Hermione, or the orphan sisters: A novel. In four volumes. ... [pt.1] Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804. 282 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2009 April 004894051 T140064 CW115811323 K110414.001 CW3315811323 ECLL 1034200201

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Hermione, or the orphan sisters: A novel. In four volumes. ... Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804. 4v. ; 12⁰. printed for William Lane, at the Minerva, London : 1791. Anonymous. By Charlotte Lennox. Imprint from vol.2. Reproduction of original from the British Library. Blakey, p.154 English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT140064. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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eng

HERMIONE, OR THE ORPHAN SISTERS.

A NOVEL.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON 〈…〉

TO LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PATRONS OF ENTERTAINING LITERATURE.

THE great encouragement and ſupport our Plan of a LITERARY MUSEUM, or NOVEL REPOSITORY, has received from a generous public, demands the utmoſt tribute of gratitude; and it is with pleaſure announced, that ſince its commencement Manuſcripts have been introduced receiving general approbation. The manner in which we have printed Works committed to our care will better ſpeak our attention and praiſe than any eulogium of language.

Ladies and Gentlemen, from this ſpecimen of our conduct, will be ſure to have the efforts of their genius and productions of their pen introduced to the world in a ſtyle of ſuperiority: the printing will be executed with expedition, correctneſs, accuracy and elegance, and the paper equally correſpondent; and we preſume to aſſert that no pains, care, aſſiduity, or expence, ſhall be ſpared to merit the continuance of the approbation we have obtained; and we alſo affirm, that we have never introduced any ſubjects but ſuch as are founded on the baſis of Virtue, and have tended to improve the underſtanding and to amend the heart.—Our ſtudy ſhall be to pleaſe; as this will equally add to our intereſt as reflect to our honor.

In addition to this propoſal, Authors who wiſh to derive emolument from their ſtudies, are informed, that five hundred pounds is placed at an eminent bankers, for the ſole purpoſe of purchaſing literary productions; and notwithſtanding we are now unrivalled in the public eſtimation, for Novels, Tales, Romances, Adventures, &c. yet, in this undertaking, works of a general nature, whether Originals, Tranſlations, or Compilations, which can entertain or improve the mind, elucidate the ſciences, or be of any utility, will here find an aſylum.

From the great encreaſe and general encouragement CIRCULATING LIBRARIES have received, and which are now eſtabliſhed in all parts of England, Scotland, and Ireland, (an employ both reſpectable and lucrative,) ſuch as are deſirous of embarking in that line of buſineſs are informed that books ſuitable for that purpoſe are kept ready bound, in Hiſtory, Voyages, Novels, Plays, &c. containing from One Hundred to Five Thouſand Volumes, which may he had at a few days notice, with a catalogue for their ſubſcribers, and inſtructions and directions how to plan, ſyſtemize, and conduct the ſame.

Such are the general outlines of this ſpirited undertaking: a plan founded on propriety, and ſanctioned by the liberal approbation of the public; and we ſhall be happy farther to improve the ſame, ſo as to render it the Muſeum of Entertainment, and a Repoſitory of Sciences, Arts, and Polite Literature.

MINERVA PRINTING OFFICE, Leadenhall-ſtreet.
HERMIONE.
LETTER I. TO MISS BEAUMONT. Auguſt—

AFTER a dreadful interval of four diſmal weeks, I am once more enabled to reſume my pen. Your friendly letter of condolence reached me laſt night. How ſoothing, my Sophia, is the balm of ſympathy to a mind wounded by affliction. Your kind expreſſions made me diſſolve into tears; but they were tears of ſoftneſs and relief, far different from thoſe of bitterneſs and deſpair, of which lately I have ſhed ſo many.

I admit of all you ſay, my dear; but reaſoning, however ſolid and convincing, rarely makes any impreſſion in the firſt ſtages of immoderate ſorrow, and I acknowledge the juſtice without feeling the force of the conſolation you would inſpire. I know we have enjoyed our beloved parent to a more advanced period than, from his feeble conſtitution and emaciated frame, we had cauſe to hope, and that we ought not now to repine that it has pleaſed the Almighty to take him from us; ſince every year of the laſt three of his life, has appeared in the light of a leaſe from heaven hardly to be expected, and at certain ſeaſons, almoſt hardly to be wiſhed; but for ſome months previous to his death, he had been bleſſed with ſuch unuſual good health, that all our former fears were lulled into fatal ſecurity, and I cheriſhed with delight the pleaſing idea of poſſeſſing him even in old age, and of devoting my days to render the remainder of his life comfortable and happy.

I do not however give uncontrouled ſcope to my grief, as you tell me you are convinced is the caſe: I do not complain that the ſudden ſhock of this ſad ſtroke made it perhaps overpower us with redoubled violence; on the contrary, I bleſs heaven that the ſufferings were ours not my dear father's, and that his tranſition to a better world ſeemed to all appearance unattended by thoſe painful ſtruggles and agonies which in general render the awful cloſe of life ſtill more dreadful, both to thoſe who endure and to thoſe who behold it.

Oh my beloved friend! it is not his loſs (though God only knows how ſevere) that lies with ſuch a weight of miſery on our minds: ah no, Sophia; to the inevitable ſtroke of death our deareſt intereſts remain every inſtant expoſed; and dreadful as is the blow, reſignation, aſſiſted by time, eſpecially in the ſanguine ſeaſon of youth, ſeldom I believe fails in reſtoring tranquillity. Long and deeply muſt we have mourned our irreparable misfortune: yet I know I am not formed different from the reſt of mankind, and what millions are doomed to endure, I am conſcious I might have been enabled to ſupport; but our diſtreſſes are accumulated, and beyond meaſure ſevere: not merely have we been deprived of a parent tender and revered, but to this calamity, of itſelf almoſt ſufficient to overpower human nature, is ſuperadded the agonizing aggravation of knowing that his beſt days have been overclouded by ſecret and acute ſufferings —ſufferings which have corroded his mind, undermined his conſtitution, and to which he has at length yielded himſelf a prey; yes, my Sophia, that ever honoured parent, whom we reverenced with enthuſiaſtic affection, was a victim to remorſe, and died of that moſt painful of all diſtempers—that diſtemper which admits of no cure, and bids defiance to human ſkill—a broken heart.

His death, ever to be lamented, has brought to light a fatal, fatal ſtory; but I ſhall endeavour to enter upon it with what compoſure I can ſummon to my aid; and from the ſoothing relief of confidential communication, perhaps my ſorrows may derive ſome alleviation.

After being ſeized with the fit which proved, in its conſequences, ſo dreadful, a ſhort interval of eaſe ſucceeded, which my ſiſter and I, unuſed to ſcenes of this alarming nature, vainly regarded as the certain ſymptom of recovery; but my father, who felt himſelf inwardly gone, perceived with pain our deluſive error. My dear girls, ſaid he, in a voice, ah! how exhauſted! you muſt endeavour to reconcile yourſelves to the ſhock which awaits you: the will of heaven muſt not only be obeyed, in that we have neither choice nor merit, but it muſt be obeyed with ſubmiſſion and without a murmur. The Almighty is about to deprive you, as you muſt at preſent imagine, of your only ſurviving parent; but know, another yet remains, who, I truſt, will be prevailed with, after I am gone, to ſupply the place and fulfil the duties of a father.

To this ſolemn addreſs, which ſeemed to annihilate my ſenſes, I was unable to reply; but Fanny's feelings found vent in tears. She burſt into an agony of grief—oh deareſt papa, cried ſhe, who upon earth can to us ſupply your place? when you leave us, we ſhall be alone in the world; no one cares for us, no one loves us, we have no friend but you.

For the ſake of heaven compoſe yourſelves, my deareſt children, replied my father. I leave you neither unprotected nor unfriended; and ſevere as is the firſt early ſtroke to youthful and ſuſceptible hearts, a little time I hope will abate the poignancy of your regret; but the preſent moments, added he, after a ſhort pauſe, are unſpeakably precious. Let Howard be ſent for in all haſte; tell him to make all the expedition in his power, and inform him that I expect, from his faithful attachment, the moſt painful, though moſt neceſſary offices of friendſhip —that he will cloſe my eyes and receive my laſt injunctions. A meſſenger was inſtantly diſpatched. Mr. Howard was at Clarance, whither he had gone but the evening before, having left my father in perfect health. He travelled with the utmoſt haſte; yet the few hours that elapſed before he appeared, to us ſeemed an age. My father, though the dreadful ſymptoms of approaching diſſolution rapidly encreaſed, ſtill retained his ſenſes unimpaired; and on being informed that his friend was in the houſe, he expreſſed his gratitude to heaven that he had not breathed his laſt ſigh without ſeeing him, and deſired that he might be inſtantly introduced into his bed chamber.

On his entrance, Mr. Howard found my ſiſter, whom no entreaties could perſuade to leave the room, vainly ſtriving to ſuppreſs ſobs, which the apprehenſion of too violently affecting our dying parent obliged her to endeavour, though ineffectually, to reſtrain. My feelings, alas! were ſuch as admitted not of the relief of tears; the ſtupor of deſpair had benumbed every faculty. I was alive only to the ſenſations of miſery; and concealed by the curtains, I kneeled at the ſide of the bed, offering up ſilent petitions for that recovery, of which I had now loſt the moſt diſtant hope. My father, after expreſſing his ſatisfaction on ſeeing Mr. Howard, deſired the phyſician, and all, excepting that worthy friend, my ſiſter and myſelf, ſhould leave the room. This requeſt being inſtantly complied with, he beſought Mr. Howard to open a bureau which ſtood in the chamber: you will there find a manuſcript, ſaid he, dated ſome years ago, and written by my own hand: this manuſcript, my dear girls, (addreſſing himſelf to us) contains a horrid tale, which I could wiſh were for ever buried with me in the grave; but as it is eſſentially neceſſary that your real ſituation in life ſhould be made known to you at my death, when, expoſed to the dangers and difficulties of a world with which you are totally unacquainted, the protection of your relations muſt be peculiarly important, I have conſidered it as a duty incumbent on me, to leave behind an impartial relation of that ſeries of misfortunes, that checquered train of evils, which have rendered me an alien from my family, an exile from my country, and have long baniſhed comfort and tranquillity from my boſom. So oppreſſed was his articulation, and ſo feeble his voice, that our dear father did not finiſh the ſpeech without many interruptions from weakneſs and fatigue, and the laſt words half died upon his lips; but having a little recovered himſelf—you, my dear friend, ſaid he to Mr. Howard, will I hope afford my girls conſolation and ſupport under the pain of this ſevere and unexpected communication. To your care I bequeath them. See them ſafe under the protection of Benſley or my father; repreſent to them, when they are able to liſten to comfort, that my penitence has been almoſt proportioned to my crimes; and ah, my dear Howard! if poſſible deteſt not the miſerable author of calamities, the guilt of which, fifteen long years of remorſe have, I truſt, obliterated from the records of heaven.

Sophia, what were at that moment my ſenſations? Is it in language to expreſs them? Ah no! they were inconceivable and unutterable! I felt there was yet an agony ſuperior to that of loſing all that is deareſt to us on earth; and while diſtraction drew an exclamation of deſpair from my ſiſter, horror benumbed my ſenſes; and I ſunk lifeleſs on the floor.

When my recollection was reſtored, I found myſelf in bed in my own apartment. The tranſports of Fanny's grief, and the gloomy ſilence of Thêrêſe, and the phyſician who attended me, too evidently told that all was over with my dear father. Exhauſted with the exertion of ſpeaking, he had breathed his laſt ſigh almoſt in the inſtant that I was carried out of his chamber.

You, my Sophia, who are happily bleſſed with beloved and indulgent parents, may be perhaps enabled to form ſome idea adequate to the diſtraction a loſs like ours muſt have occaſioned: yet, yet, my dear, this was not all; an awful obſcurity ſeemed to envelope ſome hidden ſource of unknown and additional miſery. We were filled with horror inconceivable. To part with our deareſt father at that inſtant, ſeemed an evil inferior to knowing he had lived with a load of anguiſh on his conſcience; and anxiouſly as we wiſhed, we yet dreaded ten thouſand times more to have the fearful myſtery explained.

After a night of acute diſtreſs, ſleep kindly came to our relief, and buried us for about an hour in a bleſſed ſtate of forgetfulneſs; yet even in ſlumber, a melancholy gloom pervaded our repoſe, and we awoke only ſufficiently recruited to be able to weep.

We were then viſited by Mr. Howard, who ſympathized in our ſufferings with a degree of feeling that muſt for ever endear him to our hearts. Ah, Mr. Howard! cried I, the moment I could articulate for my tears—where, where are thoſe fatal papers of my dear, dear father's, which have been intruſted to your care? have you yourſelf peruſed them? Tell me, for heaven's ſake! are the contents too horrible—are they ſuch as we ſhall be able to read and not expoſe.

I will not attempt to conceal from you, ſaid he, with the tendereſt compaſſion, though not without heſitation, that they are of ſuch a nature as muſt both hurt and affect you; yet there are mingled in this diſtreſſing narrative, ſo many alleviating circumſtances to ſoften cenſure and ſilence condemnation, that I hope the communication will ſhock neither of you too ſeverely, when you are in a ſituation to receive the information with more compoſure than it can be ſuppoſed you at preſent poſſeſs.

Oh! cried Fanny, can any thing augment our preſent miſery? or if that were indeed poſſible, muſt not ſuſpence more effectually add to it than any intelligence we can now receive? I was in hopes of having time granted me, ſaid he, to ſoften the communication by degrees; but ſince you are ſo violently alarmed, I believe any certainty is almoſt preferable to your preſent ſtate of ſuſpence. I ſhall therefore bring you the packet; I only entreat that you will allow me, before you open it, the favour of one half hour's converſation, that I may be ſatisfied I do not commit too great an imprudence in venturing to intruſt you with it.

This worthy man then began to hint at its contents; but in ſpite of all his endeavours to palliate and ſoften the ſad recital, the ſhock entirely overpowered us; yet I inſiſted on knowing all; and breathleſs with terror, received the dreadful manuſcript from his hands.

Let me make but one obſervation, cried he, on delivering it: the years of ſelf reproach and anguiſh, which ſucceeded to your father's errors, ſo pathetically deſcribed by himſelf, more than atone for his faults. This penitence, his deep felt ſenſe of every breach of duty, and the unerring rectitude of his mind and conduct the inſtant he was awakened from the delirium of paſſion, even convince me there was inherent in his boſom, a ſecret ſentiment of ſuperior virtue, which, however obſcured and ſuppreſſed by the force of miſguided feelings and the violence of temptation, required but the moment of remorſe to expand and once more fully regain its influence over his actions.

What miſery my ſiſter and I endured from the melancholy narration, and the tears we ſhed over it, you, my Sophia, when you have peruſed the packet tranſcribed by Mr. Howard, which accompanies this, may be almoſt enabled to conceive: a tedious and ſevere illneſs, from which I am ſtill but feebly recovered, was the natural and inevitable conſequence of ſuch a conflict of emotions.

It is not, I own, without a ſenſation of repugnance, that I prevail with myſelf to ſend you this diſmal tale; but alas! ſo public has been every circumſtance of my father's misfortunes (thoſe which greatly extenuate his errors excepted) that I have reaſon to believe even you, my dear, have often heard of the miſerable fate of Lord Linroſe, as a remarkable event that took place in a family of diſtinction, and made much noiſe in the world ſome time previous to your birth; but that my father was the unhappy ſource or ſuch a train of calamities, oh! who could have conceived poſſible!— that aſtoniſhing fact never, never could you have divined.

I conſider this confidence, therefore, as a juſtification of his memory; and though the ſad relation itſelf is a ſacred truſt to be repoſed only in the faithful boſom of friendſhip, would to heaven all the world were as well acquainted with his remorſe as with his faults; and that the knowledge of his ſufferings could wholly obliterate the recollection of his errors. Adieu, my deareſt friend.

Yours affectionately, H. SEYMOUR.
TO MY DAUGHTERS.

WHEN this packet is delivered to my dear girls, I ſhall not have, to bluſh for its contents: I ſhall be then no more: and as it is eſſentially requiſite that they ſhould one day be made acquainted with their real ſituation in life, I have for two reaſons preferred that awful period for this painful communication: in the firſt place, the information I am about to diſcloſe, is attended with circumſtances of a nature ſo mortifying, humiliating, and ſevere, that at that ſolemn period only can I ſupport the idea of preſenting myſelf to the aſtoniſhed view of my children, in a light ſo different from that in which they have ever been accuſtomed to regard me; and ſecondly, when their ſoft and affectionate hearts are ſubdued by affliction at their recent loſs, only can I flatter myſelf they will look with candour and indulgence on errors—nay crimes—of which, till that inſtant, they had believed me incapable.

Be not overwhelmed with horror, my beloved children, on peruſing theſe words:—words, of an import ſo dreadful, and which you never could have conceived connected with your father's name. Heaven has, truſt, accepted the tribute of ſufferings, which heaven alone could have enabled me to endure; and ere theſe lines are ſubmitted to your knowledge, as all my ſorrows will be laid at reſt, let the conſideration of that felicity which I humbly hope will be then my portion, conſole and ſuſtain you under the ſhock your ſenſibility muſt receive from the tale of woe I am about to unfold. You muſt often have regretted, I am convinced, the ſolitude in which I have obliged you to live; and I make no doubt, in ſecret condemned that averſeneſs to all ſocial intercourſe, which I have uniformly teſtified as long as your remembrance can trace back. This, and many other particulars, which perhaps may have at times proved matter both of ſurprize and concern, I mean here fully to explain; and in particular that queſtion will at length receive a ſatisfactory reply, which has been hitherto productive only of vague, evaſive, and embarraſſed anſwers, viz.— how I, an Engliſhman, apparently attached to my own nation, and partial to its cuſtoms, ſhould have voluntarily exiled myſelf from my country, and ſecluding myſelf from my family, my friends, and the world, formed the ſingular reſolution of terminating my days in a retired ſpot in the South of France.

I haſten therefore to inform you, that even your name has hitherto been a ſecret to you.

My father, though my miſconduct has caſt a cloud over his days, I hope, and believe, is ſtill alive;—at leaſt, I had intelligence of his being in good health, within a few days from this date. He is Earl of Belmont, a nobleman of extenſive intereſt in his own country; and I am the eldeſt of two ſons, which, with one daughter, whoſe birth occaſioned the death of her mother, is all the family he ever poſſeſſed.

I paſs over the early part of my life, which I ſpent at home, and generally in the country under the direction of a very worthy man, who preſided as tutor over my brother and myſelf. My father, who was violent in prejudice and rigid in principle, allowed us few indulgencies; and had made choice of our preceptor rather for the integrity of his heart, than on account of the ſuperior abilities of his mind, which had been narrowed by the retirement of life, and total ignorance of the world: but my Lord, whoſe knowledge of men and manners had not rendered his notions leſs contracted, imagined we could no where ſo effectually imbibe the firſt ſentiments of virtue, as under the tuition of a man, whoſe purity was ſuch, that he ſeemed to know little difference between an error and a crime. The ſyſtem by which we were educated, was of courſe ſtrict in the extreme; but the auſtere principles that had been early implanted in our minds, our companions at College found it no difficult matter to extirpate; and a ſlight acquaintance with ſociety, ſoon convinced us, that we were incapable of adhering to habits, abſurb in themſelves, and of no aſſiſtance either to religion or morality. Having once deviated from prejudices, however weak, which the mind has been accuſtomed to regard as ſacred, to ſtop exactly at the proper limits of rectitude requires a portion of ſteady fortitude even ſuperior to that which preſerves us firm in our firſt impreſſions; the reformation is indeed but too often followed by a total revolution of principle, and even virtue herſelf is not unfrequently overturned under the appellation of confined ideas.— Such, at leaſt, was in part the change my mind underwent after having reſided ſome time at the univerſity.

When the part of my education to be there attained was completed, I ſet out on my travels; and immediately after my return from the Continent, that buſy period of my life commenced, the bitter recollection of which almoſt incapacitates me from relating the many painful occurrences it produced.

My brother had choſen a military life, and we had not met during three years which I ſpent abroad. We kept up a conſtant correſpondence however; and he was with his regiment in Ireland at the time of my arrival in England. I received a letter from him ſoon after, intimating his having lately married a young lady, of whom he ſeemed paſſionately enamoured, but who did not poſſeſs any of thoſe advantages, either of family or fortune, likely to reconcile my father to a ſtep in which he had not been conſulted. Conſcious how tenacious my Lord ever had been of his authority, added to an invincible prepoſſeſſion, which he had long entertained againſt the Iriſh nation, my brother, in the height of his nuptial felicity, could not avoid ſuffering the ſevereſt apprehenſions for the conſequences of his imprudence; and beſought me to exert all my influence with my father, to ſoften his wrath at this unexpected intelligence.

My endeavours, however, were on this head ineffectual; my Lord was overwhelmed with a rage that did not evaporate with its violence, but ſubſided into a determined, inflexible reſentment; by which he allowed himſelf to be ſo completely governed, that he reſolved never more to behold his diſobedient ſon; who muſt have found himſelf extremely embarraſſed in his finances, had not my purſe ſupplied his neceſſities to the utmoſt extent of my ability. In vain I repreſented to my father that the alliance, though neither ſplendid nor deſirable, was equally removed from what could be deemed diſgraceful: he ſilenced me with vehemence; and ſolemnly declared, that never more ſhould my brother receive the ſhadow of his countenance.—A reſolution, alas! which my ſuperior miſconduct alone, perſuaded him to relinquiſh.

I paſſed the ſummer after my return at my father's country ſeat; and ſpent great part of my time in hunting—my favourite amuſement. Returning one day from the chaſe, the weather being extremely ſultry, my fatigue occaſioned an extreme thirſt, which induced me to diſmount at the door of a farm-houſe poſſeſſed by one of my father's tenants, not many miles from the caſtle.

As I knocked, the farmer himſelf appeared; and upon mentioning my name, and requeſting a draught of ſomething to refreſh me, he conducted me with the utmoſt hurry of civility into a ſmall ruſtic parlour, where were ſitting his wife and daughter. The latter aſtoniſhed me with her uncommon beauty; which was rendered ſtill more intereſting from having ſurprized her in tears: ſhe allowed me no time however to contemplate her charms, for aſhamed of being caught by a ſtranger in that ſituation, ſhe made no return to my ſalutation, but ran haſtily out of the room.

I made a thouſand apologies to the farmer's wife for my intruſion; and ſo greatly was I ſtruck with the daughter's appearance, that I could not help expreſſing my regret at beholding her in ſuch affliction; which I intended as the leaſt inquiſitive method I could deviſe of enquiring the cauſe.

Oh, nothing in the world, my Lord, ſaid the farmer, your Lordſhip does her too much honour in obſerving her. It would be very far either from her mother's wiſh or mine to vex her, if ſhe would be perſuaded to liſten to her own intereſt; but girls are ſo wilful—

From this I conjectured what I afterwards learnt was the caſe—that the old people were teazing their daughter to diſpoſe of her hand contrary to her inclination. But though I felt myſelf unaccountably intereſted in what I had ſeen, it was neceſſary that my enquiries ſhould immediately end, as the good woman came at that inſtant to ſupply me with what I had aſked for, and I was conſtrained unwillingly to depart.

This beautiful girl ran in my head the whole day: though I make no doubt but I ſhould have forgotten that ſhe exiſted in a week, had not my infant paſſion been nouriſhed by ſeveral circumſtances which afterwards occurred.

When I returned to dinner, I found a large party of neighbours who were paying viſits of congratulation at the Caſtle on account of my ſiſter Lady Ann's marriage with Mr. Vere, an event that had taken place a few weeks before. In the courſe of converſation at table, I mentioned my little adventure, particularly dwelling on the extreme beauty and diſtreſs of the tenant's daughter.—Yes, cried the curate, who happened to be preſent, Fanny is the prettieſt girl in the pariſh, and one of the beſt; but her parents have carried matters much too far, and have rendered her quite miſerable, by inſiſting on the poor young woman's diſpoſing of herſelf to fat Robin, your Lordſhip's gamekeeper. They have teazed and tormented her till they had almoſt driven her to venture on a very alarming ſtep, to get rid of their importunities; ſhe had privately determined to leave home, and take her chance of finding a ſervice in town; but my wife ſuſpecting her intention, deterred her from a ſcheme ſo fraught with danger, by repreſenting the hazards attending ſuch an exploit.

The converſation ſhifted to other topicks; but Fanny and her diſtreſs frequently occurred to my mind. I wiſhed much to deliver her from it; but I diſtruſted myſelf ſo little, as never once to ſuſpect I was actuated in my wiſhes to relieve her by any other motive than that intereſt which youth and beauty, even without having produced any particular predeliction, ſeldom fail to excite in hearts of common ſenſibility. She appeared ſo amiable and ſo innocent, that, free as were my notions on certain ſubjects, the idea of deriving any ſiniſter advantage to myſelf by releaſing her from her preſent perſecutions, never entered my imagination.

I contrived, as the beſt method of ſucceeding I could deviſe, to intereſt Lady Ann in the affair; who during her walks called at the farmer's, and repreſented ſo ſtrongly to his wife, who had been an old ſervant in the family, the cruelty and injuſtice of forcing her daughter into the arms of a man ſhe deteſted, that the old woman was prevailed on to give up the point herſelf, and faithfully promiſed to uſe all her influence with her huſband to perſuade him to relinquiſh the plan likewiſe. In this viſit my ſiſter was ſo much pleaſed with the bewitching ſimplicity of Fanny's manners and appearance, and the unbounded gratitude ſhe expreſſed for this obligation, that ſhe made her an offer of ſupplying the place of her maid, who was juſt leaving her. Fanny thankfully accepted the propoſal; and the old people, happy in thinking their daughter ſettled under the protection of Lady Ann, conſented with eagerneſs to the meaſure; ſo that on my return from a ſhort excurſion I had made about that time, I found Fanny actually reſiding in the caſtle.

The frequent opportunities I now enjoyed of ſeeing her, in a ſhort time convinced me I was not proof againſt her charms. Far, however, from ſtifling this flame in its progreſs, I allowed it every encouragement and indulgence. Some ſimilar amours abroad, into which bad company and ungoverned paſſions led me, had already blunted, though not eradicated, my firſt feelings of repugnance at the idea of ſeduction; and I retained merely virtue ſufficient to undergo that penance, which conſcience, except where the heart is hardened in iniquity, never fails to exact from vice upon every new violation of her laws. But theſe tranſient ſcruples were not ſufficiently powerful to enable me to liſten to dictates ſo auſtere; I had little fear of being unſucceſsful with a young country girl who had not as yet, I imagined, formed any attachment, and whoſe heart, I concluded, would eaſily yield to the vanity of having engaged mine. I therefore aſſailed this amiable and unfortunate girl, with all the warmth and force of the moſt perſuaſive paſſion; but I ſoon found that an innate love of virtue, and ſentiments of pride ſuperior to her condition, induced her to reject my offers and advances with horror and diſdain. I was not, however, repulſed: the ſucceſs attending former purſuits made me ſtill confident of prevailing in the end; but the reſiſtance I met with ſo inflamed and augmented my affection, that from an inſinuating inclination, which might have been in its infancy eaſily ſubdued, I found this attachment was become a violent and unmanageable paſſion, that, in its conſequences, involved both its innocent object and myſelf in miſery and ruin.

I became at laſt alarmed on perceiving how eſſential this affair was grown to my repoſe; that Fanny was every hour gaining ground in my heart and riſing in my eſtimation, while I ſeemed as far as ever from making any progreſs in hers; and I began to think her worthy of a more honourable flame, and to compaſſionate the uneaſineſs into which my ſolicitations had thrown her.

I ſoon perceived that for my own happineſs as well as hers, my importunities had been carried greatly too far, and I determined to make one great effort to reſtore my own tranquillity and her peace; but I did not conſider how difficult the taſk would prove; unuſed to conſtraint, accuſtomed to give inclination full ſwing, to conquer at once a predilection ſo formidable, was an undertaking much too violent with which to begin my firſt eſſay of ſelf-denial. I reſolved, however, to try the effects of abſence, a medicine of wonderful efficacy in diſeaſes of the heart; and accordingly propoſed to make an excurſion of a few weeks, accompanied by ſome friends who were at that time my father's gueſts.

On the evening previous to our departure, fatigued with the exertions which the attentions due to a large company of ladies exacted, exhauſted by overacted endeavours to appear in ſpirits, and ſick of a frivolous converſation, which amuſed minds at eaſe within themſelves, and who willingly laid hold for entertainment on every little trifle that occurred, I contrived to ſlip away in the height of their mirth, intending to ſtroll out towards the wood, to ſoothe my uneaſineſs by giving way to reflexions which oppreſſed and overpowered me.

The night was uncommonly delightful, and the full moon ſhone with a clearneſs which reflected a pleaſing ſerenity on every object around. I gave way to a train of ideas, that filled me not only with anguiſh but alarm; I found that my paſſion for a girl ſo every way beneath me poſſeſſed not only the power of deſtroying my peace, but even in ſome meaſure had weakened my reaſon: for ſo entirely had my heart ſurrendered to its influence, that the thoughts of relinquiſhing every proſpect of preferment and dignity in my future eſtabliſhment, and the certainty of ruining myſelf with my father, were leſs dreadful to my apprehenſion than the reſolution of thwarting an attachment, to which ſeemed annexed every hope of happineſs and enjoyment: in a word—that the poſſeſſion of Fanny in a legal manner was more than a recompence for the many evils which I knew muſt follow ſuch a ſtep.

I ſtarted from my reverie, when I found how unjuſtifiably far my imagination had carried me; and endeavoured to repreſent to myſelf the weakneſs and folly, as well as the danger, attending the indulgence of ſuch reflections. Perceiving how fatally ſolitude and muſing enfeeble fortitude and nouriſh the foibles of the heart, I was about to return back to the houſe, when a voice which I heard at ſome diſtance, induced me to ſtop for a moment; and inſtantly recollecting it to be my dear Fanny's, my intention of returning was immediately converted into a reſolution of approaching as ſoftly as poſſible to the place where ſhe ſat, in order to overhear her converſation. This I effected with great caution; and found ſhe was enjoying the cool of the evening in company with one of her companions, and that not fearing interruption from any of the family at that hour, they had ventured to ſeat themſelves at the ſide of ſome buſhes in the ſhrubbery.

I heard the friend, in a voice of compaſſion, endeavouring to ſoothe Fanny in conſequence of ſome complaint which I concluded ſhe had been confiding to her, and to which the moſt mournful ſighs were on her part the only replies. Her arguments of comfort were not indeed the beſt calculated for conſolation, but they were deſigned for ſympathy and expreſſed with much ſimplicity.

Indeed my dear Fanny, ſaid ſhe, could you have been perſuaded to have accepted of my couſin, you would have eſcaped all this trouble and vexation. Time goes a great way in conquering people's diſlikes. What one likes at one time one can't abide at another; and the contrary is juſt as common. When once Mr. Robert was your huſband, you would have been obliged to have loved him; and he loves you ſo well, you know, that it muſt have come of courſe. If all this had happened now, and I'm ſure I always told you that you never would do ſo well elſewhere, there would have been no word of his young Lordſhip, and your heart would have been as light as mine is at this inſtant.

Talk not to me of your couſin, cried Fanny in a tone of impatience mixed with deſpondency—I hate and deteſt him. What have I not ſuffered, added ſhe, melting into tears after a ſhort pauſe, within theſe laſt ſix ſad months: tormented by that hateful man, teized by my mother, terrified by my father; no ſooner had I got rid of that perſecution, than I came hither to endure another a thouſand times more inſupportable; and what courſe can I poſſibly now purſue, which is not loaded with difficulties and attended on all ſides with danger. If I return home, I dread reviving the old ſtory; if I remain here, then certain miſery awaits me; and oh! at times, my dear Jenny, at times I am almoſt terrified for myſelf; for though from my heart I abhor my Lord's inſulting offers and propoſals, yet alas! my heart is weak, and I find it is impoſſible to abhor him.

I often wiſh, continued ſhe, in the ſame mournful accents, that I had either died laſt year, when I was ſo ill and all my friends were weeping round me— ah! what anguiſh had I been ſpared!— or that it had pleaſed God to have placed me in a ſituation leſs beneath the only man who ever made the ſlighteſt impreſſion on my heart. But this is a wiſh which carries me ſo far, and ſoftens me ſo ſadly, that I dare not allow myſelf to dwell upon it. Yet, Jenny, I cannot reſiſt ſome times indulging the idea of what unſpeakable happineſs muſt have been my lot, had the Almighty leſſened the immenſe diſtance between us, and I had ſtill poſſeſſed the bleſſing of being agreeable to him. Had it ſo happened; had I been placed in his ſtation, and he been in mine, I'm certain I ſhould have joyfully overlooked every objection to have made him happy: and I often think, if his Lordſhip profeſſes to love me ſo well now, when I uſe my utmoſt endeavours to conceal my fatal partiality, ſurely he would not have loved me leſs, when all my happineſs centered in the wiſh of being agreeable in his eyes: yet as matters go with great people, he will probably marry ſome rich lady, continued ſhe, her tears flowing abundantly, who may regard nothing but his fine eſtate and ſplendid titles, and one beſides whom he may not even himſelf love; for great people do not marry as we do.

What a ſad thing it is, that all great gentlemen are ſuch rakes, cried the friend. But could you not contrive to give your lady warning. I'll warrant a few weeks abſence will put all to rights.

That is what I have often thought of, cried the other, and what I am afraid I ſhall be conſtrained to do at laſt; but oh! my dear Jenny! what will not ſuch a ſtep coſt me? ſhall I be able to live, after I quit the caſtle? But to be ſure quit it I muſt, and the ſooner I die the better.

Nay, for my part, I know nothing half ſo frightful as dying, I promiſe you, cried the friend. How can you talk ſo wildly? But you'll think better of that, I truſt, before long: you are not the firſt, God knows, that has been croſſed in love, and people don't always die for all that.

Melted beyond expreſſion by what I overheard, I ſcarce breathed, from the fear of loſing one word of this artleſs, intereſting converſation. When the friend aroſe, and propoſed returning home, I heard Fanny offer to accompany her part of the way to the village, ſaying ſhe was not afraid, though alone and ſo late, as the moon ſhone bright, and ſhe would return by a private gate which led from the park into the fields, and was a near cut. They immediately walked away, and I remained in a ſtate of mind not to be conceived but in ſimilar circumſtances.

The diſcovery I had made of my gentle Fanny's amiable partiality, in the very moment that I was exhauſting every ſource of fortitude to enable me to renounce her, threw me into a ſtate little ſhort of diſtraction; and determined me at once to overleap all the ba s that lay in the way, and to offer her my hand and heart in a legal manner. This reſolution, the offspring of an overheated imagination, and of that impetuoſity of temper which in a thouſand inſtances I have had ſuch cauſe to deplore, I reſolved inſtantly to make known to her, and to wait her return at the little gate, in order to communicate it. During this interval, inſtead of recalling my reaſon to my aid, and maturely weighing the conſequences of ſo imprudent a determination, I gave way to the delirium, and indulged in a train of the moſt pleaſing and flattering illuſions: I imagined I was beginning to enjoy a foretaſte of that happineſs from which an abſurd prejudice had too long precluded me; and I carefully checked every riſing objection to a meaſure which already diffuſed ſuch infinite ſatisfaction over my mind.

I walked backwards and forwards, anticipating that delight in the poſſeſſion of the dear object of my affections, which with ſuch amiable ſimplicity ſhe herſelf had deſcribed but the moment before, and dwelt with particular pleaſure on the ſoothing idea of the height to which gratitude muſt raiſe her attachment when ſhe came to know what proofs I meant to give her of mine.

At laſt Fanny appeared in ſight, and I flew towards her. I acknowledged the enchanting diſcovery I had made, and the effect that diſcovery had produced upon my heart, till wholly overpowered with my vows and proteſtations, ſhe wept in my arms, and confeſſed that ſhe loved me above all men. We were in this ſituation, when the ſupper bell obliged us to ſeparate. Fanny, agitated and bewildered by this unexpected event, and apprehenſive of detection, at length prevailed with me, though not without difficulty, to leave her, having promiſed to meet me in the wood early next morning.

On my return to the company, I found my brother in law had received letters from town which required his immediate attendance there. As my ſiſter of courſe accompanied him, I knew Fanny muſt be of the party; and to leave her now, was as far diſtant from my thoughts as it had been fixed in my determination three hours before. I therefore pretended to have had diſpatches by the ſame poſt, which obliged me to viſit London likewiſe; and without much difficulty got myſelf excuſed from the excurſion which had originally been planned by myſelf.

When I retired to reſt, I had leiſure to reflect on the events of the day. My mind having time to cool, I began clearly to ſee that I was ſtanding on the threſhold of danger. Fanny's image however, which perpetually preſented itſelf to my view, and the recollection of the ſcene which ſo lately had paſſed between us, the vows that had proceeded from my lips, warm from my heart, and the ſoft gratitude ſhe had expreſſed in terms ſo endearing, all fixed me immoveably in my determination; though I perceived through the cloud which paſſion threw over my reaſon, a ſource of innumerable troubles and objections; but theſe gloomy ſuggeſtions a lively imagination and ſanguine hopes, enabled me quickly to chaſe from my thoughts.

I began at laſt to form a ſcheme to which I hoped my dear Fanny would eaſily be induced to conſent: this was, to be united to her privately, and carefully to conceal the connection till my father's death ſhould leave me at liberty to avow my choice; and this, with extreme caution, I concluded might be effected.

On meeting next morning, I communicated my plan, which met with my dear girl's approbation: one circumſtance alone gave her uneaſineſs and held her determination for ſome time ſuſpended; this was, how ſhe ſhould conduct herſelf with regard to her parents, to whom ſhe was tenderly attached, and who, ſhe ſaid, ſhe well knew muſt receive a mortal wound were they to imagine her capable of conſenting to any ſtep prejudicial to her reputation. It was impoſſible for me to agree to their being informed of our private marriage, as ſo many reaſons required it to be kept an inviolable ſecret; and there was ſo little probability that two old people of their condition would preſerve concealed, what a due regard to the honour of their only child muſt prompt them to divulge, when her elopement and concealment ſhould call her fame in queſtion. This was ſo apparent, that Fanny was eaſily convinced of the neceſſity, however diſagreeable, of leaving them in ignorance. The idea however of embittering their days with the belief of her ſeduction drove her almoſt to deſpair: yet it is not ſurprizing that my arguments and endearments, my promiſes and profeſſions, ſhould have gradually reconciled her to inflicting this blow; as I did not fail to ſuggeſt the triumph they would one day experience in the diſcovery of her exaltation and innocence; beſides that I propoſed to ſoften their anxiety by dictating a letter, which Fanny actually wrote to her mother, acquainting her that for reaſons ſhe was not at liberty to reveal, ſhe was forced to conceal herſelf for a ſeaſon from them and the world, but that a period would certainly arrive when ſhe ſhould again embrace them; adding many aſſurances that when ſhe ſhould have that happineſs, it would be without a bluſh for her paſt conduct, which ever had been, and ever ſhould continue to be, conformable to the principles and inſtructions ſhe had early imbibed from them. Fanny likewiſe promiſed to give them intelligence of her welfare from time to time, if they would have the goodneſs ſtill to intereſt themſelves in their child's happineſs, while appearances were ſo unfavourable to her. This method, together with an annual ſum, which I promiſed to remit to them without a poſſibility of their tracing from whence it came, made my Fanny tolerably eaſy; or rather the ſoftneſs of her nature conſpiring with her tenderneſs, overcame her ſcruples, and ſhe liſtened to a plan ſhe knew not how to improve.

Buſineſs at this time called my brother and ſiſter to viſit an eſtate lately left him in Scotland by a diſtant relation. I immediately propoſed being of the party, pretending an inclination to viſit that part of the iſland, conſcious that I could there compleat my ſcheme with the moſt ſecurity from ſuſpicion.

We accordingly ſet off; and on our arrival at Edinburgh, Fanny, who was innocence herſelf, allowed me to conduct her to a private part of the town, where a clergyman, whom I had engaged to ſecrecy both by bribes and the moſt ſolemn oaths, performed the ceremony which united her to me by laws both human and divine.

I will confeſs to you, my children, humiliating as is the avowal, that the confidence placed in me more than once tempted me to betray it; and that the facility with which it was in my power to have deluded my artleſs bride with a falſe marriage, held the execution of my project for ſome time ſuſpended: but though the whole tranſaction confeſſed an unpardonable weakneſs, in this inſtance it was unſtained with guilt.

Our journey down gave me opportunities of meeting with Fanny, and converſing with her more unſuſpectedly than I could otherwiſe have hoped for; yet I could perceive that my ſiſter was not without her ſuſpicions of my partiality for her maid, and very often rallied me on it, though ſhe could not poſſibly have conceived the ſlighteſt idea of the imprudence into which my fatal weakneſs had involved me.

That my wife ſhould continue a moment in her preſent humble ſituation about my ſiſter, was what I could by no means brook. Two days therefore after our union, which had taken place on the day of our arrival, by my contrivance ſhe pretended to have received accounts of her mother's being dangerouſly ill, and requeſted leave to return home with all expedition, in order to give her the neceſſary attendance. It was not without infinite reluctance that the dear girl was prevailed on to adopt this little artifice; and the tears ſhe ſhed at parting from Lady Ann, to whom ſhe was tenderly attached, muſt inevitably have excited ſome ſuſpicion that ſhe meant to return to her no more, had not the occaſion of her departure furniſhed an apparent excuſe for them.

As I had time to digeſt my ſcheme before it was put into execution, I had provided a ſmall houſe in a private ſtreet in London for the reſidence of my wife, under the name of Mrs. Smith. There I hoped to viſit her frequently, unſuſpected by the world, and thither I was eager to follow her. Prudence however required that I ſhould remain behind with my ſiſter and her huſband; but as they continued only a few weeks at their new eſtate, my impatience was ſoon gratified by our return to London, where I met my lovely bride with all the ardour and impatience natural to my diſpoſition.

For ſome months my paſſion, far from ſuffering any abatement, rather ſeemed to encreaſe. At this time my father came up to town; and as I lodged with him, I was conſtrained to viſit leſs often in the city, and with redoubled caution; but the difficulties which retarded our meetings, and their conſequent infrequency, gave them an unſpeakable charm—a charm, alas! the warmth of which a ſhort time diminiſhed!

The entire ſolitude in which my wife lived (for I was her only viſitor) made my ſociety and converſation her only happineſs and amuſement. Her education had totally unfitted her for mental entertainments; nor had ſhe been taught thoſe accompliſhments which fill up agreeably the leiſure hours of a woman of faſhion, and from the unavoidable retirement in which ſhe lived, little variety of converſation was poſſible: when therefore the miſt of paſſion began to diſſipate, I found her ſtill lovely, amiable, and innocent; but unfortunately perceived that theſe alluring qualities were not in themſelves ſufficient to retain my wandering affections. Her converſation ſoon became inſipid to me; and the deſire of embelliſhing her mind by directing her ſtudies (at firſt my moſt pleaſing amuſement) now ceaſed to intereſt me. The tenderneſs of her affection long prevented her from expreſſing even a murmur at my too apparent neglect; although I could not but perceive that her ſpirits were viſibly affected by it: and ſhe always received me, after a fortnight's ſolitary abſence, with the moſt lively expreſſions of joy.

It was not immediately however that this unhappy change took place: and your birth, my Hermione, which happened not till three years after our marriage, ſupplied your mother with a pleaſing ſource of amuſement, ſufficiently intereſting I hope to prevent her thoughts from brooding over the mortifying and painful alteration in my behaviour.

At this period I became acquainted with a ſet of companions of the moſt diſſipated character. My particular friends were two young men of agreeable and inſinuating, but of profligate manners. In their company I led the moſt irregular life: and ſoon began to conſider the hours I ſpent occaſionally with my wife as a point of duty rather than of inclination, and with regard to the diſcharge of duties which interfered with my pleaſures, I grew every day leſs ſolicitous: this therefore, among the reſt, became extremely neglected; and I heartily regretted the indiſſoluble knot which had placed your mother in a ſituation that rendered my attentions abſolutely neceſſary to her happineſs: the ſecluſion of her life affected, but it alſo chagrined me; and her dependance, once ſo pleaſing, ſeemed now a burthen that I endeavoured to ſhake off, flattering myſelf that her child would amply compenſate for the loſs of my ſociety.

Twelve or fourteen months paſſed on in this manner; till my wife, at length wounded to the ſoul, began to adopt the worſt of all methods for recovering a loſt attachment, by complaining of my coldneſs. This ſhe did with her accuſtomed ſoftneſs, and by tears rather than reproaches; but it was a ſubject which embittered ſo extremely the ſhort intervals I ſpent with her, that they grew leſs frequent than ever, although the birth of her ſecond child (you, my dear Fanny) ought to have proved an additional tie towards cementing my affection.

My father, who regarded himſelf as exceedingly unfortunate in my brother's marriage, often propoſed to me to marry, and had at different periods pointed out ſeveral advantageous connexions, among whom he wiſhed me to chooſe; but as my heart was not intereſted, though the ſubject embarraſſed, it did not wound me, and I evaded it with little difficulty.

My ſiſter, one evening at her houſe, introduced to me a young lady with whom ſhe had been on a footing of the ſtricteſt intimacy whilſt I was on my travels, but whom, till now, I had never ſeen, owing to her having accompanied her father to the Court of Turin, where he reſided in a public character, and from which place ſhe was but juſt returned.

Miſs Marſdon was uncommonly beautiful; and her manners and addreſs, though highly cultivated, preſerved an intereſting ſimplicity which rendered her perfectly irreſiſtible: her converſation, refined by an admirable underſtanding, embelliſhed by education, and poliſhed by an early introduction into the moſt polite company abroad, poſſeſſed an eaſe and delicacy of good breeding almoſt as ſtriking, at firſt ſight, as the charms of her figure.—I felt the full force of both, and was conquered at once. With the blind impetuoſity which marked my character, inſtead of exerting my utmoſt efforts to reſiſt and avoid a temptation I found too inſinuating, I gave way to this ſeducing paſſion, and ſhut my eyes on its unhappy conſequences, ſo fraught with miſery, remorſe, and guilt. It was then that I curſed my folly, and that infatuation which had before guided me. Ever violent and untractable, I was almoſt driven to deſpair at the recollection of the weakneſs which had placed a bar ſo inſuperable between me and my wiſhes. But there ſoon aroſe in my breaſt a ray of hope; the production of ungoverned paſſions, ſelfiſhneſs and treachery, which firſt ſuggeſted an action that has thrown the gloom of the bittereſt ſelf-reproach on all the ſucceeding years of my life.

The lovely Miſs Marſdon, an only child, and heireſs to an immenſe fortune, poſſeſſed a conſiderable eſtate which ſhe had inherited from her mother, and which lay contiguous to Belmont Caſtle. This circumſtance, though trivial in itſelf, had induced my father often to expreſs his wiſhes that a marriage between the young lady and myſelf might take place. Her abſence had hitherto entirely fruſtated this plan, and given birth to other ſchemes; but her unexpected return at this juncture made him directly renew the old topic of matrimony, to which, hitherto, I had never been prevailed on to liſten. Far from being averſe to this match, he ſaid he ſaw with pleaſure it was an union into which I would enter with avidity; and that as the young lady herſelf ſeemed, if he might judge from appearances, to receive my attentions with all the modeſt approbation I could wiſh, he thought the next ſtep was to apply to his old friend Lord Embdon for his ſanction and conſent.

The mention of ſuch a tranſaction made my blood run cold, and I received it with an embarraſſment which not only aſtoniſhed but extremely diſpleaſed my father; though, at the very moment that I half declined what my heart panted to obtain, I was revolving in my mind the means of bringing ſuch a ſcheme to bear. The ſucceſs hitherto attending my attempt of concealment, encouraged me, and I began to flatter myſelf that my engagements with your mother might remain an eternal ſecret to the world, which would leave me at liberty to form what new ones I pleaſed with the amiable object of my preſent affections; this, I imagined, might for many years remain unknown to my real wife, who ſaw only her own ſervants, none of whom had been informed of my name, and who, being perfectly unacquainted even with the meaning of the word politics, had ever declared that newſpapers were the dulleſt of all reading; and I knew ſhe received none of the daily prints into her family. All theſe circumſtances induced me to hope that ſhe might long continue in ignorance; and that when the fatal intelligence, that I had connected myſelf with another, ſhould at length reach her ears, and ſhe knew my heart was totally alienated from her, I believed, or rather I forced myſelf to believe, that the gentleneſs of her nature would never allow her to plunge me at once into infamy and contempt by detection, but that ſhe might without difficulty be perſuaded, as the calamity was without remedy, to reſt ſatisfied in obſcurity, with conſcious innocence and affluence, all that had hitherto been her ſolitary portion. This certainly was a deſign which a thouſand unforeſeen accidents might diſcloſe to the world, and, at beſt, extremely improbable to effect; but I was willingly blind to the future, and ſolicitous only for the gratification of the preſent moment. I conſidered alſo, that ſhould your mother's juſt reſentment prompt her to divulge the truth, the meaſures I had taken, though not with that intention at the time, had all conſpired to prevent any credit from being given to her aſſertions: the ceremony had been performed in Scotland; the clergyman's abode ſhe knew not, nor was ſhe acquainted with his name but from the certificate of our marriage, which indeed ſtill remained in her hands, and which I regarded as the only bar. I often therefore revolved on the means of getting it into my poſſeſſion; and moſt undoubtedly ſhould one day or other have effected it, but conſcious guilt prevented me at the time from venturing on any ſteps towards this end, terrified to awaken ſuſpicion while my plot was but in agitation.

It was not without extreme anguiſh that I conſidered the felicity I was purchaſing for myſelf muſt be at the expence of an amiable young creature's happineſs, who had once been the object of my warmeſt affections, and who ſtill loved me paſſionately; who regarded me as her guardian and protector, who lived in a manner on my ſmiles, whoſe countenance ever betrayed dejection on the ſlighteſt appearance in mine either of indifference or ill humour, and who had brought me two lovely infants, pledges of her tenderneſs and of my treachery. But I quickly chaſed away thoſe painful ſuggeſtions of conſcience; drowned them in wine, or forgot them entirely at the firſt glance of my beloved Julia.

In a word, I made my addreſſes to Miſs Marſden, and was accepted. My Lord, overjoyed at finding me willing at laſt to cloſe with his wiſhes, haſtened the preliminaries; and Lord Embdon, happy in ſettling his daughter to his ſatisfaction, (as there had ever ſubſiſted the ſtricteſt friendſhip between him and my father) inſiſted on celebrating our marriage at his country ſeat in the moſt ſumptuous manner, where a number of relations on both ſides were to be preſent.

During the preparations, my heart, though ſo near enjoying its utmoſt wiſh, was weighed down with a burthen of guilt, the ſenſation of which let none call themſelves miſerable till they have endured; for perfect miſery cannot ſubſiſt without the feelings of remorſe. As the time approached, my agitation became more violent; in the preſence of my lovely Julia they were annihilated, but alone they were inſupportable.

Miſs Marſdon and her friends had already left town, and I was to follow the next day, and the enſuing one was to determine my fate. On the evening previous to my departure, being uneaſy in my mind, I reſolved to pay your mother a viſit, while I had not as yet actually injured her: you will imagine this a ſtrange ſtep in ſuch circumſtances, when on the eve of inflicting a wound which muſt for ever deſtroy her tranquillity; but in fact I was ſo oppreſſed with a load of ſecret ſufferings, that it fell to me like the diſcharge of a duty to which was attached ſome degree of merit from the pain it occaſioned me. I found her low ſpirited and indiſpoſed; ſhall I add another circumſtance calculated to have awakened every ſentiment of tenderneſs and compaſſion, had not my heart been hardened and every feeling warped in ſelfiſhneſs—ſhe was with child, and had ſuffered much from the attendant circumſtances of her ſituation: this, together with the air of ſombre ſecluſion which every thing wore, and which had never before ſtruck me ſo forcibly, ſoftened and affected me. Your mother was ill and alone; no parents to ſoothe, no friends to attend her; all was gloomy and dejected around her; it was I that was the occaſion of what ſhe now felt, and what ſhe had further to endure; yet —yet—I was villain enough to perſiſt in my intention to deſtroy her! not but that a violent though tranſient remorſe made me heſitate for a moment; but I preſently laboured to ſatisfy my conſcience with this ſophiſtry, that I had gone too far now to retract, and that as I had probably engaged the affections both of my wife and of my miſtreſs, and rendered their felicity dependant on mine, ſince one muſt ſuffer, it was at leaſt allowable that I ſhould ſpare regret and diſappointment from being the portion of her who had it in her power to confer unſpeakable happineſs on me.

As to your mother, the joy of ſeeing me, and the unuſual tenderneſs with which her ſituation inſpired me, made her diſſolve into tears that ſilently reproached my perfidy. I pleaded an excurſion from town in excuſe for my long abſence, and informed her of an unavoidable journey I was on the eve of taking which muſt deprive me of the pleaſure of ſeeing her for a ſtill longer time. She did not utter a complaint; but drying up her tears, you have deprived yourſelf of much pleaſure, my dear Lord, ſaid ſhe; and inſtantly ordering the maid to bring the children to me began, with all the tenderneſs of a mother, to repeat the improvements you had both made ſince my laſt viſit, which was about three months before, with many innocent expreſſions of anxiety to ſee me, and wonder at my abſence, that had fallen from the infant lips of you, my dear Hermione, then ſcarce three years old.

My children are my only conſolation in your abſence, my Lord, ſaid your mother, tenderly preſſing my hand; but I thank heaven I have them. To be ſure I cannot expect, in our preſent ſituation, to enjoy much of your company; but I live in the hope that the day will arrive—

The entrance of the maid, with Fanny in her arms and leading in Hermione, left the ſentence unfiniſhed which was a dagger to my heart. I think I was hardly ever more affected than when you, my Hermione, rejected my careſſes, and ſeeing your mother's eyes red with weeping, aſked me, with a reſentment which was immediately after followed by tears, why I made mama cry? This innocent reproach, under which lurked a meaning conſcious only to myſelf, made me heap expreſſions of tenderneſs on both the mother and child, while I was preparing a blow for the former that laid her in the duſt.

I left the houſe in a ſtate of mind not to be expreſſed. I ſpent the firſt part of the night in miſery: but the idea of what next morning was to beſtow, removed the image of your mother in tears, and preſented to me that of a lovely and beloved bride ready to give herſelf to my wiſhes.

I accordingly ſet out next day with a large ſuite of friends, was married immediately on my arrival at the Hall, and had all my conſcientious ſcruples ſoon drowned in an intoxication of happineſs.

After ſpending ſome weeks in great gaiety, I carried my amiable bride to my father's country ſeat, to which place we were accompanied by moſt of the party; and here we continued the ſame round of amuſements for a fortnight longer. My ſoul however was ſoon to awaken from this dream of joy, and to receive the due reward of its crime in the ſhame and remorſe which ſucceeded.

The company had juſt returned one evening from an agreeable excurſion on the water, and the ladies being in high ſpirits, had inſiſted on fiddles being ſent for, ſo that a kind of ball was going forward on the lawn before the houſe, the weather being uncommonly delightful, when my ſervant, calling me aſide, delivered into my hands a letter, the ſuperſcription of which made me tremble. I haſtened inſtantly to my own apartment; where, ſecuring myſelf from interruption, I found it, as I ſuſpected, from your mother, and the contents as follows:

TO THE RIGHT HON. LORD LINROSE.

If your heart ever felt for one inſtant the affection you have a thouſand times ſworn to me, if during the whole courſe of your life it has once been awakened by compaſſion, think what ſhe who writes to you feels at this moment; think, that to the ruin of that ſame which you have clouded with ſeeming guilt, and to the total alienation of that affection which has coſt me ſo dear, is ſuperadded the inſupportable miſery of knowing you to be treacherous and inhuman. Ah! my Lord! if your boſom ſtill retains one vulnerable ſpot, where pity is not debarred an entrance, come to me inſtantly. The Almighty has lent a gracious ear to my petitions, and ſhortly ſhall you be relieved from the infamy of your preſent ſtate. My fatigues and agitations have accelerated my pangs; I am even already ill; deny me not therefore this laſt ſad dying requeſt, and deny not yourſelf the ſatisfaction of receiving my forgiveneſs; a circumſtance to which you will one day moſt aſſuredly attach ſome degree of importance. Think of me as the mother of your children: come at leaſt and contemplate your own work, and behold me, in this diſmal cottage, expire in giving birth to an infant whoſe premature exiſtence muſt throw an eternal ſtain upon its father's name.

I will not pretend to deſcribe my agonies on peruſing this pathetic letter, every word of which gave me a mortal wound. All the terrors of my perfidy (till that inſtant too fatally lulled by oppoſite paſſions) at once aſſailed me. The miſery in which my crimes had involved her who had once been the object of my tendereſt affections, the deſpair into which I was about to plunge her who at preſent engroſſed them with ſo much fervour, the grief and aſtoniſhment of my family, my treachery expoſed, my character blaſted for ever, altogether excited ſuch ſentiments of horror as overpowered my ſenſes, and almoſt bereaved me of reaſon.

Having fortunately ſecured myſelf from interruption, I had a little time, after the firſt ſhock was over, to conſider what ſteps I ought to purſue in a moment ſo replete with alarm. In the preſent exigency no time was to be loſt. I therefore determined to write a ſhort billet in anſwer by the return of your mother's meſſenger. It was not an eaſy taſk: to offer any thing like an apology, eſpecially on paper, was impoſſible; to work on the ſoftneſs of her nature was all my truſt, and the only circumſtance on which I could build the ſlighteſt foundation for hope. I made no attempt therefore towards vindicating myſelf; but reſerving that till I ſhould ſee her, I only intimated in a few lines the anguiſh her note had given me, confeſſed appearances were againſt me, but faithfully promiſed to pay her a viſit next morning, at which time I ſhould exert my utmoſt endeavours to ſatisfy and relieve her; concluding with the moſt earneſt prayers and entreaties that ſhe would preſerve as a profound ſecret, her name, her abode, and her connexion with me, which I added would plunge us both into immediate ruin and deſtruction, were they to reach my father's knowledge.

I then enquired, though not without much perturbation, for the perſon who had brought the letter, and was told that a country girl had given it into the hands of the houſekeeper early that morning, but the party in which I had been engaged had prevented my receiving it till the evening, and the girl had left no meſſage to what place an anſwer might be ſent.

I was grieved to the ſoul at this information; for as it was impoſſible for me, without exciting ſurpriſe and perhaps ſuſpicion, to quit the houſe at ſo late an hour, I was conſtrained to leave your unfortunate mother in the diſmal ſuſpence of fruitleſs expectation.

My anſwer indeed, had ſhe received it, was little calculated to have afforded her conſolation; and my viſit could only have confirmed her deſpair. I caught eagerly however at a faint ray of hope, which I cheriſhed even againſt reaſon and conviction, to prevent me from abſolute frenzy, and I could not help reſting with ſome ſlight degree of comfort on the mildneſs of this letter, though written in the heat of a reſentment ſo juſtly excited. Her gentle boſom thought not of revenge: on the contrary, her viſit to ſee me ſeemed prompted by the deſire of according me forgiveneſs.

But before I proceed in the recital of my own ſufferings, and the horrid ſcene that awaited me on the dreadful day that ſucceeded to this miſerable evening, let me previouſly inform you, with as much compoſure as I can aſſume, of the hopeleſs fate of your innocent, your injured mother, whoſe calamities I ſhall ever, with the bittereſt remorſe, to my lateſt moment deplore; and the relation of which recalls feelings ſo acute as to tear my boſom while I tranſmit them to paper.

In what manner ſhe became acquainted with the circumſtance of my marriage, I have never been able to diſcover. The perſon to whom I owe the following particulars, which, however horrible, I was afterwards anxious to learn, and which, as a juſt and penitential humiliation, I force myſelf minutely to relate, had not informed himſelf in that point; but the fact a thouſand ways was ever liable to detection. The inſtant the report reached your mother's ears, the cold neglect of my paſt behaviour gave it an apparent credulity that diſtracted her. Determined to be at once either plunged into deſpair by the confirmation of my guilt, or relieved from the agonizing ſuſpicions of her mind, ſhe left London and ſet off for Netwall, from which place Belmont is but three miles diſtant.

Afraid to be recognized ſo near the abode of her youthful and happier days, ſhe borrowed of the woman of the inn a large cloak and hood to diſguiſe her; and terrified to intruſt a meſſenger, ordered a chaiſe to convey her within half a mile of the caſtle; where having diſcharged it, ſhe walked forward with a note in her hand, intimating that ſhe waited for me in the wood, where ſhe entreated me, in the moſt earneſt manner, by all my vows of unabating tenderneſs and by every motive of humanity and compaſſion, to meet her immediately.

Theſe few lines ſhe meant herſelf to deliver to any of the ſervants ſhe might meet; but what, alas! were her emotions, when on approaching the park gate with timid and heſitating ſteps, ſhe perceived from behind ſome buſhes, where ſhe haſtily concealed herſelf, a train of carriages, among which ſhe inſtantly ſingled me out, ſeated in my phaeton with a lady whoſe appearance at the firſt glance confirmed all her apprehenſions.

Some little interruption (for ſhe afterwards related every particular to her mother, who in the bitterneſs of deſpair recapitulated them minutely to my informer) obliged me to ſtop ſo near, that ſhe obſerved, or fancied ſhe obſerved me, addreſs my companion with a look of affection; I even kept her hand for an inſtant; and my voice, which reached her ears, though imperfectly, ſeemed ſoftened by tenderneſs; while that ſound, which hitherto had ever conveyed joy and exultation to your mother's boſom, produced now on her heart the effect of a ſudden ſtroke of lightning.

My countenance, however, wore a look of gaiety which accorded ſo ill with the conſciouſneſs of ſecret guilt, that the next moment ſhe condemned the injury ſhe imagined her ſuſpicions did me, and even endeavoured to accuſe her own haſty jealouſy, which had inflicted ſuch miſery without any foundation for actual deſpair. Momentary alas! was this illuſion; for as the equipages, attended by ſeveral gentlemen on horſeback, paſſed the ſpot where ſhe had concealed herſelf, ſhe plainly overheard one of them ſay to his friend, how divinely handſome Lady Linroſe looks to-day. Her heart died within her at theſe words, and ſhe ſunk inſenſible on the ground.

Her ſenſes were quickly reſtored: but returning recollection brought with it ſuch a weight of anguiſh and deſpair, as made her lament the tediouſneſs of death, from whence alone ſhe could now hope for relief to her wretchedneſs.

She endeavoured however to ſuggeſt a feeble hope almoſt againſt conviction, to enable her to exiſt till my return ſhould explain all: for having heard one of the footmen mention that the company would be home to dinner, ſhe concluded we were upon an excurſion of pleaſure.

Her health having been declining for ſome months, had much impaired her ſtrength; and it would have been impoſſible for her to have undergone the fatigues ſhe had that day endured, had not the agitations of her mind ſupplied a falſe power of exertion, not unlike the deluſive ſupport of a fever, which beſtows for a moment an additional but deſtructive vigour; for ſhe perceived not that ſhe was feeble and exhauſted while her ſpirits and her feelings were all in conflict.

At length ſhe formed a plan to wait my return on the ſpot where ſhe was, and to ſeize the opportunity of giving her note to one of my attendants after I ſhould have paſſed on, with injunctions to deliver it privately into my own hands. Finding ſhe had probably ſeveral hours to wait, ſhe endeavoured to compoſe her mind: and employed herſelf in offering up prayers to the Almighty to avert her misfortunes, or to enable her to endure them with humble and becoming ſubmiſſion; and that if it pleaſed his gracious Providence that ſhe muſt live and ſuffer, that her reaſon might not prove a ſacrifice to the agonies ſhe might be doomed to ſuſtain.

Long and tediouſly the hours rolled on: but at length the carriages came in ſight once more, and your unfortunate mother reſumed her concealed poſt. My phaeton accidentally ſtopping to allow a chariot to paſs, ſhe heard more diſtinctly than before the merriment of the whole party, and perceived the criminal author of her miſeries with a voice of pleaſure pointing out to his beautiful companion the romantic charms of the ſurrounding proſpect. The inſtant we were gone, ſhe beſought one of my ſervants to take charge of her note: but this the fellow refuſed, declaring with an oath that his Lordſhip was not to be troubled with petitions at preſent.

Wound up almoſt to a pitch of diſtraction, ſhe then followed me even to the gate of the caſtle, her fears, or rather her frenzy, having ariſen to a height that gave defiance to her apprehenſion of being known, though ſuch was her diſguiſe, that it muſt have concealed her effectually. Unfortunately ſhe again encountered the ſame inhuman footman, and again entreated him to deliver her letter; but her ſolicitations only produced ſome brutal jokes; and ſhe was about to crawl from the door, when the anguiſh ſhe betrayed induced a maid ſervant, who accidentally paſſed at that moment, to enquire into the cauſe of her diſtreſs; and who, reproving the footman's indelicacy, compaſſionately undertook to take charge of it. The fellow pulling it from her hand, it was torn in pieces in the girl's ſtruggle to recover it; but delivering the fragments to your mother, ſhe faithfully engaged to preſent any other ſhe ſhould write. I ſhall give it, ſaid ſhe, to her Ladyſhip's maid, who will deliver it into my Lord's own hands. What lady? cried the diſconſolate Fanny. Why Lady Linroſe to be ſure, ſaid the girl; my Lord's new-married lady.

Is then my Lord married? returned ſhe, in feeble accents.

Oh! ſeveral weeks ago, anſwered the other; who from her uneaſineſs, and the ſituation in which ſhe beheld her, began to ſuſpect that ſhe was ſome poor deluded creature;—but his Lordſhip is very generous; and if he has injured you, he will make it up beyond your expectation.

Though your mother's apprehenſions had before almoſt amounted to certainty, yet to hear the truth pronounced beyond a flattering poſſibility of doubt, made her fall ſenſeleſs into the arms of the humane girl, who inſtantly called ſome of the female ſervants to her aſſiſtance; and when your mother opened her eyes, ſhe found herſelf in the houſekeeper's parlour, whither ſhe had been conveyed. On looking round, and perceiving her ſituation in the very room where every object was as familiar to her as if it had been her own apartment when ſhe reſided in the caſtle, the recollection of what ſhe had ſuffered ſince that period wholly overpowered her; and to know herſelf ſurrounded by my domeſtics, and under the ſame roof with her huſband, yet not daring to ſolicit that ſupport and protection from his care and tenderneſs, to which, particularly in her preſent ſituation, ſhe had ſo juſt a claim, ſhe found at that inſtant that ſhame predominated in her boſom even over deſpair; and terrified every inſtant leſt accident ſhould preſent ſome of her old companions to her view, ſhe thanked her charitable aſſiſtants, and made a feeble effort to riſe as ſoon as ſhe had ſwallowed a few drops that had been given her.

The houſekeeper, however, inſiſted that ſhe ſhould remain till ſhe was ſomewhat more recovered; and a general ſympathy and curioſity having been excited, ſhe was almoſt ſtunned with interrogatories: but all ſhe could be prevailed on to acknowledge was, that ſhe brought a bill for Lord Linroſe to diſcharge; and being liable to fits, had been ſuddenly attacked with one juſt as ſhe was delivering it to the maid.

Her too apparent diſtreſs, her heſitating and embarraſſed replies to many diſtreſſing enquiries, and her tears, which now began to yield a mournful relief to agitations her utmoſt efforts could not conceal, made little credit be given to this aſſertion; and the circumſtances of her ſituation could not fail to ſuggeſt ſuſpicions of a nature the moſt injurious: yet their compaſſion left no room for contempt; and the good houſekeeper perceiving her ſcarce able to anſwer the flow of queſtions that poured in upon her from every quarter, had the humanity to ſend away all thoſe whom curioſity had drawn round her, and promiſed to deliver privately any letter ſhe ſhould confide to her care.

Your unfortunate mother then departed with fatigued ſteps from the caſtle, her mind torn by inward ſtruggles and diſtraction, and her exhauſted limbs unable to convey her farther, than to a cottage juſt without the extremity of the park, whoſe charitable owner allowed her under its roof to court that repoſe which fled equally from her eye lids and her boſom.

She inſtantly enquired of the good woman if ſhe knew farmer Williams and his wife, and how they kept on in their old days? To this ſhe was anſwered, that they were in tolerable health; but that they had received a ſhock ſome years before from the miſconduct of an only and beloved daughter, which it ſeemed too probable they never would recover.

My dear Fanny burſt into an agony of grief at theſe words, which inſtantly infuſed a ſuſpicion into the country woman that her gueſt was in fact the deluded daughter of the farmer, whoſe elopement had occaſioned ſuch various reports and conjectures among her relations. The ſituation in which ſhe beheld her, on the eve of bringing an infant into the world, confirmed this idea; yet though that circumſtance was but ill calculated to invalidate the unfavourable rumours circulated at her expence, the too evident diſtreſs ſhe endured made her appear ſo juſt an object of compaſſion, that the woman proffered her every aſſiſtance in her power: your unfortunate mother however, whoſe only conſolation lay in the free indulgence of ſorrow, having aſked for pen, ink, and paper, which fortunately were to be had, requeſted to be left alone; and paſſed the night in tears, and in writing that melancholy letter, which ſo pathetically implored my pity inſtead of breathing the vengeance due to my crimes.

It was yet unfiniſhed; when finding herſelf taken violently ill, ſhe haſtened to conclude it, and enquired for a meſſenger, to whom ſhe intruſted it under cover to the houſe-keeper. Though not within ſome weeks of her expected time, fatigue and agitation ſoon brought on the pangs of child birth; and having only received what aſſiſtance the country woman could beſtow, ſhe was delivered of a boy a few hours after, without one friend to ſupport or conſole her, at a period when the agonies of her mind ſurpaſſed what nature has allotted the female frame to ſuſtain in theſe ſevere circumſtances.

No anſwer having been returned to her letter (owing to the cauſe I have already mentioned) ſhe immediately concluded herſelf totally abandoned; and began moſt fervently to hope ſhe ſhould not long endure that accumulation of woes under which ſhe laboured: an uncommon ſenſation of weakneſs, bordering almoſt on a ſtate of infancy, convinced her of her approaching diſſolution; and ſhe regarded her releaſe not only without diſmay, but with eagerneſs and ſatisfaction.

In this ſituation her moſt earneſt wiſh was to embrace her parents before her death; to explain whatever appeared criminal and unaccountable in her conduct; and, having committed her children to their care, from whom alone ſhe now expected juſtice and protection for them, to breathe her laſt ſigh in their arms.

She therefore beſought the country-woman to carry a meſſage to her father and mother, imploring them to deign to viſit her before ſhe expired: to this woman ſhe likewiſe confeſſed all the particulars of her unhappy ſtory, and beſought her to tell them, that could ſhe accuſe herſelf of one crime, excepting that of having deſerted them in their old age, for which ſhe hoped ſhe had been ſufficiently puniſhed, ſhe ſhould not have dared to requeſt that ſatisfaction, the only one ſhe would probably live to enjoy; and entreated them to believe, that the infant ſhe had juſt brought into the world, owed its exiſtence to an event neither criminal nor diſgraceful.

The old people, ſtunned with this unexpected intelligence, knew not what to determine. They had long concluded their daughter loſt and deluded; but their grief for her elopement was not unmixed with reſentment at her miſconduct. The circumſtances in which ſhe was reſtored to them, were far from arguing her innocence, and their firſt reſolution was to abandon her to the fate they concluded ſhe had merited; but parental tenderneſs almoſt inſtantly converted this unnatural intention into the moſt earneſt deſire of ſeeing her once more. To her proteſtations of purity, they gave little credit. But guilty as ſhe is, ſaid the old man, ſhe is ſtill our child, and her preſent miſery obliterates her paſt crimes:—miſerable have been our days ſince her fall—the ſufferings are now become her own.

Nature, however, pleaded ſo powerfully for their daughter in the breaſts of the good couple, that as they haſtened to the cottage, they could not help indulging ſome faint hopes, that, though appearances were ſo much againſt her, ſome alleviating circumſtances might turn out in her favour.

It may not then be difficult to imagine what muſt have been their feelings, when, on being uſhered to the ſide of the bed where ſhe lay, their beloved child, unable to ſee them after a ſeparation ſo melancholy for almoſt ſix years, gave a feeble ſhriek, and fainted away.

In this ſtate of inſenſibility ſhe continued ſo long that they gave her up for gone; but having ſent for a neighbouring ſurgeon, who adminiſtered every aſſiſtance poſſible, they had at length the ſatisfaction of ſeeing her open her eyes once more. They immediately found, however, that though life was reſtored, it was not in human power to recover her from a violent delirium with which ſhe was inſtantly ſeized. The doctor declared her in a high fever, which being attended with mortal ſymptoms, gave the moſt alarming cauſe for apprehending the worſt.

The ſituation of the unfortunate parents, who ſaw themſelves on the point of loſing their daughter almoſt in the very inſtant that they had recovered her, cannot poſſibly be deſcribed. She was perfectly inſenſible to them and all about her, during the whole day; and raved with a frantic wildneſs which it was horrible to witneſs; often calling on my name and imploring my compaſſion in the moſt piteous manner. Her father having at one time approached her, the diſorder of her imagination made her inſtantly conceive it to be the accurſed author of all her miſeries, and throwing herſelf ſuddenly out of bed, in ſpite of every oppoſition, ſhe fell at his feet, imploring him not to murder her nor her infant: her angelic temper never once breathed an expreſſion of reſentment nor revenge, but her lips muttered unceaſing complaints, and ſhe perpetually repeated, I am juſt going to die, my Lord, wont that ſatisfy you? Ah ſpare my children!

The woman of the houſe being unable to manage her, and her weeping parents totally diſabled by grief from aſſiſting, ſhe was obliged to call in ſome of the neighbours, who could only conſtrain her by force to remain in bed.

Nature could not long ſuſtain a conflict ſo violent; nor can I, my children, force myſelf to dwell upon a ſcene, the idea of which inflicts unmitigated torture.

A few hours wore entirely out what little ſtrength remained; and after having lain ſome time quiet, her ſenſes were reſtored to her. She recollected the meſſage ſhe had diſpatched to her parents, and enquired compoſedly, tho' with a voice almoſt exhauſted, what anſwer had been delivered.

They, who were no farther than at the foot of the bed, could not any longer reſtrain themſelves from ruſhing into her arms, and embracing her as ſhe lay. Their tears prevented them from articulating; but their daughter, who approached her laſt hour, was too feeble even to weep.

Oh, my beloved parents! cried ſhe, with a hollow voice, which her breathing often rendered interrupted, I ſhall now die contented, ſince I have the ſatiſfaction of expiring in your arms. I hope God will forgive my undutiful conduct towards you. Alas! you ſee how I have ſuffered for it. But I hope —may I truſt you never could believe that I had thrown a ſtain on the virtuous education I received from your care. Indeed—indeed—I am innocent, and really married. My aſſerting it at a moment ſo ſolemn, ought alone to convince you of the truth of this aſſurance; but, if more is neceſſary, I am in poſſeſſion of the moſt certain and convincing proofs.

She then ordered the country-woman to deliver to her parents a packet which ſhe had ſealed, and committed to her charge, on being firſt taken ill: it contained the certificate of our marriage, and ſeveral letters written and ſigned by my own hand, which plainly proved that I regarded her as my wife.

I truſted him becauſe I loved him, continued ſhe; but in ſpite of the ſtricteſt ties, you ſee he has abandoned and deſerted me, and I am going to atone with my life for the anguiſh my raſh ſtep muſt have given you in your old days. Indeed the idea of your uneaſineſs wholly embittered any ſhort gleams of comfort I might otherwiſe have enjoyed; and tranſient indeed have theſe been ſince I left you. The only circumſtance which yielded me any conſolation in all my diſtreſſes, was the delightful hope, that the day would come when I ſhould exultingly reveal all to you, and recompence you and myſelf by making the old age of my beloved father and mother affluent and happy.

That day, repeated ſhe, after a pauſe, will never arrive; and perhaps it is a juſt puniſhment from Heaven for having deſerted you; in which caſe, as my repentance is moſt ſincere for that and all my tranſgreſſions, I truſt in God it will be graciouſly accepted, and that I ſhall find in the grave that peace to which my boſom has been ſo long a ſtranger. But oh, my deareſt father and mother, all my fears are for you; to me, death is a releaſe from miſery; ſince I retain no longer the affections of Lord Linroſe, I preſerve nothing that attaches me to life. I feel, indeed, for my three infants, but while my mother ſurvives, I am certain they will never know the loſs of their own; and I hope they will neither inherit my weakneſſes nor my misfortunes. Oh, may it pleaſe the Almighty to deliver them from imbibing one particle of their cruel father's hardneſs of heart.

The old people folded her alternately in their arms, and mingling tears with their bleſſings, aſſured her of their perfect forgiveneſs, and entreated her to live for their conſolation.

Oh! my deareſt parents! cried ſhe, how can you wiſh me ſo ill! diſtract me not, I beſeech you, with your deſpair! God knows if I am really ſo near my end as I imagine, but I feel myſelf inwardly gone, and ſo exhauſted, that I think the ſtruggle muſt ſoon be over. She then recapitulated the melancholy circumſtances of her misfortunes as well as weakneſs would allow her; but having wholly exhauſted herſelf, ſhe mentioned being extremely drowſy, and kiſſing her infant, perhaps it may be for the laſt time, ſaid ſhe; do not quit my bedſide, my deareſt mother, while I ſleep; and ſtretching forth her hand, already bedewed with the damp of death, ſhe graſped her mother's with a feeble effort, and recommending herſelf to Heaven, in that attitude compoſed herſelf to a repoſe from which ſhe never awoke. Her ſleep, at firſt agitated and diſturbed, ſoon ſubſided into a lethargic ſtupor, and ſhe expired at midnight without a ſigh.

Think, my children, what this recital coſts me. It is worſe than death to write! To think on ſuch a ſcene—to think—God of Heaven! that I was the accurſed murderer of that ſuffering angel! that my hands dealt the fatal blow which ſtabbed her to the heart!

Oh! my daughters! be not overpowered with horror. Let not, at leaſt, a compaſſion too juſt for your hapleſs mother's fate, wholly obliterate from your boſoms that regard which your father has hitherto enjoyed. The benignant ſaint, I truſt, accepts the tribute of that bitter remorſe which has clouded the remainder of my days, and now rejoices in that bleſſed reward which her merit and her calamities ſo juſtly claim in a more glorious ſtate of exiſtence.

I now haſten to conclude the horrid tale; and return to myſelf, on that dreadful evening when your mother's letter was put into my hands.

Her ſufferings, unutterable as they proved, being unimbittered with the agonizing pangs of remorſe, could hardly ſurpaſs mine during that miſerable night. My feelings were, if poſſible, heightened by the abſolute neceſſity of concealing what I endured, under a ſmiling countenance; this, however, I could only hope to effect by the aſſiſtance of wine, which I poured down in quantities, in hopes of drowning care and ſtifling conſcience.

To augment my diſtreſs, which intoxication, without bereaving me of my ſenſes, could but little allay, on returning to the company, I found them in all the enjoyment of mirth and innocence. The muſic had been conveyed from the lawn to the ſaloon; and the moment I appeared, I was ſolicited to join the dance. Too conſcious to refuſe, I was conſtrained to cover my anguiſh by aſſuming an air of gaiety, the moſt forced and unnatural. Happily the company were too much engroſſed with themſelves, and the amuſement in which they were engaged, to obſerve me; but the dance being ended, Lady Linroſe, my beloved Lady Linroſe approached me.

She enquired in a tender whiſper, why I had ſo long ſecluded myſelf from the company, and expreſſed her fears leſt I was ill; for which apprehenſion my pallid look, and an agitation not to be diſguiſed, gave but too much cauſe. I anſwered her, as compoſedly as I could, that I had a ſevere head-ach, which dancing had encreaſed. She then beſought me, with an anxiety that ſtabbed me to the ſoul, to fatigue myſelf no more: and careleſsly repeating that it was a complaint to which I had been liable from my infancy, I turned from her the moment I could do ſo without appearing abrupt.

Good heavens! cried I to myſelf, into what a gulph of miſery have my ungoverned paſſions plunged me! And what would your ſufferings be, moſt amiable, moſt beloved of women! did you know the injury I have done you. Were the fatal tale to reach your ears, how would your preſent tenderneſs inſtantly be converted into contempt and deteſtation.

Theſe tormenting ideas made me avoid her the whole evening: and I dreaded the hour of retirement, leſt, when we were alone, ſhe ſhould obſerve my diſtreſs, and renew her enquiries. My pretence of illneſs, however, was eaſily admitted by her unſuſpecting mind; and I pretended to ſleep, while my feelings were in a ſtate which would admit of nothing like repoſe.

Next morning a party on horſeback was propoſed, and agreed to by all but myſelf. I excuſed myſelf on account of buſineſs; intending to take that opportunity to get rid of my friends, and perform my promiſed viſit to your mother, ſevere as was the taſk.

I knew not exactly the cottage in which ſhe had taken up her abode; but concluding it would not be difficult to find, I reſolved to begin the ſearch as ſoon as the company were ſet out.

One of the ladies, who was extremely gay, importuned me with eagerneſs during breakfaſt to poſtpone my buſineſs for at leaſt one half hour, and accompany her with one or two more of my friends in a walk to the extremity of the park, to give my opinion of a ſituation for a ruſtic temple, which ſhe had adviſed my Lord to erect on a particular ſpot beyond the park gate; after which they meant to join the reſt of the party, and purſue their morning rambles together.

Conſcious guilt made me agree to the propoſal, as I ſuppoſed I ſhould be ſoon afterwards at liberty; and I accordingly followed the young lady and my father, attended by Mr. Benſeley, who was the friend to whom I was moſt tenderly attached, and indeed the one who moſt merited my confidence and friendſhip, and accompanied by my dear Lady Linroſe, who hung on my arm as we walked along, vainly endeavouring by the ſoftneſs of her attentions to ſoothe an uneaſineſs, the cauſe of which ſhe could not penetrate.

Juſt as we got out of the park, we obſerved a good looking young woman, who ſuckled an infant, at the door of a cottage which ſtood directly on the road ſide.

That little thing appears hardly out of the egg ſhell, ſaid Lady Linroſe in paſſing. How comes it, good woman, that you expoſe it to the air ſo early?

Indeed madam, replied the woman, becauſe it breaks my heart to enter the houſe. The mother of this child expired this morning; and her old father and mother are at this moment lamenting over the body in ſo piteous a manner, that it would melt a heart of ſtone to witneſs their diſtreſs.

Theſe words made me ſhudder with the moſt dreadful apprehenſions. But I was endeavouring to perſuade the ladies, who were greatly intereſted by this mournful tale, to walk on, pretending great haſte, when a figure preſented itſelf to our view, which inſtantly arreſted their ſteps and rendered me motionleſs with horror.—It was the old man himſelf, the father of your mother; who having perceived me from the window of the cottage, in the frenzy of his deſpair, ruſhed out upon us. His aged withered face was pale with grief, and his whole frame ſhook with rage. Addreſſing himſelf inſtantly to me—Come in here, deteſted wretch! cried he; come in here, and contemplate your work: ſee here the fruits of your villainy in the deſtruction of my darling child, your true and lawful wife; who lies here ſacrificed by your treachery, and murdered by your own hands.

I heard no more: but uttering an exclamation of horror, fell inſenſible on the ground. Lady Linroſe, ſhrieking with terror, threw herſelf by my ſide to ſupport me, and Benſeley, who was more able for the taſk, held me in his arms as I lay.

I almoſt inſtantly recovered my ſenſes: but unable to ſtand the horrid explanation which I knew muſt follow; unable at that moment, when the keeneſt remorſe began to pierce my boſom and wholly unfitted me for diſſimulation, to vindicate my innocence or even to attempt the ſlighteſt appearance of defence, while the old man's aſſertion was too ſtrongly corroborated by the effects it had produced, I kept my eyes ſtill ſhut, and pretended to remain in a ſtate of inſenſibility.

My father ſtood in mute aſtoniſhment at this ſcene, too much confounded to unravel what it meant. The farmer's frantic violence he might have conceived to be the ſudden conſequences of inſanity; but the ſituation into which his words had thrown me, gave no ſmall degree of credebility to what he had uttered, wild and extravagant as were his expreſſions.

What does all this mean? cried he to the farmer.

It means, returned the old man, that your ſon, my Lord, is a villain! yes, a perjured villain! He has married another, when my daughter has been lawfully his wife above ſix years, and ſhe this morning expired a victim to his cruelty and crimes.

Oh horrible! exclaimed Lady, Linroſe; abominable wretch! how, my Lord, can you tamely ſubmit to hear that frantic old man utter falſhoods ſo infamous and impoſſible?

Infamous it is, cried the farmer; would to heaven it had alſo been impoſſible: then had I at this inſtant rejoiced over a long loſt and adored child, inſtead of mourning her miſerable end in tears and diſtraction. Oh my Lord! continued the old man, ſubdued by grief, which now ſucceeded to rage and indignation, throwing himſelf on his knees at my father's feet, from your character I dare hope for juſtice: you ſhall ſpeedily be convinced that my innocent child has been deluded in the moſt ſhameful manner; and mean as is our rank, her fame muſt and ſhall be vindicated.

He then preſented a paper to my father, which he entreated him to peruſe. It was the certificate of my marriage with your mother; and my Lord, who by this time began to be ſomewhat ſtaggered, appeared infinitely ſhocked on haſtily throwing his eyes over the contents.

Farmer, ſaid he, heſitating, and in much agitation, I believe my ſon may have injured your daughter; in which caſe all the reparation ſhe could have claimed, or you now can aſk, ſhall be granted you; but as to his having made her his wife, that is an aſſertion which ſhe has evidently invented to ſave her credit with you after her fall, and the falſhood of ſuch a pretence is enough to perſuade you that ſhe has not been without her ſhare of the guilt. My ſon is, as you ſee, ſufficiently affected with the unfortunate cataſtrophe, and I am very far from vindicating his conduct; on the contrary, all that can now be done to appeaſe and conſole you is undoubtedly his duty; but in what manner this is to be effected, we muſt afterwards conſider. I ſhall take another opportunity of talking with you on this ſubject.

Come, Madam, ſaid he to Lady Linroſe, who, breathleſs with apprehenſion, had remained during this converſation in all the ſtupor of ſilent horror. Pray lean on my arm, and let us be gone from this place. Let us leave my ſon to the care of his friend. He is in no ſituation to juſtify himſelf at preſent. We ought therefore to ſuſpend our opinion of his behaviour till he can explain matters fully. All that he is accuſed of is utterly impoſſible.

Young men, even the very beſt of them, continued he, as he obliged her unwillingly to walk away, ſupported by his arm and accompanied by her companion, are but too prone to vices which in the more advanced periods of their lives they reflect on with regret and remorſe. As to the ridiculous ſtory of the marriage, I hope it gives you not the ſmalleſt uneaſineſs.

I cannot leave him thus, cried Lady Linroſe, whoſe voice now burſt through the ſobs and tears which had ſtopped her utterance. But my Lord urged her ſtrongly; and her friend ſo earneſtly beſought her to leave me to Benſeley's care, that ſhe at laſt unwillingly attempted to go, though ſhe often reverted her eyes, and was yet in ſight, though at ſome diſtance, when Benſeley ſaw her drop on the ground.

As ſoon as the ladies departed with my father, I opened my eyes. The farmer darted a look of enraged indignation at me, and walked ſorrowfully into the cottage almoſt immediately; before the door of which this dreadful ſcene had been tranſacted, and into which the woman and child had retreated at the beginning; though I perceived that ſhe had brought more than one face to the window to remark the conſternation into which the company had been thrown.

Only my friend Benſeley therefore remained; and even him I dreaded to look on, though he laboured to ſoothe me with words of comfort. Oh, Benſeley! cried I, as ſoon as I could find courage to ſpeak, lead me from this ſpot, where every object conveys horror inexpreſſible! I will explain all to you hereafter; but at preſent my mind is incapable of talking, thinking, or acting for myſelf!

Would you return to the caſtle? cried he.

Oh! God! any where but to the caſtle. Hide me for ever from all beneath its roof, and moſt from my amiable, my injured—

I dared not add, wife: my lips at that moment of anguiſh refuſed to beſtow that appellation, except on the ſtill more injured deceaſed.

I ſupported myſelf on my friend's arm, and ſhame ſupplying the place of ſtrength, we were ſoon out of ſight of the cottage, and of Lady Linroſe.

Tell me, cried Benſeley, as we walked ſlowly on, tell me I entreat you, what all this means? I confound myſelf in vain to unravel the myſtery. What am I to think of the ſituation in which I ſee you? I perceive you accuſe yourſelf of the poor girl's death. But country girls don't break their hearts from having made a falſe ſtep; and it may have been with much more probability merely owing to the circumſtances of her ſituation; in which caſe, though you have certainly reaſon to reproach yourſelf, if ſhe was innocent and ſeduced, yet there may be many alleviating circumſtances to reconcile you to yourſelf, and to excuſe you even in the eyes of Lady Linroſe.

Oh Benſeley! mention not her name! (covering my face with my hands as if terrified at the idea of beholding her.)

Good heavens! my Lord, what do you mean?

I mean, that ſhe has not, and never, never could have had a title to that name.

God in heaven! what do you tell me? exclaimed he in horror. What is it you force me to ſuſpect?

Talk not on this ſubject, cried I; I am unable to bear it. Would to God that the earth could open under my feet and ſwallow within its bowels a wretch unworthy to crawl on its ſurface.

For heaven's ſake endeavour to compoſe yourſelf, my dear Linroſe, cried he. But where do you intend going?

I anſwered, to town; where I could more eaſily bury myſelf from the world, and hide my head from every eye that had a chance of recognizing me.

Benſeley then entreated me to moderate the tranſports of my deſpair, and to walk forward towards a village, where horſes could be provided. This he could not for ſome time prevail on me to attempt; but at laſt, the deſire of ſecluding myſelf induced me to wiſh to be in London as ſoon as poſſible; and we made the moſt of our way till we approached near the village. My friend, tho' afraid to leave me by myſelf in that ſituation of mind, after vainly ſtriving to calm the tumults of my diſtraction, and receiving my ſolemn promiſe to attempt no act of violence in his abſence, then departed to provide a poſt chaiſe from the inn. I confeſs that had not my oath withheld my arm when I was left alone, I was hardly enough maſter of myſelf to have reſiſted the temptation of putting a period to my exiſtence; but Benſeley, who dreaded the wildneſs of my deſpair, haſtened the execution of his orders, and ſoon returned to me in the carriage.

We travelled poſt, for my friend would not deſert me in that moment of affliction, and procured lodgings the moſt private in an obſcure part of the city. Inſtead of upbraiding me, he performed unceaſingly the kindeſt offices of friendſhip; and perceiving me ſufficiently penetrated with a ſenſe of the criminality and weakneſs of my conduct, and entirely overpowered by the calamities which had reſulted from it, not to myſelf alone, but to thoſe I paſſionately loved, and indeed to all who were connected with me, he not only forbore to probe my wounds too ſeverely, but exerted himſelf to plan what ſteps I ought next to purſue; and I, who was unable to think for myſelf, received a feeble ray of ſatisfaction on finding I ſtill poſſeſſed a friend who would not abandon me, and that my crimes had not made this earth completely a deſert to me.

Immediately on my arrival, I was ſeized with a violent fever attended with a delirium, in the intervals of which I heartily wiſhed the diſeaſe might prove the termination of all my diſtreſſes. My friend, who never quitted my bed ſide, on this occaſion wrote, by my deſire, a letter to my father, acquainting him with my ſituation, and confeſſing to him every circumſtance of my miſconduct. This I had no intention now of concealing; and a full confeſſion of the truth, in my ſituation, was the only virtue I could teſtify. Benſeley informed him, that unable to ſhew my face to the world, or again to meet the eyes of the woman I had ſo unpardonably, ſo irreparably injured, from the violence of a paſſion which knew no bounds and would give way to no reſtraints, and ſenſible that I merited only ſcorn and abhorrence from her, I was firmly determined, ſhould I recover, which was an event he well knew I heartily wiſhed never might take place, to ſpend the remainder of my days in a foreign country, and to bury myſelf in ſolitude and obſcurity, where my name ſhould be unheard of and my crimes unknown.

To this my father returned an anſwer dictated by all that reſentment I had ſo juſtly incurred. He deſired Benſeley to inform me, that my offences were of a nature that reflected not only infamy on myſelf but diſgrace and contamination on all who had the misfortune of being allied to me: that he had endeavoured all in his power, not from regard to my fate but from anxiety to preſerve the family honour untarniſhed, to perſuade the farmer and his wife to ſilence, in hopes that the horrid train of iniquity which had led to ſuch calamities, might be at leaſt in part a ſecret from the world: but the old people, above being either bribed or ſoothed into this meaſure, held their determination unalterable of vindicating the injured fame of their deceaſed daughter, and were in poſſeſſion of ſufficient evidence to prove the truth of that unmanly and deteſtable tranſaction: that for his part, he could not help approving their inflexibility, and was not even certain if he was juſtifiable in having attempted to ſkreen a wretch, though his own ſon, from the aſſured conſequences of blaſted and irretrievable honour, which ever receives its due puniſhment in the contempt, abhorrence, and deſertion of the world; and which being driven from ſociety and ſhunned by mankind, is forced to hide its miſerable head in obſcurity, where not one ray of comfort alleviates the juſt though rigorous ſentence.

Happy had it been, continued his Lordſhip, for his whole family, had he breathed his laſt ere he caſt ſo foul a ſtain on all connected with him. As to his preſent illneſs, all that can be wiſhed for by his unfortunate relations is, that time may be granted him to repent of the many evils into which his miſconduct has involved them and himſelf. He next mentioned Lady Linroſe. My dear Lady Linroſe! At the ſound of her name I ſhuddered. Let me know no further, cried I to Benſeley, whom I had conſtrained unwillingly to read aloud the letter to me: yet the next moment my anxiety being inſupportable, I inſiſted on hearing all. She had been violently ill, had been given over by her phyſicians, and was ſtill in the moſt alarming ſituation, though for the preſent the fever appeared to have given way to medicine. But what was even ten thouſand times worſe than this, and rendered me abſolutely frantic with deſpair, her mind no leſs than her tender frame had ſuffered. She never had been herſelf ſince that fatal, that accurſed day. If the wretch, ſaid my father in his letter, is inſenſible to the many ſhocking calamities which his crimes have produced, you may add to the liſt that of having driven to madneſs the lovelieſt and moſt amiable of her ſex.

In the ſtate I then was, it may eaſily be concluded that a ſevere relapſe could not fail to be the conſequence of this dreadful information; and it was more than once my intention to put a final period to my exiſtence by my own hand; but Heaven interpoſed to ſave me from an action which would have filled up the meaſure of my iniquities, and my friend at length brought me to a more temperate frame of mind.

During this period, an old ſervant, who is ſince dead, whom I had ever conſidered more on the footing of a friend than a domeſtic, as he had once known better days, and had attended me from my youth, contrived, by what means I know not, to diſcover the place of my concealment. He had been left with the reſt of my attendants at the Caſtle: but on hearing of my miſconduct, eaſily conjecturing my ſituation, his faithful attachment determined him to find me out, and to entreat my acceptance of his attendance in whatever part of the globe I ſhould fix my reſidence. He had in ſome particular inſtances regarded himſelf as under peculiar obligations to me; and with a gratitude and fidelity rarely to be met with in higher and more refined ſpheres, reſolved to attach himſelf to me. By his means I learnt every minute circumſtance of the death of your mother, and all the particulars which preceded that diſmal event. He had gained his intelligence from the woman who poſſeſſed the cottage; and anſwered my interrogatories with an accuracy which I never ſhould have received from other hands, and which muſt have augmented my deſpair, had that been poſſible.

As ſoon as I was able to reaſon or reflect with any ſort of compoſure, Benſeley brought you, my beloved children, to me, which was indeed the only ſhape which comfort could have aſſumed to touch my heart. The ſight of my Hermione, whoſe countenance recalled her injured mother ſtrongly to my mind, and in whoſe infant features the expreſſion of her mother's ſweetneſs and her virtues were ſtrikingly marked, brought the ſoothing relief of tears, the firſt that deſpair had permitted to flow; and the only idea which afforded any thing like ſatisfaction to my ſoul, was the reſolution of retiring abroad with my children, and devoting the reſt of my life to their education; to fortify their minds with ſuch principles as might deter them from guilt and deliver them from calamities like their father's. This employment I conſidered as the only ſatisfaction I could offer to the memory of your unfortunate mother, and I flatter myſelf that if ſhe could look down, it would give her angelic mind pleaſure even in paradiſe, to behold me inſtilling into the minds of her children, ſentiments congenial with her own.

This determination my father approved, and informed Benſeley, who acted as agent between us, that he would ſettle an annual penſion upon me, for which I was to ſign a formal reſignation of all claims to what might have devolved to me at his death, and which would ſpare him the mortification of dreading any litigation in future between me and my brother, who on this diſmal event had been reinſtated in his Lordſhip's favour, and with his wife and a numerous family, were recalled from Ireland, the place of his conſtant reſidence ever ſince his limited finances had conſtrained him to leave the army.

I ſtipulated, in place of the penſion, for twenty thouſand pounds; which ſum was placed in the funds, and the annual intereſt has been remitted to me by Benſeley ſince my reſidence here, with all the zeal of ſincere friendſhip. Through his means I made enquiry alſo about my little infant boy, whoſe birth had been marked by events ſo dreadful; and had the misfortune to learn that he ſurvived not above a fortnight, and the old people mourned their daughter's death once more in the loſs of the child ſhe had bequeathed to their care.

To that miſerable old couple, whoſe days I had loaded with unmitigated ſorrow, I remitted every year a certain ſum, by unknown hands, being conſcious that from the hated hands of the murderer of their child, they never would have accepted the gift. But within five years after my departure, Benſeley informed me that the penſion was no longer neceſſary; a fever having carried off the old man in his ſeventieth year, and his wife followed him a few months after.

My melancholy relation now draws towards a concluſion; for as ſoon as my illneſs would admit of a removal, I bid adieu to England for ever. It was not, you may eaſily conceive, my children, without feelings unſpeakably painful, that I departed; nor without a tear which wrung my heart, that I was ſeparated from Benſeley. Though tenderly attached to you both, the only ties which connected me with mankind, you were but in infancy; and your innocent pratling, intereſting as it was to the partial ears of a father, could yet but ill ſupply the ſociety of a friend tried and approved. With a mind ſo unfitted for reflection, my ſolitude muſt at firſt have been inſupportable, had I not regarded every pang I endured as a juſt penance for offences hardly to be expected, and never to be forgotten.

Submiſſion to Heaven, and a proper ſenſe of that religion which leads even the greateſt criminals to truſt for pardon if penitent, has ſupported me, and my ſufferings have now ſubſided into a ſettled melancholy; which at times has even ſomething not unpleaſing in it, and which admits of all the rational comforts of life, in the enjoyment of the ſociety of my children, and even a delight in contemplating the ſucceſs of my labours for their improvement. But theſe ſatiſfactions muſt ever be mixed with that allay which remembrance mingles with every riſing conſolation. This temper renders my company little amuſing to thoſe whom accident has introduced to my acquaintance, and on the other hand wholly unfits me for intercourſe with the world; ſo that I have continued to live from choice in a retirement which has been only once enlivened by a kind viſit of ſome months from my dear Benſeley, and within theſe two years by the agreeable ſociety of my friend Mr. Howard, whoſe acquaintance and friendſhip I regard as a ſignal favour from heaven to ſoothe and conſole me. He has indeed beguiled many a lonely hour by the mild good ſenſe of his converſation—hours which otherwiſe would have proved diſmal and irkſome; for where reflection gives no comfort, time fails of its uſual power of lulling pain.

Immediately on my departure, I aſſumed the name of Seymour, that no trace might remain to lead any of my former acquaintance to the knowledge of my abode. Even the good woman Mrs. Benton, whom Benſeley procured to take charge of you as governeſs, knew me but under that borrowed appearance, and was ignorant to her death of the truth. That event, which happened ſome years after I ſettled at B—, obliged me unwillingly to ſend you to the convent of — for further inſtruction in the different branches of education, inſtead of ſupplying her loſs by another tutoreſs in the ſame line; for though this might have been perhaps procured, I knew not where to apply: Benſeley was not at that time in a ſituation, from various circumſtances, to exert himſelf in finding a perſon properly qualified, and he was the only one on whom I could rely in a matter of ſuch infinite moment.

I did not think myſelf at liberty to deprive either of you of the little accompliſhments of your ſex; the principal advantages reſulting from which are the amuſement they beſtow in ſolitude; neither did I conſider it as allowable to ſeclude you from forming thoſe ſoft ties and delightful connections of friendſhip, with girls of your own age, which are the growth of that happy period of our lives and almoſt belong ſolely to it; while on the other hand, beſides parting from you for ſo long a ſpace of time, I was under great apprehenſions leſt your infant minds ſhould be tinged, during your abode in the monaſtry, with the errors of the catholic perſuaſion.

I determined, however, to place you there for two years, and I bleſs Heaven I have had reaſon in no reſpect to regret the ſacrifice I made for Hermione's improvements, nor ſhall I, I truſt, in future for that of my dear Fanny.

I am now come to the concluſion of my painful recital. Adieu! my beloved children! when theſe lines are preſented to your view, I truſt you will draw that veil over my errors, with which affection ever ſoftens and obſcures the perception of the faults of thoſe we love. I do not wiſh you to excuſe my conduct: do not attempt it; for of none will it admit. Abhor my crimes; but try to diſtinguiſh your father from his tranſgreſſions, and preſerve if poſſible for my memory, that unabated tenderneſs and duty which have conſtituted the ſole conſolation of a life worn out with remorſe, and devoted to repentance—a repentance, the ſincerity of which Heaven, I truſt, has accepted.

Should the Almighty take me to himſelf before you have engaged yourſelves protectors in the married ſtate, my friend Benſeley has faithfully engaged to be a ſecond parent to you: to him, therefore, I bequeath you; and I deſire that you may ever regard him as my ſucceſſor in your obedience and affections. On him you may ſafely rely, who would have ſaved your father from deſtruction had he profited from his example, and who ſaved him from deſpair though he ſlighted and neglected it. I am not without hopes that your grandfather, though too juſtly irritated againſt me, may through my friend's medium receive you to his favour, when the idea of my exiſtence no longer diſturbs the repoſe of his declining days; and I encloſe a letter to him, which I deſire may be preſented by your own hands.

Once more adieu, my beloved children! may the great God of Heaven graciouſly attend to the prayers I daily pour forth for your integrity and welfare; and may he ever defend you under the ſhadow of his wings from harm and calamity; but above all, from thoſe which reſult from miſconduct.

LINROSE.
LETTER II. TO MISS BEAUMONT. SEPT. 26, —

I HAVE received your kind letter, my beloved friend; the moſt agreeable circumſtance that could have befallen me at preſent, when my heart, exhauſted and depreſſed, can imbibe conſolation or relief from the tender ſympathy of friendſhip alone.

How juſt are your reflections, my Sophia, on our dear father's unhappy ſtory. Surely a ſenſe ſo rigorous of his errors, and ſo many years devoted to penitence and remorſe, muſt not only have entirely obliterated his faults in the eyes of infinite juſtice and mercy, but ought to render every candid mind compaſſionate and indulgent to tranſgreſſions which conveyed ſo ſeverely their own puniſhment.

What a number of circumſtances, unheeded at the time, do Fanny and I now recall, that prove how bitterly he ſuffered. The gravity and ſeeming auſterity of his manners, which you uſed to ſay made him appear ſo awful that you never could feel at eaſe in his preſence, we concluded merely conſtitutional: alas! we ſuſpected not that his melancholy had a ſource ſo deep, nor that a weight of painful recollections gave a heavineſs to his heart, which deprived every enjoyment of its true reliſh, and could not fail to throw a gloom over his whole appearance; eſpecially in the eyes of my gay, animated Sophia, bleſſed with a mind at eaſe, and in poſſeſion of all the vivacity which youth, health, and lively ſpirits can produce.

Yet, my dear, religion and reſignation had effected in him a mild thoughtfulneſs, which, while it repreſſed gaiety, was far from wholly precluding contentment. His temper was indeed ſo ſerene, ſo amiable, ſo free from all caprice or ill humour, and his converſation ſo inſtructively amuſing, ſo complaiſantly indulgent to all the little whims and wiſhes of his children, that our affection for him, warm and unbounded, was untinctured with dread or awe; and we ever regarded him in the light of an agreeable and entertaining companion, while we revered him as that of a condeſcending and reſpectable parent.

Has not the woeful tale drawn tears from you, my dear? As for Fanny and myſelf, I thought the peruſal would have actually killed us. Oh! what a number of dreadful events, unſuſpected and unknown, what a ſource of never ceaſing regret, has it opened to our knowledge; and what a period of miſery have the days of our dear father proved! ought we then to weep his releaſe from a world where ſorrow, under various ſhapes, has been his conſtant purſuer, and where, under the baneful form of remorſe, it has conducted him to the grave.

I hope my Sophia has not been uneaſy at the unuſual interval of ſilence, after the laſt diſmal part of my journal, which I think I ſent off about ſix weeks ago. The truth is, I have had a ſevere relapſe ſince that period. Nervous fevers are, you know, extremely liable to return when one concludes the alarm over, and caution unneceſſary; and this fit of illneſs was not only attended but produced by a dejection of ſpirits ſo depreſſing, that I am aſtoniſhed I have been able to ſurvive what I have ſuffered. This laſt attack was indeed ſo violent, that my phyſicians thought me for ſeveral days in extreme danger, and ſhook their heads in ſilence, while poor Fanny gave me up for loſt.

It has pleaſed the Almighty, however, to reſtore me; though I am yet ſo languid that I ſcarce feel as if I had exiſtence: but I am infinitely better than I could have conceived poſſible in ſo ſhort a ſpace; and the relief Fanny's mind has received from this event, has almoſt wholly recovered her uſual good ſpirits: her terrors on my account, by dividing her attention and engroſſing her anxiety, have abſtracted her thoughts from the paſt, and her eſcape from a ſtill greater calamity, for ſuch undoubtedly my death muſt have proved at this juncture, when we are left in a manner deſerted and alone, has produced a wonderful change in her dejection. Her timidity of temper, even to helpleſſneſs, renders her ſo dependant on me, and ſo totally unfits her for ſtruggling againſt the difficulties of our unconnected ſituation, that my loſs could be felt at no period ſo ſeverely as the preſent.

I have conſidered ſome points in her temper, however, as very fortunate at this melancholy ſeaſon; when to have endured the burthen both of her ſorrows and my own, would have proved a weight under which my ſpirits muſt have completely ſunk; but though exceedingly ſuſceptible of ſtrong agitations in the firſt moments of emotion, Fanny's feelings, probably from their violence, are extremely apt to evaporate, and when diſſolved in tears and melted by affliction, the ſoothing of a friend, and a few unavailing arguments of comfort, ſeldom fail to wipe them very ſpeedily away.

The ſenſations of ſixteen, are in general I believe of this nature: acute but tranſient. I perceive my Sophia ſmiles at the important airs of ſeniority which in this laſt ſentence I ſeem to aſſume: but two years difference of age, at our time of life, claims more than will perhaps be admitted at any other period; and Fanny's reſidence at the convent, from which ſhe returned but a few months ago, and the ſecluſion that preceded it, have given an inexperienced ſimplicity to her converſation, and an innocent naivetè to her manners, which, though amiable and engaging, beſtow ſometimes an appearance of childiſhneſs that might lead one to conclude her ſtill younger than ſhe is.

SEPT. 28.

Madam de Clarence viſited us this morning. It is ten days ſince ſhe arrived in our neighbourhood, though we had not ſeen her; but ſhe ſent many kind and friendly enquiries to know how we were going on, and informed us, in a ſhort note, that indiſpoſition alone could have prevented her from perſonally condoling with us on our bitter diſtreſs.

She expreſſed, in ſtrong terms of affection, the warmeſt ſympathy; and aſſured us, that had not a diſorder ſimilar to mine confined her to bed, ſhe would have flown to afford us what ſupport and conſolation a warm participation in our feelings could beſtow.

You know this lady is one of the few acquaintances whoſe company and converſation our dear parent was ambitious of our obtaining, and who, on her part, has always been ſo kind as to ſolicit our's whenever her chateau afforded gaiety and amuſement.

She wept at the news of our intended departure for England. Alas! ſaid ſhe, your worthy father always told me, that in the event of his death the remainder of the days of his children would moſt probably be ſpent in their native country with his friends; who, though diſpleaſed, as he has often hinted, at ſome part of his conduct, he doubted not would require your preſence, and proffer their protection when he was no more.

Her kindneſs made our tears flow profuſely; but I thought myſelf only at liberty to inform her, that my father had indeed very near relations in his own country, (and mentioned his brother though not by name) to whom he had recommended us: adding, that though he had been ſo unlucky himſelf as to diſoblige his family, we were in hopes they would not prove ſo cruel and unrelenting as to viſit the ſins of the fathers upon the children.

You carry a recommendation in your countenances, my dear girls, ſaid ſhe, kindly, the force of which few hearts can be hardened enough to withſtand. My prayers ſhall follow you wherever you go; and I hope you will have the goodneſs now and then to inform me, that they have not been offered up in vain.

She then departed, having exacted a promiſe that we would be her gueſts for a few weeks previous to our quitting France for ever.

Madam de Clarence is indeed the only individual, now your amiable aunt exiſts no more, beſides our good old Superior and ſome of the ſiſters in the convent, whom on this occaſion I can regret parting with; as ſhe is the only perſon with whom my father's ſolitary plan of life has allowed of our forming an intimacy. Independent of the vicinity of her chateau to B—, the warm affection with which I loved her amiable daughter, our young convent friend, originally prepoſſeſſed her in my favour; and ſince her death, the worthy and afflicted mother appears to have transferred to me that maternal tenderneſs, which can exert itſelf no longer for the happineſs of my friend.

My father had the beſt opinion both of her heart and underſtanding; and ſhe alone (your dear aunt excepted, whoſe loſs I hourly lament) poſſeſſed ſuch influence over his mind as to obtain for us a few days amuſement at her chateau once or twice a year: an indulgence which his reſpect for her character induced him to grant; but which he always granted unwillingly, and under apapprehenſion that a taſte for gaiety, ſo natural to youth, imbibed in ſuch agreeable ſociety, might render our uſual abode, on our return, languid and uncomfortable.

Short, indeed, were theſe intervals of feſtivity, and they generally paſſed like a gay hour away. I uſed conſtantly to count the days till ſpring returned; which ſeaſon always brought our amiable friend from the diſſipation of Paris to our peaceful neighbourhood. But unlike, alas! was her laſt arrival to thoſe which had preceded it! Her beloved daughter accompanied her not! and on my firſt viſit to the unfortunate mother, my unrepreſſed ſympathy and affliction cemented a tender tie between us, which induced her almoſt to adopt me in the place of the amiable child, whom death had torn from her boſom.

I am convinced, had lingering illneſs afforded my father time for ſuch a confidence, Madam de Clarence would have been intruſted with his ſecret; and that to her care and tenderneſs he would have recommended his children.

SEPT. 30,

I am ſure it will give my Sophia pleaſure to learn, that in our unfriended ſituation the worthy Mr. Howard has moſt conſcienciouſly fulfilled the promiſe exacted from him by my father in his dying moments. Having performed the laſt ſad duties to that dear and beloved parent, he exerted himſelf to ſupport and conſole poor Fanny, who felt herſelf, during my illneſs, on the brink of becoming a ſolitary being in the midſt of the univerſe. He wrote, immediately on my father's death, to Mr. Benſeley, who is nominated our guardian unleſs Lord Belmont condeſcends to take that truſt on himſelf; and having informed him of our irreparable loſs, added, that as we were committed to his charge, we expected from his hand to learn what plan of life we were now to purſue.

Mr. Benſeley's anſwer arrived ſome time ago, and along with it a long letter addreſſed to me, which I was not however permitted to peruſe till within theſe few days. He begins by lamenting, in the moſt feeling manner, the ſevere ſtroke we have met with, and receives, he ſays, the truſt bequeathed him as the moſt valuable legacy my father could have beſtowed.

I have had the inexpreſſible misfortune, ſays he, to bury within theſe few months an amiable and beloved wife, with whom I might have lived in a ſtate of the moſt perfect felicity that this world can offer, had I not allowed an ungrateful anxiety for one denied bleſſing to diſturb my peace and cloud all my other enjoyments. Heaven had left me but one wiſh ungranted—the want of family: and I was ſo blind and impious, as to allow an unreaſonable chagrin on this account to four my reliſh for the many pleaſures which remained. At length I beheld myſelf on the eve of having my anxious deſire gratified: my wife brought into the world a ſon; but expired in giving birth to her infant, who ſurvived her but a few days; and I am taught the duty of contentment at the ſevere price of finding myſelf bereaved of all earthly felicity.

I receive, he adds, the children of my friend, as ſent to conſole me for my misfortunes. I intend to adopt them for my own, and I hope, while I religiouſly fulfill my part of their father's will, they will not be negligent in the performance of the duties that belong to them; but will regard me in the ſoothing light of a parent, in which my late friend has introduced me to their acquaintance.

Haſten then to England, my dear children, concludes he. I hope you will have no objection to join the family of an infirm old man, who, though depreſſed by grief, and racked by the ailments and infirmities incident to a feeble conſtitution and declining years, preſerves the utmoſt tenderneſs and indulgence for youth. I truſt your friend, Mr. Howard, will tranſact all the neceſſary buſineſs that ought to have employed your guardian, had he been able to have ventured on ſo long a journey; an exertion which bad health and debilitude totally prevent him from attempting; perhaps, if Mr. Howard means not to remain abroad for any length of time, he may even contrive to accompany you to your native country, and deliver up in ſafety his charge to the old friend who impatiently expects their arrival.

Is not this indeed acting the part of a parent, my dear Sophy? what an amiable and engaging old man Mr. Benſeley muſt be. I long extremely to ſee him, and anxiouſly wiſh to endeavour, by the utmoſt duty and attention, to ſoothe his ſorrows, and to render his old age comfortable and happy. Though we never, never can ſupply the place of what he has loſt, may not the ſociety and attachment of two young girls, anxious to pleaſe and willing to ſubmit to all his little humours, gratify and amuſe him, although we may not be able ſufficiently to intereſt his affections. I hope ſo at leaſt. I am ſure I ſhall feel infinite ſatisfaction in performing a thouſand little ſervices to him, from the idea that my father ſo earneſtly wiſhed us to regard him as his repreſentative.

Oh, Sophia! what ſtrange reverſes have two ſhort months produced! what a revolution in my mind! to leave B— the abode of our youth—and to leave it without the ſmalleſt proſpect of ever reviſiting it again; where every ſurrounding object, the very trees which rear their lofty heads ſo high before the window at which I am writing, appear in the light of old friends who claim a tear at parting.

While I continue in this ſpot, where we have ſo conſtantly enjoyed my dear father's preſence, though I miſs him every moment, I cannot help fancifully feeling that I am not yet quite deprived of him. 'Tis loſing all that remains of him, to leave this his conſtant reſidence, where every thing I ſee is connected with his idea. Yet how gloomy, how languid does every thing around appear! perhaps remembrance will be leſs painful when I am not ſurrounded by ſcenes which recall him perpetually to my mind in the moſt endearing views.

Fanny and I have upbraided ourſelves more than once for theſe ungrateful complaints, which during our private walks we uſed ſometimes to indulge, on being ſo wholly excluded ſociety, and in a manner detached from the reſt of our ſpecies. Alas! we are thoroughly puniſhed for our folly; for never till now did we feel what ſolitude was. Our books, work, muſic, drawing, and a thouſand other amuſements, and that which we reliſhed above them all—the converſation of our dear and indulgent parent, made the day ever appear too ſhort for the innocent pleaſures it beſtowed. How different, alas! is the preſent, when his loſs ſheds a gloom on every hour, and time creeps with a dreary languid pace, becauſe we carry to every employment no ſpirits for exertion, and minds unfitted for entertainment.

Indeed I can give no reaſon for theſe diſcontented ideas having occurred to our minds, one excepted, which I ought to bluſh to confeſs, though I really believe it was the original ſource of an eager deſire to ſee ſomething more of the world than our way of life and my father's rules had hitherto permitted.

You muſt know, that at the convent Fanny was extremely intimate with a young girl, much about her own age, who was very gay, very enterprizing, and very fond of novels. That ſpecies of reading you know was prohibited, and no books of a romantic nature admitted within the grate. Fanny's young friend, however, contrived, through means of an indulgent relation who lived in the town, to be privately ſupplied with abundant gratification of this kind, and unknown to every one but Fanny, who ſoon imbibed the ſame taſte, uſed to devour with eagerneſs all the fabulous ſtuff ſhe could get conveyed into the convent. Fanny was alone in a ſecret, the fruits of which ſhe ſufficiently enjoyed, till one unlucky day, when ſome of the nuns unfortunately diſcovered the Payſanne Parvenue cunningly hid beneath the quilt of her bed; and after a ſevere puniſhment having been inflicted for the tranſgreſſion, care was taken to prevent all poſſibility of its being repeated.

During a few days which Fanny paſſed at V—, in her way home, ſhe contrived to expend all her pocket money on purchaſes of novels; and Madam de Clarence, who had undertaken to bring her thither, perceiving her fondneſs for this kind of reading, preſented her with ſeveral in vogue, ſo that on her arrival ſhe brought with her a little library of romance, which opened a field entirely new to me, and which was ſo inſinuating to a perſon whoſe amuſement depended ſo much upon books as mine had ever done, that though my father diſapproved our ſtudies, it was not unuſual for Fanny and I to retire to our favourite ſeat in the wood, and unknown to him employ ourſelves for hours in this forbidden reading.

I recollected that it was not till after reading theſe fallacious relations of the univerſal and uncontrouled empire of love, and the alluring recitals of conqueſt, vanity, and fame, that Fanny and I began to ſuſpect my father's deſcription of life to be the effects of ſingularity of temper and taſte: to own the truth however, theſe emotions of regret on being deprived of our chance for a ſhare in theſe pleaſures, were but tranſient and left very little impreſſion on our minds.

OCT. 4.

I am now almoſt perfectly recovered, my dear; and have been out more than once airing with Fanny, who is now as cheerful as ever, and talks of our journey to England (which is to take place as ſoon as I am able for ſuch an undertaking) not only without uneaſineſs, but even with eagerneſs. A natural ſenſation of ſorrow ſometimes takes a momentary poſſeſſion of her ſpirits at the idea of leaving Languedoc; yet the proſpect of ſhifting the ſcene amuſes and delights her. Happily for her it is not her turn of mind to view evils before they actually arrive; and ſhe is totally blind on this occaſion to the many mortifications and difficulties in which our change of reſidence muſt involve us, and with which it is ſo intimately connected: for can we reaſonably hope, Sophia, that our appearance will not revive the remembrance of all the unhappy circumſtances of our birth: will not all our dear father's misfortunes again prove the topic of the idle and cenſorious, and muſt not we on that account prove a ſubject for criticiſm, curioſity, and obſervation.

Can we even expect that our grandfather, ſo ſeverely exaſperated againſt his ſon, and of courſe prejudiced unfavourably towards us, will be induced to regard, with an eye of indulgence, two girls whoſe unwiſhed for arrival muſt renew all the pangs which this dreadful affair has coſt him? Perhaps an advanced age, and length of time, may have lulled his ſorrows, to reſt; perhaps too the world, occupied by other matters, may almoſt have forgotten an event that once "fed its appetite for ſcandal;" how unwelcome then muſt an event prove, which awakens ſo cruelly Lord Belmont's remembrance, and revives the ſtain which he wiſhes to bury in eternal oblivion.

How can we then flatter ourſelves that we, who unexpectedly appear only to wound and chagrin him, ſhall be properly acknowledged and ſupported? Oh no! my Sophia, he will abandon and deſert us: or, thinking it excuſable to make his grandchildren a ſacrifice to family pride and family honour, he will plunge us into obſcurity; where, entirely dependant on his will, we muſt languiſh out our days unnoticed and unknown.

You will accuſe me, I know, of carrying my gloomy conjectures greatly too far; for while Mr. Benſeley lives we can never know the want of a protector: but if Lord Belmont perſiſts, which I think far from improbable, in forbidding our claim to his favour, never ſhall we revive the recollection of my father's errors by attempting to prove our identity. This would be a ſtep repugnant equally to delicacy and duty. What a figure, my dear, muſt we then make in a foreign country, for to us it certainly is ſo, ſtrangers and unknown, diſowned by thoſe on whom we ought to depend, and vouched for by Mr. Benſeley alone, who may not ſurvive long; for he is an old man and afflicted with many diſorders.

Fanny is blind to all thoſe evils which ſhe calls imaginary, and upon which I do not expatiate, though I gently point them out to her at a diſtance; for I wiſh not to damp her pleaſing hopes; I only deſire to fortify her mind againſt the gloomy reverſe which is conſtantly before my own eyes, but which I hope is partly the effect of dejection. She cannot help flattering herſelf, ſhe ſays, that natural affection may work ſo powerfully in Lord Belmont's breaſt, as to induce him gladly to receive us as his grandchildren, and anticipates, with all the vivacity of a lively imagination, that happy moment when we may embrace the venerable parent who yet ſurvives.

Indeed the accounts which Mr. Howard gives us of Lord Belmont, in ſome meaſure authoriſe theſe ſanguine hopes. He tells us, that though he never was himſelf in his company, he is well acquainted with his general character, which is that of being ſtrictly and uniformly a man of honour and integrity. Though in his temper proud, ſtern, and inexorable, theſe blemiſhes are counterbalanced by great humanity and much warmth of affection; and though the auſterity and formality of his manners render his ſociety little courted, except by his particular friends, he is adored by his ſervants and dependants, and, if not beloved, is univerſally reſpected by the world.

A ſtrict regard to juſtice, ſaid Mr. Howard, which is thought to influence Lord Belmont's mind in a ſuperior degree, ought undoubtedly to induce him to acknowledge the daughters of his eldeſt ſon; who, both from their ſex and peculiarity of ſituation, lay particular claim to his protection; but how pride and prejudice, which form no inconſiderable features of his Lordſhip's character, may prompt him on the other hand to act, is doubtful. However, certain it is Mr. Benſeley will not relinquiſh his title to be your ſole director, unleſs my Lord engages to receive you as he ought.

I confeſs I am afraid this is a meaſure not likely to be taken: but we muſt patiently wait the event. From Mr. Howard we have likewiſe learnt ſome further particulars relative to our own family. Though perſonally unacquainted with any of the individuals of it, he has ſeen ſeveral of them, and remembers well this dreadful affair being for ſeveral months the topic of univerſal diſcuſſion. How little, ſaid he, did I afterwards ſuſpect my friend, Mr. Seymour, to be the man whoſe fate had occaſioned ſuch various reports and conjectures. Moſt people, it ſeems, believed him dead of the illneſs which had followed the diſcovery: and this rumour was probably ſpread, or at leaſt tacitly confirmed by his friends; who muſt have regarded it as the moſt likely means of putting a ſpeedy termination to all curioſity and ſpeculation on the ſubject.

You may believe both Fanny and I anxiouſly enquired if any intelligence relating to the unfortunate Lady Linroſe had ever come to his knowledge. Mr. Howard ſaid, that all he knew was from general report only; but a ſtory which had excited ſo ſtrongly the attention of the public, could ſcarcely be concealed in any of its particulars. Lady Linroſe recovered her intellects, he ſaid, (alas! in ſuch circumſtances, the return of reaſon can hardly be called a bleſſing); but after the ſevere ſhock ſhe had received, finding herſelf unfit for ſociety, ſhe had left England and fixed her abode in the moſt private manner abroad. Mr. Howard next informed us, that my uncle, whom he had often occaſionally ſeen, had been thoroughly reinſtated, to all appearance, in my grandfather's favour; that he had two ſons, and he believed two if not three daughters, and that in them Lord Belmont's affections were ſaid to be as entirely centered as his wealth muſt neceſſarily be at his deceaſe.

This part of the family then, you may believe, will not look with eyes of partiality on thoſe who have ſome little claim to ſhare in what they may have conceived to be ſolely their own: at leaſt that is not an unnatural concluſion, and I have drawn it from a hint which, Mr. Howard let drop with regard to my aunt, the preſent Lady Linroſe, whom it appears he has heard accuſed of a very avaricious diſpoſition. Unwilling, however, to prejudice us againſt ſo near a relation, he afterwards endeavoured to palliate what ſeemed to have fallen from him through a friendly apprehenſion that ſhe might not be much rejoiced at our appearance and pretenſions.

He even knows we expect, we wiſh for nothing. Contented with what my father has bequeathed us, thankfully would we relinquiſh every further claim, only to be conſidered as Lord Belmont's children, and favoured with his countenance. Fanny, however, who is following my pen, exclaims againſt this moderation, as ſhe calls it, and proteſts ſhe never will conſent to the propoſal. After having been so long buried in ſolitude ſhe longs, ſhe ſays, to make ſome figure in the world, (I give you her own words) to which our birth certainly entitles us; and far from being contented with the mere notice of our family, ſhe ſhall not think that Lord Belmont acts up to his character of rigid honour if he does not in all reſpects place us on a footing with our couſins.

However my wiſhes with regard to ſociety may have at times coincided with Fanny's, yet I never could perfectly comprehend what delight figuring in the world, as ſhe calls it, was likely to beſtow. Moſt women, I believe, though educated in the moſt ſequeſtered ſolitude, may comprehend with eaſe the gratification reſulting from the devoirs of the agreeable part of the other ſex; for this vanity is probably inherent in our natures, and forms a part of our original conſtruction; but habit has made retirement not only agreeable, but ſo entirely to my taſte, that if ever I have it in my power to chooſe my own way of life, I ſhall undoubtedly fix in the country; where I would indeed wiſh my abode to be occaſionally enlivened by the company and converſation of a few amiable people of both ſexes, (an advantage which we have been almoſt totally deprived of hitherto); but no enjoyment can I conceive in a promiſcuous intercourſe, in which the heart has no ſhare.

My ideas of life (is not that your phraze my Sophia? who was ever much offended at the ſecluſion in which we were retained), have been imbibed wholly from my dear father, who indeed found it a path ſtrewed with briars, and who, to render us contented with the plan he had adopted, laboured to repreſent the world in its leaſt alluring point of view, as fraught with ſnares, treachery, and crimes, where innocence was continually expoſed to danger, and where friendſhip was almoſt unknown. That I have not given implicit faith to this account is entirely owing to my Sophia's livelier picture of ſociety; who, placed in a happier ſphere, feels not nor dreaded the evils which have been perpetually placed before our eyes. The two years I ſpent in the convent, (the remembrance of which I ever bleſs, as it firſt introduced to my heart the knowledge of theſe ſoft, intereſting, and endearing ties of friendſhip, which never, my Sophia, ſhall time or abſence diminiſh) could not fail to aſſiſt my father's wiſhes on this head.

Is it not ſingular, however, that having been foſtered by the ſame hand, and reared on the ſame plan, Fanny's ideas and mine ſhould prove ſo little ſimilar; and that the proſpect of leaving France and changing our mode of life, ſhould operate ſo differently on our minds. What in her gives ſpirit to every motion, and life to every look, fills my eyes with tears, and my heart with deſpondency and alarm.

Oh! my Sophia, my deareſt friend, your continued affection alone ſuſtains me under the troubles which at preſent oppreſs my heart; and your journal is, after heaven, my chief, indeed my only conſolation! Although all chance of meeting ſeems at preſent as diſtant as ever, I endeavour to ſupport my ſinking ſpirits with the hope that perhaps this bleſſing may be in wait for me ſooner than I expect; and that though the public capacity in which your father acts at Naples, muſt render that court his uſual reſidence, yet that unforeſeen events may oblige him to viſit England, which fate ſeems to have determined ſhall, be the abode of our future days, and in which place, ſince the death of your aunt, I begin to imagine there is infinitely greater probability of ſeeing you than at B—, where you now poſſeſs no longer that venerable relation to induce your father to re-viſit our neighbourhood.

OCT. 6.

I promiſe you faithfully, my dear, to write as you deſire, minutely and ſincerely, every event of my life, in the ſame ſtyle of journalizing which we have continued ſo long. With what trifling occurrences have my epiſtles hitherto been filled: the ſcene now begins to grow more intereſting; Heaven grant that thoſe which follow may be unmarked with any thing extraordinary. The marvellous ever produces agitation, and I am born (conſtitutionally at leaſt) for ſpending my days in what you would call an inſipid tranquillity. It is only for tempers like my Sophia's to live in a court and enjoy its buſtle; ſuch as mine, are calculated only for the ſmooth unruffled paths of life. Fanny partakes ſo much of your turn of mind in this particular, that ſhe is quite elated with all the, chimeras of a gay imagination; perpetually repreſenting to herſelf in the livelieſt colours the endleſs enjoyments of birth, affluence, and admiration: alas! never once does it occur to her the ſad ſtigma which has deprived her of theſe advantages hitherto, and which muſt ever caſt a cloud over them in future.

Adieu, my dear. I have an opportunity by a private hand of conveying to you this immenſe packet. 'Tis a friend of Mr. Howard's, who ſets out for Naples from Marſeilles in a few days. Oh how I envy the happy mortal who delivers it to my Sophia.

H. SEYMOUR.

I have opened my packet to add a few words more. We have juſt received a ſecond letter from our worthy guardian, who informs us of a very melancholy event—the death of our uncle, my father's younger brother. Alas! what ſevere wounds has Lord Belmont lived to endure! Heaven in mercy grant that I ſurvive not thoſe I paſſionately love; rather, ah! infinitely rather, may it pleaſe his gracious Providence to take me early in life to himſelf. Yet is not this a ſelfiſh wiſh? What is it indeed but deſiring that my ſufferings ſhould be abridged at the expence of the feelings of my friends.

LETTER III. TO MISS BEAUMONT. OCT. 9.

YOU aſk me ſeveral queſtions in your letter, which the number of informations I have had to give you, together with the many conjectures and reflections which our preſent ſituation naturally inſpires, have, by engroſſing my pen, prevented me from anſwering: for as I am yet but weak, I am able to write but little at a time, though chatting with you is the only employment that intereſts me. I now ſit down therefore to anſwer your queries.

You aſk me to tell you, in the firſt place, what ſort of man this Mr. Howard is, whom I have dignified ſo often with the epithets of amiable and worthy? you deſire me to acquaint you with the following particulars, viz. his age, fortune, manners, and appearance; and mean while you tell me you offer up your prayers for his turning out young, handſome, rich, and agreeable; and laſt of all that he may poſſeſs un coeur tendre, in which caſe it muſt be out of nature, you ſay, for the youth to have ſpent near three months under the ſame roof with two ſuch girls without becoming a ſlave to the charms of one of them.

I am ſomewhat afraid that Mr. Howard has really proved this ſame unnatural being: although he certainly is bleſſed with a very tender heart, and ſeems beſides to have been prejudiced in our favour from the commencement of our acquaintance, which was produced by an accident, of which I am going to inform you, ſince I have neglected my accuſtomed minuteneſs in this particular.

My father one evening, about three years ago, walking in the woods of B—, perceived a very fine horſe, ſaddled, with all its accoutrements, grazing, with the bridle impending from its neck, without any appearance of an owner or attendant being near. Struck with the apprehenſion that he had probably thrown his maſter, my father traverſed the different paths of the foreſt, in order to give him aſſiſtance in caſe it was required, and ſoon was led, by the ſound of diſmal groans, to the ſpot where the unfortunate traveller lay, ſupported by a footman, who was endeavouring, by his maſter's orders, to pull his arm into joint, which had been diſlocated by his fall.

My father addreſſing himſelf to the ſtranger, who proved to be an Engliſhman, (a circumſtance that perhaps gave force to his natural humanity and benevolence) informed him that his houſe was but a quarter of a league diſtant, and requeſted he would ſuffer himſelf to be removed to it, where a ſurgeon could be ſoon procured to ſet the bone.

Mr. Howard, for he it was, after thanking my father for his fortunate aſſiſtance, gratefully accepted the offer, and ſent his ſervant, by my father's deſire, to order a carriage to convey him to the houſe, while another messenger was diſpatched from B— for a neighbouring ſurgeon. The operation was happily performed, and I exerted myſelf (Fanny being then at the convent) to render the habitation of the poor invalid as comfortable as his ſituation would permit. He was ſoon able to quit his apartment, and loaded us with acknowledgments for this accidental ſervice; and my father, who rarely admitted company at B—, found himſelf inſenſibly attached to our new acquaintance, and forgot his determination of flying the ſight of his own countrymen in favour of Mr. Howard, who on his part ſoon conceived the warmeſt friendſhip for him.

He acquainted us that bad health had obliged him to try the waters of Barrege; and never having viſited the Continent before, he intended, finding himſelf perfectly recovered, to make the tour of France and Italy before his return to England. He politely added, that he never ſhould regret the interruption his plan had received from this accident, ſince it had been productive of an intimacy that had given him ſo much ſatisfaction.

My father's perſuaſions prevailed with him to lengthen his ſtay for ſeveral weeks after his confinement was at an end; and indeed he proved a moſt agreeable acquiſition to our family party. He then departed, having faithfully promiſed on his return to take B—in his way; and after an abſence of a year and eight months, he fulfilled his intention, and had been for ſome time our gueſt when my dear father was taken from us.

As to his character, our helpleſs ſituation has developed it to us in the moſt amiable point of view. Steady and ſincere in his attachment to my father, it has been productive of kindneſs and attention to us, beyond what we could have hoped for or claimed from ſo late an acquaintance: yet his friendſhip is teſtified by actions, not by proteſtations; for the modeſty of Mr. Howard's nature is ſuch, that our expreſſions of gratitude never fail to embarraſs and diſtreſs him; and he ſeems to regard the trouble he receives, as a truſt, the faithful diſcharge of which is a duty too indiſpenſible to appear meritorious.

His countenance—(you ſee I go regularly through the liſt of your interrogatories) —without being what one can pronounce handſome, is ſenſible, manly, and intereſting, with an air of mildneſs which prepoſſeſſes you at firſt ſight in his favour, and an expreſſion which of all others is the moſt deſirable—the look of a worthy honeſt character. He would poſſeſs alſo much the appearance of a man of faſhion, or rather of a man who has been accuſtomed to elegant and poliſhed ſociety, did not a certain degree of diffidence and modeſty ſhew that he made not the grand tour early enough in life to acquire that eaſe which an introduction into foreign company at a youthful period generally beſtows: but on this head I can only judge from comparing him with ſome of the Pariſian beaux who occaſionally frequented the chateau de Clarence, and who, however inferior to Mr. Howard in point of underſtanding, I muſt acknowledge were his ſuperiors in addreſs.

Fortune has been, alas! as ſparing as nature ſeems to have been prodigal of her gifts. Her avarice is by no means apparent in the figure Mr. Howard makes in this country; but he confeſſed to my father that frugality alone enabled him to conceal it. As to his age—(pray do you imagine that my father would have conſigned us to the care of a man of five and twenty?) Mr. Howard adds, I dare ſay, twenty years more to that gay ſeaſon of life. Time has not, it is true, imprinted any traces in his face which one could wiſh ſpared, for they denote benevolence rather than years: he looks conſiderably younger than he is; and retains that ſpirit in his eye which in his youth would have been probably termed fire, though blended with infinite ſweetneſs. Thus our guardian, you find, is not a giddy inſinuating youth, who might have one day made Fanny and I pull caps; but in fact a plain, worthy, middle-aged man, whoſe attachment is that of a parent not of an admirer.

I will freely confeſs to you however I have ſometimes been led to ſuſpect, from, his behaviour, that he wiſhed to render himſelf particularly agreeable to me, and that he originally diſtinguiſhed me beyond my ſiſter; perhaps this was the mere ſuggeſtions of ſecret vanity: if ſo, it was however an error which I by no means wiſhed realized; for ſo much apprehenſion did it give me, that I could not help avoiding his company; and when in it, my manner uniformly teſtified coldneſs and reſerve, from the apprehenſion that my father, (who always confeſſed that he could not inſure the protection of his family after his death, tho' all other particulars he carefully centered in his own boſom) might be induced to overlook the difference of years from the partiality he entertained for his friend, and might uſe all his influence to prevail with me to accept of a legal protection in that unfriended ſtate to which his deceaſe was ever liable o reduce us

I now however condemn this abſurd fancy, which I almoſt bluſh to confeſs to you, and which I perceive to have been merely a chimera of my own brain, adopted God knows how, for I think his preference is plainly in my ſiſter's favour, whoſe innocence and ſimplicity of manners appear to have warmly intereſted him. During my illneſs, on Mr. Howard Fanny naturally relied for ſupport, as ſhe had no other to whom ſhe could fly; and his tender, compaſſionate attention ſeems to have cemented a ſort of attachment between them; in her mere gratitude alone, and in him the kindneſs of a guardian—a penchant which from that gentleman's time of life and prudence can never be ſuppoſed to diſturb the tranquillity of either party, but which probably adds ſome ſtrength to his kind activity in our affairs.

As to money matters, about which in your laſt you are so kindly anxious, I really underſtand very little of them; but Mr. Benſeley, who has ever had the management of all pecuniary buſineſs hitherto, undertakes to continue the charge. There is, I believe, the ſum of twenty thouſand pounds in the Engliſh funds, and above two hundred piſtoles were found in my father's cabinet for preſent uſe. Debts there are none, beyond what a few Louis will diſcharge; ſo that you, ſee we are ſecured in affluence, and independence is my utmoſt wiſh.

You aſk me, Sophia, how Fanny, who was a pretty girl of thirteen when you laſt ſaw her, has turned out in point of beauty? When ſhe uſed to viſit us in the convent ſhe was a ſweet looking child in a ſtay coat, and I believe you have not ſince ſeen her: ſhe is now quite formed; and though not much, grown, for ſhe is not tall, is extremely improved both in face and form. Her little clumſy figure has ſhot up, and ſhe retains only an agreeable degree of en bon point, which it would not perhaps be an advantage for her to loſe even for a finer ſhape. Her complexion is her principal charm, and that is much refined ſince you ſaw her, for her features are more pleaſing than regular. I remember you uſed to admire her blue eyes, and cheſnut hair; but if any thing in her face deſerves the pre-eminence, it is her teeth, which are exceedingly beautiful; and ſhe ſtill preſerves that expreſſion of ſweetneſs and timidity which renders her appearance feminine and intereſting.

She was extremely admired during our laſt viſit at the chateau, and was not a little gratified with the notice ſhe excited from ſeveral young men of faſhion; the firſt time in her life that ſhe had ever been the object of the attentions of the other ſex. After our return home, I could not help remarking that ſhe complained of our ſecluſion with a vexation which was not however of above one day's continuance, but which had been prompted entirely by the young Chevalier, de Merville's converſation, who had repreſented it to her as the height of cruelty and injuſtice in my father, and little better than being buried alive.

Perhaps I myſelf, miſled by vanity excited in a ſimilar manner by the flattery of our Pariſian beaux, ſuffered a momentary regret for being deprived of ſo many gay amuſements, the attractions of which were painted in glowing colours by all who had enjoyed them. Alas! my heart is now thoroughly ſenſible of the folly of its wiſhes. In the ſeaſon of affliction our eyes are opened to the vanity of ſuch fallacious ideas. What would I now give to be placed in the very ſituation which in thoſe moments I regretted. Bleſſed with my father's ſociety, to no other would I aſpire; and delighted would I look forward to the proſpect of ſpending my future days for ever at B—. How wiſely then did our dear parent judge in detaining us ſo conſtantly with him. Our minds, I now perceive, were unequal to the temptation of mixing with the world untainted by a deſire for its follies, and never ſhould we have felt a regret, tranſient as it was, on returning to a home enlivened with his preſence, had not his indulgence allowed us to join the gay party at the chateau.

I feel my ſtrength ſo greatly amended, that I think of removing to Madame de Clarence's in a few days. It is but two leagues diſtant: and ſevere as leaving B— muſt prove, that event is ever before my eyes; and ſince I am now able for it, the ſooner it is over the better. Mr. Howard will remain ſome time behind us; having kindly undertaken to ſettle every thing previous to our journey, in which he is himſelf to accompany us. How fortunate it is for us that he returns at this juncture to England, and what a bleſſing from Providence was this worthy friend's viſit to B—. What elſe could two unprotected girls have done, totally unacquainted with ſuch tranſactions, ignorant of the world, and unuſed even in trifles to act for themſelves. We muſt have been entirely dependant in this caſe upon Madam de Clarence; who, though extremely kind, might have regarded the charge as rather too great a burthen for us to impoſe.

OCT. 18.

We yeſterday bad adieu to our old dwelling. How ſeverely did I feel the pang of leaving it; and Fanny wept moſt bitterly at parting with our old domeſtics. Thereſe and Dubois have requeſted leave to attend us to England; and we muſt endeavour to requite their faithful attachment, which has prevailed with them to leave their own country. When the carriage drove down the avenue, I was almoſt ſuffocated with a variety of different ſenſations: the idea of our recent loſs was ſo connected with every thing I left behind, that I felt as if the parting from my father had not till then completely taken place. A number of gloomy reflections aſſailed me likewiſe of another nature: we were embarking upon a dangerous and uncertain undertaking; we were going to venture on new ſcenes, new friends, and to a new country; where we were ignorant of the fate that might await us, and dreaded the reception we might receive.

Late as is the ſeaſon for travelling, we ſhall ſpend a fortnight with Madame de Clarence, who gave us the warmeſt reception, and as ſhe perceived I was weak, depreſſed, and unfit for company, kindly inſiſted that I ſhould take immediate poſſeſſion of the apartment allotted me, where I indulged alone in many mournful reflections moſt part of the day; for I would not allow poor Fanny to attend me while there was a gay party below, though the dear girl left the ſaloon every quarter of an hour to enquire for me; equally divided between her anxiety on my account and the pleaſing novelty of every thing that ſurrounded her.

On her part, the ſad ſolemnity of quitting B— had made her cry moſt of the way hither; but the chearful air that reigns here, and the kindneſs which her youthful manners and appearance excited from all the company, have chaſed away the vapours that hung over her.

Having no excuſe to abſent myſelf longer, I joined the company this day at breakfaſt, and was introduced by Madame de Clarence to her friends. Theſe conſiſt of an Engliſh lady, who has taken up her-reſidence for ſome months paſt in the town of V—, a very lively agreeable little woman of about thirty two; and the Chevalier de Mertane and his brother, two young men of ſplendid fortunes, nearly related to Monſieur de Clarence.

OCT. 19.

Mrs. Weldon, the Engliſh lady, poſſeſſes a flow of ſpirits, which, were mine able to keep pace with hers, would amuſe me extremely. She appears to have taken a ſtrong partiality for Fanny, and told her to-day what a world of conqueſts ſuch a figure as hers muſt gain in London. Fanny, on her part, was, as you may believe, willing enough to give credit to the flattering compliments, and almoſt immediately after aſked me in a whiſper if I did not think Mrs. Weldon the moſt agreeable woman in the world. I only anſwered by a ſmile, which Fanny perfectly underſtood, for ſhe coloured while ſhe laughed it off.

Mrs. Weldon afterwards attacked her on the gravity of my appearance. She ſeems never to have Known what grief or depreſſion means. She did me the honour to ſay that ſhe admired me extremely; but your ſiſter, ſaid ſhe, totally wants, the deſire of being thought handſome, which ever improves and often alone conſtitutes beauty in the eyes of the men. I was more gratified however with the defect ſhe had remarked than with the approbation ſhe expreſſed, however injudicious the remark might be, for a certain degree of vanity in pleaſing is I believe natural to all of us. As for the Chevalier, he is about twenty-five, and rather good-looking, but finical in the moſt abſurd degree, and ſo attentive, that his politeneſs fatigues inſtead of ingratiates. If you but look round, he enquires with earneſtneſs if there is any thing in which he can have the honour of ſerving you; if you move, he flies to execute your commands; at table, he teazes you with perpetual civilities, and ſtays at home with the ladies the whole morning to aſſiſt in holding their thread while they work, or to preſent his pair of ſciſſors when required; in ſhort he partakes ſo much of the female, that I cannot help wiſhing to ſee him dreſſed in petticoats.

He appears to have centered his whole ideas of happineſs in the vanity of making himſelf agreeable to our ſex: a paſſion, which I am afraid the poor Chevalier can hardly ever find gratified, as his plan of pleaſing is unfortunately founded on tormenting every one by unceaſing aſſiduities. He abſolutely ſtuns and overpowers one with compliments ſo outrè and abſurd, that one is at a loſs whether to laugh or be offended. Unluckily he appears to have ſingled me out for the object of his preſent importunities; and although I avoid him as much as is in my power, without being guilty of abſolute rudeneſs, and almoſt never addreſs my converſation to him, he contrives to engage my conſtant attention, and makes me ſuch ridiculous ſpeeches as attract the notice and often the mirth of the company, and put me extremely out of countenance. However, Madame de Clarence always talks of him, and behaves to him with particular regard: a reſpect which I ſhould imagine is alone paid to his rank and immenſe poſſeſſions. Mrs. Weldon ſometimes cannot entirely conceal a little chagrin, at finding I engage an attention which, before my arrival ſhe herſelf wholly engroſſed. Yet it is impoſſible for any mortal to think the Chavalier agreeable: but thoſe women who are guided by a ſpirit for coquetry, poſſeſs, I have been told, an appetite for praiſe, which devours applauſe and admiration without diſtinction, wherever it can be procured; and, if I do not judge hardly, I ſhould ſuſpect this to be in ſome meaſure the caſe with our lively Engliſh acquaintance, whoſe gaiety is not perfectly untinctured with a degree of levity which ſtrikes me as rather bordering on impropriety: but I am myſelf ſo ignorant of the freedom that cuſtom authoriſes widows of a certain age to take, that I ought not to decide ſo unfavourably upon her behaviour, eſpecially on ſo ſhort an acquaintance.

OCT. 28.

Yeſterday produced an event that has proved extremely diſagreeable. A party in the morning was propoſed, to ramble through the woods, which have not yet loſt their beauty; it conſiſted of the Chevalier, Fanny, myſelf, and Mrs. Weldon; who, piqued at the Chevalier's neglect, (if ſuch a phraſe was ever before uſed by a Lady to the obſequious Chevalier), revenged herſelf by laviſhing all her attentions on his brother, a weak but unaſſuming youth of twenty, who alſo attended us.

We ſoon reached a narrow path in the wood; which allowing only of two walking abreaſt, the Chevalier, who never quitted my ſide, and has been for ſome days paſt more inſupportable than ever, contrived to detain me a little behind the reſt under pretence of pointing out to me an opening through the trees, which conveys a moſt delightful proſpect: he then ſuddenly, in a low voice, beſought me to liſten to the moſt ardent, moſt tormenting, and moſt ſincere paſſion which had ever agitated the human breaſt; and launched out before I could enough recover my ſurprize to anſwer him, into ſuch a ſtrain of far-fetched expreſſions of torture, hope, anguiſh and deſpair, eternal miſery and unſpeakable tranſport, that had not the ſuddenneſs of this unexpected propoſal confounded and embarraſſed me, I ſhould undoubtedly have had a difficulty in refraining from laughing in his face. Not well knowing what to reply, and not inſtantly recollecting myſelf ſufficiently to remember that ſilence may in ſome caſes be conſtrued into approbation, I was redoubling my pace to join the company, when he ſeized my hand to detain me, and kiſſed it with a violence that excited a diſguſt: ſo forcible, as enabled me to find inſtantly the uſe of my ſpeech, and on his repeating theſe words—"There can be only one objection, my adorable Mademoiſelle; but I hope you are not obſtinate in the errors of your perſuaſion?"

I made haſte to aſſure him there were innumerable obſtacles, independant of the inſuperable one at which he hinted; and that as they were all equally unſurmountable, I entreated he would mention the ſubject no more.

Such a profuſion of proteſtations, accompanied with confuſed and haſty common-place arguments in favour of the Catholick Church, followed, that I almoſt ran, in my eagerneſs to get rid of him, and taking hold of Mrs. Weldon's arm, he was conſtrained to be ſilent; the only time he has been ſo one quarter of an hour together ever ſince our arrival here.

Mrs. Weldon obſerving his unuſual taciturnity, rallied him on it without mercy; and aſking him if I had been inexorable during our tete-à-tete, laughed ſo violently at his mortified countenance and heſitating anſwers, that the poor Chevalier even bluſhed; as for me, I was ſo extremely indifferent, that this ſubject, too delicate for a hint had another object been concerned, hardly embarraſſed me; but Mrs. Weldon, perceiving that her teazing had all the effect ſhe could wiſh, did not ſpare the Chevalier during the whole day.

OCT. 3O.

This morning Madam de Clarence, during breakfaſt, whiſpered me that ſhe wiſhed to talk with me alone; and as ſoon as it was over led me to her dreſſing room, where ſhe informed me, that the Chevalier de Mertane had applied to her on the ſubject of his paſſion.

I have obſerved with pleaſure, ſaid ſhe, his growing attachment ever ſince your firſt arrival, and have inclined to give the Chevalier all opportunities of manifeſting it to you, from the hope that an union ſo deſirable and in every reſpect ſo honourable, may fix my deareſt Hermione for ever in the country which has been ſo long her reſidence, and which ſhe ought to conſider as her own: how then was I hurt and diſappointed, when he laſt night informed me of the ſucceſs his firſt declaration had met with. But I know your objection my dear, continued ſhe, perceiving I was going to interrupt her; but that objection is not inſuperable, and indeed is my principal motive for promoting this alliance. I can eaſily enter into your feelings, prejudiced as you muſt be in favour of the perſuaſion in which you have been educated, nor will I ſuppoſe for a moment that any advantages of worldly proſperity could induce you to hazard, on this account alone, a perverſion of principles; all I hope from this propoſal of the Chevalier's is, that you will allow ſome of the worthy and learned fathers of the church to converſe with you on the ſubject of religion, that you will hear their arguments in favour of the great truths of the Catholick faith, which carry inſtant conviction as ſoon as they are brought into light, and which in a mind ſo young, ſo candid, and unbiaſſed as yours, cannot fail of ſubduing all your ſcruples, and determining you to place implicit truſt in them.

After expreſſing my gratitude to Madame de Clarence for the kind importunity and warmth with which ſhe intereſted herſelf in my ſpiritual as well as temporal welfare, I aſſured her, in the moſt determined manner, that I was firmly and unalterably reſolved to adhere to the Proteſtant religion. It was a religion, I ſaid, which admitted to my mind neither doubt nor ſcruples: it had been my ſupport in affliction, and was the anchor to which I leant for truſt in every ſucceeding event of my life; and I added, that were this point entirely out of the queſtion, the Chevalier's propoſal, generous and diſintereſted as it was, would have met with the ſame reception.

Various were the pleas, arguments, and intreaties, uſed by this worthy friend to induce me to comply with her wiſh of admitting her confeſſor to converſe with me on the ſubject; but I firmly and determinedly oppoſed it. This is a ſtep Madam, ſaid I, againſt which my father has particularly cautioned me, and to which I hope you will not think me ungratefully obſtinate if I proteſt I never willingly ſhall ſubmit.

Obſtinate, you force me to pronounce you, cried ſhe with ſome heat, and in all reſpects unaccountable. What reaſonable averſion can you have on the other hand to the Chevalier? perhaps you think he has been too preſuming in confeſſing his wiſhes ſo early: but conſider, he finds himſelf juſt on the eve of loſing you, perhaps for ever. Your intended journey has accelerated his propoſals; and they are of a nature that well deſerve to be conſidered. He is of a noble family, ſplendid fortune, maſter of himſelf, and tenderly attached to you. Perhaps there may be ſome little errors in his manner which you might wiſh corrected; but they are the reſult of good nature, and of a wiſh to pleaſe: perhaps too you may imagine, and with reaſon, that his underſtanding is inferior to your own; but when you have lived as long in the world and beheld as much of mankind as I have done, you will find this diſadvantage greatly overbalanced by many other circumſtances in favour of this alliance—circumſtances on which I have as yet but lightly touched.

I anſwered Madame de Clarence with all the warmth of gratitude which the kind intereſt ſhe takes in my concerns ſo well merits, but ſincerely avowed that the Chevalier's little errors were ſuch as blinded me to the advantages ſhe had pointed out, and intreated that ſhe would mention a ſubject no more, which very fortunately proved in all reſpects diſagreeable to me; ſince the impediment of religion alone was a bar perfectly unfurmountable, even had I wiſhed the union to take place.

Perhaps I ſpoke with a little too much heat; but my impatience had no effect on my amiable friend, who treated all my arguments as the effuſions of bigotry on the one hand, and of romance imbibed in retirement on the other. Finding all ſhe ſaid ineffectual, ſhe diſtreſſed me extremely by calling in her huſband to her aſſiſtance, who joined, out of mere good breedings to torment me, by repreſenting this odious match as ſplendid and deſirable in the higheſt degree. What! cried Madame de Clarence, to ſettle for life in England? a foreign—at leaſt an unknown country; where you confeſs you have but diſtant relations to receive you, and no certainty of finding friends; and to leave France, where an eſtabliſhment ſo brilliant awaits you, and where you have it in your power to engage for yourſelf and your ſiſter an honourable protector in the married ſtate?

At this laſt phraſe, though extremely harraſſed by their expoſtulations and hurt at appearing ſo abſurdly refined, I could not help laughing heartily; in which both Monſieur and his lady joined me, in ſpite of their utmoſt efforts to preſerve their gravity. This convinced me, that their opinion of their relation, in ſpite of their warmth, was pretty much on a footing with my own: indeed, the thoughts of the Chevalier and protection, were two ideas which could not poſſibly be aſſociated without exciting an inclination to ſmile, for his appearance is beyond meaſure effeminate and inſignificant.

Seeing me quite immovable in my determination, they at laſt gave over their importunities; which proceeding from diſintereſted friendſhip, at once gratified and oppreſſed me.

NOV. 1.

Mr. Howard, who is well acquainted with the family here, paid us this day a viſit from B—. Fanny and I rejoiced to ſee him. He tells us that he has entirely finiſhed all the buſineſs which has hitherto detained him there, and adds, that if we have no particular deſign of protracting our ſtay, he thinks we ought no longer to delay ſetting off, as the ſeaſon is far advanced, and moſt of our baggage is already on its way. We agreed with him as to the neceſſity of our immediate departure; and in ſpite of our worthy friends entreaties, have fixed on the 5th, when we ſhall bid adieu to the hoſpitable chateau.

NOV. 2.

Yeſterday Madame de Clarence, who is ſteady in her opinion that my everlaſting good is intimately connected with my change of principles, and regards it as a duty indiſpenſible to leave no means untried to convert me, intreated me to allow her confeſſor, a venerable old man, who dined with us, and who I ſuppoſe had been invited for the purpoſe, to converſe with me in private on the ſubject of religion, but I excuſed myſelf, though not without difficulty; and as there was a large company of viſitors, by attaching myſelf to ſeveral ladies and gentlemen, the poor prieſt could not find me one inſtant diſengaged the whole day.

NOV. 3.

The poor Chevalier!—I really think, I ought to be ſorry for him. My continued coldneſs, and viſible endeavours to avoid him, have at length had the deſired effect: he even no longer teizes me with intreaties; but finding that thoſe with which for a day or two he inceſſantly tormented me have gained nothing but encreaſed reſerve and conſtant diſregard, he is now labouring to try if offended pride or pique will be of ſervice to his cauſe; and laviſhes all his attentions on Mrs. Weldon, who on her part receives them with an air of exultation and triumph but ill concealed.

I fancy he hardly expected a refuſal ſo mortifying from an inconſiderate country girl, whoſe alliance could neither reflect luſtre nor importance on his family; and really, according to the prevailing opinions of this quarter of the world, I cannot but admire the diſintereſtedneſs of the Chevalier's propoſal, however diſagreeable it has proved in other reſpects: for a marriage made without eclat, high connections, and ſplendor, I find, by Madame de Clarence, is regarded by the enlightened part of the world as a weakneſs and folly, which ſubject thoſe who are influenced to adopt them to much ridicule and reproach: and thoſe, you may believe, who from an abſurd refinement reject ſuch fortunate contingencies when they preſent themſelves, are laid open to cenſure ten times keener and more poignant.

NOV. 4.

The behaviour of the lively widow really confounds me. I, who am new to the world, and unacquainted with its cuſtoms, can no way reconcile myſelf to that levity which her behaviour, tho' ſprightly and pleaſing, ſo ſtrongly indicates: yet there is ſomething ſo inſinuating in her addreſs, that one loves and blames her in the ſame moment.

Mr. Howard has written me a line today, intimating that he will be here to-morrow evening, and on the morning after we are to depart. He has received, he tells me, another letter from Mr. Benſeley, expreſſing the utmoſt impatience for our arrival.

Adieu! my beloved friend; I ſhall not find opportunity to continue my journal regularly till we are actually in England; do not therefore expect another packet to follow ſo ſoon as uſual, though I well know your kind anxiety will induce you to be more deſirous of it than ever. This long, long journey! with what a weight does its oppreſs me! Would it were a joyful undertaking, or an event that promiſed comfort or pleaſure; but our proſpects are at beſt unſatisfactory, and their iſſue wrapt in dark obſcurity. Farewell my dear Sophia.

H. SEYMOUR.
LETTER IV. TO MISS BEAUMONT. DOVER, NOV. 29,—.

WE have accompliſhed our journey ſo far, though not without having experienced the perils and alarms incident to travellers. The weather, till our arrival at Calais, was delightful for the ſeaſon, and our journey on the whole infinitely more agreeable, from the beauty and variety of the ſcenes which ſo rapidly ſhifted before our eyes, than I could poſſibly have expected. You may believe, my love, it was not without a bitter pang that we bad adieu to Languedoc, and quitted, probably for ever, the abode of our early days; poor Madame de Clarence too mingled her tears with ours at parting, and charged us to remember her as a friend who ſhould ever prove warmly and deeply intereſted in our happineſs.

When we arrived at Calais, Fanny having been affected with a ſlight cold, attended by a ſore throat, Mr. Howard inſiſted on our remaining a day or two there, before we ventured on the water; and when we were ready to depart, we found no little difficulty in procuring a veſſel, as, owing to adverſe winds, they were all detained on the oppoſite ſhore, one excepted, which with ſome trouble Mr. Howard at length procured. Soon after, as we were preparing to get on board, our landlord entered, and informed us that a gentleman was that moment arrived, who had travelled from Paris with the utmoſt expedition, and was in extreme haſte to get over to England, where buſineſs of real moment required his preſence, but that the circumſtance before mentioned muſt unavoidably detain him at Calais, unleſs we thought proper to offer him a conveyance in our veſſel.

On this information Mr. Howard deſired the landlord to preſent his beſt reſpects to the gentleman, and to acquaint him that we were about to depart immediately, and that if it was agreeable to him to accompany us, we ſhould be extremely happy to accommodate him and his attendants. The gentleman was then introduced by our hoſt, and expreſſed his thanks to us in the moſt polite manner, and without further delay we all went on board.

We had ſcarce quitted Calais, when it began to blow with tremendous violence, and from a quarter that equally oppoſed our getting to Dover or regaining the harbour we had juſt quitted, which the ſeamen anxiouſly, tho' without ſucceſs, laboured to effect. Mr. Howard and our fellow traveller exerted themſelves to mitigate our apprehenſions; aſſuring us, that as the veſſel was in good condition, and had many able hands on board, our fears greatly magnified the danger. A new alarm however ſoon after occurred which rendered our ſituation ſeriouſly critical: ſome part of the apparatus of the pump was found defective; and a leak having been diſcovered, the water began to make way very rapidly. Upon this information, the countenances of our comforters betrayed a ſudden though but a momentary anxiety that wholly bereaved us of that ſupport which their apparent eaſe and indifference had hitherto in ſome meaſure afforded us. Fanny, almoſt diſtracted, threw herſelf into the arms of Mr. Howard, as if for protection, and I, whoſe diſmay, though not leſs ſevere was leſs audible, ſat ſilently offering up my prayers to heaven with a reſolute compoſure, the mere effects of hopeleſs deſpair, every moment expecting to be ſwallowed up in one of the frightful waves which were riſing like mountains on all ſides.

Mr. Howard being occupied in vainly endeavouring to moderate Fanny's terrors, and our ſtranger companion gone to examine into the nature of our alarm, I was in a manner left to my own reflections: and at length throwing my arms about my poor Fanny, who reclined her head almoſt lifeleſs upon Mr. Howard's ſhoulder—We are but going to rejoin our dear father, my love, cried I, nor is there any thing ſo very frightful in the idea. The Almighty might have been infinitely leſs merciful in his diſpenſations. We ſhall expire together, and at the ſame inſtant: one miſerable ſurvivor will not be preſerved to mourn in a foreign country her irreparable loſs; where not a pitying friend might be found to conſole her under the ſeverity of affliction.

Affected by theſe words, our fellow traveller, whoſe return I had not perceived, beſought me in the moſt reſpectful manner to allow him the honour of aſſiſting me; and throwing his arm round me, ſupported me as I ſat, as far as was in his power, from the diſagreeable effects of the inceſſant rolling of the veſſel. Stupified by fear, I attended only to my dear Fanny, who had turned and locked herſelf in my embraces, and whom I laboured by various arguments to inſpire with that fortitude and reſignation which religion can alone diſpenſe in a moment ſo replete with horror. No moment could indeed prove more dreadful. The oaths and execrations of one half of the ſeamen, whoſe profanity ſeemed too habitual to deſert them even on this awful occaſion; the utter deſpondency of the other, and the diſmay of all our attendants, produced on the whole a ſcene of terror and confuſion, on which I cannot reflect without horror inexpreſſible.

Mr. Howard and our fellow traveller were the only perſons on board who at this critical juncture preſerved their uſual compoſure. The danger, however extreme and immediate, could neither diſtract their attentions nor wholly abſorb their cares; while the former employed himſelf unceaſingly to ſupport the exhauſted ſpirits of my ſiſter, the latter ſeemed to conſider me as his peculiar charge; and his converſation, at once ſoothing, ſpirited, and inſinuating, inſenſibly fortified my courage, and ſtrengthened my mind.

Gratified by the generous exertions made to ſuſtain my drooping fortitude, I at length turned round to regard the perſon to whom I conſidered myſelf as ſo particularly indebted, and was not a little aſtoniſhed to perceive, in the deportment of this unknown young man, a ſtriking and peculiar elegance, and in his countenance an intereſting intelligence, which I was amazed I had not before more particularly diſtinguiſhed.

The ſerenity of his aſpect at that formidable inſtant ſtruck me ſo forcibly, that I involuntarily exclaimed—oh with what ſuperior reſolution muſt God Almighty have endowed men, if you, Sir, are really as unconcerned as you appear at this tremendous moment.

I believe this ſally made him ſmile. Madam, ſaid he, I have ever been of opinion that in natural courage the ladies are infinitely our ſuperiors. It muſt be owned, perhaps, that men are not quite ſo ingenious in apprehending or in foreſeeing evil at a diſtance; but when it actually arrives, we ſeldom ſupport its bitterneſs with more genuine greatneſs of mind than the gentler ſex often teſtify in the moſt arduous and painful circumſtances. The compoſure and reſolution, added he, which I have juſt been contemplating has but confirmed this idea, and augmented my admiration of female fortitude.

As he pronounced theſe words, the ſailors gave a loud huzza on having at length effected the re-adjuſtment of the pump. Fanny, unuſed to ſuch rude demonſtrations of joy, imagined all was over, and that we were inſtantly going to the bottom; but Mr. Howard and our companion ſoon relieved her fears, by congratulating us on the ſafety which this tranſaction indicated, and as the ſtorm now began to abate conſiderably, our apprehenſions were leſs diſtreſſing. Still however it blew from an unfavourable point, and the maſter told us he had no hopes of gaining Dover till next morning; but the ſecurity of which he aſſured us made us conſider that delay as of little moment; and with revived ſpirits my ſiſter and I entered into converſation with Mr. Howard and our agreeable new acquaintance, to whoſe compaſſionate ſupport I owed in a great meaſure the compoſure for which he ſo eagerly applauded me.

I now had leiſure to obſerve him, and found, that prepoſſeſſing as had been his figure on a curſory view, it loſt nothing of my admiration from being more minutely conſidered. He ſeemed about twenty four, and I think I never beheld a countenance that poſſeſſed so large a portion of that expreſſion, to which, from inability otherwiſe to define it, is uſually given the appellation of je ne ſçai quoi.

Mr. Howard was delighted with his converſation, which ſeemed the reſult of a mind cultivated and enlightened, joined to an extenſive knowledge of the world. The circumſtances of our ſituation entirely diſcarded the formalities of a recent introduction, and ſeemed to pave the way for intimacy. We converſed as old friends, who had been unexpectedly preſerved by the mercy of Providence: nor did it, I believe, once occur to any of the party, till we had actually landed on ſhore, that this agreeable ſtranger was but the acquaintance of a night, and that we were even ignorant of his name.

Mr. Howard invited him to breakfaſt with us at the inn, where we did not arrive till eleven in the morning; and he accepted it with evident marks of pleaſure. A ſlight refreſhment was then brought in: of which, exhauſted and fatigued as we were, my ſiſter and I were unable to partake, and we all ſoon after retired to reſt, which was, you may conjecture, extremely requiſite. A few hours however ſufficed to refreſh us; and awaking about ſix in the evening, we immediately aroſe, and on entering the parlour found the gentlemen impatiently expecting us to dinner.

After many obliging enquiries, and hoping that we had not ſuffered from our fears and fatigues—I have been acknowledging to Mr. Howard, ſaid our fellow traveller, both a failure in gallantry and a degree of ſelfiſhneſs which may in all probability ſubject me to the mortification of your cenſure; but it muſt be owned, notwithſtanding the danger you two ladies were expoſed to and the ſevere apprehenſions you underwent, for which I think none could feel more poignantly than I myſelf did, that it will never be in my power to reflect on that night without experiencing the moſt lively emotions of pleaſure at the recollection; ſince it has procured me the honour of an acquaintance which I ſhall ever regard as one of the moſt fortunate events of my life.

To this compliment, too flattering for a reply, we could only anſwer by an inclination of our heads. Whether we all prized our exiſtence the more for having been ſo lately on the point of loſing it I know not, but our recent danger certainly beſtowed an additional reliſh on our preſent ſecurity, and gave ſuch a lightneſs to our hearts, as put all ceremony and conſtraint at defiance. My mind had not, ever ſince our irreparable loſs, felt ſo unburthened either from painful recollections or anticipated evils as it then did, and in bleſſing heaven for our ſafety I did not fail to lift up my ſoul in thankfulneſs that I was enabled to enjoy it from a flow of ſpirits which have been long a ſtranger to my boſom.

Our agreeable companion partook of our gaiety; and joined in the converſation with a polite vivacity which animated and ſupported it. Ah! thought I, more than once during the evening, were all the Engliſh as amiable and accompliſhed as this ſpecimen ſeems to indicate, little ſhould I regret that fate has condemned me to reſide among them.

You may believe, Sophia, we were all not a little deſirous of knowing the name of a perſon whoſe addreſs and appearance had prepoſſeſſed us ſo ſtrongly in his favour, and with whom we had been converſing for hours on a footing of intimacy. He had greatly the advantage of us in this particular, had his curioſity been equally excited; for hearing Mr. Howard, my ſiſter, and myſelf, mutually name each other, he was enabled to give us our proper appellations of diſtinction, while all we could diſcover in regard to him was, what occaſionally dropt from him in the courſe of converſation, and that went no further than to inform us that he had been ſeveral years abroad, which time he had ſpent in reſiding at the different courts of Europe, where he appeared intimately acquainted with ſeveral characters of eminence not wholly unknown to Mr. Howard.

When Fanny and I got up to retire for the night, he approached to take leave of us, ſaying that family affairs required him to haſten his departure; but the happineſs of your company, ſaid he, has made me ſteal a few hours from my journey: but may I be allowed to flatter myſelf that you will permit me the favour of enquiring after your healths in town, where I hope to be in a ſhort time. I confeſs the boldneſs of this requeſt may juſtly induce you to accuſe me of temerity; but after the good fortune fate has conferred in this introduction, I cannot prevail with myſelf to relinquiſh the unlooked for benefit that has been thrown in my way. May I then flatter myſelf you will favour me ſo far? We aſſured him we ſhould be extremely happy to ſee him; and referred him to Mr. Howard for the knowledge of our abode, which is unknown to ourſelves. We are ſtrangers and foreigners in England, ſaid I, and ſhall certainly be much pleaſed to meet again with our firſt Engliſh acquaintance. We then wiſhed him an agreeable journey, and left the room.

When we had retired, this unknown expreſſed in warm terms to Mr. Howard his wiſhes for improving this accidental acquaintance, made many polite offers of ſervice, and diſcovered his name at parting by preſenting him with a card, on which was written the following addreſs—the Honourable Charles Roatſley, St. James's Square. He then ſet off in a carriage and four at half paſt two in the morning.

Mr. Howard has perſuaded us to remain all this day at Dover, and perhaps tomorrow, in order to recruit our ſpirits after our fatigue, and I have acquieſced becauſe my ſiſter is rather indiſpoſed; but the day after we ſhall certainly purſue our journey. Adieu.

H. SEYMOUR.
LETTER V. TO MISS BEAUMONT. LONDON, DEC. 2, —.

OH! my Sophia, how unfortunate have we been! Our friend, good Mr. Benſeley is no more! he expired only two days ago of the gout, which had attacked his ſtomach, and here are we in London, this immenſe overgrown city, without one ſingle human being, Mr. Howard excepted, who has the moſt diſtant intereſt in us, or probably knows of our exiſtence.

Oh! what a burthen muſt we prove to that worthy man's mind, and how little claim, except from his friendſhip to my father, have we to give him ſo much trouble.

This unfortunate and unforeſeen calamity has overwhelmed us with affliction. It has broken all our meaſures, and interrupted all our plans. We feel as in a deſert. This is indeed ſolitude, to be without friends and without protection, except what we receive from the kindneſs of compaſſion.

Mr. Howard this morning (for we got hither laſt night, but unwilling to diſturb Mr. Benſeley's ſober family at ſo late an hour, procured very good lodgings in a neighbouring ſtreet) went himſelf to inform our worthy guardian of the arrival of his gueſts. You may eaſily conclude how much ſhocked he was on being informed by the footman who attended at the door that Mr. Benſeley had expired on Monday laſt: he returned inſtantly in great perturbation to inform us of this diſmal intelligence.

This is an accident extremely unfortunate, ſaid he, as Mr. Benſeley was undoubtedly the propereſt perſon to mediate between you and your grand father; but I hope natural affection will plead for his ſon's offspring ſo powerfully as to induce him immediately to take you under his own protection, in which caſe no material inconvenience will accrue from the loſs.

Oh! in what unavoidable difficulties did your friendly kindneſs involve you, my dear Sir, cried I, when you undertook ſo troubleſome a charge as we muſt prove.

Talk not to me in this ſtyle, my dear Miſs Seymour, cried he, interrupting me —the trifling aſſiſtance I had it in my power to offer you towards regulating your affairs at B—, was without a compliment ſo greatly recompenſed by the opportunity with which I was favoured of manifeſting, however feebly, my friendſhip for your father, that it pains me to think you ſhould imagine any thanks due to an occurrence which employed agreeably a little idle time that muſt otherwiſe have lain heavy and languid on my hands: as to the honour you did me in allowing me to attend you hither, it was a favour as well as a gratification for which my thanks inſtead of yours are due.

I believe that had Mr. Benſeley's death taken place previous to your father's, he would have nominated me your guardian: as this event has followed, I owe it in duty to my deceaſed friend, as well as from my eſteem for you, to take on me the care of your affairs; and as the firſt proof of your obedience, I exact an eternal ſilence on the ſubject, either of apology or gratitude. Let us conſider then, continued he in the ſame breath, to prevent our again interrupting him with apologies, what ſteps we ought next to purſue. I am of opinion that an application to Lord Belmont cannot too ſoon be made; and if I have your permiſſion, ſhall undertake to write to him this very day.

We inſtantly cloſed with the propoſal, and he directly left us to ſet about the taſk; in the ſucceſs of which he ſeems as anxious, and as deeply intereſted, as if we were his moſt intimate connections and our lives depended on the iſſue. The happineſs of our lives at leaſt certainly hang on the event. Oh! my Sophia, think of our critical ſituation, and feel for the agitation of my mind at this moment. A few hours will decide all—will determine whether we are outcaſts from our family, deſerted and friendleſs, or received with tender emotion to the boſom of a parent, to whom, though unknown, my heart glows with the warmeſt affection and moſt filial reſpect. My ſoul, melted by an eternal ſeparation from one yet more dearly beloved, diſſolves with the ſoft ideas which ruſh upon my mind. Imagination, never more buſy than in the moments of agitation, perpetually repreſents ſome future ſcene of affecting delight, and while I weep the bitter loſs of one father, I ſee myſelf every moment encircled in the arms of another —whom heaven yet preſerves.

DEC. 3.

Fanny, whoſe heart is always full of ſoothing hopes, ſtrives to recompence the diſappointment we have ſuffered in the death of Mr. Benſeley, by anticipating happineſs under the protection of Lord Belmont; but the painful uncertainty of what may be his Lordſhip's determination, is, alas! rendered more acute by delay. Mr. Howard went out yeſterday immediately after dinner, intending himſelf to deliver the letter he had written.

The ſervant who opened the door, on being aſked if his Lordſhip was at home, returned for anſwer that he was not expected till ſpring.

Is then my Lord in the country? ſaid Mr. Howard.

No, Sir, he is ſtill at Nice.

Mr. Howard was much diſappointed at this information; and as he held the letter in his hand with a look of chagrin, the footman told him, that if he was anxious to have it ſent ſafe he might leave it with his Lordſhip's ſteward, who lodged at preſent in the houſe, and who would take care to diſpatch it with a proper direction. As he ſpoke theſe words, the ſteward himſelf paſſed the door; and hearing his name pronounced, civilly advanced to know if Mr. Howard had any commands for Lord Belmont in which he could aſſiſt him, and aſked him to walk into the parlour.

Mr. Howard ſeized this opportunity for making ſome further enquiries; and was informed, that my Lord being thought in a declining ſtate of health, had been ordered by his phyſicians abroad; that he had been abſent almoſt a twelvemonth, attended by his grand-ſon, the preſent Lord Linroſe, who was likewiſe adviſed to try a warmer climate for the recovery of a cough, which was apprehended to be conſumptive. The death of his father, the late Lord, the ſteward added, had induced the family to expect the immediate return both of Lord Linroſe and his grand-father; but the laſt diſpatches had entirely contradicted this idea, intimating that Lord Belmont had received ſuch eſſential benefit from the ſalutary air of Nice, that he had determined to continue there till his diſorder was wholly removed; and that Lord Linroſe dared not venture as yet braving a chilly winter in England.

Mr. Howard then returned to us, not a little hurt at the intelligence he was conſtrained to communicate. Oh, Sophia, how unfortunate! Had we been made ſooner acquainted with theſe particulars, we might have remained in our peaceful retreat at B—, where, happy in the protection and friendſhip of Madame de Clarence, we muſt have enjoyed comfort and contentment; but poor Mr. Benſeley's death is an evil we dreaded not; and bequeathed to his care, we were left no choice as to our reſidence.

Nothing can prove more delicate, more embarraſſing, than our preſent ſituation. I am but ill verſed, I own, in the cuſtoms which in this part of the world propriety preſcribes; yet ſurely Mr. Howard, neither from age nor appearance, can be deemed a proper protector, under the aſſumed appellation of guardian, for two young girls unfriended and unknown, particularly when he is himſelf conſcious that he poſſeſſes not even that nominal title to remain conſtantly under the ſame roof with us. It muſt ſubject us to obſervation, and probably may even provoke cenſure; yet ſo tender is the point, that I ſhould bluſh but to hint it to him.

DEC. 4.

Mr. Howard, after appearing very thoughtful moſt part of yeſterday evening, made an apology for abſenting himſelf for an hour or two, and left us.

We had indeed been extreme bad company. Fanny was ſunk and diſappointed. What a reverſe from the gay chimeras that had taken poſſeſſion of her mind. Languid and diſpirited, ſhe had reclined, half aſleep, upon a chair, leaving me to ſupport a converſation with Mt. Howard which evidently intereſted neither party; but aſhamed of the burthen we are reduced to impoſe on that amiable man, and which (though from friendly anxiety alone) appeared to hang very heavily on his mind, I vainly exerted myſelf to appear in ſpirits in order to lighten his viſible uneaſineſs, and affected to be unconſcious that our ſituation was either ſo awkward or ſo uncomfortable as it in fact appeared to me.

The moment he was gone, however, my half ſuffocating emotions got vent; and ſuddenly giving way to the anguiſh that oppreſſed me, I threw my arms about my deareſt Fanny's neck, and burſt into a flood of tears, which flowed with profuſion, from a variety of painful feelings.

Accuſtomed to the tender attentions of paternal care, ſoftened by the careſſes and indulgence of paternal fondneſs, my heart felt—bitterly felt! the painful void of poſſeſſing none to whom I owed affection and duty—none from whom I could claim tenderneſs and regard.

Oh! my deareſt Fanny! cried I, were we this inſtant to expire, who would ſhed one tear over us? My Sophia indeed, my kind, my affectionate Sophia, ſtill remains to me; and poſſeſſed of ſuch a friend, I ought not to repine: but who, in all this populous and extended country, (Mr. Howard excepted) were we to lay down our heads and die before another day returned, would pay us even a tribute of paſſing regret. Every one elſe is bleſt with ſome tender relation who calls forth and returns the ſoothing ſenſations of intereſt and attachment, but we are unknown, unloved, and unconnected on the earth!

Having vented the firſt effuſions of my feelings, I grew more compoſed; and reproaching myſelf for this weak indulgence, which had ſeverely affected my poor Fanny, who, naturally ſanguine, was not diſpoſed for ſuch deep depreſſion had I not ſet her an example of dejection, I dried my eyes and endeavoured all in my power to ſooth and conſole her; but the taſk was not ſo eaſy as I had imagined. Grief and fear are often infectious; and I had pointed out the melancholy independence of our ſituation in terms ſo alarming as had intimidated and alarmed her. In attempting to give her comfort however I profitted by my own arguments, and began to perceive that we had not in fact that reaſon for deſpondency which the ſolitude of our ſituation had at firſt ſuggeſted. Letters would not be long in reaching Nice, and a ſhort ſuſpence would one way or other ſoon compoſe all our agitations.

Theſe reflections produced a tolerable degree of compoſure by the time Mr. Howard returned. I have been viſiting my brother's family, ſaid he, which I have not had an opportunity of doing till this evening, and have brought a meſſage from his lady, requeſting that you both would favour her with your company to-morrow to dinner. She intends to have the pleaſure of waiting on you in the morning, and hopes to procure you ſome little amuſement by attending you to whatever appears curious to ſtrangers in this metropolis.

We gratefully accepted the propoſal. He afterwards told us that he had been paying another viſit to Lord Belmont's ſteward. He tells me, ſaid he, that Lady Linroſe is ſtill at her ſeat in Northamptonſhire, where ſhe has reſided conſtantly ſince her Lord's death, and I mean, ſhould you approve of it, by only making a few alterations, to addreſs the letter to her Ladyſhip which was intended for my Lord.

Mean time, continued he, my ſiſter in law will be delighted to have the favour of your company, not as occaſional viſitors only, but as inmates of her family. She entreated me with much earneſtneſs to make this propoſal to you; but I told her, although I felt a guardian's intereſt, I could not abſolutely claim a guardian's authority, and muſt leave her to prevail with my charming wards by her own interceſſion when ſhe is introduced to their acquaintance; I hope however you will find Mrs. Hindon's houſe ſo agreeable as may induce you to oblige her by making it your abode till you are otherwiſe ſettled to your ſatisfaction.

With how much delicacy was this propoſal made. The compliment of ſuch an offer from an utter ſtranger could not but have been ſuggeſted from Mr. Howard's having repreſented in ſtrong colours our helpleſs and unconnected ſituation. The idea hurts and mortifies me; yet we cannot but feel gratified by Mr. Howard's endeavours to perſuade us to regard this civility as a favour conferred upon his ſiſter inſtead of being received from her hands.

While we remain in this uncertainty, in order to guard againſt curioſity, I have requeſted Mr. Howard to conceal our real ſituation and connections except from his brother's family, to whom he promiſes to enjoin ſecreſy.

Mr. Howard's letter to Lady Linroſe, briefly ſtating our ſituation and requeſting her mediation with Lord Belmont, was ſent off by this day's poſt. He tells her Ladyſhip that we are at preſent in London, where the accident of Mr. Benſeley's death leaves us (in our grand father's abſence) entirely dependant on her Ladyſhip, whoſe countenance we venture to entreat, ſince we are unconſcious of having in any way forfeited our right to the protection of our family; and whoſe good offices our friendleſs ſtate leads us to ſolicit, as well from her benevolence and humanity as from the ties of conſanguinity which ſubſiſt between us. It is directed to Northamptonſhire, and we anxiouſly wait her Ladyſhip's reply.

Mrs. Hindon was ſo kind as to breakfaſt with us this morning, accompanied by her huſband. She is a little plump woman, between thirty and forty, whoſe countenance is by no means plain, but whoſe addreſs is far from poſſeſſing either poliſh or grace. What her manners wanted in elegance was however fully made up by kindneſs and attention. She overwhelmed both Fanny and me with expreſſions of civility and offers of friendſhip, and told us that ſhe inſiſted on our becoming her gueſts, and making her houſe our own as long as we ſhould find it agreeable. She regretted extremely, ſhe ſaid, that a country couſin, who how ever would be otherwiſe diſpoſed of in a few days, at preſent occupied the apartment, which afterwards would be heartily and entirely at our ſervice: but as ſoon as ſhe could get her trumpery removed, and things were put in proper order, ſhe hoped we would favour her ſo far as to take immediate poſſeſſion of it.

This hoſpitality, though rather rudely expreſſed, was ſo extremely benevolent, and ſo happily timed for our difficulties, that I knew not how to expreſs in terms ſufficiently fervent the gratitude it inſpired.

Mrs. Hindon then carried us an airing in her coach, through ſeveral of the principal ſtreets of the city, and appeared ſo kindly ſolicitous for our entertainment, that during our ride ſhe was continually planning different parties of pleaſure, or deſcribing different places of amuſement, to which ſhe promiſed to accompany us; and ſhe regretted much that the morning was too far advanced to admit of our ſeeing any of the ſights and curioſities which ſhe ſaid abounded in every quarter of the town.

On returning to ſet us down at our lodgings, ſhe invited us to dine at her houſe, and inſiſted on ſending her carriage for us before her hour of dining.

Finding it near three o'clock, we ſet about dreſſing with the utmoſt expedition; but ſo abſurdly late are the hours in this part of the world, that though it is now paſt four in the afternoon, the coach has not yet made its appearance, and Mr. Howard tells me people here don't think of ſitting down to dinner till the evening is far advanced.

DEC. 5.

Our entertainment yeſterday was ſplendid, and the furniture of Mr. Hindon's houſe ſuperb and expenſive beyond what I ſhould have expected in the abode of a man who owes his riches in a great meaſure to his own induſtry. Every thing in the family beſpoke opulence. The appearance of the lady of the manſion did not however, I muſt acknowledge, accord with the elegance that ſurrounded her; but ſhe was ſo extremely kind and obliging, that it is ungrateful to lay an ungenerous ſtreſs on a fault which proceeds not from the heart, and which for that reaſon muſt be unſeen by her friends though ſtriking to the eyes of a ſtranger

The company conſiſted of a Sir Jonathan Farnford, his lady, and daughter, a young lady of ſixteen, juſt come from a boarding ſchool, Captain Wilmot, nephew to Mrs. Hindon, and a modeſt looking girl, whoſe ſurname I heard not, as Mr. and Mrs. Hindon always ſpoke to her by the familiar appellation of Jenny, and who I conjectured was the country couſin before mentioned. In this idea I was confirmed from obſerving the unfeeling neglect with which ſhe was treated, not only by the lady of the houſe, but by all her gueſts (our party excepted) who ſeemed to have taken a hint from that lady's behaviour to regard the poor girl as an inferior.

I could not help extremely pitying her ſituation, which was to the laſt degree mortifying, particularly as her diffidence and timidity appeared rather to aſk for encouragement than to provoke rebuke. She evidently felt uncomfortable and aſhamed; and ſat ſilently negligent of what was paſſing, as if perfectly unconcerned in the ſcene, and without once attempting to join in the converſation.

The painful dependence of this young woman ſtruck me the more forcibly as it was contraſted with that flow of civility, warm and unbounded, which Mrs. Hindon abundantly laviſhed upon us, though utter ſtrangers, and which, while it gained my innocent Fanny's heart, appeared to me ſo greatly beyond what an acquaintance of a few hours could either excite or authorize in a mind poſſeſſed of delicacy and refinement, that though charmed with it for the firſt half hour, and delighted with the flattering idea of having ſo early inſpired a predilection ſo fortunate in our preſent circumſtances, I began to conſider, before the evening was over, that kindneſs beſtowed ſo fervently, ere time had been given not only for inveſtigation but even for common knowledge, muſt be too indiſcriminate either to prove gratifying or laſting, and ſeemed rather the effuſions of the tongue than the overflowings of a heart warm and ſincere. I confeſs indeed, that the viſit of yeſterday to Mrs. Hindon has not encreaſed my deſire of reſiding in her houſe; yet as it is the only eligible ſcheme that preſents itſelf at preſent, and ſhe is eager that we ſhould accept of her repeated invitations, we have reſolved for a ſhort time to comply.

I was extremely aſtoniſhed, during this viſit, to obſerve the remarkable difference between our manners (for ſtill muſt I regard France as my own country) and thoſe of the Engliſh. I own I have been very little converſant in any ſociety; yet when I have been at the chateau de Clarence, and while I was permitted at your aunt's earneſt entreaties to ſpend that happy three weeks (never to be forgotten) in all the innocent gaieties of M— with my beloved Sophy, I remember the gentlemen who occaſionally viſited at your houſe were all uniformly attentive and polite in the higheſt degree, and were ever ſo well bred as to appear gratified with our preſence and pleaſed with our converſation, whatever their private ſentiments might be; but here, my dear, the behaviour of the men was not only indifferent and uncomplaiſant, but often rude and uncivil.

Captain Wilmot, though very gayly dreſſed, and in a ſtyle which betrayed no great diſlike to the idea of attracting the notice of the other ſex, yet endeavoured by various methods to diſcover his perfect diſregard of the ladies preſent, whom he did not ſeem to think deſerving even of the common attentions uſually paid them.

Mrs. Hindon, on our entering, introduced him to us; which having produced a haſty bow, he afterwards reclined with his back to the wall in a careleſs attitude, and then ſtrolled about the room, occaſionally joining the other gentlemen, who were chatting by themſelves in a corner.

Theſe airs had the effect (for which I make no doubt they were intended) of augmenting his importance in the eyes of Miſs Farnford, who ſtrove to attract his attention, and at laſt ſucceeded ſo far as to engage him in a tête à tête converſation, if ſuch it could be called, partly compoſed of tittering and whiſpering, of which Fanny and I were evidently the objects. Lady Farnford and Mrs. Hindon however atoned for their incivility, by beſtowing on us their whole attention. The former, with the moſt inſatiable curioſity, endeavoured to penetrate into every circumſtance relating to our ſituation abroad, with an avidity which could not have been excited without ſome previous information.

I cautioned Mr. Howard on the ſubject of ſecreſy, and beſought him to requeſt his brother and Mrs. Hindon not to communicate our affairs out of their own family; but I fear it has not been at all obſerved, for it was not difficult to perceive that we were regarded by the whole company with an eye of eager ſcrutiny, which denoted that we had been, according to a phraſe of Mrs. Hindon's, on the carpet before we entered.

At table, the converſation was general: that is to ſay, it conſiſted of thoſe common-place topics which neither greatly amuſe nor deeply intereſt, but which in a mixed company are taken up with ſeeming eagerneſs merely pour paſſer le tems.

Mr. Hindon appears to be a good ſort of bluff Engliſh character, who can allow neither of merit nor talents out of his own country, nor conceive any ſort of enjoyment out of this city, which he ſays he never quits even in ſummer, though he has a very fine villa within ſix miles of town. He is a banker, and poſſeſſed of a large fortune, partly the fruits of his own induſtry, and partly brought him by his wife; from whom, being an heireſs, according to an eſtabliſhed form here, he alſo receives his name.

He ſeems to enjoy good cheer with an extraordinary reliſh: dinner ſerving equally for the purpoſes of converſation and refreſhment. The former, it indeed furniſhed abundantly; only varied by a diſſertation on the different diſhes. I remarked that Sir Jonathan, as well as Mr. Hindon, appeared to value themſelves extremely on thoſe qualities which more properly belonged to their cooks.

When the repaſt, which was ſumptuous, was removed to make way for the deſert, the younger part of the family, conſiſting of two girls under ten years old and a boy about ſix, made their appearance, and compleatly took place of the diſcourſe on cookery. The delighted parents inſtantly ſhifting the topic to that of their children, related with eager ſatisfaction their various improvements, accompliſhments, and diſpoſitions, not forgetting the infantine bon mots of little Billy, whom ſleep deprived us of the pleaſure of beholding.

I am myſelf ſo extremely fond of children, that this converſation, had I been the only perſon preſent, might have entertained and even intereſted me; but I could not help painfully feeling for its impropriety, which ſo evidently fatigued inſtead of amuſed the company on this occaſion, that I pitied the blindneſs while I could not but admire the warmth of Mrs. Hindon's maternal tenderneſs. Sir Jonathan indeed took little pains to conceal that he was heartily tired of the ſubject; but neither his repeated yawnings, nor conſtant attempts to change it, could induce the gratified parents to wander from a point which they concluded gave almoſt equal pleaſure to their gueſts and themſelves.

When the ladies retired to tea and coffee, Fanny and I were again ſubjected to the inquiſitive interrogatories of Lady Farnford; which, as our ſituation is at preſent but in part revealed, extremely embarraſſed me. That we had been educated abroad, and never had viſited England before, I wiſhed not to conceal; but our reaſons for leaving a ſpot which had been ſo long our home, and the ſolitude in which we had been reared, it was unneceſſary to divulge, and for many reaſons I choſe not to acknowledge, eſpecially to a perſon whom I had not been introduced to above a couple of hours before; yet Lady Farnford contrived to penetrate into every circumſtance with an eagerneſs which convinced me all was not perfectly new to her.

You received your education in a convent, I believe ladies? ſaid ſhe.

Yes, Madam.

Lord, cried the daughter, were you not afraid they would have made nuns of you?

We had no great reaſon to be alarmed as to that point, ſaid I, for my father took infinite care to fortify us againſt all their attacks.

I fancy, reſumed the mother, home would not be much more lively than the monaſtry, for I believe you lived retiredly enough. You ſaw very little company I ſhould ſuppoſe.

Finding I only anſwered by a ſimple affirmative, without growing in the leaſt communicative, ſhe turned to Fanny— It muſt have been rather dull, I ſhould imagine, to live in a manner ſo ſolitary, ſo out of the world, with no ſociety but merely that of the old gentleman your father?

Our governeſs, a moſt amiable and reſpectable woman, ſaid Fanny, died only four years ago; and ſhe was our conſtant companion while ſhe lived.

But you muſt have been very young when you loſt her?

Yes, Madam, my ſiſter was not then fourteen and I was ſcarcely twelve.

You got ſome one, I ſhould imagine, to ſupply her place?

None, Madam. My ſiſter was ſoon after ſent to the convent for two years, and I was left ſolely under my father's care till her return: for he took great pains himſelf in our improvement, and could not conſent to deprive himſelf of both at one time.

It muſt have appeared very diſmal, ſaid Lady Farnford. To be always in the country and to ſee nobody, muſt be gloomy indeed at your time of life, for you had no ſociety I believe.

Oh! Madam, we never ſaw a human creature; my father had no viſitors, and never went a viſiting himſelf.

Knowing that this was a ſubject on which Fanny would innocently expatiate, without conſidering its imprudence, I mentioned my beloved Sophia and her aunt, who, I ſaid, ſometimes were ſo kind as to enliven our ſolitude with their viſits, and in whoſe company my father had once been prevailed on to allow me to ſpend ſome weeks at the town of M—. I alſo ſpoke of Madame de Clarence, and did not forget Mr. Howard, who was indeed, though I did not own it, the only male viſitor my father has had in my memory, Mr. Benſeley excepted, whom I ſcarce recollect.

You, my Sophia, was a new ſource of inveſtigation and curioſity. Who was this Miſs Beaumont? where had I got acquainted with her? When I anſwered that ſhe had been my favorite friend at the convent, that we had received our education together, and that ſhe was only daughter and heireſs to Sir Edward Beaumont, whoſe name and public employment could not be unknown to her, I aſſure you my importance ſeemed not a little encreaſed by the information.

The appearance of the gentlemen, I was in hopes, would have relieved me from this embarraſſing converſation: but Lady Farnford was determined it ſhould not drop ſo ſoon.

My dear, cried ſhe to her huſband, theſe ladies have been entertaining us mightily. They have been telling us all about their manner of living abroad; and that the old gentleman their father was of a moſt ſingular and extraordinary humour. He hardly ever allowed of the young ladies leaving home, and never permitted a man to enter his doors.

This ſpeech, which implied that we had been complaining of this laſt circumſtance as a peculiar hardſhip, put me extremely out of countenance, and inſtantly drew the eyes of the gentlemen towards us: but Mr. Howard relieved my awkwardneſs by ſaying that Mr. Seymour was indeed uncommonly fond of retirement, yet at the ſame time ſo warmly attached and indulgent to his children, that he would moſt willingly have allowed them what ſociety they choſe, had not their duty and affection induced them with pleaſure to conform to a way of life which they knew was agreeable to his taſte.

What could his intention be Miſs, ſaid Sir Jonathan, addreſſing himſelf to me, in burying you alive in that manner? Certainly he never could expect to get you off his hands at that rate; at leaſt his method was rather extraordinary. For my part I think it is a piece of injuſtice to ſhut up girls like birds in a cage. Let them ſee and be ſeen, and take their chance in the matrimonial lottery like others: one muſt not expect now-a-days that our daughters will be courted by proxy on the report of their beauty. There's Betſey now—I hope to live to ſee her happily ſettled; but I ſhould not think I performed my duty to the girl, if I ſhut her up always at home, where ſhe would have no opportunity of making a good creditable ſettlement.

It was not eaſy to find an anſwer to this ſpeech, which was entirely addreſſed to me, and I did not attempt it. I felt however for his daughter, who I concluded muſt be equally ſhocked with its rude indelicacy; you may then gueſs my aſtoniſhment, when I heard her ſay, inwardly ſpeaking, but without the leaſt appearance of baſhfulneſs—Indeed I ſhould not think it at all fair.

The whole company ſtaid ſupper; and as whiſt was the game, of which Fanny and I are entirely ignorant and we declined any other, Sir Jonathan and Lady Farnford and Mr. and Mrs. Hindon made a party; Miſs Farnford, the Captain, and Fanny, having ſeated themſelves on a ſopha, ſoon after entered into chat together, in which Mr. Howard joined. As for me, I was placed by the card players; and though more in a contemplative than talkative humour, (for indeed I was anxiouſly revolving in my mind the ſucceſs of the letter to Lady Linroſe,) yet ſeeing Miſs Jenny take up her work, and ſit down at the farther end of the room as if unwilling to intrude on the converſation, I took that opportunity of teſtifying that I did not regard her in the mortifying point of view which ſeemed ſo unfeelingly to influence the reſt of the company; and ſhifting my ſeat in order to join her, endeavoured to conquer the diſtance and reſerve with which ſhe kept herſelf unconnected with thoſe from whom ſhe only expected indelicacy and ill breeding.

She appeared much gratified with my attention, and received it with a degree of modeſty which evinced ſhe had not always been accuſtomed even to common politeneſs. We converſed together till ſupper was announced; and I found ſomething, both in her ſentiments and manner of expreſſing them, ſuperior to what I perceived in any of the reſt of the party.

I am afraid my Sophia will conclude I am growing cenſorious upon entering the world; but to an eye unaccuſtomed to a mixture of characters, and where all the errors and abſurdities of ſociety are entirely new, a thouſand faults and imperfections muſt appear, which habit conceals and acquaintance renders too familiar for obſervation.

To this I make no doubt it is in a great meaſure owing, that I find myſelf ſo early diſguſted by Mrs. Hindon's manners, for I own I am infinitely diſappointed; probably the more poignantly from the ſanguine diſpoſition with which I firſt met her. We were ſtrangers and unknown to her; and her benevolence in offering us an aſylum beſpoke ſuch humanity and goodneſs of heart, that I inſtantly in my own mind adopted her for a friend, and received her firſt expreſſions of kindneſs with that gratitude and enthuſiaſm, which her civility undoubtedly ſtill merits, but which it is now no longer in my power ſo warmly to beſtow. Firſt ſight impreſſions I confeſs are extremely fallacious; yet I am much miſtaken if Mrs. Hindon poſſeſeſes either that delicacy or good ſenſe, which, if they inhabit the mind ſeldom fail to throw ſome luſtre over the manners, however unpoliſhed by ſociety or a knowledge of the polite world.

I was particularly ſhocked by her behaviour to this poor girl. Nothing certainly diſcovers littleneſs of mind ſo evidently as inſolence to inferiors, or to thoſe whom calamities have rendered dependent on us. As we ſat together, I expreſſed my apprehenſions that our intended viſit was the occaſion of hurrying her away from Mrs. Hindon's ſooner than was her original intention; but before ſhe could reply, Mrs. Hindon overhearing me, anſwered —Oh never think of that, Miſs Seymour. I dare ſay Jenny herſelf would be very unwilling to ſtand in the way of my convenience. We can eaſily procure her an apartment at Mrs. Bret's the mantua makers, for ſome weeks, and as we are at the expence of her lodgings, it is all one to her: beſides it is juſt in the corner of the ſtreet, and ſhe will eat here; ſo that I give you my word the honour of your company will not occaſion the ſlighteſt inconvenience. I only wiſh to have a day or two given me afterwards, that things may be made proper for your reception, and then I ſhall be quite affronted if you refuſe to favour me ſo far.

The extreme groſneſs of this ſpeech, which ſo unfeelingly diſcovered Miſs Jenny's dependance, made her hang down her head in confuſion; and I felt her mortification ſo ſeverely, that I inſiſted on remaining in our preſent lodgings in preference to occaſioning her removal.

Mrs. Hindon however ſoon contrived to carry her point by rendering me quite incapable of arguing on the ſubject. You don't conſider, my dear Miſs Seymour, cried ſhe, how ſcandal flies in this town. What will not people ſay to ſee two fine young girls of your figure reſiding in lodgings, without the protection either of a father, a huſband, or a brother. I make no doubt but that Mr. Howard here would be exceedingly happy to act in the capacity of one of theſe relations; but till he proves his title, added ſhe, (laughing immoderately at the confuſion into which both her brother-in-law and we were thrown by this hint) you'll be charitably taken for a connection of a different kind.

Mr. Howard even bluſhed at her indelicacy; but ſaid, with an air of mingled dignity and gravity, that he ſhould be happy in performing any ſervices to us which might manifeſt his friendſhip for my father, and the ſenſe he ſhould ever poſſeſs of the obligations he owed him.

There I don't doubt you, returned Mrs. Hindon, ſmiling with a ſly look, and I hope the young ladies may rely on your good offices upon their own account as well as their father's.

I flatter myſelf they do, ſaid he, with reſerve, though much embarraſſed by his facetious ſiſter in law's ill judged raillery.

Before we departed, Lady Farnford and her daughter came up, and expreſſed in warm terms their good fortune in having been introduced to our acquaintance, hoped it would prove the forerunner of a cordial intimacy, and aſſured us they ſhould not fail to wait on us as ſoon as it was in their power.

Mrs. Hindon, who is indeed extremely kind, tho' I could wiſh it were attended with a little more ſoftneſs, called again this morning, and was hardly ſeated when Lady Farnford and her daughter were announced.

The latter on entering haſtily bruſhed by her mother, and ſhaking both Fanny and I by the hand with the familiarity and freedom due to old acquaintances, exclaimed—I am quite happy to ſee you both. I aſſure you mama has done nothing but praiſe you ſo as you can't think ſince laſt night, and we ordered the coach as ſoon as we had done breakfaſt, in order to wait on you, to requeſt that you would favour us with your company to the play, if you are not engaged on Wedneſday next. Mrs. Siddons is to appear in Belvidera. All the world will be there; and as we have engaged places, I hope you will certainly accompany us.

Lady Farnford joining in the requeſt, we conſented, altho' I do not much wiſh to appear in public, till we know on what footing we are to be introduced.

To-day we have ſpent at home, and entirely by ourſelves, which the two ladies regretted as a calamity their politeneſs would undoubtedly have prevented, had not previous engagements put it out of their power. Mr. Howard has been from home too moſt part of the day, employed I believe about our affairs with Mr. Benſeley's executors.

EIGHT IN THE EVENING.

Mr. Howard is juſt come in. With his accuſtomed kindneſs, he has been making enquiries I find reſpecting the ſituations and diſpoſitions of our neareſt relations, with the view of being enabled to judge from which of them we are likely to receive the moſt cordial reception. But tho' he does not wiſh to raiſe a prejudice in our minds againſt my uncle's family, he has been conſtrained to acknowledge, that with the exception of his ſecond ſon, (who is high in the world's eſtimation,) they are not generally beloved.

Tho' of acknowledged probity and honor, a vain paſſion for ſtate and parade obſcures their good qualities, and renders their ſociety ſo ſhackled with oſtentatious ceremonials, that it is very little either courted or deſired. Lady Linroſe in particular exacts an homage on account of her rank, which is beheld with ridicule and granted with reluctance, of courſe out of a very general acquaintance ſhe enjoys the bleſſing of but few friends.

My uncle and her Ladyſhip, it ſeems, had lived ſeparate for ſome years previous to his death. He was a man of a very violent, untractable diſpoſition, and his lady poſſeſſed not that mild compliance of temper that could ſubmit to the headſtrong humour of her huſband. Lord Belmont, it is ſaid, approved of and even adviſed the ſeparation, and has preſerved for her Ladyſhip a reſpect and regard which leads the world to exculpate her from the ſhare of blame that uſually in ſimilar inſtances involves in ſome meaſure both parties.

Lady Ann Vere, my father's only ſiſter, Mr. Howard is told died about a twelve month ago. She had buried her huſband ſome years before, and has left no family. Her loſs is particularly unfortunate at this juncture, as ſhe is ſaid to have been of a very amiable character, was extremely attached to my father, and partially beloved by Lord Belmont.

LETTER VI. TO MISS BEAUMONT. DECEMBER 8.

HAVING diſpatched my laſt packet, Fanny and I were preparing to leave the parlour the other night, it being late, and Mr. Howard having already retired to bed, when the door was ſuddenly opened and two young men, ſeemingly intoxicated and diſordered, haſtily entered the room, as if quite at home. Upon ſeeing it occupied, they aſked pardon for their intruſion. They did not however attempt to repair it, by leaving the apartment, but ſtood ſome minutes endeavouring to excuſe themſelves on the ſcore of having miſtaken it for another, which it ſeems one of them at preſent inhabits in this houſe.

The wildneſs of their looks, and the elaborate length of their apology, led me inſtantly to ſuſpect that the miſtake was not unintentional, eſpecially as the part of the houſe which we have taken is perfectly diſtinct from that engaged by other lodgers. I recollected beſides that I had more than once remarked, ſince our abode here, that as we paſſed on the ſtairs a face from the door of one of the rooms uſed to peep out as if anxious to get a ſight of us, and concluded, from the behaviour of theſe gentlemen, that knowing there were two young women under the ſame roof with them, they had been ſeized with curioſity to ſee us, and in a ſtate of intoxication had ventured to introduce themſelves in this rude and abrupt manner.

Frightened by the bold way in which they ſtared at us, I curtſeyed with a very grave air, and told them the miſtake was of no conſequence, expecting them to depart. This however they had no intention of doing ſo immediately.

Since Fortune has proved ſo kind, ſaid one of them, who appeared the moſt intoxicated, ſince Fortune, has ſo wonderfully ſavoured us with the knowledge that two ſuch angels exiſt, let us not fail to profit from the bleſt occaſion. Permit me the honour ladies of introducing this gentleman to the happineſs of your acquaintance, (pulling his friend by the arm, who, half aſhamed of his ſituation, had ſhrunk behind)—Tom Bradſhaw, Ma'am, (bowing,) he is modeſt you may perceive, but as worthy a fellow as lives.

My embarraſſment and aſtoniſhment at this effrontery in an utter ſtranger may eaſily be conjectured. I knew not what reply to make to a ſpeech and behaviour ſo unaccountably forward and preſuming, but ſtood with a ſurpriſe and gravity in my countenance ſufficient I hoped to have confounded them, had they been capable of confuſion after ſuch a frolic.

Come Tom, continued he, do me the ſame favour with the ladies: introduce me to theſe divinities, who have kindly condeſcended to inhabit this our terreſtrial abode.

His companion however, whoſe faculties were either leſs impaired or who did not naturally poſſeſs that degree of happy aſſurance with which the other ſeemed bleſt, becoming now thoroughly ſenſible of the error he had committed, and heartily aſhamed of his friend's behaviour, exclaimed—This is too much, Jack; let us be gone. Ladies, I am perfectly athamed—I bluſh—to have—to have intruded ſo rudely; and ſtammering out a very awkward apology, endeavourer to diſengage himſelf from his friend, who held him by the arm, ſwearing that he would not ſuffer him to leave the ladies ſo abruptly.

Terrified at the buſtle they began to create, I haſtily exclaimed, for heaven's ſake gentlemen leave us. Conſider we have not the pleaſure of knowing you. I then looked around in vain for the bell, but perceived there was none in the room, and I was too much intimidated to dare acknowledge my fears, by making an attempt to eſcape, which would probably have proved fruitleſs, as they had ſhut the door and flood themſelves almoſt before it.

Fanny, tho' in general rather timid, could not witneſs this ſcene without feeling more entertained than frightened. The extreme abſurdity of the two gentlemen's conduct, and the awkwardneſs of my aſtoniſhment, ſtruck her ſo forcibly, that in ſpite of her apprehenſions ſhe could not reſiſt giving way to a violent and childiſh fit of laughing; the bad conſequences of which ſoon appeared ſo evident, as to put a ſpeedy period to mirth ſo mal apropos.

Nay if you are for a frolic ladies, cried the gentleman who, had hitherto preſerved the moſt decorum, ſuddenly turning round and joining heartily in the laugh, I'm your man.

Oh! cried the other, I knew they were dear little kind devils, and advancing to Fanny, was going to throw his arms around her, when a ſudden emotion of uncontroulable terror made us both utter atone inſtant a loud ſcream and fly to the door, which the gentlemen were too much intimidated to prevent our opening; and the landlady, and Thereſe both appearing, they retired in haſte to their own apartment, while Fanny and I, breathleſs with fear, did not for an hour recover our uſual compoſure.

Mrs. Brumpton, our landlady, who is a decent, ſenſible looking woman, then informed us that only one of the gentlemen lodged in her houſe, and the other, who by our account of his audacity ſhe aſſured us could not be Captain Bradſhaw, was one of his friends who often viſited him.

Her lodger, ſhe ſaid, was a gentleman of the belt character, ſweet tempered, and extremely generous, and had never been, guilty of ſuch a riot in her houſe ſince he had lived with her; ſhe therefore imagined his preſent freedom muſt have entirely proceeded from inebriety, as indeed the other gentleman his friend was but too much giVen to that fault, and might have led him into it, and ſhe was certain Captain Bradſhaw would be quite diſtreſſed when he reflected on his miſbehaviour to two ſuch ladies.

She afterwards added, that having got a glympſe of us one day on the ſtairs, he had been ſo much ſtruck, as ſhe called it, that he had often entreated her to contrive ſome means of ſeeing us for a longer time, but that ſhe had told him that was a favour he muſt owe to chance alone, as ſhe could not preſume to introduce him.

I told Mrs. Brumpton that intoxication, (a bad apology for any tranſgreſſion,) afforded no ſort of juſtification for rudeneſs like his, and that I ſhould moſt undoubtedly take effectual means to prevent a repetition of the ſame offence, by applying next day to Mr. Howard, who would talk to the young men on the ſubject without delay.

This was leſs my intention at the time than meant as a threat to be repeated from Mr. Brumpton's lips to her lodger; tho' I had reſolved, in the heat of my reſentment, not conſidering the conſequences, to inform Mr. Howard of our affront and to requeſt his interference: but a moment's reflection had changed this reſolution; and the good woman repreſented ſo ſtrongly the riſque attending engaging two gentlemen in a quarrel, that I determined never to mention it to him unleſs I had reaſon to dread the continuance of a ſimilar conduct.

Next morning our landlady brought us an apology couched in the moſt reſpectful terms, from the Captain, entreating our forgiveneſs for our laſt night's alarm. As I was ſomewhat afraid of his encroachments after ſuch audacious behaviour, we took no further notice of his meſſage than to tell Mrs. Brumpton that while her lodger made no attempts to force himſelf on our acquaintance we ſhould think of the paſt no more.

All yeſterday and the day before Mrs. Hindon was confined with a bad cold, yet ſhe was ſo kind as to requeſt our company; but we declined it, from the idea that politeneſs alone could have induced her when ill to ſolicit it.

Adieu my love. H. SEYMOUR.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.