LETTER I.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

TELL me, my dear philoſophie, wiſe ſiſter, why thoſe gloomy mortals, ſtiled mora⯑liſts, take ſo much pains to put us out of hu⯑mour with our preſent ſtate of exiſtence, by de⯑claring that happineſs is not the lot of man, &c. &c. Do they think theſe dogmas enhance the value of felicity, as unexpected bleſſings are moſtly prized? or is it that themſelves, ſoured by mortifications and diſappointments, which their vanity or caprice have occaſioned, they are unwilling to acknowledge that degree of per⯑fection, in any ſtate of being, which they do not themſelves enjoy? but why do I argue, where I can at once confute? by declaring your Emily bleſſed to the utmoſt extent of her moſt ro⯑mantic wiſhes; and feeling, if poſſible, an ad⯑dition to her felicity, by knowing that you ſhare it.

[8]OUR journey was delightful; even the ſun, which had not appeared for ſome days, ſhone forth on us, in its full luſtre: creation ſmiled; the gladneſs of my heart gilded every object; I thought the birds ſung hymeneals, and I was ſorry when even Miſs Weſton's fine voice inter⯑rupted their ſtill ſweeter notes. My lord was—himſelf. I cannot ſay more, to expreſs all that is tender, elegant, and polite.

LADY Harriet, who you know, is of the gen⯑tle kind, looked aſſent to our happineſs; yet fre⯑quent ſighs eſcaped her. Why ſhould ſhe ſigh? I have heard people ſay they do ſo from habit, without ſenſibility, or ſenſation. Time and uſe may poſſibly work ſuch an effect, but this habit muſt certainly have its riſe, either from ſickneſs, or ſorrow. Perhaps lady Harriet may be in love If unhappily ſo, how truly to be pitied;

IT is impoſſible I ſhould yet be able to give you any idea of this fine old ſeat, nor do I think I ſhall ever attempt it. I had much rather you ſhould ſee than read its beauties. I hate flou⯑riſhing deſcriptions. Modern writers over-dreſs nature, as ill judging women do themſelves. They give her parterres for patches, hanging woods for lappets, and embroider her beautiful green gown, with all the colours of the rainbow. I flatter myſelf that your taſte (for it is elegant) will ap⯑prove whatever my lord has planned; and I ſhall not inſiſt much on your admiring the works of his anceſtors. The cloſet in which I am now writing is charmingly ſituated. It commands—but after what I have juſt ſaid, let me command my pen.

MY lord, ever kind and attentive to me, wrote to his ſiſter, Lady Lawſon, who lives eight miles off, to defer her viſit, till this day, as it was probable I might have been fatigued with my [9] journey. He ſpeaks with ſuch extreme tender⯑neſs of this lady, that I begin to love her, alrea⯑dy, by anticipation.

BUT hark, her carriage rolls into the court. yard, and my heart ſteps forth to meet her; but returns again to aſſure my dear Fanny, that I am

LETTER II.
Lady STRAFFON to Lady WOODVILLE.

MAY my deareſt Emily ever continue an exception to thoſe opinions, which notwith⯑ſtanding her preſent felicity, have too ſurely their foundation in this world's experience. The bit⯑ter ingredients of life, are, however, more ſpa⯑ringly ſcattered in the potions of ſome, than others; and I believe there may be many who have paſſed through life, without feeling one na⯑tural misfortune.—But then, theſe favourites of heaven, unworthy of its bounty, are apt to cre⯑ate afflictions for themſelves, and mourn over ideal for want of real diſtreſs.

THIS is a failing I am not at all apprehenſive of your falling into, at leaſt for ſome years to come; but as I have ever acted as a mother to my deareſt Emily, or at leaſt, endeavoured, as far as it was poſſible for me, to ſupply that loſs to her infant years, let me now, with the ſame maternal tenderneſs, warn her againſt the con⯑trary extreme, that of being too much elated with her preſent joys, ‘"leſt whilſt ſhe claſps ſhe kills them."’

[10]AND now, my Emily, a truce with moraliz⯑ing, which I confeſs, would have been improper at this aera, but that you brought it on yourſelf; and I only appear in the character of the ſlave, who attended the triumphs of the Roman con⯑querors, merely to inform them they were mor⯑tal. Gracious heaven! that ſuch an information ſhould be neceſſary, to any of thy frail creatures! But I find myſelf relapſing, and will learn from you to command my pen.

POOR lady Harriet! I am ſorry ſhe ſhould have cauſe to ſigh; for I agree with you, that ſighing may be incidental, but not accidental. I hope the gay ſcene of receiving and returning viſits, &c. in which ſhe will be engaged with you, may help to diſſipate the cloud of her cha⯑grin. I rejoice in the acquiſition of your new ſiſter; ſhe muſt be amiable if lord Woodville loves her. What a compliment to my Emily! but let it rather make her grateful than vain.

I FEAR I ſhall not have an opportunity of approving my taſte, by admiring lord Woodville's improvements, for ſome time. Sir John, who is not a little jealous of your not having menti⯑oned him, purpoſes going, for a couple of months to Paries. Do not grow jealous, in your turn. I do not intend to accompany him, to that gay ſcene, which would have fewer charms for me, than the rational and rural pleaſures of Woodfort. But I deſign to inoculate my little Edward and Emily, during his abſence. I ſhall not acquaint him with my intention, till it is over. I know he wiſhes it done; and I would ſpare him the anxiety of a fond father, upon ſuch an occaſion. I know too he will be vaſtly obliged to me, for laying hold of this opportunity; for it is an invariable maxim, that all men hate trou⯑ble of every kind, and chooſe to be out of the [11] way, when there is any diſagreeable operation to be performed

MY ſiſter Straffon, who you know is to be married to Sir James Miller, has determined to take her chance with my children. She ſays ſhe could not anſwer it to her conſcience, to marry Sir James, who ſeems to be enamoured of her face, till ſhe has put her features beyond the common danger of an alteration. I went with her laſt night, to Ranelagh—as ſhe ſaid, to take leave of it: I hope but for a ſhort time.

THE attention of the whole aſſemby, was taken up with a beautiful foreigner, the marchi⯑oneſs de St. Aumont. I think I never beheld ſo much vivacity and ſweetneſs joined, before, in the ſame countenance. I have juſt looked up at your picture, and thought it tacitly reproached me, for having ſo ſoon forgot my Emily's face. I'll look again. Her eyes have more vivacity, I muſt confeſs, but yours a greater ſweetneſs. Hers are black, yours are blue. The advantage which each of you have, over the other, in this parti⯑cular, may be more owing to colour, than ex⯑preſſion.

THE marchioneſs has been a widow, about a year, and does not appear to be above twenty. I am certain that if I were a man, I ſhould be in love with her. I am glad ſhe has left Paris, before my Straffon goes thither—you may read Strephon if you pleaſe. I ſhall take care to keep him out of danger, while he ſtays in London; or perhaps, ſhe might keep him ſighing at home, and ſo mar both his ſcheme and mine. The very beſt of theſe men, my dear Emily, have hearts nearly reſembling tinder, though they would have us think they are made of a ſterner ſtuff—a ſparkling eye ſets them all in a blaze.

[12]LADY Sandford, who doats upon foreigners, has already engroſſed her; perhaps ſhe may en⯑gage her to go with her into the country. If ſo, you will, probably meet her, at York races; and if that ſhould happen, it will be abſolutely neceſſary for lord Woodville to arm himſelf, cap-à pie, with conſtancy, and for you alſo, to rivet the joints of that armour, with unaffected complacency, chearfulneſs and love.

LUCY and Sir James Miller are in the draw⯑ing-room. I fancy ſhe is tired of a tête-a-tête, as the fondeſt lovers ſometimes are; for ſhe has juſt ſent your little name-ſake, to requeſt my company. I muſt, therefore, quit you, to at⯑tend her ſummons. I ſhall expect a particular account of all occurrences, at Woodfort as the moſt minute matter, that relates to you, muſt ever be of conſequence to your affectionate.

P.S. As I have yet time enough to ſend my letter, I ſhall acquaint you with the occaſion of my being called from it. Lucy had juſt in⯑formed Sir James that ſhe intended to be inocu⯑lated. He oppoſed it, with the utmoſt vehe⯑mence, and told many ſtories, upon that ſubject, to intimidate her. In vain; ſhe continued firm to her purpoſe.

HE then entreated that they might be married before the operation, and he would give his con⯑ſent to her undergoing it, in ten days after. This ſhe abſolutely refuſed; and, I think, with good reaſon. The altercation grew warm, on both ſides; I was choſen umpire; and gave my opinion, in favour of Lucy's arguments. Sir James ſaid I was a partial judge, and quitted us, ſoon after, with ſome little warmth.

[13]I WAS ſorry to perceive a ſtarting tear in Lu⯑cy's lovely eye, and rallied her, on being low⯑ſpirited. She confeſſed ſhe felt a kind of forebo⯑ding, that the union between Sir James and her, would never be accompliſhed; and yet ſaid, ſhe had not the leaſt apprehenſion that her death would prevent it. I told her that I foreſaw no⯑thing elſe that could, as her beauty was even leſs in danger from this experiment than her life.

SHE replied, that they were both of them but tranſient bleſſings, and ſhe had, happily, brought her mind to ſuch a ſtate of reſignation, as to be fully prepared for the loſs of either. But ſhe owned that ſhe had not yet accuſtomed herſelf to the thought of reſigning Sir James: however, if ſhe was to loſe his affection, ſhe could better ſuſtain that affliction, bofore marri⯑age, than after.

HERE her eyes ſtreamed again, and while I was endeavouring to diſſipate theſe gloomy va⯑pours, Sir John luckily came in, to the relief of us both, as it put an end to the ſubject of inocu⯑lation, which I told you before, he is not to receive the leaſt hint about, for the preſent. But Lucy and he are affectionately yours, and rejoice with me in your happineſs.

Once more, adieu, and good night.

LETTER III.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I DID not inſiſt upon the permanence of hu⯑man felicity. I ſaid only, that there was ſuch a thing as perfect happineſs, and, I hope, with a truly grateful heart, acknowledged myſelf in poſſeſſion of that rare treaſure. However, your letter has given a little alloy to it, and ren⯑dered it leſs pure and unmixed.

I FEEL for you on your children's account, and for Lucy on her own. She has long deter⯑mined on inoculation: ſhe mentioned it to lady Harriet, before I was married, and made her will, the day after ſhe became of age. I admire her fortitude, but fear I ſhould not be able to imitate it.

YOUR deſcription of the marchioneſs, is really alarming, and has already made me jea⯑lous not of lord Woodville, but of lady Straffon. If you ſhould ever become acquainted with her, ſhe will certainly rival every body, but Sir John, and the dear little ones. Perhaps Lucy's heroiſm may ſtill preſerve her ſome place in your heart, but the poor abſent Emily will be totally forgot⯑ten, when you already begin to ſtand in need of her picture to remind you of her.

MY lord, and lady Harriet, both knew her in Paris and both agree that the charms of her per⯑ſon are inferior to thoſe of her mind; and that ſhe was ſtill more admired, as un bel eſprit, than as une belle dame. Won't you give me credit for the utmoſt generoſity, in furniſhing you with this account of my rival that is to be?

[15]I HOPE ſhe may come to York races, that I may have an opportunity of examining this phoenix, with a critic's eye; but it ſhall not be like the modern ones, who are, generally, ſo intent on ſpying defects, that they are apt to overlook the moſt ſtriking beauties. This, how⯑ever, may ſometimes proceed rather from a want of taſte, than a ſpirit of malevolence, and I am always inclined to pity thoſe unhappy peo⯑ple, who never ſeem to be pleaſed.

CHARMING lady Lawſon! What an engag⯑ing countenance, what a quick ſenſibility in her looks, what an irreſſiſtible ſmile! I am not under a neceſſity of looking at my bracelet, to remind me that this portrait reſembles lady Straffon: but lady Lawſon is taller, thinner, and more of the brunette. She is two years younger than my lord, and has been married ſix years, to Sir Wil⯑liam Lawſon, who ſeems to be what they call a jolly good-humoured man. He hates Lon⯑don, loves fox hunting, and has, they ſay, no exception to a chearful glaſs, or a pretty laſs. I fear poor lady Lawſon was thrown away; though Sir William is generally eſteemed what they call a good huſband. He behaves outwardly well to his wife, merely becauſe ſhe is ſo, and would have treated her chambermaid, in the ſame man⯑ner, if he had happened to marry her. What a mortifying ſituation, to a woman of delicacy!

THE meeting between her and my lord, was truly affectionate, and tender. She had not ſeen him ſince his return from making the grand tour. She thanked him, in the moſt graceful manner, for increaſing her happineſs, by enſuring his own, and ſhe alſo hoped, that of ſo amiable a perſon, ſhe was pleaſed to add, as lady Woodville. My lord replied, that if any thing could add to his felicity, it muſt be her approbation of his choice, [16] which he was certain would encreaſe with her knowledge of his dear Emily. He then joined our hands, bowed, and withdrew. How kind in him to be ſpeak her favour for me! But I ſhall endeavour to deſerve, what ſhe ſeems ſo ready to beſtow.

LADY Harriet's dove-like eyes gliſtened with pleaſure at her couſin's politeneſs. She ſaid there was a nearer relation between lady Lawſon and me, than what my lord had given us, for we had kindred ſouls.

HERE the arrival of a great deal of company, put an end to all converſation. Is it not ſurpriz⯑ing, ſiſter, that where there are moſt words, there is generally the leaſt ſenſe? And yet, it is always the caſe; for I never remember to have met with any thing like rational diſcourſe, in a company that exceeded five or ſix.

LORD and Lady Withers, their two daugh⯑ters, the eldeſt a fine woman, and once intended as a wife for lord Woodville. The point had been ſettled between their fathers, but the death of old lord Woodville, happily for me, left the ſon at liberty to chuſe for himſelf. She appeared to be in ſome confuſion, when he ſaluted her, and I felt myſelf a good deal diſtreſſed on her account.

WOMEN are not ſuch wretches, as men miſ⯑repreſent them. Conqueſt, I own, is pleaſant, but I deteſt a triumph. It ſinks one, methinks, below the vanquiſhed. Her ſiſter is pretty, young, and modeſt. I think the whole family amiable, and agreeable.

SIR Harry Ransford, and his lady.—What a pair! He old, gouty, and peeviſh—ſhe young, handſome and vulgar. His ſon, by a former wife, polite, and ſenſible, with a well-made, genteel perſon. My lord and he were intimate [17] abroad. I wiſh he would fall in love with our dear lady Harriet. Nay, he certainly will do ſo. I can't poſſibly ſee how he can well avoid it.

MR. Watſon, Mr. Young, Mr. Haywood, &c. What a croud! You would have pitied me, Fanny. Though I have been four months married, I was ſo be-brided, and wiſhed joy, that it made me downright ſad. Lady Lawſon was very uſeful to me, in aſſiſting to entertain the company. She has, in her manners and ad⯑dreſs, a great deal of that graceful, and courtly eaſe, which I always admire in others, without having ever been able to obtain, in myſelf. But all farther endeavours after this perfection, are, henceforward, at an end with me, and I hope now to be able to preſerve my mauvaiſe bonte, during life; for after twenty, it is rarely to be overcome, without paying too dear, for the con⯑queſt.

IN the afternoon, the younger part of my lord's tenants appeared in the avenue, neatly dreſſed, and adorned with all the honours of the ſpring, and forming a long dance together. My lord propoſed our going out to ſee them; I found this had been deſigned, as there was a large car⯑pet ſpread on the lawn, and ſeats already pre⯑pared for us.

WHEN we were ſeated, they paſſed by, in couples, chanting a ruſtic hymn, in praiſe of Hymen, and ſtrewing flowers before me. At length, they preſented me with a beautiful, and fragrant wreath, which I immediately placed on lord Woodville's brow, while the villagers re⯑treated ſinging, and forming themſelves into a rural dance, infinitely more agreeable to me, than any of the grands balets, at the oppera, or [18] theatres. We left them at their ſport, and re⯑turned into the houſe.

AFTER tea, my lord propoſed our following the example of his merry peaſants. This was readily aſſented to, by every one, but Sir Harry Ransford, who told us he never lay within ten miles of his own houſe, after the twenty fifth of March; and inſiſted upon lady Ransford's going away with him, that inſtant, as he ſaid they ſhould hardly be able to reach home, by his uſual time of going to bed, at nine o'clock, ſummer and winter.

WE all intreated that he would permit lady Ransford to ſtay, which he peremptorily refuſed, ſaying, it would be ſetting an ill example to the bridegroom, to let women have their way. She ſaid every thing in her power to prevail, but when ſhe found it in vain, and that he would force her away, ſhe was provoked, at laſt to call him methodical monſter. He replied, that it was better to be one, by his own method, than hers, and hobbled into his coach. She followed, with the face of a fury. What a delightful tête-á-tête muſt theirs be!

MR. Ransford ſtaid, and danced with me. I think him the beſt dancer I ever ſaw. Our little ball got the better of all diſagreeable reſerve; and, at ſupper, we appeared like old acquain⯑tance, perfectly at eaſe, and quite chearful. My lord was in remarkable good ſpirits, a [...]d even lady Harriet ſeemed gay. The Wither's are a char⯑ming family; both the young ladies play on the harpſichord, and ſing finely.

WE had an agreeable concert the next day; they ſtaid till late in the evening. Sir William and lady Lawſon went home this morning We are to return their viſit to-morrow. Mr. Rans⯑ford is ſtill with us. He is a great lover of mu⯑ſic; [19] I fancy there is not much harmony in his fa⯑ther's houſe, and where the inſtruments of a ma⯑trimonial concert do not found in uniſon, the diſ⯑cord is moſt grating.

I SHALL long, impatiently, for every poſt, till I hear that all your patients are out of danger. Lucy's preſages with regard to Sir James, are on⯑ly the effect of low ſpirits. I never ſaw any man, I think, more in love, than he appears to be. I cannot, however bear the thoughts of his conſenting to her being inoculated ten days after their marriage. Selfiſh wretch I don't let Lucy ſee this paragraph.

I HAVE now ſhewn my obedience to my dear motherly ſiſter's commands, by entering into a minute detail of every thing that has paſſed at Woodfort. I am diſappointed at not having the pleaſure of ſeeing her here; yet I highly applaud the diſpoſition of that time ſhe promiſed to beſtow on

P.S. Sir John has no reaſon to be jealous, while I can, with truth, declare I love but one man in the world, better than him.

LETTER IV.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I AM much obliged to my dear Emily, for the entertaining detail of her amuſements in the country. I am charmed with your account of la⯑dy Lawſon, and am not, like my dear ſpoiled child, the leaſt inclined to be jealous. I thank you for the flattering likeneſs you have drawn of [20] me; may there be a ſtill ſtronger reſemblance between us, in our love and eſteem for lady Woodville!

I THINK you extremely happy in meeting with ſuch an amiable friend, in ſo agreeable a neighbour. She will, I doubt not, be kind enough to inform you of the Carte du pais, where you are ſituated: and what is of infinite⯑ly more conſequence to your happineſs, ſhe may acquaint you with the particulars of her bro⯑ther's temper; for be aſſured, all charming as he is, that he has ſome, the knowing and treating of which properly, may be the ſureſt baſis of your future felicity.

SIR John ſet out for Paris, laſt Monday, and, in an hour after, Mr. Ranby inoculated Lucy and my dear children. Though I have the firm⯑eſt reliance on the goodneſs of Providence, and the fulleſt conviction of the general ſucceſs of this opperation, the mother could not ſtand it. I was forced to retire to my cloſet. I repented my not having acquainted Sir John, with my deſign, and thought, that if any mifortune ſhould hap⯑pen to either of the children, even his grief would ſeem a conſtant reproach to me.

IN this ſituation of mind, I poured forth my ſoul in fervent prayer, before the throne of mer⯑cy. My apprehenſions vaniſhed, the rectitude of my intentions confirmed my reſolutions, and I felt myſelf perfectly calm, and reſigned. Amaz⯑ing efficacy of true devotion! But indeed, my dear Emily, there is no other reſource for the afflicted. No other balm to heal the wounded ſoul. By this, and this alone, we are enabled to triumph over pain, ſickneſs, diſtreſs, ſorrow, even death itſelf.

THE children are in a fine way, and have re⯑ceived the infection. Lucy, it is thought, has [21] not. She inſiſts upon being inoculated again, to⯑morrow. Sir James ſupped with us, on Sunday night; and told us with a grave face, that he ſhould not ſee us again, till his affair was quite over; for if he viſited here, he could go no where elſe. I laughed and bid him ſtay away, if he could.

THOUGH I did not think him ſerious, he has hitherto kept his word, but ſends a formal card, every day, to enquire of our healths. I ſee that his behaviour hurts Lucy, though ſhe affects not to take notice of it. I hear he ſpends all his time with Miſs Nelſon. She is artful and agreeable. I begin to fear poor Lucy's preſage may be veri⯑fied.

ADIBU, my deareſt Emily, I ſhall not write to you again, till I can congratulate you on the perfect recovery of our invalids. Till then, and ever, I am,

LETTER V.
Sir JA. THORNTON, to Lord WOODVILLE.

THE devil's in it, if the honey moon is not over yet, and you near half a year married. This is carrying on the farce too far, and looks as if you wanted to make us infidels believe, that pleaſure was to be found in the ſober and virtu⯑ous ſcheme of matrimony.

I ALLOW your wife to be handſome. I will ſuppoſe her lively, and agreeable too; but then, have you not had time enough to be tired of all theſe perfections? and whenever that happened, [22] the more merit a woman has the greater our diſlike.

I SHOULD never forgive a wife that did not ſupply me with a reaſon for hating, when I grew weary of her. But I fancy I need not be in any manner of pain on that account; for the preciou [...] creatures have, generally, a quantum ſufficit, of foible and caprice, to anſwer that end; at leaſt, all thoſe I have ever converſed with, appeared to be compounded of nothing elſe, after one month's intimate acquaintance.

YOU will, perhaps, tell me, that lady Wood⯑ville is a very different kind of woman, from thoſe I hint at. It may be ſo; and I will admit it. But prithee, Harry, is ſhe not your wife? And in that comprehenſive term, are not reſtraint, care, limitation of pleaſures, and ſqualling brats, included? But love her, if you will, and as long as you can: but, believe me, the only way to keep ſuch a ſickly flame alive, is by the fuel of abſence.

THEREFORE, order your horſes directly, and leave her, where ſhe ſhould ever remain, ſixed to the freehold; while you ſhine forth, once more, among your old friends, at the Shakeſpear. I write this, by order of the ſociety, from which you will be excluded, if you do not appear, upon this ſummons, from

LETTER VI.
From Lord WOODVILLE to Sir JAMES THORNTON.

I RECEIVED your lively letter; but wiſh you had choſen a fitter ſubject to diſplay your wit upon, than the old common-place topic of matri⯑mony. Were I not perfectly acquainted with your writing, as well as your humour, I ſhould have thought your letter a counterfeit. You are no libertine, Thornton, and yet ſeem to take pleaſure in adopting their groſs, and contemptible ſentiments.

THEIR general abuſe of women is truly ridi⯑diculous: they pretend to know them, without having ever converſed with any, but that unhap⯑py ſpecies of them, whoſe minds and manners are a diſgrace not only to their ſex, but to human nature itſelf. Profligates firſt betray to infamy all the women they can deceive; and then, by a double injuſtice, judge of the ſex, from the ex⯑amples they have made.

BUT come, my young friend, and convince yourſelf that happineſs is to be found in a vir⯑tuous connection with an amiable and agreeable woman. Order your horſes, directly, I ſay; and leave your groſs errors where they ſhould ever remain, in Covent Garden.

I NEVER was a member of any ſociety at the Shakeſpear, though I have ſpent ſome evenings there, both pleaſantly and innocently. I love chearfulneſs, wit, and humour, wherever to be met with; and when Sir James Thornton ſhall be added to our ſociety at Woodfort, I ſhall not have occaſion to go in purſuit of any of them, [24] elſewhere. As a farther inducement, we ſhall go to York races. I know you have horſes to run there. Haſten then, to Your's ſincerely,

LETTER VII.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE.

I ARRIVED in London, the day after you left it: how unfortunate to have miſſed the friend of my heart! to whom I have a thouſand things to communicate, that will not bear the cold, ſlow forms of narrative letter writing.

BUT one ſad truth I muſt pour into your bo⯑ſom, from mine, that almoſt burſts while I repeat it. The lovely, the angelic Charlotte Beaumont, has fled from theſe fond arms, and taken refuge in a convent! I beheld her renounce the pomps, and vanities, of that world, which ſhe was born to adorn. None but her kindred angels ever ap⯑peared ſo beautiful as ſhe, when led like a bloom⯑ing ſacrifice to the altar.

AS ſhe advanced up the iſle, ſhe caught my eyes; ſhe ſtopt, and ſigh'd; but quickly recollecting herſelf, turned her's to heaven—then with a ray of that ineffable tenderneſs, with which we may ſuppoſe angelic beings look on mortal woes, ſhe turned them full on m — [...]t ah! too ſoon re⯑called them, and paſſed along, with all the digni⯑ty of conſcious virtue!

How I got out of the convent, I know not: my ſenſes vaniſhed with her— [...] was fifteen days delirious; and but for the officious kindneſs of Wilſon, ſhould not now feel thoſe poignant ago⯑nies, [25] that rend my heart. O Woodville, to loſe ſuch a woman, by my own folly! that fatal duel, in what miſery has it involved me! When I am calm enough, if that ſhould ever be, I will copy her laſt letter, and ſend it to you: I would not part with the original for worlds, though it has deſtroyed my peace in this.

WILL you forgive your wretched friend for breaking in one moment on your preſent felicity? I hear you are completely bleſſed.—This is the only ray of joy, that ever can, or ſhall pervade the gloom, in which my fate is involved. Hap⯑py Woodville! to triumph over an unhappy paſ⯑ſion, and now to feel the tranſports of ſucceſsful love!

BUT let me intreat you, as you value your fu⯑ture peace not to ſee the marchioneſs. Your wounds are not long healed, and may all bleed again. She is a true Calypſo! therefore my friend, ſhun her enſnaring wiles! and remember you are accountable for the happineſs of an amiable, and innocent young woman:—what a bleach of ho⯑nour even to hazard it!

THIS ſingle conſideration will, I am certain, be a more powerful preſervative to your generous heart, than all the philoſophic reaſonings in the world; which too well I know, were never yet proof againſt ſtrong paſſion.

ADIEU, my friend: that you may continue to deſerve and poſſeſs, every happineſs this world can give, is now the warmeſt wiſh of your un⯑happy

LETTER VIII.
Lord WOODVILLE, to Lord SEYMOUR.

I AM truly ſorry that I had left London be⯑fore your arrival.—Had you given me the leaſt hint of your intentions to return, I ſhould certainly have ſtaid to meet you: and I would, at this moment, fly to pour the balm of friendſhip into your wounded boſom, but that Sir James Thornton, whom I have invited to ſpend ſome time with me at Woodfort, and go with me to York races, came here laſt night.

HE is quite a ſtranger to lady Woodville, and all this family, and would certainly conſider it as the higheſt breach of hoſpitality, if I were to leave him in the hands of a parcel of virtuous wo⯑men, which are a race of beings, that he is totally unacquainted with. He is young, has a very large fortune, and many amiable qualities; but his education has been ſo ſhamefully neglected, that he is in imminent danger of becoming a prey to ſharpers and proſtitutes.

EVEN you muſt have ſmiled, to have ſeen this young man, who is made up of frolic, and viva⯑city, look as frighted and abaſhed, before lady Woodville, whoſe gentleneſs itſelf as a young country lady, who has never been out of the fa⯑mily manſion, when firſt preſented at St. James's. But I hope this timid aukwardneſs will wear off in a few days: and as I know nothing that can refine the ſentiments, or poliſh the manners ſo much, as the coverſation of elegant women, I wiſh to keep Sir James, for ſome time, amongſt us.

[27]MY couſin, lady Hariet Hanbury, is here; and a very lively girl, Miſs Weſton, a near rela⯑tion of my Emily! Your old friend Ransford, ſpends much of his time with us alſo. What would I not give to tempt you hither! You ſhall retire when you pleaſe; read, walk, and muſe alone: and when you are diſpoſed, my Emily ſhall play to you, ſome of the ſweeteſt, ſofteſt airs, the very food of love, accompanied with the ſweeteſt, ſofteſt voice, you ever heard. Harriet, who is of the melancholy caſt, and, I fear, unhappily in love, ſhall ſigh, in concert with you; and Thornton, and Miſs Weſton, ſhall ſometimes make you ſmile.

I CONFESS to you, my dear Seymour, that I was both ſhocked and ſorry, when I heard that the marchioneſs was in England. Lady Wood⯑ville was the firſt perſon who informed me of it: but, utterly ignorant of there having ever been any connection between us, ſhe did not perceive my emotion at her name.

CRUEL woman! does ſhe wiſh again to diſturb the peace of a heart, which ſhe had well nigh broken! but I defy her power.—In lady Wood⯑ville I have found all that is amiable in the moſt lovely ſex; ſenſible, beautiful, gentle, kind, and unaffectedly good.

TRUE, ſhe is not miſtreſs of thoſe lively ſal⯑lies of wit, that dazzle the underſtanding, and captivate the heart. Her form, though lovely, has not the ſtriking elegance, the nameleſs, num⯑berleſs graces, that wait on every motion of the marchioneſs!

BUT why do I ſuffer myſelf to dwell upon her charms? or make a compariſon injurious to the amiable woman, who deſerves my love? why can I not ſay, who poſſeſſes it! Ah, Sey⯑mour! it is impoſſible to regulate the motions of [28] the human heart, by the cold rules of reaſon. Not all the charms of the whole ſex combined can ever render mine ſuſceptible of thoſe ago⯑nizing tranſports it has already known. Yet let me boaſt, that it is as impoſſible for her, who firſt occaſioned, to revive, as for any other woman, to inſpire them.

IF this was not the caſe, I ſhould have made a worthleſs preſent to my Emily, when I gave her both my hand and heart: and though I allow the latter not to be an adequate return for hers, ſhe ſhall never be able to diſcover its deficiency, by any word, or action of my life. This I can ſafely promiſe.

I HAVE purpoſely avoided mentioning your loſt, your lovely Charlotte! When you are more at eaſe, I know you will acquaint me with the particulars of your diſtreſs. Why may not that happy aera be haſtened, by a reliance on all the tender cares of friendſhip, which you may certainly depend on, from

P.S. You have a houſe, within a mile of York; where we have ſpent many happy days—‘"Days of eaſe, and nights of pleaſure."’ Who knows but we may there recover our juve⯑nile taſtes and paſſions! impoſſible! As well when advanced in life, might we hope to reco⯑ver our youth, in thoſe fields where we once were young.—But is that houſe untenanted? Will you be our hoſt? Or have you lett, or lent it?

LETTER IX.
Lord SEYMOUR, to Lord WOODVILLE,

YOUR letter has added to the affliction I am already involved in. I think I am fated never to poſſeſs any of thoſe bleſſings, without which life is a burthen. The object of my fond⯑eſt, tendereſt wiſhes, already torn from my bleed⯑ing heart; there remained yet one conſolation; a generous, and affectionate friend; and he, in human ſuicide, is going to rob me of himſelf! what an hard lot is mine! all that I ever loved, devote themſelves; and by their miſery, I am twice undone!

BUT ſtop, my friend; and let my warning voice prevent your ruſhing down the precipice! you muſt not, ſhall nor, ſee the marchioneſs. I will go to Woodfort, though heaven knows how unfit to mingle in ſociety, merely to prevent your going to York races.—The Syren will be there.—

I WENT, laſt night, to pay a viſit to my ſiſter, lady Sandford, and there I met your lovely ene⯑my. She aſked many queſtions about you, but many more about lady Woodville, and wanted me to draw her picture. I told her that I had not ſeen her, for ſome years; that ſhe was then extremely young, but had, I thought, a very near reſemblence to her ladyſhip, which was pro⯑nouncing her a perfect beauty.

I SAID this, to prevent her finding fault, which ſhe certainly would have done, had I attempted a particular deſcription. She ſaw through my deſign, but would not let me triumph in the ſucceſs of it, then ſmiling ſaid, ‘"Like [30] me! perhaps that was the reaſon he choſe her.—Conſtant creature! this is a compliment, for which I think myſelf more indebted to him, than for all the fine things, he ever ſaid, or wrote to me."’

I HOPE, madam, his lordſhip had other mo⯑tives. ‘"O fye, lord Seymour, how you love to mortify? but pray let me indulge my va⯑nity a little. As the man is married, and to a perfect beauty too, there can be no danger in avowing my ſenſibility of his regards. This, you know, I never did, while he was ſingle, and I might have hopes. But woman have ſtrange caprices.’

‘"HOWEVER, I can aſſure you I have not the leaſt deſign upon his heart. It would be the height of vanity, indeed to attempt ri⯑valling this perfect beauty."’ It would be the height of cruelty, madam, but to wiſh it. ‘"I declare I cannot ſee it in that light, my lord; for ſuch a woman can never want adorers."’ Our married ladies, madam, ſeek for that cha⯑racter, only in their huſbands. ‘"Nay now, my lord, you want to impoſe on me, as I am a ſtranger; but you cannot deceive me, for I know numberleſs inſtances to contradict your aſſertion, and not one to prove it. And I really think that London is as much the ſeat of gallantry, as Paris."—’

THE arrival of other company gave the con⯑verſation a general turn; but what I have repeat⯑ed, is, I think, ſufficient to make you fly from a woman, who audaciouſly owns her deſigns againſt your peace. As ſhe talked of going to York, my ſiſter, who is to accompany her, requeſted I would let her have my houſe, which I readily aſſented to; but were it unemployed, I would refuſe it to my dear Woodville.

[31]YOU ſee the ſnare is laid, and will you ſelfdevoted ruſh into it; I know you, Woodville, you cannot live with loſs of honour, and it is impoſſible to preſerve your's, if in your preſent ſituation, you can be again drawn in, to doat upon this—But I will not abuſe her. I ſhall ſet out for Woodfort to morrow, and there enforce every argument I have uſed to preſerve you from yourſelf,

LETTER X.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I CANNOT tell my deareſt Fanny how much her laſt letter affected me; nor can I ſuffi⯑ciently expreſs my admiration of that happy turn of mind, that enables you to triumph over every difficulty and diſtreſs, and to riſe ſo far ſuperior to what any one might reaſonably expect, from the gentleneſs of your nature, on every trial.

HOW happy is it for your poor weak Emely, that ſhe has had nothing to ſtruggle with! ſhe would have ſunk beneath the ſlighteſt weight, and give a looſe to tears, and to complainings. But let the goodneſs of that all-wiſe Providence, who proportions our trials to our ſtrength, fill my heart with the warmeſt gratitude, and let me ‘"ever bleſs, and praiſe his name."’

I HAVE no ſort of doubt but you are eaſed of all a mother's fears, by this time, and that the dear little ones are prattling round you, with their uſual chearfulneſs; while you feel, even an ad⯑ditional [32] tenderneſs from recollection of the dan⯑ger they have paſt.

I HAVE very uneaſy apprehenſions for poor Lucy: I almoſt wiſh ſhe may not receive the in⯑fection.—There have been numberleſs inſtances of perſons who never had the ſmall pox; and I think it is like forcing nature to make a ſecond effort.

I DETEST Sir James Miller; and hope, with all my heart he may never be married to Lucy, as I am very ſure he never will deſerve her.

OUR family party has received ſome very agreeable additions ſince I wrote laſt. There is a moſt delightful contraſt between our viſitors. Sir James Thornton, lively, boyiſh, with a good natural underſtanding, totally unimproved, with⯑out the leaſt idea of good breeding;—and yet, that want is amply ſupplied, by what I call na⯑tural politeneſs. But if ‘"good breeding is the bloſſom of good ſenſe,"’ we ought to find out ſome other term, for that ſpecies of form, which is only to he acquired in courts. There was ſuch an aukward reſerve about poor Thornton, for the firſt three days he ſpent at Woodfort, that I looked upon him as a Hottentot: but that rough caſt is now worn off, and he is really agreeable, and entertaining.

LORD Seymour, our lateſt gueſt, is, really, an accompliſhed gentleman; an elegant form, and affable countenance, beſpeak your favour, at firſt ſight, and his every word and action inſenſibly engage your regard. Yet, laviſh as nature has been to him, there ſeems to be ſomething want⯑ing to his happineſs. There is a tender air of melancholy diffuſed over his whole form, with ſuch a ſoftneſs in his voice and manner, as is rarely natural to the gay ſons of proſperity. His [33] fortune is ample, and his birth high; it muſt then be that ſource of the moſt poignant ſorrow, ill-fated love, that has diſturbed his peace. Yet, I think, he could not love in vain, unleſs there was a prior prepoſſeſſion. I long to know his ſtory: I feel myſelf intereſted, as for a brother.

HE acquainted my lord with his intentions to viſit us, the night before he came. We were all engaged to dine at Sir Harry Ransford's, the next day; and her ladyſhip had got the old knight to conſent to her having a ball. My lord remained at Woodfort to receive his gueſt. I accompanied the young folks to Sir Harry's.—After tea, I intreated lady, Ransford to excuſe my leaving her, without taking any notice of it to the company. She was ſo obliging as to con⯑ſent, and I drove home directly.

MY lord ſeemed ſurprized, and pleaſed, at ſeeing me; and, as he handed me from the coach, ſaid, with an air of the utmoſt tenderneſs, I am much obliged to you for your attention to my friend; and can with truth aſſure you, that your company is the only agreeable addition that could be made to our preſent ſociety. My little heart exulted at the kindneſs of this compliment; as to pleaſe, or oblige him, is, and ever will be, its higheſt ambition. Notwithſtanding this, I thought my company was a reſtraint on them, and therefore retired ſoon after ſupper.

IT was four o'clock, when my lord came up ſtairs. I was miſerably apprehenſive he was ill, as he ſighed often, and was uncommonly reſt⯑leſs. But my fears are now fled, like a morn⯑ing dream.—He ſeemed perfectly well at break⯑faſt. Lord Seymour and he are gone into the gardens.

THE coach is juſt returned with the boys and girls; and Thornton is, this moment, come [34] into my dreſſing-room, to tell me all about it, as he expreſſes himſelf: but he is too civil to ſpeak, till I leave of writing. I muſt, therefore, im⯑poſe ſilence on myſelf, to relieve him from it; and ſo bid my dear ſiſter,

LETTER XI.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I WAS vaſtly pleaſed with my dear Emily's letter.—There is infinitely more merit in looking up to the Almighty, in our proſperity, than adverſity. Praiſe is ſurely the nobleſt, and, of courſe, the moſt acceptable ſacrifice that a human creature can offer to the great author of good. Mr. Addiſon very juſtly obſerves, that ‘"a mind, which has the leaſt turn to religion, naturally flies to it in affliction."’ We then feel our own inſufficiency; we are humbled by ſorrow, and perhaps only then deduce real ſatis⯑faction from a thorough conviction, that there is a ſuperior Being, whoſe aid is graciouſly pro⯑miſed to thoſe who ſincerely ſeek it. But, ſur⯑rounded by the delights of life, youth, fortune, gaiety, and diſſipation, we too frequently be⯑come forgetful of the ſource, from whence our bleſſings flow; and while we are indulging all our appetites in the delicious ſtream of happineſs, it becomes impregnated with the qualities of Lethe, and renders us unmindful of its foun⯑tain.

BUT let me be truly thankful, that the ſiſter of my love, the child of my care, is not only [35] bleſſed with the inſignia of happineſs, but with a heart capable of the firſt virtue, gratitude; which, I hope, will enſure to her the long, and full poſſeſſion of all earthly good.

I NOW can tell my dear propheteſs, her hopes are accompliſhed.—The mother's fears are loſt in the happy certainty of my children's perfect recovery.—But the friend ſtill ſuffers:—poor Lucy continues extremely ill, though, thank God, this day pronounced out of danger. The ſmall-pox was as favourable to her, as poſſible; but the emotions of her mind, on account of that wretch, Sir James Miller, has thrown her into a violent fever.

HE is, this day, to be married to Miſs Nel⯑ſon! This ſhe is yet ignorant of; but on the firſt day that ſhe ſat up, ſhe received a kind of leave-taking letter from him, excuſing his perfidy, by her want of complaiſance to his requeſt. Said, ‘"he had reaſon to apprehend, that a lady, who ſeemed ſo little inclined to oblige him before marriage, would not make a very complying wife;—that he was glad to hear her beauty out of danger, as there was no doubt, but it would procure her a better huſband than him; and that he ſhould endeavour to look out for a wife, who was leſs anxious about her fea⯑tures."’ Was there ever any thing ſo provok⯑ing! This is adding inſolence to baſeneſs!

IF Sir John was here I am ſure a duel would enſue.—I know not how to act in this affair.—I cannot bear the thoughts of his triumphing in his villainy; nor yet can I think of hazarding Sir John's life, to puniſh ſuch a ſcoundrel. Swift ſays, ‘"The occaſions are few, that can in⯑duce a man of ſenſe and virtue to draw his ſword."’ I am certain, were he living, he would allow [...] to be a juſtifiable one.

[36]BUT as a wife and mother, I moſt ſincerely hope, Sir John may never hear of his infamous behaviour: but what excuſe to invent, for break⯑ing off the match, I know not. Sir John is jea⯑lous of his honour, and will inquire minutely in⯑to the affair. I will refer it all to Lucy's pru⯑dence: ſhe loves her brother, and is a chriſtian.

YOU are an admirable painter. I ſhould have known lord Seymour's picture, if you had not ſet the name to it; all but that ſhade of melan⯑choly, which you had thrown over it. He was extremely lively when I knew him; but I have not ſeen him, ſince his return to England.

YOU have made me perfectly acquainted with Sir James Thornton: I ſaw his precipitate ſtride into your dreſſing-room, and his ſhort ſtop on finding you were writing. It reminded me of the ſnapping of a watch-ſpring. Have you ever had one break in your hand? Lucy has juſt awoke from a refreſhing ſleep, and, on being told I was writing, ſhe deſires to ſee me immedi⯑ately.—I will return to you, again.

WHAT an affecting interview! That odious idiot, Sir James Miller, has, ‘"like the baſe In⯑dian, thrown a pearl away, richer than all his tribe."’ When I went into Lucy's chamber, ſhe deſired every one to withdraw: then taking my hand, and preſſing it to her lips, what infi⯑nite trouble muſt I have given to the compaſſion⯑ate heart of my dear lady Straffon! but I hope you do not deſpiſe me: it was the weak ſtate of my body, that overpowered my mind. But now, that I have recovered my ſenſes, I am amazed how I could be affected by the loſs of ſuch a man.—Did I ſay loſs? then I fear, I rave again. But I grieved for an ideal character; and am much obliged to Sir James, for removing the miſt from before my eyes, and ſhewing him⯑ſelf [37] in his native colours. How happy the deluſion vaniſhed ſo ſoon! Had it continued but a little longer, I ſhould have been a wretch indeed! What a miſery, to deſpiſe the man, whom it is our duty to love and honour! Yet ſuch might have been my fate! ſhould I have been unpar⯑donably criminal, my deareſt ſiſter?

I INTREATED her not to think upon the ſubject, but to calm her ſpirits; and that I would converſe with her on any other topic, that ſhe pleaſed.—She begged my attention for a few minutes; ſaid ſhe had wandered from her purpoſe, and aſked my pardon for detaining me. You are writing, lady Straffon; perhaps to my brother. Then raiſing herſelf on her knees, in ſpite of my efforts to hinder her, let me, in this humble poſture, intreat you, my deareſt ſiſter, not to mention what has paſſed to Sir John. I know his natural bravery, joined to his love for an only ſiſter, would tempt him to call Sir James Miller to an account.—Good God! what might be the conſequence! He has done me no wrong; and ſhould any misfortune happen to my brother from this event, I could not anſwer for my ſenſes. And were even the aggreſſor, for ſuch indeed he is, to fall, I never ſhould know peace again.

HERE ſhe was quite overcome by weakneſs, and ſunk down in a ſtood of tears. I ſaid every thing in my power to aſſuage her grief; and gave her the ſtrongeſt aſſurances, that I neither did, or would mention a ſyllable of the affair to Sir John. She told me then, I had reſtored her tranquility; and ſhe ſhould ſoon be well, and able to contrive ſome plauſible pretence to her brother, for breaking off the match: and as this would be the firſt falſhood ſhe had ever told him, ſhe hoped it might be conſidered as a pious fraud, only.

[38]AFTER this converſation, ſhe grew perfectly compoſed; I left her retired to reſt: but I fear ſhe has diſturbed mine, for this night. What an amiable heart is hers? While yet ſmarting with undeſerved wounds, ſhe would preſerve the cruel wretch who inflicted them! I will religiouſly keep my promiſe to her; yet cannot help ſin⯑cerely wiſhing, that his crime may be his pu⯑niſhment; and, I think, he bids fair for being overpaid in kind.

MISS Nelſon, now lady Miller, is at leaſt twenty-nine, and has been a remarkable coquette theſe ten years; yet never could catch a poor unguarded fly in her net, till Sir James ruſhed in.—She was perfectly acquainted with his at⯑tachment to Lucy; had requeſted to be her bride⯑maid; yet could think of ſeparating them for ever! May they be mutual avengers of each other's perfidy!

I FEEL myſelf in an unchriſtian mood; I can⯑not help it; I pity folly, but deteſt vice! Alas! my Emily, I am too ſevere; for they are, in general, ſynonimous terms. I will, in charity, wiſh you good night; for if I write on, I ſhall rail more: therefore, Adieu,

LETTER XII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I AM ſo violently provoked at the inſolent baſeneſs of that abominable Miller, that I cannot find words to expreſs my reſentment. I do not think you ſeem ſufficiently rejoiced at [39] Lucy's eſcape from ſuch a monſter: for my part, I am delighted at the thoughts of his being mar⯑ried to ſuch a woman as Miſs Nelſon—May ſhe render him juſt as miſerable as he deſerves to be!—His greateſt enemy could not wiſh him worſe.

BUT there are more wretches in the world, than he; and Lucy is not without companions in affliction. The willow grows on purpoſe for our ſex; and were it to be watered, only by the tears drawn from beauteous eyes, by the perfidy of men, it would need no other moiſture. Poor lady Harriet! an accident has diſcovered the cauſe of her too frequent ſighs

YESTERDAY morning after breakfaſt, when the gentlemen had retired to their ſeperate amuſe⯑ments, lady Harriet, Miſs Weſton, and I, were in my dreſſing-room. Lady Harriet took up Prior's Poems, and was reading Henry and Em⯑ma, to Fanny and me, who were at work; when in ruſhed lady Ransford, in a riding dreſs, and begged I would permit her to introduce a gentle⯑man, an acquaintance of her's, whom ſhe acci⯑dentally met on the road, as ſhe was coming to ſpend the day with me. She concluded, he was a particular friend, whom ſhe had not ſeen for a long time. I immediately conſented; and ſaid I was ſorry my lord was not at home, to receive the gentleman.

SHE ran out directly, and led in Captain Bar⯑nard.—While ſhe was preſenting him to me, the book fell from Lady Harriet's hand, and ſhe ſunk motionleſs upon the couch. As ſoon as the captain caſt his eyes on her, he appeared almoſt in the ſame condition: the colour forſook his lips, and he could hardly breathe. Lady Rans⯑ford looked with a ſpiteful kind of aſtoniſhment, and cried out, What can all this mean! is ſhe ſubject to fits? Fanny, and I, were engaged in [40] trying to recover lady Harriet, I began to fear in vain—Life ſeemed, for ſome minutes, abſo⯑lutely fled—The wretched captain looked the picture of deſpair.—The moment ſhe opened her eyes, he bowed, left the room, mounted his horſe, and rode off.

WE conveyed lady Harriet to her chamber, and laid her on the bed; when a plentiful ſhower of tears ſeemed to have relieved her. I left Fan⯑ny Weſton with her, and returned to lady Rans⯑ford. She ſeemed in a violent paſſion, that the captain was gone—What has he to do with lady Harriet's faintings? She was very ſure it was only an air ſhe gave herſelf. She thanked God, ſhe was not ſubject to ſuch tricks. She never fainted in her life, and was quite certain ſhe never ſhould, &c &c.

I CONGRATULATED her on the goodneſs of her conſtitution; ſaid lady Harriet's was extreme⯑ly delicate, and that ſhe had not been well for ſome time. This did not ſatisfy her; and ſhe continued out of humour at the captain's deſer⯑tion, the whole day; ſeveral times repeating, I do not ſuppoſe he ever ſaw her before; of what conſequence was her fainting to him? and I en⯑couraged her in this opinion, though far from believing it.

I SAID, his retiring was a mark of politeneſs, as the preſence of a ſtranger muſt increaſe the confuſion we were in. Nothing that I ſaid could pacify her. I therefore ſuffered her to mutter out her diſſatisfaction without replying, for the remainder of the time ſhe ſtaid, which was not long after dinner.—She ſaid ſhe ſhould be afraid to ride with only one ſervant, after it was duſk.

I NEVER was better pleaſed with the depar⯑ture of a gueſt. I longed to ſee poor Harriet, [41] who had not left her rooom, and flew to her the moment lady Ransford was gone. She looked abaſhed, and held down her lovely eyes, which were yet bathed in tears, when I approached her;—but the tenderneſs with which I inquired concerning her health, ſeemed to re-aſſure her.

YOU are too good to me, my dear lady Wood⯑ville; ſuch weakneſs as mine ſcarcely deſerves your compaſſion: and I can only preſume to hope for it, by the moſt unbounded confidence, which I ſhould long ſince have repoſed in your friendly boſom, but that I thought it cruel, even for a moment, to interrupt that happineſs which you ſo well deſerve. But as the accident which hap⯑pened this day, muſt convince you, that there is a ſecret ſorrow which preys upon my heart, I will readily acquaint you with the cauſe of it, leſt the tenderneſs of your nature ſhould make you imagine me more wretched than I really am.

YOU muſt ſuppoſe, my dear, ſaid I, that your ſituation, this morning, alarmed me extremely; but I have long thought there was ſome ſecret ſource for that ſoft melancholy, which you vainly endeavour to repreſent as conſtitutional. But do not let this remark make you think yourſelf under a neceſſity of diſcloſing your ſecrets to me. I am far from deſiring to pry into them: but ſhould rejoice at having it in my power to do any thing, which might alleviate your diſtreſs. And if my participation of your ſorrow can footh it, but for a moment, it will more than repay me, for what I feel, in knowing that you are unhappy.

SHE ſaid, ſhe was not then capable of making the leaſt return to my kindneſs, though perfectly ſenſible of it; but that, as ſoon as ſhe was able, ſhe would write out her ſhort ſtory for me, and lady Straffon. She ſaid, Lucy knew ſomething of it, but not the whole; and deſired ſhe might [42] ſee it, as a kind of conſolation under her preſent circumſtances

As ſoon as I receive, I will ſend it to you. Pray preſent my love to Lucy, and tell her, I intreat her company at Woodſort, whenever ſhe is able to travel. Change of air, and objects, will forward her recovery. Why cannot you, and the little ones, accompany her, and complete the wiſhes of

LETTER XIII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I THIS morning, received the incloſed, which has engaged my attention ever ſince; I have but juſt time to ſend it to you, without the ſmall⯑eſt comment, but, as it may remain longer in your hands, I ſhall expect it to be returned with notes variorum.

I HAVE abſented myſelf, from our family par⯑ty, (which is indeed a charming one) except du⯑ring dinner, this whole day; I ſhall return to it, with a double guſt, from a certainty, that amiable as they who compoſe it are, in their manners, and perſons, their hearts are ſtill more valuable. Haſte then, my deareſt Fanny, and Lucy, to partake, and perfect the moſt delightful ſociety, in the world,

LETTER XIV.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I HAVE a thouſand thanks to give my dear Emily, for the pleaſing though melancholy entertainment, which lady Harriet's hiſtory has afforded me.—When I was very young, I uſed to be ſurprized that ſo many tragedies and novels were founded on the perfidy of men: but I have for ſome years paſt, been perfectly convinced, that moſt of the miſeries in this life, owe their being to that fatal ſource. And were there but a window in every fair boſom in the cities of London and Weſtminſter, we ſhould diſcover numberleſs hidden traces of the barbarous tri⯑umphs, of thoſe doughty ‘"Heroes, famous and [68] renowned for wronging innocence, and break⯑ing vows:"’ and among this deteſtable corps, I think captain Barnard might lead the van, and Sir James Miller bring up the rear.

YOU may ſee, by this diſpoſition, that I think worſe of the captain than the baronet, as I think lady Harriet much more unhappy than Lucy. However, I ſincerely hope they may both ſur⯑mount their afflictions: for time and reaſon can do more, in theſe caſes, than the ſufferers are willing to allow. They are patients that do not wiſh to be cured; and find a degree of pleaſure in indulging their malady.

I AM of opinion, that when diſappointed love ſubſides into a calm and gentle melancholy, its ſenſations may not only be pleaſing to the perſons that feel it, but render them more amiable than they would otherwiſe be, by giving a peculiar ſoftneſs, both to their form and manners. I think I ſhould be more apt to fall in love with a perſon ſo circumſtanced, than with one who had never felt la belle paſſion.

I HAVE great pleaſure in telling you, that Lu⯑cy daily gains ſtrength, both of mind and body; and I by no means deſpair of a perfect cure. The moſt favourable ſymptom is, her not having mentioned Sir James theſe two days; yet have I not once reſtrained her on the ſubject, as ſhe has lately ſpoke of him with great calmneſs. I have not yet ſhewn her lady Harriet's memoir.—Ten⯑derneſs like ſorrow is contagious; and the ſimili⯑tude of their ſituations, might call forth tears, which, though ſet down to the account of friendſhip, would certainly flow from her own ſympathy.

IT is utterly impoſſible for me to have the plea⯑ſure of viſiting Woodfort this ſummer.—I expect Sir John in a very few days.—As ſoon as he ar⯑rives, [69] we ſhall go into Eſſex.—I do not think Lucy ſufficiently recovered to quit her nurſe, as ſhe calls me.—My little Emily and Edward are quite well, and ſurprizingly grown ſince their ill⯑neſs.

I LONG to know what became of captain Bar⯑nard, the day he left you; and, what connexion he coud have with lady Ransford; who, from your account, ſeems not to be one of thoſe, who were born to weep over the willow.

I SUPPOSE you will ſoon ſet out for York.—The lovely marchioneſs is to be there.—Is lady Lawſon to be of your party? I could wiſh ſhe were; as I fear my dear Emily may not be ſuffi⯑ciently attentive to her preſent ſituation.—Let me entreat you not to ride, and to dance but little. My true love attends your lord; and, with good wiſhes to all your party, I am, affectionately,

LETTER XV.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I AM not half ſatisfied with my dear Fanny's no comment on lady Harriet's affecting ſtory.—By making the caſe general, you ſeem inclined to leſſen the calamity.—But a plague is a plague, though ten thouſand, or only one thouſand, die of it; and, by extending its dominion, you en⯑creaſe the fatality, without abating our compaſ⯑ſion for particular ſufferers.

AGAIN, and again, I ſay, what a bleſſed, happy creature is your Emily! Had my dear lord after gaining, trifled with my heart, his triumph [70] would ſoon have been complete; for I really think the firſt wound muſt have ſubdued it. But he, who has penetration enough to ſee the ſoftneſs of my nature, has alſo generoſity ſufficient to pre⯑vent my very wiſhes; and ſeems to have no fear, but want of power to gratify them. This is a theme, on which my grateful heart could dwell for ever; but not to tire you, I ſhall change the ſubject.

I FIND lord Seymour vaſtly averſe to our go⯑ing to York.—He has taken ſo much pains to diſſuade me from it, that if I had not promiſed Fanny Weſton, and Sir James Thornton, whoſe hearts are ſet on going, I ſhould find great plea⯑ſure in ſacrificing my own inclination to his lord⯑ſhip.—Yet he gives no ſolid reaſon, for our declining his party.—I perceive that my lord looks grave, when the ſubject is mentioned; of courſe, it is immediately dropped; and I find the boys and girls will be conquerors.—Even the grave lady Harriet, and Mr. Ransford, ſeem⯑ed to be alarmed while the matter appeared doubtful.

I THINK I have as little curioſity, as any of my ſex, yet I confeſs myſelf anxious to know lord Seymour's motive.—He is a man of ſuch excellent underſtanding, and true politeneſs, that I am aſtoniſhed at his thinking differently, even upon this trifling ſubject, from my lord! But avaunt! thou firſt female vice, curioſity! I will not ſuffer thee to harbour one moment longer in my breaſt, thou inhoſpitable tenant! diſturber of the peaceful manſion that receives thee!

LADY Lawſon will not accompany us to York: ſhe has been confined to her chamber for ſome days, with a fever on her ſpirits. A young lady whom ſhe took into her houſe, a diſtreſſed orphan, five years ago, and treated with [71] the utmoſt tenderneſs, has juſt left her. This is unlucky, as ſhe is ill, and alone. Sir William ſet out for London yeſterday, without calling upon us.

THE moment I have quitted one dear ſiſter, I ſhall fly to the other, and ſpend as much time as I poſſibly can with her. Should ſhe continue ill, it will prevent my going to York. I ſhall be only ſorry for the occaſion, for I have loſt all re⯑liſh for the party.

I KNOW not what became of captain Barnard, the day he left us; but I hear he is a conſtant viſitor at Ransford-hall.—The old knight is laid up in the gout; and her ladyſhip acts in the double capacity of maſter and miſtreſs of the family.

I HOPE Sir John is by this time, returned to you full of love, and joy and admiration, at your amazing proweſs, with regard to his children; and that you are all as happy as you deſerve, and I

A thouſand loves to Lucy.

LETTER XVI.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

AS I have been uſed from my infancy, to your tender participation of all my pains, and pleaſures, I could not reſiſt my inclination of ſending you the incloſed, which afforded me the moſt charming melange of both, that I have ever met with. I am proud, and pleaſed, that the writer was a woman; but cannot help lamenting that ſuch noble ſentiments, ſuch an elegant turn of mind, and above all, ſuch tender ſenſibility, ſhould be buried in a cloiſter.

NOW for the means by which I obtained this treaſure.—Yeſterday evening, after tea, the converſation turned on the ſubject of letter-writing. Lord Seymour advanced, and was ſe⯑conded by my lord, that ladies in general, wrote better in the epiſtolary ſtile than men.—As I looked upon ſuch a declaration, rather as a com⯑pliment paid to the preſent company, than their real ſentiments, I took up the argument: and though they mentioned ſeveral inſtances of charming female ſcribes, all of whom I admire, as much as they, yet would I not allow the me⯑rit general:—for thoſe very perſons, whom they quoted, are or ought to be, as much diſtinguiſhed from the reſt of their ſex, for their ſuperior ta⯑lents, as lady C—, or the dutcheſs of H—, for their uncommon beauty.

LORD Seymour politely called me an heretic, againſt ſelf conviction; ſaid he had obſerved my frequent uſe of the pen, and was perſuaded that no perſon, with half my underſtanding, was [73] ever fond of writing, who was not conſcious of writing well. I told his lordſhip if the conver⯑ſation became particular, there muſt be an end of the general argument. He bowed, and went on with repeating ſome paſſages from female let⯑ters, which did honour to his taſte, and with which we were all charmed.

HE then told us, that he had a letter in his pocket, which he looked upon to be the chef d'aeuvre of female eloquence; that he had found it as he was one morning taking a ſolitary walk in the Tuilleries; that he would permit me to read it, provided I would candidly give him my opi⯑nion, whether I thought any man living could dictate ſuch a letter. On my promiſing to be ſin⯑cere, he took it out of his pocket-book, pre⯑ſented it to me, with a trembling hand, and left the room.

WHEN we met at ſupper, I was laviſh in its praiſe, and declared, that I doubted whether even Rouſſeau could have wrote more tenderly. He ſeemed delighted at my converſation, and im⯑mediately complied with my requeſt, to ſuffer me to take a copy of it, for you, and you only.

I IMPATIENTLY long to know ſomething more of the lady's hiſtory.—I cannot be per⯑ſuaded that it was mere accident which put it into lord Seymour's hands.—But I will not de⯑tain you from the peruſal of it by my vague conjectures—I ſhall, however, ſatisfy your curioſity in a more material point, by letting you know lady Lawſon is better.—I am to dine with her, tête-á-tête, to-morrow.

I SHALL claim great merit for this volunteer. I hope Lucy continues well. I earneſtly wiſh to know what apology you have made for that worthleſs idiot, Sir James Miller to Sir John. [74] Pray write very ſoon, a very long letter to

LETTER XVII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I AM vaſtly obliged to my dear Emily, for her two laſt letters—her volunteer was delightful—that angelic nun has almoſt broke my heart—it is impoſſible ſhe can be happy in a cloiſter, [76] and I very much doubt, whether thoſe fine feel⯑ings, which ſhe ſeems to have, would not have rendered her rather more miſerable, had ſhe re⯑mained in the world. May ſhe ſoon arrive at that place, where the higheſt ſenſibility muſt be productive of the higheſt happineſs!

YOU will, perhaps, think me cruel, for wiſh⯑ing her death; but indeed, my dear ſiſter, there is ſcarce a man living, who could deſerve ſuch a heart as hers; not even lord Seymour, to whom I believe it devoted. If I read aright, I am trully ſorry for his misfortune; he has ſuſtained an ir⯑reparable loſs.

I DARE ſay your lord is acquainted with the whole ſtory; and as I am perſuaded that lord Seymour is incapable of a baſe, or mean action, he may, perhaps, be prevailed on, to ſatisfy your curioſity—but if he once declines it, preſs him no farther. As you value his peace, and your own, never lay him under the painful ne⯑ceſſity of refuſing any thing to the woman he loves; nor let him ever ſee you have a wiſh un⯑gratified. Believe me, Emily, more women loſe their huſbands hearts, by what they call car⯑rying their point, and teizing a good natured man into compliance, than any other way.

THE firſt part of this letter, like the Gazette, has been devoted to foreign affairs; now for do⯑meſtic.—Sir John returned laſt week in perfect health and ſpirits, from Paris. I did not ſuffer the children to appear, till I acquainted him with my bold undertaking—at firſt he looked ſur⯑prized and terrified; but immediately recollect⯑ing himſelf, ſaid, that from his Fanny's counte⯑nance, he was certain our joint treaſure muſt be ſafe. At that inſtant, the little animals flew into his arms; I cannot deſcribe the charming ſcene, [77] but it was, as you ſay, all ‘"love, and joy, and admiration."’

LUCY came next; ſhe had ſummoned all her ſpirits, to meet her brother, but in ſpite of all her reſolution, a wayward tear ſtole down her lovely cheek. To our mutual ſurprize Sir John took not the leaſt notice of her ſoft confuſion, nor aſked a ſingle queſtion about Sir James Mil⯑ler. Lucy was vaſtly happy at his ſeeming inat⯑tention; but it alarmed me much more, than if he had ſpoken upon the ſubject.

A LITTLE time after, he withdrew into his clo⯑ſet, and wrote at letter—his ſervant returned as we were ſitting down to dinner, and told him the gentleman was not at home. During our meal, I felt the utmoſt anxiety, but durſt not ſpeak. Lucy was the exact reſemblance of Shakeſpear's patience on a monument, ‘"ſmiling at grief."’ Sir John appeared to be perfectly at eaſe, chearful and lively.

I OBSERVED to him, that he talked much, and eat little. He preſſed my hand with unaf⯑fected tenderneſs, and ſaid the joy he felt at ſee⯑ing us all, had quite abſorded any thought of himſelf, but that nature would ſoon return to its old bent, and bid me beware of my beef and mutton to-morrow.

I KNEW the loſs of appetite to be a common effect of joy, and therefore endeavoured to per⯑ſuade myſelf, that all was well. When we aroſe from table, he ſaid he had ſome buſineſs to tran⯑ſact for a gentleman in Paris, but that he ſhoud return to tea, and deſired Lucy to have her voice and harpſichord, in tune, to ſing him ſome new ſongs; he then put on his ſword and walked briſkly out of the houſe.

LUCY and I remained for ſome moments pe⯑trified; we could neither ſpeak, nor lok at each [78] other—at length ſhe aroſe, and with a ſlow peace, and down-caſt looks advanced to where I ſat, then fell upon her knees before me, and bathed my hand with her faſt-falling tears. I could not bid her riſe, but ſunk down by her, and joined in fervent prayer, for my huſband, and her brother's ſafety.

A THOUSAND times the dear unhappy girl implored my pardon, as though ſhe were the guilty cauſe, of what I did, or might hereafter ſuffer. Her anguiſh ſeemed unutterable; and alarmed and diſtreſſed as I then was, I found it abſolutely neceſſary to conceal my own fears, and ſpeak peace to her diſtracted tortured mind.

IN leſs than an hour, Sir John relieved us from this ſhocking ſtate—at the tranſporting ſound of his voice, we endeavoured to compoſe ourſelves—Lucy flew to open the door of the parlour, where we had remained during his ab⯑ſence; ſhe ruſhed into his arms, and fainted there. The ſtrong tranſition overpowered her every fa⯑culty, and it was a conſiderable time before ſhe ſhewed any ſigns of life. I do not bluſh to tell you that Sir John wept over his beloved ſiſter.

AS ſoon as ſhe had power of articulation, ſhe gazed intently on her brother, and exclaimed, Where is the unhappy man? and do I ſee my deareſt brother ſafe, and unſtained with blood?

MY dear Lucy, Sir John replied, calm your ſpirits—you need have no apprehenſions, ei⯑ther for Sir James Miller or for me—he is fallen below my reſentment; and you might have been aſſured from the firſt, that any man who dared to treat a woman ill, muſt be a coward in his heart.

BUT did you meet? cried Lucy. No, ſaid Sir John, and I will anſwer for it, we never ſhall, [79] if he can avoid it; and I promiſe you, I ſhall not ſeek the wretch.

BUT pray, Sir John, ſaid I, how came you acquainted with his ungenerous behaviour? As vice and folly are generally connected, replied Sir John, he was weak enough to inform againſt himſelf by a letter which he wrote to me at Paris, ſome time after his marriage; and concluded it with preſenting lady Miller's compliments, and hoping that notwithſtanding what had paſſed, we might ſtill be friends, and live upon good terms

IN my anſwer, I told him that though ſighting had formerly been my profeſſion, I was neither a bully nor a bravo, and if he could acquit himſelf with honour, of a breach of faith to a woman of unqueſtioned merit, I was ready to accord him the friendſhip he deſired; but as I looked upon that to be impoſſible, I hoped he would at leaſt be ready to afford me the only ſatisfaction that remained in his power to offer or mine to receive. That I ſhould leave Paris in a few days, and call upon him, as ſoon as I arrived in London.

I SAW his ſervant near this houſe, when I a⯑lighted, and I have reaſon to think he was placed there, to watch my coming; as Sir James and his lady ſet out in a few minutes after for Paris. And I think there now ramains nothing, but to wiſh my dear Lucy joy of her eſcape, from ſuch a contemptible animal.

I AM, indeed, my dear brother, ſaid Lucy, truly joyful—what a wretch ſhould I have been, if any misfortune had befallen you, on my account? how could I ever have looked upon my more than ſiſter, or her little ang [...] babes? Sir John and I endeavoured to change the ſub⯑ject, but Lucy frequently recurred to it.

AH, Emily! her wounds are not yet healed. [80] We ſpent the evening in a kind of pleaſing me⯑lancholy—though our hearts were at peace, our ſpirits were too much agitated to be chearful. I propoſed our ſetting out for Straffon Hill, next day, but Sir John ſeemed inclined to ſtay for a few days longer. As I have now no apprehen⯑ſions from Sir James Miller, I can have no ob⯑jection, though I confeſs I long for pure air, and peace; two charming things, which are never to be found in a great city.

I CONGRATULATE you on lady Lawſon's recovery. How does poor lady Harriet? Have you civilized Sir James Thornton? I mean, has he yet fallen in love? What is Fanny Weſton doing? I ſhall think her much to blame, if ſhe does not make a conqueſt—the country is the place to inſpire ſentiment—in London, we think of nothing but outward ſhew—happineſs is in⯑tirely out of the queſtion. May it long continue to reſide at Woodfort, ſincerely wiſhes

P.S. What an amazing long letter! but I am never tired of converſing with you—Sir John, and my Lucy, and my babes, all ſend you their loves.

LETTER XVIII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

YOU very aptly compare your laſt letter to a news-paper, which records facts indiſcrimi⯑nately—how could you poſſibly think of [81] the charming nun, however engaging or affecting her ſituation, and thence proceed to a ſober lec⯑ture on matrimony, before you mentioned events ſo intereſting, as thoſe which related to Sir John, Lucy, and yourſelf? you are certainly a perfect ſtoic, and I begin to fear you will ſoon be above ‘"life's weakneſs, and its comforts too."’ You ſee how gladly I lay hold of the firſt opportunity I ever had, to criticiſe on you. I have no doubt but you will explain away all my objections, by next poſt; but in the mean time, I ſhall fully en⯑joy that ſelf given conſequence, and ſuperiority, which we all aſſume, when we take the liberty of condemning another perſons conduct.

BUT to be ſerious, both my lord and I are charmed with Sir John—his tenderneſs for his amiable ſiſter ſets his bravery in the ſtrongeſt light—and you really did not bluſh to record it! my dear Fanny muſt have a great deal of effion⯑tery, notwithſtanding her modeſt countenance, and her meek air. I am in ſuch high ſpirits, at the happy concluſion of this diſagreeable affair, that I cannot command my pen to write one ra⯑tional line.

YES, it ſhall tell you, that all this family con⯑gratulate our dear Lucy, and you, but more particularly her, on her lucky eſcape from that contemptible wretch Sir James Miller; and though we all hope, and believe ourſelves to be very good chriſtians, there is not one of us would la⯑ment his untimely end, if he ſhould be detected in picking pockets in Paris, and make his exit at the Greve.

AND ſo my dear wiſe ſiſter very prudently warned me againſt teazing my lord—it was a pro⯑per caution, and I ſhall uſe it—am not I very obedient? but ſhe left me at full liberty, to tor⯑ment [82] any one elſe—I ſhall uſe this latitude alſo. To begin:—I muſt inform you, that I am in full poſſeſſion of the hiſtory of our lovely nun, and unreſtrained from communicating it to you; yet ſhall I not gratify your curioſity, which I am cer⯑tain is as great as mine, until you are brought to confeſs it; and provoked to ſay, Pſha, Emily, how can you be ſo teizing?'

I MUST now haſten to your queries, as we are going to dine at lord Withers's, four miles off. I have prevailed on lady Lawſon to be of the par⯑ty; Sir William is not returned from London yet I do believe Sir James Thornton is in love, though we cannot gueſs with whom. He is lately become thoughtful and reſerved; we rally him on his gravity, and tell him he is ‘"proud, me⯑lancholy, and gentleman like:"’ though he has loſt his chearfulneſs, his good humour is invin⯑cible, and he ſtrives to laugh, whenever he thinks we wiſh he ſhould.

I MUCH fear that Cupid has played at croſs⯑bow, amongſt our young folks, and dealt out left-handed arrows. I fear poor Fanny Weſton is a ſtricken deer, and am apprehenſive, that the hand which gave, will never heal the wound. She ſits whole evenings alone in her chamber, liſtening to an Aeolian harp, and ſometimes looks as if ſhe had been in tears. She ſays ſhe will go to London, from York; but I fancy ſhe may as well return to Woodfort, as all our male inmates will have left us.

LORD Seymour talks of going to the hot wells, at Briſtol, in a few days; and Sir James Thorn⯑ton goes from York, to his own ſeat in the Weſt. Lady Harriet continues pretty much the ſame, except when captain Barnard is mentioned; which happens too frequently, as he ſtill viſits at lady Ransford's.

[83]ADIEU, dear Fanny, the coach is ready, and Sir James Thornton waiting in the anti-chamber of the dreſſing-room, to hand me to it. I can⯑not help laughing at the idea of her grave face. A thouſand loves attend Sir John, Lucy, and the babes.

LETTER XIX.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

IT is a remark, much to the honour of human nature, that happineſs creates benevolence. I am, therefore pleaſed with the illuſtrating it, by telling you, that the calm and rational delight I receive, from my preſent happy ſituation, has rendered my mind ſo placid, and ſerene, as to prevent my reſenting your ladyſhip's ſarcaſtical comment on my laſt letter. Au contraire, I am pleaſed at your becoming a critic; as I think you want a little of that ſelf given conſequence, which is ſometimes neceſſary, to give us weight with others.

BUT now to prove to you that I am not ſtoic enough to be indifferent about your good opini⯑on, I muſt inform you, that the firſt part of my laſt letter was wrote a few minutes before Sir John's arrival, the remainder the day after. And as I know my dear Emily's weak ſpirits are too apt to be alarmed, I choſe to proceed in continu⯑ation, in hopes, that by ſeeming to treat the matter lightly, I might prevent her apprehenſions: and this remarkable inſtance of my delicacy, has her [84] pretty little ladyſhip conſtrued into a total want of feeling. But you love faire la guerre; and now, look to yourſelf.

I NEVER pretended to be devoid of curioſity; it is a paſſion inherent to our natures, and, pro⯑perly conducted, may be productive of every good.—It is the ſource of knowledge; and in my mind, the ſtrongeſt mark of diſtinction be⯑tween the rational and brute creation—It is our birth right, deſcended to us from our firſt mo⯑ther.—You will, perhaps, ſay, it is an inheri⯑tance we might have diſpenſed with, as it has certainly coſt us too dear; yet as I have already ſaid, if well cultivated, it is a fruitful ſoil; but, in the hands of the weak, or the idle, it can bring forth nothing but weeds, or thorns.

AGAINST this kind of produce, I warned my Emily, and ſtill warn her, leſt they, at any time, ſhould wound her tender heart. I frankly con⯑feſs myſelf intereſted in the fate of your lovely nun; but inſtead of ſaying, as you would have me, Pſha, Emily, how can you be ſo teizing! I ſhall ſay Pray, Emily, do not be teizing, but write me a full and true account of every cir⯑cumſtance you know, relating to the charming veſtal; and of every thing elſe, that you think can afford any entertainment, to

LETTER XX.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

WHAT a triumph for ſuch a little inſigni⯑ficant animal as me, to be able to ruffle the calm dignity of a female philoſopher! I ſhall begin to think myſelf of ſome conſequence; ra⯑ther of more weight, than the fly upon the chariot wheel. For, indeed my dear Fanny, notwith⯑ſtanding your efforts to diſguiſe it, you were a little chagrined at the ſmall attempt towards pertneſs, which I ventured to make, in my laſt letter; and, in truth, you wiſe ones, when once thrown off your guard, make as fooliſh a figure as any of us ſimpletons.

I HAVE heard it ſaid, that a perſon who ne⯑ver learnt to fence, ſhall be able to diſconcert the greateſt maſter of that noble ſcience; nay more, may poſſibly kill him by a random paſs, while he ſtands in the beſt poſture of defence, and is aim⯑ing at his antagoniſt, in all the profundity of quarte or tierce. Juſt ſuch a ſcrambling comba⯑tant have you to deal with, who, without the leaſt ſkill in the art of logic, preſumes to enter the liſts with your wiſe ladyſhip.

AND ſo, Fanny, curioſity is now become a virtue, ‘"productive of every good, the ſource of knowledge, the diſtinguiſhing mark of rati⯑onality, an inheritance deſcended to us,"’ &c. And yet poor Emily is not to be allowed the uſe of this treaſure, but to be deprived of her birth⯑right, and treated as an abſolute alien to our grandmother Eve. Is not this a little hard?

BUT now what ſays my philoſophy, to this ſe⯑vere treatment? I think I ſee you laugh, at that expreſſion. But pray, madam, is not the great [86] uſe and end of that exalted ſtudy, to render us happy, by perfectly acquieſcing in our own lot, and wiſely contemning all thoſe advantages that are denied us? Grant me but this, and I will immediately prove myſelf a philoſopher, by ſhew⯑ing you how differently we think, in regard to this ſame treaſure, called curioſity, which I am not permitted to have any ſhare of.

AND firſt, I abſolutely deny, that it ever was, or can be, productive of good. Au contraire, I have ſcripture on my ſide, to prove that it was the original cauſe of every phyſical, and moral ill, that has happened in this world, for I know not how many thouſand years. You ſay, ‘"it is inherent to our natures."’ Fie, Fanny! Could the Author of good then have puniſhed dame Eve, and all her deſcendants, merely for following the bent of that nature, he had him⯑ſelf endued her with?—Impoſſible!

I SAY, it was the devil, who firſt introduced it into paradiſe, and infected poor Eve; for it certainly is contagious, and never to be eradica⯑ted. From her then it has deſcended to all her offspring, not as an inheritance though, but ra⯑ther as an uncancellable mortgage upon their natural patrimony.

YOU ſay, ‘"it is the ſource of knowledge."’ There again, my dear, you are unluckily miſta⯑ken.—Pride is, undoubtedly, the firſt motive; for not to be wiſe, but to be thought wiſer, than our neighbours, is the great reward. "A diſ⯑tinguiſhing mark of rationality. You are real⯑ly no philoſopher, lady Straffon.—Have you never ſeen a dog, or cat, raiſe up their ears, and liſten with all the avidity with which an old maid hearkens to a ſcandalous report of ſome bloom⯑ing beauty of eighteen? Indeed, my dear, you muſt have obſerved this frequently; and I am [87] firmly perſuaded, that thoſe animals I have men⯑tioned, are juſt as inſtinctively curious, as any dutcheſs in Chriſtendom.

I THINK I have now fairly demoliſhed all your arguments in favour of this precious commodity: but as you boaſt the poſſeſſion of it, which I be⯑lieve no woman ever did but yourſelf, I will ſhew myſelf the paragon of good nature, and gratify the weakneſs I condemn, by telling you the hiſ⯑tory of our amiable nun.

HOW unlucky now, for your poor dear curio⯑ſity! Lady Ransford has this moment alighted.—I muſt fly to receive her, and bid you

LETTER XXI.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

AND ſo, my pretty little Bizarre, you are really delighted, at having ruffled a female philoſopher; and from thence are determined to derive ſelf-conſequence: Helas, ma pauvre enfant! How grieved am I to mortify, by undeceiving you? for I cannot help informing you (though I know it to be cruel) that I have never been ſo much pleaſed, with any of your letters, as your two laſt.

BROUGHT up, from your early infancy, with a high deference for my opinions, which for ſome years paſt I have wiſhed you to ſhake off, leſt it ſhould prevent the free uſe of your own underſtanding, and occaſion your receiving notions upon truſt, without giving yourſelf the trouble of examining them, I am delighted to [88] find that my dear Emily will, though in pure badinage, exert her reaſon and argue, it not logi⯑cally, at leaſt ingeniouſly.

GO on, my lively opponent, and puſh the mock war between us as far as it will go; though inded you have left me little to ſay, on the ſub⯑ject of curioſity, except that it was certainly the original ſource of knowledge, however unmeri⯑torious, as it firſt induced Eve's treſpaſs, in taſting the forbidden fruit: but I think, we have fairly exhauſted this theſis, and now for quelque choſe de-nouveau.

SIR John has received a letter from Sir James Miller, wherein ‘"he intreats that Sir John will not baniſh him his native land, by keeping up any reſentment againſt him. He implores Lucy's pardon; and is mean enough to give hints, that his crime has been his puniſhment."’ Poor abject wretch! Sir John has aſſured him that he never can feel reſentment for a perſon he deſpiſes; ſo that he may return to England in perfect ſafety.

THIS laſt contemptible manoeuvre of Sir James, has I think completed Lucy's cure. Her faded charms begin to recover their former luſtre; and I had the pleaſure of over-hearing her ſinging a very lively air, as ſhe walked juſt now under my window. Are not theſe good ſymptoms, my fair philoſopher?

NO friendly viſitant has broke in upon me, to interrupt the tediouſneſs of this epiſtle; but the clock has juſt reminded me of an appointment I made with my Edward and Emily, to take them to our park. Exact punctuality ſhould ever be preſerved, in promiſes made to thoſe who are not capable of judging of the reaſons, [89] which might be given for a breach of it—I there⯑fore muſt fly to them, and bid my dear Emily

LETTER XXII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I AM heartily glad that the mock war, as you call it, between us, is at an end, as I ſhould at preſent, be totally unable to ſupport my ſhare in the combat, and of courſe, muſt fall before the conqueror. I have been unuſually diſpirited, and languid, for theſe two days.—I feel, as if I had cauſe to be melancholy, and yet endeavour to perſuade myſelf that I have none. This is a ſtate not to be deſcribed: and to you, who, I dare ſay, have never experienced it, may appear ridiculous; and yet, believe me, it is a painful ſituation—But I flatter myſelf, I have rather caught, than bred this malady.

LORD Seymour left us this morning; and for ſome days before he ſet out, he ſeemed to have acquired an additional degree of melancholy ſoft⯑neſs. Love he can never feel more.—Beſides, my lord ſeems infected with the ſame diſorder; looks grave, and ſighs. Tell me then, Fanny, is it poſſible that male friendſhip is ſo much more delicate and tender than ours, that their mutual ſadneſs could ariſe from a ſeparation, for a few weeks, or perhaps months. If this ſhould be the real cauſe, I ſhall bluſh for my own want of ſenſibility.

[90]I SHOULD think lord Seymour in ſuch a ſtate of mind, that no ſlight or trivial misfortune could poſſibly affect him; for they who have once felt real anguiſh, may bid defiance to fu⯑ture ills. The arrows of adverſity may glance againſt, but cannot wound a heart already bro⯑ken. From ſympathy alone, ſuch minds can ſuffer.—But, Oh! far, far, be the thought, from Emi⯑ly's fond boſom, that lord Woodville's ſufferings ſhould cauſe lord Seymour's ſorrow! It is im⯑poſſible! I am ſorry I have expreſſed ſuch a thought, even to you, my ſiſter. I would blot it from the paper, if I could eraſe it from my mind.

WE had, laſt night, a concert, in a temple dedicated to Apollo, in the garden.—My lord, whoſe voice is harmony itſelf, was ſinging one of Shenſtone's elegies. I accompanied him on the harpſichord, and lord Seymour on the violoncello.—At theſe words,

I ſaw lord Seymour fix his eyes on lord Wood⯑ville's face, which, in a moment, became ſuf⯑fuſed with crimſon; his voice faltered ſo much, that he could ſcarce finiſh the ſong.

THE moment it was ended, he quitted the temple. I felt myſelf alarmed; I feared he was taken ill, and went immediately towards the houſe. As I croſſed the parterre, I ſaw him walking briſkly, in a path that leads to the wood: this quieted my apprehenſions for his health, but left my mind in a ſtate incapable of thinking.—I retired to my chamber, and continued to muſe, till ſummoned to ſupper.

[91]THERE was no notice taken of what had paſſed—we parted earlier than uſual, all but lord Seymour, and my lord, who continued together, till near four o'clock. I could not ſleep, and wiſhed to have riſen, and either walked, or read; but was unwilling to diſcover my reſtleſſneſs to him who cauſed it. When we met, at break⯑faſt, Mr. Ransford, who was juſt arrived from London, aſked my lord in a low voice, if I had been ill, as he obſerved that I looked much paler than uſual.

WHAT a flutter am I in! Juſt as I had wrote the laſt word, my dear lord opened the door, and ſaid he came to requeſt the pleaſure of my com⯑pany, to ſee a new improvement he is making; and, with the moſt engaging affability, added, that he feared he had diſturbed my reſt, by ſitting up ſo late, but thought an airing would do us both good.

HIS behaviour has made all the foregoing part of my letter appear a viſion to me. Do not re⯑ply to it, my Fanny, till you hear from me again; and I hope, by next poſt, to have forgot I ever wrote it.

ADIEU, adieu, that I may fly indeed, to the moſt amiable of men.

P.S. YOU ſhall have the little hiſtory of the nun, with my next.—I rejoice at Lucy's re⯑covery.—Happy, happy, may you all be!

LETTER XXIII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

THE cloud that hung over my mind, is totally diſperſed, and my happineſs reſtored with my reaſon. What a viſionary muſt you think me! but do not chide me, my loved ſiſter, leſt, by endeavouring at a juſtification, I ſhould fancy I had found reaſon to ſupport my folly.

I NEVER ſpent ſo delightful a day, as the laſt on which I wrote to you. During our airing, which was about ſix miles, my lord appeared, if poſſible, more amiable to me than ever. There was a peculiar air of tenderneſs diffuſed through his voice and manner; perhaps the parting from his friend, had ſoftened his already gentle nature. Perhaps—but why pry into his boſom, in ſearch of a cauſe, which might render the effect leſs pleaſing?

IN leſs than an hour, we arrived at the neateſt and moſt elegant cottage, I ever beheld. It was ſeated on the declivity of a hill, and defended from the North winds by a ſmall wood, ſo beau⯑tifully variegated, that even in this leafy ſeaſon, ſummer, autumn, and winter, ſeemed to vye in the luxuriancy of the different ſhades, which their ſeveral periods produce.

BEFORE the houſe a pendant lawn, covered with ſheep and lambs, reached to the river, which winded in the moſt beautiful mazes round the hill. Over the broadeſt part of it, was a Gothic bridge of one arch, with a watch tower in the center; and on the other ſide of the houſe, ſtood a ſmall nurſery and ſhrubbery—I was never more [93] agreeably ſurprized, than with this lovely ſcene. I really think if I was to meet with any ſevere affliction, that I ſhould like to retire to this de⯑lightful ſolitude, and paſs my days in it.

I FREQUENTLY ſaw my lord's eyes ſparkle with pleaſure, at that which I expreſſed. As I neither ſaw or heard a human creature but our⯑ſelves, I begged to know who were the happy owners of this lovely ſpot? ſaid I wiſhed to ſee and congratulate them, on their taſte and feli⯑city.—He ſaid he would immediately comply with my requeſt, and by ſo doing, increaſe the happineſs of its poſſeſſors.

HE then led me to the houſe, which was as ſimply elegant within, as without—I think I ne⯑ver ſaw perfect neatneſs before—and preſented me to his nurſe an extreme good looking woman, about fifty—ſhe knew not in what manner to receive me—humility and joy ſeemed to ſtrug⯑gle in her countenance—I ſtepped forward, and embraced her—my lord ſeemed delighted at what he was pleaſed to call my condeſcenſion.

THE good woman has been a widow for twelve years; her huſband was firſt gardener to my lord's father and her ſon in-law is now in the ſame ſtation with us. Her daughter is a very pretty woman about two and twenty; and ready to lye in of a ſecond child. I never beheld ſuch a che⯑rubim as the firſt. My lord ſaid archly, he hoped his foſter ſiſter and I ſhould be better ac⯑quainted, and that ſhe would undertake the ſame good office for me, that her mother had done for his.

THE poor girl bluſhed, and curtſyed; I felt my cheeks glow: and walked to the window—I confeſs I was charmed with his intention to ſuch a point, which the fooliſh lords of the creation generally think below them. He then inquired [94] for the nurſe's mother, and the fineſt old woman I ever ſaw, came into the room—I ſaluted her alſo—her hair was perfectly ſilver, and her ſkin like down—ſhe bleſſed and embraſſed my lord, while tears of joy and gratitude ran down her fair unfurrowed cheek.

MY lord was affected, and ſaw me ſow; and in order to change the ſubject, told the good woman of the houſe, he was come to dine with her.—She looked amazed, and ſo ſhould I, had I then thought him ſerious—But I found he was ſo, when he told her ſhe could certaily give us good bread, butter, raſhers and eggs, and a ſal⯑lad; and that he would take care of the reſt.

I SMILED aſſent; but ſaid we ſhould ſend home to prevent the company waiting. He ſaid there was no neceſſity for it, as he was quite ſatisfied that our friends at Woodfort would ſit down to dinner at the ſame inſtant that we did, without hearing from us. I then ſuppoſed he had left orders that they ſhould not wait, and was pleaſed with the idea of our ſimple ruſtic meal. But I was to be ſtill more ſurprized; for in about ten minutes the coach arrived with lady Harriet, Fany Weſton, Sir James Thornton, and Mr. Ransford. A ſumpter car followed with wine and cold proviſions.

THE beauty of the ſcene, the fineneſs of the day, the unpremeditatedneſs of the ſcheme, all conſpired to render us more chearful, than we ſhould have been perhaps in any other place on earth; and we all returned home delighted with our little expedition, and full of gratitude to my lord, for the pleaſure it had afforded us.

THIS is an enormous long letter, but you taught me to riſe early; I can therefore ſpare time to my abſent friends, as well as thoſe about me; and I can never think that time better em⯑ployed, [95] than in proving to my deareſt Fanny, that I am,

P.S. I fear I have delayed the hiſtory I now ſend you, too long; perhaps your curioſity may be as much palled as one's appetite ſometimes is by waiting for a ſecond courſe; which though elegant in itſelf cannot repair the damage done by the delay. But if you are a true epicure, and like the feaſt, you will feed heartily, though the tediouſneſs of the cook be ever ſo teizing to you.

LETTER XXIV.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

THAT my dear Emily may not again re⯑proach me, for attending equally to foreign and domeſtic affairs, I ſhall anſwer her two laſt letters, before I ſpeak my ſentiments of the truly amiable and unhappy Charlotte Beaumont. And firſt, of the firſt—Though you have deſired me not to reply to it, I find the ſubject ſo very in⯑tereſting and alarming, that I cannot in juſtice to you or myſelf, comply with your requeſt—,

YOU certainly muſt have lived ſome days upon eſſence of tea, and reduced your nerves to the loweſt ſtate imaginable, before your mind could be affected by the circumſtances you men⯑tion. Not that I would inſinuate that lord Woodville's ſudden confuſion was not the effect of a quick recollection, or conſciouſneſs of ſome former ſcene, which he perhaps might wiſh to have forgot. In all probability it aroſe from the remembrance of ſome diſaſtrous love adventure, which obtruded itſelf involuntarily upon his mind.

THIS point which you have barely hinted at, I ſhall take for granted; and then endeavour to [137] ſhew you the abſurdity of being alarmed on ſuch an occaſion. Lord Woodville is now in his eight-and-twentieth year, and has lived both in forreign courts, and at home, as much in the gay world, as any man in England.—And can my dear Emily really ſuppoſe that ſhe was the firſt object of his love?—Impoſſible! It is much more reaſonable to imagine that he had felt that paſſion half a dozen times, at leaſt, before ſhe was out of her hanging ſleeves.

BUT all girls flatter themſelves with the entire poſſeſſion of an huſband's heart; which if he happens as in your caſe, to be ſeven or eight years older than her, is no more in his power to beſtow, than youth or beauty. But if he gene⯑rouſly grants you all that remains at that time in his gift, you have not the leaſt right to com⯑plain; and this, I firmly believe lord Woodville has done. Beware, then my Emily, of appear⯑ing ungrateful for this preſent; nor let him ever ſee that you do not conſider, even the remnant of his heart, as a full equivalent for all your own. This I muſt confeſs to be a very unequal lot of affections; but the conditions of life ſhould be acquieſced in, without too much refin⯑ing—

THERE never was an higher inſtance of de⯑licacy than lord Woodville's behaviour to you, in conſequence of the temple adventure; but do not give him too frequent opportunities of exert⯑ing his gallantry:—you are a muſical lady; and know that a ſtring may be ſtrained, till it breaks. I am perfectly acquainted with the tenderneſs and ſenſibility of your nature; but you are not to judge of others, by your own fine feelings; or think your huſband deficient in affection, if he is not ſo minutely attentive to trifling circum⯑ſtances, [138] as your delicacy may prompt you to ex⯑pect.

LES petits ſoins belong moſt properly to female life: the great cares of the world are load ſuffi⯑cient for the ableſt man. I have now done chid⯑ing I hope for ever, as I never can he angry with my Emily, but when ſhe wounds herſelf.

THE deſcription of your rural entertainment, pleaſed me much.—Whenever I go to Wood⯑fort, you ſhall take me to ſee your pocket Arcadia—No, upon ſecond thoughts, the ſcene would he incomplete without a ſwain; I therefore de⯑ſire you will preſent my compliments to Sir James Thornton, and tell him, that I appoint him my Ceciſbeo for that party, if we ſhould ever happen to meet at your houſe.

I AM not at all ſorry that lord Seymour has left you.—The conſtant anguiſh which he muſt ever feel, was ſufficient to infect you all. This naturally leads me to the charming nun. I can⯑not forgive your want of ingenuouſneſs, in not mentioning the million of tears, her ſtory muſt have coſt you—there never was any thing more affecting.—Lucy and I read and wept by turns—When one of us began to faulter, the other en⯑deavoured to relieve her; but there were many paſſages that neither of us could repeat aloud, and only gazed ſilently on through the dim me⯑dium of our tears.

IT really requires a perfect certainty of the facts, to ſuppoſe there ever were ſuch monſters in nature as the general, and madame de Beau⯑mont. But Charlotte's unhappy fate is but too ſtrong a voucher of their inhumanity. Yet mi⯑ſerable as the lovely veſtal is, I think lord Sey⯑mour much more wretched.—Time, devotion, and a thorough conſciouſneſs of the rectitude of all her actions, may calm her ſorrows; whilſt [139] his muſt for ever be aggravated, by knowing that he has rendered her unhappy. I think him truly to be pitied. Adieu, my Emily.—Loves and good wiſhes from all here, accompany this to Woodfort.

LETTER XXV.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

I HAVE at preſent, a houſe full of company; and therefore muſt content myſelf with barely acknowledging the receipt of my dear Fanny's friendly admonitions, which I frankly admit to be juſt, though I feel they are ſevere. Call me no more a ſpoiled child, when I ſo readily embrace the rod.

LADY Lawſon has been here theſe three days. There have been odd reports about Sir William, and the young lady I formerly mentioned to you, who went to London, a few days before him. But I am perſuaded they are falſe; for on Sir William's return laſt night, lady Lawſon received him with the moſt genuine and unaffected delight, that could be expreſſed in looks or words; and I hear that miſs Fanning (that is the lady's name) is to return to Lawſon-Hall in a few days. The knight appeared a little embarraſſed; but that might be owing to the meeting his lady in ſo much company: we were all aſſembled at tea, and knew nothing of his return.

YOU muſt not expect me to be a conſtant cor⯑reſpondent from York: the fatigue of dreſſing twice, nay perhaps thrice a day, will afford me but little time for more rational entertainment. [140] There are no moments which I think ſo totally loſt, as thoſe ſpent at the toilette; but the cuſ⯑toms of whatever place we are in, muſt be com⯑plied with. Your Emily has not reſolution ſuf⯑ficient to ſtem a torrent, and muſt therefore al⯑ways be carried away with the ſtream. I will however, keep a ſort of journal of the occurren⯑ces of each day, and you muſt accept of that, in lieu of my letters.

MY reaſon for not avowing how much I was affected, by the ſtory of the nun, was to avoid taking off that ſurprize, which gives ſtrength to every emotion.—When we are told that a trage⯑dy is extremely tragical, we ſummon our reſo⯑lution to oppoſe the feelings of our hearts; and frequently ſuffer our pride to conquer its moſt graceful weakneſs: whereas, when we are taken by ſurprize, we give nature fair play, and do not attempt to combat with our humanity.

ADIEU, my dear Fanny! Woodfort ſincerely repays all the loves and good wiſhes of Straffon-Hill.

LETTER XXVI.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I OUGHT, perhaps to be more thankful to my dear Emily for her laſt ſhort letter, than for any other ſhe has written to me. There is certainly the higheſt degree of merit, in giving pleaſure to others, when the effort is attended with trouble or difficulty to ourſelves. The be⯑ſtowing a quarter of an hour upon an abſent friend, while we are ſurrounded with the chear⯑ful [] gaiety of preſent ones, ſhould always be con⯑ſidered as an high compliment.

YOU may ſee by this remark, that I ſet a proper value upon your kind attention; but I am ſtill more charmed with your condeſcenſion, in admitting the juſtneſs of my arguments. Believe me, my dear, if we wiſh to be happy, we muſt make it a conſtant rule to turn awy our eyes, even from the minuteſt failings of thoſe we love; the ſuffering our thoughts to dwell long upon them, muſt inſenſibly leſſen our affection, and of courſe our felicity.

THERE cannot in my mind be a more pitiable object, than a virtuous woman, who ceaſes to love her huſband.—What a dreadful vacuity muſt ſhe feel in her heart! How coldly and inſipidly muſt her life paſs away, who is merely actuated by duty, unanimated by love!

WHERE there never has been paſſion, there may for aught I know, be a kind of mixed ſen⯑ſation compounded of eſteem, and mutual inte⯑reſt that ſupplies the place of affection, to the inſenſible part of mankind.—If this were not the caſe, the generality of married people could not live ſo well together as they do.—But this wretched ſubſtitute, will never anſwer to a man or woman, who has once truly loved.

I WOULD therefore moſt earneſtly recommend it to all thoſe, who are ſo happy as to be united to the object of their choice, to ſet the merits and attractions of each other, in the faireſt point of view to themſelves, and never, even for a moment, to caſt their eyes on the wrong ſide of the tapeſtry.

YOUR account of the kindneſs, with which lady Lawſon received her wandering ſwain, very fully proves that ſhe is an excellent wife; but is by no means a refutation of the reports relative [] to him and miſs Fanning. Your ignorance of the world and its ways, make ſuch ſcenes appear extraordinary to you.—But alas! they are too frequent to be wondered at, in ſuch times as theſe.

I SHALL not, my dear Emily, inſiſt upon your writing from York, if it is inconvenient to you: but as Fanny Weſton tells Lucy, that you do not ſet out from Woodfort this fortnight, every day of which I dare ſay, ſhe thinks a year; I may flatter myſelf with the hopes of hear⯑ing from you, perhaps more than once before you go.

THAT ſurprize encreaſes our emotions, I rea⯑dily admit; but, as you had no reaſon to doubt the tenderneſs of Lucy's nature, or mine, you might have communicated your own ſenſations, without fear of abating ours.

SIR John is gone to London, for a ſhort time; and Lucy and I are to ſpend the days of his ab⯑ſence, not in retirement, as you might poſſibly ſuppoſe, but in diſcharging a heavy debt of viſits, which we owe to all the neighbourhood for five miles round. I think there are few ſmall evils that torture us ſo much, as what is generally called a good neighbourhood in the country.

ADIEU, my dear Emily. I feel myſelf pee⯑viſh, at the idea of ſquandering my time, with perſons that I have not the leaſt wiſh to converſe with, and aſking ſimple queſtions without the ſmalleſt deſire to be informed. But as the world is conſtituted, we muſt compound for ſpending ſome part of our lives diſagreeably, and endea⯑vour to make ourſelves what amends we can, by enjoying that portion of it which is left to our own diſpoſal.

[]HEALTH, and her fair handmaid chearfulneſs, attend my dear Emily.

LETTER XXVII.
Lady WOODVILLE, to Lady STRAFFON.

MY dear Fanny is extremely kind, in ſeem⯑ing to ſet ſo high a value upon my ſmall, or rather no merit, in writing to her; for indeed I can never claim any, for what is to me the higheſt ſelf indulgence.—So a truce with your compliments, my too civil ſiſter.

DO not be angry, Fanny; but I really cannot think with you, that true affection ſhould be founded on illuſion, which muſt be the caſe, if we are to be totally blind to the failings of thoſe we love.—On the contrary, I have always conſi⯑dered the raiſing our ideas, of the perſons we are to be united to, too romantically high, as one great ſource of matrimonial unhappineſs. By that means we became enamoured of a being, which exiſts not in nature, and feel ourſelves mortified and diſpleaſed as at a real diſappointment, when we diſcover that our imagination has exceeded the bounds of poſſibility.

BUT if abſolute perfection were to be found on earth, it would wound our ſelf-love; and whatever injures that, can never be long dear to us. In the imperfections of our moſt amiable friends, we find a conſolation for our own, which forbids deſpair, and places the generality of man⯑kind pretty nearly upon a level. This equally creates confidence, and that naturally produces eſteem and love.

[]AS theſe are my real ſentiments, I think I may venture to tell you, that I am very ſorry I have never been able to diſcover one failing in my lord. I declare, Fanny, this is a humiliating ſituation, to a creature ſo conſcious of a thou⯑ſand weakneſſes as I am; inſtead of reſtraining me from ſearching for his faults, I deſire you will immediately provide me with a magnifying glaſs to aſſiſt me in the diſcovering them.

WHAT an horrid idea have you conjured up of a woman who ceaſes to love her huſband! There can be but two cauſes in nature that are capable of producing ſuch an effect—for I talk not of thoſe animals who never felt paſſion.—The firſt of theſe muſt be a conſtant ſeries of ill treat⯑ment, which I ſuppoſe may at length conquer the tendereſt affection; and the unhappy ſuffer⯑er who continues to act up to her duty, under ſuch circumſtances, deſerves, in my mind, a much higher fame than any Greek or Roman, that ever yet exiſted.

THE other cauſe muſt be owing to a ſhameful and vicious depravity of heart, commonly called inconſtancy; which to the honour of our ſex, I think I may ſay, is not frequent amongſt us. But when this happens to be the caſe, there is generally ſome new object in view; for that deſpicable wretch, ‘"a woman of gallantry never changes her firſt love, till ſhe is engaged in a ſecond."’

I THANK heaven for my ignorance of the world, and its ways, as I hope and believe, I ſhall never have any trial, that may render a know⯑ledge of them neceſſary. I know not what to think, with regard to lady Lawſon; but for my own eaſe I will hope the beſt, as it is impoſſible [145] that I ſhould be indifferent to any thing that diſ⯑treſſes her.

SIR James Thornton has had an ugly fall from his horſe, and ſtrained his right arm, but has not received any dangerous hurt, though he is con⯑fined to his chamber. Lady Harriet, and Fanny Weſton are indefatigable in their attendance on him. I juſt now received a meſſage from him, to inquire my health; which ſeems a kind of tacit reproach, for not having been to viſit him—My ſiſter Lawſon and I ſpent all this morning in deſigning plans for a wood-houſe;—but as we are neither of us partial to our own inventions, we have laid them by, and determined to be rather good copyiſts than bad originals. We have both agreed, that it was poſſible to de⯑viſe any thing more truly elegant than that on the terrace of Taplow, which is to be our model. I have barely time to finiſh this, to dreſs, and look in upon Thornton before dinner. Adieu, my dear, Fanny! I may hear from you again, be⯑fore we ſet out for York.

LETTER XXVIII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

AS I am perfectly convinced that in the ac⯑count of our correſpondence I am much your debtor, on the article of the entertainment, I am pleaſed at having a little adventure to relate to you, though I cannot hope that the [146] recital will afford you as much pleaſure as the action gave me; but you muſt make the ſame allowance as you do for a play in your cloſet, and furniſh out all the ſcenery, decorations, &c. from the ſtore-houſe of your own imagination.

MY tale runs ſimply thus—As Lucy and I were returning home laſt night, from lady Vaughan's about eight o'clock, the ſky quite dark and rainy, one of the hind wheels of our carriage flew off; but as we were travelling at a very ſlow pace, in a miry road, we received no hurt from the accident—We were about three miles from Straffon Hill, which was rather too far for us to walk, as we were by no means ac⯑coutred for Peripatetics; and juſt as ill qualified for an equeſtrian expedition; we therefore ſent off the poſtilion on one of the horſes, to bring the coach to us—

WE ſaw no friendly cottage near; but at the diſtance of a quarter of a mile in the fields, which ſeemed to us bright ‘"as the Arcadian ſtar, or Tyran Cynoſure."’ one of the ſervants diſ⯑covered a path, that ſeemed to lead to the man⯑ſion, from whence theſe charming beams had iſſued.

WE took him with us, and ſetting forward, ſoon reached the ſmall but hoſpitable dwelling. When we knocked at the door, a little neat coun⯑try girl appeared, and after conducting us into a ſmall parlour, ſaid ſhe would acquaint her young lady, that there were ſtrangers there, but that her miſtreſs was at her devotions. We announced ourſelves to the girl, and ſhe retired.

I WAS ſurprized at this young creature's mode of expreſſion; ſhe ſeemed greatly amazed at our appearance, but her aſtoniſhment could only be diſcovered by her looks. In a few minutes an elegant young woman about eighteen, entered [147] the room, and after ſaluting us very gracefully, inquired to what happy accident ſhe was indebted for the honour of our viſit?

THE courtlineſs of her addreſs, and the eaſe of her manners, were all new ſubjects of won⯑der, both to Lucy and me; which we could not help expreſſing, after we had informed her of the accident we had met with. She very politely offered us tea or coffee—we declined both—but there was a mch higher treat in her power, name⯑ly the gratification of our curioſity, which we could not however venture to propoſe.

WHEN we had ſat about a quarter of an hour, the little ſervant came in, and ſaid her lady was come out of the chapel, and would be glad to ſee us—we were immediately ſhewn into a room, the neatneſs and elegance of which it is impoſſi⯑ble to deſcribe; at the upper end of it, on a ſmall ſofa, ſat a woman with the fineſt form, though pale and emaciated, that can be imagined.

SHE roſe to receive us, with ſuch an affable dignity, as at once attracted our reſpect and love; ſhe was dreſſed in black, and appeared to be about five and thirty—though ſhe ſpoke per⯑fect good Engliſh, there was juſt ſo much of the foreign accent in her utterance, as muſt prevent your taking her for a native of this country.

OVER the chimney of the chamber we ſat in, was a picture of a very handſome young man, and at the other end of the room, there hung one of the lady before us, in all the bloom of beauty, with her daughter, then about four years old by her ſide, and a boy that looked like a che⯑rubim, ſeated in her lap.

AS I gazed on every object round me, with looks of admiration, which the lady of the houſe could not help obſerving, ſhe turned to me with an engaging ſmile, and ſaid, the ſurprize which [148] your ladyſhip is too polite to expreſs in words, is ſo porfectly viſible in your countenance, that it would appear like affectation to ſeem inſenſible of it; and as there is no part, either of my paſt or preſent life, that ſhould cauſe a bluſh to grow upon my cheek, I am ready to gratify that curioſity, which the extraordinarineſs of my ſituation, ſeems to have raiſed.

IT will probably be near an hour, continued ſhe, before your carriage can arrive, and a much leſs time will ſerve to relate the few, though un⯑common events, that have placed me in the cir⯑cumſtances you now ſee me. Both Lucy and I ex⯑preſſed our gratitude for ſuch an obliging offer, in the warmeſt terms, and intreated ſhe would pro⯑ceed—without more ceremony ſhe began.

I AM a native of Italy, and deſcended from one of the moſt ancient families, of the repub⯑lic of Genoa—About twenty years ago, I be⯑came acquainted with a young Engliſh nobleman, called lord Somerville, whoſe picture you ſee there (pointing her beautiful hand towards the chimney; he was then upon his travels, and under age.—He became paſſionately in love with me, and ſoon inſpired me with more than grati⯑tude; with honeſt heart felt love.

WITH my permiſſion, he applied to my fa⯑ther, for his conſent to our marriage; well knowing that he could have no exception to his birth or fortune. We had not the leaſt appre⯑henſion of my father's refuſal—but we had both forgot that my lover was an heretic. This was deemed by him ſo material an objection to our union, that he declared he would confine me to a convent for life, rather than hazard my ſalva⯑tion by ſuch a marriage.—My lover was forbid⯑den to repeat his viſits, and I was ſent about twenty leagues off, into the country.

[149]LORD Somerville ſoon diſcovered my retreat, and got acceſs to me, by the treachery or zeal of a ſervant, who was intruſted with the care of me. My father was informed of our interviews, and determined to ſend me directly to a convent at Naple's, where an aunt of my mother's was lady abbeſs. A particular accident let me into the ſecret of my intended doom, and I no longer heſitated to prefer love and liberty, to cruelty and confinement. After lord Somerville had given me the moſt ſolemn aſſurances, that I ſhould preſerve my religion inviolate, we were married, and ſet out privately in a felucca, hi⯑red for the purpoſe, which conveyed us both to Marſeilles.

WHEN we came to Lyons, we were obliged to wait there for remittances from England, be⯑fore we could proceed farther. After having long expected them in vain, my lord received a very ſevere and angry letter from his father, accuſing him with having ſtolen the daughter of an Italian nobleman, and commanding him to reſtore me to my parents, and return imme⯑diately to England.

THE diſtreſs of my huſband's mind, upon this occaſion, was not to be concealed; but it was a long time before he acquainted me with the real motives of his concern. Fondly and paſſionately as I loved him, I would have torn myſelf from his arms, and gone into a convent till his father's reſentment might have been ap⯑peaſed, if my condition would have permitted it.

BUT I was then far gone with child, of that young lady before you, and he in the tendereſt manner, aſſured me that not even the com⯑mands of a father, ſhould have power to force him from me, till he had the happineſs of being [150] himſelf a parent, and of ſeeing me in a ſituation to ſupport his abſence, or able to travel with him.

WE had lived in the utmoſt retirement, and privacy from the time of our arrival at Lyon's—My lord had taken the name of Forteſcue, and no creature, except his banker, knew who he was—We were ſo perfectly happy in each other, that we wiſhed for no other ſociety—my lord amuſed himſelf with teaching me Engliſh—with ſuch a tutor, I ſoon became a conſiderable proficient; and at the time that my Laura was born, I could read and perfectly underſtand the moſt difficult Engliſh author's.

AS ſoon as I was quite recovered, we ſet out for Paris, where my lord purpoſed leaving me, while he went over to England to pay his duty to his father, and to endavour to reconcile him to our marriage. I will not take up your time, with attempting to deſcribe our mutual ſufferings at our ſeparation; ſuch forms as yours, muſt have feeling hearts, and you can judge better than I deſcribe what we endured.

MY Lord remained above a year in England, making repeated but fruitleſs efforts, to conquer his father's reſentment, againſt a perſon who had never in thought offended him; but, alas! my being a catholic, was as unpardonable a crime to him, as my dear huſband's being a proteſtant was to my father. Strange! that the worſhippers of one God, and Saviour, whoſe doctrine was peace and good will to men, ſhould feel ſuch enmity and hatred to each other!

AT my lord's return to France, I could not help perceiving a viſible change, both in his health and ſpirits, though his fondneſs for me was un⯑diminiſhed; or if poſſible, ſeemed to be increaſ⯑ed, by his tenderneſs for his daughter, who was then near two years old. As my lord concealed [151] great part of his father's unreaſonable averſion to me, I was not without hopes that time would conquer his prejudices; which indeed I only wiſh⯑ed upon my lord's account; for while I enjoyed the real happineſs of his company, there was not a deſire of my heart ungratified.

IN leſs than a year, that infant whoſe portrait you ſee there, was born.—From the time of his birth my lord's health and ſpirits ſeemed to re⯑vive, and I then certainly reached the zenith of human felicity; alas! how quickly did the wheel turn round, to lay me in the loweſt ſtate of miſe⯑ry? With what rapture have I ſeen him catch the infant in his arms, and ſay, this boy, this boy, my love, will plead our cauſe with my ob⯑durate father, and ſoften his hard heart? Would he were three years old!—but that bleſſed time will come, and we ſhall all be happy.—

WHILE lady Somerville repeated the forego⯑ing words, her countenance became more ani⯑mated, than it is poſſible to deſcribe; but a ſudden guſh of tears ſoon dimmed the brilliant luſtre of her eyes, and quenched the glowing crimſon on her cheek. She roſe, and opening a ſmall fold⯑ing door, retired into the chapel.

THE young lady ſympathized moſt ſincerely, with her mother's ſorrow; and Lucy, and I who were extremely affected, were ſcarcely ca⯑pable of making proper apologies, for having been the innocent cauſe of renewing both the ladies afflictions. Miſs Somerville ſaid every thing that politeneſs could dictate, to make us eaſy; and in a few minutes, lady Somerville re⯑turned with ſuch an air of calmneſs and reſigna⯑nation as amazed me.

I TOOK the liberty of entreating that ſhe would not proceed farther in her ſtory, for the preſent. But as I could not avoid being extreme⯑ly [152] anxious about every circumſtance relative to ſo amiable a perſon, I requeſted ſhe would permit me to wait upon her, the next day, or when ever it was moſt agreeable to her inclination.

SHE told me ſhe was very ſenſible of the de⯑licacy and propriety of my requeſt, which ſhe readily aſſented to, as it promiſed her the happi⯑neſs of another interview with perſons, for whoſe ſenſibility and politeneſs, ſhe had conceived the higheſt reſpect: ſaid ſhe was a little aſhamed, that her long acquaintance with grief, had not yet rendered her ſo familiar with it, as ſhe might naturally be ſuppoſed to be; but hoped we would excuſe the ſudden emotion, which had for a few minutes tranſported her. She then intreated our company to drink tea, the next evening, and ſaid ſhe would, if poſſible, be more compoſed.

IN about a quarter of an hour the coach ar⯑rived, and we took leave of this charming un⯑fortunate, with the moſt earneſt deſire to renew our viſit, and the warmeſt hopes of being ſer⯑viceable to her and her daughter.

I AM really fatigued with this long letter; but I would not ſuffer oblivious ſleep to ſteal any part of this axtraordinary adventure from my memory, till I had communicated it to my dear Emily. By next poſt, you ſhall have the re⯑mainder of the ſtory; till then and ever,

LETTER XXIX.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

LUCY and I ſet out immediately after dinner yeſterday, and reached lady Somerville's elegant cottage before five o'clock. As we ap⯑proached it by day-light, we diſcovered many beauties that had been hidden from us by the dun ſhades of night; particularly ſeveral ſmall clumps of trees, that were encircled with wood⯑bines, orange and lemon gourds, and intermixed with a great variety of flowering ſhrubs:—a ſmall, but neat garden, at the bottom of which ran a rivulet ſo clear, and ſparkling, as to appear like liquid diamonds.

AS we drove by the pales of the garden, we perceived a building in it, that ſeemed to be fitted up for a gardener's houſe; and to our great aſtoniſhment, beheld a man of a very reſpecta⯑ble appearance, about ſixty years of age, ſeated in an arbour, with a book in his hand. We were received by both the ladies, with the ſame polite⯑neſs and affability, as the day before. The fold⯑ing doors which led to the chapel ſtood open: and indeed, Emily, there is no deſcribing the elegance, with which the alter is adorned.

I AM an enemy to all devotional parade: yet I could not help conſidering the decorations of this ſacred ſpot, rather as the offerings of the heart to heaven, than a ſacrifice to vanity, as all the ornaments that are placed there, were the work of lady Somervill's and her daughters hands.

AS ſoon as tea and coffee were removed, lady Somerville, without waiting to be intreated, pro⯑ceeded in her narrative, thus—When I mention⯑ed [154] my having reach [...] the pinnacle of human fe⯑licity, I forgot to inform you, that my father had been reconciled to me, for ſome time; and on the birth of my ſon, had preſented me with his picture ſet with diamonds and deſired the portrait of my lord, and thoſe of my chil⯑dren.

BUT before this requeſt could be complied with, I had the misfortune to loſe my only parent.—His death was ſudden, and he died without a will. This was the firſt real affliction I had ever known; and my lord, in order to divert my me⯑lancholy, propoſed our going to the ſouth of France.

I ACQUIESCED in his deſire on his account, more than my own; for as his conſtitution was become extremely delicate, I hoped the change of air, might be of ſervice to him. We lived at Mantauban for near two years, during which time I had the conſtant anguiſh of beholding my dear huſband's health decline daily.

AS he was perfectly ſenſible of his own ſitua⯑tion, he determined to take his little family to England, and preſent his ſon to his unkind father. Every thing was fixed for our departure, when Providence, to whoſe all-wiſe decrees I bow my⯑ſelf beneath the duſt, thought proper to recall the treaſure he had lent us, and took my little cherubim, to join the heavenly choir!

NO words can expreſs the affliction of my loved lord, nor deſcribe the wretched ſtate both of his mind and his body. Whole days he hung enamoured over the pale beauteous clay that was his child, nor would he be prevailed upon to re⯑ſign it to corruption, till weakneſs left him not the power of oppoſition.

FROM that time he ſunk into a ſtate, nearly approaching to inſenſibility, towards every thing [155] except myſelf; but to his lateſt moment his tenderneſs for me was undiminiſhed. Why ſhould I dwell longer upon a ſcene, which but to think of, now ſtrains every nerve, and makes the blood run backward to its ſource! My miſery was completed by his death, in leſs than ſix weeks after that of my lovely boy!

YOU may ſuppoſe that lady Somerville was for ſome time deprived of ſpeech; nor was there one of us capable of interrupting the melancholy ſilence, but by our ſighs. She however ſoon dried her tears, and reſumed her diſcourſe.—I ſhall relate the reſt of my ſtory, ſaid ſhe, though to⯑tally unintereſting to myſelf, as it will account for my preſent ſituation.

I WAS about four months gone with child, at the time of my lords illneſs; and his laſt requeſt to me was, that I would if poſſible, lye-in in England, and acquaint his father with my preg⯑nancy, as ſoon as I arrived there. He told me that if the child I carried ſhould be a ſon, it would inherit the fortune and honours of his family; but if not, that there was no proviſion made for me, or any daughters I might have, as he was under age, at the time he married; and that the eſtate was intailed upon a very diſtant re⯑lation. He implored me to preſerve my life, for the ſake of the poor Laura; and to throw myſelf and her into his father's protection.

[156]AS it is utterly impoſſible that I ſhould give you an adequate idea of my ſituation, at that time, I will not attempt it; but endeavour to caſt a veil over that ſcene of diſtreſs, which no pen, no pencil, can ever be able to deſcribe.

I SET out from Montauban, with my maid, my chaplain, and my child, and arrived ſafe in London. I obeyed my dear lord's requeſt, and wrote immediately to his father. His lordſhip was then in the country. He anſwered my letter with great civility, mixed with an affectation of kindneſs: ſaid he ſhould be in town ſhortly, that he would then ſee me, and deſired I would take care of myſelf for the ſake of the unborn babe, which he hoped would prove a ſon and heir.

IN a few days after I had received this letter, I was informed that there were perſons appointed to attend me, till I was brought to bed, leſt I ſhould impoſe a ſurreptitious child upon the fa⯑mily. I knew not that ſuch proceedings were uſual in my caſe, and I wrote a letter to my father-in-law, complaining of ſuch treatment, to which he never deigned a reply.

BUT all their apprehenſions on my account, were ſoon over: I was delivered, in the ſeventh month, of a dead ſon; and from that time I heard nothing farther from my lord's father, or any of his family, for above ſix months. The little money I had brought with me into Egland, was now quite exhauſted; and I was obliged to apply, heaven knows how unwillingly! to this inhuman parent, for ſome means of ſupport, for his ſon's widow, and grandchild.

IN his reply to my letter, he told me what I knew before, that neither my daughter nor I were entitled to any thing by law; that therefore he adviſed me to go back to my own country; and he would furniſh me with money to carry [157] me there, provided I would leave Laura in Eng⯑land, to his care. That if I ſhould refuſe theſe terms, I muſt even provide for myſelf as it was not his purpoſe to offer me any others.

WHEN the mind has been once totally ſubdu⯑ed by ſorrow, we flatter ourſelves, that we are incapable of being wounded by any new diſtreſs: but the idea of being torn from the dear remains of my loved lord, my only child, convinced me that there were ſtill ſome arrows in the quiver of adverſity, that had not yet been pointed at my peace.

I DID not heſitate one moment, to determine that no conſideration ſhould make me conſent to a ſeparation, from all that was now dear to me on earth. I muſt, indeed, have been abſolutely void of humanity as himſelf, if I could have re⯑ſigned my child into the hands of a man, who had neve [...] even deſired to ſee her before.

I WROTE immediately to my brothers at Genoa, and acquainted them with my diſtreſs. They very kindly aſſured me, that they would receive me and my daughter, with open arms at our return; but if it ſhould be my choice to re⯑main in England, they would take care that I ſhould not want a ſupport there. They immedi⯑ately remitted me bills for a thouſand piaſters, and agreed to ſettle the ſame ſum annually upon me, or more if I ſhould have occaſion for it.

AT this inſtance of generoſity and affection, my heart once more became expanded with gra⯑titude to the Almighty, and with true ſiſterly tenderneſs to my benefactors. I now began to make the firſt efforts towards ſubduing the vio⯑lence of my grief, and to be ſenſible that I might have been rendered ſtill more wretched than I was, by the deprivation of my child, or our be⯑ing reduced to ſlavery for bread.

[158]I SOON fixed upon the plan of life which I meant to purſue, and ſent my worthy chap⯑lain and my faithful maid, in ſearch of a retire⯑ment, ſuch as you now ſee. In this ſpot I have lived about eight years, in which time I have had no manner of converſe with any human creature but my own family; which now conſiſts of my daughter, my chaplain and myſelf; my gardener, his wife and the little maid, their daughter, whom your ladyſhip has ſeen.

THE only additional misfortune I have known in this place was the loſs of my faithful Maria: ſhe died about two years ſince; and as my daugh⯑ter was then of age not to need her attendance, I have never attempted to ſupply her place.

RUSTICATED ſo long as we have been, you will not I hope, ladies, be ſurprized at the ſim⯑plicity of mine or my daughter's manners.—Our ſituation is certainly a very extraordinary one, and muſt naturally have raiſed your curioſity, which I have endeavoured to gratify by a plain and artleſs narrative.

I WISH for your ſakes, as well as my own, that my ſtory had been leſs affecting; but I ſhall not make any apology for having drawn forth the lovely drop of ſympathetic ſorrow, which glow⯑ed with brighter luſtre on your cheeks than the moſt coſtly brilliant.

BOTH Lucy and I poured forth our thanks, for her kindneſs and condeſcenſion in relating her ſtory; admired the conſtancy of her reſolution in remaining ſo long in retirement, but ſeemed to hope that ſhe might change her purpoſe. I ſaw ſhe was diſpleaſed at ſuch a hint; but with great politeneſs, ſaid it was the only ſubject ſhe did not wiſh to hear us talk upon, as it would always give her pain to diſſent from our opinion, which [159] ſhe muſt ever do, both in word and deed, upon that ſubject.

I THEN ventured to aſk her if ſhe wiſhed that miſs Somerville ſhould paſs her life in ſuch a ſtate of ſecluſion? She ſaid by no means;—ſo far from it, that ſhe ſent forth a thouſand fruit⯑leſs wiſhes, that ſome lucky accident might hap⯑pen to introduce her to perſons of ſenſe and vir⯑tue, and of a proper rank, to lead her gently in⯑to life; that ſhe had heard the characters of all the perſons of faſhion in that neighbourhood from her chaplain, who frequently mixed with the world in order to tranſact her affairs;—that as ſhe was above flattery, ſhe was alſo ſuperior to diſguiſe, and frankly owned that her utmoſt wiſh in this world would be gratified, if lady Straffon would promiſe her protection to her dear orphan.

I SCARCE ſuffered her to finiſh the latter part of her ſpeech before I flew to and embraced her, and with great truth aſſured her, that my inclina⯑tions met hers, more than half way. I begged that from that moment ſhe would do me the ho⯑nour to conſider me as her ſiſter, and that the lovely Laura might be henceforth deemed my niece.

EVERY thing that delicate gratitude could dic⯑tate was uttered upon this occaſion; and we all appeared to be infinitely happier than we could have ſuppoſed it poſſible for us to be in ſo ſhort a time, after having been ſo very much afflicted.

LADY Somerville concluded with informing me, that her father-in-law had been dead about four-years, and had left miſs Somerville ſix-thou⯑ſand pounds. We agreed that Lucy ſhould bring Laura to Straffon-Hill to-morrow; and I promiſ⯑ed [160] to convey her back to her ladyſhip whenever ſhe required her attendance.

YOU cannot, my dear Emily, yes you can conceive the ſincere pleaſure I feel at having it in my power to oblige the amiable and unfortu⯑nate lady Somerville. It muſt certainly be an in⯑finite relief to her mind to know that her daugh⯑ter has a friend and protector, in caſe Providence ſhould be pleaſed to put a period to her woes and take her to his mercy. But ſhe muſt neceſſarily ſuffer a great deal in being ſeparated from her till uſe ſhall have made it eaſy.

LAURA is but juſt ſeventeen, though ſhe looks rather older from the gravity and dignity of her appearance. I flatter myſelf you will receive ſome entertainment from this narrative, which I have been as exact in as my memory would per⯑mit; and indeed it has for the time ſo intirely engroſſed my attention, that I am pretty ſure I have not omitted a circumſtance of any conſe⯑quence.

I EXPECT Sir John will return from London the beginning of next week.—I hope he will be charmed with our young viſitor; and that lady Somerville will ſuffer him ſometimes to ſpend an hour with her.

LETTER XXX.
Lady WOODVILLE to Lady STRAFFON.

I MOST ſincerely congratulate my dear Fanny upon the acquiſition ſhe has made to her hap⯑pineſs, by her acquaintance with lady Somerville. There was ſomething extremely romantic in the opening of your adventure, and I almoſt began to imagine that you had taken a trip to Fairy land; but every circumſtance, though ſurpriſing at firſt, is very naturally accounted for in the courſe of your narrative. I truly compaſſionate the unhappy lady's ſituation; and again felicitate you on having it in your power to remove a very material part of her diſtreſs, by affording your friendſhip and protection to her daughter.

LADY Somerville's misfortunes are of the hopeleſs kind; it is not in the power of fate to reſtore her huſband, or her ſon; and ſlight ob⯑ſervers would for theſe reaſons, pronounce her much more wretched than thoſe who are led on by a faint glimpſe of hope to wander through the thorny paths of life in ſearch of ſome imaginary bliſs, which ſtill cludes their graſp. But I think otherwiſe. When the grave cloſes on our joys, our proſpect of this world muſt all end there; we can no more deceive ourſelves, or be deceiv⯑ed. We ſink, it is true, and fall with the dear prop which fate has torn away. Then reaſon and religion come to our aid; and when the firſt wild ſta [...]ts of grief are over, an humble acquieſ⯑cence; in the divine will ſooths our ſad ſouls to peace; or hopes ſpring forward to another goal, and pierce beyond the ſtars.

BUT while vain doubts and fears torment the heart, while paſſion has poſſeſſion of the ſoul, and [162] ſtill impels us forward through amaze, where our bewildered reaſon finds no clue, where peace is loſt and keen diſquiet fills its vacant place; where our deſires are raiſed but to be mocked, and cruelty repaid for artleſs love!—Sure, ſure, this ſtate is worſe, far worſe than lady So⯑merville's! She feels the ſtroke of death; but lady Harriet feels a living torture! inflicted too by whom her ſoul adored.

I HAVE been led into this reflection by obſerv⯑ing that lady Harriet's health and ſpirits have de⯑clined viſibly, ever ſince her unlucky interview with captain Barnard; and I am certain that his almoſt perpetual reſidence at Ransford-Hall, in⯑creaſes her diſquiet. In his firſt act of incon⯑ſtancy, ſhe might with great reaſon imagine that fortune only had turned the ſcale in favour of her rival, and ſhe had ſtill the melancholy conſolati⯑on of ſuppoſing herſelf beloved, though by a worthleſs man.

HIS preſent attachment can ariſe only from choice or galantry: and it is certainly much more difficult to bear contempt, than injury. Had he died at that time he left her in Paris, her grief for his loſs would by this time have been ſoftened into a gentle melancholy, which though it might for ever have barred her pretenſions to happineſs, would not have rendered her half ſo wretched as ſhe is at this moment, and I fear will ever be.

LET not what I have ſaid upon this ſubject make my dear Fanny think that I am not ex⯑tremely affected with lady Somerville's diſtreſs.—I acknowledge that her ſufferings have been great, but they certainly came to a period when her huſband died; and time has, I doubt not, inſenſibly leſſened her affliction. I alſo hope that [163] there is yet in reſerve for her, the felicity of ſeeing her daughter amiable and happy.

ADIEU, my dear Fanny; my lord, and all this family ſalute you and yours moſt affection⯑ately. I deſire you will preſent my reſpects to lady Somerville and her daughter, both of whom I hope to have the pleaſure of ſeeing when next I am ſo happy as to viſit Straffon-Hill.

LETTER XXXI.
From Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

I AM ſo ſincerely charmed at the hope of your prophecy in favour of lady Somerville being immediately accompliſhed, that I can neither think, ſpeak or write upon any other ſubject.—Sir John returned from London in two days after Laura had become our gueſt; ſhe and I were juſt come back from paying an evening viſit to lady Somerville, when he entered the drawing room, and introduced a young Italian nobleman, who had been recommended to him, by one of his moſt intimate friends at Paris.

I NEVER beheld a handſomer youth; tall graceful and finely made, with the ſtrongeſt ex⯑preſſion of ſenſe and ſweetneſs in his counte⯑nance—as he cannot ſpeak Engliſh our converſa⯑tion was intirely Italian, in which, though Lucy and I are tolerable proficients, we were greatly excelled by Miſs Somerville, who has had the advantage of converſing with her mother, in that charming language from her earlieſt infancy.

THE firſt two or three days that our young [164] foreigner ſpent with us, we imagined that his devoting the largeſt ſhare of his time and con⯑verſation to Laura was owing to the eaſy fluency with which ſhe ſpoke his native language; but his motives remained not long doubtful; he be⯑came very particular in his inquiries about her to Sir John, who gave him the fulleſt information of her birth and ſituation in life. He ſeemed charmed at the account of both, and from that time his aſſiduity towards her appeared leſs em⯑barraſſed.

NOR is the gentle heart of Laura inſenſible to his attentions; her bluſhes, when he is menti⯑oned, and down caſt looks when he addreſſes her, plainly diſcover the ſtate of her artleſs mind. She is really a very fine creature, Emily, and I am truly anxious for her happineſs. She has a ſenſibility, a frankneſs, a delicate ingen [...]ouſneſs of nature, not to be found in thoſe who have had much commerce with the world, which ſhe owes to her ſequeſtered education with a parent, whoſe natural ſoftneſs has been increaſed by a long acquaintance with affliction.

BUT to the purpoſe—Laſt night the enamour⯑ed Lodovico explained his ſentiments to Sir John, and intreated him to prevail on me to introduce him to lady Somerville; though he confeſſed that he found Laura extremely averſe to a pro⯑poſal which muſt for ever divide her from the tendereſt of mothers; but as ſhe ſeemed to have no other objection, he flattered himſelf that this might be ſurmounted.

SIR John's friend, lord Mount Willis, who recommended Lodovico to him, informed him that he is deſcended from one of the firſt families at Genoa, that he is an only ſon, intitled to a very large fortune, and ſtill poſſeſt of a much higher treaſure.—an unexceptionable character.

[165]I NEEDED not much perſuaſion, to enter upon ſuch a pleaſing embaſſy.—I waited on lady So⯑merville this morning; ſhe ſeemed a little alarm⯑ed at Laura's not being with me. I quickly re⯑moved her apprehenſions, by explaining the cauſe of my viſit. She heard me with the utmoſt attention, but could not help dropping ſome tears when I mentioned Laura's objection to quitting her.

LADY Straffon, ſaid ſhe, when I had finiſhed my diſcourſs, though my girl's affection awakens all my tenderneſs for her, I will not ſuffer her to ſacrifice her welfare to my ſelfiſh ſatisfaction.—The world contains but one object for me; let her be happy, and contribute to the happineſs of a deſerving huſband, and I ſhall taſte the only joy my heart is capable of. And ſhould that long abſent gueſt ever deign to viſit me again, it is to you the bleſſed miniſter of Providence, to whom I am indebted for its preſence.

I ENDEAVOURED to reſtrain the grateful effu⯑ſions of her generous heart, by aſſuring her that I felt almoſt as much pleaſure as even ſhe could be ſenſible of from the proſpect of Laura's future happineſs.—We then agreed that I ſhould bring Laura and Lodovico to wait upon her in the af⯑ternoon.—The inſtant I return I will acquaint you with the reſult of our viſit; till then,

LETTER XXXII.
Lady STRAFFON, to Lady WOODVILLE.

(In continuation.)

JOIN with me, my deareſt Emily, in rejoic⯑ing at the happineſs which opens to the view of our amiable friends. But I will not de⯑tain you from the events which create their pre⯑ſent joy. I carried my two young gueſts, Laura and Lodovico, this afternoon to lady Somerville's cottage; ſhe received us with her uſual grace and elegance: but when I preſented ſignior Lodovico to her, I fancied I perceived a change of countenance, which I knew not how to ac⯑count for. However ſhe preſently recovered herſelf, and continued to entertain us with the greateſt politeneſs.

AFTER tea, I took Laura into the garden, under pretence of admiring a little grotto ſhe had lately finiſhed in order to give the young gentleman an opportunity of explaining his ſenti⯑ments to her mother. We had not been ten mi⯑nutes abſent, when the little country maid came running to us, and deſired we would return im⯑mediately.

WE were not a little ſurprized at this ſum⯑mons; but judge how our wonder was increaſed on finding lady Sommerville with her eyes ſtream⯑ing, and Lodovico ſeated by her, with an air that ſpoke him a ſharer in her emotions! The moment we entered the room, ſhe ſtarted up, and taking her daughter's hand, come, ſaid ſhe, come and embrace your couſin, the ſon of that friend, that more than brother, to whom we have been indebted for the means of life ſo many years.

[167]POOR Laura was unable to ſpeak; but her eyes fully expreſſed the tender and grateful ſenti⯑ments of her heart. The enraptured Lodovico ſeemed totally abſorbed in the pleaſure of gazing on her.—After ſome time, lady Somerville turn⯑ing to me, ſaid, You ſee before you, my dear lady Straffon, the only ſon of count Meleſpini.—The inſtant I ſaw him, I was ſtruck with the reſemblance of that much loved brother.—But how could I flatter myſelf with the happineſs of beholding his ſon!

AND now, my dear children, continued ſhe, though my conſent awaits ye, be aſſured, that without the court's concurrence, this union ne⯑ver can take place; write to him therefore, Lo⯑dovico, and let both him and you reſt ſatisfied, that his will ſhall in this affair determine mine.

IN the mean time, I hope, ſaid ſhe, your ladyſhip will diſpenſe with Laura's attendance at Straffon-Hill. Perhaps my brother may have other views for his ſon; if ſo, it is beſt not to indulge an affection too far, which may be productive of unhappy conſequences: for, be aſſured, that however deſerving the object, how⯑ever virtuous the attachment, no marriage can be truly bleſt, that pains a parent's heart.—A too energic ſigh accompanied theſe words: but, ad⯑ded ſhe, when lady Straffon honours me with her company, I hope my nephew will attend her.

IT was very viſible that Lodovico complied reluctantly with theſe conditions; and perhaps Laura, for the firſt time, found obedience diffi⯑cult.—But as her ladyſhip ſeemed determined, a bow of aſſent was the only reply that was made. Signior Lodovico and I returned home, ſoon af⯑ter this converſation.

BY the way he accounted to me for not know⯑ing [168] that lady Somerville or Laura were related to him, as he had always heard them call State⯑villa, which is their name in Italian. I find he intends making as much uſe as poſſible of the privilege of attending me to lady Somerville's; ſo that I expect to paſs much of my time at the cottage.

HE is now retired to acquaint his father with the happy diſcovery he has made of his relations, and his ſentiments towards his fair couſin. I ſhall be truly impatient for the count's anſwer.—I hope it will be favourable; if it ſhould not, I fear all lady Somerville's precaution will be in⯑ſufficient to prevent the attachments of the young people, though I believe it would be impoſſible to draw Laura from her obedience.

I HAVE been ſo much engaged in the affairs of the Somerville family for theſe two days, that I have ſcarce had leiſure to think of my own.—You may therefore excuſe my not entering upon the critical diſtinctions you have made on the various modes of miſery in your laſt letter. I heartily wiſh you would take the oppoſite ex⯑treme for your ſubject, and deſcant on your own happineſs; which I believe to be as perfect as this frail ſtate will admit of. May it long con⯑tinue ſo, ſincerely wiſhes,