LETTER I. To CHARLES RIVERS, Esq.

NOW help me to rail, to curse that seducing libertine sex, who have for so many years been the subject of your satire.—Yes, Charles, I have for some time past been a convert to your opinion, my hopeful rib has followed the example of her eldest sister, but in iniquity she far out does her: your wise was comparatively a Diana, after being de­tected in a faux pas she had the grace to bury herself and her shame in obscurity,—she has ever since been dead to the world,—her prudent retreat in some mea­sure, aton'd for her fault;—your honor received only a slight scratch, compared to that which mine has suf­fered; the broad shame comes staring in my face, and boys—pride forbids me to finish the horrid sentence—she is gone—we are separated for ever; I shall not take the trouble to sue for a divorce; why should I? since not even the charms of a Venus, with Pallas's mind, could tempt me again to play the fool and marry. I have thus got rid of one plague, but another still re­mains. Can I sleep in peace.—Can I enjoy that ease, of which your indolent friend, as you often call me, is so fond, while it is still in the power of a female to plunge me deeper in dishonor—marry your daughter [Page 4] says somebody, I forget who, least she marry herself,—but an imprudent marriage in these our degenerate days, is not the worst a parent has to fear.

The girl already, young as she is, discovers so much of her mother's disposition, that I have the most dread­ful forebodings of her future fate—who would have the courage to marry, did they but seriously weigh the con­sequence.—This was not my case,—caught by a [...] face, and sprightly wit, without giving myself time to reflect, I rush'd into the fatal snare.—But all this you knew before; let me rather ask your opinion in regard to Bell.—What am I to do with her? she is now out of her teens, and has for some yea [...] been under the tuition of a French governess, one of her mother's hope­ful confidants, as I have discovered upon our late rup­ture,—a sweet tutoress for a young girl to be sure!—Too late I repent my indolent inattention to her education. I saw she had a graceful ease in her manner, that she danced with elegance—sung agreeably and spoke French with fluency. Satisfied that she was mistress of these superficial accomplishments, I gave myself no farther trouble: Her mind,—ah! I fear it is irreparably per­verted; had it been left in a state of nature, I might have had some hopes, but her native levity has gained new force, by the precepts of an intriguing governess; and the example of a mother lost to virtue.

Both these perverters, these poisoners of her youthful heart, are dismissed with the infamy they deserve; but 'tis too late—the mischief is done:—What my next step must be, heaven knows: The girl's continuing to live with me, is out of the question; I have neither talents nor inclination to commence her preceptor; I have no maiden sisters to undertake the important charge;—would to heaven I could find some place of safety to send her to, till I can fix on a fit husband for her.

[Page 5] Her beauty; (for Bell has all her mother's charms, and I fear all her imperfections into the bargain) her beauty I say, and large fortune, will easily procure her a suitable match in this prudent age:—Do Charles, help me by your sage advice out of this dilemma; do you know any old dowager to whom I could commit her?—it must be in the country remember; for our old har­ridans in town, are only more practised in the ways of vice than their grand-daughters; but an ancient castle in the country, moted round, with a starched virgin, neglected from her youth upwards, by the other sex; whom nature has fenced round on every side, and ef­fectually secured from all attempts; who never heard the sepucing whispers of flattery; who never excited a tender sigh, or amorous [...]—could we find an un­fortunate damsel like this? compelled to chastity, from dire necessity; this was a fit, a watchful dragon to guard the tempting fruit.

Adieu—I have a thousand engagements on my hands, and a thousand plagues in my head; but no si­tuation in life, shall ever diminish the regard with which I am,

LETTER II. Mr. RIVERS to Sir HENRY RICHMOND.

THERE is not a married man in England, but who sooner, or later, will be compelled to subscribe to my creed.—I need not tell you what that creed is, since you have a thousand times, while an infidel, heard [Page 6] me repeat it.—Poor Harry;—well, ‘your condition (our condition I should say) is not to be scorned,’ since the first men in the nation, "are now-a-days hor­ned."

A pretty task you would have me engage in,—to go in quest of virginity,—of an old maid;—an old un­married woman is, I trow, easily found; but for a maid,—you must first provide me with a few of those dogs mentioned in the Spectator,—my scent is not good enough to discover them.

I question if in all London such a phoenix is to be found out of leading-strings; and you want, not a youth­ful, but an antient Duena.—The scheme you propose is chimerical [...] the best advice I can give you, is, that you send Bell to keep her cousin company.—My girl has been in a convent ever since her mother's fine pranks were discovered;—and there she shall remain, till I have a husband ready at the foot of the alter to receive her hand, and to take the wayward charge out of mine.

I do not recommend a nunnery as a school of mo­rality; on the contrary, I think with Rousseau, that it is a nursery of coquettes; but since Mungo's receipt is found ineffectual (for we have lost the art of which the En­glish once boasted padlocking the minds of our females, by a generous confidence and reasonable freedom;) since this will no longer restrain them, or rather since they no longer think it worth their while to deceive us, by an outward appearance of virtue, but sin with a high hand, and in the face of day;—since this, I say, is the case, the Spanish padlock must be substituted in lieu of the English.

I have placed bolts and bars, as guards upon my daughter; marriage alone shall release her from her pri­son—she then becomes the property of her husband—if after that she commences the modern fine lady—his [Page 7] honor receives the principal wound—the disgrace glan­ces only obliquely on me—her name, her condition is changed; from me he receives her pure—'tis his busi­ness to keep her so—if not, he must take the conse­quence. Ridiculous:—Unjust however, is that preju­dice, which makes us confound the innocent with the guilty—but 'tis no longer the case—******* is now an honorable name—no longer the prerogative to city-husbands, but the high court fashion—a title of distinc­tion. A woman of quality thinks it now a-days abso­lutely necessary to be divorced, in order to establish the reputation of her beauty (that is, the only reputation of which she is ambitious!) The age of [...]hival [...]y is past—fighting is no longer in vogue—gallants are substitu­ted in the room of knight-errants—no longer do we de­fend and contend for our mistress's charms, by the force of arms, but we give a still more daring proof of their power—we marry the woman who has given us the strongest instance of weakness:—We take as our wives, the wantons whom our neighbours cast off—who have been publicly branded with infamy.—What folly!—What astonishing infatuation!—Our ancestors would have blushed at the bare mention of such depravity of morals; but we, their more polished sons, glory in our shame.

Pardon me, Harry; you know there is no stopping either my pen or tongue, when I stumble on this sub­ject; but for once I will check myself—'tis hackneyed—all the world rail—but nobody looks at home, and begins the reformation so much wish'd for.

Let us return to the girls:—If you chuse to carry your's abroad, I'll accompany you.—I do not think, if she is the lively hussy you describe, she ought to be trusted with any other escort but yourself.—Yet why should I say, if she is this, or that; vice is not confined [Page 8] to any particular temper or age. Who could have a more seducing appearance, a more promising disposition than my torment.—Mild as the gentle breeze of May—timid—blushingly modest—full of tender sensibility—her sentiments delicate and refined.—Often have I, in the days of foolish love and rapture, read to her Mil­ton's fine description of Eve, and swore she sat for the amiable picture— not obvious, not obstrusive—but retired.—

Such seemed to be her nature. Alass! too soon she threw off the mask. Do you know, Harry? No, you do not: Let me then spare myself the shame of confes­sing my weakness. Harriot is the exact image of her mother: As a daughter, she acts with the greatest pro­priety. No one can be more dutiful, more submissive, more affectionate; never has she uttered a single com­plaint at her confinement,—but she is of a grave turn—vastly sentimental, forsooth;—in short, the very cha­racter I have drawn above. But as I must from fatal experience, exclaim with the poet, "Frailty, thy name is Woman."

So do I not place any manner of confidence in these favorable appearances; the foundation of my security is good substantial iron bars. Let me know, whether or no you choose to follow my example. Harriot is not much older than your daughter: her gravity and pru­dence, however, will give her a sort of authority over your giddy girl, and may be a means of moderating her too great vivacity. If you determine to place her at the convent of B—, I will as I before said, accompa­ny you in your expedition, and there we will leave from safe under lock and key, till we can find fit [...]

[Page 9] Adieu. Let me have your answer by the return at the Post; because, if I do not go with you to France, I propose a visit of a few weeks to our old fellow collegian, Tom Bertie.

LETTER III. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

OF how much happiness am I deprived by the loss of my sweet friend and companion. Dreary now appears this malancholy enclosure—so the world calls it; but never till my Eliza's departure did it wear a gloomy aspect to her Harriot; happy in your society, guarded by pious precepts from the love of a tumul­tuous world, of which I know nothing, but from the description of those whose interest it now is [...] dwell only on the dark side of the picture.

I was perfectly content with my tranquil retreat: With what chearful alacrity did you and I enter in­to our innocent amusements; not a moment of our time hung heavy on our hands;—but, since separa­ted from you, I feel an aching void in my heart; our little recreations have, to me, lost their charms; I still see round me the same serene, contented coun­tenances, but I see none to whom I can, with unli­mited▪ freedom, unbosom myself: I like and esteem them; but 'tis a cool sentiment, compar'd to what I experienced for you. My judgment approves, but my affections are unengaged: Let me not however dam [...] [Page 10] your joy, at being again received into the arms of a ten­der mother, by my complaints; rather let me congra­tulate you on your felicity: A mother! O my friend! the very mention of that endearing name, fills my eyes with tears. Long, long, have I been deprived of mine: But, young as I was, when I enjoyed that ines­timable blessing, strongly is it impressed on my me­mory; I love to recollect her tenderness on these occa­sions. I seem still to feel her kisses on my cheek, and fancy my self pressed to her maternal bosom. She is no more! Yet let me not repine, I have still a parent left: But it seems natural to our sex to be more fondly attached to the mother, than the father. I reverence the latter, but my affection is mixed with awe; a hasty word from him agitates my whole frame; while his smiles excite only a sort of doubtful joy: A joy, alloyed by the fear of inadvertently doing, or saying something that may dispel the sunshine of his counte­nance, and substitute a cloud in its place. Whereas, had I a mother, I feel that my heart would expand itself in her presence; I would presume to make her the con­fidant of all my little secrets: Her feminine softness would encourage me; on the contrary, my father's manly dignity, adds to my natural timidity; perhaps I should be more at ease in his presence, were I of [...]ner ad­mitted to it; but though he frequently takes a trip to Paris. I enjoy at the grate but little of his company: My first emotions at the sight of him, are always of the most agreeable nature; but he no sooner beholds me, than his native vivacity is exchanged for a melancholy pensive air; for some moments he continues lost in thought▪ his visits are short, and he seems to leave me without regret.

Perhaps, my dear, I have before now troubled you with the above remarks. Pardon me,—what led me to [Page 11] the subject, was a note, which I receiv'd from him this morning, informing me that he, my uncle (Sir Harry Richmond) and my cousin Isabella, will be here to­morrow; the latter is, I fancy, coming to add to the number of our boarders; I never saw her, nor have I the least knowledge of her character; but as the daugh­ter of my mother's sister, I am prepared to love her, and expect her arrival with that female impatience and curiosity, so natural to us. Lady Richmond I have seen, she favored me last winter with a visit, accom­panied by my uncle; she is I think, without exception, the finest woman I ever saw, and as lively as she is hand­some:—Sir Harry is no less distinguished for the charms of his person, so that I expect to behold in my little cousin, a perfect Venus; you know my dear, how fond I am of beauty—in others I mean. You will, perhaps, archly smiling, hint, that you could not suspect, I could mean in myself, since you know of none I have to be fond of; this some would say, therefore to save your friend from the imputation of vanity, I saved them the trouble: Do not call this affected humility: I will say no more on the subject.

Adieu! [...]y dearest Eliza; remember, though ab­sent, your affectionate

LETTER IV. The SAME to the SAME.

THEY are come my dear:—About eleven o'clock this morning I was summoned into the parlour, the outward parlour I mean, where we receive com­pany, the lady abbess, and some of the sisterhood were [Page 12] ready at the other side of the grate, to receive their new charge; my father entered, leading Isabella, followed by Sir Harry; I was struck with the uncommon beau­ty of her person; she is very tall of her age, her air is graceful and animated; her travelling dress was ini­mitably becoming; she changed colour at the sight of the nuns, and as it appeared to her, their gloomy en­closure—ah! those iron bars!—cried she, with a faint smile, pointing to the grate, the very sight of them makes a free born English spirit revolt. I doubt not my dear cousin, said I, embracing her, but time will effectually reconcile you to our serene and tranquil joys. Serene and tranquil, repeated she, a pretty description, and admirably suited to the gravity of the no less pretty speaker: In saying this, she obligingly returned my caresses.—All the English boarders dressed to the best advantage, now by order of the abbess, made their ap­pearance; this had before been requested by my uncle, who knew some of their parents: Here, said he, turn­ing with a smile to my father, one might, I fancy, find that phoenix you despaired to meet with. 'Tis possi­ble, returned the other in the same tone,—thanks to the strength of their impregnable garrison; but how long will they remain so when they get into the world? Sir Harry shook his head—pity they should ever come there, said he, to lose that engaging timidity, that sedu­cing air of innocence, which is so charming! did wo­men know their own interest would they wish effectually to enslave us; they would relinquish the bon ton for the antient simplicity of manners, and again become retired, which renders them the more to be desired. While her father spoke, Isabella remained buried in thought; the abbess several times addressed to her some po [...]te compliments, to which she answered only by a slight inclination of her head; at last starting from her [Page 13] reverie, she whispered me,—tell me, for heaven sake, Harriot, how do you make shift to kill your time amidst those set of inanimates?—ah! Lord,—they had better not admit me into their dreary prison, for I shall [...] a most unmerciful delight in plaguing them, poor dear souls. What a collection of winter-faced virgins are the nuns! It seems to me, that their vows were quite needless.

Some of them (the weather being extremely warm) had raised their [...], which gave her an opportunity to make this remark. After chatting about half an hour longer, Sir Harry said, that he wanted to have a little private conversation with the lady abbess, recom­mending his daughter to my friendship, and promised to call again next morning.

On this my fair co [...]sin and I paid our respects, she gave me her hand—I tremble, whispered she—the en­trance into our prison is easy, but ah! how shall we get out again?—Her father over-heard her, and, in a half whisper, kissing her cheek, said, I will 'ere long, send you a knight errant, who shall set you at liberty; only to make me more effectually resign it—returned she archly, however send him—the sooner the better; ‘for it is liberty, dear liberty alone, that gives fresh beauty to the sun:’ In warbling this air, she entered with me the pious dwelling.

What an ease, what a vivacity is there in the manner of this charming girl! how little is she restrained by the presence of her father, to what I am by mine! but this is easily accounted for, not only by the difference of our tempers, but by the difference of theirs: Sir Harry is gallant, polite, and gay;—my father is well b [...]ed, but it is mixed with a little haughtiness; he is sen­sible, animated, and is, I fancy, naturally as [...] [...]ively as the other; but he has met with some [...] life.— [Page 14] what I know not;—I only judge to by his manner, wherein one may discover a sort of affected [...];—affected I say,—for his native good humor fre­quently breaks out in spice of himself, but he laughs as if he scorned himself for laughing.—You my dear have heard him expatiate on the conduct of our sex;—on this subject he is unmercifully satirical; the unfavora­ble opinion he entertains of us, excites in me a laudable ambition, if possible, by my conduct, to make him do us more justice.

Amidst the crouds of a populous city, there are no doubt, many exceptionable characters, both male and female; but surely Eliza, our nature is not so depraved as some gloomy moralists pretend. Virtue at least is the very characteristic of our sex; those that forfeit that, forfeit the name of woman.

Adieu. Let you and I, my dear, ever study to de­serve that amiable name, by modesty, delicacy, and gen­tle timidity; which are all so many parts of our nature: For my share. I glory in being what I am; nor would all the prerogatives of which the lordly sex make their boast, tempt me to exchange the soft, the feminine wo­man, for the bold, the less feeling man. However, were I even to undergo this unfavorable metamorphose my attachment to you would remain; as a female you excite my warmest friendship;—and were I a male, that friendship would be exchanged for love: This change would be so much more flattering to your vanity, that I fear I shall sink in value as what I am, when you consider what I might have been. But I forget,—I talk to you as if still in the convent, where lovers are so scarce; on the contrary, you are in the beaux monde, where every heart endued with sensibility, pays you that tender homage so justly your due.

LETTER V. Miss RICHMOND to Lady BAB WILMOT.

MY father talked of sending me to a convent. You laughed at my fears:—Impossible.—Your papa, my dear, too much admires a woman of spirit, to send his daughter abroad on any such gloomy er­rand.—No child, he will rather encourage, than damp your charming vivacity; you have already all the modish airs and graces, which cost some of us (even women of fashion) so much trouble to acquire. Do you recollect who said all this to comfort her friend? Ah! lady Bab;—how much did flattering hope de­ceive us? Look at the place from whence I date this woe-begone epistle, the convent of R—. You doubt your senses. Borrow your Aunt's specks, child;—look again;—alas! 'tis even so;—but do not be too much affected: not long will Bell Rich­mond be confined. By what pretty method do you think I am to be released?—By marriage!—Delightful state of freedom, as our modern wives manage the af­fair.

The poet makes Calista talk of the husband's impe­rious reign, "proud with opinion of superior wisdom," but our modern dames have taught them better man­ners. The tables are turned. 'Tis our reign now, not theirs, which then commences.—An unmarried woman is a mere cypher;—but when once the connu­bial knot is tied, then pleasures golden reign begins:—then for gallants, intrigues, the dear Coterie, and to crown all, a divorce.—What charming methods have the ladies of this polished age discovered, to render marriage easy, Oh time! hasten that I may become [Page 16] a wife; no matter to whom—I mean as to sense and figure; and indeed, for rank and fortune, we may trust our prudent parents, while we amuse ourselves with forming plans of future gaiety and expence. You know Bab, I am absolutely wild to enter the joyou [...] state, I flatter myself I have talents to make some figure in it, and thanks to those who superintend my educa­tion; I shall have none of those qualms of conscience to struggle with, which those often have who have been cooped up in a nursery till their hanging sleeves were taken off, and, from one extreme, are suddenly [...]rown into another. Young as I am, I know the world; early was I introduced into scenes of gaiety; often have I stood at the elbow of my mamma, while she has lost a cool hundred at Brag!—By the by, Lady Bab, brag is one of the most delightful games in na­ture—something in it so spirited—so fit for a woman of quality; I dare say I should soon become mistress of it. Ah! would I were now at the dear Coterie—learning the enchanting lesson; instead of which, behold me, in a melancholy cell, with a death's head and a weeping Magdalene placed on my toilet, in the room of patch-box and cosmetics. The poor unfortunate ***** of a penitent was depicted with a countenance so horribly rueful, that there was no standing it, if she had not, by her sister saints, been so effectually plaistered up against the wall, I should have taken the liberty to remove her; but since this (without tearing to atoms the sacred relict) could not be done, I have only with my pencil made a little reform in her face, and now she appears with dishevelled hair beating her breast, while her mouth is upon the broad grin: I never thought my drawing would have been of so much service to me.

I was so diverted at the odd appearance of the pic­ture, when I had thus touched it up, that I determined [Page 17] to exercise my skill on some more of the memento mori's; accordingly, while the honest virgins were in the chapel, yawning over their beads I stole to their cells, and set their whole collection of saints a laughing; scarce a pic­ture in the house, but what, with a few of my touches, I put into good humor, though before they were re­penting in sackcloth and ashes. This is the least hu­morous piece of mischief I have amused myself with since I came here, and, to say truth, hardly worth rela­ting; but the Magdalene being facing me as I write, brought it to my remembrance: and whatever whim seizes me, whether in thought word or deed, you know I never check myself, so that if I am inclined to talk, or write nonsense, out it comes; it is a talent in which I excel: I know not how it may be relished by my own sex; but often have I by the most trifling prattle imagi­nable, drawn off the attention of a circle of beaux, from plain sensible women, who were left to entertain each o­ther, while they hung enraptured on the pretty follies that flowed from my ruby lips. Oh! Bab, when will those happy days of dear flirtation return?—Now I talk of wise women, I must tell you that I have met with a female cousin of mine, one of the demurest little toads you ever beheld; so sentimental,—delicate,—so timid,—so feminine,—so much the antediluvian—Ah I Lord, there is no bearing her: and yet it must be own­ed, the girl has some agreeable talents, if she did but know how to make use of them: she has seen no [...]hing of life; what share of polish she has, is entirely the gift of nature: there is something of a native grace about her, which one would not expect from a poor thing, shut up from infancy, in such a dreary mansion. Her person too, is, what some people would call handsome: but she is inanimate—at least, she appears so to me, when I compare her to those charming affected lively [Page 18] coquettes, amongst whom I have been accustomed to flourish: What I here mean by inanimate, is the want of that modish air of freedom, so conspicuous in the town bred belles; the loud laugh, the confident stare, which sets all rustic bashfulness at defiance. This kind of animation, is easily acquired; a couple of winters spent amongst people of fashion, will do the business; it has nothing to do with expression of countenance, or I should have no reason to tax my cousin with the want of it, for her features undisciplined by art, betray every sentiment of her heart: in her eyes, which are large, black, and languishing, one may see the sparkle of joy; the tear of pity, and the gentle beams of friendly sensi­bility by turns: in short, they are such a pair of tell­tale eyes, that I know not what she will do with them, when she comes to figure in the beau monde: her hair is dark, her complexion delicate, rather inclined to pale; she has good teeth, and a pretty mouth; yet will all this, is far from being a striking beauty; her's is of that kind, which will not please the generality of men; but those she does affect will be deeply so. See here a proof how void I am of envy; but my vanity is too strong to admit that humble vice.

I do not think Harriot is at all to be feared as a rival; she is in every thing so very opposite to your humble servant, that we shall never interfere with each other's conquests.—Conquests! Oh! the reviving sound!—What is life without them! What lifeless clods should we be were we not actuated and animated by the trans­porting hope of admiration! I am, for my part, asto­nished, how your plain souls make shift to support their insipid existence? To them the brilliant bail, the play­house, the opera, the part, and all the dear enjoyments of public amusements, must lose their charms; a new fashion in them will not excite the flush of delighted [Page 19] surprise: The looking-glass to them, must be a disgust­ing object But I forget, that we all view ourselves through the medium of self-love; and that, however we may accuse dame▪ fortune of injustice, we all think nature has been sufficiently liberal in her gifts.

Fortunately for you, Lady Bab,—the dinner bell put a stop to my moralizing epistle;—it is a strange mixture of—of—no matter what; it has served to kill a tedious hour of my stupid existence; and by em­ploying your eyes, has saved half a hundred beaux, from falling a sacrifice to their fatal glances.

LETTER VI. Mr. RIVERS to Sir HENRY RICHMOND.

YOU curse your wife for obliging you, by her shameless conduct; to quit a place, so much to your taste, as this gay city: I on the contrary, hate it so heartily, that I could curse you, as I do with less scruple, the Count D—, for not suffering me more expeditiously to settle your business, that I may quit it: There is no prevailing on these laughing, fluttering trifling, giddy-brained mortals, to act like rational beings: I cannot get the Count to dispatch the affair, though it is so much his interest to bring it to a conclusion: How ridiculous! And yet, these are the people with whose manners you are so much enamoured: to me they are the most insignificant coxcombs in the creation, nothing can reconcile me to their fantastic follies: you will, I know, tell me, that if they can sing and dance through life, and set every care at defiance, they are a thousand [Page 20] times happier than the snarling philosopher whose wisdom only serves to shew him the defects of his fellow crea­ture, and how inadequate the joys of this world, are to communicate pleasure, to one who has refined his taste, even to wretchedness. Which of these two, you will ask, is the man timely wise? That wisdom which serves to render us miserable, deserves the name of folly; and so vice versa, that folly which serves to promote our fe­licity, deserves the name of wisdom. This is your fa­vorite doctrine: but a thousand such like arguments, would not make me a convert to your opinion; you may as well prefer madness to reason, or an agreeable dream to less pleasing realities. According to your system, the man who is, constantly intoxicated, is both wiser and happier than him that is sober: but are these sons of laughter really the happy beings you and they pretend? Impossible! I should think, void as they are of sensibility, fashion governs them in every thing; nature has given them no peculiar bias;—they make love—take snuff—fight—dress—run to public places—and profess friendship with the same indiffe­rence.—I have no patience—I am sick of seeing perpe­tually, in all I meet, the same insipid gaiety of counte­nance; the laugh without a joke,—and of hearing a jingle of words without meaning.—Why, since you are so fond of them, did you leave them? Why is your honor so much easier wounded, than that of the people whose manners you so much admire? You was in no danger of being either despised or ridiculed for your wife's gallantries; they would rather congra­tulate you on being united to one, who is so much mis­tress of la bon ton: sure never any thing equalled the assurance of that woman! Far from being checked by my presence, she seems to watch for opportunities to throw herself in my way: Not often do I go to [Page 21] public places—but when I do, I am sure to meet her. The other night at the opera she made her ap­pearance, blazing with jewels; I happened unfortu­nately to place myself in the next box,—she had the impudence to curtesy to me; I was compelled to re­turn the compliment: With this I could have put up, but fate had determined further to torment me. In coming out it was some time before my carriage could draw up; while I stood waiting for it, behold her again close at my elbow.—"Your servant Mr. Rivers," cryed she, ‘long have I wished to have a little conversation with you;’—"with me ma­dam!" and I darted at her a look of ineffable con­tempt.—‘Unparalleled assurance! why you far out­strip your elder sister; she was a vestal when compar­ed to you!—or to almost any other of her sex;—’ interrupted she, ‘treat me as you please: but for hea­ven's sake,—for your own sake—be more just to your injured wife;—upon my life Rivers she is in­nocent.’—I hurried into my chariot without deign­ing to answer. She called to me, "stay one moment,—I have something of consequence!" I heard no more, I was glad to make my escape.

The subject in which she strove to engage me, is that, which of all others, is most trying to my natu­rally impetuous temper. There is a foolish weakness hangs about my heart, which neither my reason or pride can conquer: I should have spent a horrid night: past scenes had taken strong possession of me; when my servant fortunately roused me from my disagreea­ble reverie, by delivering a letter, the contents of which diverted my thoughts to another channel; it was from my [...]ate ward, Lord Oss [...]ry: he tells me, that he has since his return from abroad, been constantly engaged in settling his houshold, and affairs relating [Page 22] to his estate; that he is much pleased with his seat at—, and intends principally to [...] there; for which purpose, he has formed an extensive plan of im­provements in the house and its in [...]irons which are going on with the utmost expedition, under the in­spection of Monsieur La Fare, who has a most ele­gant taste in these affairs. It [...] remember right, you was present when my Lord related to me [...] le­man's unfortunate history; happy may he esteem himself in having met with so noble minded, so gene­rous'a patron: infinite are the obligations he [...] to his young protector; indeed I do not believe all England can produce a more amiable nobleman than [...]. I never knew his equal for good sense, good [...] sen­sibility and integrity.—Happy will that wo [...] an be, on whom he shall think fit to bestow his heart: but where can he find one worthy of that distinction? I have often cautioned him against a too precipitate choice: but what avails our caution, when those against whom we would be upon our guard, are such adepts in hypocrisy and deceit, that they may bid defiance to the deepest pene­tration? I lately wrote to him on this subject,—a report prevailing that he was on the point of taking this im­portant, and, in general, as it proves, fatal step. I shall transcribe that part of his letter which is an answer to mine: But first let me own to you, that I cannot help forming a wish, since he is determined to play the fool and marry, that my girl might have the good fortune to please him; she is, I think, without partiality, as unexceptionable, in every respect, as most of her sex; nay, I know none who comes so near the description of her on whom he seems inclined to confer that ho­nor:—read what follows, and I dare say you will be of my opinion. However, reason, as you and I have ex­perienced, has very little to do in these affairs, while at [Page 23] a distance from objects of temptation; he may form the most prudent plans for his future conduct: but will a youthful heart like his, alive to every tender feel­ing, wait for a reason to regulate his choice? Hear at present with what calm philosophy he talks on the sub­ject.

LETTER VII. Part of Lord OSSORY's letter to Mr. RIVERS.

YES, my good friend, I am indeed, in spite of all the discouragements you muster up, determined to take a wife, as soon as ever I can bring my hitherto insensible heart to second [...] judgment, for both these must join to decide my choice;—the latter, after the most mature consideration has convinced me, that mar­riage is a state infinitely preferable to celibacy; and the former tells me it has wants which neither friendship, wealth, nor grandeur, can satisfy.

I am here placed in a little paradise—so beautiful ap­pear to me the scenes that surround me: (but I must not again launch out in praise of my retreat; I fear I have already tired your patience in the first part of this epistle, with my description of it) What I was going to remark, is, that even the joys of a more en­chanting Eden was deemed imperfect, till man was blessed with a mate:—It is true, fatal consequences sprung from that last most endearing gift, Woman—but [...]e the consequence what it will, I am determined to run all ri [...]ques rather than live without experiencing those pleasing tyes, which only the matrimonial union can form.—I am returned from my travels, as much [Page 24] the Englishman as when I set off; and after viewing all the celebrated beauties of foreign courts, without pre­justice, I must give my own fair country women the preference, for personal charms, and would they but give nature fair play, their minds would be equally amiable—the only fault that foreigners formerly found in them was, a too great reserve, a coolness and formality of manners, which damp'd the gaiety of society.—From one extreme they have now fairly adopted the opposite. Ambi­tious to acquire what the French call la bon ton, instead of agreeable originals, they are become a [...]kward co­pyists, and their present forced insipid pert vivacity, is ten times worse than their native taciturnity; our cli­mate is not favorable to sprightliness, our women have more sentiment than spirit, more sense than wit—how much are the former to be preferred to the latter, and how much more insinuatingly engaging is the modest, timid, feminine maid, than the trifling, volatile, affected fi [...]e lady, who shall stare you out of countenance to shew her good breeding—who talks and laughs aloud at public places, that she may be thought easy and degagé—and who prattles i [...]cessantly, by way of pas­sing for a wit. With what difficulty does she support a character so contrary to her nature, and how con­temptible does it render her in the eyes of men of taste and understanding; nor is she less ridiculed by the gay Parisian dames who laugh at their aukward imita­tors,—however, if our fair ones fail in acquiring the graceful [...]ase of their neighbours, and instead of beco­ming lively, sentimental coquettes, become only child­ish, affected, and insipid pratlers, though they have not talents for their agreeable follies; yet alas! they are but too apt scholars in lessons of vice: but in spite of an al­most general depravity of manners, my temper is too sanguine to give up the hopes of meeting with one of [Page 25] the amiable exceptions,—peradventure there are but ten virtuous women: for these ten's sake, I will spare the rest. And oh! if heaven in mercy has destined one of these ten to fall to my lot, to be the dear sweetner of my future days, then will my happiness be complete.

If you, my good friend, should be so fortunate as to stumble on one of these your Emilius's, at present un­discovered Sophia, inform me where the angel is to be found, that I may fly to her on the wing's of love, and to you with gratitude, for adding to the favors already conferred on,

Mr. RIVERS in continuality.

NOW Sir Harry, what say you to my scheme?—To me it appears extremely feasible,—I shall not, however, too precipitately proceed in the affair—to take Harriot out of her convent on the strength of it, might be attended with disagreeable consequences; much as I wish honorably to dispose of her, yet will not my pride suffer me to render her cheap in his eyes—no, if the character I shall give him of her, together with a few hints, that his alliance will be acceptable, does not bring him to France, the girl's return to England shall not be hurried on his account.

Adieu, I am going to answer his letter; your daugh­ter is well. I saw her yesterday; I believe the sober sis­terhood would not be sorry to be rid of their charge; the little gipsy has already played them a thousand mis­chievous pranks, yet there is so much humor mixed with her rogueries, that they hardly know whether to laugh or chide, she is a most seducing hussy; but in spite [Page 26] of all her wit and beauty, I foresee the man will not be much to be envied, who calls her his wife.

LETTER VIII. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

YOU fear that my charming cousin, as you justly call her, will supplant in my affections, my absent friend—Are you really, Eliza, visited with such humble groundless apprehensions?—Ought I to pardon a sus­picion so injurious to us both?—Yes, since in spite of self-love, you could be so unjust to yourself, I may cer­tainly forgive your being so to me.—No, my dear, I do not think it possible, a friendship like your's and mine, can ever know decrease.—They say, people can love but once:—And I am tempted to think, that one can also but once in one's life, contract a sincere and genu­ine friendship.—This singular way of thinking, seems to argue in me, a narrow and contracted heart: I hope it has not that fault; yet I own I cannot, like most young girls, form a variety of intimacies, and solicit the friendship of almost every new and agreeable face I meet with; I have one friend whom I love with an ar­dor—a zeal which is not to be expressed.—I have also a few intimates, whose company gives me pleasure: but there are a hundred others, amongst the number of my acquaintance, who at the very first glance brought me, as my sprightly cousin calls it, to the freezing point; and with regard to them, it is in my heart winter all the [Page 27] year. I hardly or ever get the better of the first im­pression, so that I am terribly afraid I shall be one of those indiscreet damsels who are doomed to love at first sight—Heaven shield us all from Cupid's dart.

At present make me thankful I am pretty well out of his reach. The mischievous boy was hardly known, even by same, in this peaceful mansion, 'till the arrival of Bell Richmond: She has almost done as much mis­chief by her description of la belle passion here, as the little deity did amongst the nymphs of the unfortunate Dido. Without joking, this cousin of mine is constant­ly engaged in some roguish prank or other: she has brought with her a whole collection of novels, and those of the most passionate side; one of these she contrived to place open upon the table of each of the nuns in their cells, in the room of their prayer-book, so that when they went to their devotions, instead of a prayer,—behold a bi [...]let doux.—It would fill a quire of paper to tell you half the tricks she has played the good creatures, since she was committed to their charge; a charge of which they are already heartily weary of.

And is it a volatile being like this, Eliza, who you regard as a rival in my friendship?—No, my dear our hearts do not sympathize;—our characters are as oppo­site as light and darkness: Nevertheless, I have all that regard for her, to which, as a rela [...]ion she is entitled. Her conversation too, is so sprightly and entertaining, that it is impossible not to be pleased with it,—on peo­ple of a melancholy cast it might have a disagreeable effect: the violent flow of her spirits, would only serve more effectually to depress their's: but, I thank Heaven, though not entitled to the appellation of a mad creature, I have a native cheerfulness, which enables me both to promote, and relish innocent [...]; but then, as the sensible old song advises, "It is good to be mer­ry and wise."

[Page 28] I [...]ear Bell does not always confine herself within those narrow limits; her's borders on indiscretion: Madamoiselle D' Aubigny, has, you know, a very hand­some brother. (I' Abbe as we used to call him, because his friends intended him for holy orders) who frequent­ly visits her at the grate; my cousin saw him one day by accident, since that time this girl and her have been inseparable: Ninon is much of her own turn. The young man now dedicates almost every morning to his sister—Bell is always of their party:—as her friend has never hinted that my company would be acceptable, so, though I would wish to know what passes on these oc­casions, my pride would not suffer me to intrude. I have some disagreeable forebodings of the consequence of their interviews. But pardon me my dear, I ought not to trouble you with such trifles; yet, what but tri­fles can occur in my present situation, where all is peace­ful, regular, and as some would add, uniformly insipid? What a contrast is my life now to your's? I do not won­der that you long for the time of your removal into the country:—You know what our favorite Rosseau says, "Minds of delicate sensibility, &c." purling streams and shady bowers, would much better suit the taste of my Eliza.

Adieu, and be assured that no time nor chance shall ever shake my firm, my fixed regard for thee.

LETTER IX. CHARLES RIVERS, Esq to Sir HENRY RICHMOND.

YOUR presence here is absolutely necessary;—come and take the charge of your ungovernable [Page 29] daughter;—a fine adventure she has been engaged in:—You left, you know, strict orders with the abbess, that she was not to permit Bell, on any pretence what­ever, to go out of the convent, except either you or I went personally to fetch her:—but what is a suf­ficient security against the fruitful inventions of a wo­man's wit? She contracted an intimacy with one of the pensioners, a lively French girl, of her own age and disposition; this girl has a handsome brother, young, indiscreet, and impetuous who frequently visi­ted her at the grate:—Bell always on these occasions accompanied her friend:—you may guess the conse­quence.—He made love—she listened with compla­cency—and both cursed the envious bars that divided them.—What was to be done? Suppose they could surmount this obstacle to their happiness, the lad is a younger brother, his patrimony small, and intended for the church:—but what signifies wealth, where people have laid up an inexhaustable stock of love.—To be short—they agreed to make their escape to En­gland, where they were to throw themselves at your feet, no doubt of your pardon.—In consequence of this scheme, Bell, resembling Madamoiselle D' Aubig­ny, in her size, shape, and air, last Monday even­ing left the convent, disguised as her friend; she [...]old the abbess that her brother was come for her, and instantly obtained leave to go; in her stead my giddy niece hurried out to her impatient lover;—a chaise waited,—away they drove;—not till morning was her flight discovered.—I was instantly sent for;—Miss D' Aubigny, intimidated by the threats of the sisterhood, revealed what I have above related. Is sat off post for Calais,—fortunately the wind had not been favorable for their embarkation;—after an hour's [...]rch, I at last found them in a obscure lodging; they [Page 30] had, as you may suppose, changed their names; ne­vertheless it was no difficult matter to trace them by the description of their persons. Your daughter's un­common beauty for once was a disadvantage to her, as it helped me to trace out the place of her retreat—I left my servants and carriage at some distance from the house and after a few enquiries of the landlady, softly walked up stairs—threw open the door—when behold! Bell standing before a looking glass adjusting her hair; while her lover stood by her side, the arm encircling her [...], the other pointing out to her, her Venus's charms; both their delighted eyes fixed on the mirror: I had but a moment to make this remark, the noise of the door made them turn their heads; your daughter screamed, and sunk into a [...] the stripling put his hand on his sword,—"only with my life will I resign her." Without taking any no [...] him, or his fierce airs, I turned to Bell,—"my carri­age waits—will you do me the favor"—and I attempt­ed to take her hand—she put it behind her with a sul­len, air. The lad seeing that he was not likely to get any thing by blustering, changed his tone▪ he ran and threw himself at my feet, he clasped my knees.—‘Oh, Sir! pity us—divide not [...] that heaven has united.’ ‘—Go, you are a boy,’ said I, ‘and know not what you would be at.—You, niece,’ turning to her, ‘have, I dare say, too much sense, too much laud­able pride, to throw yourself into a state of beggary; you have in this affair been carried away by the gid­diness of youth, but I am convinced you want only a few minutes leisure to reflect cooly, in order to in­duce you to quit the dangerous path of imprudence, into which you have thoughtlessly strayed; be thankful that you was overtaken; that you was stopped in your career of folly: never would you [Page 31] have obtained your father's forgiveness.—Go young gentleman, return to your studies; the most profitable union you can form, will be that for which your friends intend you.’ He was going to flame out, but your daughter gave him a significant look, the meaning of which I did not comprehend; she at the same time made some motions with her fingers, which were to me equally incompre­hensible: they had however a surprising effect on her lover, he threw himself into a chair; his air from fierce and impetuous became pensively resigned.—Bell rose—she gave me her hand, without speaking—As we pas­sed the young man he put one knee to the ground, ea­gerly seized her other hand which she held out to him; he pressed it to his lips.—Oh remember!—was all he had power to say; a burst of rears stopped the passage of his voice—Your daughter had not a wa [...]ry eye the whole time, she loves pleasure, her passions are violent, yet does she not seem endued with any great share of sensibility, I mean of the tender kind: her disposition is selfish: from this disposition I [...], a new lover will easily efface the ones she [...] with so little regret; now is your time, she would on any terms purchase her liberty; the sooner you provide a husband for her the better—if you do not, you find she is determined to save you that trouble:—Again she is safe in her con­vent;—all her motions strictly watched;—debarred the use of pen and ink;—her friend sent home;—Monsieur L' Abbe sent to pursue his studies at a distance from Paris, with a vigilant tutor, as his companion—None but his family and ourselves know any thing of this dis­agreeable affair, which might cast an indelible blot on your daughter's reputation; they being strict Catholics, and having designed their son for the church, are as averse as we can be to so indiscreet an alliance. We [Page 32] may therefore depend on their taking every precaution to prevent any intercourse between the young people.—I gave strict orders that no one shall upbraid my niece with what had happened: a violent spirit like hers, can only be governed by gentle methods. Harriot re­ceived her with the utmost affection, without hinting at the cause of their separation; Bell silently, and rather sullenly returned her caresses.—She no doubt expected a lecture from the abbess; but not a soul in the house took the least notice of what had happened.—Thus all things are settled upon the most amicable footing.—I foresee however, that this calm will not be of any long duration.—Bell is not of a temper to brook confine­ment.—Get her a husband, I again repeat.—She is not the kind of fruit which will keep.—I am in great hopes that my wishes in regard to Harriot, will be accom­plished: I have excited Lord Ossory's curiosity to see her.—He proposes a trip to Paris in a few weeks; if he likes my girl we shall return to England. I think it will be most prudent to let your daughter accompany us, dangerous would it be to trust her here by herself.

Adieu!—Why don't you write!—you are worse than indolent, you are downright lazy. But in s [...]ight of all your faults, my heart compels me to subscribe myself your's most affectionately.

LETTER X. Miss RICHMOND to Lady BAB WILMOT.

O CHILD! your mad-cap of a friend has been engaged in such an adventure—onl [...] [...] of it.—I know not if I mentioned to you in my [...] a [Page 33] little smirking white handed Abbe, of whom, for want of better amusement, I took it into my head to become enamoured, le pauvre garcon—Ah! how he loved!—You must know the idea of St. Prue and Eloisa got possession of my light head: I talked, or rather I listened; and he talked so much of love, that I very wisely fancied myself deeply in for it. There was no bearing this;—I began to be mightily foolish, sigh'd, grew pensive, restless, ceased to plague the nuns, and for a mere chimera, plagued myself. What was the most likely remedy for this disease? Marriage—well then, since the man is so teasing on this head, I think I must even take him.—My father is good natured, I his only daughter; he is rich, the poverty of my lo­ver is of the less consequence: in short, if they won't provide me with a husband, I must provide one for myself—to be cooped up in this odious house, prison I should say—where one's passions are doomed to starve; shut up between four walls,—I can bear it no longer.—Death or liberty.—On the strength of these wise re­flections I made my escape, no matter how, reached Calais with my swain, from thence proposed to proceed to England.—When behold! contrary winds forced us to remain here at this sea-port; and what was still worse, blew my uncle to the place of our retreat, when we had sung, laughed and toyed away the time—Oh, Lady Bab,—‘What is life without passion, sweet passion of love.’

Well, I told you my uncle came to damp our joys.—He behaved like a man of sense—in a few words, he clearly shewed me my folly, the word beg­gary dropped from his lips; away flew Cupid with extinguished fire. I looked at I' Abbe—my eyes were opened—beggary—all his graces vanished.—How could I be such an idiot!—'Tis a little insigni­ficant [Page 34] fellow.—What a figure I should make in the beau monde with such a husband!—Without fortune,—without rank,—my father inflexible:—ah Lord! "'Tis well it's no worse."—And yet, Lady Bab, I was exceeding indiscreet—I do not mean in regard to virtue, and such stuff—but I fear,—I fear,—hang it, we were both under age. I must not tell you all. I hate to recollect the foolish adventure: I terrified the poor silly youth, by letting him know, with the lan­guage of my fingers, accompanied by a look still more intelligible, that for the present it was necessary to put myself again into the power of my friends; that we must endeavour to have patience; that I could not, wished not, to forget.

—Lady Bab, dear Lady Bab, I must, I will forget it.

I have, since my return to prison, found means, in spite of all their vigilance, to write to his sister, who has, on my account, been, to her great joy, ex­pelled our community: in it I inclosed one for our little Abbe, bidding him rely on my constancy, and trust to my management for our re union, of which I did not despair, knowing the great influence I had over the heart of my fond father: I charged him not to stir in the affair; continue peaceably at your studies, (I say to him in my letter) till I return to England; cruel fate shall not after that, long separate hearts, which were formed for each other. When I get into that dear land of freedom, I will endeavour to be­guile our tedious absence, by a constant intercourse of letters. If I find my father unexpectedly inflexible, then must we patiently wait till I am of age, when I shall become an independent mistress of a large for­tune left me by my grand-father: (a fib this, Lady Bab: many, many, I shall be obliged to tell before [Page 35] I can disentangle myself;—ah! if you knew all—but—but—) Then, continued I, my arms shall be open to receive you; no longer need we wait for the consent of parents—Let us my dear friend condole ourselves with this happy prospect;—and thus, I trust, have I got rid of a troublesome lover; and thus, I trust, have I also got rid of love; I mean of the ro­mantic kind: now will I take the first good offer I meet with; never once will I stop to consult my in­clinations; for I hold it as an infallible maxim, that no woman can properly govern her husband, or shine as a fine lady, a modern wife I mean, if she is so fool­ish as to bestow her heart on the man, to whom she gives her hand—no, let all the love be on his side—the more fondly he doats the better; the easier task will she find it to make him her dupe—then if she has a mind to amuse herself with la belle passion—there are in charming London, a thousand handsome idle young fellows, who have nothing else to do but to furnish her with this amusement—Thus you see how sensibly I reason on these affairs, and how much I have profited by my early introduction into the beau monde. But the wisest of us may, at some critical moments, be off our guard.—This was my case with the little Ab­be: for two long, long tedious months I had not seen the face of a male creature, except his: romances and iron bars had disordered my imagination,—I played the fool.—It cannot be recalled—I must do the best to prevent any ill consequences from the mad headed expedition. My demure cousin does not upbraid me with my imprudence; but her eves speak, though her tongue is silent: before this adventure I regarded her with a sort of neutrality; but now I heartily hate her, because I cannot help feeling a kind of humbling in­feriority: the time may come, when I will either bring [Page 36] her on a level with myself, or else find means to blast that unsullied reputation, of which she is so insolently proud:—yes, I have vowed revenge—from this mo­ment I am her foe, though in outward appearance never so much her friend.

Adieu, my kindred soul, you alone are worthy of that title; to you alone will I open the heart of your

LETTER XI. CHARLES RIVERS, Esq to Sir HARRY RICHMOND.

THIS daughter of yours was born to torment me: but I intend to give you a minute account of the affair, and therefore will not anticipate.—Last night arrived in Paris, the Right Honorable Lord Ossory, who will neither find his equal here, nor has he left his equal for every engaging quality, behind him. After our first congratulations were over, he ex­pressed his impatience to see Harriot; her idea, said he, haunts me perpetually; and yet my good friend, in spite of the strong prepossessions I experience in her fa­vor, fate may not have destined me the happiness of being allied to you; I must take the liberty to hope, that my choice is still free, and that no offence will be taken—he paused:—I easily understood his meaning, and as easily dissipated his delicate apprehensions; he took his leave, promising to attend me next morning at twelve to the important interview.

I wrote a note to Harriot, informing her of our in­tentions; but in regard to Lord Ossory, I only said, I shall bring with me a young gentleman who is desirous [Page 37] of being introduced to you. I own I did not wish Bell to be present, therefore forebore to mention her in my billet—the hour arrived,—and punctual to his time his Lordship arrived also elegantly dressed;—we set off; during our little ride, he was visibly agitated, I was not myself absolutely indifferent as to the issue of our visit.

Harriot made her appearance with a modest air and downcast eye, she gave, by her not having in the least degree altered the plain dress she wears in common, a proof that she had either very little vanity, or a great deal of pride; this at first glance appears a paradox. Rousseau has explained it in the description of his So­phia: her dress however, is always elegant and simple, and seemingly unstudied; she looked pretty, at least in my eyes; the sentimental expression of her countenance, would, I thought, suit the taste of Lord Ossory.

She received me with her usual respect, then turn­ed to his Lordship, who I presented to her; she timidly raised her eyes to his face, instantly her's was suffused with blushes; but a moment after, she grew pale: in a faltering accent she returned his compli­ment. I never saw her so embarrassed; he on the contrary appeared perfectly at ease; he examined her with attention, but in a manner delicately cautious lest his glances should add to her already apparent confusion: not a look of either escaped my notice. I had no reason to be pleased with the serenity in his; I saw only a cool approbation: but in hers,—I wish the girl may be able to stop at that. While things were in this situation, a sister came to inform me, that my niece begged leave to pay her respects—sly gipsy, she had seen my note:—not to me, but to Lord Os­sory did she intend the compliment—In she swam, adorned with all the charms that nature could bestow, and embelished with every ornament which a delicate [Page 38] female fancy could select; I never saw such a blaze of charms. Harriot, for the first time in her life. I must do her the justice to believe, felt a momentary sensa­tion of envy; she changed colour, and involuntarily retreated a few paces to make way for her too power­ful rival.—This motion seemed to say—I give up the unequal contest.—Bell approached the grate with all the town-bred ease of a fine lady—graceful her air, insi­nuating her smiles. Lord Ossory was transfixed into a statute—the statute of admiration—she spoke—the harmony of her voice, her sprightly wit completed her triumph.—He gazed, he listened with rapture,—in­voluntary praises burst from his lips.—I had seen enough—too much, so arose to take my leave:—with visible reluctance, he followed my example: his eyes quitted not the lovely object, till the envious door shut the delightful vision from his sight. I was not in a hu­mor to hear him tell me, as I saw he was preparing to do, that my girl had not answered his expectations. I therefore pretended indispensible business, and politely paying my compliments, hurried from him. And now Sir Harry I expect to see you here That your daughter has made a conquest is past a doubt; the alli­ance is every way desirable,—pardon me, but I must say, that it is much better than she deserves:—her late adventure, I do not mean to call her virtue in question, we must however allow that it was highly indiscreet. I check my pen on this subject, there is a late in mar­riage—always have I remarked that to hear a batchelor, who is not in love, describe his future wife, is positive­ly to know that when he comes to make his choice, she will be the very reverse of what he then thinks he shall approve.—O man! of what use is thy boast­ed reason! Adieu! let me know it I may hope for your presence. My first prospect has been fruitless, [Page 39] but I have another in reserve, of the success of which. I cannot doubt:—my old friend Mrs. Williams, has made overtures for her son,—the young man is neither to be much liked, or much disliked—one of the com­mon medly mortals, that make up the throng.—It is time my girl were settled in life,—till then, I shall ne­ver be truly at ease, nor can I till then indulge my­self in my wish for retirement. Mr. Williams then must be the man,—instantly will I write to his mother:—my daughter has been accustomed to obey,—on her part I fear not any opposition: this is my present plan, come and see it executed.—I think we have now a fair pros­pect of getting rid of both our plagues.—Farewel, be­lieve me

LETTER XII. Miss RICHMOND to Lady BAB WILMOT.

I Have for the present silenced my little Abbe—have obtained his solemn promise not to stir in the affair, but to leave the management of it wholly to your hum­ble servant.—You find then the poor soul is not totally void of understanding, since he has sense and discern­ment enough to discover, that mine is so much superi­or.—But let us have done with this foolish adventure, I have one of a far more agreeable nature or relate.—Harriot, the other night, received a note from her fa­ther—she bro't it to me—it promised her the company of a beau next morning, not the least palpitation did this cause in the little demure one, not so my experien­ced heart, it knows the full value of a new conquest: [Page 40] this man, be he what he would, I determined to enlist amongst the number of mine; but my prudent uncle had excluded me from the party—a wise precaution in favor of his daughter—no matter, I nevertheless de­termined to make one—the hour approached I went into Harriot's cell—found her in her usual morning dress.—Don't you expect company child?—Yes, every moment. And do you make no alteration?—And yet, checking myself ere I finish the indiscreet question, it would be needless trouble; your dress, though plain, is inimitably becoming (a fib this as you may suppose Bab, for her cap absolutely disguised her) you are too hand­some, returned she smiling, to practice the little mean arts, of which some of our sex condescend to be guilty. I believe you speak as you think, but in general, I am sorry to say it, if one asks a female friend's opinion of these matters, one may almost be sure, she will advise you to wear what will be of the least advantage to your charms—a shrewd remark, to be made by so very good a creature; she knows more of her sex than I imagined.—A sister entered—your papa, Miss Harriot, and another very fine gentlemen wait for you: away she tripped to receive the homage of her swain, and I to my faith­ful glass, by whose aid I hoped, ere long, to share that homage with her—I dressed, animated with the dear prospect of a new conquest: I omitted no ornament that could add to my beauty: my heart palpitated—my cheeks glowed—my eyes sparkled—and, before I left the agreeable task, every charm blazed forth with unusual lustre—down I flew unsummoned.—Well worth my pain was the conquest I have made,—Yes Bab. I have effectual done his business.—Poor soul I how eagerly he drank in the deliciously poison, that I darted from my love inspiring eves; then had you seen my crest falling cousin, with such a dolorous counte­nance [Page 41] robbed of her prey, the father too robbed of his hopes, while I sat like Helen in the night, ‘When Troy was sacked unconscious of the mischief I had wrought.’—But who do you think this lover is?—O child the very man a woman of spirit would wish for.—Lord Ossory—the grave, the sentimental, Lord Ossory—rich, generous, handsome, open hearted, in­capable of deceit himself, and suspecting none in others; this is the character I have heard of him—a character which his engaging countenance con­firms.—What a fortunate creature am I! I make no doubt of becoming his help mate, his wife we will ra­ther say, for I know no one living thing in which I shall help him, but to spend his money.—Do you want a more particular description of his person—a true female.—But child, you forget I intend him for my husband, and in that case you know one regards not such trifles; however, I think I told you above, that he is handsome; I could wish he was less so; and yet, I hope I shall not be so weak as to love him.—To say truth, the man is not without his attractions; but if I was to entertain a slight partiality for the wretch, matrimony is an effectual remedy; besides, I am of so fickle, so inconstant a na­ture, that I defy the finest man in England, to fix, for a week together my fluttering heart.—But a husband!—heavens!—the very sound of the word extinguishes each load desire.—Lord Ossory then is, as he ought to be sufficiently indifferent to your humble servant.—Not so my little cousin—with far different eyes does she view him. Alas! poor girl, 'tis her first love; a deadly disease for a soft romantic soul like her: she pi [...]es and dies, ‘for hopeless love and piercing care, consumes her early prime—the rose grows pale and leaves her cheek:’ this circumstance is to me an additional cause of triumph: when I am married, I'll invite the [Page 42] poor wretch to pass a month or two with me, on pur­pose to make her a mortified witness of my felicity—Oh! I shall have the transport to see her die by inches! or, if I could contrive by thus throwing the love-sick nymph in his way,—I have a joyous plan in my head: strict as he is in his principles, and outrageously virtu­ous as she affects to be, I do not despair: then if I can but tempt him to fall into a serape of this nature, the coast will be clear for your little Bell.

I have not time, he is below,—the dear man.—Har­riot, child, dry thy dove-like eyes—‘come be a good girl, be a good girl until I come to thee again.’ Poor thing, ha! ha! ha! she must not hear me laugh. But the man waits.

LETTER XIII. Lord OSSORY to Monsieur La FARE.

I Trust the kindest wishes of my friend are now in a fair 'way of being accomplished: yes, I have at length discovered the charming maid ‘who is, I hope, formed for love and me.’ You are such an admirer of beauty, will be enchanted with her's; 'tis past de­scription. Oh! my dear La Fare; how perfect will be the happiness of our Ossory, when united to this ado­rable angel; how will she embellish that [...]etr [...]at, of which I am so fond. Imagination cannot form a more [...] f [...]licity, than that which I shall enjoy in the society [...] a friend like you, and a wife like my Isabella. Her father arrive, last night in Paris; he every way approves [...] my alliance [...] meet with no obstacles to [Page 43] my passion; the heavenly maid with sweet compla­cency, listens to my suit: we are preparing to return to England; where, as soon as the settlements can be drawn, our nuptials will take place: my impatience is inexpressible; you will not wonder at this, when you behold my charming bride: in my life I never saw so striking, so dazzling a beauty; nor is her mind less perfect; such lively wit, such just and noble sentiments, and, what more than any thing endears her to me, and promises the best foundation for our mutual happiness, is, that in most things, I discover in her a similarity of taste, she is, like me, a passionate admirer of the coun­try: prefers an agreeable retreat, with the society of a few select friends, to the noise bustle, and unsatisfying amusements of the beau monde. She has experienced both, and speaks with virtuous indignation of the con­duct of modern fine ladies; yet has not a tincture of censoriousness in her amiable composition.

My passion gains new force every time I converse with her, she tells me, however, with engaging frankness, that she was not always the good girl, she now flatters h [...]rself she may, without vanity, pretend to be: "early," said she, ‘was I introduced into what is called life [...] and for some time, like other young people, eagerly entered into scenes of dissipation: but very soon did the novolty wear off; public places became insipid by constant repetition, and even this gloomy mansion,’ continued she smiling, ‘had to me attractions, as it appeared a comfortable assylum from noise and folly.’ While she thus enchants my soul by the justness of her sentiments, with what delight do I contemplate my future wife, the sweet augmenter of my joys, and soother of my cares. But I forget, you will all this while imagine that I am speaking of my late guardian's daugh­ter, Miss Rivers, on whose account I came to Pari [...] [Page 44] Misled by a lively fancy, I was strongly possessed with an idea, that in her's I should find my destined heart; and to do her justice, next to her lovely cousin, she is the most amible girl I ever met with. I know not what impression she might hate made, tho' I was not immediately struck with her charms, which are of that kind, that gently, and by degrees insinuate them­selves, and fix a lasting empire in the heart: I know not I say, but she in time might have fixed my choice, had not the transporting Isabella made her appearance, with such a superior, such a ravishing blaze of beauty, that she perfectly dazzled my senses, and rendered me blind to every other object but herself;—no longer had reason any thing to say in the affair:—astonished—over powered by her charms, I have ceased to be a free agent, and at the first became her slave.—Well is it for me, that she has merit as well as those powerful perso­nal attractions; for I feel, let her mind have been what it would, I was irresistably doomed to love, however un­worthy she might have been of my esteem: But thank heaven this is not the case, for she is all that mortal man could wish. Mr. Rivers seemed disappointed, but not offended at my being compelled to decline the honor of his alliance; he appears however, less pleased than I could wish, at that I am going to enter into with Sir Henry Richmond: out of regard for him, I as much as possible, restrain in his presence, the overflowings of my heart in regard to my Isabella, but when I involun­tarily do justice to her merit, he looks dissatisfied; tells me, with a forced smile, that love is blind, that if my passion was more modera [...]e would stand a better chance to be lasting: this kind of behaviour, however, in him, is easily accounted for: the unfortunate conduct of his wife, has given him an unfavorable opinion of the [...] but never shall the children, with me, suffer for the sins [Page 45] of their parents: I have ever made it my study to di­vest myself of prejudice.—Isabella is an angel, tho' her mother is a—; she will soon be mine: let me for both her dear daughter's sake, and my own, draw a veil over her foibles.

I shall tire you La Fare, pardon me.—I have done—I will drop my darling theme.—Do me the favor to hasten as much as possible, those improvements, in and about the house, which you are so obliging as to super­intend; my Isabella shall thank you for your pains;—shall smile her approbation, and amply reward you, by admiring the elegance of your taste.

LETTER XIV. Miss RICHMOND to Lady BAB WILMOT.

IN a few weeks—ah! still an age!—Lady Bab Wil­mot, will, I hope, behold Bell Richmond, metamor­phosed into a wife—A wife! delightful—no longer are they ranked amongst the number of tame domestic ani­mals. No longer are chaste keepers at home, &c.—but giddy, fluttering things, to be every where met with, the before mentioned place excepted. Oh! I could die of laughing, when I think, how effectually I have du­ped the poor love-sick soul, my future spouse [...]—heaven bless him! I never before knew how much I excelled in dear dissimulation; I have converted the giddy volatile Bell Richmond, into a being almost as soberly sentimental, as little Rivers: talk of domestic joy,—the serene pleasures of a country life,—the [...] comforts o [...] friendly society. I sometimes harrangue [Page 46] so long on this subject, that I fancy myself seated amidst a set of rustics, drawing for a king and queen, or play­ing at cross purposes—Horrid!—Lord Ossory!—I'll warrant yet, he expects to find in me his future help mate, a second Andromache, sitting the live long day spinning amongst her maidens.—Heavens! what will be the honest man's astonishment, when I un­mask! but of that I must beware till he takes me for better for worse. It requires all my skill to keep my affairs en traine. I am pestered with letters from the little Abbe: by means of his sister our correspondence hitherto remains a secret. He has heard of Ossory's visits, and takes upon him to be jealous forsooth—Horrid creature!—I now hate him as much as I once fancied I loved: however, I have again made shift to silence him by telling him that his lordship comes to see my cousin, to whom he is soon to be united: that my father is here also: that he takes me with him to Eng­land: that I find him inflexible, though I have omitted no endeavour to soften him in our favor: that we must therefore patiently wait until I am of age, and mistress of my fortune, and at liberty to follow my inclinations.—I wish he was hang'd for making me tell so many fibs. Oh! do you know, my swain tells me Rivers has found out a mate for my cousin?—Such a wretched mortal! the girl surely will never take him:—though for my part. I think any thing on earth, that is rich, and of certain rank, good enough for a husband; and perhaps the greater fool the better, except he is one of the mu­lish breed: and to do poor Williams justice, I believe he has very little of the obstinate in his composition. Williams, you cry.—Yes, child, he is to be the happy man. Don't you remember him, when we ensemble spent a month at Lord Walton's, the [...] of our rail­lery: the good-natured spaniel, who used to fetch and [Page 47] carry at the word of command: the white-handed boy of one-and twenty, who excelled us so much at netting; who embroidered the hems of his grand-mother's pet­ticoats,—ha! ha! ha! a joyous mortal; civil and in­offensive;—a commodious character for a husband.—But besides these agreeable accomplishments, he is pos­sessed of what renders him truly a man of merit, viz. Six thousand a year! clear of all incumbrances, except his lady mother's jointure; and that he no doubt chear­fully pays to her who has so prettily trained him up in the way he should go; who has never lost fight of him since he became an inhabitant of this dear wicked world; and who will not let go his leading strings till she resigns them into the hands of his wife; who treats him with a pair of speck and span clean gloves at the country assizes, with a shilling in his pocket; chu­ses a partner for him; lets him dance till eleven; then muffling him up in a white handkerchief, takes him home, gives him warm negus, and puts him to bed: who tells him, when in company, how to place his hands; draws herself up and winks at him when he sits in a lounging posture, with every now and then, ‘Dicky, don't pick your nose; don't kick your heels, child, &c. &c. &c.’—And this—this is the man—The man did I say?—He has no pretensions to any thing that is manly.—But this creature, for whom I cannot find a proper name, is destined for the lord and master of Harriot Rivers;—a girl, delicate, elegant, sentimen­tal even to excess: Oh! she will expire of absolute spleen and vapours, long ere the end of the honey-moon. So much the better—had I my wish not one single prude should, in all England, (that delightful land of freedom) be suffered to [...]ear their stately haughty heads: I would extirpate them root and branch. If this match takes place, she will be sufficiently wretched; if it does [Page 48] not, then my plan of revenge shall.—Revenge, you cry for what?—For daring to be more virtuous, more worthy than myself; for knowing some of my faults, and ha­ving the insolent generosity not to upbraid me with them; for compelling me to submit to this humilia­ting obligation: I say again, I will be revenged—and so ends the chapter.

LETTER XV. Lord OSSORY to Monsieur LA FARE.

OUR wished for return to England, has, for some time past, been delayed on Miss Ri­vers's account; the sweet girl is but just recovered from a dangerous illness: some hints that were drop­ped by her friends of her intended union with Wil­liams, is suspected to be the cause of her indispositi­on: her spirits are as delicate as her frame—do you know, she is I find, on a second examination, a much more lovelier creature than I at first imagined: the case is, I at my first visit, only saw her, but on my last, I heard as well as saw; and it is in conversation that she not only shews the charms of her mind, but those of her fi [...]e face to perfection: the air of it changes ac­cording to the different sentiments she utters; and as her's are always just and elegant, so the expression of her countenance gives the most captivating graces to her features—Do not, by these just encomiums suspect me of inconstancy—no, a heart capable of that, is inca­pable of love: Isabella is [...], and ever must remain sole mistress of mine. But I own I feel a friendship, a ten­der sort of sympathy for her engaging cousin; the [Page 49] thoughts of so fine a creature going to be sacrificed to an insignificant being, like Williams, excites my pity: alas! I fear her fa [...]e is irrevocably fixed; the timid maid will never have courage to oppose the will of an arbitrary father, whom she has, from childhood, been accustomed implicitly to obey:—the prospect of her misery—for what else can be the consequence of so ill concerted an union?—damps my happiness—: ac­cursed be that [...]elfish heart, which feels only for it­self—mine is not of that number. I saw her this morning, and ever since then, in spite of the charms of Isabella, she has ingrossed a great part of my thoughts.—If I have formed a true idea of my love­ly mistress, she would esteem me the more for inte­resting myself in the welfare of her, who is not only a relation, but a friend.

I wish I could prevail on Mr. Rivers to change his purpose; but in these affairs he is unpersuadably obstinate; he has no tenderness for the sex; he is more studious of his own ease than of his daughter's happiness; disgusted with the world, he wishes to fly to retirement: but ere he can gratify his favorite whim, he thinks it necessary to put his Harriot un­der the protection of a husband: from the fatal con­duct of her mother he has lost all confidence in wo­man kind; he trembles for his honor, should he trust her in the world; from infancy, he has confi­ned her to the gloomy enclosure of a nunnery, nor dare he take her from thence, till a husband's arms are open to receive her.—Poor Harriot! I accompa­nied him this morning, as I before said, on a visit to her, and my angel: the latter did not for some time make her appearance:—if she has any foible, it is a too great regard for dress: I have often to wait till she has finished the labors of the toilet.—How un­necessary [Page 50] are ornaments to a form like her's by na­ture so complete. Ah! could she, if she loved like me, waste that time in trifles, which would be so much more delightfully employed in the mutual ef­fusion of two enamoured hearts? Harriot is as indif­ferent about that, to most female's important affair, as the other is fond of it; there is in her appearance an elegant neatness, which I hardly ever saw so happily blended in any other woman: she has, as I told you, been indisposed, therefore she came down to us in her morning dress. A spotless white muslin, sprigged by her own fair hands, and trimmed with fine point; her ruf­fles of the same, as was her cap, made like that worn by country girls, adorned with a pale pink ribbon: it is im­possible to give you an idea of the very pretty unstudi­ed simple air this same cap gave her face—rendered the more dazzling fair and delicate, by her la [...]e illness:—a black velvet bracelet round each lovely arm; a collar of the same around her neck; on my word I never beheld such an inviting object, though I may have seen (my Richmond for example) more striking dazzling beauties: and shall this insinuating gentle maid be sacri­ficed to a wretch like Williams?—poor Harriot! why is it not in my power to save you from such unme­rited misery!—A modest blush on her entrance gave her additional charms; a momentary blush, for soon the rose gave place to the lilly; her father took her hand, and softened by her plaintive air, tenderly en­quired after her health: she sighed, and a tear stole down her cheek. Change of air, continued he, will, I hope, be of service to you: are you well enough recovered, think ye, to undertake a voyage to England? do you not long to be released from your confinement, my dear? This kind speech he accompanied with a smile. Alas! Sir, returned she, sighing, what joy can that [Page 51] prospect give me?—Then I shall only exchange a pri­son, which I never found irksome, for a more lasting, a dreadful bondage. O Sir! pity me; let me, if you dare not trust [...] in the world but in a married state, still continue within this pious enclosure.—My religion forbids me to take the veil: but most cheerfully, most contentedly will I live single, a pensioner for life, since you chuse not to rely on my discretion, since you have unhappily imbibed an unfavorable opinion of our sex. Trust at least these bolts and bars—let all my motions be strictly watched—place over me a guard as vigilant as you please, never will I murmur;—only spare your child, and sacrifice her not to a man she cannot love.—And how know you that you cannot love him? cried her father sternly. O, Sir, the character I have heard:—And from whom, interrupted he, still more exaspe­rated, from your giddy cousin? He then uttered some invectives against my Isabella, which I cannot bear to repeat, nor did I calmly hea [...] her censured. He apo­logized for the warmth of his temper.

I am interrupted, my dear La Fare.—'Tis of no consequence.—I only wished to repeat the conversa­tion, that you might join with me in admiring Miss Rivers's just and truly refined sentiments. What a charming description did she give of what matrimony might be, were a union of hearts to be the foundation I And how effectingly did she paint the misery that must be the consequence of that with which she is threatened! But all her eloquence was lost on her inflexible father.

Adieu We shall now in a few days begin our jour­ney. I long exceedingly to assure you in person how sincerely I am your's, &c.

LETTER XVI. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

CHIDE me not, my dear Eliza▪ my spirits are weak. I have been ill. I could not write. But ah! never injure me so far as to suspect I could forget my beloved, my only friend. What is the matter with my eyes? They flow incessantly. Indeed I have but too much cause to weep. O that you were here, that in your sympathizing bosom I might hide my blushes, while I reveal my weakness. I die with shame even when my heart whispers to myself the fatal secret. Why, alas, was this most amiable of men thrown in my way? A hopeless passion consumes me;—but this is not all. Patiently would I endea­vour to submit to my own wretched fate; but to know that he is also doomed to misery, 'tis too much. Eliza, his rash choice will be his ruin. That artful dissembler, my cousin, by wearing before him the mask of hypocrisy, has shewn herself to me in her true colours. I know her utterly unworthy of his heart. Think not that I view her with the malig­nant envious eye of a rival. Would it were so. Alas! I have convincing proofs how little she is formed to contribute to his felicity. Their taste, their disposition, opposite as light and darkness; with what anguish do I behold the sensible, amiable, unsuspecting youth, duped by her artifice! But who shall attempt to unde­ceive him? Alas! too soon his own fatal experience will convince him of his error. How he idolizes her charms! with what fervor, yet delicate tenderness does he manifest his passion! She affects to love with equal ardor, while she cannot conceal, even from me, her [Page 53] triumph, at having so artfully imposed on him. In­deed, Eliza, a heart like her's is incapable of that pas­sion. She has not one grain of tender sensibility in her composition. If she had, no man on earth is more formed to awaken it than Lord Ossory. There is in his countenance [...]hat winning, irresistable some­thing, that is far more seducing than the most regu­lar beauty. His eyes, such softness, such expression, so languishingly sweet! Fatal to your poor Harriot has been their tender glances; for tender they are even to me; he cannot divest them of it, the language of love is so natural to them. From the attentive com­placency with which he treats me, I flatter myself that I may, in time, aspire to the honor of his friend­ship; with that I must endeavour to be satisfied. It will also, alas, soon be criminal to view him in any other light. Every thing is now in readiness for our return to England. Soon shall I have the hap­piness to embrace my Eliza. That pleasing hope supports my drooping spirits—well may they droop.—I have not yet told you half my misery. I can­not bear either to think or write on the horrid sub­ject.—Let me not dwell on it. In a few words, my father is determined to sacrifice me to a wretch. Eliza, it must not, cannot be; death will free me from his cruel power, and nothing but death can, I fear, save me from the threatened misery. My tears, my entreaties are ineffectual; he is even deaf to Lord Ossory's persuasive eloquence! that generous noble­man has condescended to become my advocate; but, alas, all he has been able to procure for me is a few month's respire. Those months, O my friend, where do you think they are to be passed? With the happy, happy bride, at her lord's country seat. Sir Harry has a small, but pleasantly situated lodge in the neigh­bourhood, [Page 54] where my father and he propose to take up their residence, that the former may be near enough to watch over the conduct of his unfortunate girl. The odious Williams is also to be Lord Ossory's guest. Think▪ then, Eliza, what your Harriot must suffer from such a situation; a mortified witness of her rival's felicity—pestered with the addresses of the man she hates—spies placed over her—a hopeless passion to combat with, at the very time she is under the same roof with the object who inspired it;—she must see him daily—must daily converse with him, and yet cease to love.—What a task!—All that is possi­ble I will attempt. Either I must conquer it, or it will conquer me, and lay me in the silent tomb. No matter how soon. This scene of vanity closes on me. Who would wish to be a restless inhabitant of this disorder'd world? I feel a reluctance to lay down my pen, it is a great relief to me to pour my griefs in­to your gentle bosom. You must permit me, when we meet, to renew the melancholy theme.—This is the last letter you will receive from me, dated from the dear, the peaceful convent. I grieve to think of my parting from the amiable women with whom I have spent so many tranquil years. In a convent, as well as in the world, there is a mixture of good and bad; but in this house the good is happily predominant. Many of the nuns, from sense, sweetness of disposition, and unaffected piety, are entitled to our greatest respect. In this I am sure Eliza will agree with her

LETTER XVII. From the SAME to the SAME.

AT length the important day—the day which to Lord Ossory was a day of exquisite love and rap­ture, the day which to Isabella was a day of triumph and exul [...]ation, and the day which in your poor Har­riot's breast excited such various emotions, is passed good, blessed as it was to some, like other days it ends in night: all the world but your unfortunate friend are retired to rest, "Sleep lights on lids unsullied with a tear."

Mine are not of that number, I must not therefore expect a visit from the welcome guest, instead of it, I sit down to fulfil the promise I made—My dear Eliza, you are too virtuous, too amiable to gain the good gra­ces of my cousin.—I know she would not like you, but I thought she would have included you in our party, that she might the better carry on the farce of friend­ship to me, (how my disposition is changed) I am be­come suspicious, censorious,—nay, even I fear a little en­vious—but I cannot—do not—Ah! how should I love Lady Ossory (must I call her) Well my dear, the plea­sure of your company, your presence which I never more stood in need of, was denied me. With what soothing gentleness did you endeavour, the night before, when I bad you a reluctant adieu, to arm my weak heart for the approaching dreadful trial. Yet in spite of all your sensible arguments I arose next morning, without hav­ing once closed my eyes, more dead than alive, trem­bling, agitated to such a degree, that I could hardly keep myself from fainting, while my maid put on me those ornaments, which I was obliged to wear in honor of the happy bride. When the task was finished I dis­missed [Page 56] her, and raising my eyes to the glass, beheld a face so pale, so pathetically moving, (if I may so express myself) that I burst into tears, which flowed the faster, for my gazing on my streaming eyes:—Thus was I indulging a sad luxury of grief, when I received a sum­mons to breakfast. It was some time ere, by breathing on my handkerchief, I could render myself fit to make my appearance: I endeavoured to muster up a little pride. Weak, imprudent Harriot, cried I, Lord Ossory does not love you, it is true, but why will you also compel him to despise you.—This thought roused me: I hurri­ed down least the impression of it should wear off; there I found the most amiable of men, seated by his spark­ling, smiling Isabella, holding between both his, her passive hand; his fine eyes fixed on her's with such in­expressible delight, transported with her charms; she engrossed every faculty of his soul. I felt at that mo­ment emotions for which I detest myself.—I started, and put up an ejaculatory prayer, for grace to co [...]quer the corruptions of my fallen nature: I recollected Milton's description of the d— [...], when be contemplated the hap­piness of our first parents. Ah! cursed envy, never more shall you find room in my heart!—You have seen—You admire my cousin's uncommon beauty; but on this her bridal day, that beauty shone out with redoubled lustre; well it might, for—ah! how inviting, how de­lightful were the smiling prospects which opened to her view; light were her spirits, easy her deportment, no rustic bashfulness, no timid modesty to embarrass her:—but let me resume the thread of my story.—The company whom I found assembled in the breakfast par­lor, were, besides the bridegroom and bride, Sir Henry Richmond, Lady Bab Wilmot, and my father. This fine lady of quality is my cousin's confidant and bosom, friend, and well are their dispositions suited to each other. [Page 57] I know not whether or not you recollect her, but I re­member she was at St. James's square, the first time I embraced my Eliza after my return to England.—Bell and her retired soon after you came in, I dare say she escaped your notice: it is indeed that of the other sex which she alone wishes, and labors to attract—In this she is, thanks to her rank, tolerably success­ful; her person is naturally passable, but she renders it ridiculous and disgusting by her unsufferable affecta­tion; she is lively, haughty, coquette and satirical. This slight description may suffice for my sister bride­maid, who had omitted no ornament that could supply the defects of nature. The little bustle she made in pay­ing her compliments to me, which like other fine ladies, she always does in a high key, made Lord Ossory turn his head; he rose politely, led me to a seat; with a sort of tender pity pressed my hand;—‘you have not yet my sweet cousin,’ said he, ‘recovered the fa­tigue of your voyage, but I hope the fresh country air, to which we are hasting, will produce a favorable change.’ I forced a smile, looked my gratitude for his kind attention to my health, but durst not trust my voice. He again placed himself by his blooming Isabella, she did not however now so wholly engross his attention but that he sometimes addressed his plea­sing discourse to me, and that always in the gentle soothing voice of friendship; Lady Bab, for want of a younger beau, flirted with my uncle, whose person is still excessively agreeable, and who has all the gal­lantry and vivacity, requisite to the character of a fine gentleman. My father had been amusing himself with the newspapers; but soon after I came in, he beckoned to me; I followed him to a window at some distance from the rest of the company. ‘I had always intended,’ said he, ‘to let you re­main [Page 58] abroad, ▪till I had provided a husband for you; in part I have kept my resolution. This husband is provided; and had I not been teased out of my plan, you would this day have follow­ed your cousin's example. I already begin to re­pent my weak compliance with your caprice. A strange weight hangs on my spirits. I dread the consequence of unnecessary delay: I have yielded but to—what purpose can it answer; you must ere long, give your hand to Mr. Williams; nothing shall tempt me to violate the promise I have made both to him and his mother; I expect therefore that you will conquer your foolish prejudice, and prepare yourself to receive him as your intended husband: Lord Ossory has, at my request invited him to be present at his nuptials, in a few moments he will be here.’ (I started and changed colour.) "None of your female airs and graces," continued my father; ‘I am determined not to be trifled with; your fate is determined; I called you aside in order to prepare you for his visit: this you must allow is acting with all the tenderness of a parent; do you in return, act with that submissive duty which be­comes a child. You never saw the man, therefore [...]alk like a foolish girl when you say you cannot love him: he is young, handsome, rich, and (what is still better) a man of morals.’—As he spoke this we heard a loud rap at the door: It is him, exclaimed I, with a terrified emotion, and sunk almost fainting into a chair. I was not mistaken: in a few moments, a tall▪ aukward figure entered the room, dressed with inelegant finery, tho' early in the morning—I was going, my dear Eliza, to repeat the foolish compliments he paid me; but I have not patience to dwell on the hated subject: his conversation was interlarded with scraps of plays, the [Page 59] bombast of which, mixed up with his own home-spun country dialect, ▪formed a most ridiculous contrast, and might truly be called the art of sinking in poetry. Du­ring breakfast, I contrived to make my escape to the other side of the table, leaving him next to Lady Bab, who was pleased with an opportunity of shewing her talents for wit and ridicule: she played him off most unmercifully, to the great entertainment of Sir Harry, and the great displeasure of my father, who severely chid me with his eyes for having changed my seat. Odious as this man appears to me, when viewed in the light of a husband,—yet, when I considered him un­connected with myself, I was sorry to see him made a butt of. Want of sense is the fault of nature; not he that labors under this defect, but those who take advantage of it, are the persons who ought to excite our contempt. As Miss Richmond had insisted on being married with a special licence, we had not what she called the vulgar parade of going to church. A­bout twelve, we retired to the drawing room, where the ceremony was performed by the bishop of Lon­don, who is related to the family.—The bride ap­peared perfectly at ease while repeating those vows, the solemnity of which made me tremble. I ventur­ed to steal a glance at Lord Ossory in his amia­ble countenance, I beheld all the marks of genuine piety,—with a composed and manly voice, he plight­ed his faith,—it was plainly to be seen, that his heart se­conded his lips, while he swore to live for her alone, till death should dissolve their union—A shivering seized me—ah! then, said I, from this moment I must tear the dear image from my breast,—from this moment to love thee is a crime.—Now then, Harriot kneeling at the foot of the altar, make a sacrifice of [...]hy hopel [...], unfortunate passion: Lord Ossory is lost to thee for­ever! [Page 60] Assist me Heaven!—Agitated with these pain­ful emotions, my eyes grew dim, my head grew gid­dy, and I sunk senseless on the carpet. When I recover­ed, I found myself on my bed; my maid stood by the side of it, and my father at some distance; I uttered a deep sigh; he approached, ‘Harriot, child what is the matter with you; your illness has thrown a damp over the general joy; you have delayed our journey; Lord Ossory would not set out without you. Poor Mr. Williams is in despair; indeed you have greatly alarmed us all.’—"I am sorry for it Sir," replied I ‘but I beg they will no longer wait for me; I am not sufficiently recovered to make one of the happy party.’—‘But indeed you must, my amiable cou­sin,’ cried an insinuating voice, which I knew to be Lord Ossory's, ‘this smoaky town will never agree with your delicate constitution.’ He advanced and took my hand as he spoke this; I blushed, and con­scious of my weakness, too hastily withdrew it, then wept for fear I had betrayed myself.—But pardon me, Eliza, I am tiresomely minute; it would fill a quire to describe half the painful emotions—the struggles of my heart, during a day which to me appeared an age. I must lay down my pen, not able to hold it any longer; quite overpowered with fatigue, I will throw myself on the bed.—How delightful is the situation of this house, so elegant—ah! I can say no more—adieu! adieu! I am in the next apartment to Lord Ossory,—peaceful and refreshing ever be his slumbers.

LETTER XVIII. The SAME to the SAME.

AT length I return to my favorite amusement. I have been very ill my dear Eliza. My fever was violent while it lasted. To-day, for the first time. I took a short airing, accompanied by my maid. The rest of the family are too much engaged with their plea­sures to dedicate any of their time to a poor, low-spirit­ed invalid: I ought however, in justice, to except the amiable Ossory. Nothing could equal his friendly anxiety for me during my illness. Every hour of the day did he call at the door of my apartment to enquire how I did. The most skilful physicians, were, by his order, sent for from town—my father also behaved with a tenderness which excites in my breast the warmest sentiments of gratitude. But it was my cousin on whom I meant justly to reflect, when I talked of being ne­glected: neither her or her friend Lady Bab once con­descended to honor me with a visit; both violently ap­prehensive of fevers, it seems. Such was their excuse. Mr. Williams, honest man, never having been accus­tomed to think or act for himself, did as he saw the rest do. When they expressed sorrow for my illness, he endeavoured to look sorrowful; when they sent up to enquire after me, he followed their lead, and joined in the ceremony. This account I had from Sally, who added, that he was very assiduous about Lady Bab Wilmot. Heaven grant she may have made a con­quest of him. I doubt not but her Ladyship would snap at such an offer, as her rank is much superior to her fortune. I was near a fortnight confined to my room, and still find myself extremely weak and languid. My indisposition needed not to have confined me so [Page 62] long, but I wished to be retired: I trembled at the thoughts of being again exposed to the too attractive graces of Lord Ossory's conversation. I spent my time in endeavouring, by the aids of religion and philosophy, to cure my heart of i [...]s now criminal weakness. I flat­tered myself that I had, in some measure, succeeded; and therefore entered the parlour where the company were assembled with an air of composure, placing great confidence in the strength of my laudable resolutions. Fortunately Lord Ossory had rode out to pay some morning visits, and was not yet returned. I found only Lady Ossory, Lady Bab, my uncle, Mr. Williams, and Monsieur La Fare. The latter sat by my cousin, tuning her guitar; Sir Harry was engaged at piquet with Lady Bab; and Mr. Williams was amusing him­self with her ladyship's netting, at which he is very ex­pert. Such was the arrangement of the little party. Lady Ossory looked like an angel; the country air had given an additional glow to her fine complexion; and her morning dress was inimitably becoming. The agreeable Frenchman seemed, by the homage he paid her with his large black eyes, to be perfectly sensible of her attractions. You must permit me to give you a slight sketch of this gentleman's history. As Lord Ossory's friend, he deserves the honor of being intro­duced to my Eliza. I know not myself the particulars of his story, which, I am told, is uncommonly unfortu­nate: all I have hitherto learnt is, that he is descend­ed from a younger branch of a noble family; that in consequence of a love affair, he fought a duel, and killed his antagonist, whose rank and power being superior to his, obliged him to fly his country, where no pardon was to be hoped for; that in leaving his country he was also obliged to leave all he had, escaping only with his life.—He changed his name, [Page 63] and fled to Holland, I think it was at Brussels; that fortune, weary of persecuting him, presented him with an opportunity of rendering a signal service to Lord Ossory, who was on his travels. Of what nature this service was. I have not yet been infor­med; but from that moment the generous young Englishman took him under his protection. He ac­companied his patron hither: as soon as they arrived here, Lord Ossory, whose favors are rendered dou­bly valuable, by the noble delicacy with which they are conferred, made him independent, by settling on him a very considerable annuity; he lives with his bene­factor from choice; is treated with so much respect by all the domestics, and has so much command in the family, that one can hardly tell which of the two is mas­ter. My Lord doats on him: and indeed he is so sensi­ble, so agreeably gay, and in every respect so accom­plished, that one cannot wonder that he should gain such an ascendency over his worthy friend. He has, it seems, proposed himself, as a proof of his gratitude, to become tutor to Lord Ossory's son and heir, if hea­ven should bless him with one—a task for which he ap­pears admirably qualified. For this purpose, he is en­gaged in abridging Rosseau's System of Education,—selecting what is practicable, and omitting what he and Lord Ossory think exceptionable. This man is tho't, by the belles of our society, uncommonly handsome: he is very well for a foreigner;—but I must own, his chief recommendation to me is, his being honored with the friendship of Lord Ossory. This subject has run away with my pen. I was going to describe the recep­tion I met with.—Mr. Williams was the first who espi­ed me. As I entered the room, he started up, and with ridiculous emphasis repeated,

Then advancing, led me to a chair, and swore I looked divinely.—‘Since you allow her to be a heavenly ghost,’ cried Lady Bab, laughing, ‘your question of 'bring'st with thee blast from hell,' was needless. It must be owned,’ added she, ‘you have a pretty and very uncommon style of complimenting your mistress. To have called her an angel, is what any fool might have done; but to call her a ghost was indeed a superior stretch of folly.’ ‘Mr. Willi­ams,’ said Sir Harry, ‘has shews great judgment in the choice of a wife; he is a body, and if man and wife become one, he will then also have a soul.’ "But I fear," cried Mr. La Fare, with vivacity, ‘that if this match should take place, the apostle's saying will be reversed, and the spirit will war against the flesh.’ Then turning to me, he paid me a compli­ment, with all the easy gallantry of a Frenchman, saying, that my late illness had so refined my beauty, and ren­dered my complexion so transparently clear, that it was no wonder Mr. Williams mistook me for one of the ce­lestial tribe. While every one was thus displaying their wit at that poor man's expence, he was, at the expence of my Dresden ruffles, endeavouring to disengage his netting pin, which in handing me to a seat, he had aukwardly entangled in them. "I used to wish," said Lady Bab, ‘to have our beaus about town, taught a little needle-work, or netting, to keep them out of mischief; but I find Mr. Willi­ams has such a happy nack of doing every thing, that the very thing which I proposed as a remedy, is, in his hands, the cause of—’ "Spare him," inter­rupted La Fare, laughing, ‘for if he should unfortu­nately [Page 65] tear the lady's ruffles, he can perhaps do more than your Ladyship could, that is, mend them again.’ The entrance of Lord Ossory and my fa­ther, put an end to this chit chat. Oh! Eliza what became of all my boasted resolutions at the [...]ight of this amiable nobleman! how superior is he to the rest of his sex! how delicate, how soothing were his compliments on my recovery! He seated himself by me, he looked at me with such tender sympathy!—I must, I will console myself with the pleasing hope, that your poor Harriot is honored with some share of his esteem. It shall be my study to deserve it. My father was visibly displeased at Mr. Williams's be­haviour. Lady Bab engrossed his whole attention with open mouth, and round unthinking face—he sat [...] with wonderment at all she said.—had always a laugh and a bravo at her service.—This affair goes as I could wish.—My only fear is, that when his lady mother comes (and she is daily expected) things will take a less favorable turn;—so much does the tall boy of twenty-one stand in awe of her—Of love he is utterly incapa­ble—but he likes lady Bab, because she is so pure and merry; and, as he said the other day, he should [...] for such a kind of wife of all things, because she would keep him laughing from morning to night.—I fear ho­nest friend, thought I, it would be of the wrong side of the mouth, if once you have taken her for better for worse.—As to me, I am a restraint upon him:—A pret­ty young body, he said I was (as my cousin told me) but then so plaguy grave, that he did not know what to say to me: and, indeed, when my father contrives to have us left to a tete a tete, nothing can be more ri­diculous.—I sink into a reverie—he talks of the wea­ther—admires my work—offers to teach me a new method of netting.—I answer at random—then begins [Page 66] a game at cross purposes, to which I put an end by ma­king my exit. If the match breaks of, as heaven grant it may, I see clearly it will be on his fide, so I need give myself but little trouble: he is already heartily dis­gusted with his intended bride.—My father has no room to complain of my behaviour.—I always treat him with civility—never refuse to be alone with him. All I fear, as I said before, is the arrival of this Mrs. Williams.—Adieu, my beloved Eliza: I am not good at descrip­tion, or I would with pleasure obey your commands—The situation is delightfully romantic; the house is large, commodious, and elegantly furnished; and the master of it—Oh! who can pay attention to any thing else, when he is nigh! What a happy woman is my cousin! his behaviour to her is enchanting:—but she, I fear, has not yet lost her relish for flirting, and the admiration of a multitude.—Unconscionable! to be admired by Lord Ossory, might satisfy the ambition of an empress.

LETTER XIX. Lady OSSORY to Lady BAB WILMOT.

'TIS monstrous provoking my dear Bab, that your mother should take it into her head to be sick, at a time so unseasonable both for yourself and your friend—I could cry for vexation: your presence here is absolutely necessary.—Williams is such an ass that there is no depending on his constancy: such a passive soul, or rather body, for he has not a spark of spirit about him, that his mother, when she comes, will, with [Page 67] half a word, be able to persuade him that he never tho't you tolerable,—and that Harriot, against whom you had taken such pains to steel his heart, is an angel. For some hours after your departure, he did not know what to do with himself, and was ready, like a great boy, to blubber for the loss of his play thing; but unfortu­nately for you, he has at last hit upon a new method of making a netting shuttle, this entirely engrosses his tho'ts—and you, poor Lady Bab, may now bind your brow with mournful willow.—He seeks only to be diverted; and, honest man, every thing has the good fortune to produce in him this effect; a wife, a monkey, a netting shuttle, or a Lord Mayor's shew, 'tis all one to Ranger.—However, I'll do what I can for you. Luckily Mrs. Williams is obliged to deny her visit; in that time I do not despair of effecting the scheme we concerted ensem­ble.—I have only to persuade him that he is desperately in love with you.—he will stare no doubt, and perhaps be at first a little incredulous, but I shall tell him, that I see it in his eyes—that people are often affected with that disease, without being sensible of it, and that it fre­quently proves fatal where timely remedies are not ap­plied. I will every day pretend to discover new symp­toms of it, both in his face and person.—In short, let me alone to work him to our purpose,—if we can but di­vest him of the awe he has for the old lady, he will be vastly pleased with a jaunt to Scotland, it will, to use his own stile, be rare fun. How my uncle will fret—that's a trifle,—but I am vexed to death to think, that while I am laboring to promote the interest of my friend, I am at the same time compelled to do an essen­tial service to my foe.—Yes Bab, I must ever regard my cousin as such, her conduct is a constant reproach to mine—she loves my husband, I know she loves him to distraction.—Yet censure itself cannot find the slightest [Page 68] indiscretion in her behaviour,—she struggles with her passion, even to the endangering of her life; her health is visibly impaired,—she has more sensibility than me, yet can she walk steadily in the thorny path of virtue.—I cannot bear her superiority—how I shall glory in her fall—she must—she shall be humbled—strong are the temptations that are flung in her way. Ossory (whose heart and mine were never paired above, so very diffe­rent are the form and temper of our minds) has con­ceived for her, what the sentimental soul calls a tender friendship.—When I, as is often the case, drive him from me by my coolness or caprice, he flies to her for conso­lation,—in the mean time I am left at liberty to enjoy the more delightful company of my dear La Fare. There's a man for ye—so lively, so elegant, so formed to please, such a compleat master of the art of love—'tis impossible to resist him.—I may say with the old Countess Marmontel, I am virtuous hitherto—by good luck. Neither of us are troubled with very squeamish consciences—we must however be cautious. La Fare is under obligations to my husband: he has too much gallantry to scruple making free with his neighbour's wife; but he would not wish to appear openly ungrateful. I wish also to wait till Ossory sets me the example. If I can but draw him into the snare I have laid for him, I shall then think myself entitled to the privilege of a mo­dern wife: the fear of my exposing the frailty of his dul­ci [...]ea, will tye his tongue.—But I fear I shall never be a­ble to wait for the last act of their snail-moving intrigue. I long for the comme [...]cement of mine—heartily sick of wedlock's insipid joys, I feel no more emotion at Ossory's caresses than I should from embracing his grandfather's bust. La Fare! the dear La Fare! Can alone awaken my passion, and charm my senses.—I speak freely to you Bab, you can make allowance for the weakness of [Page 69] human nature—you was from the first the confident of my new passion—You have seen the dear man at my feet—You have heard his persuasive eloquence,—and you have owned, that instead of censuring our loves, you wished yourself in my place.—How I miss you.—the presence of a third person prevented all suspicion: while you was here, I had a thousand opportunities of seeing him in private; but now, how seldom does a fa­vorable opportunity offer.—Our enchanting country rambles are no more; a tete a tete might give room for censure, and a trio was alone supportable, with my kind Wilmot.—I am become quite peevish,—that unsuffera­ble prude, Harriot, has such a vile pair of penetrating eyes. La Fare was this morning so indiscreet, as to put my hand to his lips, while stooping at my knee to lift my handkerchief; he imagined the eyes abovemention­ed, fixed on a piece of embroidery, the fittest place for them, but behold on glancing mine towards them, full in my face did they dart a look of mingled surprize, pity, and contempt.—Contempt! heavens!—it is not to be borne!—In revenge for this piece of impertinent watchfulness, I gave Williams the hint, Harriot▪ said I, thinks you neglect her—fye, who could expect so fine a gentleman as you are, would give room for such a re­proach. From that moment till the evening, when Os­sory came home and released him from the task did he pester the girl with his nonsense. When this husband of mine had paid his respects to the rest of the company, he pranced up to me, offered to salute me, and auk­wardly tore my apron with his spur. ‘Oh! for hea­ven sake,’ cried I, pushing him from me, ‘none of your odious pawing; the hated familiarity which ma­trimony admits of, is a perfect antidote to love’—"'Tis I madam," said he, ‘not the familiarity, that is odious.’ He retired, and with a pensive air seated [Page 70] himself by my cousin. ‘Would you, amiable Harriot, repulse, with scornful ill-nature, a husband who adored you?’ ‘Not if that husband expressed his fond­ness with as much delicacy as your lordship.’ ‘I am much obliged to you for so flattering a compli­ment,’ returned he bowing, ‘but Lady Ossory has, you find, very different ideas of what you call delicacy: pawing is the expression she thinks fit to make use of.’ He spoke with an air of disdain, equal­ly contemptuous. I tripped to the harpsichord, & began warbling, "None but fools would marry now, &c." For the rest of the evening he took not the slightest no­tice of me. He thought, honest man, to vex me, by being uncommonly assiduous to my cousin: it was the very thing I wished for, as she wholly engrossed his at­tention. La Fare found a thousand opportunities of ex­pressing (at least by his eyes) the ardent passion which glows in his breast. What but his dear company could induce me, a moment longer, to stay in this odious country. He "From a desart could banish solitude."

Adieu! My letters are unsufferably long, and what is still worse, horridly stupid—it is your own fault.—I have never been myself since you left me; neverthe­less, I still remain very much your's,

LETTER XX. Lord OSSORY to EDWARD MILVILL, Esq

YOU say that the encomiums I in my last bestowed on matrimony, have determined you to follow [Page 71] any example. Stop—my good friend—I unintentional­ly deceived you, because, alass! I was myself deceived. Too late my eyes are opened, and I awake from the pleasing dream. I do not dissuade you from entering into a state, which I still believe is capable of the highest happiness, tho' I, from an imprudent choice, have failed of obtaining it:—but I advise you to beware:—let my fate be a warning to you:—trust not alone a lovely face, a gentle air:—endeavour, if possible, to penetrate the thick vale of hypocrisy, with which the female heart is enveloped; most female hearts, I should say, for I have found, alas! too late, one lovely, amiable exception: but dazzled with the gaudy blaze of mere external charms, I overlooked, I was blind to the more durable, the more enchanting graces of a heavenly mind.—My wife—my torment as I fear she will prove, has thrown aside the mask, and now stands confess'd, the coquette, the modern fine lady; while her cousin every day discovers new attractions.—Fool that I was, to be caught by outward show!—What advantage do we derive from our boasted reason, when our senses so easily mis­lead us? Happiness and misery were set before me.—Rash, infatuated fool that I was, I chose the latter.—In Harriot I have found my kindred soul—with her I should have been supremely bless'd—she is really mistress of those elegant sentiments, which the other only affect­ed:—And, Oh, Edward! to add to my remorse, she loves: yes, in spite of all her modest, delicate caution. I have discovered the dear, flattering, dangerous secret, which she would rather die than voluntarily reveal, and which, with such virtuous resolution, she struggles to conquer.—

[Page 72] Her health declines.—What an affecting object!—And then to know myself the cause,—can you wonder if I feel more for her than friendship alone could inspire? My wife's caprice, her mortifying indifference is insup­portable. Short is the reign of mere external beauty; yet she might ever have held me in her chains, had she but have taken the least pains to please; if she had felt for me a mutual passion: she made me believe she did. Artful creature! A heart like her's is incapable of love. I fear she as strongly resembles her mother in her mind as in her person—that wanton libertine, who is a dis­grace to her sex. I shall not at present tell you my reasons for this apprehension; suffice it to say, that my domestic happiness is at an end. In what gaudy vi­sions did I indulge my imagination! how many plans of future felicity had I formed with the woman, (the angel as she then appeared) whom I adored, and a friend who I believed so worthy of my esteem! How repeat­edly did she talk of a country life, of calm content, and rational joys!—Infatuated wretch that I was, how could I be so easily deceived? She now laughs at my folly, in supposing that she would ever submit to be buried in obscurity,—a person who is formed to attract universal admiration. She sickens at the sight of country squires; expires at the rustic conversation of their dowdy help­mates; a murmuring stream throws her into the va­pours; the birds deafen her with their unmeaning notes; she cannot support the fatigue of walking over my parks and gardens; yawns when I talk to her of my intended improvements; can just make shift to kill the tedious day, by playing at piquet with La Fare; enters into none of my amusements; hates reading; never touches her harpsichord in my presence, because she knows I am passionately fond of music: but I can pardon her this, since the sweet Harriot, with far more taste, supplies her [Page 73] place. This amiable girl, who sees how much I suffer from her cousin's unkind, unmerited perverseness, omits no endeavours to divert my melancholy: she plays at half a word; sings to me,—and O how ravishing are her plain­tive notes! she rides out with me, her physicians having or­dered her to take this exercise; visits with me the groves, the pleasing shades, which I had formed for the reception of her rival; points out a thousand beauties in nature, which would otherwise have escaped my notice.—She is particularly fond of flowers—I take care that her dres­sing room is every day supplied with the finest that mine, or the neighbouring gardens can produce—in re­ward for my pains, she constantly wears a nosegay se­lected from these rural presents.

Trembling I indulge myself in her delightful society. I wish to act with honor and integrity, but I fear the temptation would be too strong for me did I not value her peace, her reputation, her happiness more than life. The same object which endangers my virtue is als [...] the preserver of it; my fervent regard for her is my secu­rity. Adieu, my dear Melvill [...] I shall make no apo­logy for the length of this epistle, depending on the friendship with which you honor

LETTER XXI. Lady OSSORY to Lady BAB WILLIAMS.

JOY, joy, to the bride! Well child, how are you af­ter your flying expedition?—how is your spouse?—Poor man—not yet jealous I hope: [...]ut patience; you have not yet had time to give him cause. O what joy­ous lives will you and I lead this winter! Masquerades, Almack's, and the dear Coterie—not to mention our still more delightful petite soupes, our little private quar [...]es with my La Fare and your Romeo. Who would wish not to be a wife in these our modish days! My affairs here are in the best train imaginable-my husband and Harriot bill from morning to night—I give them every opportu­nity they could wish—prudes, I trow are flesh and blood as well as their neighbours—my scheme must be suc­cessful; then let me but catch her tripping, and all the joys of unbounded liberty are mine besides the dear ma­lignant triumph I shall experience at her fall—Ossory's mouth will be stopped: if he dares to murmur, the world shall know the provocation I have received, and his idol, his Harriot's reputation, as well as my own, shall be sacrificed to my revenge; the world will jus­tify me. What! to be forsaken for one, whose charms are so inferior! who will wonder, that urged by wound­ed vanity, I should make reprisals?—My uncle storms at the trick you have played him, while his daughter looks upon you as the guardian angel who has saved her from ruin. Your double chinned ambling mother-in-law, was at first piqued at the disobedience of her boy, but there is something so soothing in the name of my daughter Lady Bab, to the pride of your half bred gentry, that it soon conquered her resentment, a constant simper plays on her full blown features, while [Page 75] she receives compliments of congratulation on her son's marriage.—You would die with laughing, did you see the ridiculous airs she gives herself, so much stron­ger is her vanity than her avarice: had we been better acquainted with her, it would have saved us some trou­ble: but no matter, you are married, that is sufficient. Rivers is now again looking out for a mate for his daugh­ter: several neighbouring male creatures have offered themselves; but tho' he is in a violent hurry to dispose of his troublesome charge, yet has he so much family pride about him, 'tis not every one will go down—mean time Harriot it as gay as a bird escaped from its cage: the tender assiduity of my honest man does not a little contribute to raise her late dejected spirits—I suspect they have come to an explanation—what the next step may be one may easily guess.—Do you not marvel to see me so passive in this affair? not a tincture of jealousy in my whole composition—but pride one would think—Lard child!—what signifies losing the affections of a husband, when one is sure of being adored, followed, admired, courted by all the rest of his sex; this will be the case when I get to dear London, or at least you and I will share between us all that we deem worthy of our smiles,—at present give me La Fare, and take all the rest.

Adieu! he waits for me in the grove. Ossory and his dulcinea are rode out—I fly to enjoy the raptures of a tete a tete.

LETTER I. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

HARDLY is your Harriot delivered from one per­secution, when another commences; and I have reason to be much more apprehensive of the last than the first.—The simple Williams was easily governed, ea­sily persuaded to desist from his suit: but Mr. Melvill, ah! what shall I do with Mr. Melvill?—The most ac­complished, the most amiable man, next to Lord Osso­ry, I ever saw; approved by my father, approved even by myself. What objections can I urge?—that I love another,—a married man. I shudder at the thought. And yet is not this the case? Unhappy guilty Harriot, Guilty! no, my passion is free from every base alloy; 'tis more tender than friendly; but no less pure. My heart harbours not a wish in regard to Ossory, but what I durst avow to all the world; and yet he has such strong possession of that too susceptible heart that I cannot govern its emotions in favor of any other. I will be virtuous, that is all I can answer for. My Eliza deserves unlimited confidence—I must tell you—do not too se­verely condemn me. Lord Ossory has discovered the secret I so carefully strove to conceal. Think not I made a voluntary confession; O, no! I should have expired with shame ere it could have found utterance. My eyes,—some little inadvertency betrayed me.

[Page 80] We were alone the other day in the park. What a variety of emotions does the recollection excite! I was too much agitated, too much confused at the time to know the particulars of what passed; I only remember that he was at my feet; that in the plaintive voice of woe he lamented his wretched [...]ate, in having chose my cousin;—that he now too late found I alone was for­med to make him happy; that he had mistaken admi­ration for love; love! Which till I inspired it, was a stranger to his heart;—that heart, added he, which heaven has united to your's by the strongest sympathy and similarity of sentiment.

I was ready to have fainted—he started up, and sup­ported me in his arms:—Harriot; my beloved Harri­ot, long have I seen your virtuous struggles. O! then, cried I, disengaging myself, and hiding my face with my hands—I am compleatly wretched. I cannot, can­not bear that you should despise me. And yet added I, with a resolute and rather haughty air,—I will, by my future conduct, put it out of your power. You know the whole extent of my weakness; it shall go no farther. I own I have not been able to behold you with indiffer­ence; but were you a thousand times more engaging than you are; were you in the slightest manner to pre­sume on the discovery you have made,—did you dare to offer the least indignity; from that moment I should regard you as the most despicable of your sex;—from that moment contempt would be the only sentiment you would excite.—For your own sake then, my lord, forget that you are become master of my unfortunate se­cret, and treat me, as you have hitherto done as a friend.

I will treat you as the most amiable, the most virtu­ous of women, interrupted he,—as the friend of my heart.—And here I swear, added he, putting one knee to the ground, to restrain my passion—to respect your's▪ [Page 81] to be the guardian of your honor; and forgetting my­self, to study only your peace, your happiness and fame.

I am satisfied cried I, giving him my hand, so high an idea do I entertain of your integrity,—so confidently do I rely on your sincerity, that all my fears are hushed to rest, and I am even pleased that we have come to this painful but salutary explanation: a load is taken off my heart: now I shall act with less restraint, depending on your promise, on your esteem: you shall assist me to conquer my weakness.

The appearance of my father and another gentleman, put an end to our interesting tete a tete. The stranger hastily advanced to Lord Ossory, who uttering an ex­clamation of joyful surprize, ran to embrace him, call­ing out, Welcome, welcome, my dear Melvill, I rejoice to see you at [...] grove

We proc [...]e [...]ed towards the house; the two friends walked on before my father and [...].—He talk­ed to me of Mr. Melvill; made me remark the grace­ful elegance of his person. If you could make a con­quest here, Harriot, said he, you would [...] I have cause to triumph; he is one of the finest [...] in England and would, I dare say, make a [...] excellent husband. I shuddered at the thought, but [...] no other answer than that it was very improbable so fine a gentleman should think of an insignificant girl like me. While I spoke, Melvill looked back;—I blushed gues­sing from that, that I was the subject of their conversa­tion:—This blush, I fear, proceeded from vanity:—We women are very apt to construe any little notice from the other sex as marks of admiration. I had no great reason to suppose he would at that time view my person in a favorable light:—My morning dress was not calculated to shew it to advantage;—and had he thought it tolerable, my cou [...]n's charms, adorned with [Page 82] every becoming ornament, so lately eclipsed mine, that I could not doubt but she would efface the transient impression he might have received from your Harriot. But, alass! my friend, there is no accounting for the caprice of taste: I find I am mistaken. This engaging man has already made proposals to my father, and I every moment dread a declaration of his passion. Hi­therto I have taken care that he should not find an opportunity. Lord Ossory is become exceedingly melancholy:—he shuns me and seeks retirement:—no doubt Melvill has made him his confident.

My cousin rewards us all with scrutinizing eyes:—she seems displeased at the latter's assiduity to your friend:—her vanity is hurt to see any one so blind as to give me the preference. Surely she might be satisfied with La Fare, who is her slave from morning to night; too much so, I think, considering she is the wife of his friend—or any man's wife indeed.—Stop, Harriot; ah! shall you dare to censure?—Shall you attempt to pluck the more out of your neighbour's eye, who have such a beam in thine own?—O conscience! I bow, I humble myself under thy just reproof.

Adieu, my dear Eliza Pray that I may act so as to merit the regard with which you honor your affec­tionate

LETTER II. Lady OSSORY to Lady BAB WILLIAMS.

I AM out of all patience:—Here is a foolish fellow, one Melvill, who has taken it into his head to fall [Page 83] in love with that vile, little provoking Harriot.—I tremble for the success of my plots—This man has a thousand attractions, besides on overgrown estate, and a title which will devolve to him on the death of an uncle. O! if the girl should be wise enough to take him, I shall expire with vexation:—all the gaieties of life will then be in her power:—but what is still worse, shall I suffer her to escape with unsullied fame? Shall she tri­umph over me by her superior virtue?—Shall Ossory be left in possession of the insolent authority of a hus­band?—Shall he, guiltless himself, be by that means entitled to censure every levity in my conduct?—Shall I still be obliged to wear the mask of hypocrisy, and steal me joys? His example can alone give me the li­berty, for which my free born soul so ardently pants.—Besides, I have vowed the ruin of my cousin: so long have I indulged the pleasing hope, that I shall enjoy no rest till it is compleated. I own too, that I envy her the addresses of this Melvill; my capacious heart can­not be satisfied with the [...]omage of one,—I would hold all mankind in my chains. Till he came, every thing went on as I could wish.—Ossory and Harriot were perpetually together; my spies watched all their mo­tions:—the affair was not indeed come to the crisis I ex­pect with so much impatience, but it could not, as they went on, be long ere it did so:—but now this Melvill has put a stop to all my schemes. Ossory is seized with the vapours, and like a despairing inamarato, has shut him­self up in his apartment, and fancies himself ill, forsooth: Harriot is also in the dumps, while her swain racks his brain to amuse her. My uncle, that he may be near to watch over the conduct of his precious daughter, plagues me with his company from morning to night. La Fare dares hardly look at me, for fear of attracting some of their vile penetrating eyes:—'tis too much—I die with [Page 84] envy.—The country is detestable; I'll go to town, yet, positively, if things continue in this train; I'll leave them all to follow their own devices, while I fly to my dear Williams for consolation; and plunging into de­lightful modish dissipation, forget every care.

La Fare may come if he will; if not. I shall find a thousand others to supply his place: yet he is a charm­ing fellow—O! Bab!—but I must not praise him too much, left you should commerce my rival—Poor Williams—I am at present too much out of humor to laugh heartily; but at any other time I should have exotred at your droll description of the figure he made during that truly matrimonial scene, in which you have been engaged.—Go on, Bab, conquering;—and to con­quer, hold fast the reigns of government. Women are formed for power; not to rule a husband only, but an empire. What male wretch of a monarch will date to set himself in competition with a Queen B [...]ss, and Em­press of Russia, and a hundred other noble [...]? in whose presence little insignificant kingdoms hide their diminished heads—crowns we will rather say; [...]or kings, trow, have very seldom any heads to [...]ide.—Let us assert our prerogative: the Sal [...]que law is no where to be found but in a nation of slaves: and even there female wit renders it of none effect; for no where do women reign with more despo [...]e power than in France,—and shall we, the [...] daughters of Britain, yield the palm to them?—Forbid it pride!—Petticoat go­vernment for ever! Adieu!—Here has been my Abigail, with her naturally sharp [...] out of all bounds, with an O! madam! O! my lady! My mas­ter is so ill!—Well, and what the [...], child! do you take me for a physician? No, my lady; but I thought your ladyship [...] like to know—what! that my husband is ill, girl, should I like that do you think?

[Page 85] Why, to say truth, twenty is a pre [...]ty age to wear widow's weeds—This, Bab, was only what I thought, not what I said. I have a [...] that I should not break much art were this the case. But hark! the whole house is in confusion;—is sure as death the man is absolutely going to make his exit—Curiosity now will carry me to his apartment.—No, 'twas only a qualm: but such screaming among the females! I believe in my conscience all the girls in the house are in love with him. Harriot fainted.—Melvill is busy in her recovery;—he weak spirits took the alarm—she was not in his room.—A set of poor souls and silly—Dinner waits.

LETTER III. Lord OSSORY to Miss RIVERS.

YES, my dear, virtuous cruel—O! no; my adora­ble Harriot, you deserve not that reproach;—you are all gentle sweetness; and yet you are the cause of all my sufferings:—but I applaud your conduct, though my death will be the consequence.—How could you ask my advice?—What man can do, I will, to convince you with what disinterested passion I love; but he must be more than man, who would consent to yield you to his rival. Fool that I was, 'twas I first preju­diced Melvill in your favor by my indiscreet, though just encomiums.—I excited his curiosity,—he came, he saw, he heard, and ah! could he then fail to love? and could I hope that after his arrival, I should any [Page 86] longer be honored with—what shall I call it, without offending my Harriot's delicacy?—It was that which constituted the felicity of her Ossory; 'twas that, for the loss of which I wish to resign an insipid joyless existence: But heed not my compliments take this happy man, this envied Melvill. Harriot, since he has the good for­tune to be acceptable to you. Obey your father, act up to your duty: Once it would have cost you some struggles; but that time, so flattering to the wretched Ossory, is now past—Harriot, I will conquer my selfish weakness; you shall at least be compelled to esteem me. I have promised to be the guardian of your honor: I vowed to prefer your happiness to my own;—so sacri­fice every wish that was inconsistent with your reputa­tion and felicity.

Melvill is young rich, handsome; he deserves you; our friendship commenced at school; the more inti­mate we grew, the more reason had I to admire and ap­prove.—He loves you, take him if you think it will re­store your peace, if you think you can return that love.

The pen drops from my hand. Harriot, I recall what have I said,—I cannot, cannot give thee up, thou idol of my heart.

LETTER IV. Miss RIVERS to Lord OSSORY.

WOULD I had never been born! Indeed my lord, this is too much;—my own griefs are more than I am able to support; must those of Lord Ossory, the man on earth I most esteem, be added to my burden? [Page 87] and must I be accused as the cause of all your misery?—What can I do? How shall I, how ought I to act?—I have, since deprived of your company, strictly exa­mined my past conduct:—thanks to my guardian angel, I have nothing criminal to reproach myself with; but is this sufficient to justify me?—Ah! no; I ought not to have beheld you with partiality: ought not? alas! do I not still?—Pure as my attachment is, 'tis faulty in being placed on an improper object: firm as my reso­lution is, to die, rather than forfeit my virtue;—yet what reliance ought I to place on the power of human reso­lutions, when unassisted by a power superior?—And can I, while I refuse to part with the idol of my heart, expect that assistance?—No; my duty is to conquer; I wish to do so, that I may have nothing to reproach myself with—But I, blushing, own that the struggle is almost too much for my weak frame to support:—help me then, my lord;—you promised to be the guardian of my honor:—relying on this generous promise. I must again solicit your advice.—Why should we go on to indulge a hopeless love? a love which fills me with remorse. O let us endeavour to exchange it for that less tumultuous, but no less endearing sentiment, friendship.—Let us try if we cannot bring it to that. We are discouraged from attempting it, because we believe it im­possible; but I again repeat, let us try; and that I may be the better entitled to your esteem, help me to act as becomes a dutiful daughter, a virtuous maid, and what is still more, the woman who aspires to the friendship of Lord Ossory.

My father presses me to marry Mr. Melvill, a man to whom I have not been able to offer one reasonable objection—How perverse then must I appear in the eyes of my parent! yet to marry that gentleman, how­ever, while my affections are, alas! engaged to another. [Page 88] I should deem a crime unpardonable. Yet I wished to act up to my duty;—I wished to guard myself by eve­ry possible precaution against the weakness of my heart. I want to place new obstacles between me and a passion which despair itself has not yet been able to conquer. The duties of a wife may divert my attention; the sa­cred engagement may keep me more steady to my lau­dable purpose, than I could otherwise be.

These and many more of the like reasons induced me to listen to Mr. Melvill;—he is a man of sense and honor, an agreeable man—Mr. Williams I could never have tho't of—I would be dutiful to my parent, but my duty to Heaven is still superior— [...] not perjure myself in obedience to his commands, and that I must have done had I consented to take Mr. Williams; for how was it possible I should ever honor o [...] love him?—Now I could both honor and esteem Mr. Melvill;—but for love,—ah! dear Ossory! my heart was formed to admit of one object, and that object the only one which ought never to have found entrance there. In vain I listen to your rival;—in vain I enumerate to myself his various perfections: I see, I admire, but I do not feel their force. What can I do? O my lord! pity and assist me to conquer, by setting a laudable example to your

LETTER V. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

O MY dear! the day is fixed; urged by my fa­ther,—importuned by the most generous of [Page 89] men, for such Mr. Melvill has proved himself: with trembling emotion I gave a reluctant consent: But ere I ventured to take this important step, I thought it my duty to make the man to whom I am going to unite my destiny, acquainted with my weakness.

From the moment I brought myself to regard him in the light of a husband, I thought myself bound in honor to make him my unlimited confidant. Fatal is the consequence of any secret reserve, any concealment between man and wife!—With inexpressible confusion therefore I revealed to him my unfortunate, my impru­dent attachment to Lord Ossory. He stopped me ere I had finished the painful task, and pressing me to his breast to hide my blushes,—No more, my adorable Harriot, interrupted he, you shall not be mortified by the humbling confession of an involuntary error: the manner in which you have acted, in so critical a situ­ation, does you more honor than if you had never been tempted. Your delicate frankness to me too in this af­fair, proves you be the noblest of your sex. I own I wished you to come to this eclaircissement; not that you have told me any thing, of which I was not before acquainted; but it would have been inconsistent with your character to have acted otherwise. Now may I, with undoubted security, deposit my honor in your hands, and place unlimited confidence in your's. Now my esteem can know no increase; for I am now con­vinced that you as much excel the rest of your sex in virtue, as you do in every other amiable qualifica­tion. My only regret is, that I was denied the exqui­site pleasure of first inspiring your gentle heart with tender sensibility, because first impressions are always the most fervent and most lasting. However, give me at present all you can, my lovely girl; your esteem and friendship: it shall be my unremitted study to deserve [Page 90] the rest.—I offer myself to be the guardian of your ho­nor. Hitherto you have nobly struggled in the cause of virtue, and I doubt not of your laudable perseve­rance. But I am ambitious of sharing with you the glorious task, and O! how amply shall I be rewarded, if, by my fond assiduity, my unbounded love, I should be able, not only to banish my rival from your breast, but to have the inexpressible delight to supply his place.

This flattering hope induced me to solicit your hand, though I knew the mutual attachment subsisting between you and my friend; but then I also knew the worth of that friend, and a very little acquaintance with Miss Ri­vers convinced me that she was far superior to the com­mon run of females;—that she was a treasure, for the purchase of whom one could not pay too high a price; deign then, adorable Harriot, to bless me with your hand; but let me not owe it merely to the authority of a parent. Were the man single whom you distin­guish with your regard, nothing should tempt me to trouble you with my addresses. No, I would honor your choice, be he who he would; that choice alone would give him merit; then would I bury my hopeless pas­sion at the bottom of my heart:—But Lord Ossory is married.—Your father will not suffer you to remain single—I offer myself therefore, to save you from one who might be less sensible of your worth, who might love you with a less disinterested affection.—Ambitious as I am to possess your whole undivided heart; yet well I patiently wait, without murmuring, till your can complete my happiness by that invaluable gift: mean time, I will sympathize in all your tender distress, nor claim any thing as a right, but receive every little mark of your regard as a favor:—If on these terms my charming girl will consent to be mine—He paused, and fixed his sensible eyes on my face;—I cast mine down, and sighed.

[Page 91] O! Mr. Melvil, you are a generous man: My rea­son, my virtue tells me I ought not to hesitate; but pi­ty me, for you know my weakness. Besides, it hurts my delicacy to think of taking you from such selfish motives as my own security.—You deserve—Talk not of my deserving, interrupted he,—to deserve Miss Ri­vers is the height of my ambition. While he spoke my father joined us; his authority added to the per­suasive eloquence of this amiable man. O Eliza! I know not what I said or did, so violent were my emo­tions; but I know now, on recollection, that I pro­nounced the fatal Yes—that preparations are actually begun for the important occasion—and that there [...] but one short fortnight more between me and—happiness or misery: for in marriage there is no medium; and alas! I dare not hope for the former. Lord Ossory (my hands tremble while I write his name) still conti­nues indisposed, or perhaps he only keeps his room, that he may prudently avoid the sight of your Harriot. Alas! soon, very soon, shall we be separated, and that forever, as I propose wholly to reside at Mr. Melvill's country seat; 'tis far distant from hence, and Lord Os­sory is too discreet to think of visiting me there.—What a weight hangs on my spirits!

Farewel, my dear Eliza! I fear I am going to be ill.—Such a shivering!—I cannot hold my pen.—My head.—O I faint.

LETTER VI. Lady OSSORY to Lady BAB WILLIAMS.

AGAIN my hopes revive;—yes, my genius will yet prove the stronger. Harriot's has long struggled [Page 92] with mine for victory. But for a fortunate illness Bab, she had by this time figured en bride, Melvill's bride; the stupid, or rather the haughty, insolent Melvill, who dares to slight my advances; the infatuated Melvill, who doats on a puny girl, while health and blooming beauty plead in vain: not that I am in love with the wretch, but one would wish for a little variety. La Fare al­ways La Fare, from morning to night: 'tis rather too much, Melvill and he are the only decent beings that are to be met with in this desart.—I forget Ossory, but he poor soul's a husband; no wonder I forget him; for we have separate apartments, separate views, and separate pleasures.—Never did we experience an union of hearts;—we were tacked together by mere human ties.—At which,

But to return to my cousin; the conflict between love, duty, virtue, and all that, threw her into a fever; she is now, however, out of danger, but will, I dare say, keep her room as long as possible, in order to delay the evil hour of matrimony;—such it appears to this foolish infatuated girl; though, had she the least spirit, she would wish for nothing more than such an opportu­nity of escaping from the authority of

Delays are said to be dangerous; to her at least I trust they will prove so.—Now is my time; if I do not seize this opportunity, she will, ere long, be out of my reach and power.—In the first place, her intended spouse shall be informed of her criminal fondness for mine; shall know that to that she owes her illness; if he has but one spark of jealousy in his whole composition, I'll blow it to a flame, which will soon consume his foolish [Page 93] passion for Harriot; and then may his eyes be opened to discover my ladyship's hitherto neglected charms.—This is not all, the girl must and shall be humbled; frail nature would, I hoped, long e [...]e now have brought her to the point I wish, and given me room to triumph in her fall;—but she has such a stock of pride—virtue as she no doubt calls it—that nature alone will not do my business; we must call in her handmaid Art, to her as­sistance.—I have no faith in love powders; but La Fare assures me, that there are drugs of sovereign use in these cases, and that he knows one in particular of wonderful efficacy, in inflaming the passions, though he does not pretend it will inspire a flame, but only augment what the little deity has already kindled:—it is, added he, of an intoxicating nature; for some time it accelerates the spirits, then stupifies the senses, and ends at last in sleep.—This medicine shall be administered;—her nurse is one of my creatures; Ossory daily visits her, generally in company of his friend, or her father indeed, and that of a morning; but easily can I contrive to intice him at a more convenient hour to her apartment. From morning to night he hovers near its door; then, when opportunity offers, and importunity both, from without and from within solicits, who will answer for the conse­quence;—'tis at least worth the trial, and tried it shall be this night.

LETTER VII. The SAME to the SAME.

LA Fare, I used to call thee a bewitching fellow; but I find thy witchcraft reaches not my cousin. I [Page 94] cannot accuse thee of having gained me by the aid of love powders at least—No, my dear Frenchman, thou art a mere quack, and thy drugs are drugs of no value, or perhaps too small a dose was administered: it has, however, produced one good effect;—Ossory, from having once, by my contrivance, been admitted to see his adorable, with no other witnesses but the faint bur­ning tapers, and an old woman, [...] with watching, now, by his own contrivance, finds means to continue his nocturnal visits, much against the lady's inclination it seems, who never fails severely to remonstrate. But who can resist the eloquence of love?—Nurse always takes care to give her, ere these interviews, a dose of La Fare's curious and wonderful efficacious cordial, then sinks into her armed chair, covers her face, and is sup­posed neither to hear or see: not that the knows the purpose for which we intend this powder;—in obedi­ence to my orders, simply does she administer it; she takes them for sleeping draughts, because they produce that effect;—but the shrewd old dame observes, that instead of doing her lady service, they absolutely stupify her.—So much the better; if she is so inclined to sleep, it will be no great wonder if her virtue, harrasted with being so long, so continually kept on guard, should also be tempted to slumber. I have told my antient spy, that I suspect an intrigue between my husband and cou­sin, therefore beg she will keep a sharp look out. She has a small tent bed in an adjoining closet, to which her lady, now being out of danger, obliges her frequent­ly to retire;—what think you then, Bab, will, nay must be the consequence, of her tete a tetes with Ossory? Hitherto indeed old Watchful declares, nothing crimi­nal has passed between them; they talk together, she says, in a low voice;—Miss Rivers weeps, my lord kneels by the bed-side; sometimes he holds her hand [Page 95] in his, once too she saw him press it to his lips;—this she sees through a ho [...]e in her apron, which is cast over her head, while, by her snoring, she lulls not herself, but their suspicions to rest, so that they regard her only as a part of the furniture of a sick chamber. To night I have ordered her to give Harriot a double portion, and to retire to her closet as soon as she has drawn the curtains, and administered the draught.—So far, Bab, have I been the agent of mischief; the rest I leave to fate, and you to rest, child, in case you should be half as much inclined to sleep as your

LETTER VIII. Lady OSSORY to Lady BAB WILLIAMS.

I Triumph!—the deed is done,—and now forever blasted is her [...]ame;—

Nurse had punctually followed my orders, capacious was the stupifying draught she had administered; I had a curiosity to be myself a witness of its effect, therefore took up my station in the closet; she followed me when her lady seemed composed for the night, and threw her­self on the bed, whilst I applied my eye to the key-hole—when all was hush, in glided, not Margaret's grimly ghost, but my good man—

Harriot, in a voice that spoke her displeasure, ex­claimed—is it thus you testify your esteem?—is it thus you keep your promise?—Oh! too indiscreet, [...] Ossory▪—why will you continue to expose [Page 96] my reputation to danger?—Only one word, my Har­riot, interrupted he,—alas! this will be the last oppor­tunity I shall enjoy of seeing you in private—of pouring out at your feet the anguish of my heart;—a conversa­tion which passed to day between Melvill and your fa­ther, is my motive for once more presuming to approach my angel, in a way which she had forbid,—oh my life, my only love, added he, sinking down by her side;—pity me;—the fatal hour approaches, in which I must behold you resign yourself to my rival's arms,—again the day is fixed by an arbitrary father. He took her hand and bath'd it with tears.

I suspected that the drowly draught began to operate, for she either did not make any answer to what he had said, or else did it in so low a voice, that I could not hear her. The candles stood on her toilet facing the bed,—he rose, extinguished one, and placed the other at a greater distance; this deprived me of light enough to see what passed, but for a good while after my Lord continued to talk in a low plaintive tone. Need I tell you the consequence of all this? Harriot dozed, and left her virtue to shift for itself. My Lord had long struggled against a passion that now became too strong for all his resolutions;—powerful was the temptation, the passive state to which his fair one was reduced; can one wonder,—I am sure I do not. They fell; and now my long threatened revenge is accomplished.—In due time I rushed into the room, threw open the cur­tains,—there, looked in her lover's arms, lay the sleep­ing Harriot.—I affected to scream, and sunk, as if faint­ing, into a chair,—Nurse hobbled to my assistance;—Ossory started from the bed; saw me, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, wretch,—dishonorable villain that I am, what have I done?—O Harriot, my love. I have ruined thee!—he threw himself with violence on the [Page 97] floor. Harriot awoke with the noise,—she looked wildly round, she had, I suppose, heard some part of Ossory's exclamation.—She beheld me in a rage, and him stretched at his length on the ground;—all the hor­ror of her situation rushed to her view; she lay half raised on her elbow, one arm extended,—distraction in her countenance, she seemed converted into a statue, the statue of despair. I declare there was something so ter­rifying in her aspect, that she absolutely made me shud­der;—for some moments I was as little able to speak as the two delinquents; however, I soon got the better of my terror, (I believe I might call it my remorse.) Tis well my lord, cried I, at length you appear in your true colours,—now am I able to account for your indif­ference to me,—long have I patiently borne it;—long too have I suspected this intrigue.

And you vile, and detestable Harriot,—what shall I say to you? thou despicable prude, who strove to con­ceal the libertine under the mask of virtue. Do you not shudder at the presence of an injured wife? but you are hardened in iniquity; not a blush overspreads your cheek though thus shamefully detected, odious strumpet.

At this word Ossory started from the ground;—Strumpet! 'tis false,—cried he,—fire flashing from his eyes,—still, in comparison of thee, or almost any other of her sex, she is an angel.—Yes, one of the fallen angels, said I, disdainfully; but you, Sir, are sunk even below my contempt. 'Tis to you I speak, turn­ing to Harriot—ungrateful wretch, tho [...] violater of the laws of hospitality; say, dare you deny it, are you not a strumpet?

She was still in the posture before described; but on my thus addressing her, she with a mild and humble air bowed her head, as much as to say, alas! I plead guilty to the charge: Then casting a glance at Ossory, [Page 98] she uttered a faint scream, and sunk insensible on the bed. He advanced to support her, but stopped short, and folding his arms, gazed for some moments in si­lence on her pale face, while deep sighs heaved his bo­som.—At last, you madam, said he, feel an ill natur­ed pleasure, while you contemplate our distress; you have the inhumanity to triumph in that angel's fall; because, till this fatal night, she was in virtue, in merit, so much your superior. O! Harriot, continued he, in an accent that spoke the anguish of his soul, how could thy Ossory forget the respect he owed thee? How I abhor myself! Villain that I was, to take advantage of thy weakness;—ah! shall I dare to talk of thee in a stile so debasing,—of thee, whose every thought was pure and spotless as thy form: There, my Lord, cried I, that will do; I have long enough listened to your wonderously affecting complaints: Now 'tis time to proceed to business;—others have, like me, been im­posed upon, by the specious appearance of that vile hy­pocrite; her intended husband in particular,—be it my task to undeceive them,—her reputation shall not out­live her virtue,—this night was doomed to put a period to both;—yes, I will have witnesses of the injury you have done me; her father, her lover, the whole world shall be acquainted with my wrongs, and her shame. So saying, I ran to the bell, but he seized hold of me, are I could reach it: Go then, said I to nurse, summon the servants—call Mr. Melvill. Stir at your peril, cried Ossory, in a voice that made the beldam tremble: I swear, added he, that if either of you dare to attempt exposing the misfortune of that dying angel, both your worthless lives shall be sacrificed to my revenge: so saying, he went and locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

[Page 99] My courage began to fail me, terrified at the fierce wildness of his air. The man was certainly out of his senses. I condescended to sooth him; he paid not the slightest attention to what I said: Nurse was all this time busy in administering medicines to restore her la­dy; but with as little success as I found in attempting to quiet my Lord's violent emotions: At last, how­ever, his spirits were quite exhausted; he turned to Harriot with a mournful air, gazed a few moments in silence, then exclaimed,—yes, she is gone forever, and to me she owes her death: The last words were hardly articulate: he clasped his hands, and uttering a deep groan, down he fell, like a tragedy hero, by the side of his dulcinea.

I now began to be alarmed at Harriot's long insensi­bility, and feared that La Fare's drug was not of so in­nocent a nature as we had imagined, for death was painted on her pale countenance. I sent for him; he assured me, there was nothing dangerous in the draught; he had made physic one branch of his study. I left him therefore to take care of the two insensibles while I went in quest of Melvill; impatient to expose the frailty of his idol. I knew the generally spent an hour in his closet ere he went to rest; it was now about the time of his retiring thither, for he is as regular as a clock.—I rushed in upon him, where, after venting my well acted rage, I told him the particulars of my late mortifying discovery. Hark! Bab,—what's the mat­ter now? Such a noise and bustle!—I must see.—Farewel.—

LETTER IX. From the SAME to the SAME.

POOR La Fare!—these Frenchmen are so impe­tuous: Ossory and him have had a tilting bout▪ they are both wounded, but neither dangerously, as Mel­vill came in time to part them: Such confusion reigns amongst the whole set, that I can get no satisfactory ac­count of the quarrel. La Fare, as the nurse says, spoke of Harriot's conduct as it seemed to deserve; my Lord took fire, called him a villain, said it was time to wipe off the stain he had cast upon his honor; your intrigues, your vile ingratitude, is no secret to me; but my mind, till now, was too much engrossed by worthier objects, to find leisure to inflict on you the punishment you merit. Much more was said, as you may suppose, but nurse's memory reached no farther: She screamed with all her force; Harriot too recovered her senses, and frantic with terror, sprung from the bed, and threw herself between the combatants. At that mo­ment Melvill fortunately made his appearance, the scene changed, deadly weapons were cast aside, the bleeding Ossory supported the fainting Harriot. Melvill, en­desespoir, kneeled at her feet: La Fare was carried to his own apartment by my orders; no one else troubled their head about the poor Frenchman. After a proper bustle, my Lord was also carried off the stage, insensi­ble with loss of blood. Harriot is replaced in her bed, which, it is believed, she will never quit more; death seems to have marked her for his own, in defiance of all his rivals; the expected nuptial bed, will now be exchanged for the silent tomb. Poor girl, even from me, her, till now, implacable enemy, she extorts the [Page 101] pitying tear; my enmity reaches not beyond the grave, to which she is hastening. Bab, I am vapoured to the last degree,—there is no bearing this horrid house, nothing but sighs and groans are to be heard;—I'll to dear London for consolation,—the invalids have a whole college of physicians to attend them;—why then should I stay, to die of the spleen?—

Melvill took upon him to break the affair to my un­cle,—I don't believe he told him one syllable of truth, for he has so much of the Roman in him, that, had he intrusted him with the secret of his daughter's fall, no­thing I am convinced, could have screened her from his fury. I don't know how it is, but I can't find in my heart to undeceive him;—no, here I stop, sufficient has been my revenge,—if she dies, her disasterous adventure shall, for me, remain a secret.—If on the contrary (but there is little probability of that) she should recover, then indeed, I will not answer for myself, for no two charac­ters can be more opposite, than that of your friend when low, and your friend when high spirited.

I had almost forgot to tell you, that nurse vanished in the midst of the bustle, and has never since been heard of▪ mounted on a broom-stick, she took her flight through the air;—the truth is, at least it does not ad­mit a doubt with me, that Melvill has got her removed to a proper distance, least she should blab. Well, ab­solutely he is a worthy fellow; but how does he pro­pose to stop my tongue?—there is one method by which he might effectually make me his friend.—Ah! a letter,—from I'Abbe—how has he found me out?—who has undeceived him in regard to my death?—the epistle you wrote for me to his sister, has not then pro­duced the desired effect. I dread to open the provoking scrawl;—that wretch was born to be my torment.—Adieu, let's see what he has to say for himself.

LETTER X. Mr. MELVILL to Miss RIVERS.

I WILL not wound Miss Rivers's gentle heart, by attempting to describe my sufferings on a late—let the unfortunate adventure be buried in everlasting ob­livion;—in spite of one moment, one fatal moment of—how shall I sufficiently guard my expressions?—not for worlds would I add to your distress;—no, I wish to sooth your grief;—still you appear superior to the rest of your sex, many have fallen, but who ever, with such bitter anguish as yours, lamented their fall;—your virtue, for an instant only, was off its guard;—your senses erred, but your heart is not cor­rupted. Never did I behold an object, at once so af­fecting, and so respectable as you are at this moment, languishing on a bed of sickness, patiently without murmering, waiting for the stroke of death, unable to survive the loss of your honor. Ah! must I then lose thee my Harriot, my wish'd for bride!—Oh! dwell not on the dark side of the prospect, loath not a world which has still a thousand joys in store for you, a world, in which you may still make a distinguished and estimable figure. The arms of your Melvill are still open to receive and guard you as their most precious treasure;—few were witness to your late disaster, some of these I have effectually bribed to secrecy, the character of the rest, will render their malice impo­tent. Your becoming my wife, will silence the tongue of censure; I will not enlarge on a subject that must wound your delicacy. I shall only repeat, be mine, and every ill consequence will be prevented;—my friendship, as much as my love, urges me to so­licit [Page 103] your hand;—never man was actuated by a more disinterested passion;—your father expects our union to take place;—let us save him from the anguish of knowing your misfortune. I shudder at the thoughts of such a discovery. O! then my Hariot, let me shel­ter you from the impending storm—Mr. Rivers sends for me. Adieu my dear suffering angel.

LETTER XI. Miss RIVERS to Mr. MELVILL!

WHAT a proposal!—No, Mr. Melvill, vice has not yet so totally depraved my heart, as to ren­der me capable of so mean, so selfish a conduct. Your compassion for a poor, ruined, miserable wretch has transported you beyond the bounds of reason;—your generosity excites my wonder more than my admiration; when carried to such excess, it degenerates into weak­ness.—Do you consider to whom it is that you seek to be connected?—'tis not simply to a woman, who has forfeited her virtue, but to one whose crime is of the deepest dye,—adultery.—Oh, heavens! hardly yet can I credit my senses;—what demon possessed me?—it was madness.—But stop, Harriot, attempt not to pal­liate thy guilt,—I am lost, undone, the darkness of the grave can alone hide my shame: leave me then Mr. Melvill, leave me to the fate I merit,—the world and I can never more be reconciled. Ah! talk not to me of its joys, I was not born to taste them, let me then die in peace. If you could form an idea of what I suffer, but I wish not that you should, 'twould be too much for a [Page 104] heart so tenderly susceptible as yours. Continue my friend, guard my unfortunate parent from the know­ledge of my dishonor, if it be possible;—but alas! can I hope it, when my reputation is in the power of Lady Ossory?—now I have fatally justified her enmity; now may she justly hate the ruin'd Harriot.—Few, like the generous Melvill, will pity me; but I deserve their scorn, they cannot despise me more than I do myself.—Patience!—not long—reviving thought!—not long have I to suffer—my wearisome pilgrimage is almost finished. I would ask, but my pen refuses to do its of­fice;—was he not wounded?—Ah! I think, I at this moment see his ghost beckoning me to follow. O! may our deaths expiate!—alas! and is he dead!—I begin to wander—my head is often disordered.—Par­don me, Mr. Melvill—my gratitude to you shall be as lasting as my life.

LETTER XII. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

GENEROUS Eliza, surely Melvill and you were born to be united;—none but yourselves could be capable of such a noble flight of friendship:—humanely compassionate as I knew you to be, I yet durst not hope, my letter would have met with so favorable a reception,^*—you do not upbraid, you do not scorn me, but with gentle sympathy, weep over [Page 105] my fall.—Indeed, my amiable friend, (you permit me still to call you by that endearing name) I am not the depraved wretch my conduct seems to speak me,—I abhor, I shudder at the very thought of the crime, which yet I have committed. O! why slumbered my guardian angel, when I was fatally beset by the powers of darkness!—but I perhaps was too arrogant, placed too much confidence in my virtue, therefore was per­mitted to fall as a punishment of my pride: how effec­tual is that punishment!—I am humbled even to the dust! the whole black transaction appears still to my terrified imagination like a frightful, dream,—I cannot distinctly remember any thing that passed. Why do I seek to recollect it? it drives me to madness;—not much longer will my heart be able to struggle with such a weight of woe;—my end approaches, I feel a gradual decline. O! my Eliza, did you but see to what a sha­dow I am reduced—a walking ghost, how your dove­like eyes would stream,—indeed I am a pitiable ob­ject.—But let me for a moment forget my sufferings, to indulge a ray of pleasure, while I contemplate your goodness, your friendship:—fallen, ruin'd as I am, the virtuous Eliza would open her hospitable doors to re­ceive me, offers to share with me that fortune which she so well me its, and will so nobly employ; even Mel­vill's generous proposal must yield to this.—Love ren­dered his friendship in some degree interested; but your's, my amiable girl, has no alloy. What sweet pe [...]suasions do you make use of? How beautiful is the description your lively imagination has formed of that rural retreat to which you invite me? The plan of life you have laid down, is no less agreeable; but ah! my friend, who is it that you wish to share with you those Sylvan scenes?—a poor dejected, broken hearted wretch, [Page 106] bending beneath a load of misery, which only death can ease her of: what is still worse, a creature lost to virtu [...] and to fame: What! a companion for Eliza! No, my friend, since I cannot partake of your innocence, of your deserved felicity, neither shall you partake my in­famy. My presence, my society, can alone, you kindly say, console you for the loss of the best of mothers:—What would not your Harriot do to dissipate your grief; but, alas! she is now dead to all comfort her­self, and equally unable to administer it to others. Time, my love, will do that for you, which is our of my pow­er: there is even a degree of melancholy sweetness in a grief, that, like your's, flows from a laudable source; but guilt gives a double poignancy to mine, forbids its cure, and drives me to despair.

I must lay down my pen, ready to faint with the fa­tigue of writing. This is the first day I have been able to quit my bed. I know nothing of what passes in the family. I dare not ask questions, and my attendants are silent. Business of consequence has obliged my fa­ther to go to town. I could not expect a visit from Lady Ossory; I do not wish it. Melvill is too discreet to come alone; thus am I [...] a prey to my own reflec­tions: what torment can equal them! How cha [...]ged is your unfortunate friend: once she could take a plea­sure in self-examination. Satisfied with my conduct; conscious of my innocence, I feared not to look into my heart: but now—

Adieu, my [...] us Eliza,—I can no more.—

LETTER XIII. Miss RIVERS to Mr. RIVERS.

HUMBLY on my knees, do I presume to address a father, whom I revere, and whom yet I am compelled to disobey.—O! Sir, pardon and pity your unfortunate daughter! forget that you have a child; but oh! let not a parent's curse be added, to over­whelm her with misery. I dare not reveal the cause of my flight; I have bid an eternal adieu to the world, and all its delusive joys: my separation from you, Sir, is the only thing I regret; but alas! I am no longer worthy to appear in your presence. I am now hid in an obscure retreat; and here, unknowing and unknown, will I spend my few remaining sorrowful days—You, Sir, may regard me as already dead, for never more will you behold me. Do not hate my memory; faulty as I have been, want of love, of reverence, and duty to my parent, was not amongst the number of my crimes. From others you will, I doubt not, hear that fatal story which I dare not reveal: ill-nature may ex­aggerate, but for your sake, Sir, I wish that they would speak of me as I am, "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,"—then, if they take into the account, the sincerity of my repentance, I would hope that compassion would mix with your too just resent­ment. May that portion of happiness, which seemed to await me, had I acted so as to merit it, be added to your's; and may the years which grief has cut off from my life, be, with every blessing this world can bestow, also added to those of my beloved father; for whom, while I have a being. I shall offer up my most fervent prayers. A flood of tears has almost blotted out what I have wrote.—O Sir! 'tis impossible to describe the [Page 108] anguish I feel, while I bid you a long, a last adieu.—I have hardly strength to subscribe myself,

LETTER XIV. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

I Have just finished a letter to my father, and in con­sequence of it am almost blind with weeping: grief is much more slower in its progress than I expert­ed—How little did I think I should have so long sur­vived the loss of my honor; but I must not be impa­tient, heaven's will be done:—I hope my punishment will not extend beyond the grave; and surely it cannot now be many wearisome days ere I reach that peaceful asylum; till I do I have chosen one less to my taste.—The absence of my father gave me an opportunity to execute my project: long had my mind been bent on flight; not kingdoms should have bribed me to face the world, after so fatal an adventure;—neither could I have appeared in the presence of my friends, how would my eyes have fallen under their penetrating glances!—no, I seek to hide my guilt and shame, in a retreat as gloomy as my mind;—here I may weep at leisure, and brood over my sorrows, till death shall close the me­lancholy scene. Providence has put it in my power to procure myself the necessaries of life; a wretch like me ought not to expect or ask for more. You may remember my poor faithful Nancy Hargrave, who had been my attendant from childhood: the worthy girl was a foundling brought up by the parish: my mother—O! with what tears of anguish do I lament her loss I [Page 109] had I been blessed with her protection,—but I must not impiously murmur at my fate, that is adding to my sins. Let me resume my story;—My mother, I say, took the little Hargrave into her family, and gave her an edu­cation suitable to her humble station: [...]her extreme at­tachment to me, who was then the idol of both my pa­rents, so gained their favour, that my father, at the re­quest of his lady, settled on her an annuity for life:—she accompanied me to the convent; I treated her more like a friend and companion than a servant.—She had for fourteen years received her annuity, and being of a frugal turn, very little of it was expended, so that the sum she had amassed was not inconsiderable; the inte­rest alone amounted to about sixty pounds a year. At her death (you my friend was witness to my grief on that me­lancholy occasion) she left me her little fortune as a testi­mony of her gratitude—Ah! little did the good girl ima­gine, that I should ever be reduced to the necessity of appropriating it to my own use;—hitherto it has been bestowed on more worthy objects;—with regret I do rob the poor of what I had dedicated to them; but who now, alas! is poorer than your unfortunate Harriot? charity must now begin at home.—Not long, I hope, shall I be obliged to borrow from my indigent pensio­ners▪ [...]t my death it will return to them again.—I did not [...] prudent to intrust any one with the secret of my intended flight: nay, I must even from my generous Eliza, beg leave to conceal the place of my retreat.—Little did I think, when the sweet romantic situation of my present cottage, and the neighbouring village, struck me on a late excursion, that I should, in this place, end my unfortunate life.—I arrived here early this morning; very short was the conversation which passed between me and mine hostess; her hus­band was out at his labor: he is an honest farmer, [Page 110] she an industrious, modest looking woman, who is too much employed about her own affairs, to trouble her head with those of her neighbours. By letter I had prepared them for my reception.—This house is old, large and irregular:—my apartments are at a distance from those of the rest of the family, so that I may en­joy as much of my now beloved solitude as I desire; a rosy fac'd country-girl is my only attendant, who is very attentive and obliging in her manner; she has just removed (untasted) a neat repast, which wanted only an appetite to recommend it:—ah! how should I eat, my heart dies within me, when I look round, when I reflect—O! Eliza, my dear Eliza, there is no dis­sembling, I shall not attempt it;—never more must I behold the cheering countenances of my friends; an out cast from the world! In future times, travellers who pass through this village may stop at my humble grave, and in the language of Rowe, exclaim—

Adieu, my amiable, sympathising Eliza, it will be an alloy to your happiness, yet I cannot help being so sel­fish, [...]s to wish, that you would not totally blot from your memory the ruined, unhappy

LETTER XV. The SAME to the SAME.

WHAT wonders have I to relate, my dear Eliza! the particulars would fill a quire, but I will en­deavour [Page 111] to be concise:—Yesterday was Sunday; tho' the doors of the great, the happy, and the virtuous, are shut against me, not so, the courts of the Most High.—To the foot-stool of his throne, the most wretched, the most heavy loaden with their sins and woes, may freely approach, and what is still more, receive a gracious wel­come:—I went to church; so truly edifying was the sermon, that neither my eyes or thoughts were tempted to wander; my whole attention was fixed on the re­verend, the apostolic preacher.—A storm of thunder, lightning and rain, just as divine service was over, stopp'd us at the church door: the clergyman had a passage from the vestry to his house; he passed me in going to the former, followed by a graceful looking woman, plainly, but genteely dressed:—she stopp'd when she came to me, and with a voice, the sweetness of which penetrated my heart, politely invited me to accompany her to a warmer shelter till the storm aba­ted: I curtisied my consent:—she took a hold of my arm with a winning familiarity, and led me into a near parlour, where the good pastor was already seated in his elbow chair.—This, said my conduct [...]ess, (who I took to be his wife) is the young gentlewoman who I told you had so much disturbed my devotion:—is there not something exceedingly engaging in her countenance?—I might, my dear Eliza, have justly returned the com­pliment; for never did I behold one so invitingly gra­cious, as that of the amiable speaker. I cannot describe the pleasing emotions I felt, while I gazed upon her:—the hopes of her friendship was a balm to my wounded heart. She appeared to be about thirty-six;—had the remains of uncommon beauty, and an air and manner far superior to her seeming humble station. Mr. Ste­phens asked me how long I had been in his neighbour­hood;—I regard my young parishioners, added he, as [Page 112] my children; if you continue amongst us, said he, with a smile of benignity, you must permit me to rank you in the number of my daughters. I could not re­strain my tears; ah! Sir, cried I, pressing his hand to my lips, it will be an act of generous charity, to take under your protection a poor distres [...]ed orphan.—I may say, long have I lost my mother; my father in­deed lives—but alas! he is dead to me—you, Sir, must supply his place, for the short time that still remains of my wearisome pilgrimage. Death! I shudder at the bear idea of your death! interupted my new friend,—I, my child, will be a mother to you.—She stopp'd—she looked wistfully in my face—it was all bathed in tears—she clasped me in her arms with a sort of frantic air, and raising her voice, exclaimed, tell me, tell me! who you are! the likeness is so striking, the gentle accents, the winning softness is so like my Harriot! ten years ago I saw her by stealth, but durst not reveal myself even to her. She was afterwards removed; nor by the most diligent search, could I, since then, discover the place of her retreat. I would hardly breathe, lest it should interrupt my attention to what she said. How madam! cried I, ten years ago!—Harriot, do you say?—but ah! no, added I, in a more dejected tone,—it cannot be, the blessing of a mother is not reserved for the unfortunate Harriot Rivers;—mine is dead. Harriot Rivers! repeated the lady, clasping her hands,—then you are my child! The last word faultered on her tongue, her eyes closed—I caught her in my arms, and for some moments we both remained insensible, locked in each others embrace.—O! Eliza! what a scene was this, and what a surprising discovery!—But I must lay down my pen—a flood of joy rushes on my heart, and quite overpowers me:—my transports have been too violent for my weak and emaciated [Page 113] frame to support,—even this pleasing event [...] joined with its opposite grief to shorten the life of

LETTER XVI. From the SAME to the SAME.

YES, Eliza, I have indeed a mother, a mother who has been less guilty, but not less unfortunate than her daughter. In her sympathizing bosom. I have da­red to pour out my grief; I have told her all my fatal story. She bathed me with her tears.—Alas! even those pure, those precious drops, cannot wipe out the stain of my dishonor; nor can her pardon, her soothing pi­ty, or her kind maternal care, save me from the grave, to that I now make quick advances. I am almost re­duced to a skeleton; my consumption is passed all cure; fresh air and asses milk just keep me alive, and that is all.—Well might my amiable mother be in doubt, whether or not to claim me as her daughter; nature pleaded for me in her breast, or I am so unlike the blooming, happy, innocent creature, I was ten years ago, that none but a mother could have known me.

Eliza, you have almost reached the last page of my sad story; one scene more, and you may close the book forever; till that arrives, the intermediate space will be a mere blank: to fill that blank, give me leave to treat you with a melancholy tale, in which my dear mother is the principal character.

She is of a noble family, but her fortune was small▪ nevertheless, her personal attractions were so great, that [Page 114] even from a child, she was surrounded with admirers. My grand-father had a country seat near Windsor:—When my mother was about fifteen, she, for the first time, made her public appearance at a ball in that town; several of the Eaton scholars were there; amongst the rest, Lord W—'s second son, a handsome youth: he danced with her, was struck with her beauty, and from that moment became her admirer.—He was not remarkable for interior accomplishments; but he flat­tered agreeably, and was too gay and too assiduous, not to please a young unexperienced girl, who was hardly out of her leading strings;—they parted with mutual regret;—it was not long ere they met again. At length, in a most passionate epistle, he declared his love; and having no hopes, that either of their parents would consent to the match, proposed a jaunt to Scot­land—The lady liked him, but her attachment was far from being so indiscreetly violent as his: she answered not his letter; he wrote again:—terrified at the tho'ts of a clandestine correspondence, against which she had received so many cautions, she prudently resolved to reveal the whole affair to her mother:—She received the praises so justly merited for a conduct so laudable. Her father instantly wrote to Lord W—. The youth was sent on his travels;—a new lover soon pre­sented himself to supply his place—a lover every way unexceptionable. My mother was not long ere she became sensible of the wide difference between Mr. Ri­vers and Mr. W—: She now found that she had never loved the latter, and that the former was the only man who ever had, or ever could make an impression on her heart. In short, with the consent and approba­tion of all parties, they were married, and for more than three years, nothing could equal their felicity. My father perfectly doated on his charming wife, and she [Page 115] almost adored her husband. About ten months after their union, your unfortunate Harriot first made her appearance in this world of wretchedness.—I became the idol of both, and the more so, as for near three years after my birth, there was no prospect of an [...]rease to their family.

At this time M. W—, now Lord W—, by the death of his father and elder brother, returned to England, to take possession of his new dignity: neither time nor absence had weakened his attachment to my mother: he had indeed forborne to write, not doubt­ing but his letters would be intercepted: now, how­ever, he flattered himself, that every obstacle was re­moved. What then was his cruel disappointment, when the first news he heard on his return, was her marriage with Mr. Rivers! He raved, stormed, and vowed revenge for her inconstancy; nay, rash and im­petuous by nature, he vowed she should still be his, ei­ther by stratagem or force! The first step he took was to cause a report to be spread, in order to excite my father's jealousy, tha [...] my mother had been compelled by the arbitrary will of her parents, to give her hand to one man, while another had possession of her heart; he was named as the latter:—Ambiguous and censori­ous hints were dropped in regard to their private meet­ings.

To corroborate these reports. Lord W—, unin­vited, made his appearance at Rivers' Park, where he behaved to my mother in a manner so daringly indis­creet, that my father, without much ceremony, forbad him the house: he thought sit to put up with this af­front, the better to facilitate his horrid purpose.

My unsuspecting mother rejoiced that they had so easily got rid of a man, whose unexpected visit had caused her much uneasiness. From that time, how­ever, [Page 116] a fatal alteration was visible in my father's beha­viour; he became watchful and suspicious:—no lon­ger did he return his lady's tender caresses; no longer was he amused with her innocent chearfulness. The most artless of women, was now regarded as the most artful. But how was his jealousy increased, when in­formed by one of his spies, that Lord W—had ta­ken up his abode at a farm house in the neighbourhood, and that he every night in disguise was seen, either in the park or gardens.

This villain of a spy, as appears from the sequel, must have been a creature of his lordship's, though my too credulous father believed him wholly devoted to his in­terest:—to be short, this deluded husband, one morn­ing, rose early, on pretence of going a hunting; he took leave of my mother, and said he should not be back till evening;—she, as soon as he was gone, again composed herself to rest. But ah! my dear Eliza, to what misery did she awake!—a noise she heard at the door of her apartment made her start from her peaceful slumber; it was bol [...]ed on the inside, a precaution she had never thought of, but her enemies had done it for her, and strongly did that circumstance appear to confirm her guilt. Those without, forced it open;—she with trem­bling emotion, drew back the curtains;—by her bed­side, she beheld the villainous plotter, Lord W—, in his shirt, as if he had just sprung from it, and a few pa­ces from him, her husband, his sword drawn, and in­expressible fury in his countenance. She uttered a pierc­ing scream and fainted: her fit must have continued a considerable time, for all was silent when she recovered, and none present but two of her female attendants, al­most distracted with despair and grief.—She arose, in spite of the remonstrances of her women, and hurrying on a few of her cloaths, ran wildly through the house, [Page 117] in quest of her wretched, deluded husband.—She found him in his closet, stretched at his length on the floor.—She sprung forward, and falling on her knees by his side, exclaimed, O Rivers! my life, my husband, cast me not off, I am indeed, indeed I am innocent. She ceased, and remained, with clasped hands, streaming eyes, and dishevelled hair, a silent moving suppliant. He looked up, and with a fierce air and determined accent, said, Leave me; were an angel to descend from heaven, as a voucher for your innocence, I would not believe:—go, let me never see you more; fly and hide your shame, my dishonor nothing can hide. He re­sumed his posture, she threw herself upon him, in speechless agony;—he spurned her from him, started up, and hastily left the room.

For some time she lay almost deprived of sense and motion;—at length, a burst of tears came to her re­lief: still, however, she continued on the ground, and that for several hours; at last the door opened▪ a maid entered with the rest of her cloaths; those she placed on a chair, and retired without speaking.—O! then, cried this unfortunate wife, he has indeed abandoned me! A spark of resentment was kindled in her gentle breast, at such unmerited cruelty.—This, and conscious inno­cence, supported her spirits: She dressed herself;—the task was hardly finished, when my father, with redou­bled rage in his countenance, again entered the room; tossed a letter to her.—there, madam, said he, judge if I can about. Go; I will not give you the satisfaction of being divorced from the man you hate; but I do not hinder you to join your infamous paramour:—Go, since you prefer the shelter of his arms, to those of a husband who adored you: go, lead a life of infamy, since it is your choice.—O! Harriot, added he, striking his breast, while his voice was hardly articulate,—how [Page 118] have I deserved such treatment? Why did you deceive me? or rather, why, ah! why am I not still deceived? You appeared to be the gentlest, kindest, loveliest of your sex; a pattern of every female virtue. He pulled out his handkerchief: She kneeled and clasped his knees;—Rivers, my adored husband, listen to your injured wife; let me clear my innocence; still we may be happy.—Never, never, exclaimed he, disengaging him­self; 'tis the last struggle of my ill placed love, and now 'tis passed:—I tear you from my heart:—Go, take your cloaths, your jewels;—fly, least rage should get the better of my reason;—fly, and never let me see you more;—read that,—pointing to the letter,—and then judge, if there is a possibility of my forgiving you.

He left her. She dried her eyes, raised them to hea­ven, put up a short, but fervent prayer;—it was instantly answered;—a composed sadness succeeded the transports of grief, which had lately torn her gen­tle bosom, and she felt a degree of fortitude that seem­ed super-natural. She took up the paper, the con­tents of which were as follows:—

Was there ever, Eliza, so artful a villain?—well might my father be deceived. My afflicted, injured mother, saw by this scrawl, that her ruin was irretrieva­ble, therefore, with calm, and pious resignation, submit­ted to her fate;—all that she now wished for, ere she bid a last adieu to her late peaceful mansion, was to see her child. While she was writing a few lines to request this favor, a servant entered, he bowed, and for some moments his voice refused to do its office, so much was the honest fellow affected at the disgrace of his lady;—at last,—a chaise waits, madam,—and there,—present­ing it, is a billet from my master:—again he bowed▪ and retired.—The note was as follows:

[Page 120] She read and wept,—wept more for her deluded hus­band, than for herself. She took leave of me, and her tears flowed with redoubled violence;—then hurried into her chaise—looked back, as Eve did when driven from Paradise,—uttered a deep sigh,—reclined her languid head on her hand, and proceeded to London: there she sold her jewels; most of them were her own before her fatal marriage, being left her by an aunt.—She found herself, after she had disposed of these, in­cluding her bank notes, mistress of about five thousand pounds: this she placed in the funds, resolved to stint herself to the interest of it, and on no account to receive any thing further from her husband;—nay, her deter­mination was, never more to see any of her relations or friends, but to bury herself in some obscure retreat. This melancholy plan she accordingly, as soon as she had settled her little affairs, put in execution. Chance directed the mourning fugitive to this village.

The worthy Mr. Stephens, whose wife was then alive, received her as a boarder; with him she has continued ever since, except a few weeks which she spent in France: having discovered that I was sent there with my faith­ful Hargrave, maternal affection led her to my con­vent.—Ah! why did she not then discover herself to me?—Nancy, it seems, was in the secret, but by this too prudent mother, sworn to keep it. She had the satisfaction to see me well, and happily ignorant of her dishonor—having indeed been made to believe, that death had, while I was an infant, robbed me of this va­luable parent.—She settled a correspondence with my worthy companion, which was regularly continued till the good girl's death;—then she returned to her peace­ful asylum.

The exemplary piety and chearful conversation of her [...], has been of infinite advantage to her:—he is [Page 121] quite a primitive christian, both in his faith and prac­tice.—She treads in his steps.—Religion is the bu­siness of his life;—from that poor source, she derives all her peace and joy;—her heavenly Lord has amply rewarded her for the loss of her earthly husband,—has abundantly supplied to her the loss of father, mo­ther, and of friends:—his grace even endues her with such fortitude, that without murmuring, she beholds me, her late found, her darling child, withering in my prime, and visibly hastening to my tomb.—Ah! Os­sory, how justly am I punished for my criminal at­tachment to thee! thou most amiable of men:—but I check myself;—I must not indulge the fatal remem­brance.

Adieu! Eliza, the pious family are assembled; I go to join their evening devotions,—before the throne of grace, I will ease my heart, by freely pouring out its grief.

LETTER XVII. Lord OSSORY to Mr. MELVILL.

I Commend your friendly attention to the unfortunate Rivers: But must he alone engross your care? Does not the still more unfortunate Ossory, also claim a share of your generous compassion? Oh! how weak are the feelings even of a father, compared to those of a passionate lover! The wound his honor has received, af­fects him more than the loss of his daughter,—more than the loss of my angelic Harriot; while I mourn [Page 122] only for her;—and how poignant does it render my grief, when I reflect that to me she owes her ruin.—to me, who had vowed to be her protector and friend. Melvill! my worthy Melvill! where can she have con­cealed herself? The dear, suffering, lovely wande [...]er! All that I have, would I give to discover the place of her retreat. I would not for worlds—for her sake, whom I value more than a thousand worlds, I would not repeat the crime that has undone her, and forever destroyed my peace: but I wish to find her, that with the soothing voice of friendship, I might calm her grief—that I might shelter her from the storms of ad­versity. Alas! of what use is my fortune, since I am denied the privilege of relieving her want? Poor and friendless! how much may she at this moment stand in need of assistance? Why is not that delightful task reserved for her Ossory? Dear Melvill, forgive me;—you have reason to be tired of my letters,—always filled with complaints,—always engrossed by this one sad subject;—yet to you, it is almost equally interesting as to myself.

But let me answer the questions in your last:—first, in regard to my torment,—my wife, must I call her! She has for this week past been shut up in her apartment, having first given strict orders to be denied to all company:—Her women, I am told, are bu­sily employed in packing up her cloaths; she in wri­ting. I foresee an elopement: if she knew how much I wish to get rid of her, she need not take such pre­caution to conceal her design. She means, I suppose, to follow her worthless paramour, who, the very night you took leave of us, privately left the house, though not out of danger from his wounds. With what in­gratitude did that villain repay the benefits I had loaded him with! and what a dupe have I been to his pre­tended friendship!

[Page 123] I am particularly indebted to you, for so cautiously concealing from Mr. Rivers, the unfortunate share I had in his daughter's—ruin, must I call it. But for her own affecting letter to him, her flight might have ap­peared only a step taken in order to avoid a hated mar­riage; but in it the noble hearted sufferer hints at her dishonor; 'tis however, one great point to keep her father from a more particular knowledge of her fatal story.—Did he know the man!—ah! why am I that man!—his wounded honor would prompt him to seek revenge: my life is at his service:—There is little me­rit in being willing to part with what is become a bur­then; but though I would chearfully resign it, the con­sequence might be fatal to him; and I would sooner lose a thousand lives than draw my sword against the father of my ill fated love.—Much therefore, I again repeat, am I indebted to your prudent conduct, to your watchful care, which has saved me from so distressing a dilemma. You say, that he is now eager to put his fa­vorite scheme in execution,—I mean his retreat from the world:—misanthrophy grows upon him—one can­not wonder at it.—I, who am so much younger, and naturally sanguine, already see life in its true colours, and consequently am sick of it: like him, I bid adieu to its empty delusions. But there is one tree of happi­ness planted in this wilderness—fortunate are they who pluck and [...]at,—that tree is friendship; it bears the noblest fruit—of a nature so refreshing, that it alone can support the weary languid traveller through the fa­tiguing journey of life.—You, dear Melvill, are now the only consolation, the only support that is left your affectionate

P. S. My too youthful father-in-law has, I find, ta­ken a strange step. In his last trip to Paris, at a masque­rade, [Page 124] he met his libertine wife:—He was struck with her figure,—he had unmasked; but she carefully con­cealed herself from his knowledge, till she had by her wit compleated that conquest, which her fine form had begun.—He was caught; she suffered him to accom­pany her to her hotel; there she so effectually, by her artful blandishments, wrought on his easy nature, that they are reconciled, and appear together in public, all harmony and love. I don't, however, imagine, from the character of the lady, that this harmony will be of any long continuance. I suppose her financies were low, and that necessity urged her to solicit this re-union.

LETTER XVIII. The SAME to the SAME.

A MOST surprising event has happened, my dear Melvill,—an event, which at first threw me into a transport of joy,—but already does that begin to subside. I dare not indulge the delightful hope, that I shall be freed from my unfortunate engagement:—and if I were, of what advantage would it be, since the amiable Harriot, for whose sake alone I wish to be restored to liberty,—since she, that idol of my heart, is lost? O! that she were now here,—but let me explain this mystery.

Yesterday morning I was sitting in my library, which has, you know, a view of the road;—I was reading,—often have I recourse to books,—but alas! how vain are precepts of philosophy? how ineffectual [Page 125] to sooth a grief like mine?—Seneca was in my hand,—but an unhappy passion wholly ingrossed both my head and heart; my eyes were fixed on the road,—I, in imagination, traced my Harriot in her flight,—every cariage that passed, seemed to be conveying that dear suffering angel from my sight.

In this manner was I indulging my woe, when a chaise, which drove at a furious rate, attracted my notice: there was nothing in this, which could reasona­bly excite in me the least emotion;—and yet I found myself uncommonly agitated: it drew nearer, and at last entered my court-yard.—I started up.—O! heaven, exclaimed I—can it be her? Not a moment was I suffered to enjoy this improbable hope.—A young man, of genteel appearance, sprung from the carriage:—the arrival of this stranger excited some cu­riosity,—I hurried to meet him;—he was at that in­stant enquiring of the servants, in broken English, for Lady Ossory.—They answered, agreeable to her orders, that she was not at home.—I addressed him in French;—there was something in his countenance, that, in spite of the disgust La Fare's treachery had ex­cited in me, for his countrymen, prejudiced me in his favor—He returned my civilities with great politeness.—I led him into a parlour, for he seemed excessively fatigued:—When we were seated, to my infinite sur­prise, he said to me, You see before you, my Lord, one of the most unfortunate of men,—a man, injured by you in the most tender point. By me!—Yes, Sir▪ but that injury was unintentional: we have both been the dupes of an artful woman; a woman, whom tho' I have reason to hate and despise, my ungovernable heart still fondly doats on. In me, my Lord, behold the dishonored, the wretched husband of her, who has, for some months past, assumed the title of Lady Ossory; [Page 126] a title to which she can have no claim—since, long before she saw you, she was mine by the most sacred ties: but, preferring the splendor of your rank to my humble station, she forgot her vows,—deceived me with false hopes, till she returned to England,—then, still more fatally deceived me, by spreading the report of her death. A friend of her's, wrote to my sister on this subject, pretending that she did so, in compliance with her dying request. Confined to my studies, and strictly watched by an arbitrary father, I had no oppor­tunity of detecting this falshood. I was inconsolable for the supposed loss of a wife whom I adored:—so vio­lent was my grief, that my life was despaired of.—I was ordered to the Spa: there I, a few weeks ago, be­came acquainted with an English gentleman, who was also an acquaintance of your Lordship's;—you may guess the rest. The sudden death of my father obliged me to defer my journey here for some time. I am now independent; can incontestibly prove my marriage, and have therefore a right to claim my wife: of you, my Lord, I claim her. I am well informed she is in this house, though your servants have denied her:—but from you, Sir, I expect justice.

I am only sorry, returned I, that this wife is so little worthy of your affections:—but believe me, Sir, I have [...] to with hold her from you; on the contrary, I am ready [...] conduct you to her apartment: I imagine [...] is there, though I have not seen her for some days. The character I have heard of your Lordship, said he, convinces me, that I may firmly rely on your honor: go then, Sir, do me the favor to lead me to that fallen angel, whom, infatuated with her charms, I am com­pelled to worship.

I leave you, Melvill, to judge my transports on this occasion, for I will not swell my narrative with reflec­tions [Page 127] or comments: he followed me; but neither in her own apartment, nor in any other apartment in the house, was the fallen angel to be found. My gentle­man began to suspect me of a design to rob him of his right; and in consequence of that thought, assumed an air, which in any other person, or on any other occa­sion, I might have been tempted to resent; but I felt so much compassion for the poor enamoured, injured youth, that it left no room for any other sentiment. I condescended to expostulate, and dropped some hints of the treatment I had received from the woman he so eagerly sought;—hints, that one would have thought, might have damped his ardor; or at least were suffici­ent to have convinced him, that instead of wishing to with-hold her, I should rejoice to quit all right and title to her. My assurances, however, did not satisfy him: I therefore called up my servants, every one of whom, in his presence, underwent a strict examination: they, one and all, denied any knowledge of her flight. As length, however, intimidated at my threats, or perhaps won by my promises of reward, one of her women con­fessed, that the instant the stranger arrived, her lady, who had seen him from her window, rang for her;—that she found her almost fainting; but after taking a few drops, she hastily cried, follow me, and bring that casket with you. She then descended the back stairs, and hurrying thro' the park, reached the neighbouring village,—when pulling out her purse, she gave it to her attendant; charged her not to betray the trust reposed in her, nor on any terms to confess, that she was witness to her flight; ordered her, as soon as she conveniently could, without being suspected, to hire a chaise, and follow her to town with her cloaths; added, that she would hear of her at Lady Bab Williams's: then procu­red a man and horse, mounted behind him, took the [Page 128] road to London, and was soon out of sight. This intel­ligence was sufficient for the impetuous Frenchman; he staid not to ask any more questions, only wrote Lady Bab Williams, and the place of her residence in town, in his pocket-book, bowed to me and sprang into his car­riage, ordering the man to make all possible expedition.

And now Melvill, what think you of this unex­pected adventure?—I dare not freely indulge my joy: they were both under age—no consent of pa­rents;—Sir Harry will spare neither pains nor ex­pence to set aside this first marriage, and to establish mine.—Faint, very faint are my hopes of a release.—Her father acted most dishonorably in concealing from me her elopement from the convent. The story is too long:—I am interrupted.

Adieu, my dear Melvill; call at Williams's; I make no doubt, but she would fly to her friend Bab for shelter. I am exceedingly anxious to know what will be the issue of this affair.

Your account of Mr Rivers, gave a deep impres­sion to my peace:—you, I suppose, are intrusted with the knowledge of his retreat. May that retreat afford him the tranquility, which he has in vain sought for in the world;—Once more adieu.

LETTER XIX. To Lord OSSORY.

OH! my Lord! what have I done!—My wife—my adored wife! my Isabella, lies murdered by my side!—murdered by me!

[Page 129] No, she is not yet dead,—she grasps my hand—she strives to speak:—alas! my love, thy tuneful voice is stopp'd forever!

A thousand lives would I give even for a hope of her recovery!—yet she has highly injured me:—had she been virtuous—but she is an angel, even as she is—the most perfect form that Nature ever created!

I found her here, in the arms of my rival, the cur­sed La Fare. He is punished;—there he lies weltring in his blood:—despair is painted on his gastly counte­nance.

Swift as lightning did I execute my vengeance!—Ah! why spared I not my Isabella?—but I could not—she threw herself between me, and the victim of my fury. Besides, my injured honor called loudly for re­venge, and drowned the gentle whispers of compassion. 'Tis done, and I must answer for the deed. Yes, the law shall take its course: no cowardly regard to my own safety, shall tear me from my dying love:—I will attend her to the grave—embalm her with my own tears:—then let the stern officers of justice deprive me of a life, which, without her, is hateful to me:—O! never more shall one ray of hope or peace visit my benighted heart!—I have rashly hurried an impenitent, a poluted soul into the regions of darkness, with all its sins upon its head!—Ah! will they not also fall on mine? will not his blood call for vengeance on me, his unpitying murderer?—How his eyes stare!

Hark! 'tis the faint voice of my Isabella.—

She takes the pen from me:—To you, my Lord, she is going to write; the trembling arms are open to support her. Ah! it will not do,—her eyes close! Oh! despair and anguish! My life! my love! is gone for ever!—

LETTER XX. To Lord OSSORY.

NO, my Lord, a few moments are still [...] me;—for your sake, more than the wretched Isabella's, is this short respite vouchsafed me.

I shall say nothing of the injuries I have done you as a wife.—I was not your wife.—There, deprived of sense and motion, lies my real husband, whom, too late I love.—So numerous are my fins, I [...]o not with which of them to begin my humiliating confessi­on.—The ruin I have brought on that dear unfor­tunate youth hangs most heavy on my guilty soul.—O! my Lord, pity him, and save him from the igno­minious death, with which he is threatened;—he will not fly:—use then, a generous friendly violence, and if possible get him conveyed to a place of safety;—but my request will come too late.

It is with the utmost difficulty I am able to hold my pen.

A cordial has a little revived me, that I may clear the innocent,—some degree of strength is granted me.

Harriot, whose virtue and merit excited my hatred, is innocent.—A fatal draught was administre d;—'twas the contrivance of—

O! let me not stain the paper with his name, my trembling hand refuses to write it:—unhappy wretch! thou partner of my guilt and shame!—how horrid now is that disfigured face, on which, with guilty fond­ness, I have so often gazed:—not a moment was in mercy allowed to thee;—from the criminal embrace of [Page 131] my arms, those of death received thee:—numerous were thy enemies;—severe has been thy punishment.

But I distractedly wander from my subject:—In consequence of an intoxicating draught she fell;—by such accursed arts alon [...] could I hope to humble her haughty virtue,—still she is virtuous: a momen­tary delirium misled her senses; but so involuntary a crime could not pollute her mind.

It now only remains for me to inform you, where the innocent sufferer has concealed herself. I had pla­ced my spies to watch all her motions,—by that means I became acquainted with the place of her retreat. She is at a small village near Durham, and boards at a clergyman's house, whose name is Stephens.

You are now, my Lord, at liberty to indulge that passion, against which you have long honorably strug­gled. Your Harriot will now amply reward you for all you have suffered from our ill concerted union,—and death will soon release you from the wretched

LETTER XXI. Lord OSSORY to Mr. MELVILL.

THE inclosed letters made me shudder! What a scene of horror do they disclose!

In compassion to the ill-fated Aubigny, I instantly set off for Barnet, that I might, if possible, save him from the consequences of his rashness.—I would not wish to screen a criminal from justice: But the circum­stances of this melancholy affair, the provocation he had received, greatly extenuated his guilt, and rendered [Page 132] him an object of pity. Alas! my pity came too late; ere I arrived he had finished his part, the tragedy was at an end. I was led to the apartment: the first ob­ject that struck me, was the body of La Fare; be his crimes forgot, they ought not to outlive their punish­ment. I heard a deep sigh, and passed on to the bed,—there, in the last agonies of death, lay the wretched Isabella, the fair cause of all this mischief: she was close­ly pressed in the arms of her unfortunate husband,—his eyes were closed, and he was totally deprived of sense and motion;—yet, so firmly did he clasp her, that the nurse, who wanted to raise her a little, could not disengage her from him.—'Twas no matter, she was too far gone, nothing could save her life.—I guessed by the expression of her countenance, that she knew me, but she could not speak;—all she could do, was to turn her languid eyes towards Aubigny;—a tear dropp'd on his pale face;—she then raised them to me (now deprived of all their lustre) with a mournful supplicating look, as if to solicit my assistance for him: a deep groan followed that moving glance, which pier­ced my heart, and will never be effaced from my me­mory:—that glance was her last,—a second groan released her struggling soul from its narrow prison; and her once brilliant eyes were closed forever.

Our whole attention was now engrossed by Au­bigny.—With great difficulty we unfastened his clasp­ing hands, a surgeon bled him, a few drops only issu­ed; but his pulse ceased to beat, all remedies were fruitless;—he no longer stood in need of our assist­ance.

What we had mistaken for a swoon, was death:—grief and despair had broke his tender heart.—I have seen them decently, though very privately in­terred;—one grave contains the ill-fated pair.—La Fare, [Page 133] out of respect to the memory of Aubigny. I ordered to be placed at the opposite side of the church:—in death, at least, his Isabella shall be all his own.—Peace be to their ashes—She who in life, out-shone the fairest of the fair;—she who so late, triumphant in her charms, her rank and riches now lies low, her dust mixes with beggars, and not a stone marks out her humble grave.

Adieu, my dear Melvill: the prospect of happiness, which now opens to my view, would be too much for me to support, were it not for the melancholy scenes in which I have been engaged.—I could wish how­ever, that my joy had received a more moderate alloy.—To-morrow morning I shall proceed to London.—The rapturous subject nearest my heart, I defer till meeting: I shall then write to Mr. Rivers; he will, I hope, accompany us to the retreat of my love. I am now convinced that my Harriot and I were destined for each other. But ah! how fatal were the events, by which our union was to be accomplished.

Why hangs this weight upon my heart?—'Tis true, I cannot yet call her mine,—but what now is there to prevent her being so?—every obstacle is re­moved—O! I will not admit a doubt of my approach­ing felicity.

LETTER XXII. Miss RIVERS to Miss ELIZA DUDLEY.

GRIEF was slow in its operations;—joy was forced to come to its assistance, and now indeed the blow is struck;—the transport was too violent: to find myself in a great measure cleared from a crime, which hung so heavy on my heart;—to be clasped in the arms of a reconciled father; to behold at my feet the amia­ble man, who I have long so fondly loved; to be at last permitted to indulge [...] without a crime;—the joy was too exqu [...]si [...]e;—human nature could not support it,—but I am satisfied. One moment of my life I have tasted happiness without [...]; and now I shall die in peace. Adieu, my true, my worthy friend. Death only could dissolve that sweet sympathetic friend­ship, which commenced almost from infancy, and has ever since encreased. Adieu!—a long adieu!—This is, I fear, the last assurance you will receive of your Harriot's love. Will you not come and close my eyes, and shed a gentle tear over the poor remains of your affectionate,

Mr. Melvill is here. I have obtained his promise to write to you when I have breathed my last. I would wish you to know how I acquitted myself in that try­ing moment, when the divine grace can alone support us: that grace I most fervently implore; already do I feel its efficacy; all within is at peace.—Farewel.

LETTER XXIII. Mr. MELVILL to Miss DUDLEY.

IN compliance with the request of your angel friend, (every request of her's was a law to her Melvill) I intended to have given you a minute account.

I cannot,—my full heart swells to my eyes.—I do not blush to own my sensibility;—I have wept—I still weep—a Stoic would have been softened at the mournful scene, to which I was a sad witness—Poor Ossory!—that relief is denied him: to fall from such a height of happiness!—Need I tell you that the lovely Harriot is no more? this I might tell you; but to describe our grief, is not in the power of language!—she alone was calm and piously resigned.—O! how beautiful did she look!—her form seemed more than human,—while with placid sweetness she strove to console us,—while she kissed off a mother's tears, and besought a fa­ther's blessing;—but when she turned to the despair­ing Ossory,—sighs stopped the passage of her soothing voice;—she grasped his hand,—she raised her eyes to heaven;—heaven only could support her in so severe a trial.

Why do I attempt it?—No human pen is equal to the task.

He was forcibly dragged from the lifeless body. The first transports of his grief were terrible:—this morn­ning I left him for a moment to the care of his servant, while I went to feed my woe by paying a visit to the chamber of mourning;—there dressed in the pale habi­liments of the dead, lay the now literally angel Har­riot,

I took my seat by her bed: I had not sat long, when in rushed my unfortunate friend. The curtains on his side were closed; he threw them open, fixed his eyes on the corpse, clasped his hands, and stood fix­ed in silent grief, the statue of despair;—not a tear flowed—not a sigh heaved his bosom: at last his colour changed, his eyes closed, and he fell to the ground in a deep swoon. We have restored him to some degree of life; he breathes, and that is all. I beg leave to subscribe myself, with great esteem,

LETTER XXIV. Mr. RIVERS to Mr. MELVILL.

HOW is your unhappy friend, my dear Melvill? Has the exercise of travelling and change of scenes, in any measure produced the wished effect? Is he yet recovered from that alarming stupefaction, in which I saw him depart—when he appeared a mere machine, moved at our pleasure? Continue, most va­luable and amiable young man, your generous care of him. There are few instances of a friendship like your's, and yet in Mr. Melvill it seems nothing extraordinary. So much as the whole te [...]or of his life prepared us for noble and disinterested actions. Never woman could boast the conquest of two more exalted, more worthy [Page 137] hearts, than my poor ill-fated Harriot. In this life we must not hope for unmixed felicity. Had my love­ly girl been spared, mine would have been perfect, and I should have descended to my grave in peace: she alone is wanting to fill up the measure of my hap­piness; but let me be thankful for the inestimable blessings that are still left me,—a wife, whom I have ever loved, at length restored to me—pure and unsullied; all my injurious suspicions removed; the strongest, the most convincing testimonies of her inno­cence produced: that villain Lord W—, on his death-bed, confessed to Mr. Stephens, who he purpose­ly sent for, the accursed arts he had used to excite my jealousy; he expected a divorce would have followed, and that he should by that means become master of that amiable wife, of whom my rash credulity had ren­dered me so unworthy. This best of women conde­scends to be reconciled to me; she has not uttered one single reproach; with pious charity she forgives my past cruelty: she is now, if possible, more dear to my [...]ond heart than when I first received her to my arms, in all the blooming pride of youthful beauty. What a salu­tary effect has her example, and the conversation of the worthy Stephens, produced in me? Long have I stu­died philosophy, and from its specious precepts hoped for peace. Vain hope! Fruitless remedy for the ills of life; "their force alone religion can disarm."

Here then I fix, and here only can I find a firm an­chor for my soul.

My wife, whose will shall now be a law to me, is fond of this retreat. I have as little inclination as her to launch again into a tumultuous world: I have, therefore, in compliance with her request, purchased a commodious, pleasantly situated house, which is not a [Page 138] quarter of a mile from our present habitation. We cannot prevail on Mr. Stephens to live with us: no­thing, he says, could bribe him to quit his humble cot­tage, wherein he has passed so many years of content­ment and tranquility. He will, however, be frequent­ly our welcome guest. A more youthful one, but one no less worthy, is come to console, to wipe off the [...]ears of a disconsolate mother, and to supply to her the loss of a dear lamented daughter; the person I mean is the amiable Miss Dudley, the friend and confi­dant of my departed Harriot; she is independent mis­tress of a large fortune; is naturally of a grave turn; her gentle heart is formed for friendship, but seems averse to attachments of a more tender nature: the late melancholy event has added to her pensive cast of mind.

She had let off to pay her Harriot a visit ere she re­ceived your letter: long before would she have given that proof of her regard, but that her friend refused till our arrival here, to reveal to her the place of her re­treat. The moment she was informed of it, she set off, and travelled post; greatly was she fatigued;—when I handed her from her chaise, she was obliged to sup­port herself on my arm;—yet with all her friendly haste she came too late to receive her Harriot's last adieu. She fainted on being told the fatal news;—when recovered, she gave me her hand,—Lead me to her Sir,—bursting into a flood of tears she exclaimed in broken accent,—Yes, Harriot! my sister, my friend, I will close thine eyes.—My child had just been placed in her coffin;—the serene smile of innocence rendered her lovely even in death.—The moment we entered the room, Miss Dudley hastily quitted my arm, and rushed forward; she wrung her hands in an agony of grief, while her streaming eyes were fixed on her friend?— [Page 139] at length, uttering a deep sigh, she threw her arms round the coffin, and laid her cheek close to her's;—sobs choaked the passage of her voice; at last,—Not one tear only, my Harriot, raising her head,—O, no! my eyes shall never cease to flow!—in retirement will I bury myself, till thy grave receives me. You will not deny your Eliza a place by your side?—there will I join thee, my sweet companion,—my friend,—how benign is the air of that pale face!—so have I seen thee look, when listening to a tale of woe;—the tears with which I have bedewed thee, seem thine own.—Such were the gentle drops that pity has often caused to flow;—but where is that dimpled smile of innocent vivacity, with which you used to enliven our little parties?—Alas! long, long has mirth been a stranger to my Har­riot's breast,—and now it is for ever banished from that of thy friend. Thy voice is stopped, my love; but I know what would have been thy last request, Comfort my mother,—supply my place. Yes, Harriot, that late-found amiable mother shall be mine;—we will mix our tears, and talk of thee for ever. And now farewel, farewel my angel friend,—daily will I visit thy grave.—not a weed shall be suffered to grow near thee; thou withered rose, untimely cropped by the rude hand of death. One kiss more. While she spoke, my discon­solate wife entered the room; there is a solemn dignity in her grief, that is not to be dissembled.—Eliza rushed into her arms, and sobbing, exclaimed,—O Madam, let me, let me be your child; I am an orphan,—receive to your protection the friend of your Harriot.

Such scenes as these lose by the recital; to feel their force you should have been present; but I cannot wish you had at this; it was too affecting.

[Page 140] Let us, my dear Melvill, fly to the sacred volume of inspiration for consolation,—there we shall find that so­vereign balm which

‘It is not just we should be without sense and feel­ing of grief, in the afflictions and sad accidents that befal us, as if we were angels that have no sense of nature; neither is it just that we should be quite de­jected, like heathens that have no sense of grace;—but 'tis just that we should be afflicted and com­forted like christians.—Pascall's Thoughts.’

Adieu, my dear Melvill, success attend your friendly expedition. Believe me with the most perfect esteem,