LETTER I. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

ONE of the greatest pleasures I proposed to myself, on my return to England, was to meet my dear Euphemia; to bind, if possible, in faster bands, that tender friendship which has united us from our earliest years; to live in sweet society together: to suffer only short absences; rendered tolerable by frequent letters, and the dear hope of meeting soon again. But how are these expectations destroyed! You are going to leave me; and, too probably, for ever I [Page 4] Long tracts of land, and an immeasur­able ocean, will soon divide us. I shall hear from you once or twice in a year, perhaps: my dear Euphemia will be lost to me; and all that now remains of that friendship, which was the pride and happiness of my life, will be the sad re­membrance of a good I once enjoyed, but which is fled for ever!

HOW shall I teach my heart to forget you! How shall I bear the conversation of other young women of our age and condition, after being used to yours! It was some merit to be capable of tast­n g it with so high a relish, as to render that of my other companions insipid. There are friendships that serve only to pass away the time, and soften the te­diousness of solitude; but yours, be­sides being delightful, was profitable. I never read your letters, but I brought away pleasures that remained, and ad­vantages that did you no hurt. I grew rich by what I took from you, without [Page 5] impoverishing you by my gain. In a word, I was happy, and I am so no more. I must lose you! there is no remedy! My tears efface my letters as I write! I cannot, I would not, restrain them! The wise may call these tender feelings in­firmities of the mind, if they will; I do not wish to be without them, and I had rather have my malady than their health.

BUT tell me, my Euphemia, by what strange fatality have all these things happened? When I went to France, I left you rich and happy; the reputed heiress of a large fortune, both your be­loved parents alive, and every prospect brightening before you. What a re­verse, in the space of a few months! An orphan! your inheritance lost! married; and, in consequence of that marriage, becoming an exile from your country, doomed to waste your days in America! I cannot bear to think of it! But you go with a husband you love. I never [Page 6] thought my Euphemia very susceptible of that passion. Mr. Neville undoubted­ly must possess an uncommon share of merit, to have so soon conquered your indifference, your reserve, and, if I may now venture to say so, your indisposition to the married state. Oh! had it been otherwise, with what pleasure should I have communicated to you the happy change in my fortune; a fortune which, by sharing with you, I should have doubly enjoyed! I cannot enter into par­ticulars now; my mind is too much agi­tated. Write to me soon: yet what can you say to comfort me? If you cannot say that you are not to quit England, it will be the first of your letters that I shall not receive with transport. Adieu, my ever-dear Euphemia.

LETTER II. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

I Cannot let the post go away without giving you the particulars of that happy change in my fortune which, while my heart was so full of your loss that I could utter nothing but com­plaints, I only hinted at: but you would have reason to be offended with me if I was silent on this subject, knowing so well as I do the tender interest you take in whatever concerns me.

YOU never could be persuaded to think that my uncle's marriage with Miss Fenwick would make any altera­tion in his conduct towards me, having brought me up with a tenderness and care that supplied the loss of my parents; [Page 8] a loss which I could only know by re­flection, being but an infant when they died, and which the kindness of my uncle made it impossible for me to feel. But in this you was mistaken, my dear friend: Lady Harley was a true step-mother, and contrived to alienate my uncle's af­fection from me by artifices which im­posed upon us both. I will give you two or three instances of her plan of ope­rations, as they have been since explain­ed to me.

MY uncle, who really loved me, and viewed all my actions in a favourable light, was particularly pleased with a certain attention which prevented his wishes, and made him perceive that I was delighted when I could be useful to him. There is nothing so necessary as to know how to bear tedious moments. My uncle did not possess this art: he is, as you know, a man of sense, and some learning; but having passed the greatest part of his life in the common track of [Page 9] men of fortune and fashion, his amuse­ments must come all from without: he knew not how to strike out any for him­self, from resources which a mind more cultivated might have afforded him.

SOME time after his marriage, the gout began to visit him with periodical [...] he bore the pain and the confinement with much impatience. Lady Harley, whose fondness for him always appeared excessive, rather tired than relieved him by her importunate caresses: which, however, he received without any ap­parent peevishness; for, to be sure, he knew how to value a love so tender and passionate, with which he had inspired a woman twenty years younger than himself!

MY company was now more accept­able than my aunt's. I sung, I played to him: I gave the rein to my natural vivacity, and endeavoured to divert him by a thousand lively sallies of imagina­tion. [Page 10] I read to him sometimes; and per­ceived, with great satisfaction, that he began to acquire a taste for this amuse­ment. My voice and manner pleased him. He had a well-stored library; and he approved my choice of the books which were to furnish out his entertain­ment. You will easily imagine how much this taste for reading increased upon him, when I tell you that I read all Plutarch's Lives to him in less than a fortnight. Thus this long fit of the gout passed away; during which, my aunt had time to make observations on her own insufficiency on such occasions, and my apparent superiority over her. A second attack of the gout gave her an opportunity to practise some of those ar­tifices which she had imagined, in order to lessen my uncle's regard for me. She redoubled her cares and assiduity; she scarce ever left him a moment; she watched his looks, and every turn of his distemper, with such an anxious solici­tude, as if her life depended upon his. [Page 11] She would rise several times in the night, and run into his chamber to know if he slept, and if the nurse was attentive. A thousand things of this kind she did, which left me, fond as I was of my uncle, far behind her in these outward testimonies of affection.

IT is common for people to judge of friendship by the shew it makes, without considering that superstition is fuller of ceremonies than true devotion. My at­tentions appeared cold and constrained, compared with those of my aunt; and were received with indifference. My uncle now seldom desired me to read; and, when I offered to take a book, he would ask me, if I did not think reading so much had hurt me. I sometimes smiled at this: and he would add, with a significant look—‘Reading aloud is not good for one who has weak lungs.’ —'That is not my case, Sir', replied I. 'I am glad of it', said he, coldly: ‘but, however, you shall not read to [Page 12] me.’ I was quite confounded at this peremptory refusal, and knew not what to say to him; but, though vexed and mortified to the last degree, I suffered no complaints to escape me, because I was not willing to discompose my uncle, or gratify the malice of Lady Harley, who, I judged, was at the bottom of this peevishness in him: and I judged right; for this was the manner in which she effected her purpose, as my uncle after­wards informed me.

ONE day, when he desired her to bid me come and read to him, she regretted her not having equal talents with me for that employment—'Which if I had', said she, I should not be afraid of fall­ing into a consumption by using them'. —'Why, has Mari [...] that notion?' said Sir John. 'She certainly has', said my aunt: ‘but you must not mention to her what I tell you. She complains of a pain in her breast; of shortness of breath; and declares, that when she has [Page 13] read to you an hour or two, she feels as if she was ready to expire with a strange oppression and faintness. She has carried her apprehensions so far, as to send her case to an eminent physi­cian; whose answer is, that if she con­tinues to read aloud, she will fall into a decline.’

MY uncle was amazed and confound­ed at hearing this, for I never looked better in my life; and he took notice of that circumstance. Lady Harley assured him I was perfectly well, and in very good spirits; 'And therefore', added she, ‘it is the more surprizing that she should give way to such strange fan­cies.’

MY aunt followed this first blow with many others of the same kind, which would be tedious to enumerate: so that at length my uncle viewing all my actions in an unfavourable light, set me down in his mind as a perfect hypocrite; a cha­racter [Page 14] which he ever despised and hated. But although, in consequence of this opinion, he withdrew his affection from me; yet, as it produced no other altera­tion in his behaviour than a certain cold­ness and reserve, which rather increased than lessened that politeness which was so natural to him, I knew not on what ground to build a complaint. My ex­pences were as liberally supplied as be­fore; my requests as readily granted. My uncle, as he has since told me, could never be brought to hate his brother's daughter, though he ceased to love me as his own.

BEING in this unfavourable disposition towards me, he was easily persuaded to press me to a marriage, in which my in­clinations were much less consulted than my interest. You know the man I re­fused, my dear Euphemia; and you did not chide me for my disobedience. My, however, was offended; and as I was absolutely incapable of repairing my [Page 15] fault, or even repenting of it, his con­tinued displeasure gave me so deep a concern, that my situation became very miserable.

MRS. Irwin was about this time pre­paring to go to the south of France, for the recovery of her health: as she was a near relation of my mother's, and a very worthy woman, I asked and obtain­ed leave to attend her. I left England without any regret, but parting with you, my sweet friend; for my uncle ap­peared so happy in the passionate tender­ness of his young wife, and so com­pleatly estranged from me, that I could not suppose my absence would give him any uneasiness. He provided for my ex­pences, however, with his usual gene­rosity. When I took leave of him, my tears, and the ardour with which I kissed his hand, seemed to awaken some tender emotions; for he turned aside, and wiped his eyes: but immediately afterwards, as if hardened by some unfavourable [Page 16] recollection, he relapsed into his former coldness, and took a much more cere­monious than kind leave of me. My aunt acted her part extremely well; regretted the loss of my company, and comforted herself with the hope of a happy meet­ing in a few months. Mrs. Irwin was amazed at the ascendant Lady Harley had gained over a man of my uncle's good sense: 'This woman', said she, ‘will, as the poet says— ‘Mould his passions till she makes his will.’ But it is my opinion, that your excur­sion to the Continent will prove less favourable to her machinations than your stay here. With friends and lovers, absence is a kind of Death, which sheds oblivion over faults, and heightens every virtue and amiable quality. Lady Harley will now miss a thousand opportunities of hurting you with your uncle, which artifice on her side, and innocent security on yours, would have furnished her with [Page 17] if you had staid here.’ It is certain, that the fine fabrick she had raised with such an expence of falshood, was de­stroyed on a sudden by means which she could neither foresee nor prevent.

WITH what pleasure do I turn from this dark side of my fortune, to one in which my dear Euphemia will share in my satisfaction! But what do I say! My Euphemia is going to leave me! This thought, like the stings of a guilty con­science, saddens all my enjoyments; and, when I should be happy, gives me up to tears and complainings. But you wilt chide me if I continue this strain. Adieu, my dear friend.

IN my next, you shall have a full ac­count of all that remains for you to know concerning my present situation. Mean time, pity ray impatience, my anxiety; and explain to me the causes of this sad reverse of fortune, and all that has happened to you in a separa­tion [Page 18] of a few months; and which, alas! is so soon to be followed by one of many years. But I will fly this thought. Adieu!

LETTER III. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

WHY does my dear Maria imagine I would chide her for a sensibility so amiable in her, so flattering to me who am the object of it? Am I qualified to recommend apathy to you, who share so deeply with you in an affliction that is common to us both; and while my heart is still smarting with a wound which never, never can be healed? You knew my mother, Maria; you knew her excel­lence: judge what my grief must be for her loss. But she is happy! her patient-suffering virtue has it's just reward.

So little do events depend upon the most prudent measures, that had she lived to see the unprosperous event of a mar­riage which was her own work; and from which, in her last moments, she owed all her consolation with regard to me; she [Page 20] would have been miserable. Heaven spared her this affliction: and, did not self mingle too frequently in our most justifiable passions, I should not now grieve so much for her death, as rejoice in her exemption from an evil which she might not perhaps have borne with her usual fortitude. But you shall have my history from the time of our separa­tion; and an eventful one it is, for the time. I have leisure enough; and to rehearse the past, when the present is un­happy, and the future presents only a gloomy prospect, is not so irksome a task as to make me decline obeying you.

SCARCE were my tears dried up for your sudden and unexpected departure, when a surprizing alteration in the tem­per and behaviour of my father filled my mother and myself with the most uneasy apprehensions. He became peevish, melancholy, silent, and reserv­ed: he shunned company, staid much [Page 21] at home, and passed the greatest part of his time shut up in his closet; and was inaccessible even to my mother, who certainly was not even then wholly ignorant of the cause of this great change in him. A stroke of the palsy followed these first symptoms, and compleated our distress. It was but slight, however; and by the great skill and care of his physi­cians he was restored to some degree of health, and able to take a journey to Bath, which they judged necessary to his perfect recovery. I never doubted but I should be permitted to attend him thi­ther, as well as my mother; but my father had resolved otherwise. I durst: not dis­pute his will: tender and affectionate as he always seemed to me, he exacted, and never failed to receive, an implicit obedience to it. Spare me the descrip­tion of this sad parting! My father, as he turned from me, shed tears, which he endeavoured to hide. I had thrown my­self into the arms of my governess; but, raising my head to snatch a parting glance as he stepped into the coach, at [Page 22] that moment he appeared to me more like a corpse than my living father: I shrieked, and fainted away. My dear mother, who had taken every precaution to make this absence more supportable to me, directed my governess to carry me immediately to Richmond, where I was impatiently expected by Mrs. High­more and her family, with whom I was to reside till my parents returned from Bath. You know this lady, my dear Maria; you know how greatly she was esteemed by my mother, whose confi­dence she had acquired by the appear­ance of an uncommon attachment to her. She had daughters of an age fit to be my companions; and their birth and accomplishments made them very pro­per ones.

DURING our little journey, Mrs. Bur­ton employed every soothing art to alle­viatemy grief: but that image, that death­like image of my father, filled my imagi­nation, and swam continually before my [Page 23] sight. I was for a long time insensible to all the caresses of Mrs. Highmore and the young ladies; which were, in­deed, carried to excess, particularly on the part of Mrs. Highmore and the eld­est daughter: but I was more touched with the behaviour of Lucy, the young­est of these ladies, whose professions of friendship for me had an air of candour and sweetness which won my confidence, and engaged my gratitude.

THE first letter I received from my mother, gave me so favourable an ac­count of my father's health, that my me­lancholy apprehensions began to abate; and I was once more able to mix in so­ciety, and to share in those amusements which the family were eager to procure for me. This attention, apparently so obliging, would certainly have made an impression upon me, if I had not been disgusted with the adulation which Mrs. Highmore and her eldest daughter were perpetually pouring in my ears. I have [Page 24] heard it said, that it is a mark of gran­deur to be hated by those who do not know us, and flattered by those who do: a young woman of fortune has this, in common with royalty, that she seldom hears truth. My governess would have it, that Mrs. Highmore had some de­sign upon me; and her suspicions were strengthened by a visit made her by her son, a youth of nineteen, from college, though it was not vacation-time.

THE young gentleman had probably received orders to be violently in love with me; for he seemed to court oppor­tunities of speaking to me alone, which I believe were often contrived for him: but he was too bashful to profit by them as was expected; for, after some general conversation about the weather, he used to withdraw to a window, and whistle a tune. His behaviour might have af­forded me some diversion, had my mind been more at case: but now every letter from Bath brought me still less favour­able [Page 25] accounts of my father's health. At length, the fatal news of his death ar­rived; which, not with standing the cau­tion that was used, the melancholy looks of my governess, and the rest of the fa­mily, announced to me, before the ten­der Lucy, whose sad task it was to pre­pare me for this stroke, could utter a word. 'My father is dead!' cried I, trembling: 'Is it not so?' Lucy an­swered me only by her tears. ‘Then I have seen him', said I, 'for the last time; and the last time I saw him, he looked as he is now.’

I CONTINUED several days in a most melancholy situation; during which time the family took part in my afflic­tion with an appearance of the most ten­der sympathy: they shut themselves up with me, and neither paid nor received any visits; each solicitous to outdo the other in endeavouring to calm my grief. On a sudden, this attention ceased; they saw company as usual; and their en­gagements, [Page 26] both at home and abroad, took up their time so much, that they had scarce a few moments to bestow on me; and I have sometimes passed a whole day without seeing them in my apart­ment. The young man was sent back to college, without leaving even a com­pliment for me. A strange alteration now took place in their manner of con­versing with me: respect and adulation were no more; their kindness was dis­gustingly familiar, their pity humiliat­ing, and their civility constrained.

ALL this passed unnoticed for some time: but when the violence of my grief was in some degree abated, my at­tention was awakened first to little neg­lects and failures in their usual polite­ness, that led to a fuller observation of their behaviour towards me; which I found so changed, that they did not seem to be the same person with whom I had conversed so long. Perplexed and asto­nished at what I now for the first time [Page 27] discovered, I asked my governess the meaning of this strange alteration. ‘My dear,’ said she, ‘you now see the world as it is: and you will probably,’ added she, sighing, ‘have but too many op­portunities of assenting to the truth of that maxim, which seems to bear hard upon human nature; but which is ne­vertheless but too true, That the gene­rality are bad.’—'Bu [...], Lucy,' said I, without taking in the full meaning of her words, ‘Lucy is still the same; she is not changed’. At that moment the dear girl entered the room. I flew into her arms; and my heart being greatly oppressed, I burst into tears. She look­ed at Mrs. Benson significantly, as I af­terwards recollected; and then applied herself, with her usual tender solicitude, to console me. My governess retired upon Mrs. Highmore's coming in: Why, my good girl,' said she to me, ‘will you never have done grieving?’ Struck with the unusual coarseness of her phrase, I stared at her without mak­ing [Page 28] any answer. 'Come,' pursued she, ‘you must not stay moping in the house: take an airing in your chariot; you may not always have one.’ Here Lucy, in great agitation, stopped her; crying eagerly—'Mamma!' Mrs. Highmore, as if recollecting herself, replied—‘You are right. —But, Miss Lumley,’ said she to me, ‘have you had a letter from your mamma? How is she? does she talk of returning?’—‘Would to Heaven I were with her!’ said I, passionately. 'Ah, poor woman!' said Mrs High­more, ‘she is in trouble enough; she is greatly to be pitied.’ My tears now flowed afresh: 'Pray, Madam,' said Lucy, receiving my declining head on her bosom, ‘leave me to comfort Miss Lumley: she will be more calm when we are alone.’—‘Well, I am going,’ said Mrs. Highmore. ‘Pray, my good girl, moderate your afflic­tion. —And, Lucy, do you hear? I can­not possibly dispense with your din­ing at table to-day: I have company, [Page 29] you know. You will hardly have time to dress.’ She went out of the room at these words; and I, with some peevishness, pressed Miss Lucy to go and dress: but she declared she would not quit me that day, Mrs. Benson being obliged to go to town to transact some business my mother had charged her with.

I HAVE related this little scene cir­cumstantially to you, my dear Maria, that you may have some notion of the astonishment I must be in at the altera­tion of this woman's stile and behaviour, who a few weeks before had carried her respects and attentions to me even to servility. But the mystery was soon to be unravelled.

Two days after this, Mrs. Benson told, me I should soon see my mother, 'When?' cried I impatiently.‘To­morrow, perhaps,’ said she, smiling; 'and perhaps, to-night.' I rose from [Page 30] my chair in a transport. ‘Ah! she is here,’ said I; 'let me fly to her!'— 'No, my dear,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘she is not here; she would not come here: but she is in London. I have a note from her, ordering me to bring you to her. The chariot is getting ready, and we will set out in a few minutes.’ Lucy came running to me all in tears: I took an affectionate leave of her; and re­ceived the parting civilities of Mrs. Highmore and her eldest daughter with great coolness Mrs. Highmore charg­ed me to assure her good friend, so she stiled my mother, that it should not be long before she called upon her. As supercilious as this speech was, the air that accompanied it was still more so I answered only by a slight bow; and we drove away.

My thoughts, wholly employed on the expected meeting with my dear mother, a meeting at once so wished and dread­ed, prevented my taking notice of the [Page 31] extreme dejection of Mrs. Benson, who scarce spoke to me all the way. Nor was I rouzed from my reverie, till I found myself in St. James's Square; when the carriage, instead of crossing into Pall Mall, where our house was, drove directly to Charles Street, and stop­ped at a small house, upon the window of which I observed a bill for lodgings. 'Have you any business here?' said I to my governess. 'My dear,' replied she, sighing, ‘we shall find your mam­ma here.’—'My mamma here!' cried I eagerly; and, springing out of the cha­riot, I flew up stairs, upon the top of which I saw her coming to meet me.

HER deep mourning, her pale and ema­ciated countenance, the transient gleam of joy which the first sight of me occa­sioned, effaced by a flood of tears, af­fected me with such poignant anguish, that I sunk down at her feet; and, clasp­ing her knees, remained there speech­less and drowned in tears. Mrs. Benson [Page 32] raised me, and led us both into the room. My dear mother continued gaz­ing on me for some time in silent sor­row; while I wept, and kissed the hand with which she affectionately pressed mine. 'My dear child,' said she, re­covering herself, ‘you have, no doubt, paid your just tribute of tears to the me­mory of your father. The time calls upon us for fortitude. You have, alas! many evils to struggle against. Poverty is a more dreadful monster than any Hercules overcame: and, to bear it with patience, to preserve our integrity, our independence of mind; in a word, to fall with dignity; is to be a greater hero than he was.’

AT the word Poverty I started, and gazed on my mother eagerly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ pursued she, ‘we are no longer rich; you are no longer an heiress to a great fortune. From the small provision your father made for me on our marriage, before he succeeded to [Page 33] his uncle's great riches, and which will cease at my death, we must for the fu­ture draw our subsistence. Mr. Lum­ley died insolvent. Houses, plate, jewels, furniture, all are seized by the creditors! This small apartment in which you now see me, is my habitation; and even this I must soon exchange for one less expensive, and more suitable to my circumstances: for it must be my part now to live in such a manner that my dear child may not be wholly desti­tute at my death. Something, I hope, I shall be able, by the strictest parsimony, to leave behind me, to put off the bad day of beggary!’ My mother could not restrain her tears at this word. She rose up, and said she would retire to her bed-chamber for a few moments, and endeavour to compose herself.

WHEN she was gone, I gave free vent to those emotions which respect and tenderness for her had hitherto restrain­ed. Mrs. Benson endeavoured to com­fort [Page 34] me. 'Tell me,' said I, ‘if you know; tell me by what means this ruin was brought about?’—‘Your fa­ther,’ replied she, ‘would have been a happy man, if he had continued in that easy mediocrity which once bound­ed his wishes: but no sooner was he be­come possessed of the great riches your uncle had acquired in the Indies, than he plunged deep into all the fashion­able excesses of the age.’ The word All she pronounced with a deep em­phasis, and a meaning look that went to my heart. 'His seat in parliament,' continued she, ‘cost him an immense sum. He played high, and always with ill success. In a word, he was ruined, my dear, before the continued dissipation in which he lived gave him leisure to look into his affairs. Re­flection, which came too late to pre­vent the wreck of his fortune, now produced a remorse that preyed upon his mind, and brought on those dis­orders which put a period to his life.’

[Page 35]MY mother's entrance obliged me to restrain those emotions which Mrs. Ben­son's discourse had excited: I dried my tears; I endeavoured to console my mother by every soothing power I pos­sessed. Her piety and good sense had already brought her to a state of perfect resignation in every thing that respected herself; it was for me only that she felt: and it was to relieve her from that ten­der anxiety which preyed upon her spi­rits, and destroyed her health, that I made a sacrifice which I cannot repent of; though, alas! it proved fruitless. But here let me break off for the pre­sent: I will continue my narrative some other time. This free communication of my misfortunes to a dear and sym­pathizing friend, seems to lessen their force,

says my favourite poet. I will go on, then, and speak to you.—But, my Maria, [Page 36] remember, you must give me the re­mainder of your little history as soon as possible; you will easily imagine how much I am interested in it. Adieu, my dear friend.

LETTER IV. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I Have almost effaced every word of your tender and affecting narrative with my tears. Alas! my sweet friend, what have you not suffered! Why was I not with you during these hard trials? Why did you conceal your situation from me? I never received but two letters from you while I was in France. In the last there were some obscure hints, which greatly perplexed me, and which you have now but too well explained: My uncle expresses great tenderness and concern for you; and speaks of your mother in terms of the highest admira­tion. He says, he was intimate enough with Mr. Lumley, to use the liberty of remonstrating against some of those errors in his conduct which have been [Page 38] the source of his misfortunes: 'But,' added he very sententiously, ‘there is a wide distance between being simply persuaded that a thing is wrong, to the being sufficiently so as to make us fall to action, when we must act con­trary to our inclinations. Mr. Lum­ley acknowledged there was reason in what I said; but did not alter his con­duct.’ —'How much easier,' thought I, ‘it is to be wiser for others than ourselves!’ Had your father represented to Sir John the imprudence of marry­ing, at his years, a gay young girl, he might have made the same observation: but this truth he was soon convinced of by his own experience.

I HAD been near a year in France, when I received a letter from my uncle, very different from any of his former ones; for it was extremely affectionate. He expressed great uneasiness at my long absence, and much impatience for my return. This letter was accompanied [Page 39] with a large order upon his banker at Pa­ris, whither we were now going, and per­mission to stay there a month: after which, he said, he would expect me; and, if his health permitted, Lady Harley and he would meet me at—. He said not a word of those causes of un­easiness which he had given me, (for when do men own they are in the wrong?) but concluded with professions of the tenderest attachment to me. You will easily con­ceive that, after the receipt of this letter, I passed my time very pleasantly at Paris; when, a few days before our intended de­parture, I received another letter from my uncle: it contained but a few lines; and those surprized me with an account of the death of Lady Harley. As I have not naturally a hard heart, nor an un­forgiving temper, the death of this lady gave me a real concern, particularly on my uncle's account, who, I supposed, would be greatly afflicted. Mrs. Irwin agreed, that this news ought to hasten our [Page 40] journey, and accordingly we set out im­mediately upon our return.

MY uncle was surprized when he heard of my arrival so much sooner than he ex­pected; and, I could perceive, was pleased at my readiness to oblige him. He re­ceived me very kindly; and, as I did not observe any signs of immoderate grief in his countenance, my compliments of condolence were but short. He men­tioned my aunt only once, and employed but a few words on the subject. ‘Her ill­ness,’ said he, ‘was sudden, and reached it's height before she was thought to be in any danger. The faculty com­plained of her obstinacy in refusing to be bled, and attributed her death to the want of that remedy.’ When my uncle took leave of me for the night, he said— ‘I will send Martin to you as soon as I am in bed; he will inform you of some cir­cumstances that have happened during your absence.’ I believe you have seen [Page 41] this man: an old confidential servant, who had lived with him many years; and who, by his zeal and attachment, merited the great regard he expressed for him.

MY curiosity was strongly excited, as well by my uncle's behaviour as by these words, which seemed to indicate that something extraordinary had really hap­pened. As soon as the good old man appeared, he congratulated me on my re­turn with tears; and assured me the te­nants and servants had constantly prayed for it. 'And they did not scruple,' pur­sued he, ‘to tell my lady herself how much they all longed to see you: and this seemed to displease her, for my lady was cunning by halves only; and although she persuaded my master that she was grieved for your absence, she did not take the same pains to deceive us.’

'SHE has certainly,' said I, ‘been less guarded on some occasion or other [Page 42] than usual, for my uncle is greatly al­tered with respect to her; he appears not to regret her death, and speaks of her with little affection.’

'AH, Madam!' said Mr. Martin, ‘there is good reason for that. I have a curious history to relate to you, if you can have the patience to hear it: my master ordered me to tell you every circumstance.’—'Pray sit down,' said I, 'and let me have it all.' He did so: and here is what he told me, and in his own words.

'You may remember, Madam,' said he, ‘how childishly fond my lady af­fected to be of her husband; it was much worse after you was gone. She was continually taking his hand, strok­ing his cheek, and would often kiss him before the servants. I was sorry to see my good master so played upon; and, if I durst, I would have told him that all was not gold that glisters. [Page 43] Mr. Greville, who, you know, Ma­dam, is a very facetious old gentle­man, and has a power of wit, used to joke with my master about his young wife's prodigious fondness for him; and would often say very home things, which my master would sometimes take very well, and sometimes answer pee­vishly to; but they had been great friends from their youth, so that it was not a little matter would part them. Now it happened that my master was taken with another fit of the gout, and griev­ous bad he was, so that the doctors were afraid that it was getting up into his stomach; and then, you know, Ma­dam, all would have been over with him. My lady sat by his bed-side al­most continually, sighing most piteous­ly, and shedding rivers of tears while she was with him: but her maid used to say that, when she was in her own apartment, she had no need of an handkerchief to dry her eyes. Well, Madam, my poor master grew worse [Page 44] and worse; and my lady, to be sure, more and more sorrowful. And now my master resolved to alter his will: you may guess, Madam, who put that into his head. I was ordered to ride to town, and fetch Lawyer Grasp, and some more gentlemen of that per­suasion. I perceived what was go­ing forward: and, to be sure, Ma­dam, I thought a new will, under my lady's direction, would not be favour­able to you, and that it was fit some friend of yours should be present; and no one was more proper than Mr. Gre­ville, who loves you so dearly, and was, besides, my master's most dear friend. So I ventured to say to my master—‘Does not your honour please that I should send or go for Mr. Greville upon this occasion?’ My lady look­ed as if she could have eat me; and my master said weakly—‘Mr. Gre­ville is at his feat in— —, that is more than seventy miles distant: it will be too much trouble for him to [Page 45] come on such short notice.’— "Sir," said I, ‘I am sure he will not think so.’ My master seemed to pause upon it; when my lady, losing her tem­per quite, called me an officious fool; and, bursting into tears, said—‘Do you want to persuade your master that he is dying.—My dear Sir John, the physicians assure me you are better. Mr. Greville will be here in a week or two. Do not let this blockhead put such sad thoughts into your head!’ She sobbed violently while she was speaking, holding my master's hand to her lips all the time. My master then said—‘Let him go for the law­yers, however.’ Upon which my lady, looking very spitefully at me, said—"Do as you are ordered!" and I left the room immediately, with my heart full, as well for my dear master's danger, as for the injustice you were likely to suffer, my dear young lady.’

[Page 46]I INTERRUPTED the honest man here; to thank him for the affection he had shewn for me at a time when selfish po­licy would have pointed out a different conduct; and, I do assure you, I thank­ed him with an effusion of heart equal to his own. But I must break off here; I am summoned to dinner. My uncle has been riding this morning, which has given me leisure to scribble so much: he has brought Mr. Greville home to din­ner. You cannot imagine how greatly I am obliged to this gentleman; but you shall know all in my next. My dear Euphemia, adieu!

THE post not being yet gone out, I have time to add a few lines. Some­thing that fell from Mr. Greville, relating to you, has alarmed me greatly. I fear, I fear, my sweet friend, you are not likely to be as happy in the married state as you deserve to be. Your husband, forgive [Page 47] my freedom, is thought to be ill-temper­ed; you are all sweetness, patience, and condescension: I foresee from this con­trast, continual encroachments on one side; continual recedings on the other. You are one of those few persons who ne­ver contest what they think they cannot obtain. What a dangerous power will such a disposition throw into the hands of one who is disposed to use it tyranni­cally! Mr. Greville knows your hus­band; and this is what he said upon my telling my uncle, in answer to his enquiry how I had been amusing myself all the morning, that I had been writing to you. 'Poor Miss Lumley!' said he; ‘she is married to Mr. Neville, then! There is nothing’—a friend of mine said of himself, and may be applied to her—‘that could persuade a believer in modern miracles to confess that any thing is impossible to be done, but her ill fortune, which is unchange­able.’—'I hope not,' said my uncle. 'There is no more room for hope,' replied [Page 48] Mr. Greville: ‘she is married to the worst-tempered man in the world; and that has crowned all her misfortunes.’

You may judge, my dear Euphemia, how I was affected by this discourse: I asked a thousand questions about Mr. Neville; and every answer I received served to convince me that his temper will make you very miserable. Good Heaven! and is it with this man that you are to cross the Atlantic! This the pro­tector, the friend, the companion, with whom you are to traverse an immense ocean, and live in unknown regions, far from your country and all you love! Surely you can never consent to it; he cannot be so unreasonable as to desire it. If his duty calls him hence, his ten­derness for you ought to make him dis­pense with your accompanying him. You must stay with me, my dear Euphemia; my fortune is yours: my uncle will be a father to us both; he offers you his house [Page 49] for a retreat, and me for your compa­nion till your husband returns.

I HAVE not time to add more. Pray think on what I have proposed, and the necessity there is for complying with it. Once more adieu, my dear friend!

LETTER V. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

MY uncle is gone to spend a day or two with Mr. Greville; so I shall have full leisure for my pen, which is never so pleasingly employed as when I am writing to my dear Euphemia. Well, Martin went on with his story, which I shall continue to give you in his own words. ‘Finding I was not permitted to send for Mr. Greville in my master's name, I resolved, however, to write to him, and let him know what was go­ing on; and this I did before I set out for the lawyer's, and put my letter my­self into the post. I was sorry to find Mr. Grasp at home; so there could be no delay on that side. He told me he would call upon Counsellor Worden in his way, and bring him with him. [Page 51] With this answer I returned. My lady seemed not at all satisfied with the haste I had made, and her woman told me she shewed great impatience, and was very restless and uneasy all the time I was gone.’

"No, certainly," said I, ‘but I long to hear of my uncle's recovery; methinks you leave him too long on this sick bed, Mr. Martin.’

[Page 53]'WHY, Madam,' replied the honest man, ‘he grew better and better every day after this, and was soon able to leave his bed, and when Mr. Gre­ville came he found him walking about his chamber. I had just time to tell Mr. Greville all I knew of the matter, and he was sorely grieved at it, and lamented his not getting my letter sooner. My lady complained much of what she had suffered during my master's illness. ‘And yet you never looked better in your life, Madam,’ said he, dryly; ‘if grief is such a friend to your complexion, what will joy be? Why, your ladyship looks like May; but I am sorry,’ said he, turning to my master, ‘to see my good friend here look so much like January.’’

I WAS afraid the old man might have sported with this idea too far, so I thought fit to look very grave; upon which he recollected himself, and went on.

I HAVE often observed, my dear Eu­phemia, let a calumniator be ever so artful, all that which does not directly hurt the persons abused, turns to their advantage. This charge of bad tem­pers appeared to my uncle so ill-found­ed, that it led him to weigh thoroughly many other faults she had accused me of, and to compare my behaviour with the picture she used to draw of my dis­position; and the result of this can­did investigation was so favourable for me, that upon my return I had reason to believe I stood higher in his opinion [Page 57] than ever, as the sequel of my little His­tory will shew you.

BUT here I will conclude for the pre­sent; a Letter from you is this moment brought me; does it or does it not bring an answer favourable to my wishes? —I break the seal with eagerness. —Ah, my dear Euphemia, your first words destroy all my hopes. Adieu.

LETTER VI. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

DESTINED to live under the control of another, I find obedience to be a very necessary virtue, and in my case it is an indispensable duty. I am a wife; I know to what that sacred tie obliges me: I am determined, by Heaven's as­sistance, to fulfil the duties of my sta­tion. My lot is cast perhaps for misery here; the future will be like the past: so my foreboding heart suggests. I have drawn a blank in the great lottery of life, but there is a state beyond this, in which my hopes aspire to a prize: to that all my wishes, all my endeavours tend. Philosophy may teach us to bear the past and future evils; but it is the Christian only that can endure the pre­sent with fortitude. Oh, my dear Maria, [Page 59] what could have supported me under my affliction for the death of my mother, but that active faith which made resign­ation to the will of Heaven at once my duty and my reward? —I perceive all the hardships of my situation, but I can­not avoid them without a crime; it is my duty to follow my husband; and what in other circumstances I should certainly have done from inclination, I do now from better motives—from a sense of those sacred obligations which the state I have entered into lays upon me; and which, whatever mortifica­tions I may meet with in the discharge of them, are still indispensable.

BUT how shall I thank you, my dear friend, for your kind and generous of­fers? how shall I make you sensible of the gratitude that fills, that more than fills, that oppresses my heart, for this proof of your friendship? Words here are weak, and deeds, alas! are not in my power, for I am poor in every thing [Page 60] but in will. Do not, however, imagine my leaving this country such a misfortune; except you, I have nothing to regret, for the unfortunate have few friends; here every object reminds me of my former state, and makes the present more sen­sibly felt. Every place where I have seen my mother, renews my grief for her loss. Change of scene, new objects, and different cares, may perhaps weaken this sad idea, and restore me some degree of tranquillity. Let this consi­deration reconcile you to my departure; and though separated, we will not be wholly absent—our minds shall meet in converse—a constant intercourse of let­ters shall bring us within view of each other—shall communicate our joys and sorrows, our hopes and fears, and all the little, as well as considerable, events of our lives.

I WILL make it a rule to retire every day to my closet, for an hour at least, to talk to you; and every ship that sails [Page 61] for England shall bring a packet from your Euphemia, which shall leave you ignorant of nothing that concerns her. Tell me, Maria, how you like this scheme, and whether you can resolve to be as punctual in the performance of your part of it, as I propose to be of mine: meantime I will continue to give you a relation of such of my affairs as you are yet ignorant of, but not in this letter, which I dispatch immediately, to bear my warmest acknowledgments for your most generous offers, to ac­quaint you with my reasons for declining them, and to share with you that com­fort I derive from the plan I commu­nicate. Present my best respects, and grateful thanks, to your good uncle, for his kind proposals; and do not let me wait long for the rest of your History. My curiosity is wound up to a very high pitch by what you have already related; and I am charmed with the honest zeal and affecting simplicity of your humble friend. I wait impatiently for the re­mainder [Page 62] of his narration: —my griefs are all suspended while I read your letters; and is not this a sufficient mo­tive to make you hasten them to me? Farewel, my dear and most valuable friend.

LETTER VII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

NOTHING can be offered in opposi­tion to the arguments you use in support of your resolution to leave Eng­land with your husband. My heart murmurs, it is true; but my reason ap­proves —Approves, did I say?—I admire, I love, I almost adore you, my excellent friend! —Blame not the warmth of my expressions. Must we not revere virtue, unless it be consecrated by antiquity? What were the merits of an Arria [...], or a Portia, to your's? —Love produced in them those great actions, for which they are so famous. Religion and duty are the nobler motives which influence your's. To die for the man one loves is not an act of such heroism, as to chuse misery with the man one has no reason [Page 64] to love, because we consider it to be our duty to do so.

IT is the fate of the best things to be either wholly neglected, or at most but little known. Such is this noble con­duct of your's; for few will know it, and fewer still admire it. I, who am the greatest loser by it, am yet capable of admiring it, and this is a merit you must permit me to be vain of, since it costs me so dear.

BUT it is time to introduce Mr. Mar­tin again. You tell me your griefs are suspended while you read my Letters; and this is sufficient to make me devote the greatest part of my time to writing, were I at liberty to follow my inclina­tions. But I have no will of my own, my dear Euphemia; I am a slave to that of another. Reconcile this, if you can, with what I told you of the happy change in my fortune: or, if you can­not, wait patiently for my explanation, [Page 65] which will come in due time. But now hear Mr. Martin, who went on in this manner:

BUT here I must drop Mr. Martin and his narration for the present, for I have only time to make up my letter, which you must acknowledge is of a tolerable length; therefore adieu my dear Euphe­mia. Alas, the moment is approach­ing when I must bid you adieu for a long, an indefinite time. This is a sad thought; but since I have well consi­dered your admirable reasons for a reso­lution so contrary to my hopes and wishes, I perceive a sort of calm ac­quiescence steal upon my mind, which gathers strength every moment. Yet you must not on this account imagine I love you less; I endeavour to imitate [Page 76] your fortitude, and to make myself wor­thy of your esteem.

WHY have I not a letter from you? Must I charge you with breach of pro­mise in not sending me the remainder of your affecting story?

LETTER VIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

NO, my dear Maria, I do not think you love me less than you did, but that you love me more wisely. But were it possible for me to suspect the sincerity of your affection, it would be from the extravagant eulogium you be­stow on me, for what in my opinion is but an ordinary effect of duty and obe­dience.

SURELY then you mean to excite me to virtue by a new subtilty, and the praises you give me are but disguised exhortations. Take notice, this is the construction I shall put upon all such language from you; and if you would not be thought rather to dictate than to commend, avoid it for the future.

[Page 78]BUT to shew you that I am as little disposed to submit to unjust censure as to undeserved praise, I will not receive patiently your charge of being a pro­mise-breaker. Every thing that is pro­mised and not done, is not a violation of faith or breaking of promise, since acci­dent has so much, to do in the ordering of small events. The large packet that will soon follow this letter will convince you that I have been employed in obey­ing your commands; and I have given you my History, as you call it, down to the present moment, without inter­ruption, that you may no longer be ig­norant of the causes and motives of the most important transaction of my life, and from which that life must hereafter take all its colour.

I HAVE been very much entertained with your friend Martin's relation, and like his manner extremely well, which your memory has so faithfully preserved; but I am not quite pleased with the me­thod [Page 79] Mr. Greville hit upon to realise his doubts of Lady Harley's sincerity. He laid himself under the necessity of telling a direct falsehood, and of supporting that falsehood by many little artifices, not easily practised by an ingenuous mind. But your men of wit and ridicule have a very relaxed moral on certain occasions. A man of plain good sense starts at these humorous violations of truth, and thinks his reputation would be ruined for ever by such bold flights.

BUT I ought to remember that it is my dear Maria's friend whose conduct I am censuring, and that it was for her service chiefly he devised this stratagem: therefore, though I cannot absolve, yet I am willing to pardon; for I confess my integrity is scarcely proof against so high a bribe. My dear friend, adieu.

LETTER IX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

AND do you really resolve to put such a strange construction upon the just tribute paid by a friend to your merit? Must my praises be considered as disguised exhortations? Let me tell you, you avoid presumption by a con­trary extreme, since envy itself would give you that which your own modesty takes away.

BUT, notto offend you further by dwell­ing on this theme, you shall now have the remainder of Mr. Martin's relation; his simplicity pleases you; and I have been careful to make no alteration in his style and manner: thus then he went on:—

HERE Mr. Martin ended his narra­tion, which took up two or three of my evenings in listening to; and I have given it you almost in his very words. What more I have to tell you on this subject must be deferred till my next. But now adieu! my ever dear Euphe­mia.

LETTER X. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I SHALL never for the future rank your uncle with men of common understanding; his whole conduct with regard to Lady Harley, on the most trying occasion imaginable, displays a fund of good sense and philosophy, rarely to be met with in persons, who, like him, have spent so great a part of their lives in the pursuit of pleasure.

How nicely has he steered between two extremes, equally fatal to his re­putation. Had he appeared insensible of her levities, and indifferent to the ungrateful returns she made to his af­fection, he would have passed for a dupe: had he avowed his resentment, he would have authorised suspicions that [Page 102] would have ruined her character, and fixed ridicule upon his own; he escaped both these rocks by the most masterly management imaginable, and neither malice nor ridicule can find a shaft to hit him.

I AM not surprised at the despair which Lady Harley seems to have fallen into. The most common view persons have, when they commit imprudent actions, is the probability of always finding out some resource or other: but Lady Harley, in this case, could have no such hope; she had fixed her hus­band's opinion of her irrevocably, and the very methods he used to render her less contemptible in the eyes of the world, served only to lessen her more in her own. But peace be to her ashes, and oblivion to her memory!

I AM particularly impatient for your next letter, in hopes that it will clear up an ambiguous expression in one of [Page 103] your former ones, that has puzzled me greatly; you say, you have no will of your own, and that you are a slave to that of another; pray make me under­stand this. Adieu! my dear Maria.

LETTER XI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I WISH I could with any propriety have shewn my uncle some part of your last letter; even the wise might be pardoned for indulging a little vanity at receiving praises from judgment and sincerity like yours; but you will easily conceive this would not have been pro­per, at least at this time, after what I am going to tell you.

MARTIN having informed him that he had obeyed his commands, and given me a very particular (and you must own, my friend, that it was a very particular) account of all that had [Page 105] happened during my absence, my uncle spoke to me in this manner:

‘You have heard from Martin some very interesting circumstances relat­ing to your aunt and me; you have candour and good sense; I doubt not but you will judge rightly of my con­duct. I only intreat you never to mention Lady Harley to me in private, and in public be as reserved on that subject as I am. Mr. Greville,’ he added, ‘is certainly your friend; you owe him some acknowldgments;’ and these, my dear, I did not fail to pay him the very first opportunity, with an effusion of heart which convinced him of my gratitude.

I WAS obliged to listen to some hu­mrous sallies on my aunt's account, and even to smile at them, for indeed it would have been very difficult to re­frain; however, he always spared my uncle, which, considering his fondness [Page 106] for raillery, was an instance of self­denial that had some merit in it.

MY aunt's woman was still in the house; she expected to have made her court to me by throwing out some reflections upon her late lady, and by making an ample discovery of all she knew; but I silenced her by a severe look, and an absolute command never to speak to me on the subject.

MY uncle left it to me to do as I pleased with regard to her; I had reason to think her very deceitful, and incapa­ble of being true to any one; I resolved to discharge her immediately; so I gave her all her late lady's clothes and linen, with what money she had in her pockets when she died, and dismissed her, to the great joy of the servants, who had all of them, at one time or other, experienced her treachery.

[Page 107]You will call Mr. Greville a bold man, when I tell you he would read your last letter, notwith standing all I could do to hinder him; he came in when I was writing, and saw it lying on my table, and actually read it through; and this is what he said when he returned it to me: ‘No modesty is able to resist the praises that come from your amiable friend; and although I have hitherto thought vanity a ridiculous quality, yet I protest I should take a pleasure in being corrupted by her.’

HE prest me much to shew my uncle what you said of him; but I pleaded his absolute command not to mention Lady Harley to him; and he agreed that he ought to be obeyed.

THIS unlooked for intrusion of Mr. Greville's will teach me caution; I will always fasten my door for the future when I sit down to write to you. But I will now explain to you what I meant [Page 108] when I told you my uncle was kinder to me than ever, and yet I had no will of my own, but was a slave to that of an­other.

IT is that kindness of his that has en­slaved my will, my dear Euphemia, that has loaded me with a debt of gra­titude which I can never be able to pay, and has fixed shackles upon my mind which it is impossible for me ever to unloose, Mark the method he took to produce this voluntary subjection.

SOME little time after my return from France, Mr. Greville being upon a vi­sit at the Hall, my uncle sent for me into his study, where he was sitting with his friend; they had papers lying upon the table before them, one of which, upon my entrance, my uncle took, and, presenting it to Mr. Greville, ‘Here, Sir,’ said he, ‘is a deed of gift to my niece of the greatest part of my per­sonal estate, amounting to about twenty [Page 109] thousand pounds, which, as her guar­dian and trustee, I lodge in your hands. It is all placed on govern­ment securities, for the interest of which you are to be accountable to her only from the present moment, and to pay into her hands for her sole use and benefit.’

'BE not surprised,' pursued he, 'child,' taking my hand, and leading me, all amazed and speechless, to a chair next his own, ‘I believe you have a sincere affection for me, and I am willing to enjoy the pleasure this thought gives me, pure and unmixed with the least shadow of a doubt. What I in­tended to bequeath you at my death I give you now, irrevocably, that you may be free and absolute mistress of yourself, and that having nothing more to hope, or any thing to fear, from me, your actions may be as unconstrained as your thoughts, and your real affection for me liable to no misconstructions.’

[Page 110]IT was easy to perceive, by this conduct of my uncle, my dear Euphemia, what an impression Lady Harley's duplicity and artifice had made upon his mind, and how much he apprehended being thought the dupe of female subtilty a second time. His favourable opinion of me was also evident; and this was the point to which, as I conceived, de­licacy obliged me only to answer.

MY heart was full, but I endeavoured to suppress my emotions; and taking his hand, which I respectfully kissed, while an involuntary tear at the same time dropped upon it, ‘I am obliged to you, Sir,’ said I, ‘not so much for making me rich, or for making me rich before my time, but for putting it in my power to shew you’—‘I un­derstand you, my dear niece,’ said he, hastily interrupting me,— ‘we under­stand one another, I believe, and we shall both be the happier for it. Would to Heaven,’ added he, with some emo­tion, [Page 111] ‘that the estate of my family, which falls to a collateral branch which I have no reason to love, could have been your's likewise.’—‘Come, no more of this,’ said Mr. Greville, ‘my fair ward here will have enough of that pelf, which, as Pope says, ‘Buys the sex a tyrant in itself.’’

MR. Greville very judiciously end ea voured to give the conversation a gayer turn, to r [...]ieve my uncle and me from the very awkward situation we found ourselves in, while he was afraid of hearing acknowledgments, which my full heart left me not the power of ex­pressing. And thus, my friend, has the independence my uncle bestowed on me been the beginning of my slavery, for I cannot, I ought not, to have any will but that of a benefactor who has acted with such uncommon generosity.

[Page 112]THE power to follow my inclinations is secured to me, but my will is fettered by the obligations I lie under. Thus, for instance, my heart impels me to fly to you, to sooth, to comfort, to assist you in your present situation; and I should most certainly have asked his permis­sion for a short absence, if he had not, by making me my own mistress, deprived himself, as he thinks, of the power of refusing; and my company being now more necessary to him than ever, I cannot give the least hint that I have a wish that way, for fear of lay­ing him under the necessity of doing what may be disagreeable to him. But perhaps his own good fense may sug­gest to him to offer what I cannot ask, and then you may depend upon seeing me in London.

I HAVE this moment received the long­expected packet; but I must rein in my impatience, and not open it till I re­tire for the night; for this whole day I [Page 113] shal1 be employed, in reading to my uncle, who is a little indisposed, and cannot take his usual ride, My dear Euphemia, adieu.

LETTER XII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

BEFORE I continue my little nar­rative, I must entreat you, my dear Maria, not to suffer these papers to be seen by any person but yourself; they will contain a faithful account of my affairs, and give you a just picture of my situation: and consequently I shall be obliged to touch upon the faults of one who, from the near relation in which he stands to me, has claims upon my ten­derness and respect, which even those faults cannot dispense with me from al­lowing him. Mine, I know, your friend­ship would spare and conceal; and he, being a part of myself, for him I expect the same indulgence.

[Page 115] I HAVE already repeated what Mrs. Benson told me concerning my father's imprudent management of his affairs, the consequence of which has involved his family in ruin. My mother, always gentle and kind, endeavoured to palliate those errors by which she was so great a sufferer.

THERE is nothing, said she, more com­mendable than generosity, but nothing ought less to be stretched too far. Mr. Lumley served his friends with too little attention to his own ability, which, to­gether with other imprudences, pro­duced that bitter remorse which short­ened his days.

HER tears flowed fast at these words; I suppressed my own emotions that I might comfort her, and endeavoured to detach her thoughts from the melan­choly idea, by giving her a detail of the inequality of Mrs. Highmore's beha­viour to me during the first and the last days of my residence with her, which [Page 116] the wreck of our fortunes now enabled me to account for.

My mother smiled at my story; and taking two letters out of her pocket­book, put them into my hand. ‘Here are two letters from Mrs. Highmore,’ said she, ‘of different dates: the first is to Mrs. Lumley in affluence; the se­cond to the same Mrs. Lumley in dis­tress; read them.’ I did so, and here is what they contained.

My mother answered this extraordinary epistle no otherwise than by cancelling a [Page 119] note for sixty pounds, which Mrs. High­more had borrowed of her about a year before, and enclosing it in a cover, which contained only these words: ‘Mrs. Lumley's compliments, and desires Mrs. Highmore will accept the en­closed as payment for her daughter's and her governess board for five weeks.’

THIS billet was sent by a porter to Mrs. Highmore's house in town, whi­ther we had heard she was come, with orders not to stay for an answer. She came herself a few days afterwards to visit my mother, who pleaded indispo­sition, and refused to see her.

MRS. Highmore's behaviour was imi­tated by many other persons of our ac­quaintance, whose cool kindness, and constrained civility, marked too well the change of our fortunes.

[Page 120]SOME of our relations were of high rank; and these kept us at a distance by their very ceremonious behaviour, Some were only rich, and to them po­verty appeared rather a crime than a misfortune; so that in strict morality they were obliged to treat us with great coldness and reserve.

My mother appeared calm and Un­ruffled by this general depravity. ‘Per­sons of quicker sensibility than my­self,’ said she, ‘would, on this occa­sion, complain of the world; but I shall content myself with forgetting it.’

HAVING settled all her affairs in Lon­don, we retired to a small house, which my mother had taken in a neighbouring town, and furnished with a simplicity suitable to her fortune, and a neatness that gave elegance to that simplicity.

MRS. Benson refused the part of go­verness to a young lady of high distinc­tion, [Page 121] in order to accompany us in this retreat. 'I have an income,' said she, ‘which, though small, is sufficient to prevent my being an incumbrance to you. I acquired part of it in your service; and, I will never quit you while my attendance can be either useful or agreeable to you.’

You will easily imagine, my dear Ma­ria, how acceptable such an instance of faithful attachment must be to my mo­ther, at a time when she seemed forsaken by all the world. She embraced, and thanked her with tears of tenderness and joy; yet represented to her, that her interest required she should accept the advantageous proposal that was made to her.

'HONOUR, gratitude, and friendship,' replied she, ‘impel me to attach my­self to you, and my beloved pupil; in doing so I find my interest.’

[Page 122]WE were soon settled in our new habitation: one maid-servant composed our whole equipage. We worked, we read, we dressed our little garden—all was peace, friendship, and mutual com­placency.

'I SEE,' said I one day to my mother, ‘that one may cease to be rich without being unhappy’—‘A life led in tran­quillity, and with judgment,’ replied my mother, ‘which is the work of reason, is preferable to one half of those sud­den and great successes which the world admires, and which are scarce ever the rewards of merit, but the mere vagaries of fortune.’

THE privacy my mother so earnestly desired was not like to be interrupted in a neighbourhood chiefly composed of fa­milies grown wealthy by the successful arts of trade, and had chosen this retreat for their summer residence, who had no idea of any merit but riches, and allowed no [Page 123] claims to respect, but what were derived from the ostentatious display of them. The name of Lumley sounded less re­spectable in their ears than that of Jack­son or Wilson, because Jackson or Wil­son kept coaches, and could afford to fare sumptuously every day.

'NOTHING,' says the immortal Bacon, ‘can make that great which nature meant to be little.’ Our situation af­forded us many opportunities of observ­ing how fortune and nature were at strife, when the lavish gifts bestowed by the one, could not efface the despicable stamp impressed by the other. The Indian plunderer, raised from the con­dition of a link-boy to princely affluence, in the midst of his blaze of grandeur, looked like a robber going in mock state to execution; and the forestalling trader enjoyed his clumsy magnificence with the same aspect as when he had over-reached a less cunning dealer in a bargain.

[Page 124]SUCH were the observations of Mrs. Benson, when these sons and daughters of sudden opulence rolled in unwieldy state by our humble habitation.

MY mother used sometimes to chide her for the severity of her sarcasms; but her spleen was often roused by the in­conveniences which our contiguity to these great personages exposed us to: for money, which, as she said, cost them no­thing to acquire, but what they valued as nothing, consequently, was expended so lavishly, as raised the prices of necessa­ries; and this grievance was severely felt by their less opulent neighbours.

[Page 125]bespoke every day, to furnish this indis­pensable article to their afternoon re­gale.

SUCH inconveniences as these my mo­ther bore without murmuring; but she was not so easy under the difficulty she found of procuring a seat in the church, 'which,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘are almost all taken up with the worshippers of Mammon, to whom, as they have erected an altar in their own houses, they might as well perform their devo­tions at home, and let Christians have access to the house of God.’

MY mother, however, sometimes, by the force of bribe, got admission into a pew; and one Sunday, making use of the same powerful oratory, she was let into a pew where there was only one lady, of a diminutive figure indeed, but a soul so vast, as seemed to oe'r-inform her small tenement of clay, and made her fancy herself large enough to occupy

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[Page 126]the whole pew; so that upon my mother's entrance, she spread her flounces and hoop over the whole bench, and, wedg­ing my mother close in a corner, looked askance upon her, without making the least return to the courtesy she made her after she had risen from her knees.

WHEN the service was over, the little great lady, being in a hurry to get out, flounced by my mother, and said, loud enough to be heard by her, to the wo­man who attended to open the door, ‘I wonder at your assurance, to put peo­ple that nobody knows into my pew— I shall complain to the church-warden, I assure you.’

'MADAM,' said the woman, ‘you have a right to but one seat in the pew, and the gentlewoman looks as much like a lady as any body.’

THIS speech called forth a contemp­tuous smile, and a repetition of the word [Page 127] 'lady!' for although my mother was, as you know, my Maria, a most elegant figure, and had an air of dignity, which was rendered more interesting by the gentle sorrow which shaded her features, yet as she had no footman with her, that barrier, in this polite country town, between the high and the low, it was impossible to imagine she could have any claim to civility.

SHOCKED, but not mortified, at the ridiculous pride of this daughter of trade, my mother was preparing to go out of the pew, when she was accosted by a lady, who, by her air and manner, seemed to be indeed a gentlewoman; she had heard what had been said to the pew­opener, and appeared much affected at it.

'I PERCEIVE, Madam,' said she to my mother, ‘that you are not provided with a seat in this church, which in­deed is very difficult to procure in the [Page 128] summer season, but you will be ex­tremely welcome to one in my pew; there is room enough, and I shall be happy to accommodate you; you need only desire to be shewn to Mrs. How­ard's pew, and it will always be open to you.’

THE lady curtseyed, and passed on, giving my mother time to pay her ac­knowledgments for this favour, only by a deep curtsey and an expressive look.

SHE related this incident to Mrs. Benson and me when she came home, telling us, at the same time, the name of the benevolent lady. ‘I should have been surprised,’ said Mrs. Benson, ‘if any of the plebeian gentry of this lofty place had been capable of such an in­stance of civility to a stranger; from the noble name of Howard one might expect it.’

[Page 129]'IT is true,' replied my mother, ‘that pride and meanness are generally found together; but there are persons, even of high birth, who can submit to to be proud, and whose whole great­ness lie in their titles; so that if they would have us respect them, they must send a herald before to announce their claims.’

I BELIEVE you and I, my dear Maria, know several of these undignified great ones; and, to my sorrow, some may be found among my own relations.

MY mother did not fail to go to church next Sunday, and the pew­opener, who had heard what Mrs. How­ard said, immediately conducted her to that lady's pew: Mrs. Howard was al­ready there, and received her with smiles, that shewed the satisfaction she felt at seeing her offer so readily accepted. My mother had now an opportunity of pay­ing her acknowledgments, which she did [Page 130] with her usual politeness, and a heart glowing with gratitude.

MRS. HOWARD, judging by the pale­ness of her looks that she was in a weak state of health, desired, as soon as the ser­vice was over, that she would permit her to set her down at her own door; which my mother, after a short apology for the trouble it would give her, con­sented to.

MY mother being desired to tell the servant where the coach was to stop, directed him to the place, and said he would see the name of Lumley upon the door.

'Is your name Lumley, Madam?' said Mrs. Howard hastily: my mother bowing.

‘THEN you are the widow of the late Mr. Lumley, who died at Bath, I pre­sume?’ said she.

[Page 131]'I AM, Madam,' replied my mother, sighing.

‘How happy am I to meet with you thus unexpectedly,’ said Mrs. How­ard; ‘I have often wished for the plea­sure of your acquaintance; but I know not how it was, I never met you at any of my parties; but you must promise that we shall be good neigh­bours now; I generally pass three or four months every year at a little plea­sant house I have about a short mile from hence, before I go to our seat in Hertfordshire. I will not part with you till you have promised to spend a day with me.’

MY mother assured her, she would with great pleasure. Mrs. Howard in­sisted upon alighting when the coach stopped, that she might be introduced to me, for I ha d hastened to the door to re­ceive my mother. She saluted me ten­derly;

[Page 132]said some very civil things, and took leave of us; having first made us promise to dine with her the next day, and to name the hour when we chose the coach should come for us. But little did I imagine the influence this visit was to have over my future fortunes.

THE coach came for us at the ap­pointed time, and carried us to a small, but elegant building. The grounds about it were laid out with a beautiful simplicity, and the apartments all fur­nished in the same taste.

MRS. HOWARD received us with an easy politeness, which soon banished the idea of being but the acquaintance of a day. When we were summoned to the dining parlour, we found there no other company but one gentleman, who by his dress we knew to be an officer, whom Mr. Howard introduced to us as his kinsman.

[Page 133]THIS was Mr. Neville, my dear Maria, now the husband of your Euphe­mia. His age seemed to be about thirty; he was well bred, talked sensibly, and had something very gra­cious and insinuating in his manner, which, I know not how it was, had not the same effect upon me that it had upon most other persons, on whom it gene­rally produced a favourable prepossession.

ALTHOUGH I could perceive I had at­tracted his notice, his eyes being almost constantly fixed on me, and following all my motions, yet his attentions were chiefly directed to my mother; he sat next her at table, and served her with every thing in the most polite and oblig­ing manner imaginable. We walked in the gardens after dinner; he kept close by my mother, whom he prevailed upon to lean on his arm, and entertained her with all the gallantry of an admirer, yet with all the respect and reverence of a son. My mother was quite pleased with [Page 134] him; he seemed solicitous to gain hèr good opinion, and frequently threw out sentiments which did prodigious honour to his heart.

My mother was greatly struck with one thing he said, which she declared was worthy of Socrates himself. Hav­ing, upon some instance of his obliging assiduity, complimented him upon his politeness, Mrs. Howard said, with a smile, ‘I do assure you, Madam, Mr. Neville is a general favourite.’

'I PROTEST to you, Madam,' replied Mr. Neville, ‘I do not think I have any reason to be vain of such a com­mendation; the favour of the multi­tude is seldom procured by honest and lawful means. I aspire indeed to the approbation of the few, for I do not number voices, but weigh them.’

'PRAY,' said Mrs. Benson, when my mother repeated this speech to her, [Page 135] 'how old is this sententious gentleman?' My mother replied, ‘that she believed he was under thirty.’ 'Ah!' replied she, ‘a philosopher of that age will al­ways be suspected by me; these fine sayings come more from the head than the heart.’

‘YOUR satire is too keen, my dear Benson,’ said my mother, ‘it is easy to perceive you are out of humour with the world; but having no reason to be so on your own account, I must place it to your friendship for me, who am so uneasily situated in it; however, Fortune may justify herself for having favoured me so little, for I am sure I never courted her.’

'BUT I would fain know,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘what my young pupil here thinks of this grave young gentle­man?’

[Page 136]'MY mama thinks well of him,' said I, ‘her judgment ought to be a guide to mine; but if I may be permitted to speak my sentiments, I think the air of his countenance and the graciousness of his manner, are not of a piece; his smiles are rather forbidding than con­ciliating, and do not seem calculated to invite confidence in the goodness of his temper.’

'UPON my word,' said my mother, half smiling, ‘Mrs. Benson seems to have infused part of her spirit in you; but my dear,’ pursued she in a grave tone, ‘I wish he were your husband; I am persuaded he would make you happy; and to see you settled, is all the wish I have on this side heaven.’

'DEAR Madam,' said I, a little dis­concerted, ‘the gentleman has no thought of me.’ 'I do not know that,' replied my mother, ‘I am sure he took a very particular notice of you; and as [Page 137] he seems to be a man of much worth and honour, it would make me happy to leave you under such a protection.’

THIS last thought affected me with a tender concern; and made Mrs. Benson look grave. We changed the discourse; but my mother often mentioned Mr. Neville, still finding something in his manners and behaviour to ground a good opinion of his morals on.

HE called the next day to enquire after our health, but only left his name, with­out staying to be asked in, which af­forded my mother new matter for praise, as his modesty seemed in this instance to be equal to his politeness.

IT soon became a custom to dine every Sunday with Mrs. Howard, who carried us home with her from church, and we were always sure to find Mr. Ne­ville there. His behaviour to me was now particular enough to be observed by [Page 138] every body. Mrs. Howard, railing me on my conquest, was pleased to say, ‘there are few men worthy of you, but, in point of birth or fortune, Mr. Ne­ville is no improper match. On the death of his uncle, who is now seventy, he will succeed to an estate of eight hun­dred a year; he is likely to rise in the army, and his own fortune, which is about five thousand pounds, is, I be­lieve, still entire, as I never heard he was addicted to any extravagance.’

MY mother was very well pleased with this account of his circumstances. ‘Such an establishment for my daugh­ter,’ said she to Mrs. Benson, ‘is in her situation not to be rejected, espe­cially when the man is so worthy.’

MRS. Benson, who knew how little I was disposed to become a wife, and did not perhaps think so highly of Mr. Ne­ville's good qualities as my mother did, shewed no great satisfaction at Mr. Ne­ville's [Page 139] addresses, and wished the affair not to be hurried on too fast.

'IT is dangerous,' said she, ‘to en­ter the state of marriage rashly, and by the conduct of fortune; all the eyes that prudence hath, are not too many to serve as a guide in this business; for errors are mortal, where repentance is unprofitable.’

SHE sometimes expressed her surprise to me at my mother's earnestness to con­clude this affair. Alas! the motive soon became too obvious; her health was declining fast, her anxiety for me preyed upon her spirits; I could often observe her look at me earnestly for a minute till her eyes filled with tears, and then she would hastily turn away to con­ceal her emotion.

MR. NEVILLE'S behaviour, all this time, was so tender, so obliging, so eager to do us little services, so attentive to my [Page 140] mother, so passionate, yet so respectful to me, that he even brought over Mrs. Ben­son, in some degree, to his party. She would sometimes tell me, that since I was absolutely certain his addresses to me were not actuated by any motives of in­terest, I owed him some gratitude for the sincerity of his affection.

MY mother's illness now increased so fast upon her, as to fill us with the most dreadful apprehensions; the physicians acknowledged they thought her case dan­gerous. I passed my days, and the greatest part of my nights, by her bed­side, indulging my tears in her inter­vals of rest—for I carefully concealed from her the agonizing fears that filled my mind.

MR. NEVILLE, on this occasion, shewed all the tenderness of a son, and all the sympathy of the most cordial friend­ship.

[Page 141]'OH! that you could love this man,' said my mother to me one day, ‘what satisfaction would it give me to leave you under his protection; for indeed, my dear child,’ pursued she, ‘I have reason to think my anxiety for you is one of the chief sources of my illness.’

I STARTED from the chair where I was sitting, I threw myself on my knees at her bed-side, and bathing the dear hand she held out to me with my tears, 'My dear mama,' said I, ‘why, oh! why did you not explain yourself be­fore? could you doubt my ready obe­dience to your will?’

'IN this case, my Euphemia,' said she, ‘I would exact nothing from your obedience; my wish went no far­ther than that you could love Mr. Ne­ville. Your good opinion of him I am sure he has.’

[Page 142]'HE has, Madam,' said I, ‘and I will teach my heart to love him, since he is your choice, and since the peace of your mind depends upon my being settled; should my compliance restore you to your health, I shall be the hap­piest of human beings.’

'AND to see you happy,' said my mother, ‘is all my wish upon earth; I am persuaded Mr. Neville will make you so, provided you have no dislike to him.’

'How is it possible, Madam,' said I, ‘that I can have any dislike to a per­son for whom you have so great a re­gard? Doubt not but I shall love Mr. Neville, when it is my duty so to do; and I will make it my duty when­ever you please to command me.’

'MY dear child,' said my mother, ‘Heaven will, I doubt not, reward you for this, as well as every other instance [Page 143] of your filial piety. From a young woman of your reserved and delicate turn of mind, I expected no sudden attachment, no romantic flights of passion; but I am well assured, that the man whom your judgment ap­proves, will, when entitled to your af­fection, possess it entirely.’

FROM that day my mother began to be not only composed, but cheerful; the easy state of her mind had such a powerful effect upon her health, that in a few days she left her bed, and her re­covery seemed no longer doubtful.

MR. NEVILLE received my consent with transports that seemed to border, I thought, upon madness, and rather frighted than pleased me. He asked his uncle's consent for form's sake, which was neither granted nor refused; for the old gentleman, who was not satisfied with his conduct in general, had long ceased to trouble himself about his af­fairs; [Page 144] and it was thought, that his dis­gust had risen to such a height, that if he could have disinherited him, he would certainly have done it.

MR. NEVILLE'S security on this point was perhaps one cause of the little care he took to conciliate him.

MY mother made no reflections to the disadvantage of Mr. Neville on account of this coolness between him and his re­lation; for there are times when some persons are always in the right. We were married; and my husband, in about a fortnight afterwards, carried me to a genteel house in Hill-street, which he had taken ready furnished for my re­ception.

THE parting with my mother, whose state of health did not permit her to live in London, would have been very grie­vous to me, if I had not been enabled to visit her constantly every day; for, [Page 145] among other articles of expence which I did not expect, from the very mode­rate income my husband possessed at present, I had a chariot and servants in elegant liveries. My mother gently hinted her fears, that his great fondness for me would, in the oeconomy of his house and appearance, make him consi­der rather the affluence in which I had been bred, than the humble condition to which fortune had reduced me.

I HAVE heard it observed, that it is common for persons who are conscious that they have done things deserving of blame, to answer their own thoughts, rather than what is said to them. Mr. Neville, therefore, hastily replied, ‘I have no intention to mislead my Eu­phemia into an opinion that I am richer than I really am. I never deceived her with regard to my present circumstan­ces, nor my future prospects; what you object to was not done to cast a mist before her eyes.’

[Page 146]'MY dear son,' said my mother, hastily interrupting him, ‘how vastly do you mistake my meaning. You are incapable of deceit; but you are also incapable of reflecting, that your wife having brought you no fortune, has no claim to any increase of expence be­yond conveniences.’

MY husband's countenance now cleared up, and this short debate ended with a kind compliment to me, which I was pleased with, because it gave her satisfaction.

MR. NEVILLE, however, had deceived several of his friends, and Mrs. Howard in particular, with regard to his circum­stances, and consequently my mother; for of his own fortune, which was five thousand pounds, the greatest part was spent. He had commanded a company of foot in a regiment which was lately reduced, and his half-pay was almost all he had to subsist on. Without reflect­ing [Page 147] upon the causes of disgust he had given his uncle, he hoped that upon his marriage, an event which he had often wished for, he would have made him a decent allowance out of an estate which must one day be his, and of which he did not spend the half upon himself; but in this he was disappointed; after many fruitless endeavours to soften his uncle, he took a sudden resolution (for his re­solutions are always sudden) to extricate himself from his difficulties by going abroad; and fortune, on this occasion, favoured his designs.

A YOUNG gentleman, who was ap­pointed first Lieutenant to one of the in­dependent companies in New-York, having no inclination to leave England, entered eagerly into a proposal Mr. Ne­ville made him, to exchange this com­mission for his Captain's half-pay; and having very considerable interest, the affair was soon accomplished. Mr. Ne­ville, [Page 148] who has very high notions of the prerogatives of a husband, and doubt­less soreseeing the opposition I should make to this scheme, never deigned to consult me upon it. Little did I expect the storm that was ready to burst upon my head; when one evening, having staid later than usual with my mother, on my return I found him at home, very busy at his escrutore looking over papers, and settling accounts.

AFTER some enquiries concerning my mother's health, he asked me abruptly, 'if I should like to travel?' I said, ‘I should like it extremely in certain cir­cumstances.’ ‘And pray what are these certain circumstances, my dear?’ said he. 'Why,' replied I, ‘a full purse, and my mother's company.’ ‘I cannot promise for either,’ said he; ‘and yet I believe we must travel.’ He said this with so grave a look and accent, that although I could hardly think him [Page 149] in earnest, yet I was strangely alarmed; and I asked him, with some emotion, 'what he meant?'

'I MEAN what I say,' replied he, ‘that we must go abroad, my dear; it is absolutely necessary.’

'ABSOLUTELY necessary to go abroad!' I repeated, trembling, and scarce able to speak.

'IT is really as I tell you,' said he, without taking notice of the disorder I was in. ‘My uncle is incorrigible, he will make no addition to my income, which is too small to support you pro­perly. I am besides incumbered with some debts, which, without his assist­ance, I am not able to pay; and he has had the cruelty to refuse me a few hun­dreds, which would have set me at ease. Fortunately an opportunity of­fers, which will enable me to extricate myself from these difficulties without [Page 150] his help. I have made an advantage­ous exchange with an officer who was going to New-York. It is one of the finest of our American provinces; the climate is delightful, the air healthy, the people polished; all the luxuries of life are there more easily purchased than common necessaries here. There will be no great hardship in passing three or four years there. My un­cle's death will be the period of our banishment, if you will have me call it so: his age and infirmities scarce make it probable that he can last long; we will then return to Eng­land.’

ALL the time he was speaking, I sat with my hands folded, and my eyes fixed on the ground, in an agony of thought. He paused, as if expecting me to answer him.

'You say nothing to me, Euphemia,' said he at length. ‘You think it a [Page 151] hardship, no doubt, to follow a hus­band who has given you such uncom­mon proofs of his affection.’

'OH! my dear mother,' cried I, ‘am I to be torn from you, at a time when my attendance on you is so neces­sary?’

'YOUR mother will go with us, per­haps,' said he. ‘The voyage is not so long a one as you imagine; they often run it in less than three weeks.’

'I CHARGE you,' interrupted I, rising hastily, and holding him as if he was go­ing that instant to my mother, ‘I charge you, do not carry this dreadful news to my mother; you will kill her; she will not survive the parting with me. Alas! was it for this’—I paused.

'Go on,' said Mr. Neville, ‘was it for this you married? I know to whom I was obliged for your reluctant consent.’

[Page 152]THIS was a sad thought.—Agitated as I was with other griess, I perceived instantly all the inconveniencies this notion, if it took too deep root, would bring upon me: but it was not possible for me to eradicate it, without descend­ing to the meanness of falsehood; my soul was unacquainted with those emo­tions, which, on this occasion, would have suggested professions of fondness and attachment, such as he perhaps ex­pected. I answered, therefore, with great simplicity, ‘It is true, Sir, you were my mother's choice; I never had any other will but her's, and her choice regulated mine; but I would not have married an emperor, if by that marriage I should have been obliged to leave her.’

'WELL,' answered he, carelessly, ‘I believe your mother will be the only rival I shall ever have in your affec­tions: we must endeavour to prevail upon her to go with us. But pray,’ [Page 153] pursued he, in a kinder accent, ‘com­pose yourself; this separation is yet too distant to occasion all this uneasi­ness.’

'BUT still it is certain,' said I; ‘is it not so?’

'I AM afraid it is,' he replied. ‘My affairs are in such perplexity, that it must be so.’

AT this decisive word my tears flowed afresh. His patience (for, alas! he has but a small share of that useful qua­lity) seemed now exhausted; he rose up, and taking his hat, told me, he was obliged to go out, and hoped when he returned to find me in a better humour.

I WAS not sorry to be left alone, that I might give free vent to my tears. But scarce had I passed a few minutes in this sad employment, when my servant in­formed me a gentleman from Lord S. [Page 154] desired to speak with me. This noble­man, my dear Maria, was a relation of my mother's, and was my god-father, as I believe you have heard me say. He was but very lately returned from the Continent, where he had spent two years in search of health, which, how­ever, he had not found; as his let­ter, which his gentleman now deli­vered to me, informed me. He ex­pressed great concern for my father's death, and the situation in which he had left my mother and me; wished me happy in my marriage, and de­sired my acceptance of five hundred pounds as a nuptial present, lamenting his inability to do more for me; which indeed I knew to be true, as he had but a small estate, and several children to provide for.

My surprise at this unexpected piece of good fortune, at a time when I was overwhelmed with despair, was so great, that the letter fell out of my hands, and [Page 155] the bank-notes enclosed in it were scat­tered about the room. My soul was filled with joy and gratitude; in this pro­vidential relief I felt, I acknowledged the gracious hand of Heaven! It was with difficulty I could compose myself to write a few lines to my kind benefac­tor; and, when I sent for his messenger to deliver my billet to him myself, the transport I was in might easily be read in my countenance. Delivered from my fears of being separated from my mother, by being thus enabled to supply the necessities of my husband, I felt as if a mountain was removed from my breast. I expected his return with in­conceivable impatience; and as soon as he entered the room I flew eagerly to him.

'My dear Mr. Neville,' said I, deli­vering him the letter with the notes, ‘see how Providence has interposed to prevent a separation, that would have given death to my mother, and made [Page 156] me miserable. These sums will, I hope, be sufficient to set you at ease, and make it unnecessary for you to go abroad.’

HE read the letter, and examined the notes. —'It must be confessed,' said he coldly, ‘this is a fortunate circumstance, considering your great unwillingness to leave England. —Well, Euphemia, I hope you will now be easy, since you have your wish’. I saw he ex­pected I should thank him for his ready acquiescence to my will; and by this piece of policy he escaped what to him would have been a very great morti­fication—the appearance of being under any obligation to me or my friends. My answer was calculated to please him, and I left him the next day in very good humour, in order to visit my mother.

My heart was light, and the inward satisfaction I felt gave such an air of [Page 157] cheerfulness to my countenance, that upon my entering my mother's apart­ment she took notice of it. Holding out her hand to me, which I kissed, ‘May I always see you,’ said she, ‘with this contented air; and may you never have reason to be otherwise!’

ALAS! how soon was my cheerfulness to be overcast; I felt her hand intensely hot. I fixed my eager looks upon her face; the alteration I perceived there froze me with terror. ‘I have had but an indifferent night, but I am better now’, said she, forcing a smile to dis­sipate my apprehensions.

MRS. Benson that moment entered the room: in the fixed concern that was visible in her face I read my impending misfortune. She was followed by the physician; but from him I could col­lect no comfort: he even acknowledged to me that my mother was in great danger. Shall I attempt to describe my [Page 158] feelings to you on this occasion? Oh! no, it is impossible to give you an idea of my distress. I had sent back the carriage to town, which returned again immediately with Mr. Neville, who had been informed, by a billet from Mrs. Benson, of my mother's situation.

THE most dutiful, the most affection­ate of sons, could not have behaved otherwise than he did: and I have the comfort to reflect, that my mother, to the last moment of her life, was fully persuaded that I was perfectly happy in the choice she had made for me.

I LEFT her no more after this day, nor ever parted from her bed-side a moment while she lived. I had command enough over myself to suppress my sighs and tears, that I might not inter­rupt that saint-like composure with which she waited for her dissolution. All the moments that were not spent in her devotions, she employed in consol­ing, [Page 159] fortifying, and instructing me. With the most pathetic sweetness she recommended me to my husband's care. She intreated Mrs. Benson to continue her friendship for me; and heard, with great satisfaction, her promise never to forsake me. She talked sensibly, she reasoned justly, to the last moment of her life. It was not more than a quar­ter of an hour before she died, when, faintly pressing my hand, which she held in her's, and looking earnestly on me,— 'It has been said,' said she, ‘with more wit than truth, that virtue was the most beautiful and the most unprofitable thing in the world. Can that be called unprofitable which, when supported by [...], give a calm like this?’ My heart, sunk as it was with sorrow, caught the enthu­siasm of her words.

'OH!' cried I, lifting up my swim­ming eyes to Heaven, ‘may I die the death of the righteous, and may my [Page 160] latter end be like their's!’ —A smile of joy beamed over her countenance, now beginning to be overspread with the dark shades of death—once more I felt the faint pressure of her hand, now cold and clammy, and withdrawing from mine. — To the last moment she kept her eyes fixed upon me—then, gently closing them, her head sunk upon my bosom, and with one soft sigh she breathed out her pure and innocent soul.

HERE let me draw a veil over the sad scene that ensued. —My husband car­ried me in his arms, and put me into the chariot, where I continued without sense or motion till we arrived at our own house. I had no reason to com­plain of his behaviour to me on this occasion; it was tender, affectionate, and assiduous, and filled my heart with the warmest sentiments of gratitude.

MRS. Benson came in the evening, and spent two hours with me; and then [Page 161] returned to watch by the dear remains of her friend and benefactress. Lord S. desired to be at the expence of the fune­ral, which was performed in a manner suitable to her birth and happier for­tunes. —She lies in the family vault at —. Oh, my Maria, I must pause here for a while; when I can de­tach my thoughts from this affecting subject, I will continue my narration.

As soon as I was recovered from a dangerous fever, with which I was seized immediately after the death of my mother, Lord S. insisted upon my passing a few weeks at his country-seat with his lady and daughters. Mr. Ne­ville was also invited; but he pleaded business in town that required his at­tendance, and contented himself with sometimes coming to pass a day or two with us.

[Page 162]WHEN I returned to town, I found Mrs. Benson had, with the concurrence of my husband, settled all my mother's affairs. She had taken lodgings in the same street where I lived, that she might be near me: and, now my mind being a little more composed, I thought it necessary to represent to Mr. Neville, that in the present state of our circum­stances, prudence required we should adopt some plan of living less expen­sive, and more suitable to our income. I took care to avoid giving this dis­course the air of advice; I even com­plimented his tenderness, by ascribing to that motive the figure we had hitherto made, which I said I was by no means intitled to.

Mr. Neville, as usual, answered his own thoughts— 'I suppose,' says he, ‘you think it strange that I have not yet acquainted you with the manner in which I have disposed of your five [Page 163] hundred pounds; but the time has not been favourable for such discussions.’

'ALAS! no,' said I, bursting into tears at the sad remembrance he excited by these last words. —'And perhaps,' pursued he, ‘I have now introduced this subject unseasonably; if you please we will talk no more of it at present,’

IT was not long, however, before he renewed it himself. —‘I cannot submit to alter my mode of living,’ said he; ‘and I cannot continue it without in­volving myself in difficulties—there is no help for it—we must go abroad. — If your mother had lived, I should. have found it very difficult to have mentioned this to you again; but as it is, I think you can have no objection to changing the scene for a few years.’

MY surprise and confusion were so great at this unexpected declaration, that I continued silent for some mo­ments; [Page 164] during which his countenance was marked with so much impatience, that I thought proper to tell him, I would endeavour to overcome the re­luctance I had to quit my native coun­try, and those few friends which the wreck of my fortunes had left me; but he must permit me to say, ‘that I wish this hard task had not been imposed upon me’.—‘He said, that it was impossible for him to break through his engagement, without bringing such a stain upon his honour, as could never be wiped off.’—'Since that is the case,' I replied, 'I have nothing more to say;' and from that moment I have never suf­fered him to perceive that I had any reluctance to this voyage.

MY dear Mrs. Benson goes with me. She has nothing dearer, she says, than me in the world; and no claims upon her that should hinder her from keeping the promise she made to my mother never to forsake me.

[Page 165]Mr. Neville seems to approve of her design; I say seems, because he never heartily approves of any thing that he is not the first mover of himself.

You are now, my dear Maria, in­formed of all those circumstances of my life which led to my present situa­tion. Some particulars I wish, indeed, may be known to none but yourself; for, when I discover secrets to you, I think I hide them. Adieu.

LETTER XIII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

WHAT an affecting narrative is your's? If Nature herself could speak, she could not make use of more significant terms. You are above all praise; therefore, without incurring the guilt of making you vain, I may ven­ture to tell you how we talk of you here in our set. 'She is a woman,' said Mr. Grevilie, ‘either lifted up by her own strength above the passions of her sex, or Nature hath exempted her from them by a peculiar privilege.’—'Miss Lumley,' said my uncle, ‘is indeed a wonderful young woman; she had an excellent monitress in her mother; and she has profited well, both by her [Page 167] lessons and example. Young as she is, she is strict in the performance of all her duties, yet she affects no pecu­liar gravity in her aspect and manners, but tempers her reserve with so much sweetness, that, without endeavouring to please any, she pleases all the world.’

HAD any persons been present at this discourse, who were ignorant of my sen­timents for you, they might have judged, from my silence and discontented air, that I was envious of your praises. This is the friend, thought I, I must lose; and she, of whom hardly any man can be worthy, must follow one, who as­suredly cannot be ranked among the best, to the wilds of America.

I AM afraid you will be angry with me, my Euphemia, for these impa­tient repinings, and for profiting so little by the example you set me; but you well know, that there are some of us of such spirits, that neither time nor [Page 168] philosophy can work upon us; while there are others again, who prevent the work of time and philosophy by their own natural disposition.

WE are going to spend a week at Mr. Greville's: he sets out to-day, to prepare for our reception, and two days afterwards we are to follow him. My chief pleasure there, as well as here, will be writing to you. I hope to have a letter from you before we leave the Hall. Adieu, my dear friend.

LETTER XIV.
MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

YESTERDAY Mr. Neville told me he had been to pay his respects to Colonel Bellenden, whose first lieutenant he now is, and who is appointed com­mander of the forces stationed at New York under the governor, who, it seems, is captain-general. The colonel introduced him to his lady and daughters: he was greatly pleased with his recep­tion; and, having desired leave to pre­sent me to Mrs. Bellenden, and the young ladies, we received a polite invi­tation to dine there to-day, which we accepted.

[Page 170]Mr. Neville is much out of humour that, being still in mourning for my dear mother, I cannot appear with eclat; that is his expression in this my first visit. He takes upon him to judge what ornaments I may wear with pro­priety, and has actually laid out my jewels, which, he says, will receive additional lustre from my sable habit.

IT has been observed, that obstinate persons are ever most obstinate in error. Unhappily I experience the truth of this observation every day, on some occasion or other. When Mr. Neville has once given his opinion, however erroneous it may be, it is impossible by argument to set him right, for reason itself would seem to be wrong if it is not of his side. I was sadly perplexed; for I saw no­thing but determined opposition would save me from an absurdity, and upon this I could not resolve; when, fortu­nately for me, he took it into his head to make an appeal to Mrs. Benson, who [Page 171] sat smiling all the time, without med­dling in the dispute. But first, he en­deavoured, by a long speech, to convince her, that what he proposed was the fit­test thing in the world to be done.

'I KNOW not who it is,' said Mrs. Benson, very gravely, ‘who says that eloquence is that powerful, efficacious, and dangerous gift, alike capable of persuading both to what is right and what is wrong. There is no answering your arguments, that is certain; but you are too gallant not to yield up this point to Mrs. Neville, since the article of dress is entirely her own affair.’—'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Neville, ‘she is at liberty to dress as she pleases; I only wanted to convince her I was right in what I proposed; —but I am satisfied if you think me so.’

HE was indeed satisfied with the com­pliment Mrs. Benson paid to his elo­quence, yet he could not help, now and [Page 172] then, returning to the charge, with— ‘How plainly you are dressed, my dear; if you would but add a few ornaments you would look much better.’—I con­stantly replied with a smile, ‘Have you not said I should dress as I please?’—'Oh, to be sure, to be sure,' he cried, 'I shall never contradict you;'—and the next moment, ‘Certainly, my dear, you might wear diamond ear-rings, at least.’—But I see the chariot at the door—my husband is coming to fetch me. I protest he surveys me with a look of disapprobation; I must remind him of the compliment Mrs. Benson paid him to put him in a good humour again. Farewel, my dear Maria, I will give you an account of our new ac­quaintance when we return, if we are not kept too late.

LETTER XV. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

IT is some comfort to me to reflect, that if you must take this hated voy­age, the Bellenden family will afford you agreeable companions in it. Mr. Greville is well acquainted with the Co­lonel: he speaks of him with a kind of enthusiasm. In the language of Pope, he cried out,

'Colonel Bellenden,' said he, ‘is that noblest work; and to this truth the candid bear testimony by their words, and detractors by their silence.’ I asked him his opinion of the ladies.

[Page 189]'MRS. Bellenden,' he said, ‘by her politeness and attention to please, sup­plies, in some degree, the defect of her education; which being confined to mere accomplishments, as they are called, has left the nobler powers of her mind uncultivated. She sings well; she dances finely; she performs on the harpsichord with great skill; she can carry on the small talk of a tea-table in French; draws prettily; and is al­lowed to shade her flowers in embroi­dery extremely well; but her read­ing has been wholly confined to her Psalter and Bible, a few devotional tracts, and some sermons; and, among profane authors, the Seven Cham­pions of Christendom, pamphlets, poems, and some other works of the same kind. She has a great contempt for what she calls book-learning in women; and thinks chastity and good breeding, for so she pairs them, the highest of female virtues. She is an obedient wife, a tender mother, and [Page 190] an easy companion; is gentle in her censures of her acquaintance, except when they offend against the laws of modesty, or the rules of ceremony, and then, it must be owned, she is very severe.’

'YOUR characters,' said I, ‘seem to be drawn with so much skill, that I wish to have Miss Bellenden's by the same hand. She will be the companion of my dear friend in a long voyage, and I shall be happy to know that she will be an agreeable one.’

'I DO not,' said Mr. Greville, ‘think Miss Bellenden qualified to be an agreeable companion to one of your friend's solid understanding: but she is good-tempered, and will not give offence; she is very handsome, and has no idea of any higher excellence in women than beauty; she is greedy of admiration, and would be a coquet, if she had wit enough to secure her [Page 191] conquests; but although nature directs her to throw the bait, and the gaudy fry often catch at it, yet she has not skill enough to bring her prey to land; and they always escape her. These dis­appointments affect her but little; for a constant succession of new conquests keeps her in good humour with her own charms, and leaves her no leisure to regret, that their effect is not lasting.’

‘HER two sisters are too young to have any character yet; but they are both fine girls in their persons; and Clara, the youngest, seems, I think, to give the promise of being superior to the others, in the endowments of her mind.’ ‘My friend has found that out already,’ said I. 'Then,' replied Mr. Greville, ‘I shall have some opi­nion of my own penetration.’

MY uncle this moment sends to let me know that he is ready, and the car­riage [Page 192] is at the gate. We are to spend a week at least at Mr. Greville's, and from thence my next letter will be dated, unless I should find leisure to write to you at the inn where my uncle puts up the first night. Ever, ever your's,

LETTER XVI.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

HERE we are, my dear Euphemia, somewhat fatigued with our journey, for the roads were very heavy, and the day unpleasant; and, to complete our dissatisfaction, we met with some disagreeable occurrences on our arrival at this place, which have had a surpris­ing effect on my uncle's temper, and for which, at present, I can by no means account.

WHEN our carriage drove into the inn-yard, a young gentleman, who was talking to Mrs. Deering, the landlady, hastily advanced, and with great polite­ness offered his hand to help me out: [Page 194] he bowed low to my uncle, and observ­ing that he descended with some diffi­culty, he assisted him with equal atten­tion; my uncle thanked him very cor­dially, which the young gentleman an­swered only by a most respectful bow, and withdrew. Both my uncle and I thought him extremely handsome; and indeed, my dear Euphemia, he has a most engaging countenance, and is one of the finest figures I ever saw.

MRS. Deering having conducted us to a parlour, appeared to be in some confusion. 'Your honour,' said she, ‘used always to give me notice when you intended to come here, and then I prepared every thing for your recep­tion.’

'AND have you not had notice,' said my uncle; ‘I sent Robert before me, early in the morning.’ 'Indeed, Sir,' said she, ‘not a soul has been here from you: and I am in the greatest quan­dary [Page 195] in the world; for I have not a bed for your honour, my house is so full: I can make a shift to accommodate the young lady, if she will put up with a little bed in a dark closet, and her maid can sleep with one of mine; but the room your honour used al­ways to have, is engaged by that young gentleman you saw in the yard, and I have not another room in the house, but what is taken up.’

MY uncle fretted very much at this disappointment, and at the negligence of the groom. ‘What is to be done, Maria?’ said he to me; ‘do you think you can bear the fatigue of tra­velling to the next stage this cold dark night?’

'I CAN bear it very well, Sir,' said I, ‘but I am sure you cannot; therefore, I must entreat that you will accept of the dark room and the little bed Mrs. Deering talks of; and Fanny shall sit up with me in this room: here are two [Page 196] easy chairs; and if I can get a book, I shall pass my time well enough.’ ‘I cannot consent to that,’ said my uncle; then turning to Mrs. Deering, who had uttered a thousand good lacks all the time, he ordered her to get a boiled chicken forsupper; and in the mean time he would resolve upon something.

I CONTINUED to press my uncle to agree to my proposal; which he could not prevail upon himself to approve.

ALL this time we heard nothing of the groom. The night became wet and stormy. I trembled for my uncle's health; for he was immoveable in his resolution not to let me sit up all night; but rather to go forward to the next stage; when Mrs. Deering entered the room smiling, and told us, that the young gentleman, who had engaged the room, hearing of the inconveniences we were likely to suffer for want of an apartment, had politely resigned it to [Page 197] my uncle; and was actually set out on horseback, in the midst of the storm, in order to reach the house of a friend, who lived about ten miles distant.

'BLESSINGS on his heart for it!' said Mrs. Deering, ‘it was as good a deed as ever was done; and it was all his own offer.’

MY uncle appeared very much af­fected with this young man's civility. 'Who is he?' said he to Mrs. Deering: ‘I hope I shall have an opportunity, some time or other, of thanking him.’ 'He is your namesake,' said Mrs. Deer­ing.

'HARLEY!' interrupted my uncle, im­patiently, 'Who's son is he?'

‘He is son to the Reverend Doctor Harley,’ answered Mrs. Deering; ‘and is just returned from Germany. He was sent to get his learning at a [Page 198] Versity there; because his father, it seems, is not rich, and could not main­tain him at one of our own Versities.’

My uncle had been used to this good woman's language, and was able to listen to her gravely; but it was with some difficulty that I could help smiling. However, my mirth was immediately clouded, when casting my eyes upon my uncle, I perceived all the marks of astonishment, anger and confusion in his countenance.

'PRAY hasten supper,' said he to Mrs. Deering, at the same time making a motion to her with his hand to be gone. She left the room; and he continued to walk about in it silently, with a hasty un­equal step.

My astonishment at this evident dis­composure, kept me silent also for some moments. At length I asked him, if [Page 199] any thing extraordinary had happened, to make him uneasy.

'YES,' replied he, throwing himself into a chair, ‘I have reason to be un­easy, when, contrary to my intentions, I am laid under obligations to persons I hate. This young fellow has in­sulted me by his mock-civility. Can­not you guess who he is?’ ‘Is he not, Sir,’ said I, 'related to us?'

‘HE is so, to your and my misfor­tune,’ said he. ‘His father is my enemy, my mortal enemy: and upon him, since I have no male heir, my estates are entailed. Oh! that my brother had left me a son instead of a daughter!’

'WELL, Sir,' said I, endeavouring to laugh him out of his ill humour, ‘it is always misfortune enough to be a woman, without any aggravation. But I am not avaricious; and you have [Page 200] made me as rich as I desire to be. I wish, indeed, your heir was more wor­thy of your regard. But has this young man affronted you, as well as his fa­ther?’

'His father is a villain!' cried my uncle, starting from his chair, and pacing again furiously about the room; then suddenly stopping, and grasping my hand eagerly.

'OH! Maria,' said he, ‘I have cause for hatred; that base man betrayed me! betrayed me in the tenderest point! betrayed me, who was his kins­man, his friend, his benefactor!’

HIS voice failed; his eyes filled with tears; he turned from me, and throw­ing himself again into his chair, fixed his looks, altered as they were from rage to melancholy, stedfastly upon the fire.

[Page 201]WHILE he continued in this affecting silence, I could not refrain from tears; which I endeavoured to conceal, upon Mrs. Deering's entrance with supper. Sir John was so absorbed in thought, that he did not perceive she was in the room; I drew near to tell him softly, that supper was on the table.

'I HOPE his Honour is not ill!' said Mrs. Deering, coming up officiously to­wards him. 'Sir John is fatigued,' said I, 'with his journey.' ‘Ah! no doubt of it,’ said she. ‘What a mercy it was, that his honour did not go fur­ther to-night. Blessings on good young Mr. Harley, for leaving us his bed!’

At that name my uncle started up in some emotion; and then, for the first time, perceiving our loquacious land­lady, he recollected himself, and drew his chair near the table.

[Page 202]'IT is a bitter night,' pursued she; ‘poor heart! I warrant he is drenched through with the rain by this time: but as long as his Honour is safe and warm, I am contented.’

SENSIBLE how much my uncle must suffer in the present state of his mind, by this woman's idle talk, I desired her to get his apartment ready for him as soon as possible; 'for I suppose, Sir,' said I, ‘you will choose to retire when you have supped?’ 'Certainly,' he said: upon which Mrs. Deering with­drew.

MY uncle, still pensive and silent, carved the chicken, helped me and him­self, but scarce ate any thing; and my supper being finished as soon as his, he drank one glass of wine; and ordering his valet, who attended, to light him to his room, he wished me a good night, and left me.

[Page 203]I WAS glad to be alone, that I might give free vent to my tears; for the gen­tle melancholy my uncle fell into, after the first sallies of his anger were over, af­fected me greatly. I could have wished he had opened his heart to me, and ac­quainted me with the cause of his enmity against his kinsman. That there was no cordiality nor correspondence between them, I knew; but I never imagined their differences were of a nature to ex­cite such a strong and lasting enmity. But what has this poor young man done, to deserve so great a share of my uncle's dislike? for it seems he never saw him before, and was disposed to like him, till he heard his name: and indeed, it must be acknowledged, that he has some­thing extremely interesting in his coun­tenance, and his person and address are engaging to a great degree. Poor youth! his complaisance may probably cost him dear; the night is dark and stormy, his road lies across the country, and he has ten miles to travel, with no attendant [Page 204] but an old countryman, whom, at a large expence, he hired to serve him as a guide.

HERE is Mrs. Deering with her alasses! again; she puts a thousand frightful thoughts into one's head. I have al­ways observed, that low people take a pleasure in creating fears, when there is no cause for them, and in aggravating them when there is. But I will go to-bed: I am tired, but not sleepy. I have been writing ever since my uncle left me.—Good night, my dear Eu­phemia.