LETTER I. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

I HAVE often almost persuaded myself, that if it were not for the singular degree of attachment, which I flatter my­self [Page 10]you feel for me, your patience would are now have been tired with the trifling incidents I have so perpetually heaped upon you in the course of my correspondence: but the candid manner in which you con­tinue to treat my scruples, I confess in a measure abates them. I do not in the least dissemble, when I tell you, that one of the greatest felicities I enjoy, is having a friend whose mind is so perfectly similar to my own—equally as happy to commu­nicate as to receive;—though I must be free enough to add, I wish the former could be a little more practised. Ah, my dear Louisa! were friendship always contracted on right principles, we should seldom see such revolutions in its profes­sion, nor would our ears be so often offended with its illiberal tendencies. But, alas! what extremes are continually presented to our view, merely for want of properly understanding the term—or, perhaps, be being too insensible to its sa­cred influences!

We need only take a perspective around us, and innumerable instances will per­fectly evince the reality of these reflec­tions [Page 11]—from excess of professed friend­ship, to an equal extreme of actual ha­tred. And what adds to the misfortune still more, is, that it ceases not its ravages, nor is confined to either sex or station.

The female sex, my dear, of which we have the honour to be a part, too often disfigure the natural delicacy with which they are favoured by Providence, by a propensity to these extremes; whilst those of the other sex, who are exalted in life, abuse the beneficence of the great Crea­tor, by not cultivating such feelings as would reflect an honour on their benefac­tor, and afford a lasting source of peace to themselves.

When we consider, my dear, that we are created social beings, and that it is not repugnant to the finest principles of reason, religion, or humanity, to be actuated by social principles; we cannot help lamenting, that people should so de­generate in their ideas as well as in their practice. Nor is it less unfortunate, that those who feel, or affect to feel, the pleas­ures of friendship, should be so changea­ble in their profession of it. The truth [Page 12]however is, we are more ready to discover and magnify error aboard than at home. I cannot help persuading myself, how particularly unhappy it is for females, that they expose themselves so frequently to this foible: for if, in their civil inter­course with society, they are often discov­ering little incidents to disgust and fluctu­ate their friendships, it is but too probable they will divest themselves of every ra­tional sentiment, and will equally fluctu­ate in the nearer connexions of life—even in those of wife and mother. I would forbear—but examples are too prevalent. Let women study themselves, and only think a moment for what they were made; and, if they cannot heal a wound, let them not make it deeper.

Happy, my dear, is it for us, that we are blest with reason and sensibility enough, to protect us, in some degree, from these extremes; and it would be the highest ingratitude, were we to deny that we are restrained from excess by the kind interposition of a superior power.

Though nature has been liberal in be­stowing on us active minds, yet it would [Page 13]be very irrational to deny the benefits of education. Many a gem continues hidden in the earth, out of the reach of discovery; and there are many capacities capable of the greatest improvement, which, by in­digent circumstances, are hid to the pos­sessor and to the world; society is denied the benefit of their services; and we have reason to fear, that many important dis­coveries are forever lost.

I do not mean, however, to awaken gratitude in your breast for the superior advantages you have enjoyed; I know you too well to doubt the efficacy of your good sense. But as letters of friendship sometimes fall into the hands of other friends besides those for whom they were originally intended, so mine may not, perhaps, escape the eyes of some, whose minds, for want of cultivation, make but and unpleasing appearance in life.

Reason and humanity teach us to love our fellow creatures; therefore we should endeavour to promote their happiness, by communicating such ideas as may seem most calculated for that purpose. If there are any within the limits of your [Page 14]acquaintance who correspond with the portrait I have drawn, that which I write for the amusement of my dear Louisa, will serve for their information.

To illustrate a virtuous character, I propose giving you a short account of my two young friends, Mr. and Mrs. Ansell. We contracted an intimate acquaintance with these amiable people a short time since at a watering-place. My mother was so highly pleased with their conversation, that she gave them a general invitation to our house, whenever they could make it convenient to visit the metropolis. We little suspected, that they would have made choice of our company, to cheer their drooping spirits, when the hand of death had caused them to sink, by depriv­ing them of the consolations of a tender father and kind friend. The history of this good man is so pleasingly interwoven, that I know you will be delighted at the tale; but the length of this epistle obliges me to postpone it till my next.

I have trespassed, perhaps, on your time and patience too long. Pardon the error, if it is so—and be assured that the [Page 15]idea of having an affectionate remem­brance in the bosom of Louisa, will always be an addition to the happiness of

LETTER II. TO MISS MATILDA ROBINSON.

You may well enough, my dear Matilda, conclude with the query, If it is so—an error: but what would you, or the world, think of my judgment, if I reproached you for the length of your epistles? You discover too much kind­ness in communicating to Louisa exam­ples of instruction, ever to suffer an un­generous conclusion to enter her bosom.

Your ideas of friendship and edu­cation perfectly coincide with mine. It is certainly under the influence of the lat­ter that the former is most likely to have a permanent footing in the human heart. As the faculties of the mind are expanded [Page 16]by education, so the judgment becomes less liable to err. Observation is ever ready to discern—but if reflection be ma­ture, we shall counterbalance the errors of our friends with those of our own—and after all, perhaps, the scale will pre­ponderate on the side where we least ex­pected it.

A sensible mind will endeavour to resist every impediment to its peace; convinced that if anger, resentment, or any other vice interpose, their baneful effects will be more easily traced, both in person and action, and will produce a more unseemly aspect, than in the professedly vulgar.

Your incidents, my dear, are not tri­fling—therefore do not wound my sensi­bility so much as to repeat the idea. It is not indeed trifling, to aim at promot­ing virtue, and extirpating vice. That man or woman, who is so far employed in the cause of humanity, as to endeavour to cheer those who are sinking under the weighty oppressions of life, and to soften the obdurate heart of the haughty oppres­sor, is engaged in a design that is of too noble a nature to bear the epithet of trifling.

[Page 17] I anticipate something interesting in the relation of Mr. and Mrs. Ansell; and I consider myself greatly indebted to your kindness for introducing the tale. Precepts accompanied with examples, generally impress the young mind more than when given separately: I shall therefore presume upon your conjecture, and shew your amusing letters to others of my young friends—some of those too, perhaps, of the description you have giv­en me. Should their happiness thereby be promoted, we shall feel a mutual reward.

You have liberty to exercise my pa­tience as much as you please, it will not be soon exhausted; nor will it be deemed a trespass. Let us each improve upon the idea, not to dissemble in the pursuit of friendship. Be assured, I am as happy to receive as you are kind to communicate. You must, however, acquit me of neglect, in not writing to you oftener. I will do it at a more convenient season. But the duty I owe to my aged parent, must, for the present, supersede the necessity of my writing long letters. His declining state [Page 18]of life and health requires so much atten­tion, as to preclude me from a sufficient interval. I know you will excuse me on the ground of duty: but I look forward to days, when my father may enjoy a bet­ter state of health. In the mean time, I will acknowledge the receipt of your epistles, either by verbal messages or con­cise notes.

Matilda may ever believe she retains a considerable place in the affections of

LETTER III. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

LOUISA's affectionate letter I received, and her philosophical reasoning afforded amusement.

Agreeably, my dear, to your request, I acquit you of neglect, since you have suggested a future period. I will patient­ly wait till those intervals arrive, when, by the re-establishment of your father's health, your time and inclination will en­able [Page 20]you to imitate the example of Matil­da. Believe me, I feel a pleasing exulta­tion in the reflection, that I have a friend who will not on any account desert her duty to her parent. Continue in the exercise of your pleasing employment. Pleasing, did I say? Yes;—indeed it must be so; particularly if we look for­ward to the days of infirmity. Where shall we find the child whose feelings are not amply satisfied with the reflection, that age called them into exercise; and where shall we see the aged sire, who does not receive the attention of a child, with double the pleasure he would that of an indifferent person?

I shall now proceed with Mrs. Ansell's narrative. We were one day sitting to­gether after dinner, busily employed with our needle-work, when I observed that her spirits appeared very much depressed. Being under the necessity of leaving the room a few minutes to give orders in the family, I was prevented from endeavour­ing to investigate the cause. On my re­turn, are I had opened the door, me­thought I heard an echo like these words, [Page 21]"O my father! my father!" I imme­diately looked stedfastly in her face; but she made every effort to conceal her grief, and turned towards the window. A heavy sight, however, soon shook her tender frame, and interested my heart in her fa­vour. I accordingly took a side-glance at her face, and observed a tear now and then steal involuntarily down her cheek.

I must have been possessed of more than brutish insensibility, if my feelings on such an occasion had not been called into ac­tion. I immediately ran to her, and ask­ed her the cause of her uneasiness. She begged met not to be frightened, for that she hoped she should soon recover herself. I then lent her my smelling-bottle, and after some minutes' pause she thus con­tinued:

"If I were not convinced, my dear Matilda, of the goodness of your heart, I should feel more uneasiness at the trou­ble I have just given you; but as I am per­fectly persuaded you are always as ready to share in the griefs and sorrows of your friends as you are in their joys and pleasures, I will not hesitate to disclose [Page 22]the feelings of my bosom. You are ac­quainted, my dear, with the loss I have lately sustained in the death of my father." Here she sobbed, and it was with great difficulty she could go on. "He was," says she, "an amiable parent, and his virtues will ever be deeply impressed on my mind. The guardian of my happi­ness in the years of childhood and youth is no more!—I need not these mournful colours with which I am decorated, to keep my sensibility alive; his absence is sufficient! But you are already anxious to know something more particular re­specting him. I will, therefore, endeav­our to satisfy your curiosity: but I can­not separate the history of my father from that of myself—you must therefore take them in connexion.

"My father was the son of a merchant in London; and, being left with a con­siderable fortune, had but little to fear from the frowns, and less to court from the smiles, of the world. He was natu­rally of a delicate turn of mind, and very fond of retirement; in consequence of which, he fled from the busy croud to a [Page 23]beautiful seat in Hampshire, which bor­dered on the sea-shore. Here he devoted a great part of his time to reading and study. The celebrated works of the an­cient Grecian and Roman authors were familiar to him;—history and philosophy were his chief delight; his imaginations were attentively carried to all parts of the world; nor did he suffer scarce any thing to escape his penetrating genius, from the minutest infect to the great globe itself. From these acquisitions he had learned to make a proper estimate of men▪ and to be very impartial in his decisions on manners.

"But though he had a taste for a soli­tary life, yet he was not insensible to the pleasures of friendship. He made choice of a few select friends, whose minds in some degree bore a similarity to his own. Occasional visits took place; at one of which he became enamoured with the sis­ter of his host.

"His partiality increased, from the re­peated discoveries he made of the good­ness of her heart: nor could he, after a few intervals, cease to inform her of the [Page 24]impression she had made on his mind. She received his caresses with a becoming simplicity, without immediately stifling his hopes or increasing his fears. At ev­ery interview he saw something more en­chanting to animate his prejudices in her favour. A mind possessed of the greatest tenderness, a gentle, kind, and affable dis­position, joined to a good understanding, were discoveries that operated too pow­erfully to suffer him any longer to re­main in suspense.

"The next opportunity he assured her how much happiness he enjoyed in her friendship; though he was in hopes a greater degree of it was still in reserve for him, by his having a share in her af­fections. Yet he candidly confessed, that if the latter were not possible, he would not hesitate to withdraw every pretension; for, by persisting, he should not only de­stroy her present peace, but make the re­covery of his own, at least for a while, inevitable.

"It were next to impossible, for a sus­ceptible heart not to be captivated with a mind that could make a profession of [Page 25]esteem in so open and generous a manner. Nor was her reply less pleasing.

'Your open and manly conduct to­wards me, my dear Sir, added to the be­nevolence with which you are actuated, attract my admiration and esteem. It is true, I have taken but a short period, in comparison with the generality of the world, to investigate your pretensions, and to form an adequate idea of my own de­terminate feelings. I am not, I hope, led to an extreme that will ever be a bane to my peace. I have too much confidence in your good sense, to believe you will put an illiberal construction on my sentiments, when I inform you how much I have se­cretly admired your virtues. You are worthy the favour you ask, and I now candidly avow my attachment. And though it may be deemed a deviation from delicacy in me to declare so early in your favour, yet I can triumph no lon­ger over those feelings of your bosom, in which my own are so intimately con­cerned. Take, Sir, my heart, which is your own. I place the firmest reliance on your confidence, and anticipate the [Page 26]sweets of social enjoyment in your affec­tionate society. At a proper time, my hand shall follow what you have already in possession. Continue the generous character you have hitherto exhibited, and you will be worthy of every feeble effort I can make to constitute your hap­piness. Let propriety distinguish our con­duct, and it will be well."

"The artless and unaffected style in which she spoke, so powerfully operated on my father, that he exclaimed with a degree of rapture,

'How can I be silent any longer? Gen­erous woman! I have often beheld thee as one of the best of thy sex; but now, methinks, thou art the most exalted of all. Thou art worthy—yes—thou art more than worthy of my highest admira­tion and esteem. Friendship, love, and every sacred sweeter sound, the attendants of virtue, shall be thine. If thou canst anticipate happy moments in futurity, what must be the delightful prospects which so pleasingly agitate my soul! The distinction thou hast favoured me with shall never, no, never, abate my constancy.'

[Page 27] "After a proper time had elapsed, the day of celebration was fixed on, and they were married.

"Though I have only been able to col­lect a few scattered fragments of their courtship (part of which I obtained from my father) yet I am persuaded they were models of propriety and virtue; and were their example universally adopted, it would save many from being the victims of folly and caprice. I believe you will agree with me, when I read to you two letters which passed between them a short time previous to their marriage, during my father's absence from the country."

She then took from her pocket-book the letters, which she told me she should keep as sacred to the latest period of her existence, being the only interesting me­mentos of the kind she had been able to rescue from obscurity.

I have transcribed the letters, and in­closed them with this. In my next I shall continue her narrative.

LETTER IV. TO ELIZA—inclosed in the last.

NEITHER time nor distance have obliterated from my memory my lovely, my charming Eliza, nor obstruct­ed one tender emotion of my bosom to­wards her. It was with great reluctance I left the dearest object of my soul, and with still greater do I continue so long absent. It seems as though time had un­dergone an entire revolution: ‘Days seem like weeks, and weeks like months.’ Such is the infatuation which attends the sentimental lover!

Would some winged courser friendly speed me to thy presence, how exquisitely happy must I feel in the flight!—But you will call me enthusiast. I confess, indeed, when I am thinking on you, I am often lost in a pleasing delirium. A few days more will, however, enable me to settle my business in town, and I shall then has­ten to the joy I anticipate.

[Page 29] Happy, doubly happy am I, when I re­flect on the virtues of your mind. It was not, my dear, your personal charms alone that attracted my notice—no, it was some­thing more.

Though I despise the sentiments of that man or woman, who can build their hopes of happiness on shadows that quickly pass by; I pity the objects whose passions are so blindly captivated as to leave them the dupes of their own depravity. It is in­deed possible for personal charms to be blended with a mind equally attracting; nor can there, I think, be a more pleasing sight.

Time will naturally furrow the beauties of nature; but the mind must bear up un­der every vicissitude, that the body may be protected from too strong impressions. A mind like this, I am happy in believ­ing you are possessed of. It is highly ne­cessary you should be thus armed; per­plexities are natural to the human species; and you may, perhaps, hereafter have to [Page 30]contend with many little foibles in me, which at present you are a stranger to. But as I believe our affections are mutual, I am the more ready to conclude we shall equally aim at extenuating the effects of folly on each other's mind. Were I to tell you I expected perfection, I should dis­semble too much from my own persuasions to gain any credit from one so capable of distinguishing as yourself. I must howev­er insist, that the degree of excellence you have discovered in the course of our ac­quaintance, has rooted an idea in my mind that, unless I can claim the possessor of such excellence for my own, virtue itself will be the destruction of my peace.

Speed on, ye fleeting moments, till I gain the summit of my wishes. In the mean time, let me hear from you once more before I have the pleasure of return­ing to the country.

LETTER V. IN ANSWER—inclosed with the former.
TO CHARLES ELMER, ESQ

I CANNOT in justice to my own feelings deny your request; have therefore taken my pen to address you previous to your return. But in the present state of my mind, methinks it is impossible for me to write in such a manner as shall contribute to my own satisfaction, or your happiness. You may learn, however,—you may be convinced in what a sacred view I hold your peace: yes, Charles, it is linked with my own consolation;—it is, in short, my own peace. And however I may se­cretly blush at this open confession, yet believe me, I feel for you as I never felt for any other person in my life.

The generosity and candour with which you dictated your last, merit all the ap­plause I can possibly give them. By pro­tecting me from my own imperfections on [Page 32]one hand, and warning me of your foibles on the other, you have imposed a stronger motive for confidence and esteem: nor do I so much fluctuate under present cir­cumstances, as I might, perhaps, if I had not a perfect conviction of the integrity of the man with whom I am sooner or later to be united.

Perplexities are indeed the common lot of humanity; yet I am convinced, that rectitude of conduct, were it more univer­sal, would spare many from the troubles they experience. How depraved is the hu­man mind! Though it dreads natural and unavoidable calamities; yet, how swiftly does it fly to those unfriendly excesses, which are certain to involve in still great­er difficulties! The reflection, I confess, is unpleasing—but not more so, I fear, than it is true.

View the principles which actuate the world in general; and instead of wonder­ing that life appears so very uncomforta­ble, we must be astonished that it is not beyond conception worse. Pride, avarice, with all their horrid attendants, seem to be the moving sources of action; and [Page 33]if vice remains at the root, it cannot pro­duce virtue. Such alas! are the propen­sities which are often the means of joining the most disaffected minds in the conjugal state, and of insuring to them a life of perpetual misery. I hope we shall escape these snares, since a mutual and firm affec­tion will guide us to the altar; nor will one bitter reflection interpose, to diminish that sublime peace and tranquillity which will invariably be nurtured in our bosoms. I do not mean, however, to exult over the unfortunate:—No; objects of distress, whatever may be the original cause of their misery, demand the utmost pity from feeling hearts.

But to be a little more serious with you, my dear Sir! You seem to lay by your steady philosophical powers, when you start even the possibility of excellency to be the destruction of your peace. The compliment you paid me I should have received with disgust, as a piece of the most offensive flattery, from any other but yourself;—but how opposite were my feelings, when I shed the silent tear over your wandering lines! It was not the tear of disdain—no, [Page 34]Charles; it was that of pity. I anticipa­ted the penetrating sigh which burst from your heart when you was penning the idea; and lamented the treachery of your reason, that it should desert you at the very moment when the weakess of humanity demanded its assistance.

Recollect, Sir, a thousand difficulties may yet await us, and finally dissolve the union you wish: one moment does not bring a protection for the next, nor does the evening shade insure to us the morn­ing light. Were the arm of death to cast an arrow at my feeble frame, and take me from you and all my friends; would reason then forsake you, and leave you to dwindle out a miserable existence, desti­tute of one consolatory moment?—For­bid it, Heaven! The idea pierces my heart.

It is probable, in the height of your ecstasy, you may have made a very im­proper estimate of my excellence; but, supposing it to be a perfect one, would you not triumph at the exchange of virtue which at best is only in a fluctuating state, for that celestial purity and happiness [Page 35]which can never change nor decay? Yes, surely you would. I will venture to in­dulge the thought, that instead of virtue opposing your peace, it would produce an harmony which would only close with your existence.

But in the midst of all my reasoning, I find it is easier to give advice than apply it; and must confess, that I am often lost in the most pleasing anticipations; these I am continually anxious to realize.

Farewel! May the sweetest repose be thine!—Hasten, quickly hasten to the cottage where thy absence feeds with im­patience the bosom of

LETTER VI. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

NOTHING in this world can animate me to pursue the interesting his­tory of Mr. and Mrs. Ansell, but the pleasure I have received from it, and the [Page 36]desire of communicating it to my dear Louisa. I know not where it will end, nor am I particularly anxious about it.

Mrs. Ansell, after reading the letters, was going on with her narrative, when we were interrupted by the appearance of the servant with the tea-things. As soon as they were removed she resumed her tale, and related as follows:

"To be as concise as possible," said the excellent woman, "the first year produ­ced them a fine boy. It lived only a few months, during which period the world seemed to be neglected by them, as an empty void, and their mutual happiness centered in the dear babe. The next year produced them a girl, which was your friend. This happy period too was but short:—my mother, after suckling me three months, was seized with a violent cold which settled on her lungs. The physicians ordered her to refrain from suckling; but, alas! every effort was in vain—a hasty consumption carried her off in about six weeks.

"My father, rendered disconsolate by this adverse stroke, was seized with a stu­pefaction. [Page 37]He saw but few people, and knew not those he saw;—till at length, one of his intimate friends, who had more influence over him than the rest, ventur­ed to reason with him on his situation.

"When his recollection was recovered, he remembered that the infant of his dear­est partner claimed his paternal regard—and determined from that moment to de­vote the whole of his time to me; and, to palliate his misfortune, to make me (as he termed it) "the exact resemblance of his dear Eliza." How far my fath­er has succeeded in his wishes, I am not at liberty to say: though I may with pro­priety affirm, that no parent ever took more pains to instil the purest principles of virtue into the mind of a child than himself.

"A nurse was taken into the house, to attend me through my infant days. As I grew, so my father's fondness increased. At the age of four years he began to in­struct my tender mind; and it affords me a singular degree of pleasure when I rec­ollect his assiduity, and the happiness it gave him.

[Page 38] "He procured me such books as he thought would gradually open and please my tender mind, first carefully perusing them himself. He taught me every rel­ative duty; not with an air of austerity, which is too common among parents, but with that serenity and cheerfulness, which, instead of agitating the breast with fearful apprehensions, inspire the mind with a kind of modest confidence, and dif­fuse mutual happiness to the sire and the babe. He kept me chiefly under his own eye, yet he thought it absolutely necessa­ry that I should be introduced a little to society, lest a shyness became habitual, and rendered me a disagreeable companion when necessity called me more immediate­ly into life. He sought a few young asso­ciates for me, as well that I might copy good examples, as avoid bad ones; and when I remarked any misconduct in my young friends, as not agreeable to the impressions I had received, he endeav­oured to stifle the idea of my superior­ity, by construing every error into a lesson for my future conduct. If I chanced my­self to deviate from the path in which he [Page 39]had instructed me, he pointed out my fault, and its consequence, with that de­gree of delicacy and tenderness which is ever a more powerful mean of exciting reformation, than austerity and correction.

"Thus instructed, the motives which impelled me to love, urged those tender fears to offend an honoured father, which spring from gratitude, and which ought to inhabit the breast of every child.

"My mind, which was rather active, expanded itself every day; and I soon be­gan to learn the importance of religion and virtue. Young and susceptible as I was, no wonder if the baits of vice had easy access to my heart. But though I did not enter into those unhappy errors which so often ensnare the younger, yet I felt such propensities to err as cost me ma­ny severe conflicts. Yes, Matilda! I saw the excellence of education, and adored the wisdom of that Providence who had appointed me such a friend and parent.

"In domestic exercises were my youth­ful hours partly employed; my father judging that a knowledge of those affairs was as necessary for a woman, as an ex­tensive [Page 40]knowledge of the world. At length I arrived to those years when a mutual confidence became indispensable; and he endeavoured by gentle and persua­sive arguments to dispel every fear that op­posed it.

"I now reached my twentieth year; and my vanity was often flattered by sev­eral young beaux, who endeavoured to ingratiate themselves in my favour. Though I was at times pleased with their artifice, yet my reason kept the ascendan­cy so far ever my heart, as to prevent my becoming a victim to imposture. I laid every pretension before my father with simplicity, who always advised me as an intimate friend, but never urged against my inclination.

"Mr. Ansell was soon after introduced to our house by a neighbouring gentleman. At first sight of the lovely youth I felt my­self embarrassed, but was almost at a loss to know the reason. The silent blush conveyed powerful ideas to each of our minds; and I then for the first time be­gan to think myself really in love.

[Page 41] "While the two senior gentlemen were employed in talking over the news of the day, the young stranger addressed me in an easy and bewitching manner. Our conversation turned chiefly upon books and poetry. He appeared so intelligent, that his company became every moment more desirable, and I wished him only to give me the most distant hint of his appro­bation. But this he prudently reserved for another opportunity, when both our judg­ments might be more mature. However, he gave me to understand, that he should take the liberty of paying us a morning visit or two during his residence in the country. Invitations were exchanged on both sides by the old gentlemen, and the two visitors departed.

"I remained in a situation better con­ceived than expressed for the space of three days, continually wishing for a second in­terview: my appetite began to fail, and I was disagreeably harassed between fluc­tuating hopes and fears. The day came that dissipated my anxiety.

"As I was looking from the window, I saw a young gentleman alight from his [Page 42]horse, and hasten towards the door. My heart leaped as it were within me; I felt those tender emotions which are familiar to sensible minds in these situations.

"My father was gone to visit some poor objects who depended chiefly on his generosity for their subsistence; we were therefore alone. Mr. Ansell approached me with an air of modest assurance, which rendered him doubly captivating; and af­ter the first compliments were over, we employed ourselves in a general conver­sation.

"Two hours fled with the utmost ra­pidity, and he began to think of returning. He gently pressed my hand, as a prelude to something more momentous. I antic­ipated his meaning, and fancied myself an excellent physiognomist. The language of his eyes was so very pathetic, that I was ready to grant his request before he had given me an opportunity.

"With a smile of tenderness, he request­ed to know if his addresses would be agree­able. I was ready to answer in the affir­mative;—but the recollection of duty which I owed my father, together with [Page 43]his generous behaviour toward me, forbad my doing it before I had at least consult­ed him. I therefore told Mr. Ansell, that it was impossible for me to give him a pos­itive answer, till I had obtained paternal approbation. This I articulated in a con­fused manner, attended with a blush that rendered me for the moment very uncom­fortable. He relieved me from this awk­ward situation by approving of my resolu­tion, and taking his leave, with a promise to wait on me in the course of a few days.

"When my father returned, I acquaint­ed him with the circumstance. He ap­proved of my conduct, and promised to inquire into the character and situation of the young man. He accordingly made inquiries, and received the most agreeable intelligence respecting him.

"As I sat one day in my chamber, mus­ing on my situation—forming resolutions and breaking them—my father entered, and shut-to the door. His appearance ad­ded to the confusion of my mind. I was convinced something remarkable must have hurried him into my apartment. He observed my confusion, and dissipated my [Page 44]apprehensions by assuming a familiar as­pect, and addressing me as follows:

'I perceive, my dear, your embarrass­ment; but do not let the presence of your father disturb the serenity of your heart. Be calm, my love, nor ever distress me by doubting my confidence. I feel for you, as every parent ought to feel for a child. Remember, I was once young myself, and felt those propensities which you are at present acquainted with. I have made in­quiries respecting Mr. Ansell, but find no­thing very flattering in his circumstances. This, however, shall be no obstacle. He has been unfortunately deprived of a great part of his property by the perfidious ava­rice of his guardian. I am highly pleased with his character. It is superior to rank and fortune. Receive his addresses—and be happy. You are my only child, therefore I cannot bear the idea of part­ing with you. I know you will not object to reside with me; particularly when I tell you, that the prospect of your happi­ness will be a great addition to my own. Do not, however, let me decide for you. You are come to an age in which the laws [Page 45]of your country, as well as those of hu­manity, leave you to your own choice. Think well, whether your mind be prepar­ed to submit to be a wife. In learning to be a child, I will hope you have learned also to be a parent. Many important trusts will call your mind into action;—your real character will now be open to the world—for in no situation are the good or bad qualities of a person so read­ily delineated as in he marriage state: beauties and deformities are traced with perspicuity—virtues and vices are exposed to the gazing world, and ridicule and con­tempt, or the most disgusting flattery, will flow from the retrospect. These it is ne­cessary you should be aware of, that you may avoid the scrutiny of the one, and be indifferent to the artifice of the other?

"He then held out the letters which I read to you, and continued:

'I present you with these letters, that you may be acquainted with the motives which united your parents. If you imi­tate the precepts they contain, you will arrive to the same summit of happiness we enjoyed; but of what duration it will [Page 46]be, is only in the womb of Providence to determine.'

"Then, with tears of anguish which penetrated my heart, he said, 'Ours was but short. The death of your mother was a severe shock to my feelings; and the only consolation left me, was the cer­tainty that she reached a superior abode of happiness, where I hope one day or other to unite with her forever. In your pursuit after happiness, be prepared to meet the events of Providence with forti­tude: steeled by the influence of relig­ion and virtue, you will feel a diminution of horror, and exhibit an example to the world worthy of imitation.'

"A sudden rap at the door put an end to his speech; and I had only time to thank him for his kind intentions before his company was desired below.

"With tears of gratitude streaming from my eyes, I was again left to myself. Contending between the passions of love and duty, I knew not which to place up­permost in my bosom. When my judg­ment became a little cool, I resolved to make them inseparable companions. 'I [Page 47]must,' thought I, 'be just, be dutiful and affectionate to my father—I feel I must; though my heart be divided with another. Yes, I will nurse him in his old age; and, as he protected me in the infirmities of infancy, so will be assidu­ous in lessening the pangs of infirmity in his latter days. It is a blessing to have such a father, and a privilege to be able to convince him of my esteem by every dutiful office.'

"I was awakened from my reverie by the maid, who came to inform me that Mr. Ansell was waiting to see me. After collecting my scattered senses as much as possible, I hastened to the parlour. He rose to salute me, and informed me that he had obtained permission of my father to wait on me, and requested my appro­bation to complete his wishes. This I granted with a smile—and I can only con­ceive of the feelings of his heart by those of my own."

Here, my dear Louisa, we were again interrupted by the servant, who came to inform us, that the supper was ready; and I think it high time to close this epistle.

LETTER VII. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY—inclosed with the former.

MY last letter was rather too late for conveyance: but I think it a favoura­ble circumstance; otherwise you would, perhaps, have been unpleasingly suspend­ed in anxiety for the completion of Mrs. Ansell's history. As soon as the table was cleared of the supper, she concluded as follows:

"The attachment between Mr. Ansell and myself became mutually sincere, and my father beheld it with pleasure. I was sitting with the latter alone one day, when he addressed me, as near as I can recollect, in these words: 'My dear Eliza, I was once vain enough to hope, that your merit would have raised you to a distinction in life, that would have been an honour to my old age; but, upon reflection, I found that my rational moments were sometimes invaded by slights of fancy that flowed from ambition and pride—imagin­ation [Page 49]at times elevated my mind, as well as my body, to an immense height; but, alas! a slight movement hurried it from the baneful precipice; it returned cha­grined to its former sentiments, and folly stared it in the face. I forgot that con­tentment was equally attainable in the middle as in the higher ranks of society—and that a peasant could boast of its famil­iar intercourse with a king. Observation however interposed, and ridiculed my de­lirium—I then called myself a fool, and determined never to be biassed by such mo­tives in future. In this resolution I have continued stedfast, and am happy in the prospect that you are likely to be united with one, who, though he cannot bestow on you wealth nor titles, yet will watch tenderly over your peace. I long for the morning to dawn when you will both be happy; and I hope you will cultivate those principles (however unfashionable) that are most likely to conduce to happiness.'

"Mr. Ansell was obliged to return to London—but as soon as a convenient op­portunity presented itself we were marri­ed, in the presence of my father. He liv­ed [Page 50]with us fifteen months, and was delight­ed with the conjugal happiness we enjoyed; for which he offered up his tribute of praise to the Giver of every good gift, who had preserved him to witness such enjoyment." She sighed, and faintly articulated, "I now come to the closing period of his ex­istence. He was taken with a violent cold, which brought on a fever. At intervals he was perfectly sensible: he saw that his end approached; nor did he murmur at his fate. No timidity was to be seen on his countenance; no desire to prolong his days. The consolations of religion animat­ed him with calmness and composure, and taught him to look beyond the grave. He called us to his bedside, and taking each of us by the hand he said,

'My dear children, you have now to witness a scene that humanity in general shudders at. I feel I am hastening to my exit. The stroke I suppose will be affect­ing to you both. But recollect, we were not sent into this world to live in it for­ever; our probation is but short—we wander but a little season, and then we retire to a settled residence. It is good to [Page 51]be ready when the grim monster, impell­ed by Omnipotence,

I will extort no promise of tenderness to each other after my decease: my confi­dence forbids it, because I have beheld your mutual attachment with uninter­rupted pleasure; and were it not that my mind is prepossessed with joys beyond the grave, nature would submit with greater reluctance to the fatal blow. It is indeed a consolation, that I leave my daughter in the hands of one who regards her happi­ness as his own: this reflection divests me of every unpleasing apprehension, and I retire without a dread to the silent tomb. I fondly hoped to have enjoyed your soci­ety many years; but these hopes are de­stroyed, and I am supported by a more permanent one—even that of anticipating an inseparable union. Continue in the exercise of religious virtue, and train your children up in her paths; and when you come to the closing period, terror will yield to tranquillity, and the horrors of death will become the implements of bliss.'

"Then he pressed our hands; and while the paternal tear stole gently down his venerable cheek, he continued in a still fainter voice, 'I now take an affec­tionate leave of you. Farewel, my dear children! May you be blessed; and may the smiles of Heaven prosper you!—I die in peace.'

"Exhausted with this exertion, he call­ed for a little wine, and after wetting his lips, he laid down and expired without a groan. Mr. Ansell and myself were bath­ed in agonizing tears, and with the most sorrowful hearts we performed the last duties. Now say, Matilda, have I not enough to affect my feelings, to urge my tears? Few such fathers—few such friends!"

Here the sweet woman closed her nar­rative; and I think she has given us as perfect a history of an upright character as the world can produce. Her father had a generous mind, which made him the friend of virtue, and rendered him great through almost every action of his life. Magnanimity was conspicuous in his latter moments; and the serenity with [Page 53]which he made his exit was a spectacle of grandeur rarely to be equalled: and though his death was a severe stroke to surviving relatives, who but the unthink­ing would wish to have detained him a moment from the peaceful habitation to which he is gone?

Mr. and Mrs. Ansell have just left us, and are returned to the family mansion in Hampshire. They have made my fa­ther and self promise to visit them early in the spring; and I confess I shall be hap­py to embrace the opportunity. I felt a kind of selfish sorrow at parting with them, and know not how to make up the loss any other way than by hoping again to see them.

I have taken a deal of trouble in com­mitting the above to paper. You will now be able to imitate my precedent, as I am informed your father gains strength; for which reason you will have a little more time. By complying with my wish­es, you will convince me of your unalter­able affection for

LETTER VIII. TO MISS MATILDA ROBINSON.

MY dear Matilda will be a little surprised at the date of my letter. Just as your last epistles arrived we were preparing for our journey, the physician having advised my father to drink the Bath waters. Perhaps I cannot better [Page 53]satisfy you for the trouble you have taken, than by informing you that your letters afforded us so much pleasure as made us forget the fatigues of travelling. I am at a loss where to begin my commendation—and yet I think you have a prior claim. I admire your patience, and am going in a measure to imitate it.

The description Mrs. Ansell has given you of her father and mother, surpasses every thing of the kind that has come with­in the circle of my knowledge. She might well say, that "were their example uni­versally adopted, it would spare many from becoming the victims of folly and caprice." Such instances of simplicity and candour are seldom to be met with.

I am equally charmed with the charac­ters of the parent and the child. I am affected at their loss, and feel a tender sympathy for them.

How happy would it be for the world, if parents in general adopted Mr. Elmer's plan! By instilling principles of virtue in­to the mind of his child, he laid a foun­dation for confidence, and converted that duty to a privilege, which to a mind [Page 56]otherwise educated would have appeared a task. Heaven certainly designed him for a being of a superior order: he knew how to combine the father and the friend; and, instead of acting the tyrant where he had power, he generously disdained to op­press humanity. Yes, Matilda, I feel a high veneration for those characters, who can boldly step out of the common track, and bid defiance to the prejudices of man­kind, by facilitating the happiness even of a child.

How are the registers of marriage con­verted into monuments of disgrace! See the parties most intimately concerned standing like a beast—neuter. The miser and the proud sire contract, while the poor victims remain passive; and at last, to ap­pease the craving appetites of pride, are obliged to submit to misery and disgrace, or, in seeking an asylum of peace, be abandoned to poverty and wretchedness. O humanity, how art thou fallen from thy original purity!

Instances of depravity are common in this city. We generally visit the Pump-room, where he company resort, every [Page 57]morning. Here we are presented with a group of figures that at once excite pity and contempt. You can hardly conceive the contrasts that alternately appear be­fore us.

The old and decrepit libertine, unable to support his steps only a few paces, is obliged to be wheeled in a chair. His countenance is a picture of debauchery; and you may observe, amidst all the dis­tortions of his features, a desire to repair the emaciated injuries which his constitu­tion has sustained.

The aged female tottering with infir­mity, though convinced that she is hasten­ing to her exit, would fain deceive herself and the world with respect to the date of her existence: she daubs her venerable locks, the colour of which, to a virtuous mind, would reflect an honour and a com­fort, and decks herself in all the gaudy trap­pings of fashion; and were it not for those unavoidable wrinkles which furrow her brow, and the reeling of her fabric, scarce able to support itself against a puff of wind, one would be at a loss to distinguish the young and the giddy, from those who are just ready to step into the grave.

[Page 58] Here the proud coxcomb, whom folly and dissipation have reduced almost to a state of dependence, dreads the most dis­tant idea of poverty, and, like a bird of prey, watches an impetuous moment when he may rush on the unwary woman, who, by reinstating him in his former possessions, too often becomes the partner of his dis­grace, with a certain prospect of misery.

Many, too, are the unthinking girls whose happiness centres in flirting about with fops. Aiming to gain the ascendancy over their gallants, they lay aside the mod­est veil of delicacy. This affords them only a temporary triumph. At length, mortified by successive disappointment and vexation, they descend to be the dupes of their own folly, and finally swell the annals of infamy.

But you will say, Are there no charac­ters that deserve a more pleasing descrip­tion?—Yes, my dear, there are. Here you may see blended in one, the fair, the gentle, and the amiable—here the wise and the prudent—and here also the un­fortunate. An instance of the latter de­scription I will give you.

[Page 59] I was one day walking in the fields, con­templating the beauties of nature, when I saw, seated on a bank under a hedge, a female. Her appearance was pensive and dejected. I approached her, to con­vince myself of her situation. To my surprise, I beheld a countenance beauti­fully delicate; and though time had given her clothes the marks of poverty, yet it was evident she was a being above the common ranks of society. I felt myself interested in her favour. She observed me drawing near her, and in all probabil­ity, had I not quickened my pace, would have concealed her distress some time longer.

I endeavoured to appear as cheerful as my feelings would admit, and prudence forbad my inquiring abruptly into the cause of her distress; I therefore asked her the way to a neighbouring village. She replied with an accent that at once convinced me of my suspicions,

'Madam, I am a stranger to the coun­try; otherwise I should be happy to in­form you.'

[Page 60] 'From what part then did you come?' said I with a smile. She blushed, and a torrent of tears streamed from her eyes, when she saintly said,

'I am an unfortunate woman, early exiled from my friends and myself; but perhaps it were better to hide my misfor­tunes than—'

'Why hide your misfortunes? What­ever may have been the cause of your dis­tress, you are not undeserving of pity.'

'Can you feel then for distress?' said she.

'I can not only feel, but I can be happy also in being the friend of virtue, and in relieving distress. Tell me by what means you are deserted by your friends, and I will endeavour to—'

'Impossible, Madam; endeavours will be fruitless. I, perhaps, shall be consid­ered the aggressor, by first deserting them; nor do I wish to return, till the arbitrary feelings of a mother be reduced to those of a friend.'

A mother! Is it possible that a mother can act the tyrant to such excess, as to oblige her daughter to fly from her [Page 61]presence? By what motives was she ac­tuated?'

'By pride and avarice, Madam. As you seem to be interested in my distress, I will entrust you with my history. I need not descend into all the particulars respecting my parents. It will be suffi­cient to inform you, that I was born in Birmingham.

'My father was concerned in a capital manufactory, and acquired a considerable fortune by his assiduity. He died in the prime of life, leaving my mother sole ex­ecutrix. And though I was, of four children, the only one that survived, yet she felt herself happy in resigning me to the care of a maiden aunt; who, fearing my morals would be either extirpated or corrupted, requested as a favour to have me for a companion.

'My mother was as much pleased at the idea of being relieved from so much trouble, as my aunt was at rescuing the daughter of her brother from certain ruin. I am sorry to say, that the former always delighted more in dissipation and fashion­able amusements, than in those domestic [Page 62]concerns which ornament the character of a woman.

'My aunt's general employment was instructing me in relative duties; nor did she exempt me from those accomplish­ments which with prudence are so beau­tifully attracting in our sex. She care­fully endeavoured to encourage such principles of virtue in my young mind, as she thought would be necessary to guard me from error.

'At length I was attended by several young suitors. Age and education had so far matured my understanding, as to make me prefer the virtuous mind, even though his fortune were contracted, to the man who had habituated himself to vice. My good aunt approved of my choice; and the sanction of my mother only remained to complete my wishes.

'The addresses of one gentleman, who had a fortune even beyond my expecta­tion, but whose character and conduct had equally rendered him disagreeable▪ I refused. Instead of receiving my answer as positive, he immediately hastened to my mother; thinking that by an offer of [Page 63]a splendid settlement he should easily over­come by force, what would be otherwise inaccessible; and when Mr. Williams, for whom I was partial, applied for the same favour, he was rejected with con­tempt, and informed, that her daughter had already an admirer more suited to her birth and fortune.

'In a few days I was summoned to appear before her; and, to my surprise, was informed that she had given her con­sent to Mr. Green to wait on me, at the same time praising him for his personal ac­complishments, and reminding me of the advantages of his superior fortune; tell­ing me that she expected I would receive his addresses without any hesitation.

'I could no longer be silent; I there­fore told her, I was exceedingly sorry that it was not in my power to comply with her wishes—for I had conceived a settled dislike to his person as well as to his char­acter; and that I must beg leave to decline the favour she had intended me. At this she threw herself into a most violent pas­sion—wondering at my taste—and threat­ening to desert me if I did not immediate­ly [Page 64]consent to his proposals. She said, that she had a right to dispose of me as she pleased without hearkening to the silly nonsense of a foolish girl; and that she had fixed the time for the ceremony, which was to be in the course of two months. She per­mitted me to take my leave, and desired me to prepare myself for the event.

'I returned with a sorrowful heart to my aunt, whom I found speechless. An apoplectic fit during my absence had de­prived her of her senses. She soon, how­ever, recovered, so far as to attend to my discourse, and appeared anxious to know the reason of so sudden a call to my parent. I related every particular. She heard me with attention, and raised herself in bed to write to my mother. All was in vain▪ the latter continued inflexible, and ordered me immediately to come and reside with her. This unexpected news had so great an effect on the mind of my aunt, that several fits succeeded, and at last carried her off.

'To complete my misery, a billet was put into my hand by the servant, which she said came from Mr. Williams. The [Page 65]person who brought it desired that it might be delivered immediately, as the gentle­man from whom it came was gone abroad; a copy of which I will shew you.' She then took it from her pocket. It runs thus:

She now gave vent to her tears, and you will naturally suppose I became a partner in her excessive grief.

[Page 66] I have written till my hand tires. Make my kind respects to your mother, and com­pliments to Mr. and Mrs. Ansell; tell them I hope one day or other we shall be per­sonally acquainted.

My father is something better, otherwise I should not be at liberty to scrawl so long. He joins in compliments. Allow me to beg you will believe me

LETTER IX. TO MISS MATILDA ROBINSON.

I DID not intend, my dear, to deprive you of the remaining part of the unfortunate Miss Blair's history. You have now her continuation. After a short pause she related as follows:

'I was distracted with the heap of mis­fortunes that attended me. To add to the rest—the next day, before I had re­covered [Page 67]my shock, I was mortified by the appearance of Mr. Green. His manner appeared more disgusting than ever. He began by informing me of his success with my mother. I interrupted him, and beg­ged him at least to be silent for the present on the subject, as my mind was sufficiently agitated by the affliction that had so re­cently befallen me. After a few inquiries he left me, and promised to wait on me again at a more convenient season.

'I was now obliged to attend to the last duties Lowed my aunt, before I could obey my mother's mandate. You will, perhaps, wonder that my aunt did not provide for me before she died; but this was impossi­ble, as her estate, which was but small, became the property of my cousin, the next heir at law. She left me all that she could; which amounted in value to about four hundred pounds, including her clothes and furniture. As soon as I had deposited her remains, I hastened to my mother. She suffered me to live in peace a week; when she informed me, Mr. Green had sent a card to acquaint us, that he intended waiting on us in the afternoon, [Page 68]and desired me to conduct myself towards him as though I approved of his suit.

'I told her, it was impossible; that I could by no means accept of him. She replied, that in a few days she would see the ceremony performed; otherwise I must quit her presence, nay, her house. The latter I preferred, rather than become a legal prostitute. I was convinced, in such a connexion I could not do justice to my own feelings in the character of a wife, nor to him as my husband.

'My mother previously possessed herself of nearly all my clothes, and I had only about fifty pounds left: it did not, how­ever, deter me from my design. I have wandered these six months, my little treas­ure is nearly exhausted, and I am at last arrived at the pitiful condition in which you see me.'

I then asked her if I should write to her mother, and endeavour to soften her heart by argument. She consented to my pro­posal. I immediately took her home to our lodgings, and made her as comforta­ble as I could. The gratitude she discov­ered at my little attentions increased my ardour.

[Page 69] I wrote to her mother; and in four days had a letter to inform me, that she was on the point of death, and only wish­ed to see her daughter, that she might confess the injuries she had done her, and receive her forgiveness; that Mr. Green had died a miserable victim to vice; and that a letter had been received from Mr. Williams, who was in the West Indies, but was expected soon to return. This Ac­count I read to her; and such was the filial tenderness of her heart, that she immedi­ately swooned away. When she recover­ed herself, she appeared in a kind of fren­zy at the idea of her mother's death. I procured her every medical assistance that was necessary; and when she was able to bear the journey, assisted her with my purse.

Miss Blair had only left us a week be­fore I had a letter from her, written in such a style, that I now consider her ac­quaintance as an acquisition rarely to be met with. After reciting the death of her mother, with the disagreeable incidents attending it, she concludes,

[Page 70] 'I should charge myself with ingrati­tude, were I not to acknowledge your kind interposition, when I was sinking under a weight of obscurity and distress: the rug­ged hand of poverty had nearly deranged my animal system. To whom am I in­debted? to whom can I make a return? I know the generosity of your nature, nor will I disturb it. You feel a recompense within that springs from a consciousness of doing good: this is all you wish. I confess I am happy in claiming a friend­ship with a person who can delight in be­ing the friend of the oppressed. My heart dictates more—but the unhappy cir­cumstances that now attend me forbid it. The death of my mother is a shock to my feelings. I can forget the injuries I receiv­ed from her hand, and hide them under the weakness of humanity. You will not wait for invitations, but come and see me when you can make it convenient.— Adieu, &c.'

The last accounts I received of this ami­able woman were, that Mr. Williams was arrived from abroad, and that they expect­ed soon to be married.

[Page 71] What a contrast do the characters of Mrs. Ansell's father, and of the mother whom I have described, present! The for­mer considered his child had an equal right to the privileges of humanity with himself; but the latter, poor woman! never gave herself the trouble to think. She conclud­ed, that the idea of parent was inseparable from usurpation and tyranny; and that peace of mind was only a small compensa­tion for wealth and titles. In these, how­ever, she was unfortunately deceived, and no arguments were ever forcible enough to controvert her mistaken ideas, till the near approach of death removed the veil from her bewildered senses. Then it is, in gen­eral, that the human mind begins to feel the importance of truth and equity, and confess them superior in quality to fash­ionable and dissipated notions. How ill calculated was Mrs. Blair for either wife or mother! She discovered a very con­tracted mind, with little education, or less of its good effects.

I must now conclude with a desire to have a letter from you immediately. I [Page 72]have written till I feel myself fatigued: follow my example, and you will add to the happiness of

LETTER X. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

REALLY, my dear Louisa, you have acquitted yourself admirably. I return you a thousand thanks for your tale, and should be happy in a personal acquaintance with Miss Blair. I applaud her motives for leaving her mother— though it was a dangerous experiment. What are not wandering women exposed to! Many unhappy creatures, by endeav­ouring [Page 74]to avoid one evil, are insensibly led into snares and temptations which they little suspect. This world is treacherous; and sew females have learned the art of de­fence enough to be always on their guard, when their peaceful hours are likely to be invaded. Inexperienced in the arts of vice themselves, they cannot bear to harbour suspicion of others, till at length they are caught in the net, and feel them­selves obliged to bow at the shrine of infa­my. To add to their misfortunes, they are deserted by their nearest friends; and what they submitted to in an unguarded moment, they are compelled to continue for a pitiful subsistence. Lucinda, the daughter of a respectable citizen, is an eminent instance of this kind of misfor­tune.

Lucinda had all the advantages that affluence could bestow, at an age when, without a little restraint, it is most dan­gerous. She was young, beautiful, and sprightly in her imaginations—but withal virtuous. Her charms attracted a retinue of admirers: each one strove for the con­quest; but all were equally unsuccessful. [Page 75]At length the young Philaster, who had some previous knowledge of Lucinda's family, saw her at the play-house. He was attracted by the beauty of her person, and the elegance of her dress; and being of a genteel appearance, he easily introdu­ced himself to her notice. He was per­fectly versed in frivolous conversation, re­marks on the dress, scenery, &c. The awkward manner in which she conducted herself, soon convinced him of the state of her mind.

When the play was over, he begged leave to attend the young lady and her mother home. The accepted his propo­sal; and he had sagacity enough to dis­cover the further impression he had made on the former.

Philaster was the son of a wealthy knight at the west end of the town—but an extravagant libertine—possessed of more loquacious sense, than solid virtue. The volubility of his tongue, together with his personal appearance, were much in his favour; and in a little time he obtain­ed a passport to the tender heart of Lu­cinda. He was her equal in fortune— [Page 76]but, owing to an old family dispute, had a difficulty in getting the consent of par­ents on each side. Every thing, however, was at length amicably settled. The time was appointed for the marriage, and the news readily circulated.

Some days before the period arrived, the following note was sent to Lucinda by a young lady, whose fortune was rather contracted, but whose agreeable manners made her beloved by all who had the pleasure of knowing her.

[Page 77] Lucinda's father intercepted the above, and in consequence countermanded his former consent. He made inquiries re­specting the unfortunate young lady, and found that Philaster had by promises sedu­ced her, and them deserted her. He pre­sented the note to his daughter, and in­formed her of the particulars he had heard, forbidding her to suffer Philaster to en­ter her presence again, or forfeit his pa­ternal esteem. It did not, however, affect the feelings of the hardened debauchee, nor deter him from villainous purposes. He had never felt the virtuous influence of love; and instead of being mortified at the discovery, he considered it a favoura­ble opportunity to be revenged of a family enemy.

Lucinda, unfortunately, too early in­formed Philaster of her attachment to him, before she had properly studied his char­acter or the bent of his inclinations: she had gone too far—nor would the feelings of her heart permit her to obey her fa­ther's injunction. Fatal love! Unhappy woman! Why didst thou form weapons to appose thy own peace? Why betray [Page 78]thy weak credulity, and suffer the mon­ster to increase in power?

Philaster found means to get admission to her company. He was not at a loss to justify his conduct, nor to reprobate the severity of her father. He made use of insinuating protestations, that are too of­ten proof against reason. He told her, there was no possibility of their being ever united but by stealth—that she must elope with him, and depend on his hon­our—that he should believe she had no affection for him, unless she complied im­mediately with his wishes. This, howev­er, she refused—though with such a spirit of timidity, that it did not deprive him of the hope of succeeding in his base design. He swore to love and constancy—painted the horrors to which she must expose him if she persisted in denying his request—the sea—the sword—the ball—with a thousand other terrifying scenes which the humane female trembles at. At last she thought him sincere. Neither the threats of her father, nor the entreaties of her mother, had any weight on her mind. She consented—fatal consent!—fatal mo­ment!—she [Page 79]packed up all her moveables against the time appointed—she fled—and that too with a wretch who had no sooner deprived her of the consolations of virtue, that he retired from her presence, and left her a considerable distance from home. In a few hours after he sent her the following card:

In consequence of this unhappy catas­trophe, Lucinda dreaded to return to her parents; she spent all her money; and not till the pinching hand of poverty had [Page 80]overtaken her did she make know her situation. The pride of her friends was too great to take a repenting child again to their bosom. She had been guilty of a crime that had disgraced herself and her family, and no pardon was to be ob­tained. A wretched situation for a sen­sible mind!—Her resources were entirely stopped. Poverty threatened her on one hand, and infamy on the other: to avoid the former, she submitted to the latter.

She was soon reduced to those unhap­py extremities that attend the miserable wretches who wander the streets; and ere two months had elapsed, her delicate constitution began to decay. Death star­ed her in the face. She made it known to her friends.

The idea of death awakened parental tenderness, and her father hastened to her lodgings. He entered her miserable apartment, where he found her surround­ed with a group of wretches—who, though they were lost to the common feelings of humanity, yet had sensibility enough to lament her situation in tears.

[Page 81] She knew his venerable voice, and lifted up her worn-out eye-lids. She saw him approach; and with a shriek, which shook the bed that supported her, she stretched forth her hand, closed her eyes, and expired. He, in return, beheld her pallid cheek—and whilst his fabric shiv­ered with horror at the affecting spectacle, he exclaimed,

"My child, my child! What have I done! Had I taken thee to my bosom, when thou wert first seduced, I might have prevented thy premature, thy shock­ing end." His repentance, alas! was too late.

An acquaintance who related to me the tale, savoured me with a manuscript of reflections which was found in a box directed to her father. I will transcribe them for your perusal—but must beg to reserve it for my next. I feel sleepy—assure yourself I am still

LETTER XI. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

I COMPLY with my promise and my wishes in sending you the man­uscript of Lucinda's reflections.

[Page 85] Will not Louisa join in shedding a tear at the shrine of sorrow? Poor Lucinda! how did her credulity betray her into errors the most fatal! She seems as though she had been born to be a victim to wretch­edness. Betrayed by a monster in human shape, rejected and despised by her friends, and consoled only by the miserable, what must she feel! Unhappy woman! How many females escape thy punishment, who are more deserving of it than thy­self! Many a splendid equipage supports a despicable prostitute, who delights in infamy, but by cunning preserves her character; and from circumstances un­known, or scarcely to be conceived, many deluded creatures are consigned to per­petual disgrace. Perhaps they will expe­rience a transposition in their feelings hereafter.

Fatal pride, that will not suffer the ex­asperated parent to pardon an unfortunate crime in a child! Though, in a moment of delusion, her virtue and her reason forsook her, yet she might have been res­cued from the ruinous consequences that followed. How many of those deluded [Page 86]wretches might be recovered, were only the hand of pity extended towards them!

The unhappy tale of Lucinda, howev­er, should be a lesson of caution to fe­males, ever to be aware of either too much levity or credulity in their conduct, whilst in the presence of the other sex. Nor let the sycophant or the fop—the servile or the proud—nor even the steady—the brave—the wise—or the prudent, be the subjects of confidence, till con­vinced of their integrity; but let females remember, that love without reason is dangerous.

Happy are those who are out of the reach of temptation! Let them not tri­umph. Had they been exposed alike with the unfortunate, their fate, perhaps, would have involved them in the same calamities. Nor have those who resist the power of temptation a right to exult, since, were it their reason, education, or religion, that prevented them from becom­ing victims, they are indebted to some­thing more than humanity for these in­estimable blessings.

[Page 87] Write soon. Should any thing happen before I hear from you, I shall not stand upon etiquette, but apply pen again to to paper. Adieu, Louisa!

P. S. We expect very soon to visit our friends in Hampshire: from thence I shall, perhaps, date my next.

LETTER XII. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

We have at last, my dear, com­plied with the entreaties of our kind friends Mr. and Mrs. Ansell, and are ar­rived at this mansion of bliss. Really, [Page 89]Louisa, you would be delighted if you could imagine the extent of their conju­gal happiness. Nature herself seems am­bitious to add to their felicity.

The situation of the house is beautiful beyond conception: a rising hill which commands an extensive prospect over the sea—a view of the Isle of Wight—and the varying scenes which surround us by land and by sea, make as pleasant an ap­pearance as ever I saw.

In the bottom of yonder dale I see a lesser farm: the peasant and his family are busily employed—and surely they have enough to excite them to industry. The field wants the labouring hand to preserve its cultivation; the cattle depend on their steady care. In the yard are the fowls pecking round the barn; the strag­gling ducks in the pond; the milk-maid milking her cows; and the pigs following the dairy-woman to their trough.

In a further vale I view a lonely cottage surrounded with a small garden: its poor inhabitant has stowed it with vegetables and fruits, and in a corner has placed a few bee-hives: with these he provides a lit­tle [Page 90]winter store, that he may abate the crav­ing appetites of his family, when the rig­our of the season prevents his manual ex­ercise, and threatens them with want. A friendly stranger enters the decaying wicket—he is complimented by a snarling cur—nor dares he approach, till the faith­ful animal is relieved from his trust by the appearance of his master, or some of the domestics.

On one side is a winding river, with a mill—on the other, an ascent, in the mid­dle of which is a village church with a spot of ground the receptacle of the dead. There, think I, the hero and the vanquish­ed have equal claims to distinction: there the squire has nothing to boast over his de­pendent tenant: one cannot oppress, the other has no reason to murmur. There the philosopher, the divine, and the lib­ertine sink to a common heap; nor can human sagacity distinguish the particles of either. There, those whom the smiles of Providence have elevated above their fel­lows, rest on the same mouldering couch with the unfortunate.

[Page 91] At the top of the ascent are the shatter­ed remains of an an ancient castle. At sight of this venerable pile I am lost in thought. Here the rich and the poor have equally murmured at their hard fate. Misfortunes have followed them alike. How many brave, animated souls have fallen sacrifices in its defence! How many anxious, hapless wives have been deprived of their tender, their endearing husbands! How many helpless infants have lost their only support! How many families have been reduced from poverty to wretchedness! Ah happier days, that screen the present age from such woes! Gratitude should usurp an universal em­pire in the human heart. Now the strength of the mighty is yielding to the influence of time—is become a tottering fabric—But enough.

I believe this scene is calculated to in­spire the muse. I send the following lines as a continuation, which have flowed from my heart this morning whilst contemplat­ing in an arbour. If I thought you were fond of discovering faults, I would beg you to be favourable in your criticisms.

[Page 93] In addition to the above description, our friends have a dear little infant: they unite in telling me it is the sweets of mat­rimony. I am ready to believe them, and feel myself almost inclined to envy.

How do you think we spend our time? Perhaps it may be called an unfashionable manner, but I believe you would like it much.

In the morning we rise about seven o'clock, and take a walk, if we have time, in the fields—otherwise, in the garden, till eight. After breakfast, when the du­ties of the family are over, if we have no particular engagement, we again resume our walk to some adjacent village, or to visit one of the lonely cots.

Sometimes we witness the most affecting scenes of poverty and distress; and when this is the case, our dear friends shew them­selves so very assiduous in lessening afflic­tion, that I begin to think them almost with­out their equal. They distribute a cheer­fulness where ever they go; and the coun­tenances of the poor creatures are so ad­mirably marked with gratitude, that a sen­sible mind must ever feel itself amply re­warded [Page 94]in administering to their neces­sities.

At other times, we have a more pleasing scene. Picture to yourself a group of four, five, or six children, rising in regular gra­dation, and running to the door to meet and welcome us to their hospitable dwell­ing. Here we are employed a quarter or perhaps half an hour, in inquiring into the conduct and behaviour of each child; that who has the best character is rewarded with a little book, as a token of approba­tion. By this means each is ambitous to merit the good opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Ansell; and it sometimes happens that they have all an equal claim to a present. After visiting several of these cottages of different descriptions, we return home to dinner.

Some mornings we visit the genteel and respectable neighbours, and then those of the middling rank; for our friends' affa­bility has secured them the good-will of all.

I absolutely think that, of every class of mankind, to be neither rich nor poor ought to be the most preferable, as it is certainly the situation wherein the human [Page 95]mind is most capable of enjoyment. These are the people, who, in general, know the state of their finances, and the extent of their abilities. And though they cannot boast of splendid equipages or glittering liveries, yet they have enough to secure them from the inroads of poverty, or to prevent their being perpetually harassed by mercenary creditors. Neither extreme to corrode the peace of their bosoms, how thankfully happy ought they to be!—and yet, alas! how little gratitude is to be seen even among them!

We were a few evenings since at a concert of vocal and instrumental music; where, among a variety of other company, I observed two young ladies, who appeared to be sisters; and having a little physiogn­omical skill, I concluded their dispositions were opposite. One of them, whom I supposed to be the eldest, was of a sour, morose countenance; she had a brow of contempt, a satirical grin, and a conceit­ed smile. The other had an open coun­tenance, which rather attracted admira­tion. [Page 96]My notice, however, was soon trans­ferred from them to the music; but I de­termined when I returned, if possible, to make myself acquainted who they were.

When we are at home, if we have no company, our evenings are employed with the needle. Mr. Ansell sometimes reads, of else we divert ourselves with tales. I thought it therefore a favourable oppor­tunity to make my inquiries respecting the two young ladies I had seen at the concert, and of whom I had formed my opinion. Mr. Ansell thanked me for the honour I had done him; though he confessed it was rather an unpleasing task to analyze living characters; but as he had a per­sonal acquaintance with them, he would endeavour to be impartial in his sketches. He continued thus:

"The names of the ladies you allude to, are Caroline and Sabina. They are daughters of a gentleman who died about fifteen years ago in the neighbourhood; their mother being previously dead. Their father was of a proud, imperious disposi­tion, a despot to all who were necessitated to bend to his power; but their mother [Page 97]was universally beloved and respected for her amiable manners.

"Caroline and Sabina were left or­phans, when the age of the eldest did not exceed five years, with a fortune of 10,000 l. each, under the direction of guardians. It was easy to discern even from infancy a contrast in their dispo­sitions.

"They had an education suited to a superior rank. All the polite accomplish­ments that could possibly ornament the sex, they were made acquainted with. But natural inclinations, unfortunately, too often are not to be governed by these. It is indeed possible for the mind that has received the polish of education, to be more easily convinced of error than the uncultivated; but it is frequently diffi­cult to regulate actions by moral impres­sions. So it is with Sabina, whom you thought to be the eldest of the two, but who in fact is the youngest. With her existence she seems to have received the principles of her father; she is vain enough to believe every one beneath her. It is true, she has a fine person; but her [Page 98]unhappy temper having habituated her to distort her features, that which im­perceptibly stole on her from pride, will never, I fear, forsake her, till the cold hand of death shall display its irresistible power.

"If you happen to be in her company, she is incessantly engrossing the conversa­tion to herself; her lap-dog is a favourite topic; and if you chance to be heedless of her frivolous chat, she seels herself mortified; her countenance becomes the transcript of her mind; she gives you a sullen contemptuous look, and often will flirt out of the room.

"Sabina is now about nineteen years of age. She has had several admirers of her person; but as soon as they have penetrated a little into her mind, they feel themselves disgusted, and forsake her with ridicule. It is true, she has had one gentleman, who would have made a sacrifice of himself if she had only accept­ed him. It was a happy disappointment, could he have thought it so; but the in­fatuation which seizes some minds is so great, that though they were hang over [Page 99]a dreadful precipice by the most brittle thread, yet would they be unconscious of danger; they would convert fortunate events into unfortunate ones: in short, nothing but direful circumstances will awaken them from delusion, and rescue them from misery.

"Sabina would often appoint to meet the young Alphonso, and as often disap­point him; or, to mortify him still more, she would contrive to invite some other beau, with whom she would be more familiar. At length his patience was ex­hausted; he saw no hope of ever attaining the summit of his wishes; despair and vex­ation preyed upon his spirits, and a resolu­tion at once big with horror and disgrace haunted his imagination. He went one morning to a river, and threw himself in; but happily some labourers coming by whilst he was in the struggles of death, prevented the fatal stroke: he was to ap­pearance dead, but immediate recourse being had to medical assistance he recov­ered.

"Sabina was informed of the event: but instead of being touched with Alphon­so's [Page 100]misfortunes, she triumphed in her consequence, that she was capable of being the means of so much mischief.

"Alphonso, when he grew well, perceiv­ed his mistake, and determined never to have any thing more to say to a woman, who could trifle with his affections, and expose him to inconceivable pangs. He now saw, that her heart was formed of too harsh materials ever to afford him any consolation in the marriage state. She was not the lovely woman his hasty imag­ination had formed her. No traits of del­icate sentiment could he now discover in her mind. It is natural to suppose, that when he reflected on the recent circum stances of his life, his understanding must be shocked. When his frenzy however was subsided, and reason resumed her seat in his heart, he again began to turn his thoughts to social life, and made choice of an amiable young lady, who was every way qualified to render him happy.

"Sabina is now an object of pity and contempt. Even her servants are perpet­ually complaining of her unfeeling beha­viour: she treats them as though they [Page 101]were of the animal kind; and if she thinks they are a moment happy and peaceable in themselves, she will harass them to such a degree as to deprive them of the least en­joyment. She never regards the entrea­ties of the poor, nor turns an eye of pity to the afflicted. She is unhappy in her­self, nor can she communicate any thing but unhappiness to those around her. Her ambition is unbounded: she envies her superiors, and despises her inferiors. If it were not for the gentle Caroline, it is probable she would be utterly forsaken by all. This is the character of Sabina; the lateness of hour obliges me to postpone that of Caroline till another evening."

I must follow Mr. Ansell, and break off for the present, reserving the character of Caroline for my next. Mr. and Mrs. Ansell unite in kind love; I believe the latter will inclose a few lines when I write again, to beg the favour of you to return this way to London. My mother also joins in love to Louisa, with

LETTER XIII. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

[Page 114] Mr. and Mrs. Ansell are returned. Gloom is painted in every feature. We all drop tears, those silent tokens of grief, at their recital. Oh! Louisa, your con­ception will be deficient for the scene. My pen is inadequate to the task.

"At intervals (said Mrs. Ansell) Car­oline was perfectly sensible. She called for her beloved Milward; and when he ap­proached, she pressed his hand, and begged him to be composed; and when she saw the agonies of his mind, she continued:

'My dearest Friend, I have, perhaps, too much indulged myself with the pleas­ing hopes of being happy in your affec­tions: but 'tis now time to bid adieu to these fascinating charms. I am persuaded it cannot be long ere I leave you, and re­tire to yonder world: but till I see you calm, I cannot yield to the fatal stroke with Christian dignity. Do not disturb my last moments. I carry my affection for you to the grave; and I hope to unite with you where we can never part. The eternal goodness of God decreed this seeming calamity for wise and better pur­poses. It is our duty mutually to submit [Page 115]without a murmur to the great demands of Omnipotence. 'Tis he that gave, or ra­ther lent us life: he has a right to dispose of us as he pleases, and a claim to our implicit obedience. Be virtuous, my dear Milward! Let piety distinguish your con­duct. Remember, that virtue will have its own reward. You will feel those con­solations in the hour of departure, which can be derived from no other source. Let the poor be objects of your concern: succour them in their distress, and en­deavour to abate their oppressions.'

"She again pressed his hand; and while they were exchanging the parting kiss, she faintly articulated,

'Farewel! Be comforted, and assure yourself you will find many friends; I hope, some too who will be able to miti­gate your sorrows, and supply your loss. Adieu!'

Mr. Milward was too much agitated to make any reply. We perceived it was more than his spirits could support. He was accordingly prevailed on by Mr. An­sell to leave the room. When he came to the door, he looked back, and then [Page 116]hastened again to her bed-side. He gaz­ed with fearful eyes on the expiring object of his faithful love—stole a few more ten­der embraces, and retired with reluctance from her presence. How heart-rending was this scene! Before he had reached another apartment in the house, he sighed with violence, and then gave vent to his grief by fainting away. In this insensible state he remained a considerable time. Surely this was unaffected sorrow!

The dying Caroline took an affec­tionate leave of those around her: she spoke tenderly to her sister—and when she had recommended us all to the merci­ful kindness of that God in whom she had repeatedly trusted, she became a lifeless corse, and fled beyond pain or sorrow. Thus ended the days of an amiable young woman, one who lived as she died—pious in her life, and resigned in her death—universally beloved, and as universally sorrowed after.

"The village is already become a spec­tacle of distress. Countenances which were once lively, betray inward dejection. Every aged furrow enfolds bitter anguish. [Page 117]Those who have enjoyed the sweets of her friendship, and those who have shared her beneficence, are drooping with des­pair. The tears which have fallen on this occasion have spread a dimness on the eyes of all, insomuch that the beauties of spring have no charms—the fields are become discoloured. The tuneful birds seem to have forgot their cheerful notes—nor have all the united scenes of nature enough to lull the aching hearts to re­pose" Here Mrs. Ansell ceased.

Thus, Louisa, I have been faithful in penning, as far as my recollection will per­mit, the whole of this affecting event. A young woman in the bloom of life, animat­ed with a prospect of a happy connexion, is of a sudden taken off, and the hapless lover deprived of the pleasures he so fond­ly sought after. But there is a consolation left; she was prepared for either life or death. In both she evinced her virtue and her piety; and I think those only who are fit to live, can be fit to die. It should teach us never to be too anxiously concerned for the things of time. Pros­perity [Page 118]and adversity are alike fluctuating. Virtue itself cannot boast of a power to resist the cold impulse of death; and vice is too feeble to fly from its impress. Youth is not superior to age: each must submit, each must die.

I need not say more to excite your sen­sibility. Already fancy has painted Louisa bedewing my letter with tears while she reads the melancholy tale: indeed we have all sought relief by this means. Mrs. Ansell intends writing a few lines to-mor­row, according to her promise; but it will be by way of postscript to what I have already written: for the present, they both join with my mother in kind respects to your father, and love to yourself.

Mrs. Ansell's compliments to Miss Louisa Hartley, and begs she will excuse her from writing a formal epistle. The disagreeable circumstances which Matilda has already related, she hopes will be a sufficient plea. Mrs. Ansell, however, has [Page 119]been highly delighted with Matilda's description of her friend—for which reason she wishes to be personally ac­quainted; and has therefore added this postscript, to request the favour of Louisa and her father to extend their journey into Hampshire, before they return to the metropolis. Should it be convenient for them to honour this request, Matilda, and perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Ansell, will then accompany them.

LETTER XIV. TO MRS. ANSELL.

I RECEIVED your kind invi­tation in Louisa's last epistle. I am happy in the idea of your friendship; and, by my father's permission, we shall certainly return through Hampshire, and make your hospitable mansion a home. I hope no material event will deprive us of this happiness.

[Page 120] My father is at present at a neighbour­ing town, from whence I expect him either to-morrow or the following day. We are shortly to leave this city for Weymouth. Our stay there is uncertain. I must there­fore beg leave to decline informing you when we shall arrive at your house; but perhaps when I write to Louisa I may be better able to acquaint you. I conclude, with compliments and love.

LETTER XV. TO MISS MATILDA ROBINSON.

SINCE I received your last, we have thought proper to visit this place: the variegated hue which Spring affords, invited us to partake of her sweets by ex­tending our travels.

But ere I go farther, I should inform you, that since I wrote to Mrs. Ansell, I have laid her kind invitation before my father, and pressed him to accept of it, as [Page 122]it would add considerably to my happi­ness, to be favoured with the friendship and society of one whom you have traced through every circumstance of her life, and in whom you have discovered such amiable qualities. Her actions have alrea­dy excited liberal opinions, and endeared her to all; and need not the feeble pane­gyric of my pen to enhance her merit. In addition to my father's compliments, be so obliging as to present my love, and tell her we shall be at her house in about one month. It is our united request, that there may be no kind of ceremony in our reception, as we prefer friendly interviews to the modern inconveniences which at­tend visiting.

I cannot pass over the tale of Caroline and Sabina in silence; and yet it were almost superfluous to say more than that it has entirely engaged all my speculative faculties. I have, indeed, bedewed your lines with my tears; and I think the wise conclusion of that ancient philosopher Plato, has been thoroughly verified in my feelings—that one extreme succeeds another. I felt disgust at the character of Sabina, [Page 123]but it subsided in pity. All the pleasing enthusiasm of joy and friendship employed my mind, whilst I contemplated the ami­able Caroline;—but, alas! these were soon swallowed up in the most excessive grief. I have raised a monument in my heart to her memory—I have venerated a mind that was every way lovely—I have sighed at her dissolution—I have rejoiced at her happy exchange.

But will not those who have been blest with her society, and admired the beauties of her mind, erect a marble pile to per­petuate her virtues as an example to suc­ceeding ages? Yes, surely they will; and I would gladly contribute to so noble a purpose. Ah! as I passed by the honour­ed spot wherein were deposited the sacred remains of this valuable woman, sympathy would steal the silent drop from my eyes; my soul would be suspended in thought —I would seat myself near her tomb, and methinks I should contemplate thus:

I could dwell a long time on this sub­ject; but I must forbear, to inform you of our journey. Perhaps a little variety will engage your heart, and help to dissi­pate your sorrows.

You will naturally imagine that I vis­ited all the public places in Bath, before I left it. Yes, Matilda, I did so; but more from curiosity than inclination. I [Page 125]must however acknowledge, that its amuse­ments are scarcely to be equaled even in London. The ball and concert rooms are elegant indeed; and when they are ornamented by such crouds of beauties so richly attired, as are sometimes to be seen, one cannot help being charmed at the sight. The play-house is neat. In short, the city is composed of magnificent buildings, squares, and crescents. Your last letter overshadowed my mind with such gloom, that it deprived me of every relish for those social enjoyments. When I see young folks regardless of every thing but gaiety and dissipation, I feel a kind of pity for them. I do not wish to deprive them of rational pleasures—no; I believe them innocent; but I want them to divest them­selves of pride—to consider they are but creatures—creatures of a day—and some­times of a moment—that in the midst of delusive joys they are exposed to death.

The human mind wants relaxation; but having once tasted fancied delights, it can seldom be satisfied, and excess be­comes dangerous. I think parents should lay a little more restraint on their children, [Page 126]than to suffer them to frequent balls. There are perhaps no amusements more calculated to do mischief than those of dancing. The young females are sur­rounded with beaux who delight in dis­sipation, and who scarce ever feel a virtu­ous or a generous sentiment; but exult in destroying the peace of those who fall victims to their villany. In the exercise I allude to, the body is warmed, the heart is elated, and the imaginations are heat­ed; the consequence of which is, the stripling hero takes advantages of those delirious moments—he ogles and he sighs, and the silly girl hearkens implicitly to his tale. If she escapes the worser evil, she afterwards feels herself unable to resist the powerful impulse of love—she flies from civil intercourse—she lingers and dies. A young married gentleman with whom my father is intimate, related the following anecdote:

"When I once," said he, "returned to London in one of the stage coaches, the company consisted of two young ladies, a gentleman, and myself. The gentleman was one of those vulgar beings which seem [Page 127]to be formed to make a variety on the theatre of the world: he uttered but few speeches, and those of a courser sort, dur­ing the journey, but sat heedless of himself or his company. One of the ladies was young; she was not handsome, but had something attracting in her countenance: the other (who was of superior age, and seemed to be a friendly companion) call­ed her Maria.

"Maria entered the coach with reluc­tance: she wept bitterly; nor could the kind entreaties of the other lady prevail on her to be composed. I sat opposite to her; and before we had left the city she became senseless. I leaned forward and supported her. In this situation she con­tinued for some miles. When she awoke, she asked pardon for the trouble she had given me. I endeavoured to cheer her spirits by conversation, but she was too much dejected.

"As we passed by some decayed houses, she looked out at the window, and sighed. 'Ah!' said Maria, 'could I but inhabit one of those lonely cottages, how happy should I be! I would gladly exchange situations. [Page 128]The rays of contentment spread their genial sweets—there their days of poverty are not embittered with pride. Ambition is bounded by manual employments!—I am unhappy!'—To which I replied:

'If you knew, Madam, the hardships which poverty exposes them to, you would be led to different conclusions. The poor think, if they were rich, sorrow and pain would forsake them; but they, perhaps, are equally mistaken with yourself. Every rank in society is properly filled: those who are now poor, would make but an indifferent figure in a higher sphere; and you would find it a difficult task to support oppression and want.'

"But they are contented," said she.

'Contentment is equally attainable in every rank. Neither riches nor poverty can constitute the invaluable prize: but the mind that can confine itself within its own bounds is sure to be in possession of it. If you sought through the whole system of creation, you would find that Provi­dence had dispensed his blessings alike. Every one has an inward source of happi­ness. The rich should feel thankful for [Page 129]their measure of comforts; the poor be grateful that it is not worse with them.'

"Maria's heart was too much agitated to continue the conversation—she again became convulsed, and continued in al­ternate fits till we reached our journey's end. I inquired of the other lady the cause of her disorder, and found that she had been some time poorly, and that her parents had permitted her to go to Bath, in compliance with the physician's pre­scription, for the benefit of the waters. When she grew better, she frequented the public places of amusement, and happen­ed to dance with a handsome young gentle­man, whose genteel deportment engaged her affections: but finding that her charms had not made the tender impression she wished on his heart, she suddenly gave way to melancholy. Her father and mo­ther hearing that the waters had restored her (though ignorant of the other circum­stance) requested her to return. In obe­dience to their injunctions she complied; but the idea of leaving the object of her love behind had this strange effect on her mind, and I fear will produce a fatal conclusion."

[Page 130] I will not insist more on the impro­priety of exposing the credulous girl to temptation; this instance will perhaps more readily convince, than all the pow­ers of rhetoric.

We left Bath in the morning, and ar­rived at Wells early enough for dinner. My father's curiosity leads him to inspect every venerable pile he passes by. For my own part, I am at present engaged too much in sentiment to attend to these things.

My father visited the Cathedral; after which we pursued our journey till it be­came late, and then reposed at an inn on the road. In the morning we set forward again, and reached the town of Dorset to dinner.

At the entrance of this town is a beau­tiful and spacious lawn, where are a vast number of sheep continually feeding. I think it an excellent spot for the pencil of an artist; and if I had time, I should certainly employ my own pencil.

In the afternoon, after two hours' ride, we approached Weymouth. We have a view of the rolling waves some miles be­fore [Page 131]we enter the town. The place is so much exposed to the wind, that it is in­tensely cold; and I hope our stay will be short. I shall be more ready to communi­cate at a personal interview. Believe me, Matilda, I want to see you after so long an absence. Our affections, I believe, still sub­sist uncontaminated under all the changes of life. I shall not have an opportunity of writing to you again before we meet; therefore this letter will close my corres­pondence till we shall experience another separation. Your engagements are not urgent; I must beg you to send me a few more lines, and entreat you will not deny my request. Adieu.

LETTER XVI. TO MISS LOUISA HARTLEY.

A MONUMENT to the mem­ory of Caroline is shortly to be erect­ed, at the sole expense of her faithful Milward. He thinks it the least tribute he can pay her. It is to be of entire mar­ble, and the workmen are busily employed about it. A cross is to be supported by a pillar on each side, which are to ascend from beautiful pedestals. There are to be several emblematical figures, which will render it superbly rich.

I have shewn your lines to Mr. Mil­ward; he is so highly pleased with them, that he says they shall follow the epitaph, which runs thus: [Page 133] ‘Stop, Stranger—pause awhile, And read The following Lines: Not Far from hence, Secure from human view, In Yonder silent Vault, Where cares or troubles never enter; Where soft repose is ne'er disturb'd, Nor human ills inrade; In yonder dark Retreat, In yonder solitary Cave, Lies unmolested CAROLINE. Her frame lies mouldering there; But ah! her happy spirit's gone to blessedness. Peace sits smiling on her Heavenly brow, And Love celestial brightens every feature. The village mourn'd her death; It felt the loss Of Virtue and Benevolence like hers. Her hapless Swain Bore all the agonies of grief; The rais'd this Marble Monument, To tell the gazing throng That Virtue never dies, And Bid the world be virtuous. LINES BY A LADY. There rest in peace, thou lovely maid! &c.’

[Page 134] Thus, Louisa, your wishes will be lit­erally fulfilled. You will pardon me for giving up your lines; I am persuaded your vanity will not be too much flat­tered. It was the request of the discon­solate Milward,

I have another secret to unfold. Mrs. Ansell has seen the whole of our letters since our last separation. She is incessant­ly teazing me to give her copies of them, and wishes me to submit them to public view. She thinks the young will be amus­ed, without the danger of having their morals corrupted. I have at length yield­ed to her entreaties, before I have obtain­ed your consent. I know you cannot ob­ject to it, particularly as Mrs. Ansell has promised to conceal our real signatures, and adopt others; and the perusal of gen­uine letters of friendship, may perhaps be of service to many young people.

Before I close this correspondence, give me leave to say, I have cast my eyes round my own little circle, and observa­tion leads me to conclude that life has its difficulties as well as its pleasures. We ought to be prepared to meet vicissitudes [Page 135]with composure; and if we escape the woes of the unfortunate, let us not be in­different to their sighs. The brightest genius, or the most exalted character, will never be disgraced by sensibility. We are all fond of pity in misfortune, and shall we deny the troubled soul that sym­pathetic tenderness we should consider an hardship to be deprived of ourselves?

I anticipate our happy meeting; but I fear to be too anxious, lest our pleasures should be marred by some unpleasing oc­currence. I need not beg Louisa to con­tinue he affectionate regard for