old obſcure play, which I hap⯑pened to light upon very opportunely. It ſtruck me as a pleaſant hint to us good women, who pique ourſelves now and then a little too [48] much on the ſuppoſed ſtrength of our virtuous reſolutions. Here are the words for you:

You, I know, my dear Lucy, will ſmile at the moral truth, as well as the poetical quaint⯑neſs, of theſe lines: they made even Cor⯑nelia ſmile: ‘Albeit unuſed to the ſmiling mood.’

In truth, we are all grown a ſet of poor diſmal creatures ſince our knight errant ſet forth from this caſtle in queſt of new and unknown adven⯑tures; even the laughter-loving Louiſa has loſt her gaiety, and mopes like a ſick kitten. As to myſelf, you will perceive but too clearly, by my letter, that I am ſadly out of tune and ſpi⯑rits; but you will not wonder at my being ſo, when you know that, beſides my anxiety for our dear ſuffering Cornelia, I have ſome in⯑quietude to endure for my huſband, who is ſummoned to the death-bed, I fear, of his old friend and favourite fellow-collegian poor Ver⯑ney: an event that gives a double chill to my heart, from a painful and perhaps fooliſh, yet natural, combination of ideas, which you, my dear Lucy, will be too ready to catch; but though the health of our dear Audley has been ever more delicate than that of his early friend, let us hope that he is deſtined, for all our ſakes, to enjoy a much longer life. Help us, my good [49] girl, to diſſipate the gloom that hangs over us, by your chearful letters. I conclude that Sey⯑mour will poſt, before he returns to us, to his dear privy-counſellor Edmund; and I charge you to give us the quickeſt tidings that you poſſibly can of his ſafe arrival at your gate; as we ſhall otherwiſe begin to ſurmiſe, that the Faithleſs rover is fled to Genoa, or the Lord knows whither. Take pity, therefore, on our ignorance and our terrors; and, accepting the united kind wiſhes of the poor deſolate females in this man-deſerted caſtle, believe me ever

LETTER VIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

DO not think, my deareſt Edmund, that I have treated you ungratefully, in keeping you for ſeveral weeks in ſuſpenſe and dark inquie⯑tude concerning the deſtiny of a friend for whom [50] you have ever expreſſed the moſt engaging anxiety. A thouſand circumſtances have con⯑ſpired to prevent my giving you more ſpeedy intelligence of my proceedings. Inſtead, there⯑fore, of accuſing me for being ſilent ſo long, give me great credit for attempting to write to you in theſe moments. I ſay attempting to write; for I am not ſure that I can, even for your ſake, confine my attention to my paper; and you will not wonder at my doubt, when I tell you, that ever nerve in my frame is trem⯑bling with anxious impatience for the expected arrival of my Cornelia; yes, of my Cornelia. She is approaching to my arms, and I am wait⯑ing in the houſe of a good elderly man of God, with a bleſſed inſtrument in my pocket, called a ſpecial licence, prepared on purpoſe to make the dear angel my own Cornelia by the ſweet luſtre of the evening ſtar. At this news my dear timid philoſopher himſelf will burſt into a ſhout of triumphant tranſport. But hold! I muſt not betray you into treacherous exulta⯑tion, though I have the moſt ſanguine hopes that we ſhall ſpeedily exult together, on the conſummation ſo devoutly and ſo prophanely wiſhed. I have ſworn by Connubial Juno, to to make the lovely fond creature my bride this very night, if all-powerful Love, with his ca⯑pital agents, Opportunity and Importunity, can accompliſh it. Do not exclaim againſt my raſhneſs and precipitancy. I have been driven to the meaſures I am purſuing. If vows are taken againſt me, muſt I not oppoſe them by ſtronger vows? Do you think Cupid is ſuch a paltry engineer, that if a mine is contrived againſt him he cannot counteract it by a ſupe⯑rior [51] mine of his own contrivance? Do not fear.—The plan of my ſurprize and attack is concerted in ſo admirable a manner, that I am almoſt ſure of annihilating all powers of reſiſtence. But, if I can, I will tell you cir⯑cumſtantially the ſteps that have led me to the preſent heart-agitating criſis. When I firſt got from Caroline a reluctant account of my lovely widow's raſh vow, I thought it would have made me abſolutely frantic; and perhaps it might had not my good grateful Caroline exerted all her zeal and ingenuity to ſooth, to comfort, and to perſuade me that Cornelia's paſſion for me is too ſtrong to let her perſevere in any bar⯑barous reſolution againſt me, however ſolemnly enforced. With what exquiſite ſkill and rapidi⯑ty do penetrating women decypher one another! My kind and zealous comforter, whoſe un⯑abated gratitude towards me is ſo lively and enthuſiaſtic that I am convinced ſhe would chearfully hazard her life to enſure the ſucceſs of my love, ſhe, I ſay, unveiled to me a thou⯑ſand touching proofs of my Cornelia's fondneſs, which had eſcaped the ſearching eyes of the lover.—She maintained and upon ſpecial good grounds, that if I had once got my tender idol into a ſcene of perfect privacy, and had a fair opportunity of preſſing her to an immediate marriage, ſhe would be juſt as unable to reſiſt me, as a ſhip under way is unable to reſiſt the wind when it has filled every fail. I give you this forcible ſimile in the very words of my excellent comforter and confederate, who has, you ſee, ſtored her mind with images, as well as her heart with generoſity, in the courſe of her nautical adventures. We agreed that [52] our dear diffident Cornelia ſtands in dreadful awe of your devout brother; and although your pleaſant and friendly ſiſter Harriot warmly pro⯑feſſes herſelf in advocate for our union, yet ſhe ſometimes makes uſe of arguments which pro⯑duce, perhaps, an effect rather injurious to my cauſe, by offending the delicacy of Cornelia.— For theſe and ſundry other reaſons, we agreed alſo in the opinion that my dear timid angel would be much more likely to indulge all the tenderneſs of her heart, if I could contrive to paſs a day with her at a diſtance from her pious friends. We meditated on various ſchemes to accompliſh this great object. Chance at length ſuggeſted a plan to us that I have purſued with the moſt ſanguine hopes of ſucceſs. You may, perhaps, have heard of a very worthy old cler⯑gyman, whoſe name is Danvers, and who re⯑ſales about fifteen miles to the South of your brother. With this Divine I had a ſlight perſo⯑nal acquaintance, as he is indebted for all his little preferment to the family of my mother. He is a primitive, ſimple, retired character; as unlike as poſſible, they tell me, to thoſe modern men of God who have made me, I confeſs, not very partial to prieſts. Danvers is fond of privacy and peace, and he was once uncom⯑monly happy in his domeſtic circle; but death has robbed him, not only of an excellent wife but of a daughter who ſupplied her place in training his younger olive-branches, of which (as they ſeldom fail you know in holy ground) the good man has abundance. Theſe diſtreſſing events in his family obliged the honeſt old parſon, at the hazard of a little ſcandal, to call in a female aſſiſtant; and, moſt fortunately for me, the [53] humble governeſs of his younger children is a ſiſter of my grateful Caroline. While we were debating how to contrive a private interview for me with Cornelia at a diſtance from your bro⯑ther's, Caroline happened to receive a letter from her ſiſter, who appears to be a good girl, almoſt as warm-hearted as herſelf. This letter was to ſay, that having many duties on her hands, which confined her at home, ſhe was unable to accompliſh her ardent deſire of com⯑ing to wiſh her ſiſter joy of her fortunate mar⯑riage; but as the indulgent Cornelia had once had the goodneſs to bring Caroline to her, ſhe moſt humbly petitioned for a repetion of that fa⯑vour on the preſent joyous occaſion.

This letter ſtruck both Caroline and me as a ray of light from Heaven. Our quick imagi⯑nations began immediately to make it our guide in forming the project that I was ſo anxious to ſettle. It was agreed that I ſhould depart ſud⯑denly from your brother's, and, by not explain⯑ing the cauſe or time of my abſence, awaken all the little jealous ſurmiſes and fond alarms in the heart of Cornelia, to which that tender heart is ſufficiently inclined; that I ſhould haſ⯑ten to renew and increaſe my acquaintance with Mr. Danvers, and engage him moſt firm⯑ly in my intereſt by every poſſible expedient.— Caroline undertook to furniſh me with conſtant intelligence concerning the health and affecti⯑ons of my dear and thus apparently deſerted widow. Alas! my tender angel has ſuffered not a little from this apparent deſertion; but I hope ſoon to make her a rich attonement for life; and, as the intelligent Caroline ſays, no⯑thing is ſo delicious and overcoming as the ſud⯑den [54] ſight of a lover, whom a fond heart has al⯑moſt deſpaired of ever ſeeing again. But, to reſume the thread of my ſtory: my excellent confederate undertook alſo to engage Cornelia for a diſtant day, to ride with her in the chaiſe to Mr. Danvers's, and to let Monſon attend them on horſeback. I was to have early notice of the time appointed, that I might arrive there the day before, and adjuſt all matters in the beſt method I could deviſe to accompliſh the grand object of my wiſhes. I ought to tell you, how⯑ever, in juſtice to the excellent Caroline, that before ſhe would conſent to this final arrange⯑ment of our plan, which looked, ſhe ſaid, like betraying her patroneſs into my hands, ſhe bound me by the moſt ſolemn oaths, that I ſhould not attempt to make Cornelia my wife by any ſpecies of violence, but merely by the fair influence of fond and paſſionate intreaty; an en⯑gine which my zealous confederate thinks ſuffi⯑ciently powerful to enſure us a victory. Heaven grant that ſhe may prove as true a prophet as ſhe is a truſty and invaluable ally! I have at length accompliſhed all the important preliminary points. As you know I little regard either fa⯑tigue or expence in the purſuit of projects that intereſt my heart, you will readily believe that I have not been inactive or tardy in the great article of making Danvers my friend. I have been fortunately able to provide for two branches of his family; and I have ſo com⯑pletely ingratiated myſelf with this warm-heart⯑ed old Divine, that I believe he would be hap⯑py to marry me to an empreſs, without ſtipu⯑lating or wiſhing for a mitre as his reward. I [55] have prepared him with a general, and as you may ſuppoſe, a favourable idea of my preten⯑ſions and views towards his lovely expected vi⯑ſitant. I have obtained a cordial promiſe from him, that, if I find it expedient, he will appear as my advocate, in oppoſition to any religious ſcruples that my fond, yet reluctant fair-one, may urge againſt me; for this honeſt man of GOD moſt candidly acquieſces in my leading propoſition, that if I pay an exterior reverence to our Eſtabliſhed Religion, and ſolemnly en⯑gage to have my children educated in the be⯑lief of that Religion, there is nothing further which ought to be required of me; and all the reſt is a private buſineſs between my own heart and Heaven. This delightful old Divine goes farther on my ſide, as he is both in theory and practice a warm friend to the ſupport and increaſe of the world. He ſays, that my lovely widow, having promiſed to wed no other man, cannot refuſe me without a crime and a great crime too; he ſays, no leſs than a breach of the pri⯑mitive command; a command which ſhe has twice proved herſelf moſt admirably qualified to fulfill. Here is a Parſon for you, my dear Ed⯑mund! a Parſon after my own heart! for whoſe ſake I ſhall be reconciled, I think, to the whole fraternity that I have ſo cordially deteſted. He is, in truth, a pleaſant original character, that you my dear moraliſt, would have particu⯑lar delight in obſerving. It was his maxim, he ſays, in early life, that if he had a faithful wo⯑man to embrace, and a ſpirited book to read, with a decent proviſion of daily bread, he ſhould have every thing that his mind or body had a right to require; and he held it wiſer to ſit con⯑tentedly [56] down with theſe bleſſings, than to ſcramble for the clerical toys of the world. In conformity to theſe principles, he devoted him⯑ſelf to his wife and his ſtudy. The firſt I know only by her fruits: and theſe do her credit. In his ſtudy I am now writing; and, if my heart and ſoul were not too much occupied by the ſcene in which I am ſoon to ſuſtain ſo trying a part, I would give you a minute deſcription of this neat little library, and the fathers in folio, who are now ſtaring me in the face as if aſto⯑niſhed at finding ſuch an unclerical fellow as I am in the midſt of ſuch company. The wor⯑thier maſter of theſe venerable ſhelves is walk⯑ing in the little orchard that I command from the window, and meditating, I truſt, a very pious and eloquent ha [...]angue in my favour. With two ſuch ſupporters as this liberal friendly man of GOD and the zealous beloved Caroline, I think it is hardly poſſible for me to fail; yet, as the hour of deciſion draws nearer and near⯑er, I feel the agitation of my heart increaſing in the moſt painful degree. One moment I am overwhelmed with the tranſporting idea of per⯑fect ſucceſs; and the next, I am ready to ſink under the agonies of a fancied diſappointment. But what ſhould diſappoint me! If ſhe is a wo⯑man, and I have pretty good reaſons for think⯑ing her the very quinteſſence of a woman in tenderneſs and affection, ſhe muſt infalliably yield to the arguments of my Love, and the paſſionate ardour with which I mean to enforce them. But, my deareſt friend, I really can write to you no longer; and, truſt me, I have put no little conſtraint on myſelf in writing thus far. Heaven knows if you will find what I [57] have written intelligible: I have no time, or faculties, to examine. My ſcrawl will at leaſt convince you that I am, however agitated, and however precipitate in your opinion, yet ever

P. S. I am juſt withdrawing from the Parſo⯑nage, as I think it better for me not to ſurpriſe the dear tender creature till ſhe is refreſhed after her little journey; I have determined, there⯑fore, not to make my appearance till after their early dinner. Heavens! if ſhe ſhould not arrive to that dinner! How I tremble, leſt my ſweet angel's health, which, as Caroline writes me word, is growing more and more delicate, ſhould prevent her joining this little party, though ſhe has promiſed to be with them; for ſhe is all sweetneſs and good-nature, and has contracted an eſteem for the venerable Danvers! Adieu! I ſhall put this letter, unſealed, into my pocket, to diſpatch to you from the little inn to which I am retreating.

Joy! Joy! my dear Edmund. I am this inſtant enlivened by a delicious billet from the [...]uthful Caroline. My angel is actually arriv⯑ed; [58] her health a little reſtored, her ſpirits ten⯑derly in tune; the ſweet ſoul was much gratifi⯑ed by an oſtenſible letter which I lately ſent my truſty confidant, expreſſing the real anxiety of my ſoul concerning the late viſible change in her health. Now, Love and Eloquence, in⯑ſpire me! Farewell.—The moments grow pre⯑cious indeed, for before midnight I ſhall be as bleſt as a demi-god or as miſerable as a demon. Do not blame me. The chance is worth the conflict. Whatever its event, I will, if I am alive, aſſuredly write to you to-morrow; ſo hope the beſt, and once more farewell.

LETTER IX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

ALL is over.—We have encountered; and how ſevere the encounter has proved to both parties you my judge, when I tell you that each may deſcribe the event in the famous words of [59] poor Francis the Firſt of France, "We have loſt every thing but our Honour." Never was a conte [...]t more obſtinately ſupported; victory there is none; nor any proſpect of renewing the contention. I am diſtracted with a thouſand unutterable feelings, compounded chiefly of ſhame, admiration, and anger. I have acted ſo directly oppoſite to your counſels, that I can⯑not fly to you for conſolation; for though I am certain you would ſtill very willingly give me all in your power, I could not receive any thing like comfort from you under my preſent ſenſati⯑ons. It ſeems as if I could bear the ſound of no human voice but that of Giuliana. I ſhall ſteal away to Italy; and if I can ſufficiently calm my perturbed ſpirits as I travel, I will give you a faithful narrative of the ſcene which has made me perhaps a wretch for life. At preſent I am ſo unable to decypher my own complicated emo⯑tions, that I really cannot tell whether my love is heightened or extinguiſhed In one moment the exquiſite tenderneſs of Cornelia is the object of my idolatry; in the next, her pride and ſu⯑perſtition awaken my indignation and abhor⯑rence. Yet her tenderneſs—O God! my dear Edmund, you never ſaw or heard of ſuch ange⯑lic tenderneſs—but you ſhall hear it all when I grow more compoſed.—Farewell.

LETTER X. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY

IT falls to my lot, my dear Lucy, to give you that intelligence which I ſolicited from you. Would to Heaven it were more chearful! But the intractable impetuous Seymour has involved himſelf, and all of us, in gloom and wretched⯑neſs. Inſtead of paſſing a few ſocial and com⯑fortable weeks with you and Edmund, as I hoped he would, this haſtly provoking creature has been trying a deſperate project with the poor unprepared Cornelia. He has reduced her ſhattered nerves to the moſt pitiable weakneſs that you can poſſibly imagine, but without gain⯑ing the triumph he expected over her religious reſolution.

You, I know, my good girl, will join with me in admiring, in idolizing, the unconquer⯑able fortitude of this pure angel; and in la⯑menting, at the ſame time, the ſevere deſtiny by which her tranquillity and her health are ſo cruell deſtroyed. But I am talking to you as of your were already apprized of the diſtreſſing ſtory that I have to impart. You will, I know, be painfully eager to hear all the particulars; [61] and, as you have an unqueſtionable right to hear them, I will give you as many, as I can.

If Caroline had not her high obligations, her ardent gratitude, and great merit of all kinds, to atone for one indiſcretion, I know not how it would be poſſible for me to forgive her; for ſhe has been, in a great meaſure, the ſource of all our preſent diſtreſs. She has been the con⯑federate of Seymour in a long train of artifice and deceit towards Cornelia; to which I ſhould have thought her ingenuous nature could never have conſented. But Gratitude, like Love, may be allowed to be blind; and this warm⯑hearted creature has acted in the whole affair from ſuch generous motives, and is ſo deep a ſufferer in her own heart and ſoul, from the failure of the project, that, inſtead of feeling any laſting anger againſt her, ſhe is nearly as much the object of my pity and admiration as our dear unſubdued, but exhauſted and almoſt, lifeleſs, Cornelia herſelf.

Inſtead of beginning my ſtory as I ought to do, I am ſtill running into reflections upon it. But, that I may not torture your affectionate curioſity, I will grow a more methodical hiſto⯑rian, and relate all I know in due order.

Yeſterday morning the Monſons and Corne⯑lia ſet forth, on an expedition for the day, to viſit a very worthy old rural Divine, whoſe houſe and young family have been lately en⯑truſted to a ſiſter of Caroline's; and as the girl may be thought rather too young herſelf for the office of ſuch a governeſs, our good Cornelia has been ſolicitous to countenance her, by at⯑tending her favourite Caroline whenever ſhe [62] went to ſee her ſiſter. I little thought that the expedition of yeſterday had any motive on the part of Caroline, except ſiſterly affection. Cor⯑nelia was rather inclined to remain with us, but I united my entreaties to thoſe of the eager ſuppliant Caroline, and prevailed on her to join the little party, as I thought the ride and the amuſement of a new chearful ſcene would be beneficial to her declining health. In the even⯑ing I and Louiſa grew very anxious for her re⯑turn. The clock ſtruck nine, and no Cor⯑nelia appeared, though we had charged her to avoid the being abroad after ſun-ſet. As my niece and I were alone, we began to alarm ourſelves with various fancied and fearful cauſes of her delay. We ſauntered in weary expecta⯑tion, and, after looking a hundred times over the pales, were returning in deſpair into the houſe, when we heard a horſeman galloping at full ſpeed behind us, which, as we had now only the ſtars to light us, increaſed our alarm. It was Monſon, whom the conſiderate Caroline had diſpatched to ſave us from painful anxiety. He aſſured us that Cornelia was ſafe and well; but that the hours had glided away ſo impercep⯑tibly, and the evening was grown ſo late before ſhe thought of departing from Mr. Danvers's, that ſhe would not return till the morrow. My apprehenſions were more awakened than quieted by this meſſage. I began to croſs-examine Monſon. He is a brave honeſt creature, with⯑out any talents for equivocation, I ſoon brought him to a confeſſion that Seymour had joined the party. Judge, my dear girl, of the unuttera⯑ble tumult of joy and concern, of hope and fear, that began to reign in my thoughts from this information. I could get little more from Mon⯑ſon. [63] He conjured me to hope and believe the beſt, and to wait patiently for the important tidings of next day; offering to ride back im⯑mediately, that I might have thoſe tidings with the utmoſt expedition. This, howe⯑ver, I would not allow. We all withdrew to our beds; but, for my part, I could not ſleep a wink; and about one, I heard the rat⯑tle of Cornelia's chaiſe, driving haſtily to the door. I gueſſed who it was, and flew half-naked, with my night-gown wrapped round me, to receive her. She had croſſed the hall, and reached the library; but could get no far⯑ther. The moment I appeared, ſhe ſprang to⯑wards me; but ſunk into my arms, and fainted. As ſoon as ſhe revived, ſhe aſked wildly for her children; and hurrying into her chamber, ſhe threw herſelf on her knees by the ſide of their bed, and exclaimed, "O, my dear infants, it is for your ſake that I have torn my poor heart to pieces! and GOD himſelf will rear you in in⯑nocence and happineſs as my reward. But what will become of the loſt Seymour? His vio⯑lent nature will plunge him in vice, in miſery, in perdition!" At theſe words her whole frame was convulſed with anguiſh —The penitent and affrighted Caroline joined with me in con⯑juring her to be calm and ſilent; to let us put her immediately to bed, and give her ſome of the medicine to which ſhe has frequently had re⯑courſe of late, and with conſtant good effect, in the ſevere agitation of her nerves. The poor deſolate ſoul was now all obedience to our in⯑junctions. She ſpoke not a ſyllably more, but to expreſs her ſorrow for proving ſuch a ſource of trouble to her friends, and to bleſs us for our attention. Caroline and I did not ſtir from her [64] chamber till we had ſeen her tolerably compoſed on her pillow. We then retired together to my room, where the ſelf accuſing Caroline began at once to condemn and to apologize for her own conduct.

It ſeems, this well-meaning creature had un⯑guardedly betrayed to Seymour the haſty vow of Cornelia. From that moment his fiery in⯑dignant ſpirit became intractable. Nothing would appe [...]ſe him but a promiſe from Caroline to aſſiſt him in the ſecret contrivance of ſuch a project as they have juſt carried into execution. Caroline confeſſes they both thought, and I muſt own I ſhould have been of their opinion, that it Seymour could obtain any good private op⯑portunity of urging Cornelia to an inſtant mar⯑riage, ſhe was too deeply enamoured to have the power of reſiſting his ardent and paſſionate entrea⯑ties. I muſt ſay, their plot was very ingeniouſly conducted. Seymour, indefaticable in every purſuit where his affections are intereſted, and ſanguine in every hope that his heart and fan⯑cy conſpire to cheriſh, had contrived to make the o [...]d clergyman, Mr. Danvers, his hearty friend and advocate, and had provided himſelf with a ſpecial licence, that, if a ſingle moment of yielding tenderneſs ſhould preſent itſelf, he might be ſure of rendering it deciſive, and effectually preclude the dear ſcrupulous reluctant Cornelia from all poſſibility of receding. The vehement and artful creature, though he had been lurking ſome time at Mr. Danvers's, did not make his appearance till after dinner. Our ſweet, unconſcious, and unſuſpecting friend was viſibly ſurprized and delighted at the firſt ſight of him. What paſſed in their private con⯑ference [65] my informer cannot tell; but I ima⯑gine and hope that Edmund will have a full account of this raſh and cruel affair from the hot brained lover himſelf Alas! poor fellow, he is probably cool enough by this time; for I have ſome reaſon to ſuppoſe that he paſſed the night like a ſad wild Quixote as he is, on horſeback, and perhaps wandering through our woods; but more of his nightly adventure in its proper place. I muſt return to Mr. Dan⯑vers's.

Caroline ſays, that, when Seymour had been about two hours alone with Cornelia, he came with a moſt agitated countenance to Mr. Dan⯑vers, and ſaid, "I have been talking, Sir, to no purpoſe, to the moſt marble-hearted woman that God ever created. Pray, my good venera⯑ble friend, pray come, and try for me if your arguments have more influence with her than mine."—Caroline remained with her ſiſter, while Seymour renewed his attack with his re⯑verend ally. She ſays, ſhe could hear that their discourſe was very warm and loud; but as no one came out of the room, and it grew late, ſhe ſent off her huſband to me, with the beſt meſſage that ſhe could deviſe in her confuſion, to prevent my being alarmed. The ſecret de⯑bate was continued, with encreaſing vehemence, for more than another hour: when Danvers came out to Caroline, exclaiming, "Your la⯑dy is an angel indeed! I did not think there could be ſuch divine eloquence, and ſuch ange⯑lic integrity and fortitude in woman! But pray go and perſuade her not to depart, as ſhe talks of doing, at this late hour; but to honour and ſanctify my humble roof by ſleeping under it. [66] I proteſt to God, ſhe shall be obeyed as an an⯑gel in all things. I will ſooner forfeit all the great bleſſings that I owe to the generoſity of Mr. Seymour, than ever appear as her antago⯑niſt again. She muſt be obeyed; but pray go, and try to prevail on her to ſtay with us to night." Upon this the poor diſconcerted Caro⯑line ventured into the room, abaſhed and trem⯑bling, as ſhe ſays, left ſhe ſhould have incurred the everlaſting diſpleaſure of that kind patroneſs whom it would be worſe than death to offend. On her opening the door, a ſcene preſented it⯑ſelf to her exactly the reverſe of what ſhe ex⯑pected. Seymour was ſilent, dejected, weep⯑ing; Cornelia ſpeaking, with a countenance radiant and glowing. She interrupted and an⯑ticipated the firſt prayer of the penitent Caroline for pardon. "Your deceit, my good friend, cried the forgiving angel, has, I know ariſen partly from miſtaken kindneſs towards me, and partly from a laudible gratitude towards one whoſe ſervices to you may ſurely give a ſancti⯑on to any virtuous exceſs. But, for Heaven's ſake, my dear Caroline, order the chaiſe im⯑mediately." "Aye, order it immediately, cried Seymour, ſtarting from a ſort of ſullen reverie. The man whoſe ſervices ſhe condeſcends to com⯑pliment cannot obtain from her the little ſacri⯑fice of her pride." "Ungenerous Seymour, exclaimed the offended angel, have you a right to accuſe me of pride? you to whom I have fondly declared that, if you were but a faithful worſhiper of the God I worſhip, I would rather be your wife than married to any man, however exalted by faculties or ſtation?" At this very juſt and tender reproof the ſullen and imperi⯑ous [67] Seymour threw himſelf at her feet, and be⯑gan to kiſs her hand with great vehemence bathing it with his tears. Caroline pauſed, and hoped that the order for the chaiſe would he recalled; but, alas! it was repeated by the unſhaken Cornelia. "It is decided then, cried Seymour, ſpringing up with a frantic air: we are to part for ever!" Caroline heard no more; but, quitting the room, went to order the chaiſe; and, to her aſtoniſhment, ſaw Cornelia get into it unattended by Seymour. She ſays, that her own panic at that moment was the moſt dreadful ſhe ever felt; for ſhe concluded, that being reſolved not to ſurvive this galling diſap⯑pointment, he was preparing to deſtroy himſelf, and ſhe expected to hear the ſound of his piſtol. An irreſiſtble impulſe hurried her, ſhe ſays, in this idea, into the little parlour where Cornelia had left him. She found him ſitting, with a ter⯑rific ſternneſs of features, and eyes flaſhing with a diſdainful fury; but, at the ſight of his grateful and anxious Caroline, his proud heart ſoftened. He caught her in his arms, and ex⯑claimed, "Heaven bleſs thee, thou moſt gene⯑rous of friends! thou art the only being that I have ever met with on earth whoſe ideas of Love and Friendſhip appear equal to my own.—Go, and enjoy the bleſſings which thy affectionate heart has ſo well deſerved; and I conjure thee, let them not be poiſoned by too keen a ſenſe of my miſerable lot. The extreme acuteneſs of my preſent anguiſh cannot laſt long. Go, my tender Caroline, go to thy happy Mon⯑ſon; who ſhall find me his friend, whether I live or die." Caroline, having haſtily extorted a promiſe from him, that he would do nothing [68] deſperate to deſtroy his life, or impair his health, now followed Cornelia, who was receiving the compliments, or rather the adorations, of the venerable Danvers, who had handed her into her chaiſe, and continued to expreſs his admi⯑ration of her principles and conduct, and his high ſenſe of the honour which her viſit had conferred upon him. As ſoon as they drove from his door, Caroline began to repeat her en⯑treaties for pardon; but the poor Cornelia was in no condition to reply. The great efforts ſhe had made to ſuſtain her ſpirit in this long con⯑ference, and final parting, as ſhe imagined, with Seymour, had ſo miſerably exhauſted her little portion of ſtrength, that, as ſoon as ſhe was alone with Caroline, ſhe ſunk into ſuch a ſtate of debility and tears as frightened her at⯑tendant to the greateſt degree. The terrified Caroline thought it would be hardly poſſible to bring her home alive, and earneſtly implored her to turn back and paſs the night under the friendly roof of Mr. Danvers; but in ſpite of her extreme bodily weakneſs, the dear angel was firm in her purpoſe of returning. She declared that ſhe was already much relieved by her tears, and that, if Caroline would have the goodneſs to let her be quite ſilent, her ſtrength and ſpirits would gradually revive. Caroline ſays they were perfectly mute for ſeveral miles. Corne⯑lia herſelf broke the ſilence, by aſking her in what condition ſhe had left the raſh, mortified, and indignant Seymour. When Caroline de⯑ſcribed the change in his features, from pride and fury to tenderneſs and gratitude, and re⯑peated the kind words in which he took leave of her, the poor Cornelia burſt into a freſh a⯑gony [69] of tears; and juſt as this had ſubſided they arrived at our door.—Cornelia, in getting out of the chaiſe, thought to ſupport herſelf on the arm of the ſervant who had attended her on horſeback; but, to her aſtoniſhment, ſhe per⯑ceived, in reaching the ground, that ſhe had leant upon Seymour. She ſtarted, and exclaim⯑ed, "O Heaven, are you come to perſecute me here!" "No, Madam," replied her haſ⯑ty lover, ſeverely galled by her exclamation, "it is you alone who have the ſpirit of perſecu⯑tion—I perſecute no one—I thought it my duty as a man, to guard you hither; and ſince I am rewarded only by a reproof, I here bid you farewell for ever." With this bitter adieu he ſprang haſtily upon his horſe, and galloped away with all poſſible ſpeed, as if he had no deſire but to get at a diſtance from the woman by whom, though he knows ſhe loves him to diſtraction, he thought himſelf inſulted. It was, I imagine, this laſt unexpected meeting and parting which occaſioned the fainting of our dear unhappy friend at the time when I flew to receive her.— Alas! how very grievous it is, that two ſuch very amiable creatures, ſo mutually enamoured ſhould only prove a ſource of miſery to each o⯑ther! yet I am now ſadly afraid that they are deſtined to be ſo as long as they exiſt. What is become of the fiery Seymour, Heaven only knows! I moſt cordially hope that he is bend⯑ing his courſe to your houſe; as there is no place, I think, where he can be ſo kindly and properly taken care of in his preſent vexatious delirium. I charge you, my dear Lucy, to give us the firſt news or him that you hear with the utmoſt expedition. This, indeed, I deſerve [70] for writing to you, as I do at preſent, with ſleepleſs and aching eyes. I was ſo eager to get all the particulars I could from Caroline, that we ſat up together till five this morning, and I quitted my bed again before nine to viſit my poor Cornelia, and to diſpatch this long hiſtory to you by the poſt of to-day. My dear patient has had a wretched night, and is ſo faint and dejected that I have inſiſted on her remaining in bed till ſhe hears the firſt dinner-bell.—My dear Audley is at preſent in happy ignorance of all theſe diſtreſſing adventures, and I believe I ſhall keep him ſo till he returns to us; for he has vex⯑ations more than enough where he is. Poor Verney died, as we expected; and my good huſband has a very troubleſome executorſhip to engroſs his attention.—I tell him, that I ſhall begin to give him a bad character to the world, to exempt him from theſe burdenſome offices, which he has ſo frequently drawn upon himſelf by his activity and benevolence.

I have kept this unſealed to the laſt moment, in hopes that I might tell you wiſh comfort that Cornelia was a little revived. She is juſt come down ſtairs; but, alas! with looks ſo piteous, and ſuch an appearance of weakneſs and dejec⯑tion, that you, my dear tender Lucy, could hardly caſt an eye on her ſadly altered counte⯑nance without burſting into tears. Even our young and joyous Louiſa ſays ſhe never ſaw a figure ſo affecting. This good girl has a very tender heart, with all her wild vivacity; and behaves to Cornelia with a ſweet compaſſionate gentleneſs that pleaſes me very much. Adieu. [71] Pray write to us directly; and, accepting our united good wiſhes, believe me ever

LETTER XI. FROM LUCY TO MRS. AUDLEY.

YOU are entitled, my dear Harriot, to my moſt cordial and ſpeedy thanks, for your very kind and intereſting, but grievous, account of your lovely gueſt, and the provoking ungovern⯑able, precipitate Seymour: I know not whither he has moſt excited my anger or my pity, by this frantic meaſure, which, his deſponding friend Edmund ſays, will prove his utter de⯑ſtruction. I never ſaw my brother ſo deeply vexed and mortified by any miſchance relating to himſelf as he is by this raſh and, luckleſs pro⯑ceeding [72] of Seymour. As to myſelf, you know I ſeldom catch his deſpondency on any occaſion; and I derive a ray of hope, which I am truly happy to communicate to you, from one ex⯑preſſion in a brief and haſty billet that Edmund has juſt received. We ſuppoſe it was written juſt after the fatal conference, and perhaps be⯑fore he attended Cornelia to your door. How⯑ever that may be, the expreſſion that inclines me not to deſpair, is this: after deſcribing the turbulent wretchedneſs of his mind, he ſays, "It ſeems as if I could bear the ſound of no human voice but that of Giuliana—I ſhall ſteal away to Italy." Now my good Harriot, do you not join with me in hoping that our divine enthuſiaſt of Genoa may repay the important ſervice ſhe received from this generous miſguid⯑ed mortal; and, after ſoothing the fiery tumult in his affections, reſtore him to us the reaſona⯑ble religious being that we have ſo vainly en⯑deavoured to make him; and, as the fond Cor⯑nelia once exclaimed to you, ‘Were he but Chriſtian, what could man be more!’

His many noble and endearing virtues have, I confeſs, made ſuch an impreſſion on me, that I cannot bring myſelf to think very ill of him or his deſtiny. I cannot allow my imagination to believe, that a man whoſe good deeds have been ſo manifold and great, I might even ſay ſo Chriſtian, will be utterly abandoned by Provi⯑dence. No, my dear, I am perſuaded, that, inſtead of being plunged, as Edmund [...]ears, in a long courſe of licentiouſneſs and diſtraction, [73] he will be awakened by his and our good angel Giuliana to a happy ſenſe of all his errors; and return at laſt to repay us for all the painful in⯑quietude which his blind impetuoſity and un⯑ſettled faith have occaſioned to us. Pray ſup⯑port the dear drooping Cornelia by this idea. Pray tell her alſo, that I am ready to worſhip her religious magnanimity; and that I ſpeak with a prophetic confidence, when I ſay, that I ſhall ſee it rewarded. Heaven bleſs her! and all your houſehold! I cloſe in extreme haſte, that I may anſwer your anxious enquiry by the returning poſt.

P.S. Pray let me hear again very ſpeedily of the dear ſufferer's health. Her ſoul, I per⯑ceive, is fully equal to the ſevereſt of trials. But, alas! what a feeble ſecond has that pure and reſolute ſoul in her very delicate and now enervated frame!

LETTER XII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

WE revive a little, my good girl; your very kind and animating ſuggeſtion has done us more eſſential good than all our medical reſto⯑ratives. Since I wrote to you I have paſſed ſome days in the moſt bitter anxiety. The ſenſible and ſanguine Brenſil himſelf, who is, you know, my oracle in medicine, was ſo af⯑fected and alarmed, that he was little able to furniſh me with that hope and courage which I endeavoured to catch from him, and which, on moſt occaſions, he is much inclined and well qualified to inſpire. He ſays he never in his life beheld a human frame reduced to ſuch ex⯑treme debility by the mere agitations of heart and mind. As he is, you know, perfectly worthy of confidence, I thought it beſt to en⯑truſt him with the whole private hiſtory; and I was pleaſed with the extreme ſenſibility which he diſcovered on hearing what his two friends had endured. The tenderneſs of Cornelia, and the gallantry of Seymour, had intereſted him ſo much in their affection, that he was mortified as much as we are by the unfortunate turn it [75] has taken. Though he profeſſes to admire the devout fortitude of our friend, I can perceive that he would gladly have given a doſe of opi⯑um to her Piety, and of hartſhorn to her Love, to ſecure a proſperous iſſue to the precipitate en⯑terprize of the engaging Seymour. Who, as Brenſil ſays, can know him, and not wiſh his proſperity? It is, I am convinced, an affec⯑tionate dread of proving the bane of his proſpe⯑rity that gives the keeneſt anguiſh to the heart of Cornelia. Fond as ſhe is of the faſcinating creature, ſhe could (I am now perſuaded) eaſily relinquiſh his ſociety, enchanting as it is, and feel herſelf recompenced by the delight and pride ſhe takes in devoting herſelf to her chil⯑dren, if ſhe were not haunted by the terror that her rejection of Seymour will plunge that im⯑petuous mortal into the moſt ruinous exceſſes of vice and folly. This terror had gained ſuch dominion over her thoughts, that ſhe could hardly utter any other idea in the two or three firſt days after the cruel conference. Indeed we allowed her to ſpeak but little; and ſhe was, and ſtill remains, much more inclined to ſilence than to converſation. At firſt it ſeemed as if all her bodily faculties were exhauſted and deſtroy⯑ed by the conflict ſhe had endured. She had utterly loſt her appetite, and even her palate; at times a ſort of cold inſenſibility, like petre⯑faction, appeared to be creeping over her frame. This would be ſucceeded by ſuch a tremulous irritation of the nerves, and ſuch a tendency to tears, that a ſingle word addreſſed to her would ſometimes make her weep. Brenſil was griev⯑ouſly afraid that ſhe was ſinking into a rapid atrophy, which would hurry her to the grave. [76] He has watched this moſt intereſting of patients with a paternal anxiety. He has got various preſcriptions for her from the phyſician, whoſe inſight into human maladies and affections is much deeper, he ſays, than that of all his fra⯑ternity. But they both agree that, as the heart of our tender friend is the main ſeat of her diſ⯑order, nothing will ſo effectually contribute to her reſtoration as the balm of ſympathy and friendſhip aſſiduouſly applied to this lacerated heart. Their opinion has been viſibly con⯑firmed by the favourable impreſſion which your kind letter, my dear Lucy, produced upon her ſpirits. When I read to her what you ſay of Giuliana, a ſudden fluſh aroſe on her pale cheek, and her ſunk eyes ſparkled with mo⯑mentary joy, "Ah, my dear Harriot, ſhe ſaid, kind as you are, Lucy underſtands me better than you do. My hapleſs love is much more diſintereſted than you imagine. Believe me, I would moſt gladly renounce all expecta⯑tions, and every wiſh of ſeeing Seymour again in this world, if ſome kind angel would give me an aſſurance of meeting him in Heaven. But, to think that I may be inſtrumental to the final perdition of a being ſo generous and ſo be⯑loved!—'tis that, ſhe cried, burſting into an agony of tears—'tis that which has diſtracted me!" But recovering herſelf with an aſtoniſh⯑ing quickneſs and ſpirit, "No, ſhe continued, I will no longer ſuffer this horrid apprehenſion to perſecute my poor brain. I will cling to Lu⯑cy's moſt comfortable idea—He is—he is too good to be abandoned by Providence!"

[77]You may judge, my dear, from your own heart, how zealouſly the penitent Caroline and I labour together to make the moſt of your con⯑ſolatory ſuggeſtion, and to confirm our angelic patient in this train of thought. I muſt do Caroline the juſtice to ſay that, however blame⯑able ſhe might be in her ſecret and unfortunate, but tempting, conſpiracy, ſhe has made every compenſation that a tender and contrite heart could make by the moſt indefatigable and affec⯑tionate attention to our dear invalid. The ſtate of Cornelia is ſuch as requires the moſt delicate management; and without the aſſiſtance of Caroline I ſhould find myſelf very unequal to it: this good creature, full of gratitude and every quick feeling, has the rare talent of knowing how to be very aſſiduous about the ſick, without moleſting or fatiguing them.

One of the moſt difficult points we have had to regulate has been the degree of indulgence we ſhould ſhew to our dear patient concerning her children; ſhe has been frequently diſtracted between her deſire to have the ſweet boys with her, and her want of ſtrength to ſupport their ſociety. To make the matter more diſtreſſing, we have not been able to keep the little lively rogue William from aſking his mother perpetual queſtions concerning his favorite Mr. Seymour; ſuch as, "Why he went away from us? when he will come back? whom he is gone to ſee!" and a thouſand other continually ſuggeſted by infantine curioſity and affection.

There have been days when ſuch little queſ⯑tion as theſe were like ſo many daggers; but at length, I thank Heaven, the palpitating [78] heart of our dear, harraſſed friend is grown more compoſed. To-day I think I ſee ſome⯑thing of her former ſelf both in her countenance and converſation. She has been ſo deplorably low, that I have rather rejoiced that my huſ⯑band was abroad, as ſhe could not have ſupport⯑ed even his ſociety; but I begin now to wiſh ardently for his return, becauſe I think her ſo materially revived that his gentle and ſoothing manners will, I am perſuaded, in her preſent ſtate, contribute to her recovery. We do not, however, expect him this week; and I hope, before that time the ſweet, trembling con⯑valeſcent will receive the moſt powerful of cordials in a good account of the wanderer for whoſe ſafety and welfare ſhe is ſo pain⯑fully anxious.

As he departed in ſuch indignation, I queſti⯑on if he will have the grace, which he certain⯑ly ought to have, to addreſs a letter of apology to Cornelia; but, at all events, Edmund will hear of his movements; and I need not requeſt you to diſpatch the firſt tidings you receive as rapidly as you can to

P. S. My dear patient charges me to ſend her love; and to add her protection, that ſhe is ſure ſhe is infinitely better than I have repre⯑ſented her, whatever my repreſentation may be. My only way of taking vengeance for this ob⯑lique ſtroke at my veracity, ſhall be, to read this [79] poſtſcript aloud, and this only, after adding to it, that I ſincerely hope and expect to ſee my patient quite herſelf again in another week or two. Farewell.

LETTER XIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AT length I am got to Dover, but with a mind more tumultuous than the ſea I am going to croſs. It was not thus with me, my dear Ed⯑mund, when I was laſt at this port with our lovely enthuſiaſt, the truly impaſſioned Giulia⯑na; that heavenly woman could never have uttered ſuch an inſult to the man ſhe loved as I have heard, ſince I diſpatched my ſhort and haſ⯑ty billet to you, from the lips of her whom I was once fool enough to think ſuperior in tenderneſs to Giuliana herſelf.

[80]When the inflexible bigot ordered her chaiſe to depart from Danvers's, late at night as it was, indignation and reſentment ſeemed to deprive me of motion. I could not put her into the carriage which was to convey her with ſuch unſeaſonable barbarity from him who had hoped to paſs a bridal night in her arms. She bade me adieu with a cold ſtately pride. It robbed me of utterance, and almoſt of my ſenſes. I conti⯑nued ſitting in the room ſhe quitted, with a brain ready to ſplit with rage and diſappoint⯑ment. My good, grateful Caroline came to give me a tenderer farewell. Her ſoftneſs was my preſervation. I wept upon her boſom. I began to think leſs harſhly of Cornelia, becauſe this moſt faithful of creatures ſtill laboured to convince me of her love. I diſmiſſed this kind and ſypathetic confidante with the benediction of my heart, whoſe fiery anguiſh ſhe had ſoften⯑ed and relieved. As ſoon as they drove away from Danvers's, I ordered my horſe that I might attend them unſuſpected; and, before I mount⯑ed to gallop after the chaiſe, I ſcrawled my ſhort and diſmal letter to you. I ſoon overtook the women; it was my intention merely to ſee them [...]afe home, without letting them know that I did ſo; but as I approached your brother's, my heart was more and more ſoftened, by a recol⯑lection of many little proofs which Cornelia had there exhibited of her fondneſs towards me, and I could not reſiſt the temptation of helping her to alight from the carriage. She ſtarted at the fight of me, and aſked me, with an inſulting tone that is ſtill re-echoed round my heart, "If I was come to perſecute her there?" I hope the [...]pirit of my inſtantaneous reply has convinced [81] her of the injury ſhe did me by that baſe and barbarous expreſſion. If it has not, my preſent conduct ſhall ſoon prove to her that an injurious word was never more miſapplied. If I have any knowledge of my own heart and mind, never was a human being leſs inclined than myſelf either to inflict or to endure persecution in any ſhape. My ſoul abhors every ſhadow of tyran⯑ny; my evil deſtiny ſeems determined that I ſhall only prove a ſource of pain to thoſe whoſe permanent happineſs I had the moſt ardent wiſh to promote. But, in removing far from them, I may diminiſh perhaps this unfortunate influ⯑ence on their comfort. One ſatisfaction I ſhall at leaſt poſſeſs, that I can no longer be upbraid⯑ed with a deſign of perſecuting her whoſe tran⯑quillity, ungrateful as ſhe is, I would willingly die to ſecure. To relinquiſh life, indeed, would be no ſacrifice to me at preſent. I never wiſhed to live, but for the ſake of conferring happineſs on the objects of my affection; but as my per⯑verſe ſtars ſeem to put this out of my power, they may terminate my exiſtence whenever they pleaſe. I can die; as I have lived, without fear; becauſe aſſuredly I never meant to do any great deliberate evil; and I have vainly hoped to accompliſh much good, in which I have been thwarted, I know not why, by that myſterious power to whom, for the want of a better name, we give the title of Deſtiny or Chance. The good Caroline expreſſed to me a terror for which I muſt love her ſtill more than I did, though it ſhews more the trembling ſenſibility of her own heart, than her knowledge of my character: ſhe was terrified left I ſhould deſtroy myſelf in [82] the agony of mortified affection; but, as you know, my dear friend, I have ever conſider⯑ed ſuicide, when it does not proceed from frenzy, as the act of a coward and a fool. It is cowardice to run into the cellar be⯑cauſe the houſe you inhabit happens to be ſhaken by thunder. It is folly not to reflect that, if chance has unexpectedly made you wretched, the ſame chance may as ſuddenly reverſe her operation.

You ſee I can play the reſolute philoſopher even in my fits of bittereſt vexation. I con⯑feſs, however, that my mind is diſmally out of tune; but time, and a change of ſcene, with a little bodily repoſe, to which I have been too great a ſtranger of late, may do much to tranquillize my ſpirits. I have ta⯑ken a very long journey ſince I wrote; for I have been at my own houſe, and arranged all matters with my ſteward for a very long abſence. Heaven only knows when I may return to this iſland, perhaps never; but wherever I may exiſt, there, my dear Edmund, you will certainly have a faithful, though perhaps a very unhappy friend, in

P. S. I thought of writing a few lines to my good Caroline: but, on reflection, I ſhall be ſilent, leſt I ſhould ſay too little or too much; and leſt I ſhould involve the excellent creature in new difficulties, and expoſe her to [83] unpleaſant ſuſpicions from her inflexible patro⯑neſs. Be ſo good, however, as to inform this kind, anxious, humble friend of mine, that I am alive, and tolerably well. As to Cornelia, I ſhall not perſecute her with any meſſage what⯑ever.

I promiſed you a full account of our very long and ill-concluded conference, and I have begun at times to throw ſome parts of it upon paper; but the impreſſion of the agonizing ſcene has recurred ſo ſtrongly upon my heart, in theſe attempts to deſcribe it minutely, that I have hitherto been able to make but little re⯑gular progreſs in my narrative. I have written however many detached parts of it, as they ſtruck my memory. It ſhall be my evening's employment, as I travel, to methodize theſe; and I will ſend you, in my firſt pacquet from the continent, a fair tranſcript of the whole. I muſt now bid you haſtily adieu; for my baggage is already on board, the wind is fair, and I am ſummoned.—My thoughts are al⯑ready ſailed to Genoa. I cannot explain nor expreſs to you the paſſionate eagerneſs that I feel to hear again the touching voice of Giuli⯑ana. Farewell.

LETTER XIV. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

THE reſtleſs wanderer, for whom, my dear Edmund, you will be too ſolititous, is ſafe at Lyons. I was eager to reach this city for vari⯑ous reaſons; and choſe, in the vain hope of amuſement, to take a new way of approaching it. At Calais I procured a French coaſting veſſel and landing at Rochelle, croſſed the country by the ſhorteſt road to Lyons. The ſea pleaſes my fancy at preſent much more than land. I had a curioſity to ſee this part of the French coaſt; and was ſomewhat amuſed in reflecting on the different ſcenes and characters that it brought to my memory. At the ſight of La Hogue I felt a momentary triumph, while imagination preſented to my view the ſplended ſhips of Tour⯑ville deſtroyed by the matchleſs bravery of our Engliſh ſailers. As we ſailed by Belleiſle, I could not help giving a ſigh; but it was a ſigh of envy, rather than compaſſion, to the ſhade of the accompliſhed Sir William Williams, repeat⯑ing [85] with peculiar ſatisfaction, as my eyes were fixed on the little iſland,

You remember Gray's ſpirited epitaph on this gallant young ſoldier.

What a capital advantage it is to have found an honourable place in the pages of an unperiſh⯑ing poet! I might have ſailed twenty times by Belleiſle without honouring the memory of Sir William Williams, had he not been immorta⯑lized by this epitaph.

In paſſing the iſle of Rhee, all the vanity and vices of Buckingham preſented themſelves to my thoughts; but when I landed at Rochelle, I for⯑got my own countrymen, in recollecting the brave Hugonots, and the heard extremities they ſuffered here in defending themſelves againſt a barbarous perſecution. I think there is ſome⯑thing peculiarly ſoothing to the ſpirits in the gentle motion of a veſſel, and the mixture of ſea and land proſpect as you ſail along an ex⯑tenſive coaſt. I found this part of my expediti⯑on much the moſt medicinal to my mind. When I began to be jolted in a chaiſe again, all my ſplenetic ſenſations returned with new force. The ſcenes as I paſſed, though they had the ad⯑vantage of novelty, afforded me no amuſement. The ragged gaiety of the French peaſants, in⯑ſtead of tempting me to ſmile, filled me with a mixed emotion of pity and contempt. "Poor merry fools, ſaid I, ye have not ſenſe enough to perceive your own glaring misfortunes!"

[86]Since my arrival at Lyons, my harſh and un⯑tuned ſpirit has been a little ſoftened and diſ⯑ciplined by an affecting circumſtance among the good people who were particularly kind to me and the poor Giuliana during my alarming ill⯑neſs in this city: there was a widow lady, a na⯑tive of Switzerland, advanced in life, of an ad⯑mirable underſtanding, and moſt engaging man⯑ners. Her only child, a very handſome and ac⯑compliſhed young fellow, had juſt got a com⯑miſſion in the Swiſs ſervice; the firſt news I heard at my hotel was the luckleſs fate of this fine lad, who loſt his life about three weeks ago, in a ſudden fray concerning a beautiful girl of fa⯑mily and fortune, whoſe hand he had great hopes of obtaining. I felt myſelf bound in gra⯑titude to pay a viſit of conſolation to his afflict⯑ed mother as ſoon as I heard of her calamity. Our unexpected meeting has, I truſt, been of great ſervice to us both. In catching the ten⯑derneſs of her ſorrow, I have certainly corrected in ſome degree, the aſperity of my own mind; and if I have not reconciled her to her loſs by argument, I have at leaſt ſoothed her anguiſh by ſympathy. When ſhe related to me, with the frankneſs of true affliction, all her very bit⯑ter maternal ſenſations, I could not help ex⯑claiming, "Would to Heaven, my dear Ma⯑dam, that I could reſtore your ſon to you, by ſupplying his place in the grave! Such an ex⯑change would be a bleſſing to us all, for my life has lately been made as wretched as his had the proſpect of being happy." I ſaid this to eaſe the fullneſs of my own heart, and to call off the mind of this deeply-feeling mother from her own poignant diſtreſs. The latter effect it pro⯑duced [87] completely: for, ſtruck by the pathetic energy with which I had uttered this wiſh, ſhe caught hold of my hand, and conjured me to tell her what could have poiſoned the enjoy⯑ments of a perſon who, in recovering health, ſhe ſaid, ſeemed to have recovered every thing that could be wanting to enſure his felicity.

In the hope of diverting her ſorrow, I gave her my whole hiſtory. She liſtened to it with great attention, and made many ſenſible and friendly remarks as I proceeded. When I had finiſhed, ſhe expreſſed, with that touching elo⯑quence which keen feelings generally inſpire, her admiration and her pity for Cornelia. "Good Heaven! ſhe exclaimed, to loſe ſuch a lover, and to loſe him from ſuch a motive, muſt be ſtill more excruciating than the death of a darling child; for if the beloved object is not ſo dear to her, which I think in nature it cannot be, yet in her caſe there is the dread of loſing it through all eternity. Have you, my dear Sir, have you ever cooly reflected on the horrors which this idea muſt impreſs on the heart of a tender, impaſſioned woman? Poor, poor Cornelia! ſhe is more miſerable than I am. My ſon was, I bleſs GOD, untainted by the wretched infidelity ſo common in the world; and I truſt a few years will reſtore us to each o⯑ther in a better life. This bleſſed truſt is my ſupport; but what, my miſguided friend, what is there to ſupport your divine, yet deſolate Cor⯑nelia? What would the proſpect of Heaven it⯑ſelf be to me, if I had no aſſurance of meeting there the idols of my heart! yet, in one point of view, this lady for whom you have made me weep, though I thought my tears all exhauſted [88] or engroſſed by my own ſelfiſh ſorrow, ſhe, I ſay has ſtill one advantage over me: the GOD that ſhe and I worſhip has ceaſed to open the grave; he recalls no ſecond Lazarus from the tomb; buy ſuch a miracle as might change her affliction into joy is ſtill frequently viſible on the earth.

Perhaps a day never paſſes in which his divine mercy does not recall to himſelf the alienated heart of ſome unbeliever. O that I could re⯑ward you for the generous intereſt you have taken in my affliction, by being in any degree inſtrumental to ſuch a bleſſed change in my young and moſt unfortunately miſguided friend! but, alas, ſhe added with a deep ſigh, I have ſeen in a brother of my own the intractable and obdurate pride which an early taint of Infi⯑delity inſpires; and ſince the arguments and the tears of your angelic Cornelia were unable to convert you, I ſhould be vain indeed if I thought any thing that an afflicted old woman could urge to you might produce that effect. No, my dear, raſh friend, GOD only can pro⯑duce it; and I moſt devoutly hope that he will." The good old lady uttered her pious hopes with ſuch an air of maternal tenderneſs and anxiety for my welfare, that I was affected almoſt to tears, and felt, for the firſt time in my life, that I had loſt a great deal in loſing my mother before I was old enough to comprehend the en⯑dearing charm of maternal ſolicitude and affec⯑tion. I ſoon turned the converſation to other ſubjects, that I might ſay nothing offenſive to her friendly and devout ſpirit. We perfectly agreed in one ſerious ſentiment, that thoſe who die early ſeem to be the favourites of Heaven; [89] and we parted, both pleaſed and pained by each other, and both, I think, the better for our in⯑terview. For my part, I felt my mind, as I have already told you, much ſoftened; and I began to think of Cornelia with tenderneſs, ad⯑miration, and pity, inſtead of fierce diſdain and indignant reſentment. Indeed, this turn of mind had been already produced, in ſome de⯑gree, by my gradual recollection of all the ten⯑derer paſſages in our long conference at Mr. Danvers's.—My ſoul was at firſt ſo full of in⯑dignation, for the bitter and unmerited inſult with which ſhe diſmiſſed me at your brother's door, that, in trying to throw all our diſcourſe on paper, I could for ſome time only recollect completely thoſe parts of it in which her bigotry and her pride were moſt conſpicuous; but, by degrees, every tenderer expreſſion occurred with new force to my recollection; and in the incloſed paper you will find a very faithful nar⯑rative, as I promiſed you, of our important conference. I will only detain you from its pe⯑ruſal while I make one very honeſt confeſſion, and it is this: I have peruſed the fair tranſcript I ſend you ſeveral times, and at every freſh [...]eading I have, without ſhrinking from my own tenets, felt myſelf more and more ena⯑moured of my lovely, eloquent, and tender zealot. Nay, I profeſs to you, I would in⯑ſtantly turn back and make her my own for life, if I could do it by any means that would not expoſe me to my own contempt; but, in my opinion, no man deſerves the poſſeſſion of ſuch exquiſite beauty, who will condeſcend to purchaſe it by playing the hypocrite or the fool; yet, ſuch is the folly or perverſeneſs of women [90] in countries where they are free, that Beauty ſeems to be ſeldom obtained upon any other terms. Men are forced to play the fool for it, in ſome ſhape or other. I begin to think the Turks are the only ſenſible fellows in the ma⯑nagement of the weaker ſex; ſo, if the divine Giuliana does not reconcile me to Europe, you may perhaps hear very ſoon that I am gone to pitch my tent with the Muſulmen; yet, as Oſ⯑man ſays in my Cornelia's favourite play, ‘Their laws, their lives, their loves, delight not me.’

Alas! like that generous and ill-fated Sultan, with the pureſt reliſh for the refined enjoyments of chaſte affection, and with the proſpect of hav⯑ing them within my graſp, I am deſtined per⯑haps to derive only wretchedneſs from her whom I fondly hoped to make the moſt happy, as I think her the moſt lovely of women; but, in ſpite of my wounded pride, I am ſtill, I per⯑ceive, playing the fooliſh lover on this paper, and continuing to prate to you of my miſtreſs, after proteſting that I would not ſay a ſyllable more. Adieu, my dear friend. I charge you, and the kind Lucy not to be too anxious about me. Yet write to me, I entreat you, and do not fail to let me know how Cornelia ſupports my abſence. If you direct to Genoa, your let⯑ters will certainly find

Incloſed in the preceding Letter. An exact Account of my laſt conference with Cornelia.

YOU will recollect, my dear Edmund, that, in order to give my lovely invalid ſufficient time and tranquillity to recruit her ſpirits at Mr. Danvers's, I refrained from appearing there till after ſhe had dined. On my ſudden entrance, a ſmile of ſurprize, and I believe of tender ſatisfaction, illuminated her counte⯑nance. She ſeemed pleaſed to find me ſo fa⯑miliarly acquainted with a worthy old clergy⯑man. But when the parſon, who is a man of eager ſpirits, contrived, a little too rapidly per⯑haps, to leave us ſhut up alone in his little par⯑lour, ſhe ſeemed to be alarmed, and would have quitted the room. Upon my humble ſupplica⯑tion that ſhe would liſten with patience to many important things I had to ſay to her, ſhe ſat down with a placid dignity that filled me with a mixed ſenſation of awe and delight. I began by expreſſing my tender fears concerning the very delicate ſtate of her health and ſpirits. I ſaid that I had ſacrificed my higheſt joy in the daily ſight of her at your brother's to an idea ill-founded perhaps, yet certainly generous, that her mind might be more tranquil if I [92] quitted the party. Here, Edmund, the lovely creature bluſhed immoderately, from a fear, I believe, that I alluded to her jealouſy of Loui⯑ſa. I ſoon relieved her from that apprehenſion, by ſhewing her I meant only that embarraſſ⯑ment and inquietude which naturally ariſes be⯑tween two people who have much to ſay to each other on the moſt delicate of ſubjects, and have not arrived at the period appointed for diſcuſſ⯑ing it; I hoped that we might both be more tranquil in a ſhort ſeperation; but, on my ſide, I had felt all the pains of that egregious miſtake; the attempt to direct my thought to other ob⯑jects had only convinced me that to paſs even a day from her was torment; that, finding my life a burthen to me, in the cruel ſuſpenſe I la⯑boured under, I could no longer delay to ſolicit a promiſe of her hand; that my hopes were ſounded, not only on that ardent and perfect love which triumphs over fear, but on the ani⯑mating aſſurances which I had received from many of our common friends, who conſidered us as happily formed for each other, and who had confirmed me in the bliſsful perſuaſion that my paſſionate attachment to her had awaked a tender partiality in her boſom, which I re⯑garded as the pride of my life, and the baſis of my felicity. When I pauſed, and waited for her reply with an anxiety as intenſe as if her ſentence were to fix my eternal doom; inſtead of caſting her modeſt eyes towards the ground, ſhe fixed them upon mine with a look that ſeemed to ſcrutinize my ſoul, and, without any prudiſh efforts to force from me her hand, which I had fondly claſped, ſhe ſaid, "You know, my dear Sir, that I have pro⯑feſſed [93] to treat you with the frank and ingenu⯑ous tenderneſs of a ſiſter: my obligations to you are infinite; my eſteem and admiration of your character not inferior to that of the many friends by whom you are ſo zealouſly beloved. How far thoſe kind and well-meaning friends may have flattered and deluded you and them⯑ſelves in what they have ſaid on a proſpect of our union, is a point that muſt depend entirely on yourſelf." "Then you will be mine, an⯑gelic creature!" cried I, in a tranſport of fran⯑tic joy; for I conſtrued the laſt ſentence into an immediate conſent. "Pardon me, my too haſty friend, ſhe continued with a ſerious air that half petrified me, I have ſaid no ſuch thing. Do not, I conjure you, wreſt any of my words to a wrong meaning; and I promiſe you in return, that, difficult and painful as I find it is to ſpeak to you at large on this ſub⯑ject, I will yet endeavour to ſpeak to you with all that unequivocal openneſs of heart which conſtitutes in my opinion the eſſence of true friendſhip." I thanked her, kiſſed her hand, and continued to liſten in ſilent adora⯑tion. "I will not pretend, ſaid the dear in⯑genuous creature, to be angry with you for a ſtep which has however ſurprized me. It is na⯑tural for you to wiſh a ſpeedy termination to your ſuſpenſe. Indeed it is highly deſirable for us both that nothing like indeciſion ſhould ap⯑pear between us. I have told you with great ſincerity, that it was my reſolution to live un⯑married for the ſake of thoſe dear children who have the moſt engaging claims to my love, and have been peculiarly recommended to my care. Men are not apt, and I confeſs they have no [94] great reaſon, to give entire credit to ſuch reſo⯑lutions. At a time when my ſolicitude for your life made me extremely anxious to tranquillize your agitated ſpirits, I gave you a promiſe, which, believe me, I ſhall never wiſh to re⯑tract, 'that you ſhall never ſee me the wife of another.' I will confeſs to you, my dear friend, that this was not a promiſe of mere pity, but of genuine affection. Yes, Seymour, I am not aſhamed to ſay that I love you, becauſe my reaſon has taught me to ſet bounds to my re⯑gard; and I can tell you with firmneſs, though not without pain, that I muſt and will reject your very flattering offer, becauſe there is an inſurmountable obſtacle to our union, which ſome late occurrences, and your own conſcious mind will explain to you." With my veins thrilling with rapture at the ſweet avowal of her love, I had caught her in my arms before ſhe uttered the ſteady and ſtern declaration that ſhe would not indulge it. "No, I exclaimed with mingled ſenſations of tranſport and of horror, there is no obſtacle—there ſhall be none; we are united by mutual love, the moſt ſacred of all bonds; and no powers in the world ſhall di⯑vide us." "There is a power more ſacred than Love, replied the ſtedfaſt angel; and it grieves me, Seymour, to the ſoul, to perceive it is a power that you do not acknowledge: I need not tell you, ſhe continued, that I mean Religion—a power which, I truſt, will ever re⯑gulate my conduct, and which forbids me to be your wife."

I endeavoured, though I believe very auk⯑wardly, to treat her apprehenſions of my irreli⯑gion with levity; but the offended angel re⯑buked [95] me, and ſaid, "I beg, Sir, that our converſation may be ſerious; if you have no re⯑ſpect for Religion, you at leaſt profeſs yourſelf moſt inviolably attached to Truth and Honour; and indeed I muſt do you the juſtice to ſay, that I never knew any human being on whoſe gene⯑rous veracity I could more implicitly confide: wretched indeed ſhould I feel myſelf at this mo⯑ment, if I were deſtitute of that conſolatory confidence; but my eſteem for you, Seymour, is ſuch, that, I am firmly perſuaded, you have truth and magnanimity ſufficient to ſupport a weak woman againſt yourſelf. Inſtead of try⯑ing to delude me by any ſpecies of hypocriſy into a marriage, which muſt render us both wretched if our religious ſentiments are ſo wide⯑ly different as I have reaſon to apprehend, you, I am convinced, will have the generoſity to avow that difference, if it exiſts, and to ap⯑plaud my adherence to my duty in pronouncing it an inſurmountable obſtacle to our union." I thanked her for the noble confidence which ſhe placed in my truth; and aſſured her moſt ſo⯑lemnly, that I would never attempt to deceive her in any article whatever; ſtill repeating, that there is, and ſhall be, no obſtacle to our union.

Here, Edmund, the kind ſoul in her turn caught a ſudden ray of deluſive hope, by half conſtruing my words into a confeſſion of faith; and, looking at me with an angelic ſweetneſs of countenance, ſhe ſaid, "Can you, Seymour, can you truly affirm, that you revere and believe in that Religion which I have been taught to regard as the only ſure foundation of happineſs, both in this world and the next?" [96] I endeavoured to evade the queſtion, by vindi⯑cating the freedom of thought, and the native rights of the mind, to keep any ideas ſecret that related only to Heaven and itſelf. But, ſhrink⯑ing from me with a face of horror, ſhe ſaid, "I know, Seymour, you are too noble to utter a direct falſhood; and do not, I intreat you, do not ſtoop to an evaſion; there is no neceſſity for any thing ſo foreign to your nature. I have no right to pry farther into your ſentiments; I have done with the ſubject for ever, and have only to pray, which I do moſt devoutly, that, however miſguided your early life may be, you may not end your days in this terrible deluſion." Here the tender enthuſiaſt caſt upon me a look ſo pite⯑ous, that, I believe, at that moment ſhe beheld me in her fancy hurried away from her by fiends, and ſinking into eternal perdition. The image, whatever it was, overwhelmed her; ſhe burſt into tears, hid her lovely troubled counte⯑nance for a few moments, and then endeavoured to quit the room. This, however, I could not ſuffer her to do. I detained her by paſſionate ſupplications. I conjured her not to be ſo fla⯑grantly unjuſt as to condemn me unheard. I ſaid that ſhe had haſtily and cruelly adopted the moſt terrific ideas of my impiety from the baſe ſuggeſtions of a proud, phariſaical prieſt, who injured me in her opinion, becauſe, with a fool⯑iſh good nature to indulge his paſſion for wine, I had plunged into occaſional intemperance, which I had not a prieſtly ſtomach to bear. I was growing ſtill more ſevere againſt my ſancti⯑fied enemy Dr. Ayton, when Cornelia inter⯑rupted me with vehement diſpleaſure, and ſaid with an unuſual keeneſs of manner, "You [97] give me but too evident proofs of an unchriſti⯑an ſpirit, in this aſperity againſt a worthy Di⯑vine, who did full juſtice to your many virtues, and only ſaid of your failings what his duty and his conſcience obliged him to ſay."— I caught fire at this double inſult; this reproof to me, and panegyric on the man whom I have reaſon to deteſt. I reminded my ſevere monitor of the many diabolical injuries which theſe o⯑ver-righteous zealots have committed in every age, under the ſtale pretences of their duty and their conſcience; and I proteſted that I had rather be the vileſt outcaſt of the world, aban⯑doned by earth and Heaven, than one of theſe ſanctified dealers in ſlander, who poiſon the peace of their acquaintance by miſrepreſentati⯑ons of men more honeſt than themſelves, and at the ſame time pretend to be the only true ſer⯑vants to the GOD of Truth. "This Divine, ſaid I, whom you commend, my dear Cornelia, ſo much beyond his deſert, has impreſſed a bar⯑barous panic on your tender imagination; he has made you conſider me as a monſter of impie⯑ty; I am appriſed, you ſee the force of the brutal idea, and of the brutal expreſſion, with which he laboured to divide us; but I will appeal to your own honeſt heart, againſt your terrified imagination, except in that fatal night when in⯑toxication bereaved me of my ſenſes, and when true charity would have caſt a veil over my frantic words and actions, have I ever merited this outrageous appellation? Nay, I will go much farther: I will conſent to reſt all my hopes on the iſſue of this candid queſtion; do you not think in your conſcience, from the perfect knowledge you have of my general character, that if you [98] bleſs me with your hand, my future life will be affectionate and virtuous?" "Ah, Seymour, ſaid the dear creature with a ſoft emotion in which Love and Terror were blended, you have ſuch inſinuating addreſs, that I muſt not liſten to you on a point in which it would prove ſo ve⯑ry fatal to me to have my weak reaſon over⯑whelmed or deluded. I ſhall be ever ready to do the moſt grateful juſtice to your many noble and engaging qualities; but I muſt never forget that it is my duty, and my determination, to proteſt, in the moſt deciſive manner, that nothing ſhall ever tempt me to become the wife of an infidel." I remonſtrated againſt the in⯑juſtice of giving this title to any man who paid a decent regard to the eſtabliſhed Religion of his country. We ſkirmiſhed for ſome time on this ground, till at laſt, finding her inflexible, and being ſorely galled by ſome harſh things ſhe ſaid, I went to ſummon my reverend ally Mr. Dan⯑vers to my aid, and cheriſhed a little hope that I might be able, with his aſſiſtance, to give a more happy turn to the conteſt.

"Since, Madam, ſaid I, introducing my ve⯑nerable old friend, ſince you are ſo cruelly deaf to every thing I ſay in my own favour, will you have the condeſcenſion to let this worthy man of GOD plead with you in my behalf? He does not reckon me a monſter of impiety, though a wretch of his order has baſely repreſented me as ſuch to you," "I am ſorry, Madam, ſaid the good Danvers, that many of our dignified clergy are ſo apt to forget that charitable meek⯑neſs and indulgence, which would become them much better than the contemptuous and cruel pride with which they often treat perſons whom [99] they ſuppoſe inferior to themſelves in holineſs, becauſe their ſtation is different. I was once nearly branded as an Atheiſt myſelf by an of⯑fended Biſhop, becauſe I had the ſpirit in my young days to reſiſt an arbitrary abuſe of his e⯑piſcopal privileges. I triumphed in the vindi⯑cation of my character; but have ſuffered not a little, perhaps, in my eccleſiaſtical fortune. The rank of Mr. Seymour happily exempts him from being injured in the manner that we poor little parſons may be injured; yet if any cruel miſrepreſentation has prejudiced him in your good opinion, I will venture to ſay, my dear Lady, that ſuch prejudice is a greater misfortune to him than the loſs of the richeſt benefice in the kingdom could be to me; and I ſhall think myſelf happy indeed if I am able to redreſs the wrong that has been done, and to reinſtate him in your favour. For my part, I have ever re⯑garded thoſe men as the moſt meritorious ſer⯑vants of GOD, who do, in proportion to their abilities, the greateſt number of good deeds; and I believe it would be difficult to find any man of Mr. Seymour's age, in the kingdom, who has been more diſtinguiſhed by acts of charity and munificence. For my own part I am bound to bear witneſs to his virtues as long as I exiſt, for he has ſaved one unhappy child of mine from impending deſtruction, and given efficacy and happineſs to the honeſt exertions of a ſecond. We have all the higheſt reaſon to bleſs him; and it would grieve me to the ſoul to ſee a lady ſo lovely, and ſo truly beloved as you are, make ſuch a ſuitor unhappy (perhaps for life) in conſe⯑quence of any religious prejudice againſt him, unworthily inſtilled into your tender mind." It [100] was in this manner, my dear Edmund, that my honeſt parſon began to trumpet forth my praiſes, while I watched every change in the varying features of Cornelia. Though ſhe liſtened i [...] Danvers with more ſerenity than ſhe did to me, there was ſtill an air of trouble on her counte⯑nance, and inſtead of encouraging my advo⯑cate by a ſmile of acquieſcence in his panegy⯑ric, ſhe ſeemed to be collecting all the powers of her mind to ſupport a firm reſiſtance againſt the combined petitioners by whom ſhe ſaw herſelf ſo pertinaciouſly beſieged. From the expreſſion of her face while Danvers was ſpeaking, I ex⯑pected a very tart reply; but here I was agree⯑ably diſappointed. With that engaging and majeſtic mildneſs which is peculiar to herſelf, ſhe ſaid to my warm-hearted panegyriſt, "We are not likely, my good Sir, to differ on the ge⯑neroſity of Mr Seymour, to which it ſeems we have both of us very uncommon obligations. For my own part, I am willing to conſider it as a new proof of his generoſity towards me, that he has choſen a man of your age and charac⯑ter to be the arbitrator of the painful but impor⯑tant difference between us. For you, my wor⯑thy old friend, you are involved in a ſituation ſomewhat ſimilar to mine. I can feel for you, as I feel for myſelf; you are partly overwhelm⯑ed by a ſenſe of gratitude and attachment to Mr. Seymour, and yet will find yourſelf, as I am, under a bitter neceſſity to pronounce againſt him. I am confident that a man ſo reſpectable as you are for a long life of piety, will never adviſe me to accept as my huſband an enemy to the God whom you ſerve." "Heaven forbid! exclaimed the ſpirited Danvers. If I were weak [101] and wicked enough to do ſo for any worldly temptation, believe me, Madam, I ſhould be, like the penitent and pious Cranmer, diſtracted by the ſenſe of my own infirmity, and eager to atone for it by martyrdom. But, on the other ſide, my dear lady, let us be cautious for Hea⯑ven's ſake, and not treat any perſon too haſtily as an enemy to God. Surely that very hard appellation cannot be juſtly applied to our gene⯑rous friend. I ſpeak not with any reference to his bounty towards myſelf. There have been, GOD knows, many enemies of GOD, who have laviſhed their treaſure on his unworthy miniſters, but ſurely theſe men have been widely different in their characters and their purſuits from Mr. Seymour." Here, Edmund, the gentle Cor⯑nelia appeared confuſed; ſeemed to think ſhe had gone too far, and looked half-relenting. I would not interrupt my devout advocate, and only preſſed her hand in ſilence. "I will tell you, my dear Madam, very frankly, continu⯑ed Danvers, that Mr. Seymour has confeſſed to me that his mind was never diſciplined and in⯑ſtructed, as it ought to have been, in the prin⯑ciples of our faith. Like moſt young men of his rank, he has hitherto thought too little or too lightly of our moſt important concerns; yet, inſtead of calling him an enemy to Religion, I ſhould rather call him its friend, ſince he ex⯑preſſes a great deſire to adopt more ſerious ideas, and ſince he purſues the moſt likely method to make him a good and religious man, by trying to connect himſelf with a lady ſo attached to her ſacred duties, and by promiſing that his chil⯑dren ſhall have the advantage, which he has unhappily wanted himſelf, of an early religious [102] education. Surely a man ſo benevolently diſ⯑poſed will be gradually enlightened by the per⯑fect knowledge of that Divine Maſter whom he is deſirous to know, and whom, when he ha [...] once truly known the beatitude of his ſervice, he can never forſake. Your virtue, my dear Madam, will have the glory and the delight of accompliſhing a work ſo angelic. Do not, therefore, I entreat you, by a precipitate rejec⯑tion, exaſperate the high but well-diſpoſed ſpirit of an ardent young man, who loves you almoſt to diſtraction. Do not make him, what he has been too haſtily called, an enemy to Religion." Cornelia was ſo deeply affected by this unex⯑pected intreaty from the good old Divine, that her gentle boſom began to heave with emotions that I was willing to ſuppoſe the effect of return⯑ing tenderneſs. As ſhe had hid her lovely im⯑paſſioned countenance, I thought I had every reaſon to conſtrue her ſilence into conſent, and exclaimed with impetuous rapture, "My ſweet angel yields to your heavenly perſuaſion! ſhe will be mine! O thou worthy man of God, ſaid I, claſping the hand of the delighted Danvers, thou ſhalt ſpeedily complete thy bleſſed work. Here is an inſtrument that will authorize thee to unite us immediately for ever."

At theſe words, I drew the ſpecial licence from my pocket; but it ſeemed to turn into a warrant for my death, the moment I beheld the countenance with which the recovering Cor⯑nelia [...]ow gazed upon it. Her modeſt eyes lightened with indignation at the ſight. She accu [...]ed me of preſumptuous vanity—of indeli⯑cate precipitation. She expreſſed a horror o [...] ſeeing her name indecently and fradulently unit⯑ed [103] to mine in the public papers. In ſhort, ſhe diſcovered a degree of anger and reſentment that I thought her gentle ſpirit incapable of feeling upon any provocation; but as this was the mere upon of offended modeſty, which I had not meant to offend, I thought myſelf almoſt ſure of appeaſing it. I aſſured her with great truth, that I had taken effectual means to guard againſt a conſequence which had ſhocked her imaginati⯑on ſo much; and that, ſo far from being really guilty of any intended offence to her delicacy, I was ready at that inſtant to pay it perhaps the higheſt compliment that was ever offered to that moſt amiable quality in woman, that if ſhe would only permit the excellent Mr. Danvers to read the ſervice to us, I would allow her, the mo⯑ment it was ended, to baniſh me to any part of the globe, and for any period ſhe pleaſed—I would never claim her as my wife till the very hour arrived that ſhe ſhould herſelf appoint. I ſaid much on this topic, and with a romantic tenderneſs and ſincerity that entirely baniſhed her reſentment. She appeared indeed ſo much ſoftened, that my reverend ally, conceiving freſh hopes, began to renew his ſupplication; but, before he could finiſh a ſingle ſentence, a moſt deep and terrific ſigh burſt from her heart, and ſhe exclaimed, "O Danvers, Danvers, is it poſſible that you can deſert me! then Heaven is my only refuge; and Heaven inſpire me for my defence!" Deſert you, Madam! cried the high ſpirited though ſimple Danvers, much galled by her expreſſion, Heaven is my witneſs, that I never yet deſerted man, woman, or child, in any kind of diſtreſs; and you, my dear Ma⯑dam, would be the laſt perſon in the world to⯑wards [104] whom I could be tempted to act ſo diſho⯑nourable a part. I may be deluded by my own gratitude; but I proteſt to GOD that I ſpeak unconſcious of any improper or ſelfiſh bias. I have adviſed you to accept my friend, and have given that advice, not from a ſordid motive, but upon a religious principle; becauſe I deem it our general duty rather to allure a well-mean⯑ing, though unſettled mind, to the true Reli⯑gion, by gentleneſs and indulgence, than to drive it into confirmed infidelity by any ri⯑gorous treatment." "Forgive me, my vene⯑rable friend, ſaid Cornelia, extending her hand to Danvers with a ſweetneſs of manner peculiar to herſelf, forgive me, I entreat you; and be aſſured that I have the moſt perfect confidence in your integrity. The mild and Chriſtian prin⯑ciple which you have profeſſed does you honour as a miniſter to the GOD of mercy; but a little reflection will convince you, my good friend, that it cannot be applicable to my cruel ſituation. When you hear the arguments and the feelings which I have to oppoſe to your advice, and which render me inflexible in the reſolution I have taken, you, I am ſure, will never wiſh me to give my hand to any perſon who conſiders that Goſpel, by which we endeavour to regulate our lives, as a maſs of abſurdity and impoſture." "Barbarous, barbarous Cornelia! cried I, with a brain that ſeemed on fire with indigna⯑tion, is it by cruelty alone that you can prove yourſelf a Chriſtian? But let me ſhew you, Madam, the baſeneſs, the inhumanity, of this treatment. I will ſuppoſe for a moment that ſuch an idea as you impute to me exiſts in my mind. Is it candid, is it charitable, is it juſt, that you ſhould violently tear open the receſſes [105] of my ſoul, force from thence any ſecret I would hide, and make it the oſtenſible ground of your argument againſt me? Let me ſhew you the unutterable barbarity of ſuch proceeding, by turning it back upon yourſelf. Let me ſuppoſe for an inſtant that you had a foible hid in your heart, which you would rather die than diſcover—let me ſuppoſe (forgive a vain ſuppoſition in⯑troduced only for argument)—let me ſuppoſe that you loved me with an affection ſo exquiſite⯑ly jealous that you could not ſee me throw an idle ſportive arm around a young damſel without being ready to faint at the ſight; would it be fair in me to argue, as you have argued, from the ſuppoſed foible of my antagoniſt? could I have a right to ſay, Madam, I have ſearched into your heart and ſoul, and you ought to mar⯑ry me becauſe you will die with jealouſy if you refuſe? Yet, if I argued thus, I ſhould argue far leſs ungenerouſly than my Cornelia has now argued againſt me."—Here, Edmund, I muſt confeſs to you that my own heart began to re⯑volt againſt my tongue; and though I could not recede, I felt that reſentment had hurried me too far, when I ſaw the deep and burning bluſh that ſeemed to drown all the features of Cornelia, when I hazarded my ſuppoſition, too cruelly founded on truth. As ſoon as her eloquent blood betrayed her emotion, ſhe hid her face from us. I pauſed for her reply, half aſhamed of what I had ſaid, and half terrified at her expected re⯑proach. But here the gentle creature triumph⯑ed over me by language a thouſand times more powerful than the moſt vehement invective.

Removing her handkerchief from her lovely and half recovered countenance, ſhe turned to [106] the good aſtoniſhed old Divine, and ſaid to him, with an inconceivable tenderneſs of voice, "Mr. Danvers, I conſider you as a very kind and very indulgent father; I ſhall not therefore ſcruple to confeſs in your preſence all the weak⯑neſs of a heart that is weak in the extreme; yet is ſtill, I truſt, ſupported by Heaven. Mr. Sey⯑mour, I find, is perfectly appriſed that my af⯑fect on for him has run into great extravagance and folly. I am not angry with thoſe who have betrayed to him my infirmities, becauſe I know they have been influenced by the pureſt and moſt benevolent intentions, and becauſe I have no vain wiſh to appear in Mr. Seymour's eyes ſuperior to what I am, a very weak and fond woman. O Seymour, you accuſe me of cruelty and pride: I hope I never had thoſe qualities; but, if I had, I am now humbled in the duſt: this venerable, this indulgent judge of human frailties will pity and forgive me, while I own to you, to ſoften your exaſperated ſpirit, that you are as dear to me as my own ſoul Both he and Heaven, I truſt, will applaud me for add⯑ing, that you are not, and I am convinced you never can be, ſo dear to me as the more preci⯑ous ſouls of my children!" This repeated and moſt ingenuous avowal of her love melted me into tears. I threw myſelf at her feet, and pro⯑teſted with great truth, that if her children had been my own I could not idolize them more than I do. I repeated all I had ever promiſed concerning their religious education. The good Danvers was greatly affected; and while he ap⯑plauded Cornelia's maternal piety, expreſſed a hope that he ſhould yet live to ſee us forming the happieſt family in the world.—"Never, [107] Sir, ſaid the ſighing, yet more and more reſo⯑lute Cornelia. There is a noble, romantic, yet dangerous, pride of ſpirit in Mr. Seymour, which renders him very unwilling to relinquiſh any opinions he has adopted; and he has been moſt unhappily led to think the Goſpel an im⯑poſture. Good Heaven, how grievous it is, that a mind ſo generous, ſo tender, ſo appa⯑rently formed by nature to exult in the bleſſings of Chriſtianity, ſhould conſider the Prophets and Apoſtles of that Religion as a ſet of deſpicable deceivers.

While the beautiful enthuſiaſt repeated theſe ſpirited verſes of Dryden, there was an angelic luſtre in her countenance, ſuperior to every thing that I ever beheld. Danvers and I ſtood almoſt entranced with admiration.—"Strange and terrible, continued the lovely preacher, as Infidelity appears to a tender and devout ſpirit, we ſee, alas! that it is dreadfully prevalent; and particularly among thoſe perſons of rank and fortune who are moſt likely to be the aſſoci⯑ates of Mr. Seymour: and hence there can be little probability of an early change in his mind. Indeed I have read, in the works of one who had deeply ſtudied all human failings, and who judged of them with true Chriſtian tenderneſs, that impiety is of all mortal infirmities the moſt [108] difficult of cure; becauſe the pride of increduli⯑ty, different from many dangerous paſſions, which naturally decline in the latter ſtages of life, ſprings afreſh in that ſeaſon, and is fortifi⯑ed by age^*. You my dear unhappy Seymour, are probably deſtined to a long life; and it ſhall be my fervent prayer that you may prove an happy exception to this rule; but without any expectation that we can be ever united. I am convinced that we never can. And, believe me, in my firm rejection of your offers, how⯑ever cruel you may call it, I am influenced by motives of kindneſs towards you, as well as by a ſenſe of my own duty. Were I your wife at this moment, I ſhould ſee you ſupremely wretch⯑ed." Here I interrupted her with vehement proteſtations of her miſtake. But ſhe replied with a calm dignity, "Hear me patiently, I entreat you, Seymour, becauſe, ſince I have in⯑genuouſly laid open all the fond weakneſs of my heart to you, and to our venerable friend, I can now talk to you with an eaſe and confi⯑dence that I never could attain before; and I [109] am perſuaded I ſhall make you though not a con⯑vert to Religion (would to Heaven I could!) yet a convert to the propriety and to the kind⯑neſs of my conduct. I muſt repeat and main⯑tain what I have ſaid: you muſt be wretched were I your wiſe; becauſe you muſt ſee me haunted by terrors that you could neither cure nor condemn. I ſhould not only feel that pain⯑ful ſolicitude for your eternal felicity which I muſt ever feel, however divided from you; but I ſhould be diſtracted by an inceſſant dread that my dear boys, who, as they grew up, muſt na⯑turally look to you as

would imperceptibly catch from you that impie⯑ty which you would be too generous to teach them. They would laugh at their poor credulous devout mother; and, tainted by the infectious though unavowed ſpirit of the alluring infidel they would plunge—O GOD! my whole heart is convulſed with anguiſh at the bare idea of this univerſal miſery. No, Seymour, what⯑ever agonies I may endure in tearing myſelf from you, nothing ſhall ever tempt me to incur the hazard of proving the bane, the perdition, of my children! You, my good Danvers, you will no more adviſe me to a marriage that offers ſuch a proſpect to the keen preceptions of a mo⯑ther." "No, my dear Madam, cried the deep⯑ly affected old man; I would ſooner forfeit all the bleſſings [...] owe to the bounty of Mr. Sey⯑mour, and all the little property I poſſeſs in the world, than urge you to act in oppoſition to the [110] dictates of your own angelic ſpirit, and of that Heaven by whom you ſeem to be inſpired."— The honeſt old man was quite overwhelmed by this ſcene; and having kiſſed the hand of Cor⯑nelia, and bathed it with his tears, he quitted the room, to tranquillize or to conceal the viſi⯑ble diſorder of his nerves. For my own part, I was not ſo much ſoftened by her maternal ten⯑derneſs, nor even by the frank confeſſion of her love to me, as I was galled, mortified, and ex⯑aſperated, by her ſaintly pride, and determinate rejection of my hand. As Danvers was going out of the room, ſhe had deſired him to order her chaiſe; and though the old man, in a broken voice, had begged her to ſtay the night, ſhe pe⯑remptorily refuſed, and preſſed for the carriage immediately. This contributed to increaſe my ſpleen, my reſentment, my depreſſion. I ſat confounded and ſtupified with a thouſand wretched ſenſations. The poor Caroline came in to us, trembling in her turn at the proud ſaint's diſpleaſure. But to Caroline ſhe was all goodneſs—pardoned her for her ſhare in the conſpiracy, and renewed her commands for the carriage. This obſtinate reſolution to depart provoked me to upbraid her for her pride: but, by an affectionate rebuke, ſhe reduced me to kneel, and aſk her forgiveneſs. She forgave me; but was reſolute to go. This rendered me half frantic again; and at laſt, aſtoniſhed, and almoſt petrified at her inflexibility, I ſat ſilent and motionleſs, while ſhe bade me farewell, and haſ⯑tened to her chaiſe.

[111]All the ſubſequent occurrences, my dear Ed⯑mund, I have related to you already. I ſhall therefore cloſe this long narrative by obſerving, that the whole adventure appears to me rather as a wild and troubled dream than as a ſeries of incidents that have really paſſed. What influ⯑ence they may have on my future life, Heaven only knows. At preſent I pity Cornelia, and pity myſelf. Our ſtrong mutual affection has made us both completely uncomfortable; nor can I ſee any clear proſpect that we ſhall ever conduce to the happineſs of each other.

Theſe, I think, are the words of poor Creech, in tranſlating this celebrated line: but if they are ſo, he tranſlated like a booby; and his lan⯑guage is too groſs to be applied, even by of⯑fended paſſion, to my dear and delicate, though inflexible, Cornelia.

LETTER XV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

I AM once more, my dear Edmund, in Genoa, after paſſing a road whoſe mountainous horrors ſurpaſſed every thing that I was led to expect from report; and I had choſen it in one of my darkeſt humours, becauſe ſuch a road ‘Suited the gloomy habit of my ſoul.’

My perverſe ſtars ſeem to be determined that I ſhall no more enjoy any pleaſures of a more chearful and tender ſort. After paſſing the drea⯑ry and hideous mountains between Antibes and this city, which compleatly ſatiated my appe⯑tite for ſavage ſcenery, my mind began to fix itſelf, with an eager, fond, and pleaſant expec⯑tation, on the ſmiling welcome of the ſweet Giuliana, by which I thought myſelf ſecure of being ſpeedily refreſhed, conſoled, and re-ani⯑mated. Judge, Edmund, of my bitter blank vexation, when, inſtead of the friendly faces of the good Seignor Pinelli and his lovely daugh⯑ter, I [...]ound only a poor old woman, who told me, in words that ſounded more diſmal to my ear than ever human voice did before, that the family were all gone to viſit a relation in the [113] neighbourhood of Rome; that they talked of extending their excurſion to Venice; and per⯑haps they might travel ſtill farther before they returned. I feel diſpoſed to purſue them round the world; for I have loſt all reliſh for common ſociety; my feelings and affections ſeem to be half-palſied; and I have, I think, no deſire alive, except a paſſionate, yet, believe me, not an amorous deſire, to ſee and converſe with Giuliana.

As to my ſolicitude concerning the ſanctified Cornelia, it grows leſs and leſs, in proportion as I ſuffer more and more from her ſaintly pride. A woman who can ſo triumphantly command her affections will never ſuffer much from the abſence of any man, however dear to her he in his hours of vanity may ſuppoſe himſelf. Few women, indeed, have ſufficient energy of heart to feel real Love, according to my ideas of that ſublime paſſion; for I think of it as Oſman does in Cornelia's favourite tragedy; and I might ſay to her, with a little variation, in the words of the Sultan, ‘I can believe you hate, ſince you have power to love with moderation.’

But love I ſhall endeavour to baniſh from my thoughts; and think only of my ſweet friend Giuliana. As this city appears to me a mere deſert ſince ſhe is not here, I am haſtening [...]o [...]uit it, and hope to ſurprize the dear travellers at Fraſcati, where I underſtand they are reſiding at preſent. You will forgive my being ſo laco⯑me, as I am preparing to fly with eagerneſs to a ſpot which is, hallowed in my imagination by [114] the retirement of Tully and the birth of Metaſta⯑ſio; a ſpot which, in my days of tranquillity, I have eagerly viſited on that account; but which I am now impatient to reacn from motives yet ſtronger, becauſe I hope to meet there, not the ſpirits of Tully or of Metaſtaſio, but friends, in whoſe converſation I may find the dignity of the philoſopher, and the ſweetneſs of the poet.

My good-humour is beginning to revive in this expectation; and, in bidding you adieu, I muſt add, becauſe I know it will give you plea⯑ſure, that my heart feels, at this moment, leſs heavy than it has done at any time ſince I reach⯑ed the Continent. But, however loaded or lightened that heart may be in the courſe of my rambling, be aſſured it will ever be full of the kindeſt good wiſhes to you and your ſiſter.

Direct to me at Rome; and believe me, in all places,

LETTER XVI. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

THE joy that I felt in returning to my own comfortable houſe, from the deſolate manſion of poor Verney, has been grievouſly damped, by the clouds of trouble in which I found my good Harriot involved: her generous anxiety for my quiet had kept me, till I returned, a perfect ſtranger to all the late vexatious occurrences. I am inexpreſſibly grieved to find that my pro⯑phetic fears of your precipitate, yet ſtill intereſt⯑ing friend, have been ſo painfully realized. I am ſtill more anxious, if poſſible, than ever, to ſave him from himſelf, the worſt of all enemies; and indeed the only enemy, as I think you once told him, that he has to fear. Our incompara⯑ble Cornelia has behaved, I underſtand, like an [...]n [...]el, in a trial infinitely too ſevere for a frame to delicate. Heaven grant that we may not have to ſay of this trial, ‘The ſaint ſuſtain'd it, but the woman died!’

I own to you, that her countenance alarms me for her life, though her attentive and quick-ſighted [116] friend Harriot aſſures me that her ap⯑pearance is greatly mended within the laſt fort⯑night, and is confident in the hope of her per⯑fect recovery. In ſome private converſation which I have had with the lovely ſufferer, ſhe has affected me with more compaſſion, I think, than I ever felt for a human creature before. Though ſhe is unſhaken in her opinion as to the religious rectitude of her conduct, and though ſhe was highly gratified by the hearty and af⯑fectionate applauſe that I beſtowed on her mater⯑nal virtue; yet an inceſſant dread that her re⯑jection of Seymour may hurry this impetuous young man into thoſe vices from which he was uncommonly free, preys upon her heart. She expreſſed her apprehenſions to me in language ſo eloquent and pathetic that ſhe made me feel them in all their force, while I laboured with little ſucceſs to inſpire her with more chearful expectations. Indeed her fears are too well grounded: there is nothing, I think, more to be dreaded than the fiery ſpirit of a young man who has failed in any plan of virtuous happineſs. A revolt to the powers of vice, in theſe caſes, is frequent, I believe, in every rank of life; for moſt mortals, who mean honeſtly, think they have ſuch a right to be happy, that when they find their good moral projects produce not this effect, they haſtily conclude that the world is governed by chance, and are content to follow a guide and ruler who, thou [...]h allowed to be blind, is ſuppo [...]ed to be irreſiſtible.

But not to mor [...]lize too long, my dear Ed⯑mund, let me haſten to impart to you an idea which I think worth purſuing in the preſent ſtate of affairs, it ſtrikes me, that you might [117] afford great relief to the tenderly anxious ſpirits of Cornelia, that you might recover and con⯑firm your own altered health, and finally, that you might render moſt eſſential ſervice to your very engaging, but wild rambling friend, by taking a ſudden trip to the continent. What delight would it give to your grateful ward Giu⯑liana to be ſurpriſed, in Genoa, by an unex⯑pected viſit from her Engliſh guardian! and from how many rocks may you have a chance of ſaving your rapid and much-endangered friend, who is driven forth on a ſtormy ſea, not only without the important ballaſt of Religion, but with a very ſcanty freight of prudence and diſcretion! Pray think of this hint ſpeedily and ſeriouſly; you can eaſily ſend Lucy to us, who is, you know, always welcome, and we flatter ourſelves very willing, to reſide under our roof. If your finances are not perfectly ſuited to fo⯑reign travel, there is a ſum at my banker's ſuf⯑ficient to conduct you round Europe, and it ſhall be devoted to anſwer your drafts in the excur⯑ſion I recommend to you. I need not add, that no mode of employing this money can afford me ſo much pleaſure; and that, by allowing me to miniſter to your convenience, you will in truth confer a moſt agreeable obligation upon

Harriot, with her love to you and Lucy, ve⯑ry ardently joins in my requeſt; and even Cor⯑nelia has the frankneſs to ſay, it would give her [118] infinite ſatisfaction to know that the impetuous Seymour had with him a friend and counſellor ſo calm and conſiderate as you are.

LETTER XVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

GONE from Fraſcati too! How malignant are my ſtars to all my expectations! Yet my ſtars do not ſeem, my dear Edmund, at preſent to be, as Shakeſpeare ſays, ‘the moſt maiden⯑ly ſtars in the firmament;’ for they have twinkled upon me ſo wantonly; they have led and lighted me in ſuch an adventure! But huſh —ſtand with your finger on your lips, like the God of ſecrecy and ſilence, and you ſhall hear of ſuch a nightly exploit as might have con⯑verted the moſt rigid worſhiper of Diana into a votary to Venus.

I thought all my warm blood had been turned into gall or phlegm; but Nature choſe to vindi⯑cate [119] her rights; and accident convinced me of my miſtake.

On my arrival here, I felt not a little cha⯑grined in finding only the good old aunt of Giu⯑liana, to whoſe houſe I had been directed.— My friends of Genoa are again on the wing; but they are expected here in about three weeks; and this very polite old lady preſſed me moſt cordially, when ſhe heard my name, to await under her hoſpitable roof the return of her rela⯑tions. This I declined as civilly as I could, promiſing to be with her again at the time ſhe mentioned; and, chuſing to paſs the interim at liberty, to amuſe myſelf in excurſions to Rome, and in any fanciful purſuits that the intereſting ſcene around me could ſuggeſt. But chance ſoon threw in my way a magnet more attrac⯑tive than the politeneſs of my old lady. In re⯑turning to my inn from her houſe, which ſtands at a little diſtance from this pleaſant town, I paſſed another ſingle houſe, with a ſmall but charming garden, on the ſlope of this chearful hill. At the door of this houſe ſtood a ſplendid carriage, and juſt as I reached it an elderly man of a dignified appearance leaped into it, with eyes that ſparkled with fury, and was driven rapidly towards Rome. This circumſtance led me to caſt a curious eye round the houſe he had juſt left; and at an upper window, which look⯑ed obliquely upon me, becauſe it was within the garden-wall, I beheld the moſt faſcinating of all ſights, a young and beautiful female in tears. Our eyes met, and ſeemed to underſtand each other. As there happened to be nobody near me, I ſtood gazing on the lovely ſtranger, not with looks of impertinent curioſity, but of [120] the moſt tender compaſſion. I endeavoured to explain to her, by geſture, my very ardent de⯑ſire to aleviate her affliction. She made a ſig⯑nal, in return, which ſeemed to bid me wait; and diſappeared from the window. My hear: was now thrown into all the tumultuous ſenſa⯑tions of fond ſolicitude and ſuſpenſe. I looked anxiouſly to the window, and ſoon beheld the beauty who had vaniſhed returning, like the ſun, with increaſing luſtre. Though her ſitua⯑tion rendered it difficult to convey any thing to me, becauſe, as I have told you, the garden-wall was between us, ſhe contrived to throw, with great force and dexterity, a circular billet at my feet; for the dear ingenious creature, to make her paper heavy enough to reach me, had wrapped it round a ſilver medal of the Pope. I was charmed with her contrivance; and you muſt not pretend, my dear monitor, to reprove me, ſince you ſee that our loves commence un⯑der the guidance of his Holineſs.—What ſtrange things happen in this odd world! and how little did I ever expect to kiſs the image of a Roman Pontiff with more than Catholic de⯑votion! Yet this I now did, as the moſt expreſ⯑ſive anſwer that I could give on the ſpot to the tender inviting billet which the Holy Father had ſo faithfully waſted to my hand. This billet was written with great ſpirit, and in good Itali⯑an. It ſaid, "that if I had ſenſibility and cou⯑rage enough to venture through many dangers, to hear and pity the diſtreſſes of an oppreſſed and unfortunate girl, I ſhould take my ſtation at midnight near a door at the bottom of the ſloping garden, and a very truſty old woman would lead me to the perſon for whom I had ap⯑peared [121] to feel ſo much generous and conſolato⯑ry compaſſion." Here was a temptation, my dear cautious philoſopher, which I think even your diſcreet worſhip could not have reſiſted, eſpecially had you heard, as I did at my inn, that the houſe to which I was ſo enchantingly invit⯑ed had been lately taken by a whimſical old no⯑bleman of Portugal, a Don Manoel Coutinho, who is deſcribed as half a great genius and half a madman: he is a Scholar, an Antiquary, a Medalliſt, a Fencer, a Fidler, a Mechanic, a Chemiſt, and, above all, a Voluptuary. He has been in all parts of the world, and ſpeaks all languages. The accounts I hear of him put me in mind of the Scottiſh wonder, the admirable Creichton, and of our Wortley Montague: he ſeems to be a compound of thoſe two extraordi⯑nary characters; and if report ſays true, he un⯑derſtands every thing, except how to confer hap⯑pineſs on a young and beautiful girl: ‘Though not a ſcience, fairly worth the ſeven.’

However the enterprizing and univerſal Don Manoel thought himſelf equal to this branch of knowledge, as he lately brought off from Ve⯑nice a young creature, who may be juſtly rec⯑koned the moſt conſummate model of voluptu⯑ous beauty that Nature ever exhibited, even in the country where ſhe is moſt laviſh of thoſe al⯑luring exhibitions. Such was the report, my dear Edmund, that I heard of my fair incognito and her tyrant, who is ſo barbarouſly jealous of his lovely treaſure that he keeps hi [...] like a ſtate-priſoner; and yet is ſo vain of he [...]mharms, that once, they ſay, he wanted to diſp [...]y them in [122] the condition of a new created Eve, to a ſet of licentious and half-intoxicated gueſts at his ta⯑ble. The beautiful Venetian, whoſe name is Violante, and who, in ſpite of a villainous edu⯑cation, is truly more modeſt than vain, revolt⯑ed againſt this propoſal; and has been more bar⯑barouſly treated, in conſequence of a virtue which a voluptuary more refined than the old tyrannical Portugueſe would have conſidered as her capital charm. You will eaſily ſuppoſe, my dear Edmund, that, as my fancy was inflamed by this hiſtory, I flew with ardour to my aſſig⯑nation. I will ſpare both you and myſelf a re⯑lation of the unpleaſant and humiliating ſteps that I was forced to take, to reach in ſafety the apartment of my charmer; and only briefly ſay, that, after paſſing through the darkneſs of Tartarus, I was at laſt very happily uſhered in⯑to [...]lyſium. I muſt not, however be ſuch a hy⯑pocrite as to inſinuate, that the joys I found here were all of the ſpiritual kind. No, my dear philoſopher, it was a ſcene that would have annihilated the continence of a Scipio. Repre⯑ſent to yourſelf a young beauty, not yet eigh⯑teen, more exquiſitely, more voluptuouſly faſhi⯑oned, in voice, in feature, in form, than any girl that your eyes ever beheld; repreſent her provoked by an old tyrant who had abſolutely beat her, and pleaſed by a young adventurer who had freely hazarded his life for the pleaſure of ſoothing her affliction. The lovely creature was not ungrateful. But I will not tantalife your philoſophy, by any glowing deſcriptions of the tranſcen [...]ntly beautiful and extatic Violante. Nor is it [...] perſon alone that I am charmed with; ſh [...] as a heart, mind, and ſoul, fully [123] equal to her exquiſite form. My cautious mo⯑nitor will tell me, that I can be no judge of theſe in my preſent ſituation, as I view them all through a very illuſive medium. Granted, my dear philoſopher; yet, as our friend Prior ſays:

At all events, Violante is too good for the old barbarian who has her now in his power; and I have ſome unſettled thoughts of contriving her eſcape, and tranſporting her to England. What ſay you my dear Edmund? will you receive the admirable creature as a new tenant for your emp⯑ty cottage? ſhe is not, I confeſs, ſo angelic as Giuliana; but ſhe has her merits, believe me, and her failings are only ſuch as ariſe from her cruel deſtiny, and not from her natural charac⯑ter. But it would be no eaſy matter to accom⯑pliſh her freedom. The old Don is a fellow of deſperate vigilance and dexterity. He might, indeed, have made an excellent magician in darker times; for Violante ſhewed me many wonderful ſpecimens of his rare ſkill both in me⯑chaniſm and chemiſtry. She reckons him little leſs than an abſolute conjuror, and has therefore I believe, double delight in out-witting him. Nothing is ſo dangerous as an attempt to go⯑vern a woman by cunning; it always provokes her to ſoil her governor with his own weapons. Violante, I believe, would be the moſt open-hearted and faithful creature in the world to a man who treated her with kindneſs and confi⯑dence. [124] But you ſhall hear more of her as we grow more intimate. We ſhall have frequent opportunities to cultivate our acquaintance, be⯑cauſe the old Seignior paſſes two or three nights every week, in Rome, where he is reported to be carrying on many deep and ſecret machinati⯑ons. He has certainly ſome private reaſon for not taking Violante with him; and he leaves her under the guard of an old truſty Portugueze ſecretary, uncommonly devoted to the ſervice of his maſter, who delivered him from the gripe of the Inquiſition; a benefit, indeed, that ought never to be forgotten; and I ſhall not therefore attempt to corrupt this dependant, truſty Argus, as he is. I have luckily eluded his eyes, and may contrive perhaps hereafter to bear off the treaſure that he is commiſſioned to watch. However this may be, take care, I beſeech you, that the private hiſtory I now ſend you may never reach the ear of Cornelia; for, if ſhe retains any great affection for me, which I can hardly ſup⯑poſe, I ſhould be ſorry ſo mortify and inſult is. Fooliſh, obſtinate bigot! what would I not have given, to have made her as happy for life, as I made for ſome hours the more beautiful, yet ſtill leſs attractive, Violante! Deuce take this invo⯑luntary reflection! it has half-poiſoned my rap⯑tures, paſt and to come: and ſince my ſpleen is thus unexpectedly awakened, the kindeſt thing, my dear Edmund, that I can do by you is, to bid you abruptly farewell. So believe me ever

LETTER XVIII. FROM MISS TO MR. AUDLEY.

IT was ſurely a good angel who ſuggeſted to you the idea of recommending to our dear Ed⯑mund an immediate excurſion to Genoa. I moſt cordially hope that he will embark for that excurſion before many days elapſe, and not ſo much for the friendly purpoſe which you have in view, as to alleviate his own particular diſ⯑treſs; for I grieve to tell you, that he is at the moment one of the moſt diſtreſſed beings that you ever beheld. A dreadful incident has hap⯑pened in our neighbourhood, which, though I truſt it will ultimately be the means of giving tranquillity to his life, has affected him ſo deep⯑ly in the inſtant, that he is utterly incapable of [...]ting even to you. Indeed, my nerves have been as much ſhaken as his; but, as my heart [...]leſs concerned, I have greatly recovered my⯑ſelf, and ſhall haſten to relieve you from the [...]m which this opening of my letter will, I know, occaſion in you and our dear ſympathe⯑tic Harriot.

[126]Though you are both of a nature too noble to pry into the ſecrets which decency and diſcre⯑tion would keep as much as poſſible out of ſight, I know, by ſlight hints which have fallen from you both, that you are apprized of what our dear Edmund wiſhed to think an impenetrable myſtery, revealed only to me: I mean, his long and incorrigible indulgence in the plea⯑ſures of illicit love. Alas! how heavy a price is paid for thoſe pleaſures, even by the ſex which is ſuppoſed to obtain them on the moſt eaſy and advantageous terms! To our poor af⯑flicted Edmund they have proved, what I fancy they prove to moſt men, a very unquiet dream, ending abruptly in a ſtart of horror. But to my mournful ſtory: As death, the great diſco⯑verer of latent foibles, has now utterly torn in pieces the half-tattered veil of ſecrecy, I am at full liberty to tell you, that the unhappy though alluring object of Edmund's clandeſtine attach⯑ment was a beautiful girl of this country; ſhe was the daughter of a reputable farmer; but, like moſt of the farmers' daughters in our days, ſhe was little occcupied in the ſalutary labours of ruſtic life. The univerſal paſſion for dreſs and ſentiment very early ſeized on this lively damſel: inſtead of carrying her butter and eggs to the neighbouring market town, ſhe ne⯑ver went thither but to purchaſe gauze, and cram her pocket with novels from the circulat⯑ing-library. From theſe ſhe ſoon learned to conſider Love as the only buſineſs of life; and thus diſpoſed, about ten years ago ſhe caſt her eyes upon Edmund. He reſembled the hero of her favourite romance: ſhe contrived to throw herſelf alone in his way in a ſweet ſhady lane; [127] one romantic ſtep led to another; and, after a few ſentimental meetings, the ſad old ſenſual and common cataſtrophe enſued. The only ex⯑traordinary part of their amorous hiſtory is this: although the poor idle girl, whom Ed⯑mund diſtinguiſhed by the whimſical title of Syl⯑via, made the firſt overtures, ſhe has been in⯑violably faithful, though extremely capricious, in a connexion of many years: yet their inter⯑courſe has been attended with a ſufficiency of troubles. The uſual miſchief happened very early; and poor Edmund, who has naturally a tender conſcience, was half-diſtracted with the idea of deſtroying the peace of an honeſt un⯑ſuſpecting father: but Providence prevented the ſcene of paternal anguſh, which had terrified the imagination of the two delinquents. The old farmer finiſhed his days without ſuſpecting the condition of his child. Poor Sylvia had no mother; and by the charitable aſſiſtance of an aunt (the humble widow of an humble Divine) ſhe avoided public diſgrace, and produced a daughter, which Edmund has reared with the utmoſt privacy, and only viſited as miſers viſit their hidden gold.

After the birth of this lovely infant, he reſolved to break the connexion; but, philoſopher as he calls himſelf, he found that this project, though ſtrongly recommended both by virtue and pru⯑dence, was much eaſier in theory than in prac⯑tice. Sylvia, more beautiful and more fond than ever, ſettled herſelf with her aunt in a neat, little, retired houſe, but a very few miles from us. Humanity required that Edmund ſhould ſometimes carry her accounts of the child, whom ſhe was allowed to ſee very rarely, and by [128] ſtealth. Alas! this humanity, my dear Audley, with mortals leſs virtuous or leſs happy than you are, is apt to lead them, even with their eyes open, into ſad follies; it led our dear brother to hamper himſelf more and more in this attach⯑ment, which he clearly ſaw was unfriendly to his comfort, his tranquillity, his reputation. Fortunately no new incumbrances aroſe in the ſhape of children: at times many good reſoluti⯑ons were formed, but frailty, paſſion, and ha⯑bit, prevailed againſt them. Spinſter as I am, I feel myſelf a little bound to argue, as far as I decently may, in extenuation of our dear Ed⯑mund's frailty; becauſe I really believe that I have been, though very innocently, inſtrumen⯑tal to its continuance. I believe his very kind deſire to ſooth my troubled mind, and to give me a houſe to manage, when I was ſo bitterly diſappointed of one that I expected to call my own, prevented his thinking ſeriouſly of a wife at the moſt proper ſeaſon, and of courſe had a tendency to prolong his reſtleſs bondage, under the half-tender and half-tyrannical Sylvia.— However this may be, they have maintained a ſecret intercourſe for ſeveral years, in which their diſquietude and their vexation have far ex⯑ceeded their tenderneſs and their pleaſure, if I may credit the poor frail philoſopher, who, for my edification, confeſſes to me all his weakneſs, though he will ſeldom follow my ſage advice. At laſt, indeed, he had reſolved on a thorough reform. Tired to death of the ſpleen, and diſcon⯑tent of his way ward and querulous Sylvia, he had exhorted her to ſettle in a mode of life whoſe [129] advantages ſhe would often enumerate with en⯑vy. He was ready to ſacrifice his own pleaſure to her happineſs, or her tranquillity: ſhe might marry whenever ſhe choſe it; and his genero⯑ſity would facilitate that event. After a million of debates, bitter ſquabbles, and tender recon⯑ciliations, on this wide field of argument, all things were at length adjuſted; and poor Syl⯑via, to improve her temper, was to be con⯑ſigned to a huſband. She had an ardent ad⯑mirer in her own rank of life, who, being frankly informed of her part life, very gene⯑rouſly perſevered in his addreſſes; the day of marriage was appointed, an event that filled me, I confeſs, with ſtrange mingled ſenſations of gladneſs and terror; of gladneſs, becauſe I had long wiſhed to ſee the poor enthralled Ed⯑mund ſet free; and of terror, becauſe I clearly perceive, that, although his reaſon rejoiced in the proſpect of this freedom, his paſſions were in ſuch a ſtate that they might induce him to ſpurn the bleſſing in the very moment when he ſeemed to have ſecured it. While affairs were in this anxious ſituation, our whole country was aſſembled at the great fair in our neigh⯑bourhood. —Sylvia attended her deſtined huſ⯑band, young Evans, to this motley ſcene of buſineſs and merriment. As neither Edmund nor I wiſhed to be there, we intended to remain comfortably at home, and give the ſervants an opportunity of enjoying the gay ſpectacle by themſelves. A meſſage from our neighbour Mrs. Clayfield diſconcerted our quiet plan. Be⯑ing confined herſelf by indiſpoſition, and her huſband being abroad; ſhe requeſted me to take [130] her daughter Charlotte to the puppet-ſhow. Edmund, whoſe good-nature is always ready to gratify a child, ordered our [chaiſe, and rode with me and my happy little charge to the fair. We were all not a little mortified to find our⯑ſelves too late; the booth of exhibition was ſo crammed that it could not even admit another infantine ſpectator. Poor little Charlotte began to cry at the diſappointment; but ſoon dried and forgot her tears, on being told, that the puppet-ſhow would begin again before it was time for us to go home, and then ſhe might de⯑pend on ſeeing it. It was indeed a providen⯑tial bleſſing to us that we were not admitted among the firſt audience. The maſter of this canvas theatre, to collect the more money, had built ſomething like boxes, and an upper gal⯑lery; but this ſtructure was ſo haſtily and ill prepared, and ſo overloaded, that part of it gave way. As we were ſauntering about a hundred yards from the great booth, we heard a moſt horrible outcry, and ſoon beheld ſeveral men and women ruſhing forth in great conſternation. The firſt report was, that many perſons were cruſhed to death by a fall of the ſcaffolding. Edmund inſtantly put me and the child into the chaiſe, and begged us to wait while he ran to enquire into the real extent of the calamity. Think, Audley, what our dear brother's agony muſt have been, when he found that the firſt unhappy ſufferer brought forth from the ruins was poor Evans, hideouſly disfigured and quite dead. Edmund plunged, as he has ſince told me, with a frantic impulſe, into the croud, and overſet ſome of the perſons employed in bring⯑ing [131] out a female figure; it was poor Sylvia, with a frame moſt deplorably ſhattered and al⯑moſt ſpeechleſs; yet ſhe poſſeſſed her ſenſes; and at the ſight of Edmund faſtened one hand (which was all ſhe could move) upon him, with a ſhri [...]k of anguiſh and affection. He brought her to the chaiſe, and having with great diffi⯑culty got her into it, and offered a reward to any man who could moſt expeditiouſly bring a ſurgeon to the houſe of her aunt, he placed himſelf by the ſide of the poor half-expiring ſufferer, and drove from us, promiſing to ſend the chaiſe back immediately for Charlotte and me: for this, however, we did not wait; as a friend of Mrs. Clayfield's conveyed both the [...]ld and me to our reſpective homes. I now paſſed ſome hours of the moſt melancholy ſolici⯑tude and ſuſpenſe, wiſhing to do every thing [...] the beſt, and yet doing nothing, for fear of doing wrong. At laſt the chaiſe returned, with a requeſt from Edmund, that it might bring me immediately to him. You will eaſily be⯑lieve that I felt no prudiſh ſcruples at ſuch a moment. I could willingly have ſacrificed re⯑putation to alleviate the horrid ſufferings of this poor dying creature. But, alas! I had not the mournful ſatisfaction of finding her alive. The ſurgeon and I were both too late. I found my brother in the fondeſt agonies of grief, and preſſing in his arms the breathleſs object of his love. Yet my arrival afforded him great re⯑lief. He roſe eagerly, to tell me with what ad⯑mirable expreſſions of piety and affection the hapleſs girl had expired. She bleſſed GOD, he ſaid, that poor Evans had ſuffered none of thoſe [132] bodily tortures which had fallen juſtly on her. She conſidered the dreadful event as ordained by Providence to ſave that worthy young man from much impending miſery, and herſelf per⯑haps from much guilt; for ſhe confeſſed, that, although ſhe had conſented to the marriage, ſhe had found her heart and ſoul indiſſolubly at⯑tached to Edmund. She conjured him to che⯑riſh her child; and, above all things, to give her ſuch an education, however humble, as may beſt ſecure her from following the fatal example of her unhappy mother. You will readily conceive with what tenderneſs our gen⯑tle Edmund replied to theſe heart-piercing en⯑treaties. He aſſured the tender expiring parent, that I ſhould prove a moſt attentive and affec⯑tionate mother to the dear orphan Fanny (the name of their daughter). At this idea, he ſays, her bodily anguiſh ſeemed quite ſuſpended, and ſhe anſwered him in a tender tranſport. "Oh, my dear Edmund, I can believe any goodneſs in thoſe who are related to you! If your ſiſter, though I have not deſerved ſuch an honour, would but comfort my parting ſpirit with ſuch a promiſe from her own lips, my death would be a bleſſed one indeed!" It was in conſequence of this ſpeech than Edmund ſent immediately for me; but, alas! as I have al⯑ready told you, I came too late; the little re⯑maining ſtrength of the fond ſufferer was ex⯑hauſted by her impaſſioned di [...]courſe with Ed⯑mund; and, after conjuring him moſt tender⯑ly and repeatedly to her laſt gaſp to love the poor little Fanny, and to think more of Hea⯑ven, [133] ſhe expired in his arms, about half an hour before my arrival.

The good old woman, with whom this un⯑happy girl had long reſided, is too far advanc⯑ed into ſecond childhood to feel this horrible event with very poignant anguiſh. But on our dear feeling Edmund it has made the deepeſt impreſſion. It was with the outmoſt difficulty that I could perſuade him to quit the apartment of the deceaſed; and when I had drawn him from it I could not prevent his returning, to gaze with inſatiated grief on that lifeleſs frame which he had idolized, though not with a hap⯑py, yet with a vehement, affection. At my intreaty, however, he at length forced himſelf from the houſe, though not before the dawn of a new day; and it was between five and ſix yeſterday morning before we reached our own door. Since that time I have been greatly re⯑freſhed by much comfortable ſleep; a bleſſing which our dear afflicted Edmund has not enjoy⯑ed: his mind, however, is as calm as I could expect it to be; his health, I truſt, not mate⯑rially injured; though his nerves are at preſent in a painful agitation. At one time he talks of flying immediately to the ſchool of his poor lit⯑tle Fanny, and of bringing the child home di⯑rectly: at another, he thinks himſelf not able to ſupport the ſight of her at preſent; and I think he ſeems moſt diſpoſed to follow the ſug⯑geſtion of your kind letter, which arrived the day before this dreadful event, and to join his friend Seymour abroad, leaving me to take care of his little Fanny, which you will readily be⯑lieve I have promiſed to do to the utmoſt of my [134] ability, and with all the tenderneſs of a real mo⯑ther. This plan I think very much to be pre⯑ferred to all I can think of, for various reaſons, with which I will not continue to lengthen this immoderately long letter. If you think with me, my good Audley, pray write a [...] ſooth⯑ing lines to our dear Edmund, and exhort him to the excurſion you have already ſuggeſted. I am miſerably wearied by writing ſo long and ſo eagerly; and can only add, GOD bleſs you! Pray let us hear from you by the returning poſt; and believe me ever

P. S. Pray tell Harriot, with my love, that the more I ſee and hear of life, the more I ad⯑mire, not only your virtues, but your rare feli⯑city. May Heaven long preſerve it! Adieu. I need not remind you, that it is the peculiar duty of the happy to comfort the afflicted.

LETTER XIX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

I WAS juſt folding up the incloſed letter, which I had written to your friend Seymour, in the hope of its travelling to him in your port⯑manteau, when I was ſurpriſed and ſhocked by the melancholy account of your recent diſtreſs. Believe me, we ſympathiſe moſt cordially in your ſorrow. Whatever failings may have be⯑longed to the dear unhappy girl you have loſt, they are out-weighed in our imagination by the force and fidelity of her affection to you; and I muſt aſſure you, both in Harriot's name and my own, that you may ſend your intereſting little Fanny at any time to us, and depend on our treating her exactly as a child of our own. If you approve our ſyſtem of domeſtic education and if Lucy will reſign to us a charge ſo pre⯑cious, we ſhall be happy to enlarge our infan⯑tine circle by ſuch an acquiſition.

As to yourſelf, my dear brother, I can per⯑fectly enter into all the various trouble of heart and mind in which you have been ſo ſuddenly involved. To behold the calamitous deſtruction [136] of a lovely being, by whom you knew yourſelf beloved, though "Not wiſely, yet too well," muſt make an impreſſion on your feeling ſpirit too forcible to be counteracted by any vain con⯑doleance or conſolation. The very ſailings of the dear departed muſt have a tendency to en⯑creaſe the fond vehemence of recent grief. It is ſurely natural for you to think with the more tenderneſs of her affection, from reflecting on the ſevere price ſhe paid for its indulgence. Alas, how full of bitterneſs is the ordinary lot of women! Your poor Sylvia, never happy even with you, would have been a wretch in⯑deed in that ſtate from which the mercy of Pro⯑vidence has ſnatched her. The religious point of view in which the fond dying girl beheld her own deſtiny, has endeared her memory to me; and the child ſhe has ſo anxiouſly recommended to your care will be an invaluable bequeſt, if ſhe ſerves, as I truſt the will, to retrace and perpe⯑tuate on your heart the affectionate leſſon of pie⯑ty beque [...]thed to you by the lips of her expiring mother.

Overwhelmed as you muſt have been, my dear Edmund, by this heart-piercing ſcene, I ſtill hope that you will ſoon be able to recover the natural tranquillity of your cultivated mind, and that you will ſpeedily purſue the project of foreign excurſion. Nothing can be more me⯑dicinal to the anguiſh of afflicted love than to force yourſelf with a generous ardour, into the immediate ſervice of friendſhip. Indeed, little force will be neceſſary on this occaſion, as I am perſuaded that no ſelfiſh ſorrow can diminiſh your anxiety for the perils of a friend ſo juſtly dear to you as Seymour. You will perceive, [137] by the incloſed, that I am greatly alarmed for him myſelf: no youth, indeed, can more truly want a Mentor in his travels, than this accom⯑pliſhed, but haſty young man; eſpecially ſince his natural impetuoſity is inflamed and exaſpe⯑rated, by a diſappointment which his high paſ⯑ſions are ſo little able to brook. If any thing can ſave him from plunging into ſuch licen⯑tious diſſipation as will complete his miſery, it muſt be the vigilance of your friendſhip. Hea⯑ven grant that you may be the means of preſerv⯑ing each other from all evil, under the auſpices of your angelic Giuliana! With what delight would your friends of this country ſee you both reſtored to it, with a new caſt of mind, and diſciplined by affliction into a perfect ſenſe of religion! I flatter myſelf this is no improbable event; and I well know it is an event which would make ſome tender hearts under this roof leap for joy. Among them, believe me, the heart of

P. S. Pray tell Lucy, who is ever you know a moſt welcome gueſt at this houſe, that we con⯑ [...]ure her not to remain in ſolitude; but as ſoon as you depart, to fly to us, with her new little charge, whom I muſt again aſſure you, my dear Edmund, we are all eager to embrace. I need not tell you what kind and devout wiſhes are formed by the females around me for the pro⯑ſperity of your voyage.

LETTER XX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

ON my return from a diſtant and melancho⯑ly expedition, I was aſtoniſhed and grieved to hear that you have driven yourſelf to the Conti⯑nent, inſtead of returning, as I hoped you would a contented and welcome gueſt to this houſe. I do not, my dear Seymour, write with an angry pen, to upbraid you for what is paſt; nor to remind you of the hopes you gave me, that you were reſolved to purſue a very different line of conduct. I know how apt we all are to forget our rational reſolutions; and one of our old claſſical acquaintance has particularly taught me, not to require reaſon and method from the madneſs of love. On your late meaſures I will trouble you with no remarks! but allow me to caſt a friend⯑ly eye to the future. Some meditations on hu⯑man nature have induced me to think that of all traitors an ardent affection like yours, my en⯑gaging raſh friend, is the greateſt and moſt pe⯑rilous traitor to itſelf: on being thwarted in a point which it too vehemently purſues, it is apt to draw concluſions unwarranted by truth, and [139] directly oppoſite to its own intereſt. Dive into your own boſom for an illuſtration of my remark and tell me ingenuouſly, if you have not frequent⯑ly concluded that Cornelia has no real love for you, becauſe ſhe did not comply with your late importunate and too cruel requeſt. The chief purpoſe of my letter is, to preſerve you from a natural ſelf-deception in this very important ar⯑ticle. Believe me, I ſpeak the language of ſtrict truth, and of ſteady, though offended friendſhip, when I aſſure you, that the female heart never felt affection more genuine and intenſe than the affection which the deſolate Cornelia ſtill retains for you. Though her reaſon and religion en⯑joined and enabled her to decide againſt you, in your late conteſt; yet the agonies of heart which that angelic victory coſt her threw her life into great danger. The conſciouſneſs of having acted in a manner to merit the approba⯑tion of heaven and earth, has proved the moſt effectual medicine in reſtoring her to that de⯑gree of tranquillity and half-recovered health, which ſhe poſſeſſes at preſent. The love, which has ceaſed to convulſe her heart, ſtill exiſts un⯑diminiſhed in her boſom, and is become, in⯑deed, ſo much a part of her exiſtence, that whatever your deſtiny may be, ſhe, I am con⯑vinced, will never attach herſelf to any other man. The heart of Cornelia was formed to love only once: you have been, and ever muſt be, the only object of its tender idolatry; and your generous ſpirit ought to admire and applaud the divine fortitude with which ſhe endures to ſacri⯑fice even this idol to her GOD.—But, alas! my dear Seymour, it has been your misfortune, as it is the misfortune of thouſands at your age, [140] and in your rank of life, to look on piety either with contempt or compaſſion▪ as it has proved an inpediment to your deſires, you will be tempted to conſider it with peculiar ſpleen and injuſtice. There are times, I dare ſay, when the piety of your accompliſhed and beloved Cor⯑nelia appears to you a moſt degrading infirmity; the mark of a poor, a timid, and feeble mind, though in truth it is exactly the reverſe. Be⯑lieve me, her piety is of that genuine kind which elevates the underſtanding and ennobles the heart. By uniting with the tendereſt and moſt powerful of all natural ſentiments, I mean, her maternal affection, it gives a tranſcendant charm to her character; and makes her at once, per⯑haps, the moſt intereſting and moſt perfect of human creatures; with all the ſoftneſs of wo⯑man, and all the energy of a ſaint. I wiſh, my dear friend, that I had the power of convey⯑ing to you, in the moſt vivid colours of elo⯑quence, a complete idea of all her merit, all her lovelineſs, all her affection; not to exaſperate your regret for a treaſure you have loſt, but to awaken you to an early juſt ſenſe of what it is ſtill very poſſible for you to acquire. However angry and unjuſt towards her you may feel at preſent, a day will ſurely come (and it is the wiſh or my heart to accelerate that day), when the conduct of Cornelia will appear to you as lovely as her perſon: it is impoſſible that a ſpirit like yours (however mortified and offended) can meditate on ſuch a woman with long and un⯑relenting injuſtice; for had not education, in⯑dulgence, and faſhion, given a fatal bias to your mind, believe me, it would have been in all points the counterpart of Cornelia's. I never [141] beheld a couple in my life whom nature ſeemed to have faſhioned more happily for each other, or whom time and chance had united in a more ardent affection. You have both the ſame ex⯑quiſite ſenſibility, the ſame openneſs of heart, the ſame generous abhorrence, not only of eve⯑ry thing that is mean, but of every thing that borders upon meanneſs. In ſhort, whenever I think of you, and that is not ſeldom, you ſtrike me as the firſt pair in the beautiful deſcription of Milton. How happy ſhould I think myſelf in ſeeing your nuptial couch prepared under the auſpices of heaven! I am perſuaded, my dear Seymour, that time and experience will ſoon ſhew you the emptineſs and inſtability of all en⯑joyments, which do not reſt on the baſis of Re⯑ligion. If Providence, uniting with your own excellent underſtanding, ſhould ſpeedily produce that happy change in your religious ſentiments which I am ſo eager to behold, pray let this let⯑ter ſerve to remind you, that you will certainly find, under my cuſtody, perhaps the moſt valu⯑able earthly reward which GOD can beſtow up⯑on any man for correcting the errors of his mind, a woman of exquiſite attractions, and as full of purity and love as the religion ſhe profeſſes. Let me add, that when I ſee you entitled to this reward, it will be conſigned to you by a perſon whoſe joy on the occaſion will almoſt equal your own. Farewell and believe me

LETTER XXI. FROM EDMUND TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

YOU are the beſt of brothers, and the moſt indulgent of friends! How can I ſufficiently love and thank you, both on Seymour's account and my own? Alas! I am ill able to expreſs, at preſent, the double gratitude that I feel. Yet I muſt thank you for your moſt affectionate and ſoothing letter, from the bottom of a heart very deeply, and, I confeſs, very fooliſhly afflicted. Ah, my dear Charles, I begin to conceive how much the balm which Religion adminiſters to a wounded ſpirit, may be ſuperior to all the boaſt⯑ed conſolations of philoſophy. I vainly thought that I had diſciplined my own quiet and con⯑templative mind in ſuch a manner as to render it ſuperior to the malice of accident; yet the event of a minute has thrown me into a diſor⯑der of heart and ſpirit that I might bluſh to confeſs to any perſon leſs indulgent or leſs dear to me than you are. Good Heaven! of what little uſe and efficacy is the mere unaſſiſted reaſon of a creature, who vainly prides himſelf on his rationality! My reaſon has told me a thouſand times, that it is fooliſh to lament the death of an unhappy girl, who frequently ſeem⯑ed [143] to live only to torment me; yet, I own to you, her loſs has affected me ſo much, that in loſing this lovely tormentor I feel as if I had loſt every thing which could reconcile me to life.— She was, indeed, a very extraordinary and en⯑chanting creature. To atone for a temper, per⯑haps the moſt capricious and ſelf-tormenting that ever exiſted, ſhe had the ſtrongeſt natural underſtanding, and the moſt pointed wit, that I ever met with in woman: a pretty and a ſpeak⯑ing countenance; a delicate body, ſtill more eloquent; and affections, whoſe ardor was equal⯑led by their fidelity. Oh, my poor Sylvia! among all the infinite varieties of character which the ſex comprizes, ‘I ne'er ſhall look upon thy like again.’

But I deſerved to loſe thee as I did, for being ſo cold-hearted a wretch as to think of placing thee for life in the arms of that hapleſs ſimple fellow, who had not faculties to comprehend thy moſt engaging attractions, nor ſenſe to pity and correct thy ſelf-tormenting infirmities! Oh my dear Charles, if there is (as you ſo confi⯑dently and ſo chearfully expect) a happier world to come after this, ſurely ſhe will not be exclued⯑ed from its beatitude, who never diſcovered, even to the eyes of a prejudiced inquiſitor, any failing that did not ariſe, either from a neg⯑lected education, or from organs too delicate⯑ly conſtructed. But I will endeavour to turn my thoughts from the dear loſt object of my ve⯑ry turbulent and fatal love, to that poor little orphan whom ſhe has enjoined me to cheriſh with unblameable affection; the very tender and generous manner in which you ſpeak to [144] me of this dear deſolate child, and the fond in⯑tereſt which our incomparable ſiſter takes in its preſervation, have proved the moſt ſoothing and beneficial medicine to my dejected ſpirit. You will not doubt the warmth of my gratitude to you both on ths occaſion, when you recollect how ſeriouſly I have ever thought of parental duties. If a tender vigilance is due from every father to his child, how doubly incumbent i [...] this duty upon thoſe who have raſhly introduc⯑ed their offspring into a world of trouble, un⯑der ſuch a diſadvantage as no heart, that is tru⯑ly parental, can think of, without the tremors of apprehenſion, if not of ſorrow! Heaven grant that my ſweet little Fanny, who is indeed a very promiſing child, may live to reward you, by her improvement, for the extreme kindneſs with which you ſpeak of her education! I con⯑ſign her with gratitude and confidence to my too equally dear and excellent ſiſters. Lucy ſhall bring her to your houſe as ſoon as I am gone; but I cannot quit the kingdom without folding the dear little orphan once to my heart, though I am well aware that the anguiſh of that moment will equal its delight. Her ſchool lies in my way, and Lucy will attend me ſo far. I am eager to be gone on every account, and particularly becauſe I have received ſome very alarming intelligence from our raſh and ungovernable friend.—You will grieve to hear, that his haſty ſpirit has driven him into the ſnares of a Venetian courtezan, who lives with an old voluptuary of Portugal. He is ſo captivated by this young ſorcereſs, that perhaps his next letter may be too full of licentious rap⯑ture for a female eye to peruſe. At all events, [145] you will join with me in thinking that it is much better for us to keep our women in abſo⯑lute ignorance of this perilous folly. I have therefore taken precautions, that all his letters to me which may arrive in my abſence ſhall be ſecretly delivered into your hand.—The friendly ſolicitude you expreſs for him entitles you to their peruſal; and, however unguarded they may be, I can ſecurely truſt them to your virtue and diſcretion. Ah, my dear happy Charles, had your brother and your friend been your equals in theſe invaluable qualities, their lives would have been leſs im⯑bittered than they have been, and I ſhould moſt probably have eſcaped the double load which now preſſes on the ſpirits of

LETTER XXII. FROM EDMUND TO MRS. AUDLEY.

IF I have been, my dear ſiſter, as you have frequently told me, the great ſupport and com⯑fort of your life, in a ſeaſon when the powers of your own heart and mind deſerted you, how amply have you now repaid the affection⯑ate obligation! I have no words half expreſ⯑ſive enough to tell you my grateful ſenſe of the intelligent tenderneſs with which you treated my poor little ſenſitive Fanny and her diſtract⯑ed father in our painful interview, and more painful ſeparation. My beſt mode of thanking you will be to confeſs very frankly that without your aſſiſtance I ſhould have been utterly over⯑whelmed, and unable to purſue the expedition to which ſo many powerful motives have con⯑ſpired to invite me. Our dear inconſiderate Seymour little thinks that I am haſtening to his ſuccour; and much leſs could he imagine what pangs of heart it has coſt me to force myſelf in⯑to his ſervice, eager and ſolicitous as I ever am to ſerve him. But while I held my dear little weeping orphan in my arms, I felt as if all my life ought to be devoted ſolely to her; and in the moment when I tore myſelf at laſt from her [147] ſweet little infantine embrace, my poor Sylvia, ſeemed to die a ſecond time. Ah! my dear Lucy, as I drove away from you both, I felt ſuch bitter anguiſh and drearineſs of ſoul as no language can expreſs. It was not till the next day in my power to recover my reaſon enough to think of you as I ought, and to enjoy the re⯑flection that I had left my child happily diſpoſed to obey and love you, and ſecure of finding in your tenderneſs all the fond vigilance of a real mother. Heaven bleſs you both! and Heaven grant that the ſervices which I am trying to render our raſh friend in Italy may be as great as the pains I have endured in ſetting out on the adventure!

I have been ſo engroſſed by theſe ſufferings, that I have not yet told you I am now on French ground. I had a quick paſſage acroſs the Channel, and without any ſickneſs except that of the heart. As I traverſed the deck of our veſſel, I continually thought of our dear angelic Giuliana and her ſimilar ſuffer⯑ings in this very paſſage. Alas, my dear Lucy, I call our ſufferings ſimilar; but to you I will confeſs, and with ſhame confeſs, their difference. In ſearching my own dreary heart, I find no portion of that divine reſignation and enthuſi⯑aſm with which our adored Giuliana ſupported her ſorrow, and converted into a bleſſing the very bitterneſs of affliction. Oh! Philoſophy, I begin to abhor thee as the moſt treacherous of guides. Thou art magnificent in thy promiſes, but contemptible in thy performance. In the twilight of ordinary unafflicted life, thou only ſerveſt to drown by thy loud-talking our ſaluta⯑ry apprehenſions; but, when the darkneſs of real tribulation falls upon us, our loquacious [148] leader becomes a mere mute, and all the im⯑preſſion which thy voice has left upon the heart is regret and ſhame for having truſted it ſo long. Oh! Lucy, if it ſhall be my lot to ſee you and the dear orphan no more, pray remember it is the requeſt of my heart, that you will infuſe in⯑to the very promiſing mind of your precious lit⯑tle ward an early ſerious ſenſe of Religion. Do not, my dear ſiſter, let your tenderneſs take any alarm at a ſuggeſtion ſo little expected from me. Do not, I conjure you, ſuppoſe that I have any gloomy preſage of haſtening to the grave. On the contrary, I can aſſure you, my health is already mended by my travels; and I begin to be animated by the hope of accompliſhing the devout wiſh of our dear Charles, and of bring⯑ing back an unexceptionable huſband to the moſt intereſting of enamoured woman, our matchleſs Cornelia. Perhaps, in labouring to preſerve the unballaſted ſpirit of my precipi⯑tate friend, I may ſave my own alſo from a wreck that I did not apprehend. Happy in⯑deed ſhall we be, if, after all our various diffi⯑culties and diſtreſs of mind, we at laſt form all together a little firmly ſettled ſociety, united not only by human but coeleſtial ties. With this animating idea I will bid you farewell, dear and excellent guardian of my little treaſure. Give our ſweet Fanny a parental kiſs for me; and aſſure her, that I ſhall return with my pockets better filled with pretty toys for her, than ſhe ever found them in her life. I hope this will findyou both comfortably lodged in the chearful houſe of our dear Charles. Pray do not fail to tell me very frankly what kind of firſt impreſſion our little Fanny makes on every [149] creature at Audley-Grove. I have no doubts of her meeting with great kindneſs; but I have an anxious and ambitious deſire to know whe⯑ther the ſweet little Fairy, in the moment of her firſt becoming viſible to our friends, appears as lovely to them as ſhe does, my dear Lucy, in your eyes, and in thoſe of

LETTER XXIII. FROM CORNELIA TO MISS AUDLEY.

SURELY no human creature was ever ſo deeply indebted to all the various branches of one family, as I am, my dear Lucy, to yours. It is not enough that your relations of this houſe have watched over my poor feeble frame, and more ſhattered ſpirits, with inceſſant unwearied tenderneſs and parental anxiety; even your dear ſedate Edmund is to quit for me, I find, [150] that quiet and comfortable home, to which he is ſo much wedded, and to wander for my ſake over ſeas and mountains to Genoa. I might indeed play the ungrateful prude, and pretend that I have no concern in his travels; but the ſpirit of your Cornelia, my dear Lucy, was ne⯑ver formed for any unworthy ſubterfuge, any vain or ungenerous diſguiſe. No, my dear, I entreat you to tell your friendly Edmund, that my heart will for ever call itſelf his debtor. Whoever attempts to ſerve our dear precipitate miſguided Seymour will aſſuredly render a ſer⯑vice to me that I ſhall ever be moſt willing to acknowledge. I will freely confeſs to you, my ſweet friend, that I feel the idea of Edmund's journey as the firſt ray of chearful light that has glanced on my benighted ſpirits ſince I ſunk in⯑to the wretched ſtate of debility and dejection, from which my incomparable friends have been labouring to reſtore me. It is not my dear Lu⯑cy, that I fondly catch at a falſe and frivolous hope of making the beloved fugitive my huſ⯑band. No, believe me, that Heaven which gave me ſtrength to reject the moſt inſinuating, the moſt dangerous, the moſt idolized of all mortal tempters, ſtill prevents my ſinking into a weak apoſtacy, from which I have ſo fer⯑vently prayed to be preſerved. In this point I have ſome reaſon to be ſatisfied with myſelf; and whenever I caſt my eyes on my children, thoſe precious ſources and rewards of my reſo⯑lution, I feel an inexpreſſible maternal triumph in my ſoul, which I am convinced no tempta⯑tions in the world could ever induce me to for⯑feit. Yet, ſupported as I am by a proper ſenſe of my own conduct, and flattered as I am by [151] our dear friends of this houſe on my fortitude (alas! they know not how weak a wretch they flatter); I am diſtracted with the dread of a thouſand evils into which I may have driven the loſt Seymour. Oh God! how bitter is the con⯑dition of my own ſafety, ſince I could obtain it only by the hazard of proving a ſource of wretch⯑edneſs to the man whom I have ſo many reaſons to love! Ah! my dear Lucy, you, who know as well as I do his fiery and precipitate ſpirit, will pity the agonizing terrors which it inceſſantly awakens in my heart. How often do we hear of impetuous men, who ruſh into a deſperate and ſudden marriage from motives of reſentment and indignation. Oh, Heavens! my dear Lu⯑cy, I could not hear that Seymour was married thus and ſurvive it. Merciful God! preſerve me from a blow that would irritate my poor ſhat⯑tered brain into madneſs! Yet why ſhould I feel it thus? Oh, Lucy! are theſe ſentiments that become the firm votary of Reaſon and Re⯑ligion? No, my conſcience tells me they are not; yet I feel they are ſo interwoven with the fibres of my heart, that I know not how to tear them from my breaſt. O Jealouſy! thou keen⯑eſt of tortures, I did not think it was poſſible for thee to exiſt when Hope was utterly extinguiſh⯑ed; but I feel that thy ſtings can pierce even the cold armour of Deſpair, and againſt them there is no defence but the dark ſhield of Death. O, Lucy! I have thrown my poor trembling nerves into ſuch diſorder by the phantoms which my own troubled fancy has conjured up, that I muſt throw down my pen, and reſume it at [152] ſome ſeaſon of more tranquillity; if ſuch a ſea⯑ſon never arrives, this paper ſhall never reach you.

The preceding pages have waited long, my dear Lucy, for this poſtſcript; but in the inter⯑val, how deeply has my heart been affected with ſorrow, with pity, and with gratitude, in hearing all that I have heard of your amiable af⯑flicted brother!—Poor Edmund! has he too experienced the turbulent anguiſh of an unwiſe and fatal affection? and, overwhelmed as he muſt be with recent grief, has he ſtill the gene⯑roſity to ſurmount his own immediate diſtreſs, and proceed directly to aſſume the guidance and protection of our raſh rambling Seymour?

Heaven indeed has almoſt granted half this pray⯑er, in giving him, my dear Lucy, ſuch a com⯑forter as you are, and ſuch a bleſſed guardian for his poor little deſerted Fanny. But haſte, I conjure you, and bring this dear intereſting or⯑phan to us. I long to take the little hapleſs in⯑nocent to my boſom, and cheriſh her as my own daughter. I perceive already that ſhe will prove to me a ſweet and ſoothing companion; for my full heart will ſeem at leaſt to relieve itſelf, while I am careſſing the child, from that burthen of [153] unutterable gratitude which I feel towards her father. Haſte, therefore, my dear friend, I a⯑gain conjure you, to a houſe where every heart is eager to bid you welcome, and none more ſo than the poor bruiſed and troubled, but ſtill warm and feeling, heart of

LETTER XXIV FROM MISS AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

IT is with no little portion of pride and delight that I thank you for all the kind things you ſay of me in your affecting letter. It return, I ſhall give you ſo ſpeedy an account of the dear little Fairy Queen (whom I have the pleaſure to [154] attend more as a worſhiper than a governeſs), that I am perſuaded my letter will reach Genoa long before you can. I figure to myſelf the great joy you will have in peruſing, under the roof of the dear ſympathetic Giuliana, the pleaſ⯑ing hiſtory I have to give of my delightful little companion. I love your parental anxiety, in aſking me to deſcribe the firſt impreſſion ſhe made on the friendly circle here. But, my dear Ed⯑mund, when you made this requeſt, you ſhould have inſpired me with powers of deſcription far ſurpaſſing the humble ones I poſſeſs; for the ſcene you wiſh to have repreſented to you re⯑quires a very maſterly hand.

O that I were a Shakſpeare in petticoats for your ſake! I would then preſent you with ſuch a fairy drama as would draw ſome tears of tenderneſs and delight from your parental eyes. But as it is, I muſt content myſelf with aſking you a ſimple queſtion: Did you ever obſerve the female faces in the gallery of a playhouſe when extraordinary talents were diſplayed by ſome Liliputian prince or princeſs? If you have, you have ſeen thoſe ſpeaking faces expreſs a tender admiration, and ſomething like a doubt whether the infantine performer could be an infant or not. And, having ſeen ſuch faces, you may have, in recollecting them, a very good idea of the firſt impreſſion made by our dear little Fan⯑ny in this friendly theatre, where all her infan⯑tine graces are admired, and all her early talents called forth. You know we are fond of chil⯑dren; and believe me, no child can have a more bewitching manner of conciliating affecti⯑on. Harriot thinks her extremely like you; and every time ſhe ſays ſo, Cornelia is ready to [155] preſs this living miniture of you to her boſom, in a tranſport of gratitude for thoſe ſervices which we truſt you are now rendering to our whole party by the important object of your ex⯑curſion. How happy will your letters make us all, if you are able to ſend us accounts as good as I have now the pleaſure of diſpatching to you! I have not only the great ſatisfaction of aſſuring you, that your child is idolized and made happy here; but I am able to add, that ſhe is an abſolute cordial, and a very ſalutary and delightful one, to the tender ſpirits of Cor⯑nelia; they have taken a prodigious fancy to each other; ſo much ſo, that I ſhould be quite jealous if I did not conſider Cornelia as a kind of ſecond ſelf.

Apropos of Jealouſy: we have had a moſt ludicrous little example of that tragical paſſion, and a proof how very early it begins to agitate and diſtreſs the poor female heart. My ſweet little niece and nameſake, whom Cornelia wiſh⯑es to ſee in future days united to her eldeſt ſon, and who is already ſtyled his little wife, has be⯑gun, young as ſhe is, to weep for the inconſtan⯑cy of her William. The Liliputian traitor was ſo enchanted by the more womanly attractions of our blooming Fanny, that he grievouſly de⯑ſerted his more infantine cara ſpoſa. The points and freaks of jealouſy at three years old appear⯑ed very laughable to Harriot and me; but Cor⯑nelia, who has, I believe, much more genuine tenderneſs than either of us, ſays we are abſolute Barbarians, and ſhe could not reſt herſelf till ſhe had made the tiny tormented heart quite eaſy. This ſhe very dexterouſly accompliſhed; and diverted us not a little, by her mode of ma⯑naging [156] the affections of our Fairy groupe, in which ſhe profeſſed herſelf much aſſiſted by the intelligence and good-nature of Fanny, who has, with great ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, accept⯑ed the younger Sedley as her ſwain. To all theſe matters I alluded, when I told you, that, had I the talents of Shakeſpeare, I could ſend you a very intereſting Fairy-drama. Believe me, the quarrel and reconcilement of Titania and Oberon are not more highly dramatic than the ſcenes that have paſſed between our little Lucy and William.

Had I not ſeen ſo much of your parental ten⯑derneſs, I ſhould be afraid of your thinking me a ſad old goſſiping nurſe, for having talked ſo long of our little folks. They have indeed en⯑groſſed ſo much of my paper, that I can only add a few words of our grown gentry.

Theſe, however, ſhall be ſerious words. And firſt let me ſay, that our dear Charles dropt a tear of paternal joy over one paſſage of your very affecting letter to me: I need not tell you which paſſage, nor with what cordial ſatisfaction he ſpeaks of that happy revolution which he ſays is now working in your mind; and which Cornelia ſometimes, I believe, conſiders as a bleſſed harbinger of a ſimilar revolution in the mind of a certain perſon ſtill dearer to her than you are.—Pray tell our beloved Giuliana, that if ſhe wiſhes to make a little paradiſe on earth for her Engliſh friends, ſhe has only to lead in perſon the two converted wanderers to this door, that will

[157] Heaven grant that me may ſee a day of ſuch univerſal happineſs! Such is the conſtant pray⯑er of our domeſtic circle; and particularly my dear Edmund, of

P. S. Fanny charges me to tell you how ex⯑actly ſhe has done every thing you deſired; and how dearly ſhe loves you. She is, in truth, a ſweet little model of obedience and affection.— Adieu.

LETTER XXV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AT length, my dear and too long diſregarded prophet, the miſchiefs you have frequently foreboded are fallen on me. I am paying, at this moment, a heavy penalty for having laugh⯑ed ſo often at your prudent timidity in the pur⯑ſuit [158] of pleaſure. While you, without a rival in your rural love, and unſuſpected by the graver part of the world, are quietly enjoying the ten⯑derneſs, and even the whimſies, of your con⯑ſtant though capricious Sylvia; I am thrown, by my impetuous folly, on a couch of pain, pe⯑nitence, and diſhonour. A ſad example, I con⯑feſs, my dear cautious Edmund, of the maxim from our favourite poet, which you have ſo vain⯑ly endeavoured to fix as an amulet on my haſty ſpirit.

But you will rejoice that I am ſtill living, when I tell you it has appeared a matter of great doubt whether my half departed life would re⯑turn to me or not. You would not eaſily gueſs the perſon to whom I am indebted for its imme⯑diate preſervation. I muſt haſten therefore to tell you, that I owe it entirely to the humanity, the nobleneſs of nature, and, I may add, the medical ſkill, of the very Don Manuel whoſe private rights I had ſo groſsly invaded. Ah, Edmund, if I ſhould live, I have learnt at leaſt one leſſon, and that is, never to believe what rumour ſays to the prejudice of perſons who are diſtinguiſhed by extraordinary talents. Men of genius are too much inclined, perhaps to deſ⯑ſpiſe the world; but the world takes ample re⯑venge, by giving them quick credit for a thou⯑ſand unexiſting enormities.

I had fooliſhly believed that my noble Seig⯑nor of Portugal was an old voluptuous brute and tyrannical Barbarian. I have found him ex⯑actly the reverſe. He is indeed, as report ſaid [159] of him, a prodigy of univerſal knowledge; but he is equally admirable for candour, indul⯑gence, and generoſity. Violante is in truth no miſtreſs of his, but a wild and licentious, though lovely, daughter of Eve, whom the kind Seignor, with more zeal than prudence, undertook to diſcipline and reform for a young noble friend, who loves her to ſuch a pitch of diſtraction that he has ſerious thoughts of mak⯑ing her his wife. Nor would any one find rea⯑ſon to cenſure his idea, if ſuperlative beauty and talents could atone for the want of chaſtity in a married woman. Though the charms and allurements of this Syren have nearly put a ſorry end to my life, I cannot even now ſpeak of them without praiſe. But you will grow impa⯑tient for my own particular hiſtory. Let me pauſe a little, my dear Edmund, and you ſhall have it. I am ſo feeble, and ſo conſtrained in my poſture, that I can only write a few lines at a time. But, after a little reſt, I will begin my diſaſtrous adventures, and proceed as far as pain and langor will give me leave.

During my ſecond viſit to Violante we were alarmed in the middle of the night, or rather towards morning. The fair agile Venetian ſprang haſtily from her pillow; and, having liſtened a few moments on the outſide of her chamber-door, ſhe flew rapidly within, and turned the key. "The old Seignor is certain⯑ly returned," cried the terrified Violante— "the ſecretary has watched and betrayed us— if the old tyrant catches you here, my love, he [160] will take perhaps both our lives—I am certainly ruined for ever if you cannot contrive to eſcape from this window—I think you may—for Hea⯑ven's ſake, try if it is poſſible!" Such were the ſuggeſtions of my poor frighted companion, while ſhe ran backwards and forwards to a win⯑dow in a little adjoining dreſſing-room, cloſe to which grew a tall poplar, ſo very near the win⯑dow that I could eaſily touch the leaves with my hand; but there was not any ſtrong branch within the utmoſt reach of my extended arm.

There was however a ſhort and ſlight pole laid acroſs from the window to the tree, which ſerved as a paſſage to a favourite tame ſquirrel of Violante's, which lived alternately in her room and in the tree. My only chance was to ſpring lightly over this pole, and ſeize the large limb of the poplar on which it reſted. As I have ever been, you know, a little vain of my agility, I thought I could ſafely accompliſh this hazardous ſtep; and I was induced to attempt it by the agony of terror which was viſible in every look and geſture of Violante, and by her extreme anxiety to preſerve her reputation. After giving her a very haſty kiſs, and receiv⯑ing from her all the little aid ſhe could afford me, I ſet my foot on the fatal pole, and, not being a ſquirrel, made it crack beneath me. I had juſt time enough to throw myſelf forward, and catch hold of ſome quivering boughs, which ſerved, they tell me, in ſome degree, to break my fall, and ſaved me from inſtant death, though not from utter ſtupefaction.

[161]How irreſiſtible are the ſudden emotions of humanity! Anxious as Violante was to ſave her own credit by removing her luckleſs paramour with the peril of his bones, ſhe could not refrain from a loud ſhriek in beholding my fall: and that piercing ſhriek, which rung in my ears as I fell, is the laſt thing I can recollect till, after a ſuſpenſion of ſenſe and life, which continued, they tell me during ſeveral hours, I awaked to the full perception of pain and infirmity, in a lower apartment of the houſe.

Judge, my dear Edmund, of my equal aſto⯑niſhment and anguiſh, when, in firſt opening my eyes, I beheld the ſtriking countenance of Don Manuel, who was employed at that mo⯑ment in chaſing my temples with all the kind anxiety of a medical friend! I fancy, a wound⯑ed conſcience gives peculiar quickneſs to the powers of recollection, for, in the inſtant that I perceived the kindneſs of my majeſtic attend⯑ant, I felt more anguiſh of mind than pain of body, though my whole frame was in a very horrible condition. My head, though much bruiſed, had eſcaped, by luckily pitching on ſoft ground in a marvellous manner, eſpecially as my body ſtruck obliquely againſt an antique altar of marble, which ſtood as an ornament to the garden, and, wounding me with its rough broken edge, ſhattered two of my ribs, and la⯑cerated my breaſt. Whether it was owing to my extreme weakneſs, from the blood I had loſt, and the bruiſes I had ſuſtained, or whether I may impute it to the natural ſenſibility of my temper, I cannot tell; but I muſt confeſs to you, that at the ſight of Don Manuel I burſt into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, Seignor, I [162] cannot endure this friendly attention from the man whom I have injured!" He anſwered me in Italian, with a mild dignity, "I entreat you, my young friend, to keep your ſpirits as calm as poſſible. I can aſſure you that you have not injured me, though you have, from an im⯑prudence very natural at your age, engaged in a raſh and perilous adventure, which has nearly coſt you your life. I truſt, however, that we ſhall ſave you; and if your name is Seymour, as I have ſome little reaſon to ſuſpect it is, I ſhall have a particular delight in your preſerva⯑tion. You will eaſily conceive, my dear Ed⯑mund, how my aſtoniſhment redoubled when I found myſelf not only known, but endeared by being known, to my generous preſerver. Don Manuel, it ſeems, is a very old friend of Giu⯑liana's father, and has frequently been their gueſt at Genoa. In a late viſit to them he heard the hiſtory of my reſtoring that angelic wander⯑er to the parental arms of Pinelli; and, as Ma⯑nuel is himſelf a ſingular enthuſiaſt, he con⯑ceived a great prejudice in my favour, and a vehement deſire, as he tells me, that chance might introduce me to his perſonal acquaint⯑ance. It has now indeed accompliſhed his de⯑ſire, and in a manner which ſhews me very for⯑cibly how Providence ſeems to pleaſe itſelf in rewarding an action of diſintereſted benevo⯑lence. I little thought that the ſlight ſervices which I rendered to Giuliana would ever pro⯑cure me ſuch an aſſiſtant in an hour of cala⯑mity.

[163]As ſoon as I found that I poſſeſſed ſome un⯑expected influence on the generous ſpirit of the old Seignor, I began to exert it in behalf of the too attractive Violante. Upon my making ſome anxious enquiries and interceding for this love⯑ly delinquent, her noble guardian imparted to me the private anecdote which I have mention⯑ed in the opening of this long epiſtle, or rather ſeries of epiſtles. He acquainted me alſo with his reſolution of ſending her home to her native city with a handſome proviſion for her life, and his hope of perſuading his young enamoured friend to relinquiſh the prepoſterous idea of mar⯑rying a beauty whom the moſt ſplendid proſpect of ambition could not reclaim from the moſt pro⯑voking incontinence. Poor Violante indeed is as frail and falſe as ſhe is fair. The vehement quarrel between her and the old Seignor, which proved ſuch a ſnare to me, aroſe from a very warm expoſtulation which her noble guardian thought it his duty to utter againſt a tendency which the lady had diſcovered to connect her⯑ſelf with a young Frenchman of faſhion, whom the cautious Don Manuel had ingeniouſly con⯑trived to remove in good time from the reach of her attraction. Her quick paſſions, irritated by this diſappointment, had haſtily made me the hapleſs inſtrument of her revenge. But here I muſt again drop my pen, not only for eaſe of poſture, but to converſe a little with my admi⯑rable kind friend and phyſician Don Manuel.

This noble Portugueze is a very engaging character: but alas! my dear Edmund, how [164] different is the anguiſh of the wounds under which I am now ſmarting from that which con⯑fined me at Sedley-hall! My ſufferings here are my ſhame; but there I had a delightful pride in every pang. Here is no tender Cornelia, to ſoothe and conſole me, to convert pain into tranſport, by that angelic ſenſibility and grati⯑tude with which ſhe ſhewed me how deeply ſhe felt that honourable wound which I received in her ſervice. Ah! my ſweet Cornelia, perhaps I ſhall never ſee thy lovely compaſſionate coun⯑tenance again. Yet, in my mind's eye I be⯑hold thee at this moment; yes, I behold thee, angelic as thou art, in all thy radient perfection. The miſt of pride and indignation that did thee ſuch cruel injuſtice is baniſhed from my mind. Oh, Edmund! what an ideot! But I muſt not indulge this fond emotion of returning tender⯑neſs, nor lay thus weeping, like a ſick girl, over my own infirmities. I will take a little chearing ſuſtenance, and then endeavour to chat with you my dear Edmund, a little longer, and, if I can, in a more manly ſtyle.

I am much revived by a little wine and water, and ſtill more by the bleſſed intelligence that I ſhall to-morrow ſee the long-wiſhed-for Giuliana. I have the additional comfort of being pleaſed with myſelf a little for having juſt paſſed with ſome firmneſs and ſpirit through a ſcene that I thought would affect me in my preſent weak condition much more than it did. Poor Violante, who is juſt ſetting forth on her return to Venice, re⯑queſted [165] to be indulged in a conference with me, for the ſake of being aſſured that I perfectly for⯑give her for all the ſevere ſufferings which her amorous indiſcretion has drawn upon me.— Our interview was very friendly, though not ve⯑ry tender on either ſide. The half-penitent and half-affrighted girl looked upon me rather with a look of terror than of tenderneſs, as a man whoſe death might throw a grievous burthen on her ſoul. I, on my part, ſurveyed her with a fixt and ſerious concern, in reflecting on the ſad contraſt between the probable miſery of her life, and the rare accompliſhments that ſhe has received both from nature and from art.— Though every ſpark of deſire was extinguiſhed, as you may well ſuppoſe, in my ſhattered frame, I could not behold her without a kind of fond pity and freſh admiration of her exquiſite beau⯑ty. Theſe emotions, however, ſeemed to be confined to my eyes, for my heart was harden⯑ed againſt her inſinuating voice by the remem⯑brance of her unneceſſary lyes. Theſe were manifold: and as you know how much I deſpiſe a lyar in either ſex, you will not wonder that they had entirely annihilated my eſteem for this alluring fair. While ſhe ſlowly approached me, I could not help murmuring to myſelf, in the words of Shakſpeare,

When ſhe drew nearer, I diſcerned in her coun⯑tenance ſuch ſigns of timidity and compuncti⯑on as made me eager to relieve her from the dread which I ſaw ſhe entertained of my death. [166] She threw herſelf on her knees by the ſide of a little tent-bed in which they had placed me. and in great agitation implored my forgiveneſs. You will eaſily conceive that I ſaid every thing which I thought moſt likely to tranquillize her ſpirits; but you will not perhaps imagine that, in giving her my full pardon for all the deceit which ſhe frankly confeſſed, I gave her alſo much ſober advice.

Grieved as you will be for me, my dear Ed⯑mund, I think you will hardly forbear ſmiling at this picture of your impetuous friend, employed in preaching a ſermon upon truth and conti⯑nence to a Venetian Courtezan.

I preached, I believe (though ſpeaking is ve⯑ry painful to me, as my lungs have been injur⯑ed), with ſome energy of language, but I doubt with little effect: I mean, permanent effect on the future life of my fair auditor; for during my oration, which was often interrupted by my pain and difficulty of utterance, the poor trem⯑bling Violante profeſſed to regard me as a Hea⯑ven inſpired oracle of purity and peace. In⯑deed, Soloman himſelf was never in a condition to deſcant more feelingly on the vanity of vo⯑luptuouſneſs. I ſpoke, however, not ſo much from the impreſſion of preſent pain as from my long-ſettled ſentiments; for aſſuredly no man was ever formed with a heart and mind leſs diſ⯑poſed to play the libertine, no man has a more perfect eſteem for the chaſte pleaſures of genu⯑ine love, than I have ever felt, though it has not been my lot to obtain them; and now perhaps—But I will not touch a plaintive ſtring. Violante is gone; and Heaven grant that I may prove, as ſhe told me I ſhould, the means [167] of reſcuing her from a courſe of life, whoſe firſt proſpect appears to be Paradiſe, and whoſe lat⯑ter ſtages are Hell, to repeat an expreſſion from my Lecture to this very beautiful and tempora⯑ry penitent. I am ſorry to ſay that Don Ma⯑nuel gives me little hope of her laſting reforma⯑tion.

You would be highly pleaſed, my dear Ed⯑mund, with my noble friend of Portugal. He is wonderfully active for his age, which is full 65, both in body and mind. His eyes ſtill re⯑tain all the fire of youth, though he is com⯑pleatly emancipated from the imperious folly of that ſeaſon, and thanks Heaven, he ſays, like old Sophocles, that he has at length got rid of the wild beaſt. He conſiders Love as the tran⯑ſient madneſs of early life; and thinks it the duty of every man, to whom age has given the ſecure poſſeſſion of his ſenſes, to ſuccour all who are labouring under this dangerous delirium. In ſhort, he is one of the moſt lively, pleaſant, and charitable elders, that I ever met with. My particular obligations to him are too great for any words to expreſs. But alas! I am ſoon to loſe the comfort of his ſociety. Some very preſ⯑ſing and private affairs oblige him to reviſit his own country with the utmoſt expedition. I am to be removed this evening to the houſe of his neighbour, the good courteous aunt of Giu⯑liana, with whom the Seignor is intimately ac⯑quainted, and whom he has kindly prepared for my reception. I can write no longer at pre⯑ſent; but will add a few lines from my new quarters to-morrow, and then diſpatch to you the united fragments of a narration that will, [168] I am afraid, afflict you, philoſopher as you are, much more than it ought to do.

What a bleſſed ſet of beings are all who are related to Giuliana! Their courteſy is the cour⯑teſy of the ſoul. Here have I been watched half the night by the good old lady under whoſe roof I am, exactly as if I were her own ſon. My condition in truth is ſuch as might excite pity in a leſs gentle boſom; for, bruiſed and ſhat⯑tered as I am, I make a moſt ſorry ſpectacle. The motion in removing hither, though ren⯑dered as eaſy as poſſible, ſeems to have hurt me not a little; and I am ſeized now and then with tortures ſo ſharp that I cannot ſuffer them in ſilence, though I endeavour to do ſo. Sad experience, my dear friend, has taught me, ‘That ſighs and groans by nature grow on pain.’ I have within me ſome internal miſchief, that my ſurgeon, who is a Frenchman ſent from Rome, either does not comprehend himſelf, or will not explain honeſtly to me. I am almoſt as ſick of his ſhrugs and evaſions as of my wounds and bruiſes. What would I give for half an hour's conference with the ſenſible, pleaſant, plain-ſpeaking Brenſil, my honeſt ſur⯑geon at Sedley-hall!—Ah! that dear houſe, and its divine miſtreſs!—I can proceed no far⯑ther without ſome reſt. Theſe tender recol⯑lections overwhelm me.

[169]Let me not alarm you, my dear Edmund, by my langor. I ſhall do very well in time, for my conſtitution has great ſoundneſs and ſtrength. I am much better within theſe three hours for a ſweet ſlumber; but I muſt ſleep again after writing theſe five or ſix lines; for they have given me, I believe a very ſtrong opiate, as my eyes are cloſing, I per⯑ceive, while the pen is yet in my hand.

Oh! joyous waking! I have waked, my dear! d [...]nund, to find my good angel ſeated on my bed. Giuliana is arrived. I cannot, I need not add more; for every thing good, every thing medicinal, every thing fraught with hope and comfort, is comprized in theſe happy words, "Giuliana is arrived."— "But whither are you flying, my too anxi⯑ous friend? do not leave my chamber yet, I conjure you. Tell me not of reſt and ſleep. They cannot be ſo ſalutary or ſo delightful to a wretch in pain, as the fight and converſa⯑tion of my heavenly Giuliana."—She comes again! ſhe is ſeated by my ſide! She for⯑bids me to write more! She will addreſs a bil⯑let to you herſelf. Oh, Edmund! what a per⯑fect angel ſhe is! Heavens! how ſhe has talked to me of my Cornelia! With what eloquence, what enthuſiaſtic admiration, has ſhe diſplayed the merit to which I have been ſo barbarouſly blind! How has ſhe made me abhor all my paſt cruelty and injuſtice to the dear injured object of our mutual idolatry! But I muſt reſume this animating ſubject at [170] a calmer ſeaſon. I am now doubly exhauſt⯑ed by pain and delight. I muſt lie quiet, and meditate with tears and gratitude on the exquiſite angelic tenderneſs of this incompa⯑rable friend. Farewell, my dear Edmund. Pray divulge not my follies or my ſufferings till I can ſpeak of them as I ought to the dear circle at Audley-Grove. Heaven bleſs you and all you regard! Pray write very ſoon, and tell me, if you can tell me ſo with truth, that Cornelia has not contracted a con⯑tempt for the pride and barbarity of

LETTER XXVI. FROM GIULIANA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH! my good dear Engliſh Father Ed⯑mund! How ſurpriſe, and joy, and pity, and fear, have made your poor Giuliana to trem⯑ble! [171] In what a ſtate of body and mind have I [...]ound my guide, guardian and reſtorer, your beloved friend Seymour! Good God! if he ſhould not do well! But let me not too much affright my gentle Edmund.—A French ſur⯑geon of deep ſkill aſſures me our dear Seymour is not in danger to die ſoon; yet doubts if he ſ [...]ll recover. Oh! if ever you can leave dear glorious England for poor Italy, as you once promiſed, come now, my generous father Ed⯑mund; and as dear England produces the beſt of all good things, bring one of your beſt Eng⯑l [...]ſh ſurgeons to your beloved friend, whoſe poor b [...]dy endures, I can ſee, more torment than his brave great ſpirit will confeſs.

I have ſtill much hope and it does me great good to ſee how happy he is in having me to come and attend him. He begins to ſee how hardly he has treated the ſweet Cornelia.—Ah! what a divine lady is ſhe! Alas! if ſhe ſhould be deſtined, like your poor Giuliana, to have her dear idol torn from her by cruel death, and a [...]l her treaſure in Heaven! Yet, my good Ed⯑mund, there is a ſweet melancholy and ſecur [...] delight in this bitter fate; and your true Giuli⯑ana would not change her dead love for any liv⯑ [...]ng one in the world. But may the good God [...] make your charming couple of friends very [...]appy together upon earth; and afterwards with me and my dear adored Peverell in Heaven: [...] [...]rays

Oh! if our dear Lucy would come with you, and bring the lovely injured angel Cornelia [...] Genoa!—How happy ſhould we be to meet yo [...] under our own roof! and how delightful [...] ſhould we all unite together to make a ſpeech perfect cure of the engaging, penitent, Sey⯑mour! When I ſaid this to him, he replied, "No—it muſt not be. He felt he had deſerves ſuch kindneſs ſo little, that it would rather [...] than revive him." His own words. But I know better and ſay again, "My dear Luc [...] come and bring Cornelia, if you can. T [...] good God bleſs you both! Encor adio,

LETTER XXVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

ALIVE! Alive! my dear Edmund. But how can you, who know how much I live on that ſweet food of the heart, good tidings from thoſe I love, how can you ſuffer me to be ſo long without a letter from England! If the dear [173] injured Cornelia has baniſhed me from her mind, you, my faithful Edmund, will have only thought of me the more. But I am again in⯑juring by my wild conjectures the divineſt of women, who forgets every injury, and chroni⯑cles every benefit, in a heart as pure and per⯑fect as the records of Heaven!—Yet why, my dear Edmund, are you ſilent ſo long? This un⯑uſual ſilence, in a correſpondent ſo tenderly at⯑tentive to your abſent friend as you have ever ſeen, fills me with a thouſand fears. Some evil must have happened either to yourſelf, or to ſome one very dear to you.—No; my good conſoling angel, Giuliana will not have it ſo. She ſays, the foreign poſts are ill-conducted, and letters from dear England (her conſtant expreſſion when ſhe mentions our country) are frequently loſt. oh, Edmund! this truly angelic comforter will not follow me to have a ſecret pain of mind or body that ſhe can poſſibly prevent. I muſt [...]bble volumes to you, if I attempted to give [...]u a full idea of half what ſhe has ſaid and done [...] preſerve my life, and make it worth preſer⯑vation. I am made indeed a new creature in many points by the tender vigilance and exer⯑t [...]ons of this heavenly attendant. Oh, Edmund! [...] I recover—But why ſhould I alarm you with [...]n if, when I am almoſt able to tell you that I [...] recovered.—Within the ſix days that I have n [...]w been watched and cheriſhed by my good [...], for as ſuch I muſt ever regard our dear G [...]uliana, I have made conſiderable advances [...]wards health of body, and ſtill more towards [...]ealth of mind. The moſt diſmal appearances of my contuſion are paſſed away; and though I am not perfectly free from internal pain at par⯑ticular [174] times, yet I can now not only ſtretc [...] myſelf out to my full length, which I could no [...] at firſt do without torture, but I can walk a l [...]t⯑tle without appearing to ſuffer from motion.— The kind Giuliana has had a conſultation o [...] ſurgeons, that ſhe might indulge me in w [...] (which I feel with an extreme ſolicitude that I cannot perfectly account for) of being remove [...] immediately to Genoa. My good old friend Pinelli, who is very anxious to have me un [...] his own roof, is almoſt as eager for my removal [...]s I am; and I confeſs I am eager for it to a degree perhaps of childiſh impatience. I can⯑not bear to trouble any longer the very kind, but infirm, old lady of this manſion. Whethe [...] my deſtiny be life or death (and I thank God! I can abide the doubtful iſſue without any pertur⯑bations of unmanly terror), I moſt zealouſly wiſh to receive the appointment of Heaven in the houſe of the Pinellis, where I ſhall feel my⯑ſelf perfectly at home, and in the arms of a fa⯑ther and a ſiſter to whom my heart is gratefully attached, and in whoſe preſence I can moſt will⯑ [...]ngly meet either the pleaſures of returning health or the awful though undreaded pangs o [...] d [...]ſſolution. The kind Seignor has been very [...]fy in making preparations, with the ſanction of three ſurgeons, for my ſpeedy removal. We are to travel partly by water, and partly by land; and every poſſible convenience is provided for [...]y ſafety and comfort. Oh, Edmund! I am overwhelmed with the ſenſe of my unutterable ob [...]ig [...]tions to theſe dear and excellent friend. Pray aſſiſt me by expreſſing in your letters our [...]ed gratitude for all their goodneſs.—Write to me, I conjure you, the moment you receive [175] this, and direct to Genoa. On the day that I arrive there, I will not fail to tell you how I have ſupported the removal. You have now my per⯑miſſion to mention my illneſs, but in ſuch a manner as to awaken only a tender intereſt, and not a painful anxiety, in the feeling boſom of Cornelia. Alas! I have given that gentle bo⯑ſom too much pain already. Whether I ſhall ever have the power to atone for that pain, as my heart and ſoul are deſirous of making the atonement, Heaven only knows. Hope the beſt, my dear Edmund; and believe me, with our united good wiſhes to dear England, to uſe Giuliana's comprehenſive words,

LETTER XXVIII FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER

IT was a good angel indeed (as Lucy ſaid) that prompted you to engage me in this diſtant expedition. Had I not viſited Italy, little, alas! [176] would my chance have been of ever beholding the intereſting countenance of our dear incon⯑ſ [...]derate Seymour again. Even now, when I am arrived at Genoa, I know not whether I may yet ſee him alive. It is with the deepeſt anguiſh of heart I inform you, that I find him not in this city, and here he is ſlowly travelling [...]ither, very grievouſly wounded by ſome hor⯑ [...]d caſualty, the particulars of which I am un⯑able to learn; it is yet a great comfort to me to know that he is under the immediate care of our dear Giuliana and her excellent father.

I have been interrupted, juſt as I was begin⯑ning to pour out to you all the dark anxiety of a dejected ſpirit, by a moſt welcome, unexpect⯑ed, and for ſome time unknown viſitor. As we unluckily poſſeſs but little of each other's lan⯑guage, our converſation has paſſed more in geſture than in words. Our hearts, however, being both full of the ſame ardent wiſhes, under⯑ſtood each other completely; and mine has caught new life and hope from the honeſt affec⯑tionate creature, who laboured to the utmoſt of his power to inſpire me with both.

This agreeable enlivening viſitor is Pietro, the good old ſervant of Signor Pinelli, whoſe name and character you will recollect in Seymour's intereſting account of Giuliana's return to the houſe of her father. The active Pietro had haſ⯑tened to Genoa, to prepare all things at home for the reception of his family and their dear wounded fellow-traveller. The honeſt fellow, who did not quit them till they had paſſed through conſiderably more than half their journey, aſ⯑ſures me that Seymour ſupports it to admiration, to uſe his own forcible expreſſion. He ſeems, [177] indeed, to think ſo highly of our friend's noble [...], that I believe he hardly reckons him a [...]. At leaſt, he will not allow me to har⯑ [...]ur the grievous apprehenſion under which I began my letter, that our friend may not reach Genoa alive. Pietro proteſts that I ſhall ſee him much recovered to-morrow. Indeed the kind [...]ll [...]w offered, on ſeeing all my terror and anx⯑i [...]t [...], to ſet off with me again directly, though he is but juſt arrived, and eſcort me to ſurprize my friend on his way But this I would not think of for various reaſons, eſpecially as it is now evening, and the travellers are to come by water from Lerici, to avoid the mountain.

I have acquieſced, however, in another pro⯑poſal of the good Pietro's, becauſe it ſeemed as i [...] I ſhould break the honeſt fellow's heart if I re⯑ [...]ed his requeſt. This is, to remove immedi⯑ately from my inn, where I am now writing, and ſleep under the roof of his maſter. He ſays, "he could never look in the face of the ang⯑el [...]c Giuliana again, if he ſuffered her dear Eng⯑liſh father (as I find ſhe conſtantly calls me) to r [...]ma [...]n in any houſe but hers. There is a mix⯑ture of ſimplicity and energy in the manners of this affectionate old domeſtic that delights me ex [...]edingly. The comfortable hope which he has taught me to cheriſh has made me ſo partial to [...], that I ſhall very willingly put myſelf under his direction, as I am convinced the Pinelli's will be particularly pleaſed to find me waiting to receive them in their own manſion. I will not, however, detain this paper to add an account of their arrival; but ſeize the departing poſt in my e [...]g [...]neſs to ſend you moſt ſpeedily this promiſ⯑ing account; which I am the more anxious to [178] do, becauſe I think it probable that you have been alarmed by ſome hiſtory of the miſchance, the particulars of which I tried in vain to collect from Pietro, who yet ſeemed, I thought, to know more than he choſe to communicate even to me, though I have the honour of ſtanding very high in his good opinion. I ſhall lay down my pe [...] in the chearful hope of reſuming it to-morrow, to begin ſuch a hiſtory as you will moſt wiſh to receive. Perhaps, my dear Charles, the painful incident, whatever it may prove, which has made me tremble for the life of my enga⯑ging friend, may ultimately be what you call a bleſſing in diſguiſe; one of thoſe heaven-direct⯑ed events which lead us through tranſient afflic⯑tion to laſting comfort, as ſome inundation [...] very richly repay by permanent fertility the ra⯑vage of an hour.

The recent alarm which I have ſuffered for Seymour abſorbed my thoughts ſo entirely that I have ſaid little of myſelf. I will not, however, cloſe my letter, without confeſſing to you, my dear brother, what I know you will hear with fraternal ſatisfaction. I begin to think myſe [...]f an example of your maxim, that to a mind diſ⯑poſed to ſarcaſtic ſceptici [...]m nothing is ſo ſaluta⯑ry as a ſudden unexpected blow on the heart. Mine has bled indeed from the wound it receiv⯑ed ſo ſuddenly in England, much more than I thought it could have done from a wound of that kind. But I now perceive that I wanted the correction; and I truſt it is ſufficient. Heaven preſerve my friend! Let me not run into a me⯑lancholy key, juſt in the moment when I intend⯑ed to cloſe with a very chearful adieu! A thou⯑ſand thanks to you all for your extreme kindneſs [179] to my dear little Fanny; pray give her a pa⯑rental embrace for me, and believe me, dear Charles, with the moſt fervent good wiſhes to all around you,

LETTER XXIX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

AT length, my dear brother, they are ar⯑rived; and never did any meeting of anxious and grateful friends more abundantly call forth the tears of tenderneſs and delight, mingled, alas! on my part with the keeneſt ſenſations of pity and of terror.—I will not attempt, my dear Charles, to chear you with any hopes that I feel not myſelf; and I am therefore under the pain⯑ful neceſſity of telling you, that the grievouſly altered appearance of our friend alarms me in the greateſt degree! Heavens! what a deplora⯑ble [180] change in his gay and gallant figure has this [...]orrible calamity produced! His florid cheeks are grown as pale and hollow as the very image of death, his whole frame emaciated and feeble. — Yet his native chearfulneſs and good temper appear unimpaired; and there is a look of intel⯑lectual vigour in his countenance, ſuperior, I think, to what I ever obſerved in his moſt heal⯑thy days, though intelligence was at all times the characteriſt [...]c of his features. We can eaſily account indeed for his being ſo extremely re⯑duced, as he has taken no ſuſtenance but liquids, and thoſe only in ſmall quantity, ſince the hor⯑rible miſchance. Whenever he has ventured on the ſmalleſt portion of ſolid food, even of the ſimpleſt kind, his cough and pain became almoſt inſupportable. But I will not ſpeak farther on this point at preſent, as I am reſolved to draw up his caſe in the moſt circumſtantial manner that I poſſibly can, and encloſe it in this letter, entreating you to ſend us Brenſil's opinion upon it immediately, and deſiring him to let that o⯑pinion be followed by others, which I requeſt him to procure from thoſe perſons in London whom he would himſelf wiſh to conſult. They tell me here, that I am too much alarmed; that I do not make ſuff [...]cient allowance for the depreſ⯑ſive and fearful effect which a ſudden ſight of the great alteration in his figure has produced on my [...]vious ſpirits. They ſay that time alone, aſ⯑ſ [...]t [...]d by Seymour's very fine natural conſtituti⯑on, at his period of life, would undoubtedly ac⯑compliſh a cure. But as the injury ſuſtained was extenſive and complicated, the cure muſt be a work of conſiderable time. Heaven grant that the [...]e hop [...]ful conjectures, in which the [181] warm-hearted Giuliana and her father have much greater confidence than I have, may prove juſtly founded! At all events we ſhall try every poſſible expedient to reſtore him; and at preſent even I, with all my fears, muſt allow there is no immediate ſign of impending death.

I have quitted my paper to take a freſh view of this dear, intereſting patient, and have this inſtant left him under the care of his good an⯑gel, as he calls Giuliana, who is reading to him ſome chapters of St. John, from her Italian Bible. I have prevented his anſwering your very kind letter to-day, which he wanted to do. It affected him ſo much, that he dropt tears of gratitude on every page of it; and, having pe⯑ruſed the whole with great but ſilent emotion, he gave it to Giuliana, with the following ex⯑preſſive words, and a look ſtill more expreſſive: "Here, my good angel! here is a letter that you will read with delight, becauſe it was dic⯑tated by a ſpirit as angelic as your own." Giuliana did not think leſs favourably of the writer; and you will give me credit, my dear Charles, for the joy I felt in hearing praiſe moſt cordially beſtowed on a brother whom I have every reaſon to love. But my beſt way of th [...]nking you for all your kindneſs to my friend will be, to purſue the purpoſe for which I re⯑ſumed my pen, and to give you as good an ac⯑count as I can of our meeting here, and of ſuch converſation as we have hitherto held together.

My eagerneſs to ſalute the travellers with a welcome they little expected, made me loiter yeſterday for ſome hours by the water-ſide, till Pietro, finding me faint and almoſt ſick with [182] expectation and anxiety, perſuaded me to re⯑tire for refreſhment, and wait to receive them at home, promiſing to tell them nothing more than that an Engliſh gentleman was arrived with letters, as I wiſhed to have the pleaſure of ſurprizing them. I had refreſhed myſelf, and endeavoured to beguile the anxious minutes in the Seignor's very noble library, where taking up a volume of Metaſtaſio, I had juſt thrown my nerves into a very tender vibration by his ſweet deſcription of Friendſhip in the opera of Olimpiade, when the dear friend, for whom I waited ſo anxiouſly arrived.

Having heard that a gentleman from Eng⯑land was waiting in the library, Giuliana dart⯑ed firſt into the room, with that celerity of mo⯑tion which quick affections inſpire. "O Hea⯑ven! exclaimed the lovely enthuſiaſt, it is my dear father, Edmund!" So ſaying, ſhe threw herſelf into my arms in a tranſport of gratitude; "This is kind indeed, ſhe continued; it is al⯑moſt a miracle: ſurely you cannot have re⯑ceived my letter?" "No, my angelic daugh⯑ter." "And have not you heard of our poor Seymour's ſad accident?" "Yes I have." "Then ſurely, my dear Edmund, you are a magician, and have ſome ſecret art of knowing what happens to your abſent friends, and ſome ſupernatural method of conveying yourſelf to comfort them in diſtreſs. Bleſs the good Spirits who have brought you to the houſe of your far diſtant child, juſt in the moment when ſhe moſt wanted you to aſſiſt her in re⯑ſtoring your favourite friend!" Here ſhe em⯑braced me with freſh emotions of truly filial de⯑light. But recollecting how I muſt be ſhocked at the dreadful alteration in the countenance of her [183] dear patient, ſhe was beginning to prepare me for a ſight of him, when his emaciated figure appeared ſlowly creeping through the half-open door. Giuliana had ſuppoſed him to be reſting himſelf in another apartment; but his quick ears had caught the ſound of Edmund on her firſt lively exclamation, and he had followed her as faſt as his infirm and painful condition would allow him to do. The firſt ſight of me affected him ſo much, that I believe he would have fainted, if I had not ſprung forward, and ſupported his languid frame in my arms. He fell on my neck, and burſt into tears; but ſoon recovered himſelf enough to expreſs the moſt lively joy on my arrival. He declared, with his uſual kindneſs and warmth, that my ſociety would do him more good than all the ſurgeons in Europe; and that now he had a perfect aſ⯑ſurance of a ſpeedy cure, provided, ſaid the af⯑fectionate invalid with a look of anxious en⯑quiry, that you can truly tell me you have left all the dear circle well at Audley-grove. "All well, I replied, or very nearly ſo, I can aſſure you, and the circle as numerous as it was, for I have ſent Lucy to fill the vacancy made by the return of the young Louiſa to Ireland." "What happy chance then, my dear Edmund, conducted you hither; for you muſt have quit⯑ted England, I think, before the news of my calamity could have reached it? "O, he is certainly a magician, as I have told him, ſaid the ſmiling Giuliana. He has conveyed him⯑ſelf to us in a very marvellous manner to-day, and to-morrow, I ſuppoſe, by a flouriſh of his wand, he will tranſport even the divine Cor⯑nelia into this apartment; and then, my dear [184] patient, he will have doubly ratified your cure." "Not ſo, indeed, my good angel, cried Sey⯑mour with a ghaſtly ſmile. If your magician were to exhibit ſuch a proof of his art at th [...]s ſea⯑ſon, inſtead or reſtoring he would utterly de⯑moliſh me. There is nothing that I could ſo ill ſuſtain as unmerited kindneſs from the in⯑jured object of my idolatry, before I have had time to make any kind of expiation." Oh! exclaimed the quick Giuliana, I love you for your ideas of expiation; but, if the dear magi⯑cian can ſet the idol before us, I will anſwer for it that all paſt injuries ſhall be ſoon expiated and ſoon forgiven. This, I truſt, we ſhall ſee in due time: at preſent it would be wrong per⯑haps to make ſuch rapid and encroaching de⯑mands on ſo kind a magician. He has already done much for me; and the bleſſed hour is now come, in which I may in my turn afford him perhaps the very pleaſure which his heart is moſt eager to receive." "Oh! my dear Ed⯑mund, continued the lovely enthuſiaſt with an air of more ſerious delight, I cannot reſt ano⯑ther moment without informing you that the cruel impediment is removed. We have only to reſtore the health of this dear invalid, to confer upon your divine Cornelia all the happi⯑neſs ſhe deſerves." "You delight me indeed, ſaid I, preſſing her hand in a tranſport of reli⯑gious joy; and I am thoroughly ſenſible what thanks are due to our good angel for ſo bleſſed an event." "Oh! my good Engliſh father, repl [...]d my lovely and moſt grateful hoſteſs, how often have I hoped that Heaven would indulge me with ſome opportunity of expreſſing my gra⯑titude to you in perſon! Did Seymour tell you, [185] after he had conducted your poor broken-heart⯑ed Giuliana to her diſtant home; did he tell you how often and how vainly I argued with man in our travels? did he mention one evening in particular (it was at Avignon) when my anxiety for his ſalvation had ſhaken my very ſoul? I threw myſelf on my knees, and ad⯑dreſſing the ſpirit of my dear ſainted Peverell, I prayed moſt fervently that in ſome period of my life I might have the bleſſing to behold my generous, miſguided friend and protector, awakened to a juſt and timely knowledge of that God whom my dear departed love had taught me to worſhip with rational adoration! That prayer, my dear Edmund, that fervent prayer was heard. You may now tell the moſt ſeverely-tried and the moſt meritorious of wo⯑men, that all the cruel conflict in her boſom may ceaſe for ever. You may tell the incom⯑parable Cornelia, that ſhe may now indulge without a ſcruple all the exquiſite tenderneſs of her heart, for the God whom ſhe has ſerved ſo f [...]thfully, gives a ſanction to her love."

"But where is my other father?" cried the lovely enthuſiaſt, recollecting that I had not yet been the old Seignor. "Oh, Edmund! it has pl [...]ded Heaven to bleſs me alſo by an equal [...]ange in his ſpirit: though it has not been my deſtiny, as I wiſhed, to paſs my life with my dear Peverell, yet my pure love for that moſt perfect of mortals has proved a ſource, I truſt, of eter⯑nal bleſſedneſs, not only to my own ſoul, but to others as dear to me as my own." Here ſhe darted a ſmile of devout chearfulneſs on Sey⯑mour, and after charging him not to hurt him⯑ſelf by converſing too eagerly with me, ſhe left [186] us to ourſelves, and went in queſt of her fa⯑ther.

"What a perfect angel ſhe is! cried Sey⯑mour to me as our dear hoſteſs withdrew. Oh, Edmund! I am convinced that your calm and boaſted Philoſophy is but a plauſible cheat; and that Sentiment and Honour, the more eagerly-followed guides of my early life, are no better than luminous vapours to a benighted mind that lead it we know not whither. Your brother, my dear friend, is aſſuredly in the right. It is Religion alone, as he ſays, that can give ſolid value and real permanent luſtre to human life. It is Religion alone that can remove danger from proſperity, and anguiſh from affliction. Let me conjure you, my dear friend, to con⯑template the beneficent efficacy of this principle in this angelic conduct and heavenly ſtate of mind that you will find more and more reaſon to admire in Giuliana; and if an oppoſite ex⯑ample may be alſo inſtructive, I need not point it out to my dear Edmund's attention. But on this ſubject we ſhall both, I truſt, have leiſure for much private diſcourſe, when talking will be more eaſy to me. Let me now enquire into a point that fills me with a moſt uncomfortable alarm; the letters that I have lately written to you. I would not for the univerſe have them fall into the hands of the dear injured Cornelia. Yet, if Lucy opens them, ſhe, in the ſimple, affectionate frankneſs of her heart—I interrupt⯑ed him, to quiet this fear; and aſſured him his letters would be perfectly ſafe in your hands, as you have the moſt tender ſolicitude to keep the gentle ſpirit of Cornelia as free from all painful agitation as it can be kept after all that has paſſ⯑ed. [187] He was perfectly ſatisfied with this aſſur⯑ance, and ſpoke of you with the moſt cordial eſteem, gratitude, and confidence. He then queſtioned me very cloſely on the immediate cauſe of my expedition. I told him all that I have recently ſuffered; dwelling, my dear Charles, with particular ſatiſfaction on the great comfort you afforded me in my diſtreſs, and your invaluable kindneſs to my dear little Fan⯑ny. We were both affected too vehemently in the courſe of my ſad ſtory, and I was afraid that the extreme ſympathy of my tender-hearted friend might be very injurious to him in his pre⯑ſent weak ſtate. But he aſſured me to the con⯑trary; and I obſerved with pleaſure that my mournful narrative conſiderably encreaſed that religious turn of mind which I have mentioned in our friend, and which, as I know, my dear Charles, it is the great object of your benevo⯑lent wiſhes, I am deſirous of diſplaying to you exactly as it ſhewed itſelf to me.

Juſt as I had finiſhed my melancholy tale, we were agreeably relieved from the ſad impreſſion it made upon us, by the entrance of the ma⯑jeſtic Pinelli and his incomparable daughter. I never beheld a ſcene of joy ſo touching as the joy of Giuliana, in introducing her two fa⯑thers, as ſhe calls us, to each other. Indeed my vanity, or I may rather ſay the honeſt pride of my heart, was never more gratified than by the many kind and grateful things that were laid to me on this occaſion. As to Giuliana, her delight ſeemed to have in it ſomething ſu⯑pernatural; placing herſelf between us, as I and the Seignor ſtood together, ſhe claſped us in her lovely arms with a graceful energy of [188] geſture peculiar to herſelf, and her fine face be⯑came indeed as radiant as the face of an angel. There was a circumſtance that I have not yet mentioned, which completed the plenitude ot⯑her joy. Her noble father having conducted his infirm gueſt and his daughter to his own door, ſtept without imparting his deſign to them to the neighbouring houſe of a very old medical friend, who lives retired from buſineſs, and is only conſulted as an oracle upon great emergen⯑cies. The anſwer of this oracle to the point on which he was conſulted inſpired the benevolent Pinelli with the moſt lively hopes of our dear friend▪s during well; and the forcible manner in which the zealous Giuliana imparted to us this intelligence added not a little to the general fe⯑licity of the moment.

You will allow me, my dear Charles, to cloſe my long, though haſty letter, with this animat⯑ing preſſage; Heaven grant it may be true! At all events you may depend on receiving freſh intelligence very ſoon. In the mean time I ſub⯑mit it entirely to your ſuperior judgment and tenderneſs to communicate as much or as little as you think proper of this information to our very tender and intereſting Cornelia. Accept and diſtribute to all around you the ardent good wiſhes of this houſe, and particularly thoſe, my dear Charles, of

LETTER XXX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

IT was very kind and conſiderate in you, my dear Edmund, to ſend me ſo ſpeedy a letter from Genoa, without waiting for the arrival of your expected friends. I had indeed, according to your conjecture, been alarmed in no moderate degree, by an account of Seymour's misfortune, which he had addreſſed to you. The privilege of peruſing the letters which have arrived in your abſence has coſt me dear: they have filled me with inquietude the more painful, becauſe it was ſuch as I felt myſelf under a neceſſity of confining to my own boſom. I could not ven⯑ture to impart this alarming accident either to Lucy or Harriot, as neither would have had the power of keeping ſuch a ſecret from the piercing eyes of our anxious Cornelia, whoſe affections have ſo quickened her ſenſes, that I could hard⯑ly truſt myſelf, with ſo agitating a ſecret in my boſom, within the reach of their ſcrutiny.

I am grown, however, leſs fearful, ſince I have been comforted by the lively hopes of the honeſt Pietro, and ſtill more by the laſt letter ad⯑dreſſed to you from Seymour. There is a paſ⯑ſage in this letter which inſpires me with the moſt delightful of all expectations; I mean, a [190] happy change in the religious ſentiments of our friend, which, if his life is out of danger, as I truſt it is, will enſure to him that felicity in marriage which we are all ſo eager to ſee him at⯑tain. As to the preſent ſtate of our dear Corne⯑lia's affections, I ſhall enable you to form a perfect idea of them, by imparting to you a few particulars of our private converſation. She is eager to ſeize all opportunities of chatting with me alone, on the flattering pretence that ſhe draws from my converſation the power of cor⯑recting the infirmities of her own tender mind, but in truth (though I believe ſhe is not aware of this motive) to indulge herſelf in converſing on her favourite topic, and to draw from me all the intelligence ſhe can. As we were yeſterday alone together, and engaged on our perpetual theme, I ſaid to her, "Now, my gentle friend, as there is a lovely frank ſimplicity in your na⯑ture, infinitely ſuperior to the artificial reſerve of your ſex, tell me candidly which would give you moſt pain, to hear that Seymour was dead or married." She ſtarted at my idea; and after the pauſe of a moment replied, "This is a cru⯑el queſtion indeed; but I will be as frank as you deſire, and tell you that my mind immediately proclaims one anſwer, and my heart mutters another. Married! No! Diſtract me not with ſuch an idea. Yet what right, what reaſon have I—Oh! my good Audley, why will you ſhew me to myſelf in ſuch a hateful point of view! My Friend, my Guardian, my Director, clear my heart, I conjure you, if you can, from all theſe wild exceſſes of a hopeleſs paſſion, whoſe tyranny and injuſtice I perceive and deteſt." [191] Here ſhe preſſed my hand in an agony of tears that made me reproach myſelf for the idle barba⯑rity of my queſtion, though I hoped to make her ample compenſation for all the pain it occaſion⯑ed. But before I had time to do ſo, "Heavens! exclaimed the fond ſufferer, what a hideous in⯑ſight have you given me into my own troubled thoughts! how have you made me abhor the turn of mind that I have lately fallen into, and which I never condemned before, becauſe I ne⯑ver underſtood the ſecret cauſe of it till this mo⯑ment!" Here my curioſity was very ſtrongly excited. I requeſted an explanation. "Do not hate me, my good Audley, ſaid this ingeni⯑ous ſelf-accuſer, while I confeſs to you, I have lately thought it would be a bleſſing to Seymour, to be taken early from the world. I reaſoned thus: At preſent his life can be ſtained with no important evil; and he has hitherto employed himſelf in generous, munificent, and charita⯑ble deeds. In ſuch a character ſurely Heaven will either pardon his youth the unintended crime of incredulity, or in cloſing his exiſtence reveal to him in a merciful hour thoſe impor⯑tant truths to which he has hitherto been ſo un⯑happily blind. But if his days are prolonged under the tyranny of thoſe proud and diſppoint⯑ed paſſions which have driven him abroad, what calamities may enſue, what a horrid change may be wrought in his noble nature! Thus un⯑der the idea of ſecuring his everlaſting welfare, my fond and feveriſh imagination has been ſometimes inclined to hurry him from the earth. But you have ſhewn me the hideous ſource of theſe ideas. I now feel for the firſt time, that they ſprung from a corrupted heart, labouring [192] under a ſecret horror of beholding this object, ſo cruelly dear to me, the huſband of another. Oh! Audley, is it poſſible that Love, which boaſts of being the moſt diſintereſted, the moſt generous of all the paſſions, can be the moſt ſelfiſh of all? If it is, may I henceforth be alive only to that parental affection which partakes or the purity, though not the peace of Heaven▪ You flatter me on the reſolution with which I have tried to diſcharge the great duty of a mo⯑ther; but I am willing to ſhew you all the un⯑worthineſs which lurks in the ſpirit you have flattered, that I may the better engage you to aſſiſt me in correcting it. Aid me, I beſeech you, with thoſe ſtronger powers of mind, where have given ſuch envied tranquillity to your life. Help me to eradicate from my boſom a weakneſs ſo tormenting, ſo diſgraceful; and make me f [...] my own comfort and your credit, more deſerv⯑ing of your praiſe." She uttered the laſt ſen⯑tence with a tear and a ſmile that doubly en⯑deared to me the tender frankneſs of her hear How I thought it beſt to tranquillize her agitat⯑ed ſpirit, you will eaſily gueſs. To an enamour⯑ed woman, a particle of hope is of more not value than a ton of reaſon; and as I had ſo [...]e good and honeſt hope to give, I beſtowed it or my gentle friend with particular delight, what I aſſured her that I had ſolid grounds for believ⯑ing that Seymour had lately reſolved never to form a connexion with any other woman, He ſoft and ſad features became almoſt as radient [...] ever. I mentioned his accident very ſlightly and as a mere trifle. It alarmed her, howe⯑ver, conſiderably; but I gradually diſſip [...] that alarm, and finally diſmiſſed our love [193] friend from this private conference, very viſibly cheared and enlivened. Having rendered this pleaſing little ſervice to a fervent though unwil⯑lingly votary of Love, let me perform another, equally pleaſing, for a certain parent, who, though new to me in that character, is not the leſs intereſting for ſuch novelty. Let me aſſure you, my dear Edmund, that your ſweet little Fanny is grown, not only dear to us on her own account, but as much at home as if ſhe had been educated here from her cradle. You would be diverted, as I am, to ſee what rivals Cornelia, Lucy, and Harriot, are, for the higheſt place in her affection. I am convinced, however, this diſtinction belongs completely to Cornelia, and from a cauſe which does honour to the heart of the dear little damſel. She has obſerved the air of melancholy and mental, or rather cordial diſ⯑treſs, which is often viſible in the ſweet counte⯑nance of Cornelia; and this has awakened her early ſympathy, and made the tender Fanny attach herſelf peculiarly to the widow. She is, however, as ſprightly and playful as you would wiſh her to be; and to give you our idea of her character in a few words (which I ſhould tell you are the words of Lucy), ſhe has all your en⯑gaging qualities without one of your foibles.

I am obliged to bid you haſtily farewell; but I do ſo with the leſs regret, as I hope to receive to morrow or next day the confirmation of our hopes, and to tell you immediately with what joy that confirmation is received by

P. S. My Three Graces, as I ſportively call them, ſalute you with every kind wiſh; and commiſſion you, not only to bring Seymour home to us as ſoon as you can, but the noble Seignor and Giuliana, to whom you are deſired to ſay for us every thing that is friendly.

LETTER XXXI. FROM SEYMOUR TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

MOST truly and moſt ſucceſsfully, my dear Audley, have you followed a ſublime pre⯑cept of the Religion which you ſo happily pro⯑feſs. You have indeed overcome evil by good. In reading the letter which you ſo generouſly ſent me by our dear unexpected Edmund, I know not which was the ſtronger, my ſenſe of your extreme kindneſs, or of my own demerit. How indulgent, how parental, has your con⯑duct been towards me! and how ungrateful the return that I have hitherto made to ſuch fa⯑vours! But my hour of retribution is come, not only towards you, my dear ill-treated friend, but towards that bright injured angel whoſe ex⯑quiſite [195] perfections you ſo nobly endeavour to im⯑preſs upon my heart. I have, perhaps, towards her ‘Beyond atonement ſinn'd;’ or I ſhould rather ſay, that Heaven will probably, with great juſtice, preclude me from an earthly bleſſing, whoſe real value I have been ſo ſlow to underſtand and acknowledge.

You will undoubtedly have a faithful account from Edmund, who is all kindneſs and attenti⯑on to me, of my real apparent ſituation: but you cannot hear from him what I think it beſt to conceal at preſent from the infinitely tender and too anxious friends who ſurround me; I mean, my own ſtrong perſuaſion, not only that I ſhall never behold dear England again, but that I ſhall drop this poor early-tattered veſt⯑ment of mortality much ſooner than my friend⯑ly attendants here will allow themſelves to ima⯑gine. Nor ſhould I, my dear Audley, imparts this idea to you, had I not obſerved with what peculiar juſtice and felicity you have long eſti⯑mated life and death. For my own part, I am thankful to my Creator that timidity has never been characteriſtic of my frame. When my mind was in utter darkneſs concerning futurity. I was a ſtranger to the dread of diſſolution; and ſince that bleſſed Power, to whom I was blind too long, has illuminated my ſpirit with his promiſe of a ſuperior exiſtence, ſince he has allowed me (to uſe the words of a great living Poet who is rich in religious eloquence)

[196] I feel doubly confirmed in the idea, and in the ſenſation, that Death is the laſt thing which mortal ought to ſear. Yet how many objects my dear Audley, now preſs upon my fan [...] that might render earth for ſome years a para⯑diſe to me! With what delight ſhould I bend myſelf ſeated once again in that circle of perfect benevolence, your hoſpitable manſion, awak⯑ened as I now am to a full ſenſe of all the [...] merit by which it is ennobled! with what tranſ⯑port ſhould I receive from your friendly has that ineſtimable treaſure which you have wi [...] ſuch generous ardour excited me to deſerve Oh! my dear friend, the being muſt be de [...] to every fine emotion of the heart, who would not wiſh to live, while earthly bliſs of ſuch pu⯑rity and luſtre ſeems to ſolicit his enjoyment. I wiſh indeed—but I have learned at laſt to ſubmit the moſt preſum tuous of my wiſhes is the will of Him "in whom we live and more and have our being."

How, juſt my dear Audley, was that mo [...] ⯑tory remark of yours, which I once refuſed is admit, that pride was the great ſource of all m [...] errors, and all my infelicity! You allowed, [...] remember, it was a generous pride; and ſo [...] ⯑deed it was in its appearance, but not in its ef⯑fects. I entered young into ſplendid life, hea [...] ⯑thy, opulent, uncontrouled; conſcious that my heart was free from every malevolent and every mean propenſity, I truſted entirely to the na⯑tive impulſe of an ardent and affectionate ſpiri [...] I thought that Honeſty and Honour, to whom felt myſelf inviolably attached, were unexception⯑able and ſufficient guides for my conduct. As early inſight into the deſpicable characters [...] [197] ſome unworthy prieſts gave me a ſtrong preju⯑dice againſt Religion. I felt no attraction to⯑wards a faith, whoſe miniſters of every ſect ap⯑peared to me as a band of intellectual gladiators; who ſeemed to have done the very thing which a certain Philoſopher, with a benevolent ſarcaſm recommended to the Athenians, and as a preliminary to their conflicts, to have pulled down the altar of mercy. We agreed, I remem⯑ber, on this point, my dear Audley when you were ſo good as to converſe with me ſo patiently (and, alas! to ſo little good effect at that time) on the ſources of incredulity: we agreed, that the ferocity of Chriſtian Divines to each other is a common and extenſive ſource of Laical Irreli⯑g [...]on. How can a youth who has never ſtudied h [...] Bible, expect quiet and comfort from the Go [...]pel, when he ſees thoſe who preach it very furiouſly mangling their brethren, like the ſa⯑vage rebels of Scotland who were routed by the gallant Montroſe, and who uſed for their word of battle, "Jeſus and no Quarter?" I am con⯑vinced by my own paſt feelings on the ſubject, that no ſource of Infidelity is more powerful than this. It has pleaſed Heaven to correct in a very pa [...]ticular manner thoſe early prejudices of my mind which I have ſtill ſuch ſingular reaſon to lin [...]ent. I have beheld the beneficial influence or Religion one of its moſt ſtriking examples; I have ſeen it not only bind up the broken heart o [...] Giuliana, but confer upon her an angelic ſe⯑renate, ſweetneſs, and ſtrength of mind, which under her cruel calamity, nothing elſe could have given her; it has enabled her not only to [...]bdue the moſt depreſſive of paſſions in her own t [...]n, but to new-mould the heart and ſpirit of [198] an exaſperated and worldly-minded father; and finally, my dear Audley, it has enabled her [...] ⯑accompliſh that converſion which has been it much the object of your friendly deſires. Her [...] far the bodily anguiſh, the ſhame, and the diſ⯑guſt, which I have felt in reflecting on ſome re⯑cent occurrences, may have contributed to this event, I will not attempt to examine. ‘A Fever argues better than a Clarke,’ is a ſenſible and ſpirited line of Young's, that you quoted to me, I remember, in expreſſing a hope that you might one day ſee our dear [...] ⯑mund alſo converted; a fraternal hope, which, i [...] muſt tell you, my good Audley, is even now as the point of being fulfilled, and which, if it is as I believe my deſtiny to die ſoon, I moſt ſin⯑cerely pray that my death may complete. F [...] my own part, at the earneſt requeſt of our an⯑gelic Giuliana, I have devoted the daily leiſure of an invalid, to hear and meditate on the Goſ⯑pel. It has been very aſſiduouſly preached to me by this lovely and eloquent preacher, whoſe owe life affords ſo ſtrong an argument in its f [...] ⯑vour; it has entered into my heart and ſoul by liſtening deliberately to the New Teſtament, I am indeed completely perſuaded that Chriſt [...] the true Ambaſſador of God! I require no other c [...]edentials than his own affecting hiſtory, with the marvellous power of his precepts, to militate againſt every evil by which human nature our be aſſailed, and to counteract all the agents [...] darkneſs. After a cool and cand [...]d, though brief compariſon of Philoſophy and Revelation, I f [...]l moſt ſtrongly impreſſed with the idea that [199] no being could have delivered a ſyſtem of in⯑ſtruction ſo perfectly adapted as the Goſpel is to all the weakneſſes and wants of man, except a perſonage inſpired and commiſſioned by his Cre⯑ator. If I examine the conduct of individuals, or of communities, I perceive that every abuſe of Chriſtianity, every deviation from its prima⯑ry precepts, is attended either by miſery or peril. If I ſearch into my own boſom, I find the fulleſt internal proof that Chriſtianity alone (as you, my dear Audley, once ſaid with ſo much kind⯑neſs and truth) can ſupply me with a proper cor⯑rective for the conſtitutional impetuoſity of my ſpirit, and an antidote to the poiſon of my own preſumptuous and deluſive imaginations. I am not afraid of tiring you on this ſubject, becauſe I know all the warmth and all the tenderneſs of your friendly zeal. As I have formerly given you much pain by uttering the prouder ſenti⯑ments of my miſguided ſpirit, I am the more ſolicitous to ſhew you at preſent how truly I ſtand corrected; though, alas! for our tempo⯑ral happineſs this correction is come too late. Ah! my dear Audley, muſt I give you ſo hard a proof of the ſtrength and ſincerity of my new faith, as to reſign without a murmur that ineſ⯑timable bleſſing, which you, in exhorting me to ſubdue my incredulous pride, ſo generouſly propoſed to me as an incentive and a reward? Muſt I expire without a benediction from that offended angel Cornelia? without expreſſing to her with my own lips the perfect homage of my corrected heart? and without receiving from hers a ſingle, tender kiſs of reconcilement, peace, and pardon?

[200]Perhaps it is better that I cannot be indulged in ſo fond an inclination; perhaps it is ordain⯑ed ſo by that God of Mercy whom I acknow⯑ledge and obey, in compaſſion to that dear and deep ſufferer: ſhaken as her health has been by the barbarity of my frantic love, ſhe could not now ſupport the anguiſh of ſuch a perſonal adieu.—No, my divine Cornelia, I will not wiſh to ſoften even the pangs of death by an in⯑dulgence that might prove ſo injurious to thy lovely frame.—Let me rather ſtrive to emulate thy perfection, and make the fondeſt emotion of my heart ſubmit with reſignation to the will of that God to whom thou haſt adhered with a tenderneſs, truth, and fortitude, ſo angelic. Oh! thou moſt exquiſite of women! my proud ſpirit, which once inſulted thee ſo cruelly, now does thee full juſtice. Thy triumph is complete —my heart at this moment idolizes thee more than ever, and at the ſame time I revere thee in my ſoul. Thy ſiſter-angel Giuliana yields the palm to thee; that generous admirer of thy excellence, if I commend her as a ſtriking ex⯑ample of religious virtue, will hardly allow that ſhe has any merit compared to my Corne⯑lia. "I have done nothing, ſhe ſays, which I did not learn to do from the man I adored; and perhaps his pure ſpirit has miniſtered to my ſup⯑port. If I attached myſelf to God, it was in the hope and the conviction that He would lead me to my love.—How different, how ſuperior, is the heavenly perfection of your Cornelia, who, in a trial the moſt excruciating that could be deviſed for a boſom ſo tender, tore herſelf from the idol of her heart, and adhered to Hea⯑ven!"—Such is the affectionate applauſe that [201] our lovely foreigner beſtows on the unſeen Cor⯑nelia! How would ſhe ſpeak of her, were ſhe as thoroughly acquainted with the enchanting graces of her perſon, as with the purity of her conduct!—To you, my dear Audley, who know it ſo well, it ſeems ſuperfluous to ſpeak of my Cornelia's perfection; but it is the para⯑mount ſubject of my thoughts; and as I am writing to you moſt probably for the laſt time, I reſtrain not my pen, but pour out every idea as it ariſes in my mind—it is time however, both for your ſake and my own, to cloſe this long letter.—Farewell, my indulgent, my generous friend: if it prove my lot, as I am more and more perſuaded it muſt, never to claſp again your benevolent hand, let me live in your re⯑membrance! Think of me, I need not ſay kindly, for kindneſs is the characteriſtic both of your temper and your religion!—Let me intreat you, though I feel indeed that ſuch a requeſt is unn [...]ceſſary (yet, to relieve my own heart, let me entreat you) to break by all your gentle and friendly addreſs the ſhock of my unexpected death to Cornelia. I know, pure angel as ſhe is, I know that I am very dear to her; and even now, while my life is rapidly vaniſhing away, I feel a delicious pride in that know⯑ledge, which, however ſhort my exiſtence may be, I would not relinguiſh for the world. I am aware that her affection for me muſt produce on this occaſion no trifling anguiſh in her tender boſom; but that anguiſh will be blended with more permanent delight, the delight of reflect⯑ing on our mutual love, not only without thoſe cruel pangs of terror and remorſe which have hitherto attended ſuch reflection, but with [202] hopes as firm as the veracity of Heaven, in whoſe beatitude I am confident we ſhall finally be united. I will employ my laſt hour on earth, if I have ſtrength to do ſo, in bidding her farewell.—If I have not, you, my dear Aud⯑ley, will remember my intention, and ſooth her ſorrow for me, by every teſtimony of my love —you, my friend, will be a better guardian than I could have been to her two charming boys. Let not the brave little heart of the heroic William forget me utterly; but recall me now and then, I beſeech you, to his tender recollec⯑tion. What exquiſite delight I might have had in training this noble-minded child into that en⯑gaging, accompliſhed, manly character, which I truſt, for his own and his lovely parents ſake, he is deſtined to form; but I have not indeed deſerved ſuch delight. The juſtice, and I ſhould ſay, perhaps, the wiſdom of Providence aſſigns me a very different fate. Yet I feel for this dear, intereſting boy; who will have all the quick ſenſibility of his mother, with all the fire of his own ſex; I feel for him at this moment the moſt poignant parental ſolic [...]tude. I am for⯑cibly ſtruck by an idea that it is poſſible for me to prove a very uſeful monitor to him long after I ſhall have ceaſed to exiſt, if I had yet ſtrength enough to execute a deſign I have conceived. But, alas! my dear Audley! the ſhades of death are even now gathering round me—the pen drops from my hand; a faintneſs like diſſo⯑lution itſelf begins to ſteal upon my ſenſes—it is but tranſient—it comes—it goes—it returns— O! my dear friends! and dearer than every friend, my Cornelia! my heart is not yet chill⯑ed; it ſtill embraces you with its native impaſ⯑ſioned [203] ardour, and ſtruggles againſt this death-like langor, that it may beſtow upon you all the fervent benediction of

LETTER XXXII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

ALAS! my dear Charles, what heart-rend⯑ing ſcenes have I had to ſuſtain! but they are paſſed. We have loſt that enchanting friend whoſe heart I verily believe was the warmeſt and moſt generous that God ever beſtowed upon a mere mortal.—Our beloved Seymour expired yeſterday evening. Giuliana and myſelf had the grievous, yet delightful office, of catching his lateſt ſigh. He died with his head reſting on her boſom, and his hand claſped in mine.— No human eye ever beheld a more affecting or [204] more enviable death; it was indeed the death of a true Chriſtian, and ſuch as might induce the moſt callous Infidel to renounce his Infideli⯑ty, and exclaim in a devout triumph,

He had in a moſt ſingular degree what he had particularly prayed for the full poſſeſſion of his faculties to his laſt moment; indeed they were rather brightened than impaired.— I do not remember to have read of any perſon except the French Chancellor Seguier, whoſe intellectual powers appeared with ſuch lumi⯑nous vigour in the cloſing hours of life. All the engaging peculiarities of our dear Seymour attended him to the laſt. His generoſity, his courage, his imagination, were never more con⯑ſpicuous than on the day of his deceaſe — Through the whole courſe of his malady, he discovered a perfect exemption from that very common and pitiable ſelfiſhneſs, which is ſo apt, even in noble characters, to ſpring up with diſ⯑eaſe, and contaminate the cloſing ſcene of ma⯑ny honourable lives. So far from feeling the timidity of an invalid, and being anxious to ſpare himſelf, he conſiderably encreaſed his bo⯑dily ſufferings, and accelerated perhaps, in ſome degree, his laſt moment, by his repeated exer⯑tions in writing, from which we found it impoſ⯑ſible to reſtrain him. His long reply to your kind letter he intended to diſpatch to you im⯑mediately; but after he had ſealed it, he chang⯑ed his mind, and begged me to encloſe it with a ſhort billet (which he hoped, he ſaid, to write [205] to Cornelia,) in the firſt packet that I ſhould ſend you upon his death; beſides theſe letters, he has written others which affected him very much, but he took particular pains that I might not know to whom they are addreſſed; a re⯑ſerve which ſurprizes me the more, becauſe he has fully talked to me on the diſpoſition of all his extenſive property, and appointed me his executor. He inſiſted on writing his own will, which is by no means a ſhort one; and it was indeed to the dear invalid a work of conſidera⯑ble labour and pain. He has fully diſplayed in it all the tenderneſs and magnanimity of his corrected ſpirit. I am perſuaded that he has not omitted a ſingle perſon who had any claim, however inconſiderable, to his remembrance; at preſent, however, I will only mention to you a few of his bequeſts.—After giving his landed and patrimonial eſtate to his nameſake and legal heir, with expreſſions of regard and eſteem, he diſpoſes of his perſonal effects, which are various and valuable. To Cornelia he gives only a picture of himſelf, and the watch he wore; but he aſſigns a conſiderable ſum, from which he requeſts her to take annually an hundred pounds on the birthday of her eldeſt ſon, and beſtow this ſum, or more if ſhe thinks proper, as a mar⯑riage portion on the moſt meritorious humble pair within the wide circle of her patronage. To her eldeſt ſon he bequeaths a caſket of jewels, which he has ſealed up himſelf, and which is not to be opened till the period fixed for its de⯑livery, the day when young Sedley ſhall be of age, a day which the teſtator deſires me and Lu⯑cy, if we are alive, to aſſiſt in celebrating at Sedley-Hall. I believe this legacy is of very [206] ſingular value. Moſt of theſe rare gems belong⯑ed to the mother of our friend; and as he va⯑lued them more for her ſake than for their own coſtly charms, he has ever kept them within his reach; and in his hours of tender regret for her untimely loſs, I have ſeen him kiſs her fa⯑vourite ornament of intermingled emeralds and diamonds with as much fond devotion as a Ca⯑tholic would beſtow on the reliques of a Saint. To balance this bequeſt to the elder Sedley, he has given his excellent library to the younger boy. To y [...]u, my dear Charles, he has given the choice of three pictures; to honeſt Danvers, a thouſand pounds; to the Monſons, two.— But I cannot bear to talk any longer on this ſub⯑ject, and thus to repeat his whole teſtament with the apathy of a Jew by items; yet I muſt mention one memorial of his truly Chriſtian forgiveneſs. He has bequeathed a ring with a ruby of conſiderable value to Dr. Ayton; and with an expreſſion borrowed from his favourite Sterne, he bequeaths it as a peace-offering to a true and conſcientious miniſter of God, from a man who once thought and ſpoke of him with injurious aſperity. Surely no man ever quitted the world with a greater degree either of be⯑nignity or of courage. Theſe indeed were his two primary characteriſtics; and he diſplayed them to the laſt, with the moſt affecting frank⯑neſs, but without a particle of oſtentation.— When the angelic Giuliana expreſſed to him her comfort in beholding him ſo ſingularly free from the fear of death; "O! my good angel, he re⯑plied, though I leave in this world what the hu⯑man heart may be allowed to regret, yet ſurely [...]n the next I can have nothing to fear: I have [297] done, I acknowledge, ſome fooliſh and ſome wicked things; but I truſt they are fully expi⯑ated by my ſincere contrition, and perfect re⯑ſignation to the will of the Almighty. Under circumſtances peculiarly trying to a ſpirit ſo af⯑fectionate as mine, perhaps, my dear Giuliana, I could not meet Death ſo compoſedly as you now ſee me ſinking into his arms, if I were not impreſſed with an idea that my early departure from the earth, like that of your beloved Peverell, may prove a greater bleſſing to ſome objects of my regard, than my life perhaps might have proved." In uttering theſe words, he caſt a look of inexpreſſible kindneſs upon me—for he alluded to a diſcourſe which had paſſed between us a few days before, and which he had cloſed with this tender and memorable expreſſion. "I exult, my dear Edmund, in the idea that my death will ratify your converſion."—There could indeed be no ſtronger perſuaſive to Chriſ⯑tianity, than the death of ſuch a Chriſtian. Who could refuſe to acknowledge the benefici⯑al influence of Religion, in ſeeing how it had given both ſoftneſs and energy to a ſpirit once ſo impatient of diſcipline and advice—in ſeeing that it taught him, not only to relinquiſh life without murmuring, and juſt at a period when it offered him the very object of his impaſſioned idolatry, but to chear his mind with a perſuaſi⯑on that his death might prove religiouſly bene⯑ficial to thoſe whom he loved?—About two hours before he expired, he threw his arms round Giuliana and me, as he reſted between us, and exclaimed with a moſt pathetic fervency of ſpi⯑rit, "Oh, God! let me not prove a ſource of injurious grief and anguiſh to theſe dear friends. [208] —No, I beſeech thee, make me, both living and dead, make me only an inſtrument of good to all the objects of my affection!"—Nothing has comforted him ſo much as the idea that his death may be ultimately more a bleſſing than a mis⯑fortune to Cornelia. In this idea, which he firſt conceived in remarking the angelic ſtate of mind ſo viſible and ſtriking in Giuliana, he has been encouraged by that good angel, ever ſince ſhe found that there was no chance of his re⯑covery, and that it almoſt offended him to ſup⯑poſe he could recover. It is impoſſible to de⯑ſcribe to you all her infinite attention and kind⯑neſs to her dear patient—but I muſt mention the manner in which Seymour ſpoke or it.— As ſhe quitted his room yeſterday morning, he ſaid to me—"How kind, how admirable is Giu⯑liana, never to diſtreſs me by tears! Her ten⯑derneſs towards me is extreme; it ſurpaſſes the tenderneſs of woman; it has all the calm ſubli⯑mity of angelic viſitation! Her love to Peverell has made her the bleſſed being that we admire. Oh, Edmund! there is nothing more ſublime, or perhaps more deſirable in l [...]fe, than affection thus tempered by piety, and ſtrengthened inſtead of being impaired by the unexpected removal of its idol from earth to Heaven. Let me but per⯑ſuade myſelf that I ſhall prove in dying as much a ſource of good to my Cornelia, as Peverell has proved to Giuliana; and under that perſua⯑ſion I can moſt thankfully embrace my fate! It is poſſible that I may be ſo yet more than Peve⯑rell! Oh, Edmund!"—Here he ſeemed in⯑clined to impart to me ſomething that he thought of moment: but he repreſſed himſelf; and one of his frequent fits of extreme langor coming [209] on, he did not reſume again the ſubject, what⯑ever it was, that I thought him preparing to communicate.

I grieve to add another piece of painful intel⯑ligence to this melancholy letter. The good old Seignor is confined by illneſs to his bed, ſo that Giuliana has had double occaſion for all her ſtrength both of mind and body. Her exertions have been almoſt ſupernatural. I believe her father will recover, but I cannot leave her while he continues ſo ill. I have given orders to ſe⯑cure the dear remains of our departed friend in a leaden coffin; and as ſoon as my worthy old hoſt revives, I ſhall ſet forth on my return with my mournful charge, and perhaps take my paſ⯑ſage in ſome veſſel from hence. At all events I will land at Dover, where I entreat you my dear Charles, to let me find letters waiting for me from you; and do not fail to inform me how our poor Cornelia ſupports this unexpected calamity. Alas! ſhe has not ſo ſtrong a frame as Giuliana; but it is the bleſſed privilege of Religion, to ſupport both the ſtrong and the weak. I am inclined to wiſh that Lucy and my dear little girl could meet me at Dover. Yet, on ſecond thoughts, I cannot bear to expoſe them to many tedious days, perhaps, of diſap⯑pointed expectation at an uncomfortable inn. Let me find, however, ſoothing letters from you all; for I feel that the office of conducting our dear breathleſs friend to that ſhore, where I hoped to ſee him receiving and imparting de⯑light to ſo many that are dear to me, will be a b [...]tter office indeed to the dejected ſpirit of

LETTER XXXIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO CORNELIA. Incloſed in the preceding.

MY ever ardently beloved, though once in⯑ſulted Cornelia! it pleaſes Heaven to chaſtiſe my proud and blind barbarity towards you, by taking me haſtily from the earth juſt when I might render its prime ornament my own. The pride, the fierceneſs, the arrogance, the ingrati⯑tude, the impiety of your miſguided but affecti⯑onate Seymour, are now corrected for ever.— Of all my vehement ſentiments towards you, I retain only thoſe of love and admiration. My admiration and my love were never more in⯑tenſe than in this hour, when I feel my life haſ⯑tening to its end; they will adhere to me to the lateſt moment of my mortal exiſtence, if my memory continues unimpaired; and they will attend me, I am perſuaded, into a bleſſed futu⯑rity. I have written to you more than once within theſe two days, and burnt my letters.— My heart and ſoul tell me they have a million of kind and ſerious things to ſay to you; yet when I attempt to throw any of theſe things on [211] paper they offend me, by being either too weak for my feelings, or too ſtrong for yours. My fluttering ſpirit is divided between the eager de⯑ſire of ſending you a laſt farewell, expreſſing all my encreaſed, improved, enlightened affection for you, and the anxious dread of giving more pain to that infinitely tender boſom which I have barbarouſly tortured already. O! thou moſt lovely moſt ingenuous of women; with what delight ſhould I expiate my paſt offences towards thee, by living only to cheriſh and applaud thy perfection. But Heaven requires a very differ⯑ent, a ſevere expiation: the hand of death is upon me; it tears me from my Cornelia!— I muſt be either leſs or more than man, could I refrain from telling you how I feel in every fi⯑bre of my heart the unutterable anguiſh of ſuch a ſeparation; yet I acknowledge the graciouſ⯑neſs of God, who, in dividing me from an ob⯑ject ſo intenſely dear to me, has called me to himſelf. O Cornelia! this alone could have enabled me to quit thee thus, I cannot ſay with⯑out pain, but I can ſay without a murmur. O Heaven! behold my reſignation, and, if it is meritorious (as I truſt it is), reward it by pour⯑ing the pureſt of thy bleſſings on that juſtly va⯑lued idol of my heart, from whom I depart at thy command. Let me live in her affection, not to afflict, but to ſooth, to animate, to forti⯑fy her mild, gentle ſpirit. Let my fatal errors be made ſources of inſtruction and ſecurity to her beloved children. Oh, my Cornelia! thy precious boys are as dear to me as to thy own maternal heart. I have endeavoured—alas! I have not ſtrength enough to tell you what in time will tell itſelf. I am dying—but I die [212] with my eyes perfectly opened to the mercies of my God, and to all the rare merit of my in⯑ſulted and idolized Cornelia, the moſt lovely of his works, as well as the moſt faithful of his votaries. Oh! Cornelia, I am dying; but in death I feel a pride (it is a pardonable pride) in your affection; you have loved me, you will continue to love me; and that angelic attach⯑ment, though ſaddened by grief, yet now un⯑troubled by terror of ſelf-reproach, will be dear⯑er and more delicious to your heavenly ſpirit, than all the gay vanities of the world. O Cor⯑nelia! what a proud heart have I had, ſince I can diſcover pride (but, I thank Heaven, it is a purified ſort of pride) blending itſelf even in theſe moments with my love, and with my religion! I bow to the will of God; I feel that I am going to his preſence; my ſoul is not ter⯑rified, but impreſſed with ſentiments for which I have no language. I feel only that I am go⯑ing to appear before Him who created, and who will ſupport my Cornelia, as he has ſupported her ſiſter angel Giuliana, juſt ſeated by my ſide, and uniting at my requeſt her tender benedicti⯑on to this adieu! O ye two lovely and bleſſed ſpirits! ſiſters in affliction, in tenderneſs, in purity, reflect only on the obligations which I acknowledge to you both! Ye have been the miniſters of grace, who have opened to me the gates of that Heaven for which I am departing. While you continue pilgrims of the earth, pray cultivate your friendship for each other, and re⯑member that I bid you farewell in the firmeſt confidence that we ſhall be eternally united in the beatitude which is promiſed to us by Him whom you have taught me to revere! Farewell, [213] thou idol of my heart, whom I can only behold in idea! Yet ſo ſtrongly art thou preſent to my affection, that I ſeem to claſp thy hand at this moment. Oh, Cornelia! let me indulge this fond illuſion, and ſeem to pour into thy ten⯑der boſom the laſt affectionate ſigh of thy ex⯑piring

LETTER XXXIV. FROM GIULIANA TO CORNELIA. Incloſed alſo in Edmund's Letter with the pre⯑ceding.

I MUST tell you in few ſad words that my ſenſe of what your poor gentle heart has now to ſuffer, makes all my old wounds to bleed a⯑freſh. We are veritably ſiſters in affliction, as our dear dying Seymour has ſaid; but the good [214] God who ſupported unworthy me ſo graciouſly, will not fail to ſupport my pure gentle ſiſter, who has title ſo much better than I to protection from Heaven. O, how the good God ſhewed his goodneſs in making obedient and truly Chriſ⯑tian the high and long-rebel ſpirit of our dear friend! How did I wiſh to die as he died, in his place; that might have made us all happy; but our Almighty good governor knows what is beſt for us, better than we know; and, my dear ſick father ſtill wants his poor child upon earth; if it pleaſe God to make him well again, we will come to dear England, and I will tell my ſweet gentle ſiſter in affliction much more than my troubled mind can now write. I will come and ſooth her bleeding heart, by telling her what thouſand things her dear dying Seymour ſaid, and all ſo divinely juſt and kind, of his beloved Cornelia. I will come and talk and weep with you, my dear ſiſter-mourner, day after day; but at preſent I can only repeat, May the good God ſupport and conſole you! I know you will kindly receive this brief cordial prayer from

LETTER XXXV. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

PREPARED as I was, my dear Edmund, for the grievous event which your laſt kind letter imparts to me, it has afflicted me ſo deeply as to ſhake even my health. What a bitter iſſue to all our friendly hopes and projects! But we muſt not murmur; and it would be particular⯑ly wrong to do ſo, when the Almighty and All⯑wiſe Diſpoſer of events is ſo gracious as to min⯑gle conſolation with our diſtreſs. However wrong and miſguided the life of our enchanting friend may have been, he has died the death of the righteous; and we ought not, perhaps, to mourn ſo deeply for him on earth, when there is joy over him in Heaven: but it is impoſſible not to feel extreme pain in the loſs of a being whoſe qualities were ſo delightfully engaging. For my own part, I muſt confeſs, his pathetic farewell to me has made ſuch an impreſſion upon me, that my nerves are become almoſt as tremu⯑lous as thoſe of our poor Cornelia, who is, I will not ſay afflicted, but Affliction itſelf. I never beheld ſorrow more poignant, or indulged with more avidity. She ſays, "the anguiſh of [216] heart that ſhe endures on this occaſion is a very juſt puniſhment for her having thought ſo inhu⯑manly that his death would be no misfortune." But I am forgetting, my dear Edmund, that at the time you will open this letter, which I diſ⯑patch to wait for you at the port appointed, you will be able to procure ſpeedy, and I hope better intelligence of us all, from thoſe who are as ea⯑ger to fly into your arms in the hour of your landing, as you can be to embrace them. I have a moſt fortunate opportunity of gratifying your wiſh in this article; an obliging friend has juſt offered me the uſe of his vacant and com⯑modious apartments in Dover-Caſtle, upon my accidentally mentioning your wiſh. Lucy and her dear little charge are preparing to ſet forth from hence, and are as happy as our preſent ſtate of general mourning will allow them to be, in the idea of waiting in the comfortable quar⯑ters that I have accepted for them, to receive you in the hour of your arrival. I will not de⯑tain you from their embraces, by adding more to this letter, except a requeſt: that, as ſoon as you have diſcharged your laſt duties to our dear departed friend, you will bring both our ſiſter and the dear little Fanny back again to this houſe; where Affliction, my dear Edmund, longs to fate itſelf on all the many mournful things you have to tell us minutely, where eve⯑ry perſon is wiſhing to ſee you arrive, and none more heartily than

LETTER XXXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

I WILL write only to my moſt afflicted friend; and I ſhould be a valuable comforter indeed, if my powers of ſoothing her ſorrow we [...]e equal to the influence that ſhe has upon my thoughts. Abſorbed as you are in grief, it will, I know, ſtill pleaſe you to hear, that I and my dear little companion are ſafely arrived, and ſafely lodged in our Caſtle. Our accommo⯑dations are ſo good, our proſpect of the town below us, and of the calm quiet ſea beyond it, is ſo ſoothing to my mind in its preſent penſive and melancholy ſtate, that I almoſt repent of having oppoſed my dear Cornelia's idea of at⯑tending us; yet it is ſurely better for you, my dear ſuffering friend, to remain in the more ſoothing ſolitude which you may command at Audley Grove, with the additional advantage of comforters ſo tender and ſympathetic as Har⯑riot and my brother. For Heaven's ſake, let me ſpeedily have the ſatisfaction of being aſſured, by your own hand, that you are a little revived! —that your pure, noble, and truly angelic ſpi⯑rit begins to triumph over that deplorable de⯑preſſion [218] which ſeemed to rob you of more than half your exiſtence! Conſider, my incompara⯑ble friend, what duties, what delightful duties, you have long to fulfil on earth! Where can we behold a mother who has a fairer proſpect of pa⯑rental gratification, not only from the extreme lovelineſs of her children, but from the honeſt praiſe which all who love her beſtow on the ſu⯑perlative merit of her maternal conduct? To quarrel with this merit as a ſource of our preſent bitter affliction, muſt be not only extreme in⯑juſtice to yourſelf, but no leſs ingratitude to God, who even in afflicting us, as the kind Audley obſerved to you, has granted the firſt object of all our prayers.—Recollect, my dear Cornelia, a noble, affectionate, angelic ſentiment of your own, that you once uttered to Harriot. You told her, and I am ſure it was with ſincerity you told her, "that you would gladly renounce all expectations, and every wiſh, of ſeeing Seymour again in this world, if ſome kind angel would give you an aſſurance of meeting him in heaven." We have now this blessed aſſurance—our ſpirits devoutly embrace it as heavenly conſolation; but, alas! our hearts have ſtill of much of hu⯑man weakneſs about them, that they ache with ſelfiſh agony, even while we are ſtriving to con⯑template only the beatitude of the beloved friend we have loſt—Out upon the vanity of conſola⯑tory diſcourſe, it is not worth a ruſh! I am a conſiſtent creature indeed, to exhort you not to grieve ſo intenſely, when my own heart at this moment is burſting with grief, and tears guſh up⯑on my paper. Time only, co-operating with Re⯑ligion, can do us eſſential good, under a loſs ſo grievous and unexpected. Write to me, my [219] dear friend, I entreat you, as ſoon as you have even the ſlighteſt perception of their lenient ef⯑fect; and believe me, with the kindeſt wiſhes to you and all with you,

LETTER XXXVII. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

[...]OU are very good, my deareſt Lucy, to [...]w ſuch kind attention to the poor half diſtract⯑ [...] and half ſtupified creature who has but too [...]ch occaſion, as Heaven knows, for all the [...]dneſs of her friends, to raiſe and awaken her [...] juſter ſenſe of her duty; but, frank and [...]ere ſoul as you are, how can you flatter me [...] ſuch unmerited, and therefore ſuch cruel [...]ſe! — O! thou dear and compaſſionate con⯑ [...]nt of my moſt ſecret thoughts and ſufferings, had truly ſo much virtue as your partiality [...]i [...]es, why does it not comfort and ſupport [...]ow? why do I feel as if this terrible ſtroke [220] of Providence had plunged me in a ſtate fa [...] worſe than annihilation, as if it had left me on⯑ly a withered and waſted ſpirit, which ſeems to have no faculty but that of ſeeing and lamenting its own miſery and unworthineſs? You talk to me of maternal delight; but, alas! my good girl, what delight can I take as a mother, when in looking on my children, my own miſerable ſenſations ſuggeſt to me that it would have been better, both for me and for them perhaps, i [...] ſuch a wretch as I am had never been born—O God! pardon me, I beſeech thee, for theſe un⯑r [...]ghteous murmurs of a wounded heart, that break from it perforce. I confeſs their iniqu [...]t [...] I abhor their ingratitude. I acknowledge, I am thankful for thy mercy, which, in taking ſo ſuddenly from the earth the dear object of my hapleſs affection, has called him into thy pre⯑ſence, where I alſo, if I can but ſuſtain this bet⯑ter trial as I am bound to do—O! gracious God look with pity on my diſtreſs and terror; [...]t not the ſubtle enemy of ſouls take ſuch advan⯑tage of my extreme weakneſs, as to darken and debaſe my ſpirit with ſuch black and rebelliou [...] thoughts as may render me blind to thy good⯑neſs, and unworthy of thy protection!

Oh, Lucy! I have been forced to lay down [...]y pen, and ſeek, what I thank heaven I have not ſought in vain,, ſome immediate relief from the indulgence of tears, and continued ferven⯑cy of prayer—my boſom is lighter than it wa [...] and my ſpirits are more compoſed. I am g [...] I followed your advice (which you gave me kind as it was, with reluctance) in remainin [...] here; for I am ſo deplorably weak in body, a [...] ſtill more ſo in mind, that I ſhould have prov [...] [221] a ſad burthen to you and the dear little feeling Frances, who has ſhewn for me a ſolicitude ſo uncommon, and ſo peculiarly affecting, at her tender age. Indeed I am hardly fit to converſe with any human being except our incomparable Audley, who, ſince I wrote the firſt part of this letter, has talked to me for a conſiderable time, and with an art that belongs to himſelf, has been indulgently trying to turn even my weak⯑neſſes to my advantage. "Pray conſider, ſaid this invaluable friend, pray conſider, my dear dejected Cornelia, if you find it ſo difficult to bear the ſeverity of a wiſe and merciful God, how could you have ſupported ſuch agony of heart as in your ſituation there was a great chance of your having inflicted upon you by the common barbarity of man? Suppoſe our dear miſguided Seymour, whom the indulgence of Heaven has taken to itſelf ſuppoſe he had purſued the uſual courſe of young men; ſup⯑poſe he had brought a miſtreſs or a wife to this country, and in the cruel pride of mortified af⯑fection had inſulted you with an oſtentation of felicity; ſuch events are by no means rare in human life. I have ſeen ſome women ſupport ſuch a teſt of their fortitude, but not under cir⯑cumſtances ſo peculiarly painful. You ſtill ima⯑gine, my generous Cornelia, as you ſaid, I re⯑member, on the day when I imparted to you our moſt afflicting loſs, that, if you could but reſtore him to life with all the happy luſtre of his enlightened mind, you would chearfully ſubmit to the anguiſh of ſeeing him united to another. Ah! my gentle friend, this idea is but the tranſient illuſive heroiſm of ſudden and immoderate grief, which, like all the vehement [222] paſſions, gives a brief energy to our ſentiment that nature is unable to ſuſtain. Truſt me, I know you better than you know yourſelf; and I am convinced, by many remarks which I have occaſionally made on your very tender and a⯑cute feelings, that, if the ſuppoſed event had happened, you would have loſt either your life or your ſenſes; and our beloved friend, inſtead of being, as he now is, a triumphant angel in Heaven, would have been tortured himſelf by theſe barbarous effects of his precipitate and vindictive love." "O, my good Audley! I replied, by ſhewing me how weak I am on every ſide, you will lead me, I hope, to the Almighty Source of all ſtrength; you will teach me how to acquire, what I grievouſly want, a more cor⯑dial obedience, and a more fervent and faithful devotion to God. How criminal muſt I be if I fail to acquire this, when my beloved Seymour has ſet me ſuch a bleſſed example of reſignati⯑on! But I ſhall acquire it by degrees. The di⯑vine ſpirit which breathes in every line of the precious letter addreſſed to me by the dear ex⯑piring convert, now begins to ſooth and to re⯑animate my heart, as I know that moſt affecti⯑onate of human beings intended it ſhould do. You ſaw, my dear Lucy, how dreadfully weak I was in receiving it; how, inſtead of conſoling me, it convulſed my whole frame. But this dear, this invaluable letter begins to operate as the ſofteſt balm to my wounded ſpirits. I read it conſtantly at ſtated periods of every day, and then lay it on my heart, after the example of poor Caroline; this excellent creature has hard⯑ly ſuffered leſs than myſelf, on the loſs of her generous protector, though our feelings are ſo [223] different. She almoſt made me ſmile juſt now, by a little circumſtance that marked her attach⯑ment to him; and to relieve you a little, my dear friend, from the mournful gloom of what I have written, I muſt attempt to relate it to you. As I paſſed the parlour door, where the Mon⯑ſons happened to be with a friend who had call⯑ed here to ſee them, I heard the voice of Caro⯑line very loud, and with a tone of indignation very foreign to her nature. I clearly diſtinguiſh⯑ed the words—"No! good as ſhe is, I ſhall hate her if ſhe ever loves another man as long as ſhe exiſts!" As ſoon as I ſaw Caroline alone, I queſtioned her concerning the expreſſion which I had accidentally overheard; and, with her native frankneſs, ſhe declared it related to me, and had been drawn from her by a very fooliſh and ill-timed jeſt of their viſitor on the probable duration of my grief. You will eaſily believe that my heart was pleaſed with her vindication of its truth. I can indeed ſay, with the honeſt Caroline, that I ſhould hate myſelf were it poſſi⯑ble for me to let Seymour have any ſucceſſor in my affection.—No! my dear Lucy, on that point I know myſelf, and fear not. The dear dying prophet himſelf has told me, that I ſhall continue to love him; and every movement of my heart and ſoul impreſs upon me the convic⯑tion that his prophecy is true.

I have only to implore the Great Searcher of all hearts, to temper and correct the affliction now ariſing from this love; and ſo to blend it with my love for my children, that theſe ar⯑dent affections, no longer oppoſite, but religi⯑ouſly united, may form all together the ruling poſſion of my life. This, my dear friend, is [224] my hope, my belief, my prayer, concerning all the future days that Heaven may allot to me up⯑on earth. Your excellent brother comforts me by an aſſurance that time will ſo far reſtore my ſhattered nerves, as to give me the power of being every thing that I wiſh to be to my dear boys. Ah! what feeling ſpirits they will have! I am both afflicted and delighted by the ſenſibility with which my dear William conti⯑nues to ſhew us his remembrance of that belov⯑ed object whom even ſportive infancy cannot forget. God bleſs the ſweet innocent! he has aſked me a thouſand diſtreſſing queſtions ſince you left us, which I can neither bear to anſwer nor to forbid. I have referred the dear affecti⯑onate little enquirer to your brother Edmund, for whoſe arrival we are all panting, whom I both long and dread to ſee. I muſt have much converſation with him, though I feel it will make me much worſe than I am at preſent, yet finally I hope better. Would to Heaven we could ſee Giuliana at the ſame time! but this I muſt not expect. Farewell, my dear friend. Did you think the weak creature you left, could have written you ſo long a letter? But my ſtrength has ſeemed to encreaſe with the idea that you would eſtimate my regard for you by my exertions to converſe with you in this bitter ſeaſon of my debility and diſtreſs—Heaven bleſs you and your dear little companion!—Do not fail to pray for

LETTER XXXVIII. FROM LUCY TO MR. AUDLEY.

AT length, my dear brother, the long and mournful expected veſſel, freighted with death and with affliction, is arrived. The dear re⯑mains of our hapleſs enchanting friend are ſafe on his native ſhore; and our beloved Edmund, who looks I think more than half dead himſelf, though he aſſures me his health is much better than it was has deſired me to inform you of his arrival. He is himſelf engaged in ſettling the neceſſary arrangements for the funeral; and I muſt tell you, that we are both as much pleaſed as we can be at ſuch a time by the very flatter⯑ing marks of attention, eſteem, and reſpect, which Edmund has found here, on his landing, from the relation of our loſt friend. Every pre⯑caution has been taken to render my brother's mournful office as little troubleſome as poſſible. All things have been kept in readineſs here, to conduct the funeral proceſſion from hence in any manner that Edmund may direct; and the libe⯑ral heir of our dear Seymour is waiting at his ſeat to receive my brother, who had announced to him his intention of attending the remains of the dear deceaſed to the vault of the family at Seymour Park. Edmund finds that, without [226] driving indecently faſt, he can reach the ſpot in two days and a half, by croſſing the country; and as he thinks a ſcene of this ſolemn nature may make a uſeful impreſſion on a young mind, he has determined to take little Frances and me with him in one of the mourning-coaches. The fourth ſeat in this carriage is to be occupied by a perſon whoſe preſence at this juncture affords me more pleaſure than I thought myſelf capable of receiving. And now, my dear Charles, can you tell whom I mean? No, I think you can⯑not! Our beloved Seymour ſeems to retain, even in his coffin, the enchanting power of ſur⯑priſing and delighting thoſe who love him by new inſtances of tenderneſs and munificence. This unexpected and welcome perſon is the old and venerable Danvers, who has a heart ſo o⯑verflowing with grief and gratitude, that he is to me at this ſeaſon one of the moſt intereſting companions that I could poſſibly have met with, eſpecially as the occaſion of his joining our par⯑ty does ſo much honour to the heart of the dear friend we lament. As ſoon as our beloved Sey⯑mour found there was a probability of his death, he wrote to his couſin, whom he has ever treat⯑ed as a friend, and who, as he really wanted no increaſe of fortune, is, I believe, ſincerely ſorry to gain it by ſuch a loſs. Among a few private requeſts which our Seymour made to his name⯑ſake in caſe of his early death, was the follow⯑ing, "that whenever the old and infirm in⯑cumbent ſhould drop, the living which belong⯑ed to the proprietor of Seymour Park ſhould be given to Danvers." It ſo happened that this aged miniſter died very lately at Bath, while the [227] preſent Mr. Seymour was reſiding there, who immediately wrote to Danvers, to acquaint him, with his couſin's intention in his favour. As Danvers, though old, is full of activity and gra⯑titude, he went to return his perſonal thanks for a letter which filled him both with joy and anxie⯑ty, as it mentioned the illneſs of his diſtant and conſiderate patron. He was actually converſing with Mr. Seymour in the moment when that gentleman received Edmund's letter, announc⯑ing the death of our dear generous friend. Judge, my dear Charles, what the good warm-hearted old man's ſenſations muſt have been at that time: he ſays the death of one of his own children did not affect him more; and in truth I believe him. Before he quitted Bath, he entreated permiſſion that he might wait to receive the body at Dover, eſcort it to the grave, and preach a funeral ſer⯑mon on the occaſion. It ſeems the good old man has a little tincture of profeſſional vanity; and in this particular and now almoſt neglected of⯑fice of a Divine he has long taken a very par⯑donable pride; but he is this moment come in, not only to cut ſhort the little ſketch I was about to give you of his character, but to tell me I muſt inſtantly prepare for our mournful proceſ⯑ſion.—God bleſs you all! I can only ſay to our dear Cornelia and Harriot, that I conſider this letter addreſſed to them as well as to you. I en⯑treat you all to ſuppoſe that I have ſaid every thing kind to you for myſelf, Edmund, and Frances. Once more, God bleſs you all! I will certainly write again from Seymour Park, [...]f the affecting ceremony I am to go through [228] does not overwhelm and ſuſpend all the poor fa⯑culties of

LETTER XXXIX. FROM LUCY TO CORNELIA.

OUR diſtreſſing duties are done. The dear remains of that enchanting friend, who ſtill holds his empire over the affections of us all, have been depoſited, with the moſt aweful ſo⯑lemnity and univerſal ſorrow, by the ſide of his departed parents. O! my very dear Cornelia, though once I confeſs I wiſhed to have you with me, I am truly glad that we oppoſed your ſtrong deſire to be preſent at a ſcene whic [...] I am now convinced by my own experience you would have been utterly unable to ſupport. I, you know, have ten times your preſent bodily ſtrength; and my feelings for the dear deceaſed are certainly not ſo exquiſitely painful as yours; [229] yet, I proteſt to you, the ſadneſs of the ſpectacle was too much for me, and it was with the ut⯑moſt difficulty that I continued during the whole ceremony in the church.—All the numerous dependants and rural neigh⯑bours of our univerſally idolized Seymour were aſſembled; the face of genuine ſorrow was ſo multiplied, that wherever I turned my eyes ſome viſage ſtruck me which reflected back upon me with new force the powerful anguiſh of my own heart. There were many infirm perſons in the congregation, who owed their ſubſiſtence to the bounty of the dead. Never ſurely was any man ſo young diſtinguiſhed by charity ſo extenſive and conſiderate. The good Danvers did noble juſtice to his virtues, and without varniſhing his foibles. This worthy preacher has in truth the rare talent in which, as I told my brother Charles in my laſt letter, he has long indulged a very innocent pride. In our journey hither, he ſpent more than half of each night that we paſſed on the road in compoſing alterati⯑ons and additions to his occaſional ſermon; and I queſtion, my dear Cornelia, if your favourite Maſſillon himſelf ever made an audience weep more by a funeral diſcourſe: moſt aſſuredly he never delivered one that came more immediate⯑ly from the heart. This excellent old man was indeed ſo thoroughly affected himſelf, that at laſt his feelings became too ſtrong for his powers, and this very circumſtance increaſed not a little the pathetic effects of his eloquence. As he drew towards the end of his di [...]courſe, while all were weeping or ſobbing around him, he caught the infection ſo ſtrongly, that his voice began to fail —he pauſed—he wept—he attempted to pro⯑ceed [230] —his utterance was [...]im [...]e [...]f [...]—he pauſed again, and gave vent to h [...]s te [...]rs—he tried again to conclude—he could not articulate more than half a ſentence.—he h [...]d his face—but af⯑ter the pauſe of a few minutes he cloſed his book with an air of religious triumph, and ſaid aloud. ‘O! my friends and brethren, you want not more words from my faultering voice! —The virtues of the dead are ſpeaking more forcibly in your hearts; let me only requeſt you to remember that the moſt grateful honour which any of us can pay to the ſpirit of a good man made perfect is to imitate to the utmoſt of our ability his benevolence and goodneſs. May the gracious God, who has called our departed example to his heavenly reward, give us grace and power to perſiſt in that purer and more perfect tribute to his me⯑mory; ſo that all of us who are now mourn⯑ing for our generous friend and benefactor, by being fond and faithful copies of his Chriſ⯑tian merit upon earth, may finally be his aſ⯑ſociates in the beatitude which this merit has ſecured to him in Heaven!’

So ended our venerable preacher, whoſe white locks and affecting ſimplicity endeared him to all his audience. Preſſed as I am for time (for the poſt is on the point of departure), I could not help ſending my dear Cornelia the cloſe of a diſcourſe, to which I know her pure and full heart will ſo devoutly add an Amen. As there is a chance that you may ſee us in a few hours after the arrival of this letter, I will only add, that from the amiable new maſter of this noble manſion we have received every ſoothing civili⯑ty. [231] He is, you know, a widower; and his on⯑ly daughter is about the age of Frances, a cir⯑cumſtance that has proved of great uſe to me in managing our dear little feeling child. Ed⯑mund has ſtill ſome buſineſs to adjuſt with our obliging hoſt; but he tells me it will all be finiſh⯑ed early to-morrow. We are equally impatient to fly as faſt at poſſible to the dear mourners at Audley-Grove, and indulge with them at lei⯑ſure in all the quiet luxury of grief.—Accept our united love to all; and believe me ever

LETTER XLVIII. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

IF the name of Moreton is a ſtranger to you, which I am vain enough to think it is not, may [232] I ſtill flatter myſelf that you have a perfect and friendly remembrance of a perſon whom you once called "the pretty madcap of Ireland?" —Mercy on us! what long years have rolled away, a [...]d what cruel events have happened, ſince you beſtowed that flattering affectionate ap⯑pellation on the pelt and flippant Louiſa at Audley-Grove! Alas, dear Audley-Grove! Ah! my dear Madam, what a loſs have we there! —how bitter is it to me in my return to Eng⯑land, after paſſing twelve terrible and trying years in the Eaſt, to miſs relations ſo dear, the moſt benevolent and moſt engaging friends of my you [...]h! I had the conſolation of hearing from my mother, that my beloved aunt Harriot died (according to a wiſh that we have both heard her expreſs) very ſoon after her incompa⯑rable huſband, and that ſhe conſigned to you, my dear Madam, (the long and juſtly valued friend of her boſom!) the care of her dear lit⯑tle Lucy, that ſweet child, who uſed to divert us ſo much by the petty caprices of infantine ſenſibility. How I long to ſee what a lovely girl ſhe is become under a guardian, or rather a ſecond mother, ſo tender and accompliſhed! But is ſhe at preſent under your roof? and may I have the happineſs of finding you both toge⯑ther if I can contrive to reach Sedley-Hall? I am now, they tell me, not above forty miles from you, at the ſeat of Colonel Moreton's fa⯑ther. We have been only five days on ſhore: After paying our duty to the aged parents of my huſband, he has kindly promiſed that we ſhall proceed to viſit my poor infirm mother in Ireland. We are to make London in our way; and it will add not a little to my delight if you will allow me [233] admiſſion at Sedley-Hall, at the end of our firſt day's journey from hence.—I long to preſent to you my noble Colonel and two playful little Eaſtern monkies that make a part of our train. I muſt certainly bluſh as much as a ſallow Aſia⯑tic ſkin will allow me to bluſh, in preſenting to you my ſecond huſband, if you ever read, as doubtleſs you have, the panegyric that I ſent to Audley-Grove on my firſt.—Poor Major Maſ⯑ [...]ey was in truth a glorious character; and I was preparing to return, as you probably heard, to lament him in Europe, when my generous Co⯑lonel, who thought it wrong that ſuch a little ſhatter-brained woman ſhould wander ſo far to find comforters, took on himſelf the kind office of ſoothing my ſorrow, and tempted me to re⯑linquiſh my immediate paſſage to England, for which I had actually engaged.—Now, my ſage Cornelia, you muſt not think the worſe of your Iriſh madcap for this ſpeedy iteration of nupti⯑als, to uſe a ſaucy phraſe of my favourite Con⯑greve; for, to tell you a truth, of which you ſerious ladies in the cool ſalubrious climate of England may not be perfectly aware, a poor European female, who is got into the burning [...]uſtle of the Eaſt, has no time to indulge her⯑ſelf in the ſlow decencies of ſentiment. She muſt ſcramble as well as ſhe can in a ſcene where intereſt rages through all ranks like an epidemical diſeaſe, and where Death is ſo rapid in his viſits that his uſual harbinger Grief has hardly an opportunity of appearing in his ſuite. You ſee, after all my troubles and adventures, I am returned as great a [...]attle as I went.— Alas! my pertneſs is the only article in which you will not find me moſt diſmally altered. As [234] to beauty, of which your partiality once gave me credit for more than I ever poſſeſſed, I have not a particle remaining; the horrid ſuns of In⯑dia have burnt it all to aſhes; ſo pray, my good friend, be thoroughly prepared to ſee the once roſy, light, and capering, Louiſa metamor⯑phoſed into a ſallow, heavy, and waddling goſ⯑ſip, in complexion ſomewhat like a withered leaf, where green and yellow are contending for pre-eminence; in perſon, not very unlike a certain little fat and groteſque Chineſe animal, that uſed to divert the children at Audley-grove. —I can now laugh at myſelf, you find, as I uſed in thoſe days to laugh at every body elſe, not ſparing even our beloved and admirable Cornelia. You know, my dear Madam, that I always piqued myſelf on not having a ſpark of envy in my compoſition; and I am now going to prove to you my perfect exemption from that baſe foible, which the men very impudently and iniquitouſly preſume to be moſt prevalent in our ſex. It is ſurely proved that I have it not, when, after telling you how ſadly I am al⯑tered myſelf, I expreſs the ſincereſt pleaſure in the very different repreſentation that I have re⯑ceived of you.—I have juſt been told by ſome viſitors here, who have the honour of your ac⯑quaintance, that your health is perfectly reco⯑vered from thoſe ſevere ſhocks which it ſuſtain⯑ed from the moſt cruel afflictions at an early pe⯑riod of life; that you are handſomer than ever; and, to uſe the words of a gentleman who ſpoke Of you with a ſpirit for which I was almoſt rea⯑dy to embrace him, that you enjoy a tranquil happineſs and dignity of character very rarely attained by mortals of either ſex. Your ſweet [235] boys, they ſay, are grown two moſt promiſing and delightful young men.—Believe me, my heart exults to find that Providence has reward⯑ed you for all you endured from your tender at⯑tachment to that dear, faſcinating, and cruelly loſt friend of ours, whoſe name I will not allow myſelf to write, as I could not write it without a tear, and I wiſh to ſalute you in this epiſtle as chearfully as I can.—The account I hear of you has indeed made me happy, but at the ſame time it has made me almoſt wild to hear and ſee more. Pray take compaſſion on my affectionate impatience; and as we muſt not move from hence under three weeks at leaſt, have the goodneſs to write me a letter of comfortable length. I have a million of queſtions to aſk, yet will not allow myſelf at preſent to aſk one: remember, however, I beſeech you, that while I was in India all the intelligence I gained of my European friends was miſerably imperfect—ma⯑ny, many letters were loſt that I wrote, and that I ſhould have received. I have ſome rea⯑ſon to believe that no letter of mine ever reach⯑ed your hand, though I really wrote to you at three different times, and once ſent you a little Oriental preſent, but of no great value, which w [...]nt, alas! with an unfortunate friend, who promiſed me to deliver it into your own hand, to the bottom of the ſea. But of all theſe mat⯑ters when we meet. At preſent, I will only add, that my dear Colonel is almoſt as eager to be preſented to you as I am to fly into the arms of my incomparable friend, who is ſtill, I find, the admiration of all her acquaintance, and [236] who formerly uſed to look with endearing indul⯑gence on all the idle flippancy of

LETTER XLIX. FROM CORNELIA TO MRS. MORETON.

WELCOME, moſt cordially: let me again ſay, welcome, my dear Louiſa, to that country from which you have been abſent ſo long, and where ſome of thoſe friends are ſtill remaining whom you uſed to enchant with the ſweet plea⯑ſantry of your ſportive youth. I have often grieved at not hearing from you, for all your three pacq [...]ets to me were loſt; and I have hard⯑ly felt a ſenſation ſo joyous, during the long in⯑terval ſince we parted, as I felt on the agreeable ſurpriſe of this charming letter which has told me you are returned. Yet my preſent joy is very ſingularly mingled (as all my joys have been) with regret. In rejoicing moſt heartily on your happy return, I cannot help lamenting that our dear Harriot has not lived to ſee a day which was ſo frequently the object of our hopes and our prayers. With the fond inconſiſtency of affection, I have almoſt wiſhed to call her back from Heaven, that ſhe might ſhare with me in the delight of receiving our long loſt Louiſa, whom her warm heart never ceaſed to love as a child of her own. Ah, Louiſa, I have indeed been ſingularly familiar with afflic⯑tion [237] ſince we bade each other farewell at our be⯑loved Audley-Grove. Never did any mortal loſe two more valuable friends than I loſt in the late dear poſſeſſors of that lovely ſpot. But I have learnt to be very grateful to Heaven, for having lent them to me ſo long, and at a ſeaſon when I had ſuch bitter occaſion for all the balm of their friendſhip, inſtead of murmuring at the heavy loſs I have ſuſtained in their deceaſe. I had the melancholy ſatisfaction of attending them both in their laſt hours; and muſt tell you that they both died, as they had lived, models of tenderneſs and fortitude. I ought certainly to grieve the leſs, from our dear Harriot's hav⯑ing left me (to uſe her own lively expreſſion) her corrected and embelliſhed ſelf in her daugh⯑ter, who, as the dear ingenuous parent truly ſaid, has all her good qualities, without her particular foible, if that indeed ought to be reckoned a foible which rendered her ſo very dear to us all; I mean, a little exceſs of ſpirit, and eagerneſs in projects that ſhe loved to form for the advantage of her friends. Her milder and blooming Lucy is now, I think—but poſitively I will not tell you, as I was going to do, what ſhe is; you ſhall ſee, and judge for yourſelf. I will only ſay, ſhe is as impatient to embrace you as I am; and, in truth, my dear Louiſa, except my two boys, or rather young men, as I believe it is high time for us to call them, there is no traveller in the world whoſe arrival under my roof can delight me ſo much as yours. I muſt, however, beg your indul⯑gence in one point, and deſire you to let me re⯑ceive you, with your noble and happy Colonel, the dear Eaſtern little creatures, and all your [238] train, not at Sedley-hall, but in St. James's Square. The truth is, I have promiſed my ſons, who are now returning from Italy, to be waiting for them in London the week after this. You, I am ſure, will readily pardon a mother for not breaking ſuch an appointment. As my ſons are ſo unfaſhionable as to ſay they ſet a high value on their mother's ſociety, and as they are certainly to me the moſt intereſting companions in the world; I have lately taken into my own hands again our great London houſe, and hope to play the chearful houſe-keeper to them both till one of them ſhall deſert me for a wife; a kind of deſertion that I ſhall be more ſolicitous to encourage than prevent. Come then, my dear Louiſa, to a houſe where you know there is plenty of room for us all, and where, believe me, your preſence will add not a little to the gaiety and happineſs of the domeſtic circle. To ſhew you how very free I intend to be with you, and that I do not ſtand in awe even of your mi⯑litary lord, I ſhall begin to ſcold you on paper for your abominable flattery. Surely, my dear, you muſt have brought home with you all the Eaſtern arts of adulation, ſince you can addreſs ſuch fine flouriſhing perſonal compliments to a ſimple, quiet, motherly woman, not far from forty, who has been for ſome years ſo perfectly emancipated from all the perſonal vanities of her ſex, that ſhe lives only in her children. Ah, Louiſa, my former and more ſelfiſh life was a ſad troubled ſcene, as you know but too well. Heaven grant that my new life (in which ſelf has truly as little to do as poſſible) may be more tranquil and more fortunate! It will be hard upon me indeed if, after being al⯑moſt [239] a martyr myſelf to a calamitous paſſion, I am deſtined to ſee my children ſuffer from any hapleſs affection. I have endeavoured to guard againſt this evil by every precaution in my pow⯑er. I have done every thing that I could do to render myſelf a pleaſing companion and a bo⯑ſom friend to my ſons. Alas! how weak and fruitleſs are ſuch expedients againſt all the perils of paſſion! Ah, my friend, the dear youths are juſt arrived at that ſtormy ſeaſon. Can I think of ſcenes that you and I ſo well remember, and not tremble for them? O Louiſa, I have an ad⯑ditional circumſtance to quicken my anxiety. I did not mean to communicate to you in this let⯑ter what I now feel an irreſiſtible impulſe to im⯑part to you. You know what an eager benevo⯑lent projector our dear Harriot was on the wide and dangerous ſea of affection, in bequeathing to me the care of her ſweet Lucy; it was the fond hope of her friendly and maternal heart, that the dear girl's reſiding with me might ulti⯑mately make her the wife of my eldeſt ſon. The connexion would delight me as much as it could have delighted my dear departed friend; but, alas! how chimerical and how perilous in ge⯑neral are ſuch diſtant parental projects! I ſaid all that diſcretion could urge againſt her idea; but you know the affectionate vehemence of our dear Harriot; and your quick ſpirit will conceive in a moment how full of hopes and fears, of a thouſand delicate and diſtreſſing per⯑plexities, my preſent ſituation muſt be. Your chearful and benevolent ſpirit ſeems reſtored to me by Heaven, to give me new animation at this critical period. My ſons have been abſent from me almoſt two years; but I have great [240] reaſon to be pleaſed with their conduct and their improvements in that time. They are re⯑turning to make their firſt appearance in the world. William will be of age in leſs than two months, and a ſeat is prepared for him in parli⯑ament, where I have ſet my heart on his prov⯑ing what his independent father, and a certain perſon who loved him alſo with paternal affec⯑tion, often propheſied that he would prove; I mean, a manly and ingenuous character, equally diſtinguiſhed by talents and integrity. I think you will ſmile, my dear and ſtill ſportive Louiſa, when you ſee how far maternal love has made a politician and a patriot of me, in the ſimple and good ſenſe of thoſe hacknied words. But of this and a million of other mat⯑ters when we meet. Come, and call me old Polonius in petticoats if you pleaſe, provided you will but aſſiſt me in promoting the happi⯑neſs of the dear young Ophelia. Deuce take this ill omened alluſion, which has in it an air of propriety in one ſenſe that wounds me; for, between ourſelves, I am already convinced that the dear girl loves the young prince more than the young prince appears to love her. God forbid he ſhould ever drive her to diſtraction! If he does, he deſtroys us both. O Louiſa, a charge ſo delicate preſſes upon my mind and heart with a formidable weight. Haſten, there⯑fore, I conjure you, and give, with your bene⯑volent vivacity, new energy to the ſpirits of

P. S. Your couſin Lucy joins me in a very earneſt requeſt, that you will delay your expe⯑dition to Ireland, and return with us from Lon⯑don, [241] to celebrate my ſon William's birth-day at Sedley-Hall. We are ſure your good mother, however impatient to ſee you, will indulge us with the privilege of detaining you on this occa⯑ſion, as it will give you an opportunity, which you may not otherwiſe find, of meeting ſome, friends who love you very much, particularly your old ſwain Edmund and Lucy the Elder. They are both ſtill ſingle, and as amiable as e⯑ver, though poor Edmund has been lately teiz⯑ed with frequent fits of the gout. Pray remem⯑ber, if you do not write by the firſt poſt, to di⯑rect to St. James's Square; and pray alſo re⯑member that you are to proceed immediately to that quarter whenever you arrive in town. The firſt thing that I ſhall do there will be to order the beſt apartments in the houſe to be inſtantly prepared for our dear Eaſtern magnificient and yet laughter-loving Princeſs Louiſa.

LETTER L. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

"ILL meet thee at Phillippii"—

Aye, and I will put to flight this ugly phan⯑tom that haunts the imagination of my dear [242] Cornelia, famous as ſhe is (like Brutus himſelf) both for gentleneſs and fortitude. But, in plain Engliſh, my very dear Friend, let me return you a thouſand thanks for your moſt affectionate letter; and, above all, for the dear communica⯑tion of a ſecret ſo precious; it delights, it en⯑chants me. Bleſs the memory of my charm⯑ing aunt Harriot! She was indeed an affec⯑tionate projector. But though ſhe failed in one of her darling ſchemes, her projects were generally ſucceſsful. This her poſthumous project, as I may call it, has quite ſet me on fire with zeal to aſſiſt in its completion. Courage, my excellent friend, thou moſt delightful of guardians and mothers. What ſhould we fear? Cannot you and I (adroit and experienced as we are in affairs of Love) cannot we eaſily ma⯑nage the pliant hearts of an ingenuous youth of twenty-one and a ſweet ſimple blooming girl of eighteen. I warrant you: truſt me, my dear, they ſhall be a pair of amorous obedient puppets in our hands. We will ſo pull and direct the wire of their ductile paſſions, that they ſhall re⯑preſent for our pleaſure the moſt intereſting dra⯑ma in the world. We know indeed that, in the common puppet-ſhows of Love and Matrimony, the Devil plays a very buſy and tyrannical part; but in ours he ſhall not exhibit even a nail's breadth of his cloven foot. No my dear, it ſhall be all virtue, harmony, and delight. Well, I am returned at a happy juncture indeed, to aſſiſt in preparing the machinery for ſuch an enter⯑tainment. But, my good Cornelia, when we have taught this lovely young couple to be deeply and furiouſly enamoured of each other, you muſt not come forth with a common matronly [243] maxim, "that early wedlock is imprudent, that miſſes ſhould wait till they are twenty-five," &c. &c. Poſitively I will have nothing to do with any ſcheme of keeping two lovers in a flaming purgatory for I know not how many years. For my part, I think of marriage as Macbeth talks of murder:

A good match, in my not humble opinion, can hardly be celebrated too ſoon. The objection moſt univerſally urged againſt early marriage deſerves, I think, no conſideration at all. The people who fear that their children may tread too cloſely on their heels do not deſerve the bleſſing of a child; and had better not marry till they can eſcape all probability of ſuch an incumbrance You ſee, my dear friend, I have brought home again my old romantic ſpirit. All the heats of India could not draw it out of me. But you and I ſhall hardly differ on this article; and, if we do, we ſhall have time enough to adjuſt our reſpective opinions in amicable debate. At pre⯑ſent I ſcribble in extreme haſte, to ſalute you with my thanks and ardent good wiſhes before you ſet forth for the great city. A good journey to you, and a moſt happy meeting with the dear travellers, whom you muſt expect with the moſt affectionate impatience. Poor Ireland muſt for⯑give me if I am more ſlow than I ought to be in paying my filial duty there. My ſin ſhall be [244] thrown on your ſhoulders; and Heaven knows you have merit enough to counterbalance the ſins of half your acquaintance; yet to me you are a wicked tempter, and I confeſs myſelf un⯑able to reſiſt the lure that you have thrown out to detain me in England.

My Colonel deſires me to ſay a great many fine things for him; but I anſwer, "Not one;" for he will not ſleep under your London roof; though he ſays he will pay his perſonal devoirs to you very ſoon, and very aſſiduouſly. Theſe men are proud creatures, my dear, and they muſt have their way. My commander, "take him for all in all," is one of the beſt, I believe, of theſe lordly beings. I will venture to ſay you will not diſlike him; and be aſſured you will ſee enough of

Tell the dear Lucy I am ſo eager to ſee her, that I dream of nothing elſe.

LETTER LI. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

DISTANT as I am from you, I can turn to you only for counſel in a moſt cruel ſurprize and conſternation that almoſt robs me of my ſenſes. On my arrival here, I find an anonymous letter left for me at this houſe; of which I incloſe you a copy. For Heaven's ſake, tell me what I ought to think of it. I am diſtracted with a thouſand contradictory ideas. Is it only a bar⯑barous trick to torment me? Yet whom can I have provoked to ſuch inhumanity of malice? Is it an artifice to gain money? Alas! I am ready enough to relieve the indigent without forcing them into fraud. Is it, finally, a cala⯑mitous truth, that muſt render my latter days more wretched than my early life? GOD in his mercy forbid! Surely, if ſuch peril exiſted, the ſenſible, honeſt, and vigilant Monſon muſt have perceived it, and would have given ſome notice of it before this time either to me or to you. I am quite bewildered in the maze of [246] my own thorny conjectures. Pray give me your inſtant advice. Yet, before I can receive it, I ſhall probably venture on a ſtep for which I ſhould have been glad of your ſanction. I feel ſuſpence ſo torturing in a point where the laſting happineſs of my child is deeply concern⯑ed, that I would rather face the moſt formidable creature exiſting than not to try to put an end to ſuch ſuſpence. I muſt ſee and converſe with this terrible Unknown. The moment I gain any farther light, you ſhall hear again from

P. S. Love to Lucy and Frances. I ſhould have had infinite delight in telling you and them that Louiſa is returned from India, and will meet you all on William's birth-day, had not this cruel blow rendered me at preſent inſenſible to joy.

LETTER LII. ANONYMOUS TO CORNELIA.

THOUGH I muſt confeſs that ſelf-intereſt, or rather paſſion, is the prime motive to this let⯑ter, in which I muſt ſurprize and give you pain, yet be aſſured I mean well to you, and we may prove very uſeful friends to each other; though for various reaſons, you muſt excuſe my adding a name to this unexpected epiſtle.

Let me aſſure you, however, that I am a gen⯑tleman, and ſubject, I own, to many of the diſtreſſing follies too often found in that charac⯑ter. My preſent diſtreſs is of ſuch a kind, as you I am ſure, if you are the amiable and indul⯑gent and generous parent that I have heard you repreſented, will be moſt ready to pity. It is diſtreſs of heart, ariſing from a paſſion certainly not wiſe in its exceſs, and, I muſt own, not the moſt honourable in its purpoſe; yet, under a paſſion ſo circumſtanced, I am bold enough to hope and to ſolicit your aſſiſtance, even while I regard you as a paragon of virtue, becauſe in aſſiſting me, you may probably preſerve your eldeſt ſon, who is above all praiſe of mine, from [248] the imminent hazard of wretchedneſs and diſ⯑honour.

Be not too much alarmed, my good lady; and let me conjure you, by all that is dear to us both, to treaſure up in your own breaſt the very important ſecret which I am going to con⯑fide to your honour and your diſcretion. If you make any imprudent, any ungenerous, any unguarded uſe of it, we are both ruined; for, unconnected and different beings as we are, this momentous ſecret, my dear Madam, involves the happineſs or miſery both of your life and mine. Perhaps if you will condeſcend to let the writer of an anonymous letter have a private conference with you, and will give him your word of honour, not to betray your know⯑ledge either of him or his deſigns; perhaps in this caſe I may converſe with you on a topic ſo painfully intereſting to us both, for I have a thouſand things to ſay that I cannot crowd into a letter. But let this be as we may find expedi⯑ent hereafter. My preſent buſineſs muſt be to give you as clear an idea as I can upon paper of certain circumſtances, which threaten much anguiſh to your maternal heart, and have al⯑ready given tortures of a very different nature to mine.

In explaining this myſtery, I had better, I think, ſay too much than too little. Perhaps, Madam, as you have lived, I underſtand, a moſt virtuous, happy, and retired life, perhaps you know not even the name of a moſt celebrat⯑ed fair creature, who, though confeſſedly not a model of virtue, is univerſally reckoned the moſt bewitching object that was ever followed by licentious idolatry. The perſon I mean is the [249] famous Emily Belmont: ſhe is the daughter of a deceaſed Britiſh general by a Venetian ac⯑treſs; and inherits, not all the opulence, but all the ſpirit, and all the captivating qualities of both her parents. After being the miſtreſs of three peer and two commoners, and after re⯑jecting offers of marriage from an elderly duke and a young viſcount, Emily went laſt year to Rome with lord T—. In Italy, for our mu⯑tual inquietude, I fell in love with her; and ſhe fell in love with your eldeſt ſon. As Emily p [...]ques herſelf on a peculiar frankneſs or ſpirit, ſhe told me very honeſtly, that ſhe had given her whole heart to Sedley. "To Sedley (ſhe ſaid in a tone that expreſſed the moſt paſſionate fondneſs) to Sedley, more beautiful than all the boaſted marble Gods and heroes in this coun⯑try; and, alas, half as cold!'—So far her ge⯑neroſity told me, to effect my cure. But ſhe did not tell me what I had the addreſs, or, I ſhould rather ſay, the good luck to diſcover, by a certain female friend of hers; I mean, that her love to Sedley was utterly unlike all the at⯑tachments that ſhe had hitherto formed. She is ſeriouſly in love, and for the firſt time in her li [...]e It is the great ambition of her heart and ſoul to make herſelf the wife of your ſon. She is now purſuing this point with ſuch a mixture of cordial ſincerity and refined artifice, as thoſe only can thoroughly conceive who have had op⯑portunities of ſtudying her very ſingular and faſcinating character. I have kept the keen eyes of jealouſy upon all her movements, and can fortunately apprized of all her private ma⯑chinations. She has animated the marble whoſe coldneſs made her ſigh; ſhe has wound [251] up the paſſions of her young Adonis, by grant⯑ing him many indulgences that could excite, and not one that could abate, the fervency of deſire. She has produced in him what all her exquiſite talents and attractions have been ex⯑erted to produce, a ſentimental delirium. In ſhort, my dear Madam, affairs have been thus ſettled between them. The fair penitent, ex⯑preſſing a graceful horror for her former illicit life, has deſerted Lord T—, and is already in London. Your ſon, who cannot, I think, be here under a fortnight, has promiſed that he will not attempt to ſee her till he has ſettled all his concerns at the important period of his being of age, which I underſtand is very near; and in the following week they are to be privately married.

Now, my dear Madam, I am confident that you are as eager as I am to counteract with your whole heart and ſpirit this alarming de⯑ſign. But how to do ſo is the grand queſtion. For Heaven's ſake, do not truſt to your mater⯑nal influence. You are indeed as ſincerely be⯑loved by your ſon as a mother can be; but what are the entreaties or the commands of a parent to a young man whoſe more imperious love has been ſo artfully excited? Truſt me, ſuch commands are but chains of flax, that are inſtantly burnt aſunder in the flames of oppoſed deſire. I ſpeak from fatal experience. Pardon me if I ſpeak too ſtrongly; but what is to be done? I have long cracked my brains to find the moſt effectual expedient, and to ſave you at the ſame time from all painful explanations, and all diſſention with your ſon. I think I have found this expedient, if I can perſuade you, [250] Madam, to condeſcend ſo far as to have a ſe⯑cret interview with a female in a rank of life ſo different from your own. But on this point, I perſuade myſelf, your pure and noble heart will not heſitate for the preſervation of your child.

Emily notwithſtanding her frailties, is in truth a creature of ſentiment and ſoul. In her heart and underſtanding, even you, Madam, will find much to admire; for I may juſtly ſay (ſetting aſide the fond prejudice of a lover) that ſhe has every female virtue except chaſtity. I cannot give you a more forcible idea of her character, than by telling you what is literally true, that ſhe quitted a certain earl, who loved her paſſionately, for no other reaſon but to re⯑ſtore the injured health of his ſiſter, a lady of tender ſpirits, and of a ſcrupulous conſcience, who made herſelf ſeriouſly unhappy from her brother's illicit attachment. I happened to learn all the particulars of Emily's very ſingular and generous conduct on this occaſion; and they ſuggeſted to me the firſt idea of the plan that I am now recommending. I know that this accompliſhed, though frail beauty, has a noble mind, that abhors the idea of proving a ſource of inquietude to any amiable family. I alſo know, my dear Madam, that ſhe has a ve⯑ry great and tender veneration for your charac⯑ter; and I will tell you how ſhe acquired it, by being indulged in the privilege of reading your letters to your ſon, which I have heard her commend as the moſt exquiſite letters that ever flowed from a parental pen; and in points of literature, ſhe is allowed to poſſeſs great diſcern⯑ment and delicacy of taſte.

[252]Now, my dear Madam, ſituated as you are, and poſſeſſing, as I have heard, the moſt inſi⯑nuating ſweetneſs of manners; what influence may not you hope to gain over the feeling and generous Emily, if you will condeſcend to con⯑verſe with her on the great object of our terror! You muſt not, however, betray me, however tempted you may be to do ſo. This would ef⯑fectually ruin our hopes. But you may ſay, that certain hints have been given you by the tutor of your ſon; that maternal anxiety made you reſolve to obtain an interview with a perſon whom you have heard very ſingularly com⯑mended, both for generoſity and truth. Emily is indeed a model of both; and I queſtion if any mortal exiſts in either ſex that has a more magnanimous diſdain of uttering a lie. If you can but contrive to ſee her in private, of this you may be ſure, that although ſhe may not perhaps think it prudent or juſt to your ſon to acknowledge to you the whole truth, yet ſhe will not attempt to deceive you by any abſolute falſehood. As I underſtand, Madam, that you are very opulent, I could wiſh you to make a forcible impreſſion on the heart of Emily, by a liberal unexpected offer of promoting her inde⯑pendence. What ſum might be ſufficient for this purpoſe I cannot preciſely ſay; but I fancy it might be done upon terms very eaſy to you. I know ſhe has a private revenue, not inconſider⯑able, though not equal to her wiſhes, becauſe I have heard her ſay, that if ſhe poſſeſſed an in⯑dependent income to a certain amount ſhe would ſettle herſelf for life at a favourite ſpot on the Continent.

[253]Perhaps your maternal tenderneſs and gene⯑roſity may incline you to give her the power of gratifying this deſire, as the nobleſt means of obtaining from her the great ſacrifice of her ve⯑ry dangerous attachment to your ſon; yet, ſup⯑poſing you are willing to do ſo, I have ſtill ſome doubts whether it may be poſſible even for you. to prevail on the high-ſpirited Emily to accept your bounty. This I perfectly know, ſhe would not accept ſuch a gratuity from any man breathing. Perhaps to a lady of your admira⯑ble character her very ſingular and honeſt pride may feel itſelf more indulged than mortified in being materially indebted. In this article I am really unable to judge how ſhe may act; but you will have a ſtill more effectual expedient for preventing the dreaded marriage by ſhewing her, with mild maternal eloquence, the miſery it muſt produce, not ſo much from her rank in life (for there I know your generoſity will ſpare her) but from the no leſs material inequality of age; for Emily is at leaſt nine years older than the youth ſhe loves; but, alas, at thirty ſhe is a thouſand times more faſcinating than all the younger damſels in the univerſe.

At length, my dear Madam (pray let our mutual hopes and fears excuſe the familiarity of my addreſs), at length I have ſaid to you all that I think it neceſſary to ſay in a letter, for the prolixity of which I ſhould apologiſe, if that prolixity had not been occaſioned by my earneſt deſire to gratify the natural curioſity of the ami⯑able parent whom I have been obliged to alarm for the honour and happineſs of her child. Pray conſider what I have ſaid with your beſt judg⯑ment, but without conſulting too many friends; [254] and have the goodneſs to let me know what ſteps you think it moſt prudent to take at this very alarming and critical time. I encloſe, on ſeparate ſlips of paper, a direction to the houſe near Portman-Square which Emily has juſt ta⯑ken, and a fictitious name by which you may direct to me at the St. James's Coffee-houſe.

I will earneſtly implore the favour of at leaſt a line from you within theſe two days, for the time you know is preſſing; and you will have the goodneſs to remember, that although my terrors on this occaſion are very different from thoſe of a mother, they are not leſs tormenting. Hea⯑ven guide you, my dear Madam! Reſt aſſured that I moſt ſincerely wiſh to be as uſeful a friend to you, in this perplexing affair, as you can deſire any mortal to be, and eſpecially,

LETTER LIII. CORNELIA TO THE UNKNOWN.

IF you are (as I muſt ſuppoſe from your letter) a gentleman who really wiſhes well to the un⯑happy [255] mother whom you have both terrified and obliged, I muſt entreat the favour of a perſonal conference with you in St. James's-Square, at eleven to-morrow morning. You will ſee only myſelf and a very old female friend of mine. Believe me, you may depend on the ſecrecy of both. Indeed the ſubject of our conference is of a nature too painful to be lightly and indiſ⯑creetly communicated to any perſon from whom you could wiſh it to be concealed by,

LETTER LIV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

BEFORE I can receive your anſwer to my laſt diſtracted letter, I think myſelf bound to [256] give you the ſatisfaction of knowing that I am a little relieved from my extreme perturbation, though not, alas! from my chief terror, by the ſudden and unexpected arrival on the dear a [...]i⯑mating Louiſa. This warm-hearted, friend has left her noble Colonel with his aged father; and being as impatient to ſee my boys as I am, ſhe has kindly flown with her uſual vivacity to wait with me here, to welcome their return. She could not have arrived at a more ſeaſonable mo⯑ment; the ſight of her has afforded me inex⯑preſſible comfort. I have opened my full heart to her, which gave me the more eaſe, as I had carefully concealed the horrid contents of the diſtreſſing anonymous letter from my dear lit⯑tle tender Lucy. It would have coſt her many pangs of the heart, not leſs bitter than thoſe I endure; and it ſhall be the conſtant ſtudy of my life to ſecure this ſweet girl as much as poſ⯑ſible from pain, if I cannot eſtabliſh her happi⯑neſs in the manner I would wiſh.

By Louiſa's advice, I have juſt diſpatched a billet to my anonymous correſpondent; and, having ſuch a ſecond in my lively friend, I have ventured to invite this terrific Unknown to a private conference in my own houſe. I hope I have not done wrong; but I ſhall be content to wander a little from the ſtrait line of propri⯑ety and decorum, if I can but preſerve this dear impaſſioned boy. Oh, Seymour! thy prophe⯑cy in this point is but too true! This beloved youth has all the perilous ſenſibility that embit⯑tered the early days of his mother. Gracious God teach me how to ſave him from this horri⯑ble impending miſchief, without alienating from me his filial affection!

[257]Farewell, dear friends! for I ſpeak to all; and all, I know, will feel kindly anxious for the reſtoration of my peace. I long for your opinion of the diſtreſſing letter. I think, when I have ſeen and talked with the writer, I muſt feel a little more at eaſe. Heaven knows I am far otherwiſe at preſent! Adieu! You ſhall ve⯑ry ſoon hear again from

LETTER LV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

MODERATE, I beſeech you, my very dear friend, the fond exceſs of your maternal apprehenſions. Though I muſt confeſs you have puzzled your privy counſellor, ſtill I main⯑tain that you ought not to harraſs your tender ſpirit, by giving way to the worſt ſuggeſtions of your affectionate terror. Surely we have time enough before us to prevent any ſerious miſchief from this impending danger, whatever it [...]. After repeated peruſals of the alarm⯑ing letter, I am utterly unable to form a ſettled [258] opinion whether this threatened danger is real or fictitious; but I ſtrongly incline to believe the latter. There have been ſo many accom⯑pliſhed and ingenious perſonages ruined of late by diſſipation, and reduced to prey upon unwa⯑ry opulence by the dexterity of their devices, that fraud, like many of the nobler arts, has been cultivated and refined among us to a ſur⯑prizing degree. From many anecdotes which I have lately heard of this kind, I am led to ſuſ⯑pect that your anonymous letter forms a part of a ſubtly-fabricated project, to draw a conſidera⯑ble ſum of money from the unguarded purſe of a mother, whoſe opulence is well known, and whoſe tenderneſs and generoſity cannot have eſcaped the notice of any keen neceſſitous ad⯑venturer, who might wiſh to draw from them, by fradulent ingenuity, an immediate ſupply for his diſtreſs. You may reckon me perhaps a too timid and ſuſpicious recluſe, when I pro⯑pheſy that your terrific Unknown and his boaſt⯑ed Emily will turn our two profligate worthleſs characters, not utterly unlike our old acquain⯑tance Don Raphael and Camilla in Gil Blas. It strikes me as a capital ſtroke of pecuniary con⯑trivance in a neceſſitous courtezan, to practiſe on the liberal fondneſs of a mother, by pretend⯑ing to ſacrifice a perilous paſſion for her ſon. I give Emily (however handſome or plain ſhe may be) great credit for this idea; but I muſt give you alſo one caution, my very dear and gene⯑rous friend. If you really feel diſpoſed in this buſineſs (as I know you can afford it) to throw away a conſiderable ſum, rather than enter in⯑to a painful perhaps, and rather indelicate ex⯑planation with your ſon, I entreat you let the [259] money be paid in Paris, and to the formidable lady in perſon. This point your friendly bank⯑er will readily manage for you with great eaſe; and I think, if you generouſly incur any ſuch expence, you ought to be rewarded by the moſt perfect aſſurance that the fair object of your alarm is ſafely out of the kingdom. I have lived ſo ſequeſtered a life for ſome years, that I know almoſt as little of this celebrated Emily as you can do. I am indeed acquainted with her name, and I know a channel by which I can ſpeedily obtain the fulleſt information in reſpect to her real character. For this I will immediately ap⯑ply, and have it diſpatched to you with the ut⯑moſt ſecrecy and expedition. You judge very generouſly and very juſtly of Monſon: he men⯑tioned once, but very ſlightly, this alarming fair-one in a letter to me; but his apprehenſion ſubſided, and if any ſort of connexion exiſts between the parties (which I do not believe), it has completely eluded his vigilance: this cir⯑cumſtance itſelf is highly improbable; and the more I ponder on the whole affair, the more I am perſuaded the all-accompliſhed Emily will be found only a delicate Impoſtor. Whatever ſhe may prove, I foreſee that you will be tempted both to ſee and converſe with her. What mo⯑ther with ſuch feelings as yours would not feel curious to ſee a fair creature, who deſperately loves, or deſperately pretends to love, a ſon ſo idolized by herſelf? Well, my dear friend, you are certainly a privileged character, and I ſee no miſchief that can enſue from your indulging ſuch a deſire, except perhaps the trifling miſ⯑chief of your being tempted by the nobleneſs of your nature to throw away more money than [260] the object may deſerve. But if the hapleſs fair creature ſtrikes your fancy, and intereſts your feelings, you may ſurely indulge yourſelf in the charitable pleaſure of putting a few looſe hun⯑dred pounds in her pocket, and ſend of the beau⯑tiful jade to the Continent. I am perſuaded my young friend William will be too happy in his return to you, to grieve very long for the ab⯑ſence of ſuch a lady; and I am ſtill more per⯑ſuaded that he is much too wiſe to have ever ſe⯑riouſly thought of marrying a courtezan who is almoſt twice as old as himſelf.

That I may reply to you as rapidly as poſſi⯑ble, I will only add our united love, and our cordial prayers, that you may be thoroughly re⯑paid for your preſent cruel inquietude, and for every paſt ſuffering, by ſeeing the dear object of our general anxiety as happily married as we all wiſh him to be. Lucy the elder gives a deep ſigh for her dear young nameſake on this occa⯑ſion. But I repeat, my excellent Cornelia, you and my ſiſter are frightened too much. I need not tell you with what eagerneſs we ſhall expect a farther account. Farewell! and believe me ever,

LETTER LVI. From the Unknown to CORNELIA.

I AM highly flattered and pleaſed, and yet, I own, a little diſtreſſed by your obliging appoint⯑ment. Forgive me if I requeſt your word of honour before I make my appearance, that if you happen to recollect my features (for I muſt confeſs you have ſeen them formerly), you will never communicate either my follies or my zeal to ſerve you (which are ſtrangely blended, as Vice and Virtue too frequently appear) to any of my relations.

Do but favour me with this aſſurance by the bearer, who waits for your reply; and you ſhall inſtantly behold

LETTER LVII. From CORNELIA to the Unknown.

YOUR billet has conſiderably encreaſed my very eager ſolicitude to ſee you. I do not heſi⯑tate to give you, in the moſt unequivocal man⯑ner, the promiſe you require. Whatever con⯑fidence you may think proper to place in me, I will venture to ſay that you ſhall have nothing to apprehend from the treachery or indiſcretion of

LETTER LVIII. From CORNELIA to EDMUND AUDLEY.

COMFORT! comfort! my very dear, though too timid and too courageous friend. In one, and, alas! the great important point, you confide too much in the diſcretion of the dear enſnared youth; but, in regard to other perſons and circumſtances, your ſuſpicions and your fears have outrun the truth.—No! my dear cautious counſellor, the terrific Unknown is not a Don Raphael, I can aſſure you. He bears indeed a greater reſemblance to poor Gil Blas himſelf, though I muſt not allow you to ſuppoſe for a moment that Emily is a ſecond Ca⯑milla: ſhe is believe me, in my eſtimation, a very different and intereſting character; though I ſhall not be ſurprized if, when you arrive at the end of this letter, you think me a ſimpleton and a dupe, and incline to the very opinion concerning Emily which I tell you I would not have you entertain.

I have ſo much to tell you, and am ſo flurried between joy for what has paſſed, and apprehen⯑ſion of what may ſtill happen, that I hardly know how to begin relating you to the many things that I wiſh to you hear. Firſt, for my Unknown, I am bound, as you will ſee, by the two [264] encloſed billets which paſſed between us, and which I ſend you as an apology for my reſerve; I am bound, I ſay, not to tell you who he is. But have a little patience, my very dear and affectionately curious friends! by to-morrow's poſt a certain perſon, without any treachery, will impart to you this teazing ſecret, which (though I hope the ſage Edmund will bear the inquietude it may give him like a man) our dear and truly feminine Lucy the elder will be dying to know. Let me juſt ſay for her relief, that this alarming Unknown is a perſon for whoſe welfare and reputation I am intereſted in no trifling degree.—Nay, I abſolutely love him, and certainly not the leſs for finding him in⯑flamed with a vehement paſſion for the ſame dangerous and enchanting object who has cap⯑tivated my ſon.—My new friend, as you will naturally ſuppoſe, is as eager as I can wiſh him to be in his zeal to aſſiſt me in the preſervation of my child. The great wiſh of my ſoul is, to preſerve them both. If I can accompliſh this, I ſhall think myſelf bleſt indeed! I am more ſanguine than uſual in my hopes upon the ſub⯑ject, becauſe Providence ſeems inclined to be⯑friend me, by having conducted ſome little in⯑cidents in ſuch a manner as to ſurprize and ſupport me with unexpected comfort, and I may ſay delight. All this riddle will be explained to you to-morrow; at preſent I muſt only talk to you of the alarming, the dangerous, the at⯑tractive, the faſcinating, and, let me add with gratitude, the admirable Emily. You have a good gueſs, my dear Edmund, at the ſecret feelings of a fond mother. I confeſs to you, I felt a great longing, to ſee this too intereſting [265] perſonage. I have ſeen her; and what will you think of me when I alſo confeſs, that I am al⯑moſt as much in love with her as my poor art⯑leſs William, or my more experienced—? Fie on my ſlippery pen! it had nearly written the name of my not-to-be-named Unknown: but I was ſpeaking of this faſcinating creature, who puts all diſcretion to flight in both ſexes. Never did I behold any female who would be ſo likely, if I were a man myſelf, to make me the abſolute ſlave of her attractions. Inſtead of that inſolent or alluring vivacity of feature which often marks her condition, the face of Emily has all the exquiſite modeſt ſweetneſs and ſimplicity that a painter would wiſh to repreſent in a new-created Eve. The charms of her converſation are ſtill more captivating than thoſe of her countenance!—You will not won⯑der that I thought them ſo, when I tell you, ſhe perfectly convinced me that her paſſion for my ſon is no fictitious, no artificial, no ſelf-in⯑tereſted paſſion. Believe me (and experience, alas! has made me too good a judge in this parti⯑cular) it is genuine, ardent, and miſerable love; the love of a woman, unfortunate indeed in her condition, but exquiſite in understanding as in beauty! Fully ſenſible of her own infelicity and diſgrace, yet noble enough to be ready to ſacrifice her fond ambition, which ſhe wants not perhaps the power of indulging, to the real happineſs and honour of the youth ſhe loves!—Oh! ge⯑nerous Emily, thou haſt my pity, my affection. Now, my dear Edmund, do not laugh at me; do not ridicule that cullibility of heart, which, to uſe your own abominable phraſe, you have ſometimes told me, makes a part of my charac⯑ter; [266] do not think me an egregious fool, when I tell you what I have done—aſſuredly I have not paid too high a price for the ſatisfaction that I at preſent enjoy. You remember the advice g [...]ven me by the friendly Unknown concerning a pecuniary offer to Emily. As many circum⯑ſtances, upon the truth of which I could rely, had fully convinced me that this unfortunate fair-one has a very generous heart; I determin⯑ed that my offer ſhould be ſo conſiderable, as to make a forcible impression on her feeling ſpirits—The large ſum which, you know, I have ſaved for the pleaſure of preſenting it to my two boys, when each ſhall become his own maſter, ſupplied me moſt conveniently on this occaſion: I felt no ſcruple in making free with this money, becauſe I knew that, if I even ex⯑pended all which I deſigned to give Charles, that dear generous boy would one day tell me that I could not have employed his property more to his deli [...]ht, than by making it condu⯑cive to the preſervation of his brother. Ani⯑mated by theſe ideas, I went well prepared to be liberal to Emily: after a very long converſa⯑tion, which coſt us both many tears, and in the cloſe of which ſhe moſt gracefully acquieſ⯑ced in the plan, which I wiſhed her to follow, of retiring to the Continent; I preſented to her a ſet of notes payable to herſelf in Paris, for ten thouſand pound. Her reply to me was this, "O! my dear Madam, how you delight and torture me in the ſame moment!" -It is indeed a triumph for the wretched Emily to have engaged the tender regard of ſuch a pure and exalted being as you are: but what would my felicity [...]ave been, if my deſtiny had ſaved me from [267] perdition, and made me ſuch a daughter as you might have received without a bluſh? Abject as I now feel myſelf in your preſence, allow me, my dear Madam, to imitate in ſome degree the nobleneſs of your mind: of the ſum which you ſo generouſly offer, I will accept only as much as may be ſufficient to relieve your parental in⯑quietude, by convincing you that the object of your fear is as far removed from this country as you juſtly wiſh her to be—let me but flatter my⯑ſelf that I carry with me your eſteem, and you ſhall find me a voluntary exile. Here a little generous conteſt aroſe between us, which was at laſt amicably ſettled by my inſiſting on her tak⯑ing five of the ten thouſand; and this ſhe would only conſent to do, on my promiſing to receive it again, whenever opulence, which her ſuperlative beauty may indeed command, ſhall enable her conveniently to replace the ſum that I forced upon her.

Shall I own to you the whole extent of my weakneſs? Shall I tell you that I not only wiſh to make this beautiful frail-one independent, but I wiſhed alſo to make her virtuous and de⯑vout? Here, alas! I have no chance of being gratified: this lovely infidel, who is as far from being a hypocrite as ſhe is from being a ſaint, unveiled to me her inmoſt ſoul. The fatal phi⯑loſophy of France, in which ſhe has been train⯑ed, has ſo alienated her mind from all ideas of true Religion, that I could not hope to influence her conduct by any arguments that I might draw from thence.—Happily, however, for the great object of my immediate anxiety, I found her moſt tremblingly alive to all the motives of honour, ſentiment and affection. I am con⯑vinced [268] that her love for my ſon is genuine, by the manner in which ſhe conſented to ſacrifice her own gratification to his advantage. Though I was prepoſſeſſed in her favour, by the impaſſi⯑oned report of The Unknown; I was yet greatly ſurpriſed to find a perſon, who had plunged for ſome years in a life of ſuch ſplendid infamy, ſtill poſſeſſed of feelings ſo viſibly acute, ſo deli⯑cate, and refined. As to her age, my anony⯑mous friend muſt ſurely be miſtaken: I cannot believe that ſhe is more than four years older than William: ſhe has at leaſt youth enough to make all the mother tremble in my heart. When I think of my poor fond and fiery William's at⯑tachment, alas! what has this dear ſimple ar⯑dent youth to ſuffer, even on the beſt poſſible re⯑gulation of this unfortunate affair! I ſhould not love him ſo intenſely as I do, had he been of a nature not framed to feel agony in the loſs of an idol ſo attractive. I ſhudder, not only at the thoughts of the anguiſh which I know his poor guileleſs deluded heart muſt feel from diſappoint⯑ed paſſion, but ſtill more from a dread of loſing his filial affection. Though my ſon has great tenderneſs in his nature; yet he has alſo a great portion of that uncontroulable imperious ſpirit which belongs to moſt of your lordly creatures. If in the delirium of his early love, he believes his paſſion to be under the guidance of virtue, he will not only diſobey, but he will even hate me, ſhould he diſcover that I have ſecretly la⯑boured to prevent its indulgence—O! mer⯑ciful God! let me not become, I beſeech thee, an object of abhorrence to my child—the very idea convulſes my whole frame. Alas! this Emily is ſo ſingularly captivating, and her own [269] paſſion is ſo vehement, that I even doubt her own power of keeping the promiſe which I am confident ſhe made to me with cordial ſincerity. What have I not cauſe to apprehend from two beings ſo unhappily under the dominion of a blind and fatal paſſions, when even I myſelf, while; was converſing with this faſcinating Emily, felt a ſtrange ſucceſſion of vehement and even oppoſite emotions! There were mi⯑nutes, during our long conference, in which I was almoſt tempted to fold her to my boſom with pity and admiration; and there was an inſtant in which my brain ſeemed to be on fire with momentary madneſs and horror. From an expreſſion that ſhe dropt, a ſudden idea darted acroſs my mind, that it was juſt ſuch a frail en⯑ticing ſorcereſs that occaſioned the untimely death death of my ever idolized Seymour.—All my admiration, all my pity, all my huma⯑nity, were gone; and I darted upon the poor ſuppliant creature a look of terror and deteſtati⯑on, which ſeemed for a minute as ſhe afterwards ſaid, to annihilate her exiſtence. Tears reliev⯑ed her from the icy and wretched ſtupefaction which the ſudden (and to her not perfectly ac⯑countable) ohange in my countenance produced upon her. In ſeeing her weep, I began to weep myſelf, and ſo by degrees was ſoftened into a compaſſionate human creature again. But oh, my good old friend! whoſe experience has giv⯑en them more reaſon than I have, to dread the fierce tyranny of the paſſions in a young ardent frame, ſo inexpreſſibly dear dear to me as my ſon? oh, thou dear and never to be forgotten victim of a ſimilar delirium! oh, my beloved Seymour! if thy purified ſpirit has any know⯑ledge [270] of the perils that now ſurround thy ſtill fond and faithful Cornelia, ſave, if thou canſt, the lovely youth, whoſe promiſing infancy was ſo dear to thee; ſave him! entangled as he is, ſave the ſon of thy Cornelia, from thoſe fatal ſnares which hurried thee to thy early grave!

Alas! my dear Edmund, though I began this long letter with ſome degree of calmneſs and even gaiety, I have now thrown my poor agitated boſom into painful perturbation, by in⯑dulging perhaps too much the apprehenſions that haunt me. I ought certainly to reflect with conſiderable ſatisfaction, and great thankfulneſs to Heaven, on the unexpected comfort and hope that I have been enabled to derive from the ſur⯑prizing incident which you are to hear to mor⯑row. I ought alſo to comfort myſelf not a little, with the very ſtrong aſſurances which I received from the generous Emily, that ſhe will quit [...]ng⯑land directly, and go by the way of Brighthelm⯑ſione and Dieppe to Paris, to avoid the great char [...]e of meeting my ſon at Dover or Calais, in which caſe ſhe ingenuouſly confeſſed to me, that ſhe could not confide in the resolution ſhe had formed, or the promiſe ſhe had given.—This frankneſs, I muſt own, (for frankneſs you know is a favourite quality with me), encreaſed my good opinion of her ſincerity. Whatever may happen you may depend on receiving im⯑mediate intelligence. I have juſt heard that my dear boys will moſt probably arrive in a day or two. I call them ſtill boys; and almoſt wiſh, alas! that they were ſtill in their leading ſtrings Alas! that unlucky word reminds me, that when they were ſo, I was far from being either tran⯑quil or happy.—Am I ever to be ſo?—Heaven [271] only knows—and let me truſt in Heaven.—As ſoon as they arrive, I ſhall hurry them down to Sedley-Hall. Pray, my dear friend, contrive to come to us there as ſoon as you can; for, believe me, your preſence will be an inexpreſ⯑ſible comfort to the terrified and trembling pa⯑rental ſpirit of

LETTER LIX. FROM LOUISA MORETON TO LUCY AU⯑DLEY THE ELDER.

AND ſo, my dear agreeable old friend, you are really a confirmed and contented ſpinſter, as they tell me.—Well! Providence, who re⯑gulates our various deſtiny, ordains, I am per⯑ſuaded, what is beſt for us all.—Never was mortal in a better mood for ſaying fine grateful things of this ſaid grand and inviſible Gover⯑neſs, Providence, than I at this minute; for, [272] behold! here am I, your old rattling madcap, formerly called Louiſa Mount-Maurice, a moſt ſtriking and happy example of the care that Providence often takes in directing thoſe who are unable to direct themſelves.—And what does all this mean?—Patience, my dear—I am the very perſon deſtined to tell you the ſecret that you are dying to know.—What you! Lou⯑iſa, you! who have been twelve years out of our world, are you come, like a conjurer, to find out this terrific Unknown?—Patience again my dear; I muſt have the pleaſure of telling my own delightful little ſecret in my own way.—Well! but do not fret, dear Lucy; I will not be ſo cruel as I uſed to be, and tantalize you for half an hour before I impart what you are ſo eager to hear. Come, let us be grave, and all ſober ſerious attention on both ſides.—Well then, you have already heard how this terrible Unknown was appointed. Our dear [...]derly Cornelia was waiting in high order to [...]ceive him in her dreſſing-room; but it hap⯑pened that, when he rapt at the door, the flattern Louiſa was up in her chamber, where I was detained, for I know not how many mi⯑nutes, by your ſweet engaging nameſake.——Well, my dear, be as impatient as you pleaſe, to hear of the Unknown—I poſitively will not ſay a word of him, till I have ſaid that this dear niece of yours is one of the very lovelieſt girls that I ever beheld, and then ſo enchant⯑ingly like her dear loſt mother, my incompara⯑ble aunt! Well, I muſt not ſpeak of the poor departed Harriot a preſent, nor let a ſingle tear ſtain this letter, that I wiſh to be all joy. To proceed then in my joyous ſtory: As ſoon as I [273] could ſhake off the ſweet inſinuating Lucy, whoſe tender curioſity made her a little reſtleſs [...] not being permitted to ſhare with me the pri⯑ [...]ilege of ſeeing this important ſtranger, I haſ⯑tened to appear at the private conference, where our dear trembling Cornelia had told me ſhe ſhould depend ſo much upon me as her ſe⯑cond. Though not very ſubject to fear, it was with ſome trepidation that I opened the door of her dreſſing room. But judge my aſtoniſhment and my tranſport! when this terrific Unknown, who had his back towards me as I entered, turned ſuddenly round, and with equal aſtoniſh⯑ment diſcovered himſelf to be—my eldeſt bro⯑ther—aye, verily! the gay, honeſt, impudent Archibald Mount Maurice himſelf.—Surely Heaven ſuggeſted to me my ſcheme, which ap⯑peared at firſt only one of my wild romantic vagaries; I mean, the ſcheme of leaving my dear Colonel and his eldeſt boy with his good old father, and of flying hither to paſs a little time with Cornelia, for the ſake of aſſiſting her [...]n a certain parental project that ſhe has kindly imparted to me. By my arrival here, I have had the delight of being very uſeful to her. I ſhall ſhare with her, I truſt, the bleſſed office of ſaving her ſon, and I hope alſo of reclaiming my leſs endangered but improvident brother — He had no idea of my being in England; though from an apprehenſion that Cornelia might ſhew his letters to ſome perſon acquaint⯑ed with his hand, he had taken the precaution of employing a ſecretary even in his two little billets. He is, I fancy, too much engaged by other ladies, to be very minutely inquiſitive [274] concerning the movements of his ſiſter.—I muſt, however, ſay for him, that he could not well have heard of my arrival, as we came in a Portugueze veſſel to Liſbon; and our return was not notified in the public papers, like the arrival of paſſengers in our India ſhips. Poor Archibald was both delighted and confounded by the unexpected ſight of a perſon ſo likely to lecture him ſeverely on the preſent occaſion — But affection triumphed over fear. The rogue loves me in his heart, which is in truth as warm and as well-meaning a heart as was ever over-heated in the fiery furnace of Love. And now, my dear Lucy, as affectionate pro⯑jects are in faſh on among us, I will tell you an affectionate project of mine; but be upon your guard: you muſt not at preſent, for your life you muſt not ſay a word of it to the diſcreet and cautious Edmund. I want to make this honeſt idle brother of mine walk as unhurt in the ſaid fi [...]ry furnace, with me like a good an⯑gel by his ſide, as you remember the three men with hard names did in no metaphorical furnace, according to a book that I ſhould not lightly quote under the roof of our dear devout Cornelia. But, to ſpeak in plain English, I have conceived a moſt eager deſire to make a match for Archibald with a certain niece of yours, named Frances, who is, they tell me, not only a ſweet character, as I [...]hould ſup⯑poſe a diſciple of yours muſt be, but marvel⯑louſly like the lovely woman whom my brother had the misfortune to loſe, when ſhe was juſt going to make him happy, by a fondly expect⯑ed ſon and heir, who ſhared the untimely fate [275] of his beautiful and lamented mother. I am perſuaded that between ſerious advice and ſar⯑caſtic rai [...]lery, I ſhall effectually cure Archibald of his licentuous deſires; and, if I ſucceed, he will, you know, be what is commonly called a very good match for almoſt any girl in the king⯑dom. He has a good paternal eſtate; but the idle rogue, for want of a good young woman to take care of him, has contracted ſome fooliſh debts, and ſhould not in diſcretion marry without a fortune of ſeven or eight thouſand pounds. Pray tell me between ourſelves, if you think your ſweet Frances may have a ſum like this on her marriage. If my idea pleaſes you, as I confeſs it does me, I am perſuaded we ſhall be able to manage ſo deſirable an event; for it is a maxim with me, that a little confederacy of two or three ſenſible women may guide and fix the paſ⯑ſion of an honeſt warm-hearted man on any fair object they chuſe. Bold doctrine this! yet, be⯑lieve me, I have ſeen it frequently verified, and hope to do ſo at preſent in more inſtances than one; I am juſt called away from my paper; but will contrive, if I can, to ſcribble a little more to you before I ſeal up this pacquet for the poſt.—Adieu for ſome hours!

Joy! joy! rejoice with us my good friends all! Here are our two young demigods juſt a⯑lighted among us; all the diſtreſſing apprehen⯑ſions of our dear and truly parental Cornelia are drowned for the preſent in the fulneſs of her delight. Well indeed may ſhe be proud of ſuch ſons, and anxious for their felicity. What a heavenly pair! the twin-brothers of the beau⯑tiful Helen could not be more gracefully engag⯑ing. For my part; I am glad I am a ſafe ſallow-faced [276] old-woman. Mercy on the hapleſs dam⯑ſel, whatever her condition may be, whoſe deſ⯑tiny condemns her to love one of theſe godlike creatures, without meeting an adequate return! But, above all, may Heaven avert ſuch a cala⯑mity from our little, lovely, modeſt, and ſenſible Lucy! ſhe muſt be the wife of the manly heroic William. What a ſingular expreſſion of ſweet⯑neſs and dignity this enchanting youth has in his countenance! yet, handſome and gentle as he appears, he looks to me as if he could be very impetuous, very ſtrong-minded, in his love. His features give me the idea of Achilles, while Charles, though like him, is yet ſo different, that, from his ſerious and contemplative air, I could almoſt take him for a Platonic philoſopher. But I ſuppoſe our young ſage will ſoon prove himſelf an impaſſioned mortal; and as for our young Achilles, I almoſt tremble to think how deſperately he may rage, when he finds that his haughty Brifeis is torn from him. But cou⯑rage, my dear! have we not the ſweet ſoothing Lucy, to mollify and humanize the outrageouſly indignant hero? Courage! I ſay again — I am determined to hope that every thing will end happily, though our preſent ſituation, Hea⯑ven knows, affords but too much room for in⯑quietude and anxiety. I meant to have requeſt⯑ed the favor of a long letter from you while I remain in town; but I now ſay, do not write but come to us as ſoon as you can in the country, for the dear diſcreet mother has reſolved that we ſhall paſs but one day more in this dangerous city. The morning after to-morrow we are to ſet forth all together for Sedley-Hall; and I have happily prevailed on my half reformed brother [277] to join our party, which affords infinite ſatisfac⯑tion to Cornelia, as ſhe hopes by his aſſiſtance to gain a greater inſight into William's amorous ſecrets than ſhe could probably obtain by any o⯑ther channel. She has determined (and there is, I think, as much wiſdom as delicacy in her determination) to abſtain, if poſſible, from all converſation with her ſon on the perilous ſubject. Heaven bleſs this incomparable parent, and make her as happy as ſhe deſerves to be! This is an honeſt little prayer, in which I am ſure, my dear Lucy, you will moſt cordially join

P. S. I have been delighted in hearing from Cornelia, that the perſon we uſed to talk of ſo inceſſantly, the admirable Giuliana, had the ad⯑dreſs to turn her old father, the Italian mer⯑chant, into an Engliſh gentleman; and that, after burying his old bones in this land of liberty and good ſenſe, ſhe is happily ſettled in your neighbourhood. I am charmed with the proſ⯑pect of ſoon ſeeing this intereſting perſonage. Don't you remember my ſaying, in my mad⯑cap-days, that I could willingly walk an hun⯑dred miles for a ſight of her?—Ah, Lucy! my legs cannot move as they uſed to do in thoſe days; but my ſpirits, thank Heaven! have their old or rather young nimble motion and affectionate alacrity, as I hope very ſoon to con⯑vince you in perſon. Farewell!

LETTER LX. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

I THANK and love you as I ought to do, for ſending me two ſuch comfortable and animating gueſts as your ſiſter and Giuliana ſo ſoon after my return. Think me not ungrateful or unreaſon⯑able, if I add, that even with theſe dear friends and comforters around me I feel a painful anxie⯑ty and impatience for your arrival.—Indeed I want a perſon of your experience and authority to direct we in all my conduct on this very bit⯑ter emergency. I have learnt from the appa⯑rently frank and friendly Mount Maurice, in whom I am half-willing and half-afraid to con⯑fide, though his excellent ſiſter aſſures me he is a very truſty confidant; I have learnt that Emi⯑ly has written to my ſon. Her letter is a very tender and eternal adieu: alas! I ſee but too plainly the exceſs of poor William's paſſion, in his change of countenance and behaviour ſince [279] this letter arrived. His ſufferings pierce me to the ſoul. I try to ſooth him in vain; and I feel it very neceſſary to check myſelf in my endea⯑vours to do ſo, leſt I ſhould betray what his of⯑fended paſſion would hardly forgive. I hope, however, that the charming little groupe of friends aſſembled here may gradually diſſipate his touching melancholy, eſpecially if we can detain him here; and, as his birth-day is now ſo nigh, he cannot form any decent pretence for leaving us before that feſtival arrives, for which we are already beginning to make chearful pre⯑parations. Alas! I make them with a very trembling heart. Should this dear and moſt un⯑happily enamoured youth make a precipitate and blind uſe of the privilege which the approach⯑ing important day will confer upon him, all my hopes will be blaſted, and I muſt be miſerable for ever.

You kindly aſſure me, that you and Frances will certainly be with us on the evening before this intereſting day. Muſt then ſuch a long and tedious fortnight paſs, before I can have the comfort of talking ſo you on the great ſubject that preſſes ſo heavily on my heart? Pray get rid, if poſſible, of your unſeaſonable gueſts; and be aſſured, that every additional day which you can beſtow upon me, before the period you have named for your arrival, will be a real benefit, as well as an inexpreſſible obligation, conferred on

LETTER LXI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

INDEED, my dear brother, we want you here very much. Our poor Cornelia has juſt been ſurprized, and is almoſt diſtracted, by a very unexpected letter from this tormenting abominable Emily. There is nothing violent or inſulting in her letter; on the contrary, it is full of the moſt [...] [...]eſpect: but this bewitch⯑ing creature has [...] paid all the money ſhe accept⯑ed, and ſeems to intimate, though ambiguouſly, that her motive for this reſtoration is a diſtant hope of aſpiring to that honour which, with a modeſt propriety, ſhe had once, you know, ut⯑terly renounced.

This intimation, ambiguous as it is, has put Cornelia on the rack: we are all puzzled to ac⯑count for the contents of this alarming letter; and the more ſo, as we are certain that the poor enamoured William has not written to his miſ⯑treſs ſince he received that epiſtle from her which threw him into a wild and wayward melancho⯑ly. In that point his pride triumphed over his affection: but this perilous affection is juſt blown afreſh into a blaze of joy, for he alſo has a letter from [...]m [...]ly, as we learn from Mount Maurice, with the contents of which he is viſi⯑bly [281] tranſported, though our capital ſpy has not yet been able to aſcertain theſe contents. But here is the good zealous ſiſter of that ſpy: here is Louiſa juſt come to tell me the whole myſtery, while her brother is imparting it to Cornelia. Emily, it ſeems, did actually ſet out for France; but ſhe was recalled, to receive a conſiderable legacy juſt fallen to her by the death of a peer, with whom ſhe once lived, and whom ſhe quit⯑ted (as you will remember we heard) from ge⯑nerous motives of tenderneſs to his ſiſter. Were this all, we ſhould perhaps have but little to fear; the worſt is yet to come. Fortune, in her ca⯑price, ſeems reſolved to laviſh all her favours on this frail and miſchievous beauty. She has juſt received from a certain amorous prince on the Continent the moſt dazzling overtures—nothing leſs, I aſſure you, than the offer of a ſplendid eſtabliſhment for life, and a title of dutcheſs. This offer the bewitching Emily has encloſed to her beloved William, in the ardent hope that ſo ſtriking a ſacrifice of ambition may atone for all paſt deficiencies in point of chaſtity, and induce even his mother to think her not unworthy of his hand. The fond youth, as you may ſuppoſe, is almoſt frantic with joy and eagerneſs to em⯑brace the fair, who prefers him to a prince. Mount Maurice told his ſiſter, "That from the impetuoſity of his young friend in their private converſation on this topic, he did not believe any power in the world would be ſufficient to prevent the marriage:" but the latter part of this information Mount Maurice has very pru⯑dently reſolved not to communicate to Cornelia till you arrive.—No words can tell you how ve⯑ry [282] eagerly your ſpeedy preſence is prayed for by all the poor frightened cabinet-council here, and particularly by

LETTER LXII. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH! my dear friend, my laſt reſource! though your kind ſiſter tells me, ſhe has written you a moſt preſſing letter, and acquainted you with all my diſtreſs, I muſt ſend a few lines to you myſelf. Alas! my dear counſellor, I begin to fear that this impending evil (ſurely the moſt bitter that could have befallen me) is now be⯑coming inevitable. My poor impaſſioned and impetuous William will be as deaf as the wind to any thing that I can dare to ſay to him. I ventured juſt now (being alone with him) to touch, though diſtantly and lightly, on the ter⯑rific ſubject. I ventured to expreſs a hope, that he would never marry without my concurrence. —He replied, "That, my deareſt mother, is more than I muſt promiſe even to you."— "Why ſo?"—"Becauſe, Madam, the pre⯑judices [283] of Virtue are ſometimes as violent as thoſe of Love; and when they are ſo, believe me, they are more cruel and unjuſt." He ſaid this with an air at once ſo tender and imperious, that I could hardly help exclaiming with a burſt⯑ing heart, "Alas! my child, thou art a ſecond Seymour!" Oh, Edmund! if he is deſtined to prove, like our loſt and ever lamented friend, the victim of precipitate paſſion, though in a different manner; what but extreme miſery in the various periods of my life can be the portion of

For Heaven's ſake, haſten to us as faſt as poſſible.

LETTER LXIII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

IT grieves me to the ſoul that I cannot inſtant⯑ly appear upon a ſummons which my heart is ſo [284] willing to obey; but, alas! a moſt cruel, un⯑ſettled, and tormenting gout, is flying about me in ſuch a manner, that it is utterly impoſſi⯑ble for me to quit my own houſe. All I can ſay at preſent is, that before this letter reaches you, my dear Frances (whatever I may ſuffer from the abſence of ſuch an invaluable attendant) ſhall be on her road to your houſe, and entruſt⯑ed with that caſket of jewels which I had vainly propoſed to myſelf ſo much pleaſure from the hope of delivering in perſon. Truſt, however, I conjure you, my excellent friend, in Heaven, and the influence of your own pure angelic mind over your ſon, in a conference which you wiſe⯑ly defer to the laſt moment. When you find him on the point of leaving home, you muſt be ſilent no longer; but open your whole over burthened heart to him, and exert all the ten⯑derneſs and all the authority of a parent. If it is poſſible for me to be with you before that diſ⯑treſſing explanation ſhould take place, you ſhall certainly ſee

P. S. Pray tell my young friend, that as I ſend my daughter as my proxy to celebrate his birth-day, if my preſent malady renders me unable to follow her (and I fear it will), I ſhall depend on receiving very ſoon a charitable viſit from him: [285] tell him, I think both his gallantry and his grati⯑tude will induce him to eſcort my ſiſter and Fran⯑ces home again, when he conſiders how ſenſibly ſuch a poor invalid as I am muſt feel their ab⯑ſence.

I flatter myſelf my dear Madam, that I might have ſome influence over his mind, if I were able to hold a long and private diſcourſe with him, and if I continue unable to move, you will, I hope, uſe your beſt endeavours to procure for me the opportunity that my bodily infirmities will not allow me to procure for myſelf. I might ſay much to him, that ſo gentle a mother could hardly ſay. Think of this; and I conjure you not to deſpair. Adieu!

LETTER LXIV. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

I THOUGHT nothing could diſtreſs me more than your illneſs at this unfortunate time: but I believe I love your child ſtill better than [286] yourſelf; and I have been terrified almoſt out of my ſenſes for our dear Frances. Be not how⯑ever, alarmed; ſhe is ſafe, I thank Heaven, under my care, after a providental eſcape from a moſt alarming accident, which has added to the miſerable confuſion that now reigns, to my infinite ſorrow, in this troubled houſe. But our dear girl, I muſt repeat to you, is ſafe; and though ſhe has a ſevere gaſh in the upper part of her left arm, her health is not injured, and her lovely perſon not materially disfigured. The miſchief happened not more than three or four miles from this place. A coach full of holiday people, with drunken men and wild horſes, ei⯑ther accidental or with wanton malice, drove againſt your chaiſe, and overſet it. Moſt fortu⯑nately, the glaſs on the ſide of our dear Frances was down; but the violence of the ſhock threw her forcibly forward, cut her left arm with the front glaſs, and ſtunned her for ſome little time by beating her head againſt the door. Her thick hair very happily ſaved her from material injury; or we might have loſt, my dear Edmund, the chief ſupport and delight of your life and mine, by this horrible miſchance. Let us think of this eſcape, and be as thankful as we ought to be. The dear Frances behaves with her uſual ſenſe and ſpirit. Her wound has been dreſſed by the intelligent Brenſil, who aſſures us all, that we have not even the ſlighteſt ill conſe⯑quence to apprehend; the ſweet girl, however, is much troubled in her mind by a loſs for which ſhe is certainly not to blame, eſpecially as that loſs ſeems to have ariſen from her extreme care of the precious depoſit with which ſhe was en⯑truſted. She had the little mahogany box con⯑taining [287] the caſket of jewels in her hand at the moment of the miſchance, and ſuppoſes that the ſhock, which ſtunned her, threw what ſhe held from her hand into the road. But the confuſion was too great for any thing to be known very clearly. Martha and Stephen confeſs, that they thought only of their bleeding young miſtreſs; and I believe, indeed, they would both have giv⯑en all the jewels in the world, if they had been under their care, to have ſtaunched the blood of our idolized Frances. However the evil might happen, the caſket is loſt; the road has been ſearched in vain; and I think it proper to ſend off an expreſs to you with this painful in⯑telligence, as I apprehend you may wiſh to ſend an account of the loſs to London, and perhaps to advertiſe ſome deſcription of the jewels, which nobody can do but yourſelf. I cannot ſay but I am bitterly grieved for the loſs of this caſket; but what, alas! are the moſt coſtly jewels but vain remembrancers of ſplendid miſery to perſons ſo ſick at heart as the dear unfortunate miſtreſs of this noble manſion is at this moment! Her affectionate and gentle ſpirit is bent indeed to the earth; though, with a ſweetneſs and ge⯑neroſity peculiar to herſelf, ſhe labours to hide her own various afflictions, and exerts herſelf to the utmoſt to ſooth and conſole the immediate vexation of poor Frances.

I have delayed lending this, although the man and horſe have been waiting for it ſome hours, to take the chance of a ſecond ſearch on the road; but this has been as vain as the former. During this interval, I had ſome private conver⯑ſation with Cornelia, that has made me as wretched as herſelf. She has been apprized of [288] of all the danger from Emily; ſhe has had a ſecret conference with her ſon; it was very ſhort; and you will judge of her preſent anguiſh of mind from my only repeating to you the laſt words of that conference: "Reflect, my dear child; and tell me what your feelings will be if you find that the woman you have married is treated with contempt by all the world!"— "I can anſwer you, my dear Madam, moſt clearly: I ſhall feel proud that my own heart has more juſtice than all the world; and, be⯑lieve me, I ſhall return its contempt ten-fold." —"I have done, thou dear unhappy youth: thou art under the influence of a fatal, though a generous delirium, from which I foreſee it will not be in my power to ſave thee. I have only to pray to God, which I do with my whole ach⯑ing heart, that he will either take me from the earth, or allow me to mitigate in ſome future years that exceſs of miſery which I perceive thou art determined to draw upon thyſelf."

Alas! my dear Edmund, what a wretched morning is this, to make part of a day moſt eagerly expected and deſtined in our viſions (ſo cruelly deluſive!) to a general feſtivity of heart!

I have juſt left the dear long-ſuffering and now overwhelmed Cornelia reclining on her bed, with our angelic Giuliana by her ſide. She has one of theſe oppreſſive head-achs that ariſe from ſuch perturbation of heart and ſoul; but this incomparable mother is reſolved, if poſſible, to collect a little ſtrength from repoſe, and ap⯑pear with tolerable ſerenity at this inauſpicious feaſt, from which ſhe has had ſome thoughts of withdrawing, but where, at the intreaty of her [289] ſhe has conſented to preſide. Heavens, what a feſtival! All the houſe ſeems in trouble, though many know not why, and particularly our ſweet innocent niece. Poor little Lucy is certainly, as Cornelia ſays, deeply enamoured of William; and we have, therefore, made a point of keeping her as much in the dark as poſſi⯑ble. This circumſtance affects our tender Cornelia ſo much, that whenever ſhe ſpeaks to this ſweet girl, ſhe is ready to burſt into tears, yet con⯑trives to conceal from her the real cauſe of her emotion.

I muſt not detain the meſſenger any longer, on account of the preſſing buſineſs of the loſt jewels; I will only add, that, diſtreſſed as I am, I will endeavour to draw ſome good out of evil, and if poſſible chear myſelf with the hope that this returning expreſs will bring me a better and a more ſpeedy account of your amendment in health than I ſhould otherwiſe have had. To hear that your diſorder has left you, or at leaſt is ſettled into the ſafeſt appearances, will, I aſ⯑ſure you, be a very comfortable medicine, to the dejected ſpirits of

Our dear Frances ſalutes you with the fond [...]ſt expreſſions of duty and affection.

LETTER LXV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH my very dear and excellent old friend! why are you not well, and with us, to make the happineſs of Cornelia complete?—Yes the hap⯑pineſs of Cornelia!—You will leap for joy, in ſpite of the gout itſelf, at thoſe welcome words; and my letter, I am confident, will accelerate your recovery; for what cordial in the world is ſo powerful as unexpected generous joy to ſuch a warm and benevolent heart? Yes, my dear anxious Edmund, the diſtracted mother is made happy—happy for the firſt time in her life! happy to ſuch a degree as language is unable to expreſs! But you will gueſs at the exquiſite nature of my preſent ſenſations, when I tell you that I have recovered the alienated ſpirit of my ſon? He loves me; he obeys me; he will be every thing that I wiſh him to be; and the de⯑light of all delights is, to be indebted, as I am for this unutterable bleſſing to the provident ten⯑derneſs, to the godlike ſpirit, of our beloved Sey⯑mour!—Oh, Edmund! I am ſo wild with tranſport, that you will hardly underſtand per⯑haps what I write; yet I ſhould think myſelf an ungrateful wretch, if I did not attempt to [291] you with my own hand a full hiſtory of the bleſſed change in my fate. I will begin where your ſiſter Lucy left off; for ſhe ſays ſhe diſ⯑patched to you a ſad picture of me, reclining on my bed. I had reſted there about an hour quite alone, and felt my ſpirits a little compoſed by quiet and ſilent prayer; when I was agreea⯑bly ſurprized by your ſiſter, with my ſon Willi⯑am in one hand, and the loſt caſket in the other, followed by Giuliana, with her arm round the half reluctant Lucy the younger, who was afraid of intruding.

The warm-hearted and active Mount Mau⯑rice, being deeply touched by the ſweet Fran⯑ces's lamentation for the loſs of the caſket, had ſet himſelf at day-break this morning to make a very laborious and patient ſearch to recover it, by examining a watery ditch by the ſide of the road, into which Frances imagines ſhe muſt have caſt it in her ſudden terror of its be⯑ing cruſhed to pieces. When he returned in triumph with his treaſure, Giuliana particular⯑ly requeſted that the caſket might be opened immediately in my chamber, and only in the preſence of the few perſons whom I have men⯑tioned. You, my dear Edmund, who have known all my fondneſs for our lamented friend, will eaſily conceive the emotions of my heart, when your ſiſter, as your repreſentative un⯑locked this ineſtimable caſket, and after taking out the rich jewels (which the young Lucy only was calm enough to admire) delivered two pa⯑pers to my ſon; one of theſe appeared to be a letter directed to him, which Giuliana entreat⯑ed him to read aloud. He did ſo; and here is a copy of what he read.

[297]I will not attempt, my dear Edmund, to de⯑ſcribe to you our various emotions while this let⯑ter was read. I will only ſay, that my dear feel⯑ing William ſoon found his voice falter. Giuli⯑ana offered to relieve him. He declined her aſſiſtance; and continued to read, but could not advance without frequent pauſes. At one paſ⯑ſage, which you will eaſily gueſs, he terrified me by ſtarting up abruptly to quit the room; but he ſaid in a tremulous tone as he went out, "I will return in a few minutes." Theſe minutes were dreadfully long; a thouſand terrors, mixt with a gleam of the brighteſt hope, darted acroſs my mind in this affecting interval. He had the letter in his hand, and the paper annexed to it, which proved to be a full narrative of all that paſſed in the houſe of my good old friend Mr. Danvers.

My ſon did not return to us, as he afterwards confeſſed, till he had peruſed this paper; and the effects of it on his heart and mind were as full and forcible as our infinitely dear and provi⯑dent Seymour could have wiſhed them to be.

That animated ſweetneſs and benignity which you have often admired in the countenance of my dear William, but which for ſome days had utterly diſappeared, was viſible again when he re-entered my chamber, where the little party remained in almoſt breathleſs expectation of his return. Seating himſelf by my ſide, he ſeized my hand, and kiſſed it as he began to read the following words, "But let us baniſh theſe pain⯑ful and diſtreſſing images," &c.

He concluded the letter in a very audible, un⯑interrupted voice, but not without dropping tears on the cloſe of it. Then throwing himſelf into [298] my arms with an air of unutterable tenderneſs, he exclaimed, "Deareſt and moſt admirable of parents, you have not ſuffered in vain; I feel the hand of Heaven itſelf, in the wondrous co-in⯑cidence of theſe dying admonitions, and the pe⯑rilous folly of your ſon. Oh generous Seymour, thou wert indeed inſpired by the ſpirit of hea⯑venly benevolence. Oh, that thou couldeſt have lived to have directed! But I will yet obey thee as my father. Take my dear Madam, take to your own boſom theſe invaluable memo⯑rials of your unexampled merit, and let them be the pledges of my unlimited obedience. Yes, moſt perfect and moſt beloved of mothers, it ſhall be the chief pride of my life to be fully ſenſible of your perfection, and to comply with all your deſires."

Oh, my dear Edmund! I could make no anſwer to my child but by folding him to my heart. My voice was utterly drowned, and the tears of the two Lucys were almoſt as abundant and overwhelming as mine. Our dear and more ſpirited Giuliana did not weep; but her keen eyes flaſhed with a kind of fiery exultation and with that livelineſs of geſture which is pecu⯑liar to herſelf, ſhe caught William in her arms, and kiſſed him; ſaying, "Now indeed you are the true ſon of our Cornelia; but come, you have done but half your duty; I muſt, teach you the reſt." We all gazed upon her with aſto⯑niſhment, and were utterly at a loſs to conceive her meaning; but ſhe ſoon explained herſelf by new and ſignificant geſtures. Taking a very beautiful croſs from the jewels that lay before us ſhe ſlipt a little ſilk cord into the loop at the top of it, and having rapidly faſtened it on the [299] neck of your niece, ſhe exclaimed, "Here, William, is the only girl in the world to whom theſe jewels can properly belong. Lucy, hav⯑ing been trained, like yourſelf, by your incom⯑parable mother, is the only perſon alive who can love you both as you both deſerve to be loved." I confeſs to you, my dear Edmund, that I was hath pleaſed and frightened by this rapturous and almoſt indiſcreet ſally in our dear warm-hearted Giuliana. But ſhe has ſince truly ſaid to me, that ſhe is no bad judge of the human heart; and ſhe felt it was a moment when a bold ſtroke in a young maiden's favour might be ſafely taken. The dear modeſt Lucy was indeed diſtreſſed by the ſpeech, and was covered with thoſe eloquent bluſhes that ſay a great deal to an intelligent heart. My ſon, with very ten⯑der gallantry, kiſſed both the croſs and the dam⯑ſel, exclaiming, "If my ſweet couſin can real⯑ly love me as a huſband, let her join me in vowing implicit obedience to this beſt of pa⯑rents." "Oh! replied the poor Lucy (with a moſt maidenly embarraſſment), that is a vow I have ſufficiently made already." "But you will not (cried William, with a kind of half-jea⯑lous quickneſs, that I own delighted me), you will not, my dear Lucy, refuſe to renew ſuch a vow at my requeſt." "Moſt aſſuredly not," ſaid the ſweet girl with more courage. And here I folded them both to my boſom, and put an end to a converſation that I now thought it prudent to check, by entreating William to call his brother, that I might make him and all our gueſts below immediate partakers of my fe⯑licity.

[300]Our feſtival, though it began in the moſt gloomy manner, has thus, my dear Edmund, proved a day of cordial delight, which wanted only your preſence to render it complete. In ſome meaſure, however, I ſeem to have had you preſent in your lovely daughter, who is univer⯑ſally admired, and particularly by one gentle⯑man to whom I confeſs myſelf partial: but Lou⯑iſa charges me not to ſpeak on this ſubject, as ſhe ſays it belongs to her; and ſhe threatens to come and talk to you in perſon. I have now been chatting to you a great part of the night. No great ſacrifice, believe me; for I am much too much elevated in ſpirits to go ſoon to ſleep, though my gueſts, after the happy feſ⯑tivity of the evening, are gone peaceably to their pillows. I ſhall diſpatch this to you by an expreſs before the break of day, not only from my eagerneſs to compenſate for all the pain I have given you, by admitting you as ſpeedily as poſſible to your due ſhare in my preſent happi⯑neſs; but to receive, I hope, a moſt favourable as well as ſpeedy account of your returning health. Adieu! A thouſand kind wiſhes ſalute you from this houſe, and particularly from the grateful heart of

Colonel Moreton, who arrived here to dinner, ſays he was a ſchool-fellow of your's, and that he longs to renew his acquaintance with you.

LETTER LXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

THE excellent account which you have been ſo good as to give me of yourſelf has ſet my heart quite at reſt. I was very uneaſy about you, in ſpite of the gaiety here; but now I am all peace and exultation. The delicious ſcene of domeſtic harmony and happineſs before me has made me quite young again; and as I have wiſely reſolved not to fall in love any more for myſelf, I have actually fallen in love for your daughter. Seriouſly, I am perſuaded that you will find the frank and pleaſant Mount Maurice a huſband not unworthy of our dear Frances. They ſeem to be in a very fair way of being ſufficiently pleaſed with each other. Now do not, with your uſual quickneſs of parental anxi⯑ety, order a chaiſe, and, gouty as you are, poſt away to Sedley-Hall. No, my dear Edmund, you may truſt me, you know, for a Duenna, the only part that I am now fit to play. In ſo⯑ber truth, you muſt not come hither, though [302] you ſeem to hint at ſuch a deſign.—Why ſo pray?—Well, do not be alarmed—the real rea⯑ſon is, becauſe the whole party here have it in agitation to ſurprize you with a viſit; to aſk your bleſſing, to be ſure, &c. &c.

Our enchanting young hoſt here declares, that he conſiders it as a point of duty, honour, and gratitude, to accept your friendly invitation; and that he is bound in perſon to reſtore your lovely daughter to the father who was ſo kind as to indulge us all with her ſweet ſociety at ſuch a time. It was indeed very good in you; and we are all grateful. Heaven will reward you, if I prophecy aright, by providing here juſt ſuch a ſon-in-law for you as I have often heard you wiſh to find. Truſt me, Mount Maurice is per⯑fectly cured of his furious paſſion for Emily; and, as he juſtly obſerved to me, a little taſte of true virtuous delight is ſufficient to wean an ho⯑neſt heart from licentious allurements. He does however great juſtice to many ſingular good qua⯑lities in poor Emily; and frankly confeſſes, that he once fooliſhly offered an immenſe ſum to purchaſe her favours without ſucceeding.—Wil⯑liam has written to her; and ſent her a very elegant preſent, with which his mother ſupplied him, being charmed, as ſhe told me, with the ſpirit and delicacy of his letter. I was delight⯑ed as ſhe was, by his amiable ingenuouſneſs, in giving her a ſight of this letter. He has juſt received poor Emily's reply. Cornelia brought it to me this moment; and, as ſhe knows your ſecrecy, allows me to tranſcribe it.

And now, my dear ſuſpicious Edmund, I know you will think Cornelia and me little bet⯑ter than a couple of watery-eyed ſimpletons, when I tell you we wept in concert over this little billet, and gave the writer full credit for the ſincerity of her affection.

But we will talk no more of ſuch perſonages. Thank Heaven, the period is now come, for which we have ſo often and ſo ardently prayed. I ſee the heart of our incomparable friend as full of delight as we have formerly ſeen it of affliction. I need not tell you, that I take a moſt lively ſhare (who does not?) in her tranſ⯑port. After bitter apprehenſions of finding myſelf a falſe prophet, I exult at length in the veracity of my prediction; and with a delight⯑ful confidence I go on to propheſy, that I ſhall have the cordial ſatisfaction of ſeeing both our matchleſs Cornelia and my dear Edmund very thoroughly rewarded for every paſt ſuffering in the happy marriage and future permanent hap⯑pineſs of their children. The proſpect for both is as fair as we can wiſh it to be; and I boldly foretell, that the event in each caſe will be of the ſame charming complexion.

Pray, as I have not the youth and beauty of a Caſſandra, let me have the comfort of having [305] my prophecies believed; and believe me alſo on every occaſion,

Our dear Fanny ſpeaks for herſelf in a ſepa⯑rate letter.