To Mademoiselle D'Aubigny, at St. Omer's.

WHY did I suffer myself to be hurried from Boulogne? If I must be a dependant upon humanity for subsistence, why not have availed myself of your generous offer, and sought it at St. Omer's? In your sympathising bosom I had found a receptacle for all my sorrows; and under my Marianne's protection I had been [...] from every dan­ger. [...] prospect is dread­ful, [Page 8] and a retrospect still worse. You are the only friend in whom I dare confide, and to ease the fulness of a woe-fraught heart, I must inform you, that Stamford has proved a villain. You are thunderstruck! While I fancy myself as just awak­ened from a dream of horror.

You knew not that my parents were people of large fortune. In short it was a secret which I arrived not at myself till after you had left our convent. But it is now abso­lutely necessary you should be ac­quainted with circumstances which contributed to render me totally neglected by and unknown to my nearest relatives.—

My mother being of a gay dispo­sition could not be persuaded that happiness was mostly found in do­mestic life: but from adhering too strictly to an ill formed judgment, plunged into a vortex of pleasure and lost sight of it for ever. My father, young and fond of public amusements himself, gratified her [Page 9] every wish, till he suspected she had formed an attachment of the tenderest nature for an officer in the navy. He spoke very harshly to her on the subject; but being innocent of the crime alluded to, my mother thought herself ill treat­ed. Consequently disregarded his reproaches, set his threats at defi­ance; and merely for the sake of bravado kept up her acquaintance with the captain. A conduct so de­rogatory from prudence furnished conversation for the town. My fa­ther soon quitted England; his es­tates were mortgaged; and my mo­ther left with child of me, and to­tally destitute. Her relations had imbibed a strong notion of her guilt, and positively refused seeing her. Her supposed dishonor had not gone farther than appearance. They had treated her with indignity, and her spirit was too high to permit a vin­dication of her conduct to those who were so easily prejudiced a­gainst her; and though reduced to [Page 10] the utmost distress, would not stoop to solicit assistance from any of them. Fortunately a friend in the country, who had heard of her si­tuation, died; and from motives of compassion left her sixty pounds a year. With this poor pittance she retired to Boulogne, and a short time after was delivered of me.

I need not animadvert on the time you and I passed at the con­vent: but date the rise of mis­fortune from the time my mother met Mr. Stamford.

He had been acquainted with my father; and when she was seized with that dreadful disease which terminated life, she claimed his protection for her orphan child (who was the only daughter of his friend) and conjured him to do the utmost in his power in striving to find whether my father was yet alive; and if he were to convey me to him even if in the East In­dies, having been informed he went there on leaving England. [Page 11] He solemnly promised to comply with her every request. And as villanously determined to break through all bounds that led to my ruin.

At present I cannot add more, my eyes are dimmed with tears; and what I have already written seems to dance before them: however I will not conclude till I have sub­scribed myself,

P. S. Direct for me, Mademoi­selle Chattelherhault, at Sir John Osborn's, St. James's Square.

To Mademoiselle D'Aubigny, at St. Omer's.

You are impatient to know why my name is changed, and still more the particulars of Stamford's perfidy.

[Page 12]A month had scarce elapsed after my mother's funeral, when I expressed my wish of going to St. Omer's. Mr. Stamford objected to it; said I was scarce fifteen and be­ing a handsome girl, destitute of fortune, and apparently of friends, would be subjected to a number of insulting offers from men of rank, merely from the want of a pro­tector.

Convinced of his having my interest at heart, I felt satisfied with the refusal, though mortified in the idea of not seeing my dear Ma­rianne so soon as I had hoped for. However it was necessary that my imagination should be kept on the wing of expectation; consequently a fortnight after he informed me that a letter from England had given him intelligence of my fa­ther's return from the Indies; and in a jocular tone, asked 'if I should not be afraid of crossing the ocean?' 'Can you put the question to me, my dear sir?' I replied with quick­ness, [Page 13] 'Shall I not go to claim the blessing of an only parent, and vin­dicate the conduct of an injured mother?' Tears burst from my eyes, which the hypocrite wiped away, while he bid me prepare for our voyage on the following morn­ing.

We embarked on board the packet, and at six o'clock the same evening landed at Dover.

The sensations I experienced from imagining myself in the same nation with my father, are indescri­bable; and I had actually conned over every expression of tenderness which I meant to make use of, to soften the severity of his anger to­wards the memory of my poor de­pared mother; but the pleasing il­lusion vanished on Mr. Stamford's proposing our staying that night at the inn Unaccustomed to follow the dictates of my own reason, when opposed by that of another, I acquiesced in his desire, and re­tired early to rest.

[Page 14]About one o'clock, I was awaken­ed by some one opening the door of my chamber, and instantly de­manded who was there? No an­swer was returned.

I listened, but every thing was perfectly quiet. Recollecting that Mr. Stamford slept in the adjoining apartment, and concluding no one would dare offer to molest me while under his protection (having before our landing taken the pre­caution to desire I would call him father till my own was found), I quieted my fears, and was going to sleep once more; on a sudden, the bed curtains were drawn aside, though it was softly as possible. 'Gracious God,' exclaimed I, what can be the meaning of this? Where is Mr. Stamford?' continued I, start­ing up at the same time. 'Be not alarmed, my dear D'Arcy, (said a voice which I knew to be his) I mean not to hurt you.' However I found he was upon the point of getting into bed. Oh! Marianne, I [Page 15] shudder even now, though secured from the danger. I jumped out on the other side, screaming most vio­lently; he caught my hand and begged I would be pacified; but it was too late, my cries had awak­ened the people who slept in the inn, and they had assembled at the door and were demanding ad­mittance. Fear gave me strength, I disengaged myself from his hold and ran to open the door. The first person who presented himself to my view was Mr. Osborn. Re­gardless of every thing, but my es­cape from Stamford, I threw my arms around him and implored pro­tection for the sake of heaven, but fainted the moment that the sen­tence had escaped my lips. Stam­ford took this opportunity of saying I was his wife, but had eloped and gone with a vagrant fellow to France, whither he had followed and was bringing me back; but that determined not to stay with him, I had behaved in that manner, [Page 16] in hopes some one else would fa­vour my escape a second time. Every person pitied the unfortu­nate husband, while I got abused as an infamous creature, till the chamber-maid (an innocent girl, who had only been there a few days) said, 'Laws, sir, I thought as how the lady called you father last night?' Staggered by the dread of being discovered, he hesitated and was beginning a plausible story about my desiring he would suffer it. But Mr. Osborn's humanity was not to be trifled with, he in­sisted that every syllable the other advanced was false, and declared he would not relinquish my cause, nor quit the room till I returned to as­sure him of the truth (for they had taken me into another apartment on my fainting).

Stamford putting on a stern air, asked, ‘If he meant to doubt his word? Said that room was his, and no one should stay in it longer than he chose.’ This behaviour gave [Page 17] every one present a suspicion, from what the girl had said, that I was ill-treated; and after my recovery, the landlady having assisted me in putting my clothes on, they all en­tered the apartment, eager to hear in what manner I could justify my­self.

You know my mother took infi­nite pains, in striving to perfect me in the English tongue, consequent­ly I found no difficulty in making them understand me. I related that part of my story, which concern­ed Stamford, in an artless strain, while he with dreadful imprecati­ons, contradicted all I had advanced. Provoked to the last degree, I told him, ‘that let what I had said be true or false, I was determined not to continue any longer under his protection.’ 'Stop, madam,' said the wretch, ‘you are my ward at least, and whoever dares to pro­tect you, shall find the laws of this country will afford me ample re­venge.’ ‘You need not be inform­ed,’ [Page 18] returned Mr. Osborn, ‘that the laws of this country will not permit an unprotected female to be injured by the brutal machi­nations of a villanous guardian; and to convince you I am as well quainted with the laws of Eng­land as yourself, if, the lady will trust to my honour, in commiting herself to my care till we arrive in town, I will place her under the immediate protection of my mother and sister, and bid defi­ance to all your efforts in an at­tempt to regain her. My name is Osborn, you are at liberty to use your pleasure in regard to law. Favour me with your hand, madam,’ turning to me, ‘and al­low me to lead you out of this room; my carriage will not be long; getting ready, and the mo­ment it is we will set out.’ So say­ing he led me out of the room in triumph.

Stamford raved, and would cer­tainly have struck Mr. Osborn, had [Page 19] not a gentleman who was going to France the next morning prevented the blow; in short, he was obliged to make a prisoner of him till we had left the house.

I did not at the time, consider the impropriety of consenting to ac­company an elegant young man, alone in a post chaise; reflecting not a moment that the judgment of the world is decided by appear­ances, gladly accepted the offer al­most before it was made. I must resign the pen this moment, hear­ing Miss Osborn's foot on the stairs, consequently cannot conclude this till to-morrow.

* * * * * * *

Once more I am seated at my writing-desk, to satisfy my Mari­anne's apprehensions for my safety. In the course of our journey my de­liverer said, 'He should not have been at Dover, but in the expectati­on of meeting the Chevalier Chat­telherhault and his sister, the packet was arrived in which they were to have came, consequently he con­cluded [Page 20] himself at liberty to return to town.'

In a very delicate manner, he hinted, that my situation was both aukward and distressing, and really wished I could be prevailed on to assume the name of Chattelherhault, till my father could be applied to. I objected to it, by saying, his friends must certainly arrive at a knowledge of the imposition, and for ever after I should be regarded by them in a degrading light. Mr. Osborn begged my pardon for hav­ing proposed what was disagreeable to me, but said, 'he only wished me to assume that name on my intro­duction to them, till he found an op­portunity of making them acquiant­ed with my story, as his father, though a good hearted man, had his peculiarities; however, as I was apparently averse to the proposal, he would relinquish the thought.'

A thousand painful ideas rushed on my mind at the moment he was speaking; Sir John Osborn might [Page 21] command me to leave his house that instant; I was a friendless, an unprotected stranger in the nation. Could I but gain an asylum for a week, my father might be found; I should be acknowledged as his daughter, and the fraud passed on Sir John's family would be looked over, when they understood I was sole heiress to a man of large for­tune.

This thought determined me. I told him he was at liberty to act as he thought proper. Now imagine me in the character of a French lady of fashion, arrived in England, to be introduced at the British court. Oh! Marianne, this attempt at vi­vacity, however it might appear like myself when at Boulogne, but ill suits me at present.

You, no doubt, think me highly blameable, and conclude I cannot escape detection; but to satisfy your doubts I must inform you, Mr. Osborn has written to the Che­valier, who promises to remain in [Page 22] France, and keep his sister still at their chateau, till he hears further from him.

I must not omit telling you, when we arrived in St. James's Square, Mr. Osborn told Sir John, that the Chevalier arrived with me in the packet, but an affair of honour de­manding his return to France, he had entrusted me to his care.

It is near three weeks since I have been here, but the anxiety I suffered at Dover has confined me to my room ever since; I even dread the idea of finding my self in a good state of health, merely from the fear of being detected. However let fate do with me as it will,

To Mademoiselle D'Aubigny.

WHAT can be the reason for my not having heard from you? Surely my Marianne can never mean to desert me because I am in distress! I will not entertain an opinion so much to her prejudice; but conclude that her letters have by some mistake been kept back. Or it is possible mine have not yet reached her; yet in the hope that you may have received them before this arrives, I shall give you a fur­ther proof of Stamford's perfidy.

Mr. Osborn promised to make enquiry after my father, and if he was in England find him. To my extreme mortification he has learn­ed, that no such person has ever been heard of. And I am now convinced the wretch's desire of bringing me among strangers, was only to gain his ends in a more ef­fectual [Page 24] manner than he could possi­bly have done at Boulogne.—Hea­ven be praised his scheme has been frustrated—yet here I am in a strange country, dreading every moment the shame of being detected as an impostor, which must inevita­bly happen if this family persist in introducing me to their acquaint­ance. I have repeatedly told Mr. Osborn I will return to France, and fear not the want of an asylum while it is in your power to afford me one. He never suffers me to con­clude a proposition of this kind; for throwing himself on his knees before me, a kind of anxiety takes possession of his looks. He speaks not, 'tis true—but so eloquent does that position plead for him, that I cannot proceed with what was in my thoughts to have said. What can be the meaning of it? I never felt such a strange palpitation at my heart when in company with any other man. Yesterday, for the first time, we had a conversation on the [Page 25] subject; he said something must be contrived to make us both happy. —What had his happiness to do with mine? I wished to put that question to him, but had not cou­rage.—When I am alone I deter­mine to come to you at all events; but while Mr. Osborn was rea­soning with me, I wondered how I could once suffer a thought of leaving him to enter my head; especially since he urges the neces­sity for my remaining in England.

Do advise me what to do; by that I will implicitly abide, even though it should prove to quit Mr. Osborn, his amiable mother and sprightly sister, for ever.—I must now bid my Marianne adieu, by subscribing myself,

To the Honourable Miss Townshend.

POSITIVELY, Sophia, this is the last summons I will send for your return to town. I have got the most charming little French girl that ima­gination can suggest, for a compa­nion; and if you make not an end of your visit shortly, I must abso­lutely elect her my favourite and chief confidant in your stead.

Seriously though, the Chevalier Chattelherhault's sister is with us. She is scarce fifteen, my brother says; but it is astonishing to hear how sensibly she converses, and yet in such an artless strain that it is impossible to refrain from loving her: in short, to tell you a secret, I believe poor Henry has lost his heart without intending it. Though I'll answer for neither father or mother making any objection to [Page 27] his marrying the amiable little crea­ture.—She has been very ill ever since she came to England, and the good folke here conclude it is occasioned by the fatigue of her journey: but you know I am a close observer of human nature, and will be hanged if love does not prey more upon her mind than fatigue has been able to do on her body.— Being of a lively disposition (most French people are, you know) she sometimes strives to exert her spi­rits, and then is really captivating; but they soon flag. She sighs, wipes her eyes, and turns her head aside, to prevent her emotion becoming visible. Do not these symptoms favour strongly of a hopeless pas­sion? Ay, ay, this is ever the case with you people of sentiment; see a man you approve, and souse, you're over head and ears in love; when, nothing will satisfy you till you are happy in your choice.

Observe the contrast between a [Page 28] sentimental body and that of a girl of spirit like myself. Place me in company with the man I love; but let a few more dear charming crea­tures, whom I care not a rush for, be of the party, I ogle one, flirt with another, and make downright love to a third. Though by the bye he must be a conceited fool, that I have the most sovereign contempt for, and if it happens to be overheard by the man I really love, Oh! the exquisite pleasure it affords! Now attribute this to want of sensibility if you dare.

To make an honest confession to you, Sophia, my behaviour does not proceed from a total want of sensi­bility; for believe me I have ex­perienced many and many a severe pang, while I have affected a gaity which my heart disclaimed. You will say a person of my volatile dis­position cannot be so far caught, and that my affections may be dis­entangled with as much ease as I [Page 29] flutter with every fop.—You are deceived: I flirt with every man whom chance throws in my way, 'tis true; yet that more than one has ever found a way to my heart, I disown. However this is a digres­sion from the description of my little French friend.

Yesterday we prevailed on her to appear in the drawing room, and I then discovered that she possesses a certain timidity which few wo­men of her nation are troubled with. I attribute it to her not hav­ing been accustomed to the com­pany of a variety of strangers before. She curtsied aukwardly, blushed when spoken to, and was evidently too much embarrassed to give a pro­per answer to the most simple ques­tion that was put to her. In short, Mademoiselle Chattelherhault ne­ver appeared to such a disadvantage in my eye, as when she ought to have even looked to the greatest advantage. You know Chesterfield [Page 30] says, "a person's behaviour at first sight, will prejudice others either in their favour or against them for life."

I cannot account for her stupidity any other way than by the obser­vation above, as she seemed one of the most accomplished girls I had ever seen. She dances admirably. We once prevailed on her to walk a minuet with Henry, while I play­ed on the piano forte: she sings di­vinely, and plays to a miracle. In­deed I had several times said that —"the graces danced round her to join in her train." Trebeck was of the party.—I had totally forgotten you were unacquainted with that original, and being in a humour to delineate, will give you a short ac­count of his general character.

In the first place, he affects to patronise our most celebrated per­formers of the drama, for no other motive than because it is fashionable. Then he invites every author, if it is [Page 31] only a novelist, to intrust their writ­ings to his care, and promises to dispose of them at a high price; though, if the truth was known, the insignificant varlet has not in­terest enough with any bookseller in town to get rid of his own, were he possessed of wit to write. Did his boasting stop here it might pass un­noticed; but he would make you believe, if possible, that the three royal brothers were hand and glove with him; and that the dukes of P— and B—, and half a hun­dred other noblemen, were his most intimate acquaintances. At other times, he is promising places to a score of people, when it is known by every person to whom he is ac­quainted, that he has been soliciting one for himself these six years past, and has not been able to obtain it yet. When an election is coming on, he is in the zenith of his glory, and talks as pompously in company of himself and Mr. — having been up late with their voters the pre­ceding [Page 32] evening, as if he were him­self a member, rather than a tool for members. However, the truth is, a certain man of fashion, well known in the great world, counte­nances him very much, because he strives to render himself consequen­tial by going a voter hunting, and appearing every day while the poll lasts upon the hustings. Merely from this mode of proceeding, he has gained admittance into the houses of a few fashionable people, and was introduced at ours by Sir George Loveall. So much for his character. Take his person and face, assisted by a little rouge, when dressed for the drawing-room, and he is pleas­ing, though not irresistible; with an infinite loquacity, and you have the man at once. You have like­wise nearly read all you are likely to receive from me this post at least, as my hand is perfectly cramped from holding the pen; as witness,

To Mademoiselle Chattelherhault.

WELL might you fear, my dear D'Arcy, I meant to desert you, after having written two letters but received no answer: I can justify myself, by telling you, I have been at Paris, and only returned this morning. Your three letters were given me with others, which I have not yet opened, so impatient am I to assure you of what I feel for the sufferings you have endured.— Would to heaven you were with me at this moment. The hypocrisy of that villain prevented you being here, and will, I very much fear, contribute towards your passing many an unhappy hour after your leaving England; which, but for him, you never could have known; I mean not from his attempt upon you, because you were rescued [Page 34] from the danger, and will be more effectually so when settled with me. You will scarce credit an assertion of your being in love with Mr. Os­born; believe me, Beaufoy, it is literally true, and your danger is infinitely greater at present, than it was at the time he rescued you out of the clutches of that old sa­vage, Stamford. To prove the re­ality of what I have advanced, I appeal to your letter, wherein you say, "while Mr. Osborn was rea­soning with me, I wondered how I could once suffer a thought of leav­ing him to enter my head, especi­ally since he urges the necessity of my remaining in England." I hope, on the perusal, it will strike you as forcibly as it does me. You were highly blamable, in short, unjusti­fiable, in suffering an imposition so very gross to be put upon the family of Sir John Osborn.—You think me too severe upon you while you are in distress; I cannot help it, though [Page 35] every sentence which hurts your feelings, wounds my own beyond expression.—My friendship could not be real, did I not point out your faults, and endeavour to cor­rect them. — Ask yourself, what could be Mr Osborn's motive for bringing me into his father's house under a fictitious name? The an­swer occurs, to gain your affections by a seeming disinterested behavi­our; then to suffer his family to arrive at a knowledge of the fraud, you are thrown under his protec­tion, and your ruin is sealed.

Indeed D'Arcy, I shall be wretch­ed till I have you with me.—Gra­titude has awakened itself into love in your breast; and while you re­main in England I dread the conse­quences which are likely to ensue. —Mr. Osborn says "something must be contrived to make you both happy." Will he marry you? Or could you possibly conceive your­self his lawful wife, by signing your name at the altar Chattelher­hault, [Page 36] supposing it is by the consent of Sir John? The idea of becom­ing a mistress is so repugnant to your nature, that I am convinced the bare thought will make you tremble as you read. I wish not to shock you with chimerical, and horrid phantoms, but to place every circumstance strongly in the view you ought to see it. You left France in the firm hope of finding an only parent.—Return to it in the strong assurance of meeting an affectionate friend. Only consider what con­tempt and reproaches you are doom­ed to suffer, if you remain with the family till the secret is known. —Think what misery you will es­cape by resolutely following the dic­tates of reason, and quitting the man, who, it is certain, aims at your eternal ruin.—You entreat my advice, and give a promise, "implicitly to abide by it,"—have I not said as much as ought to deter­mine you against whatever he may [Page 37] urge to the contrary?—My heart feels all that your's will suffer, on being obliged to give up the object of it's tenderest wishes. Though you will hereafter own, that it is easier to endure the heart ache for a few weeks, or even months, than experience the severity of cruel reflection whole years.—I will not add more on the subject, my D'Ar­cy possesses an uncommon share of sense, which, if attended to, will car­ry her safe through every diffi­culty; and I doubt not, be the means of her being with me this day three weeks.—In that hope I con­clude myself,

To the Chevalier Chattelherhault.

I TOLD you in my last,^* Chattel­herhault, what a divine creature I had rescued from infamy.

It certainly was wrong to intro­duce her at my father's house as your sister. I see the impropriety now, though it did not strike me at the time—yet there appeared a some­thing so indelicate in offering to place her in lodgings, after having promised her a secure retreat under the protection of my mother and sis­ter, that I could not have been ca­pable of it for the world, though by not doing it I have rendered both her and myself perfectly wretched —Mistake not my meaning, I could not be wretched were it not that Miss Beaufoy has totally become a prey to her fears—she says she is [Page 39] terrified beyond expression at the sound of every strange voice, left it should prove a person who can dis­cover the impostor in her looks. Charming, innocent, engaging girl, my affection for her is so strongly ri­vetted, that I cannot suffer her to depart, though I know it is madness to detain her—You will reasonably ask, What I intend doing with her, and whether my enthusiasm ex­tends far enough to marry her? I frankly own it does. Were I pos­sessed of an independant fortune she is the only woman who should share it with me; but situated as I am, it cannot be.—Of a noble fa­mily himself, my father thinks it a duty incumbent on his son, to sup­port it's dignity by marriage.— Should I marry Miss Beaufoy, my mother's future days will be embit­tered by cruel reflections from him for her foolish indulgence of me when a boy; and though I never should value his resentment towards [Page] myself on the occasion, I could not endure the mortifying thought, of causing uneasiness for her tender nature to combat with. You are a man of gallantry, and will wonder at my having even one difficulty to encounter: nay will tell me the girl is in my power and I ought to make a good use of my time; it is true she is in my power—but ho­nour forbids me to trample on the laws of humanity, or the rights of hospitality—In fact I love her, and that love will not permit me to of­fer an indignity to her—She is ex­tremely eager to return to France— I think she has left a lover behind, and that is her motive for hurrying from me. I have been prudent enough to conceal from Miss Beau­foy the passion I entertain for her, which, hopeless as it is, she never shall be acquainted with. I am convinced she entertains not a sus­picion of my being in love with her, but rather attributes my ten­der [Page] solicitude to the effects of com­passion.—Would my stars had as­signed it really was so—No man is more susceptible to the charms of beauty than myself, and I could pledge my life on the truth, that it never cost a human being more pain, to keep themselves, what the world terms honest than I have suf­fered—By heavens I cannot be­hold this charming girl with the eye of a seducer, and must make no other determination but that of bid­ding her adieu. The thought drives me desperate. I can only add,

To Miss Osborn.

YOUR summons, and even threats, are likely to avail you no­thing.—My dear Mrs. Raymond has been ill, and still continues languid; she entreats I will remain with her, and I cannot refuse: in­deed the tie of friendship will not suffer me to leave her till her health is re-established—I am happy in your having obtained so valuable in acquisition as your acquaintance with Mademoiselle Chattelherhault —I think I need hardly repeat here, that whatever affords you pleasure gives me infinite satisfaction, though the idea of your having disposed of that heart, which you have ever boasted was invulnerable, is really a subject for mirth to me—Pray who is this self same somebody, on whom your mad cap ladyship has [Page 43] thought proper to bestow the little flutterer? He must be a man of sense, or he had not attracted your notice; his manners must be pleas­ing, or you never had regarded him with an eye of affection.—His birth must be noble, else had you not suffered the passion to take posses­sion of your breast, and I am sure, his fortune must be ample, or your father will never consent to your having him. But why in the name of fate do you persist in teasing the poor man? Beware, Matilda, of going too far. There's no great art requisite in the making a conquest, the difficulty lays in securing the affections; but if you give a man cause to suppose your own are estranged from him, is he to be blamed for withdrawing his? A heart once lost to a woman in such a way is never to be regained. And why? the lover thinks himself neg­lected, pays attention to other wo­men, while the real object of his [Page 44] choice remains totally unnoticed. She feels herself piqued and treats him with disdain. An altercation ensues, the gentleman is of opinion, some trifling acknowledgment is due from the lady for her first error, while too proud to stoop, presum­ing on her charms, she bids him be gone and never see her more; he takes her at her word, and some other possibly less fair, but more kind female, compensates him for the loss of the first. You dare me to accuse you of insensibility: how can I, while your charity towards distressed families, and attention to sick friends, assure me you inherit it not in any degree. But why suffer a playful heart to trifle with the happiness of him on whom your own depends, by striving to con­vince, that sensibility is a virtue you have not yet attained? You are al­lowed to be handsome: have gained a number of lovers; and, as you have discovered the secret, I am no long­er [Page 45] surprised at Grenville's advan­tageous offer being rejected; for well I know, you never could consent to become a wife to that man who was not sole master of your heart. But suffer me to entreat, if he in question is worthy of it, that you forbear to wound his feelings. You know the force of my attachment towards you, and cannot be dis­pleased at the liberty I have assum­ed. Adieu. Reflect on what is ob­served above by,

To Mademoiselle D'Aubigny.

THANKS to you, my Marianne, for your tender concern, and even for your severity; it has convinced me of my error, and I am no longer insensible to my danger. Yet I must do Mr. Osborn the justice to aver, that he has never once professed a regard for me further than compas­sion extends. Surely such behaviour has not the meaning of a seducer in it, though men are designing, and can put on the mask of friendship, while they have an unwary object's ruin in view; but he shall find D'Arcy Beaufoy's virtue cannot be conquered. My mother discovered a propensity in my juvenile mind towards levity; she fell an inno­cent victim to it herself and deter­mined to crush the dawning of it in her child. Death suffered her not [Page 47] to compleat the victory; but Stam­ford accomplished what she wished to see performed. I mean not to in­sinuate that I am become a prude, merely to deceive the penetrating eye of friendship. No, it is a maen­ness I should despise in another ear­ly, and must detest in myself; but to assure you that you have not so much to dread from my susceptibi­lity (which I confess is great), as your apprehensions for my safety suggests. Since I received your let­ter I told Miss Osborn that I was alarmed at my brother's remaining so much longer at home than he in­tended; and if he arrived not in England next week I should posi­tively return to France the ensuing one. She looked astonished, and insisted on my renouncing every idea of the kind. I was deter­mined; she resolute: and each in her humour retired to dress; but I give you my honour you shall see me at the appointed time. While I [Page 48] remain here I am forced against in­clination to appear every day in company, and dreading a discovery ry I cannot divest myself of fear, which is certainly mistaken for stu­pidity. What a different appear­ance does my behaviour wear here, and at Boulogne; there I was known as Mademoiselle Beaufoy, celebrated for the elegancy of her manners; here cannot be otherwise distinguished than by the name of Chattelherhault, an aukward French girl. I shall very soon bid adieu to this amiable family forever. Surely gratitude cannot be account­ed a crime, if it were, I am guilty indeed. Mr. Osborn's noble gene­rosity has demanded that tribute of me, and I have given with it a heart, undivided by love for any of his sex. To my Marianne I may ac­knowledge this truth; but it never shall escape me to another soul. You will console me for the loss, till it is perfectly regained. Much hap­pier [Page 49] should I have found myself, had I never known the void; yet why should I say that? The pleasing sensations a person experiences, when contemplating the object of their tenderest wishes, though but in idea, compensate for all their pain. Oh Marianne, too fatally I feel the imbecility of the above as­sertion. I love—and without hope. Those who find the pleasure more than transient, must be allowed a reciprocal return. I will not awa­ken your anxiety, by suffering mur­murs to escape me, for that which I ought to conceal, even from my­self; but solicit your acceptance of the tenderest wishes of,

To Mademoiselle D'Aubigny.

WHITHER can I immure myself to escape the pursuit of the vile undoer? Oh, Marianne, Stam­ford will certainly discover my re­treat, and then I am lost indeed! How could I suffer Mr. Osborn to prevail on me to come here? Why not return immediately to France, rather than hasten to a place where no relatives lived to protect me? A blind fate seems to pursue me, and I now look forward to approaching shame, as an occurrence which must inevitably befal me. The pro­tection of Sir John Osborn's family, which should be my security, will help to involve me in still greater difficulties, it will make my story become public, and render my disgrace conspicuous. Say, will you receive the criminal, after having [Page 51] been detected in the guilt of an im­position? Yes, I know you will; and my heart feels already elated, by giving way to the pleasing idea. You are impatient to be informed of particulars, while I am suffering my fears to hurry me beyond the bounds of reason. Last night Miss Osborn would take no denial—but I must accompany herself and mo­ther, with Lady S— to see a new comedy. Fortunately her brother was engaged, before the party was made, or he would have been our escort. We were in the stage box. At the conclusion of the last act, Stamford appeared in the opposite one; a dreadful sickness seized me, and I could only articulate, "I am very ill. Lady Osborn allow me to leave the theatre." Terrified at the alteration in my looks, neither her lady ship or daughter would suf­fer me to go alone, but quitted the house instantly with me; and 'twas with the utmost difficulty I was [Page 52] kept from fainting in the carriage: the dread of his following, and claiming me when it slopt, operated so sorcibly on my mind. Mr. Osborn is now convinced of the im­propriety of my remaining any longer with his family, and has at length promised, that the Chevalier shall write an excuse for being ob­liged to defer his visit, and likewise desiring my return immediately. Though he still insists, that I have nothing to fear from Stamford, be­cause when he finds I am counte­nanced by people of rank, he will drop all hopes of regaining me. But I know his disposition too well, to imbibe a notion of the kind; and shall be perfectly miserable, till safe in the protection of my dearest D'Aubigny.—Should Stamford dis­cover with whom I am, how, or in what manner shall I be extricated? Enraged at the imposition—will not Sir John deliver me into the vile man's hands, the moment I am de­manded? [Page 53] And then Mr. Osborn, what a contemptible light he will appear in, for having introduced so wretched an outcast to his mother and sister as I am—I can only be commanded to leave the house; he, as a son of it, will be spoken of with scorn by every branch of his family —cruel reflection, that for the sake of rescuing an injured orphan from infamy, he must bear the stigma of ill treating relations who doat on him. Is it not D'Arcy Beaufoy who is likely to draw on him every re­proach he can receive? I cannot endure the mortifying thought; stubborn heart why will you not break, and loose the bonds which confine my soul to earth? Avaunt, rash murmurs, you shall not be per­mitted to escape me. Indeed Ma­rianne I have been very ill, and the pain I still feel renders me somewhat peevish, so you must not be angry at the impatience I have expressed above—Mr. Osborn says I must re­main [Page 54] main here till the Chevalier writes, though if Stamford discovers my re­treat, you will very soon see the degraded orphan in

To the Honourable Miss Townshend.

YOU tell me your friend is ill, that the tie of friendship will not suffer you to leave her. Charming emanation, how I admire it, and charge the child to remain with her till her health is re-established; in the mean time I will do my utmost to divert you both—Satire is my vein you know, if you approve it, it is well; if not, I believe you will find my thoughtless brain is very [Page 55] barren of invention: that it is fertile at embellishments, I think I have already convinced you; and as a proof that I can delineate truly when will is at home, I will even give you the sketch of a character, which I am sure you will know again, should chance ever bring you into company with the original. You are to know, I called on Mrs. Crisp the other morning, and found a Mrs. and Miss Rawlins with her. Picture to yourself an old soul near seventy years of age, whose hair had once been dark, but from the ravages of Time, turned three parts white, Imagine this hoary hair, frizzed, not to say drest, into no form whatever, some long, dangling from what she terms the toupee, while the rest so short, appears envi­ously peeping from under a very small fashionable white bonnet, which, to make the owner look more like an old ewe drest lamb­fashion, must be stuck on one side, [Page 56] with her veil pinned up, to disco­ver a broad red face, ornamented with what I suppose she calls dim­ples; but what even I cannot find a simile for. Her twinkling grey orbs look askaunce on a bottle nose, and her mouth, when laughing, might easily be mistaken for a gash from ear to ear; but what deity must I invoke to a assist me in describ­ing her nonpareils of teeth? which are decayed nearly to the gums, and what few stumps remain in sight are quite sufficient to turn the strongest stomach. Her person, fat and un­weildy, is decked out in a blue satin gown, ornamented with cocq-le-coc riband, and a petticoat of the same staring colour, with a pink cloak, trimmed with black lace. I will give you a flight sketch of her con­versation presently. It seems she has several children: but a son whom she calls Jacky is her favourite, because he happens to be one of the most egregious fops living; the daughter [Page 57] who accompanied her, is her aver­sion. The poor thing has the mis­fortune to be amiable. I must bring you acquainted with her by the name of Nan, which her mamma in thick lisp calls her in every com­pany. In her usual stile, Mrs. Crisp was rallying me on Grenvill's ac­count, and Mrs. Rawlins, to shew her wit, began with a loud laugh: 'and, I dare say matrimony would agree with you. I say, why do you not try it?'—Language like this was new to me, and staring at her with astonishment, I turned my en­quiring eyes towards my friend, whose answering look bid me expect amusement. The sequel will shew I wanted not scope for ridicule. I had not returned an answer, but her daughter had cast a correct­ing glance, which produced an in­terrogation of Lord, Nan, whats it signify arent not we all women a­like? I say Miss Osborn, Nan is setting her eyes at me, because I [Page 58] axed you a simple question, now what harm was there in that?' Wil­ling to humour the joke, I replied, 'Oh none, madam, and I assure you I have no objection to the marriage state; the difficulty lies in getting the other sex in the mind.' Ah, I know you girls, all loves to get the men in your suit; but its us widows they make up to for wives: but come now I will tell you where to go to know who is to be your husband. I say, Nan, where is that what's his name moved to?' Without wait­ing that I might be informed, she went on. Well, I likes a bit of for­tune vastly. Do you know I went to him, to ax him about Jacky? and he says he is to be married to a Lady of vast great fortune.' 'How long did he say it is to be before Miss Rawlins is married,' interrupted Mrs. Crisp looking significantly at me. 'Oh, he says Nan is to die a maid, and I am to be married be­fore the years out; is not that droll [Page 59] now? He says Jacky will be very extravagant; and so I have left him plenty of money, for I does love Jacky's little finger better an all the bodies of the others; is not that odd now? I say I will tell you some­thing vastly drole; he said, says he, if you go and walk as far as Green­wich park; but you must walk all the way, says he, because I do not know whether he may not be on the road, the twenty first of next month between the hours of twelve and two, you'll see a good lusty looking gentleman, and he will ac­cost you, says he: and that man, says he, is to be your husband; was not that, drole now? Hey'— 'astonishing!' said I, putting on one of my looks of surprise, which you know I can make use of at pleasure, 'I hope you wont, ma'am?' 'Oh yes, and what was vastly particular, I had but just got in at the gate, when he comes up to me. Was not that odd now? and so after we began [Page 60] talking, he 'tempted to chuck me under the chin; and so says he, you are a pretty girl, and says he if you have a mind to live with me, I will allow you a guinea a week. But I told him, I was not the person he took me for; and I was a Lady of vast great fortune.' Here I could not have refrained from laughing, had I not perceived that Miss Raw­lins was very much hurt at her mo­ther's making such a fool of herself; however she went on. 'He begged my pardon and was vastly sorry, and hoped I was not offended, and so I told him, no; and then he axed me for my card, and I gave it him, and so he has visited me ever since. Was not that odd now?' 'Oh sur­prising to a degree! but how in the name of fate, did you contrive to walk to Greenwich?' said I. 'Why I walks about a great deal always, but I was so tired, tho' I took a coach home, that I did not know what to do; was not I, Nan? 'Then [Page 61] there is no doubt, ma'am, (said Mrs. Crisp,) of the match being concluded I suppose.''Why I does not know that there is, for Mr. Sampson is so vastly good natured, and he's so much in love with me, that I don't see how I can stand out, and what's vastly particular, he's a man without a fault. Is not that odd now, hey?' 'Odd indeed, re­turned I, for I never yet heard of such a one, and only wish, your's may prove to be without a fault, af­ter having got possession of your fortune.' 'Oh, he does not want me for my money, he says, for if I had not a farding he'd have me, for he's got a vast deal of his own; and he says as how, if I wont have him, that he wont have any body else; is not that odd now?' Then the old figure ran on in such extravagant praises of her man. that I was quite wearied before she got up, and gave me what I suppose she thought a polite invitation. 'Well, I say, [Page 62] Miss Osborn, I shall be vastly glad to see you; I lives in Grovenor Square; Mrs. Crisp will shew you the house; and I shall take it vastly ill if you dont come;' then making a bob curtsey, half side ways, she waddled out of the room. 'In the name of every thing that is rational, exclaimed I, where or in what company could you possibly have singled out that fulsome old soul?' Mrs. Crisp said she was the widow of a rich citizen, who having made himself by his assiduity to business, it might easily be seen from the illi­terate behaviour of his rib, had been accustomed to associate with the lowest class of people. It seems she met with her at the house of a relation, through whose means the old fool has gained a few genteel acquaintances; but as they only in­vite her for the sake of diversion, so they soon weary of ditto repeat­ed, and drop the acquaintance as soon as they can. For her part Mrs. [Page 63] Crisp says, she shall be happy in finding her house rid of such a trou­blesome visitant, and, to effect it, will plead an engagement whenever she sends. You will certainly con­clude I have been exaggerating, and say such a character cannot ex­ist, but in my flighty imagination. Positively, it is the woman, as truly as truth can draw. I have not ad­ded a single ornament to either dress or person, nor even a syllable more to the conversation, as those who have seen her can testify—so much for that, now to affairs of greater consequence. The happi­ness you express in my having little Chattelherhault with me, is likely to be done away very soon, the poor thing affects to be brother sick, though I am out in my judgment if it favours not more of love; and declares as the Chevalier is not come she will return to the conti­nent, I remonstrate, but all to no purpose, the urchin has absolutely [Page 64] fretted herself ill, and was obliged to leave the theatre last night; so I expect if this brother does not dis­appoint her by shewing; himself in England, that young sly-boots will find an excuse for stealing a march upon us next week, and leave poor Henry to sigh in solitude, and mourn his hapless fate: for if mas­ter Cupid has not been playing him a slippery trick by catching him fast in his trammels, say I have no discernment. The man has the as­surance to deny it, but his heart must have been adamant, could he have resisted the bright fire of her eyes, which for all the demure looks she strives to put on, tells me she is not the inanimate soul she would fain be thought; there is a spirit in the very glance of them, which says, "I was born to tri­umph:' then she is such an amiable disposition that in short I shall feel almost as much hurt on her depar­ture as her sentimental lover. [Page 65] There's another rub in the way to plague me; here have I set my heart on making a conquest of the Chevalier, and in the midst of the pleasing sensations I was indulging of love, hearts, darts, and a thou­sand other pretty little things, when Madam, whips into a post-chaise, drives away for the continent, and at once puts a stop to all my ideal dreams of delight. Deuce take me if I am not even with her before the year's out, and for the present will console myself by spitting my spite, by teizing you. And so you really expect I should divulge the only se­cret I ever kept from you, after the pretty sermon you were kind enough to send? No, no, child, that will never do. What have I been racking my brains for years past to conceal the weakness of my heart from the world, and shall I now discover it to you? Affairs must take a very different turn from what they are in at present, before I [Page 66] reveal myself to any one be assured —though notwithstanding your sau­cy lecture I still sign myself,

To Mademoiselle Chattelherhault.

IN a strange country; you are dis­tressed in mind, and likely to be ill. Wait not for the Chevalier's letter; your last has made me wretched. Tell Sir John's family you have a friend dying: tell them any thing that will favour your escape from the nation, before a discovery can ensue; for well I know your ten­der nature cannot combat with the [Page 67] shock it will receive. The shame can never reach you here; and if you are afflicted with sickness, friendship shall watch over it till health is restored. Never can I forget when the putrid fever seized me, in our convent; the companions of my juvenile years in terror de­serted me, being fearful of the con­tagion; you alone remained to com­fort and attend me, nor would suf­fer yourself to be forced away, though it was by the command of the abbess. It was not for friend­ship's sake you did it, as I then six­teen, thought you who was scarce ten, too much of a child to bestow my friendship on. No, it was innate goodness prompted the generous action. You stopt not here; in com­pleating a cure: change of air was necessary. I had no parents alive, and those who were intrusted with the care of me, were at too great a distance to be applied to in time. You prevailed on your mother to [Page 68] suffer me to be with her. My health was established, and my affection for you rooted. Madam Beaufoy was a second parent to me, ought I then to forget that her child is un­happy? No, my dear D'Arcy, while respiration is allowed me, you shall never want a friend. My fortune is ample; come and share it with me. It is Marianne invites. It is the voice of friendship speaks. Suf­fer not Mr. Osborn's flattering elo­quence to prevail; trifle not another moment with your future peace, but hasten to her who will be the guardian of your honour, the com­forter of your mind. You know my nature is not a severe one, I can al­low for your gratitude, and partake of the sensations it occasions. I will sooth the agitations of your heart, till love is glided into esteem. I do nothing but reflect on myself for not fetching you to St. Omer's the moment I knew of your loss, then had the severe trials you have borne [Page 69] been prevented, and your heart still have remained a stranger to love. I like not Miss Osborn; you only speak of her in one letter as spright­ly. I fear she is more than spright­ly, she appears to me volatile, and unthinking, ana by no means a fit companion for my gentle Beaufoy, or why did she force you to accom­pany her to the theatre, when I am sure you pleaded illness or some other excuse which would have sa­tisfied her, had she been serious enough to attend to the dictates of good breeding. However, that you may not be obliged to her bro­ther, in pecuniary affairs, I have enclosed a thirty pound note, with the assurance that I am and ever will remain,

To Miss Osborn.

YOUR last afforded us an infinite deal of mirth, though Mrs. Ray­mond is of opinion with me that you have made the colouring to your fi­nishing strokes too high for the ori­ginal to be known by the portrait. What an eccentric soul art thou; were I not convinced of the innate goodness of your heart, I should certainly think you one of the most malicious creatures living. You are possessed of a lively imagination, and want not the power of making your friends laugh at pleasure; if you wanted less inclination, to shew your wit at the expence of your good nature, I am sure those who are now afraid of your very glance, would love you sincerely. In an­swer to this I know you will say that if the ninnies are conscious of [Page 71] having merited the lash of satire, you are not fond of disappointing them; however, not being willing to argue the point with you, as I may stand a chance of being reproached for a saucy lecturer a second time, I will drop the subject▪ and as you have given me the character of a ridiculous old woman, in return, I will strive to exhibit a scene of woe to you. It seems it is the custom here for woman to attend gentle­men's gardens as well as the men. Mrs Raymond employs a pour in­dustrious creature, who has a worth­less husband and half a dozen chil­dren to maintain, in assisting her gardener; the poor soul was very big with child, and she had given her some old clothes to make baby linen, and desired she would let her know when she was down lay­ing: the unfortunate woman sent a week ago, but through the remiss­ness of the servants Mrs. Raymond knew not of it till yesterday, when [Page 72] I accompanied her to a house where this poor wretch lodged. On going up stairs we found all the children, some crying for bread and butter, while others, making light of even hunger itself, were contentedly playing on the floor; the eldest a girl of fourteen, was sitting with her arms folded in a dejected atti­tude, on the side of a truckle bed, which, except an old deal table, was all the furniture in the room; the distressed mother and her infant child were laying on a mattress, with nothing more than a rug for their covering. On our entrance, a little boy, about five years of age, ran to a girl much less than himself, and snatching up her pin cloth, cri­ed, while wiping her eyes, 'Hush, Sally, don't ye cry no more, here's ladies come to give ye some bread and butter, and bring poor mame and the baby something to eat.' 'Will am give you some to Char­ly?' said the little creature, blow­ing [Page 73] her nose, to speak the plainer, while her mother made an attempt to sit up in the bed, but was so weak, from not having taken any kind of sustenance for two days past, that she could not. The dear little soul which was laying by her, had caught a cold in it's eyes, owing to a part of the casement being broken away, and the want of a door to the room, as well as a fire in it, for there was no stove, and only a few faggots to beset alight on the hearth, to warm some bread and water when the little sufferer cried for food, as it's mother had scarce any milk in her breast to afford it. A scene^* to equal this I had never so much as heard of before, conse­quently the sight, which it is impos­sible to describe in the view it then appeared, shocked me to such a de­gree, that had I not been relieved [Page 74] by tears I should certainly have fal­len into hysterics. It excited every tender feeling so much for the poor in my breast, that if I had been pos­sessed of the power, I wanted not for inclination at the moment, to have raised every beggar in the na­tion to an affluent fortune; we stay­ed but a short time, after giving them what silver we had in our pockets, as Mrs. Raymond wished to hasten home and have something comfortable made and sent to the poor woman, which she has done every day since, with broken vic­tuals for the children. She intends taking the eldest girl in [...] the house, and have her taught plain work, that she may be useful to her fami­ly; and the last child which is a boy, to stand godmother to, and put him to school when big enough, and afterwards bind him apprentice to some trade; would every woman whose fortune was sufficient to allow it, follow her example, what scenes [Page 75] of distress and wretchedness might they prevent; but a love of gaming is become so prevalent in the breasts of our females that they care not what meannesses they are guilty of, if it will enable them to sport a lar­ger quantity of money at the card table; and possibly one lady loses in four hours, more than would ren­der half a dozen families comforta­ble their whole lives. Now would some of these fashionable women, whose conduct I have been making so free with, say, that I am running on in the strain of a moralist, with­out the aid of years or even sense to support the character, therefore to oblige them, I will lay aside the subject to tell you how pleased I am, at your being disappointed in your views on the Chevalier; how you can trifle with your own feelings, I cannot reconcile with my ideas of knowing pleasure in that state; for were I i [...] [...]ove as you say you are, I could not afford one smile to any [Page 76] other of the sex, while the object of it was in company; and if he chanced to pay more attention to another, while I happened to be by, I really believe that my foolish heart would discover it's weakness, by forcing an inundation from my eyes. You laugh at my frank confession, and to put a stop to your ridicule I end my epistle, by assuring you that I still remain,

To Sir John Osborn, Bart.

BY what authority you attempt to harbour Mademoiselle Beaufoy [Page 77] I know not; but as her guardian must inform you, that I have a right to claim her, wherever found. I have not a doubt, that some-atroci­ous falsehood has been advanced to excite your humanity, and extort your protection of her. However, that you may no longer be duped by an artful tale, I must tell you she eloped on our landing at Dover, from France, with a young fellow whom no one knows any thing of. I had not been able to discover her abode till this morning. I saw her in a carriage which bears your arms; now an affair of this kind being made public, I should appre­hend, would by no means be agree­able to you, therefore if the lady is immediately restored I shall suf­fer the story to sink into oblivion. If she is not, be assured I will en­force the severity of the law in such a case to it's utmost extent.

To W. Stamford, Esq.

A LETTER I have just received, informs me you have been left guardian to an indiscreet young wo­man, who has eloped from you, for which I am sorry, though I have not the honour of an acquaint­ance with you; but I assure you, up­on my honour, I do not know any thing of the person you mention; the lady you have seen in my car­riage, is Mademoiselle Chattelher­hault, sister to a Frenchman of dis­tinction, with whom my son is ve­ry intimate. In the wish that you may soon recover your ward, I have the honour to be, Sir,

To the Honourable Miss Townsend.

THANKS to my father's pru­dence, or the town might have been obliged with a paragraph in some of the news papers, that an extraor­dinary circumstance had happened in a certain nobleman's family; a young, and beautiful French wo­man of distinction was on a visit to them, and having been seen by some elderly madman who claimed her as his ward, Sir—'s credulity made him believe it was no phantom of the brain, and therefore had gi­ven her up to the claimant; then would have been added at the end, by the way of astonishment, O tem­pora, O mores! Your curiosity is more awakened by the above from me, th [...] the public's would have been from reading it in the Oracle, Herald, or Woodfall's Diary; so [Page 80] now must I begin to elucidate. You are to understand, Henry was sum­moned to attend poor Montagu, whose life was despaired of in So­mersetshire; as soon as we had seen him set off, Mademoiselle Chat­telherhault, accompanied by lady Osborn, and myself, went to take the air in Hyde-Park. An elderly man on horse-back rode up to the carriage, and staring very hard in, appeared as if on the point of forc­ing his head through the glass. Oh mon Dieu, exclaimed the timorous girl, changing colour. Don't alarm yourself, my dear, said my mother, it is customary in England for gen­tlemen to behave in such a manner, though it certainly favours of ill manners. Pardon me my dear la­dy, returned she recovering her­self, I was terribly afraid he would have broke the carriage window. This passed off, and we thought no more of it; in the evening a letter was brought in to Sir John, with [Page 81] word that the servant waited for an answer. He withdrew to the li­brary, and Chattelherhault having been unwell the whole day, took the opportunity of retiring to her room; on my father's return he shewed us a letter, which must cer­tainly have been written by the man who had behaved so rudely in the morning claiming our young visitant by the name of Beaufoy, and his ward. My mother asked what answer he had returned; he said an assurance that he knew not any such person. I said I would run up stairs and tell my little French girl what an hair breadth escape she had had; but my mo­ther ever careful of preventing uneasiness for her friends, was a­fraid of her being alarmed, and en­treated I would not inform her of it till some time had elapsed; so thus rests this important affair, though if my will had been complied with, I believe for the joke's sake, instead [Page 82] of an answer I should certainly have sent some of Monro's people to take charge of him; positively the man must be mad as a March hare, or he never could have mistaken our timid little Chattelherhault, for his forward minx Beaufoy.

Your description of the unfortu­nate gardening woman shocked me to a degree, and I shall beg to be your debtor, till we meet, for a couple of guineas, which I desire you will give her in my name. So you really thought I should laugh at your frank confession; no, no, I will carry it a little farther, by sup­posing if you could not force a de­luge of tears that you would apply a handkerchief to your eyes, and sham, rather than not appear hurt at the wretch's neglect of you. Shame on the sex: well may the men be vain of themselves, while there are such a number of soft, sighing, what shall I call them, fool­ish damsels as you in the world, [Page 83] that take pains to convince them of the power they have over them. Silly girls. Why I tell you it is the only way to effect the loss of your man; a love of roving is in­herent in the nature of the sex, and they are as fond of gaining con­quests, as e'er a woman of us all. Make it no longer a doubt to any one of them that your affections are fixed on him, oh then he is your very humble servant, and prefers his devoirs to some other fair. Thus they reward ye. Follow my precepts and observe the difference in the behaviour of the lords of the creation towards you. Support your dignity, and suffer not the man who has gained your heart to make sure of it, supposing he really loves you, is there any harm in keeping him in suspence, till he dares to insist on your naming the time which will make you his. Your wise-acre ladyship putting on a de­mure look, will ask, 'Whether it [Page 84] is customary for a man to go so great a length, before he is convin­ced of a woman's affections being all his own? Simpletonian! Do you imagine that I now for instance, would suffer any man to dangle af­ter me as a lover whom I despised; and are there not ways and means to let the one whom at sight of your heart beats a strange palpitation, know you have a regard for him, without making it appear that you are desperately in love? a few en­couraging smiles will inliven his hu­mour a whole evening: he dreams all night of your bestowing more favours on him than any other, a­rises in the morning, fully persuad­ed that you love him, hastens to at­tend you, pleased in the idea of having as many kind glances be­stowed on him as on the preceding evening. How grievously is he baulked; you look cool upon him; he goes home, curses his stars, calls you inhuman, and vows never to [Page 85] submit to your tyranny more; but ere two days have rolled their cir­cuit o'er his head, he catches him­self, ha, ha, ha, in the act of wor­shipping at your shrine; and what has effected this change, but his dread of losing you? Whereas if you had convinced him of his being sole master of your heart, he would have shewn his resentment, by keeping his distance a whole fort­night; well, after a time trifled away in doubts, anxiety, and fears, he determines not to be kept any long­er in suspence, but puts the ques­tion that he may know his doom; and after the marriage-day is fixed, I have no objection to your shewing as much love as you think proper; and that woman must be destitute of every generous principle, who will not strive after having taken a man for better for worse, to ren­der home more comfortable to him than any other place can be: though I am sorry that some wives, whose [Page 86] conduct I have observed, oblige me to say, they have forgotten their duty, with the vow they once made at the altar. Bless us what faux pas have I catched myself in, the deuce take writing. Moralizing! as I hope to live! Well, well, truth will out one time or other, so I will even copy my neighbours, by mak­ing a frank confession, hey, Sophia, that if ever I marry, which the Lord in his infinite mercy send I may, I do really and sincerely be­lieve, (the declaration must be so­lemn you know, by the way of ad­ding weight to what I advance) if my husband proves a reasonable man, that I may in process of time be brought to dwindle as a wife, in­to what I never will be while a maiden, an amiable piece of still life. Betray me not to the crops of our acquaintance, Oh ye daughter of I know not who, or my triumph will be ended, and my design totally spoiled before it can be executed; [Page 87] for you are to understand, child, I don't mean to make any foolish pro­testations of what my intentions are in regard to hereafter, but put the good man to a trial of his confi­dence in my generosity, my ho­nour, and all other et ceteras which appear so becoming in a woman; and if I find he is willing to give me my way in trifles, possibly I may fall into his humour where things of greater moment are con­cerned. However for this time I have said enough, and think you will not be sorry at having finished reading the scrawl of,

To Sir John Osborn, Bart.

THE assurance you have given on your honour, that you know not such a person as Mademoiselle Beau­foy, convinces me you have been most grossly abused, in her being introduced at your house under a fictitious name; to prove which I will wait on you this evening, bring­ing people with me who can swear to the identity of her person; or resting the decision on the lady's emotion at sight of me. Will at­tend you alone. Your acquies­cence will oblige,

To W. Stamford▪ Esq.

YOU still persist in your ward's being protected by me, and I can only say at present, that a resem­blance between two faces is some­times striking, and the similitude which Mademoiselle Beaufoy's fea­tures bear to Mademoiselle Chattel­herhault's must have deceived you. My son, Sir, is a man of honour, and would scorn to practice an im­position on his family; he has been sent for by a sick friend into Somer­setshire; at his return I shall be hap­py to receive you, as I would not choose to suffer our fair visitor, who enjoys an ill state of health, to be seen by any one in an affair of this kind, without his approbation.

To the Chevalier Chattelherhault.

IF ever you wished to do me a kindness, Chattelherhault, it must be proved now; that libidinous old dog, Mademoiselle Beaufoy's guar­dian, has taken the opportunity while I was out of town, attending Jack Montague who has had a vio­lent fit of illness, of writing to Sir John, and claiming her as his ward, who had eloped from him at Dover; my father declined receiving his vi­sit till my return, and I have insist­ed on her not being made acquaint­ed with it, consequently his not be­ing permitted to see her, till your arrival in England. The dear girl has some time past been impatient to return to the continent. She has a friend at St. Omer's, she says, who is able, from her alli­ance with people of consequence, [Page 91] to protect her against all Stamford's stratagems; her name is D' Aubigny, possibly you have some knowledge of her, I have detained the suffer­ing charmer here thus long, in the hope that circumstances might turn out favourably and Mademoi­selle Beaufoy have become my wife; the dear illusive hope must now be banished, and whatever it costs me, she shall return virtuous to her friend, and may make some other man more happy than I can ever be after it. Do you not know some one in whom you dare con­fide the secret? If so, bring them with you, to attest she is your sister. In an injured orphan's cause, let us leave no one thing unaccomplished to defend it. Let your haste to England be the proof of your friend­ship to,

To Mademoiselle D' Aubigny.

NOW, and not till now, has the measure of my woes been com­pleated. Osborn has just left my room; from him I learn, that in­stead of hastening to my dearest Marianne I must remain a prisoner in this nation: detestable place, how I hate it: have I not cause, on reflect­ing that the source of all my wretch­edness originated in it? Stamford, too, has discovered me, and I have been demanded of Sir John.—Mr. Osborn has written to the Chevalier to hasten here, and own me for his sister: if he refuses, never more may you expect to see me; shame will put an end to that life which misfortune has rendered tiresome. Surely my fate is hard, born in sorrow as I may say, fostered in af­fliction, is it not enough that my [...]per years are corroded by anguish, [Page 93] but I must fall a prey to the severest trial, that art, villany, and malice, can inflict. The nobly generous Osborn does every thing in his power to afford me consolation, he says the Chevalier has it not in his nature to refuse any request which he makes, but is not the one he has now made what he cannot in honour comply with? too certainly it is; he bids me assume a placid countenance on Stamford's appear­ance, and all will end well. Does he think that one rash step has ren­dered me callous to shame? God forbid it should, rather let me sink into misery, like one who is consci­ous of her guilt, than justly incur an accusation which I cannot think of without horror. Would that you were by to support my cause, I could then throw my self at Lady Osborn's feet, confess my error and plead for forgiveness; but now friendless and unprotected, my thoughts wander to recollect some person to whom I may apply; but [Page 94] chilled in the knowledge that there is not one, they return, and sink in­to a state of torpidity to which mad­ness is surely preferable. Oh, my mother! why was I permitted to remain on earth, if only to be af­flicted worse than you were? I scarcely know what I have written. Marianne, but I am intent on com­plaining to you, who are at too great a distance to afford consolation, and uttering an apostrophe to my dear mother's shade, which I seem to see hovering over and lamenting the fate of her unfortunate child. Well, but I have been very ill, and may not the knowledge of what I am doom'd to suffer conduce to the termination of my existence, and that will prevent way shame; if it should, Marianne, you must not grieve for my loss, but comfort yourself in the hope that I am hap­py. Do you think my death would because for concern to Mr. Osborn? I do not wish him to be very much [Page 95] afflicted, but methinks if he would shed a tear o'er my grave, as a re­membrancer that he had once known me I could more readily submit to death now, than live half a century longer the happiest of hu­man souls, if I thought he would forget, and not lament me then. Miss Osborn too, I flatter myself, my memory will not be hateful to her. Indeed you must not think hardly of that young lady; she is the counterpart of her dear brother; accustomed from her infancy, I am sure, to be beloved, she is at peace with herself, and in good humour with the world; she is young, has ne­ver been known to misfortune, and wants not for vivacity. I was once lively, but wretchedness became my inmate and has taken entire pos­session of my breast I have given-up even the hope of meeting with my father, while life remains I must be dependent on you; should the Almighty power snatch that pro­tection [Page 96] from me Stamford will re­new his persecution. I cannot pro­ceed, horror has chilled my every nerve; but while respiration is al­lowed me, I must ever remain your affectionate, though wretched,

To Henry Osborn, Esq.

WHAT a devil of a rout you serious fellows make about a virtu­ous woman, as you call a girl who is unwilling to run into your arms be­fore you have begun the attack; ply the sex closely, there is not one of them from the arrantest coquette in nature, to the demurest prude a­mong them, but will surrender at discretion; and where a man does not accomplish his designs, it is more owing to his want of patience, [Page 97] than any rare prudence on the woman's part. I am deep read in all their tricks and subterfuges, and from persevering in pursuit of the game, have never yet been obliged to give out, till it was run down; why you might easily have pre­vented the present row, by taking the girl to a bagnio; she, as a stranger, could not have known the difference between that and your father's house; the family might have been out of town, not expecting your return so soon, and the critical moment been seized on, she would gladly have acceded to terms; you have hired private lodg­ings for her, and the whole pro­gress of the amour had ended by this time. Seriously though, for I know you will curse my inhu­manity on reading the above, you are the only man living for whom I would risque my honour by lying through thick and thin to a whole nation, as it is most likely I shall [Page 98] have to do on this occasion; yet what I shall find much more diffi­cult, will be silencing my sister's complaints of being confined so much longer at our chateau than she expected; but as her appearance in England would play the devil, by marring our plot, I intend to quit France without her knowledge. You say Mademoiselle Beaufoy is known to Mademoiselle D'Aubigny. I am acquainted with a relation of that lady's, and would not hesitate in striving to serve any friend of her's; so the first fair wind wasts me to Albion's white cliffs. As national politesse will not be re­quisite in my rencontre with the old rascal, I am practising a few I rish airs, such as looking big, cocking my hat fiercely, strutting boldly, putting myself in a menacing pos­ture to demand satisfaction. Don't you think, Osborn, that this en ca­valier behaviour will be quite com­me il faut? I am now going to tell [Page 99] a devil of a lie to my sister, and take the route to Calais:

To Mademoiselle Chattelherhault.

YOUR last has almost broken my heart. I can scarce see the letters I write for the tears which force their way in spite of all my endea­vours to repress them. What have you not suffered in that vile Eng­land? but what agitation, what distress infinitely more, will you have to combat with, as the time approaches for your facing the worst of villains; your emotion must be­tray you to Sir John's family, and [Page 100] the wretch will triumph in your downfal: no friends in the nation to whom you can flee for protection. What must become of you? I trem­ble at consequences which are like­ly to ensue; and am determined to lose not a moment in hastening to your relief. Your wish that I were by to support your cause, shall not prove unpropitious. Yes, I will obey the call of anguish, and snatch you from despair. You shall yet enjoy happiness without alloy, and claim the reward due to injured virtue. Don't give way to dejection, nor suffer despondency to gain an ascendant over your mind. Believe me, when the trying moment ar­rives, you will find yourself equal to the contest. That Superior Pow­er, which is appointed to guard, is more watchful of our welfare at the moment Hope is forsaking us, and brings to our rescue, heart-felt joy from the quarter in which we look only for despair. Imagination [Page 101] has portrayed to your mind's view a scene truly terrific, to avoid which you are welcoming death, and cruelly charge me not to grieve for your loss, while you are wish­ing Mr. Osborn to be susceptible of that sympathy which you intreat I will divest myself of. Were it not for the known certainty of your be­ing too wretched at the time you were writing to attend to circum­stances, I should be half inclined to be angry with you; however, I conjure you, as you value my fu­ture quiet, to support your spirits. I shall be in England possibly as soon as this reaches you; after that I will bid defiance to every attempt on your honour. The post is going out, and I cannot add more than that you know my rank has ren­dered me intimate with some of the first English families. I shall avail myself of such a fortunate circum­stance, and you may depend on see­ing me before your interview with [Page 102] Stamford takes place. I remain your sincere and unalterable friend;

To the Honourable Miss Townsend.

PRAY, child, are you fond of be­ing present at a grand quarrel be­tween the French and English, where the latter stand a chance of being well drubbed? if you are, Hey for London town. Positively, though, the man whose claim I treated in so ludicrous a manner in my last, has renewed it, and actu­ally insisted on my father's resign­ing the charge of Chattelherhault up to him, or proving that her name was not Beaufoy and his [Page 103] ward. To do this effectually the Chevalier's presence was necessary, and Henry dispatched an express for him. So out of evil springeth good. The dear charming man ar­rived this evening, my heart leaped when the post-chaise stopt at the door; but when he entered the room, oh what joy seized it, in the hope of his becoming the most ab­ject of my slaves;—me-thought his sentimental sister hardly received him with a sisterly affection. Most likely her langour proceeded from the illness she has had; but I am sure, was I dying, the sight of such an affectionate brother as he appears would infuse fresh vigour through­out my frame, and recal my soul to earth, if winging it's flight to­wards the ethereal regions. Abso­lutely a body would suppose he had thrown aside the brother, for the more tender character of a lover▪ if the Chevalier can behave so po­litely attentive as a brother, what [Page 104] would you not give, Sophia, to have him for an admirer? In short, my breast has taken the alarm, and cautions it's colleague the heart, to beat to arms, to be enabled to stand the attack of an invasion; for where a shot cannot prevail, the French have a knack of levying a whole volley; don't mistake by imagining courage is meant instead of sighs, and think it will be prudent to place the centinel apprehension as guard, because there is a strong pro­bability of such a man's being en­gaged. Thus speaks reason; but a faithful heart replies, that life is nothing without love, and it would not be exempt from the passion to obtain a universe, where it was not to gain admission, at the same time reminds it's adviser, that love in the image of one clothed in friend­ship's sacred garb, had crept through an avenue to it's utmost recess, unresisted by her at the moment he had raised his throne on the firmest basis— Esteem—before even [Page 105] her penetration could discover it, he reigned triumphant, and now would not give up his claim on the whole, though the endeavour of all her allies united were to strive to hurl him from it. I have written myself into that softened kind of disposition in which I cannot pro­ceed with my usual vivacity, and must resign the pen till morning.

**** here I am, returned with a fresh supply of animation at com­mand; but as I am to proceed me­thodically it shall lay dormant, while I tell you this all captivating hero informed his sister that expect­ing to find letters at the post-house, on his landing at Dover, he had sent his servant to enquire if there were any directed to him, and was agree­ably surprised on receiving one from Mademoiselle D'Aubigny 'Sacre Dieu!' (exclaimed she clasp­ing her hands as if in the agony of despair,) 'surely Marianne will not, she cannot determine to give up my [Page 106] cause, when it stands most in need of her assistance.' Henry looked, I thought, confused, while the Che­valier, making a motion of putting his hand on her mouth, cried, 'Hush, am not I your brother, and able to protect you?' O, no, no, (said she, bursting into tears,) Ma­rianne alone can protect, support and save me; if she has deserted me, the whole world cannot afford con­solation.' 'Permit me to assure you, interrupted he, that Mademoiselle D'Aubigny is now in England. I waited on her in my way hither, and she comissioned me to present this letter.' Which he gave her with the most gallant air imaginable. She snatched it eagerly, kissed it fervently, and held it to her breast the space of five minutes, while her expressive eyes were turned towards heaven in the attitude of thanksgiving; on a sudden they rol­led, her looks were wild; she kiss­ed the letter once more, and sunk [Page 107] into an alarming stupor. Terrified at the change, I rung the bell for assistance, while my mother applied a smelling bottle to her nose, which was not potent enough to prevent violent hysterics—Horror was strongly imprinted on the counte­nance of the Chevalier; but Henry raved, he acknowledged his love for her, and vowed to take ample revenge on the villain who had oc­casioned her pain. Murder will out, you find, one time or other; till then he had the confidence to deny the power the deity had gain­ed over him. However the dear girl was recovered and put to bed, and this morning is charmingly. It seems this Mademoiselle D'Aubigny is a friend with whom she was edu­cated at a convent and so firm is their affection towards each other, that it is generally supposed if any misfortune happened to one it would be an infallible means of breaking the heart of her friend, and in her [Page 108] letter to her brother she entreated he would bring her over with him, and then she was certain of being se­cured from the vile Englishman; for Marianne would rather die than suffer him to have her. Poor thing, her terror would not give her leave to reflect that if her brother thought proper to give her up, not all Ma­demoiselle D'Aubigny's endeavours could prevent the Englishman's hav­ing her. However her friend paid her a visit this morning, she receiv­ed her alone in her dressing room, and soon after my mother and self were admitted, and introduced to her, the Chevalier and Henry join­ed us, and the conversation soon became lively and entertaining; for Chattelherhault having her sister excellence present, strove to emu­late, and quite outdid herself; ne­ver, after having seen these two women together, dare I venture to think so highly of myself, as va­nity taught me I might; would you [Page 109] believe, that instead of exciting the attention of half the company by my prattle, as I am accustomed to do, I was frequently dumb, in the consciousness of my own inabi­lity to support any share in a con­versation which was entered upon by these amiable friends.

Well, well, I have determined to bid adieu to trifling, and pursue the footsteps of sense, till I have gained the track beyond their knowledge. The arduous task being compleat­ed, I'll sit myself down contented in the pleasure of having quite outrun them; there is an improveable dis­position for you: absolutely I have described the spirit of emulation as well in the few preceding lines as if I had taken the trouble of writing a dissertation on the subject. Lord, if those musty moral writers would but follow my example, instead of whole volumes, which they publish to teach mankind what all the race knew before was proper, they [Page 110] would pen a few of their reflecti­ons on one sheet of paper; and if the world was determined to be en­lightened, it would pay more atten­tion to that single sheet, than it does at present to thousands of them which are printed daily for it's im­provement. Now were any of those grave gentry to read what I have written, they would knit their brows, by the way of expressing disapprobation of the theme, and throwing it aside, with a supercili­ous smile, would exclaim, in a tone of contempt, ‘Ah that is an opini­on entertained by a foolish wo­man.’ (Now raising their voices,) ‘How dare a creature, whose whole sex have been denied the gift of soul, attempt to decide judgment on our proceedings?’ Fair, and softly, thou boisterous lords of the creation; admit, as you say, women have not a soul, yet you cannot deny that they are endued with the sense of seeing, of hearing, and talk­ing, [Page 111] consequently they see the world does not grow a whit the better; they frequently hear the most solid of your arguments turn­ed into ridicule by your own sex; and from being indulged with a tongue, have the liberty of pro­claiming their own thoughts on the subject. But if venting their ma­lignity on your works was half the mischief created by your striving to inculcate the idea in their mind that none of them are in possession of a soul, it would by trifling indeed, for as they need not dread the same punishment that is supposed to be inflicted on yours in the world which is yet unknown, they natu­rally imagine the greatest sin may be committed without the pain of reflecting, that it must be atoned for at the expiration of existence. Half-witted mortals, what an error your infinitude of wisdom would lead you into! A word to those hus­bands who wish to prevent the [Page 112] sprouting of horns from their fore­heads, and I have done with the subject. If you votaries of Hymen were to take as much pains to con­vince your wives of their being en­dowed with half a dozen souls, which would be tortured beyond description if they commit a fault, as you take to assure them of being perfectly soulless, a number of di­vorces might be prevented, and fa­milies enjoy tranquility, which at present know only wretchedness. You will not thank me for this di­gression, Sophia; you wish to be in­formed of the Chevalier, and I am leading as wide off the track as if it had never been in my view; but I am most intolerably indifferent about the man. And why? because he is not comeatable. So, as a friend, I advise you to secure your traitorous heart from receiving any indelible impressions. Mademoiselle D'Aubig­ny has completed a conquest, and you'll be lost in any attempt to rival [Page 113] her. I am now, in haste, but will renew the subject, with an account of the contest. Adieu.

To Madame Passerat.

AS your illness prevented your accompanying me to England, I am sure you are impatient to learn in what manner our amiable little Beaufoy was extricated from the melevolence of her guardian. With my leave, she says, she will herself inform you of every particular, and I think you will not be concerned, at my resigning the pen to one who will certainly describe the sensati­ons that she experienced at the time [Page 114] more fully than I can possibly do. She is this moment at my elbow, ready to snatch it from me, and I cannot refuse her the pleasure she has enjoyed by anticipation these two days past, that of giving her friends aunt a faithful detail of the whole affair.

My dear Mademoiselle D'Aubig­ny has permitted me the honour of writing you an account, Madam, of the rencontre with the cruel man who designed my ruin. The day arrived that he expected would con­sign the trembling victim to his treacherous charge once more. To prevent it, your affectionate Mari­anne was in St. James's Square by nine in the morning, as well as to prepare me for the much dreaded scene, which was to ensue at twelve. We were to be assembled in the drawing-room at eleven, and you may easily conceive I was more dead than alive, led into it. Five minutes had scarcely escapsed when [Page 115] a Sir Thomas Stuart Morell was an­nounced. Involuntarily I had cast my eyes on Mr. Osborn▪ he was looking at the Chevalier▪ astonish­ment and distress were strongly marked in every lineament of his face. That generous friend strove to correct the look by an encourag­ing inclination of his head; arising at the same moment, he went up to Sir Thomas, who not expecting, was surprized at meeting with him. Sir John immediately said, ‘You have not only the pleasure of see­ing the Chevalier; but may have the happiness of conversing with his amiable sister, who has ho­noured us by her visit likewise.’ I had put on a bonnet with a veil, that whatever change my looks as­sumed might not be so readily no­ticed. Sir Thomas, with a familiar smile, began congratulating himself on the unexpected felicity of seeing me in England; as he approached the smile vanished, and a look of [Page 116] surprize was constituted in it's stead, as Miss Osborn, giving me a pat on the shoulder, in her lively manner, asked, ‘whether I had forgot my old friend, Sir Thomas?’ The Chevalier gave not any of us time to reply, for catching him by the arm hastily, said, ‘You may take another opportunity of paying your respects to my sister, Sir Thomas, she knows I have a mes­sage of the utmost consequence to you from Monsieur Houliers, and can readily pass it over. Will you excuse me, ladies? Sir John, I have your pardon, come along Sir Thomas,’ and pulling him out of the room, exclaimed, ‘This na­tional spirit of liberty has derang­ed his affairs most damnably.’ I do not repeat this from my own know­ledge of it's having been said, Ma­dam, but from what your dear niece has since told me, for seated between her and Miss Osborn, it was with the utmost difficulty I could support [Page 117] myself from fainting, while she in Spa­nish, which none of the family, Mr. Osborn excepted, understood, told me, I need not fear a discovery, un­less I suffered my own emotion to betray me. The Chevalier, and Sir Thomas had been absent ten minutes, when the parlour bell was rung, and a servant sent to say the favour of my company was desired by the gentlemen, I arose, and but for Mr. Osborn, who immedi­ately offered his hand to lead me down stairs, I must have fallen; my legs trembled, and I tottered; strength had nearly forsaken me; he saw Sir John's eyes were on me, and said, ‘I wish this said madman had given us his visit, if he intends it; you know your brother's pre­sence can secure you against what­ever he may urge, and yet I see fear reigns predominant in your mind till the expected interview is over.’ Lady Osborn is one of the most affectionately tender, wo­men [Page 118] in nature; she said every thing which she thought would quiet my apprehensions, while her charming daughter expressed her surprize at my timidity, and her son conduct­ed me to the parlour. Sir Thomas bowed on my entrance. I burst in­to tears, he came towards me, and taking one hand while Mr. Osborn held the other, said, 'Will you ex­cuse me, Madam?' 'Pardonnez moi, Monsieur,' interrupted the spright­ly Frenchman, snatching it from him: ‘no, curse me if she shall. Do you know, my lovely sister, he refuses to acknowledge you as such? and pleads his long friend­ship with Sir John, as a sufficient excuse for disobliging the most charming woman in the world, and I have sent for you to try, what your own eloquence can do, as mine does not seem to prevail.’ Never in my life was I assisted with so much fortitude as at that mo­ment; the big tears, that were cha­sing [Page 119] each other down my cheeks, forcing a channel through the eyes, sorbore to flow, my countenance assumed serenity, my voice became clear, my tone unbroken by sorrow, and I replied with energy, ‘I thank you, Sir, for the kindness of your intentions towards me, my present concern is, that it never will be in my power to repay the most trivi­al part of the obligations you have conferred—You, Sir, (said I, turning to the baronet and curtsying) will oblige me to revere you, though a refusal of the Chevalier's request may clash with my present interest. Yet your noble attachment to Sir John Osborn, and strict adherence to truth, actuates at this moment, and ever will, to demand that tri­bute of me; continue to cherish the sentiments you have imbibed, and no circumstance can tend to make your future days unhappy. Would to heaven I had been as much averse to committing an er­ror, [Page 120] as you are tenacious of being led into one, I had not felt at this moment the keen severity of be­ing completely wretched. In­discretion has in some degree add­ed to it, though I have yet the se­cret satisfaction of knowing my­self innocent of any capital crime. I mean not by what I have advanc­ed to excite your compassion, or create emotion for the finer feel­ings to operate on, by giving a detail of the ill usage I have sustain­ed from the man on whom the care of me devolved on the demise of a tender parent. It will be sufficient if my entreaties are suf­fered to prevail, that you will not strive to render Mr. Osborn's con­duct criminal in the eyes of his fa­mily; the motive for introducing me to it as Mademoiselle Chattel­herhault, was of the most delicate nature; could I be allowed time to acquaint you with it now, I am fully persuaded from a certain [Page 121] rectitude that appears to guide your every thought, you would admire with infinitely more en­thusiasm, than you at present con­demn him. I shall be content to endure the stigma so long as the odium can be kept from him: It is I alone am blamable, and no other ought to suffer for my folly.’ 'Stop, Madam,' (interrupted he) ‘the woman that so generously strives to draw censure on herself, by retorting the ball from him who alone has erred, has made for her­self a more strenuous friend in my bosom than I find myself in­clinable to acknowledge; but I must do myself and you the justice to say, that she who entertains such exalted sentiments cannot be destitute of principle; and, if I might truly assure myself that your virtue was unsullied, there is not that trial in the world, I would not chearfully essay to preserve it so.’ 'Most generous of men,' exclaimed [Page 122] I, bursting into tears, (unexpected kindness disarmed that fortitude which apparent severity had given strength to) ‘my virtue has ever been invulnerable, else I had not had occasion to appear to you at present as a suspicious character.— My conversation must appear e­nigmatical to you likewise; to solve it in some degree, know, it is for the preservation of my honour I am indebted to this best of men; the one who is expected to claim would basely have deprived me of it, had not he stept forth the cham­pion of injured innocence.’— 'Enough, Madam,'(said he) ‘I find you have been left to the care of a villain; such a circumstance too frequently proves the fatal bane of numbers. Mr. Osborn has act­ed from motives of humanity. I will assist him in supporting your cause with my utmost interest. But why not have entrusted the secret to Lady Osborn? Or, if you [Page 123] had not courage to acquaint her with it, Miss Osborn I am sure would not have abused your con­fidence. She is a charming girl; her vivacity is tinctured with ex­quisite sensibility, and she would have done the utmost in her pow­er to serve you. Never yet was she known to turn a deaf ear to the tale of sorrow, or disregard the tears of a daughter of affliction; however, talking of what might have been effected is losing time; we must now turn our thoughts on what is likely to prove most advantageous.’ He stopt, expect­ing an answer. Mr. Osborn and the Chevalier were denied by sur­prize the power of articulation, while I sobb'd aloud in giving my gratitude vent. 'Come,' said he, breaking silence, ‘I find you are not prepared with an expedient, and it is now too late to make ma­ny propositions. I can only say, if the wretch should bring presump­tive [Page 124] proofs of your being his ward, which is to be apprehended, and Sir John abandons you to his care, my doors shall be open to afford you an asylum.’ Interrupting him, Mr. Osborn hastily said, ‘I thank you, Sir, in my own, and the La­dy's name, for your proffered kind­ness, but she has a friend above who will hardly allow her to ac­cept it.’ ‘Has her friend honour with the interest to support her cause, young man, against the at­tack of a lawless ruffian?’ asked the Baronet, looking sternly at him. ‘She has, Sir Thomas; it is a fe­male.’ ‘I am satisfied then. But should her power be insufficient, Madam,’ (turning to me,) ‘mine may be commanded to add force to it.’ ‘Oh, Sir Thomas, your goodness has made bankrupt my gratitude; words are too poor to express my sense of such excess of friendship, and I must be silent in the consciousness of an inability to [Page 125] speak.’ ‘To effect the silence which will send us up to the la­dies,’ said the Chevalier with an air of gaiety, ‘suppose I stop the mouth of my more than lovely sister,’ (at the same time making an attempt, which Mr. Osborn pre­vented, to salute me.) ‘It is a liber­ty, Frank, said he, I have never presumed to take with Miss Beau­foy, neither will I permit you to make such an advantage’ ‘I un­derstand the force of his intention perfectly,’ cried Sir Thomas, ‘and I don't think it a bad one, if we re­flect, it's most likely the family will wonder at our long absence: allow me, Madam,’ (offering his hand) 'to lead you up stairs.' We had hardly got into the drawing-room before a loud rap at the door warned us of our visitant's approach; my newly acquired friend led me to a seat next Mademoiselle D'Au­bigny, and took himself the vacant one on the other side of me. The [Page 126] sound of footsteps assured me that another moment would present my greatest enemy to view, and totally unconscious of either words or ac­tions, I exclaimed, 'Oh shield me, heaven,' and caught fast hold of the Baronet's arm; the Chevalier imme­diately came across the room. ‘Let me conjure you,’ (said he in a half whisper) ‘to recollect I am suppos­ed to be your brother; your be­haviour will not only betray your­self and me, but subject Osborn to the reproaches of his family.’ The door opened, unheeding what he had just said, I gave an involun­tary scream; but it proved to be one of the servants, sent by Stam­ford to say he begged to speak with Sir John in private: the Chevalier objected to his going down to him, said himself alone was empowered to set matters right, and with leave of the company he should take the liberty of desiring Mr. Stamford to walk up stairs. ‘But my dear Che­valier, [Page 127] consider, the sight of him will occasion your sister so much terror, That door, Sir John, be­longs to a convenient closet. I shall beg the favour of Sir Thomas to step in with her, till I require him to bring her forward.’ Happy, you may be assured, Madam, I was, at any reprieve, though of the short­est duration. We just entered the closet as Stamford did the room; and I felt as if I could shrink into nothing at the very sound of his voice. He accosted Sir John, ‘I am sorry, Sir, to have occasion­ed either yourself or family any concern on the business which I am now come: that’ (continued he, looking around the room, and fixing his eyes on Mr. Osborn) ‘is the man with whom my ward e­loped, and I demand her at his hands.’ Mr. Osborn reddened, it seems, and told him that if he dared to insist on having a Lady with whom he had no right, he would [Page 128] lead him out of the house by the nose; and not suffering it to rest there, would make a point of post­ing him in every coffee-house about town. ‘It is a matter of indiffer­ence to me, Sir, with whom your ward eloped, said the Chevalier, but I must desire you will be more careful in future of pointing out any relation of mine as a fit object for giving unnecessary uneasiness to, or you will find I am not of such a placid nature, as tamely to put up with an insult offered to any part of my family, especially where a sister's safety is endanger­ed, my own honour is more nearly concerned to protect it.’ ‘Pardon me, Sir,’ (replied Stamford) ‘for contradicting the assertion of mak­ing a claim on your sister. I have an undoubted right over the lady whom I saw in Sir John's carriage, and will maintain that right, in spite of your's or that gentleman's threats,’ (extending his hand to­wards [Page 129] Mr. Osborn) ‘to oblige me to relinquish it.’ 'By G—' (said young Osborn passionately) ‘you must take my life before such right is acknowledged, or your claim suffered to hold good.’ ‘And I will defend her cause with the last drop of my heart's blood, ere she is delivered to any old scoundrel [...] the world,’ rejoined the Chevalier. 'Don't imagine,' (said Stamford) looking contemp­tuously, ‘I am not to be bullied out of my right in Miss Beaufoy. You are deceived, Sir John, in the sup­position of Mademoiselle Chattel­herhault's being in your house; the person who is here, your son has stolen from me.’ ‘You certain­ly are deceiving yourself’ (return­ed Sir John) ‘the story does not ap­pear probable to me, nor will it I fancy gain credit in any court of equity; therefore you must excuse me, if I say your plot should have been deeper laid to ensure success.’ ‘[Page 130]Sdeath, Sir, I scorn your mean in­sinuation of my laying a plot; however I came not here to con­tend, concluding from your rank that your behaviour would be consistent with that of a gen­tleman's. I have waited on you, that you may take your choice of resigning the lady quietly, or suf­fering a higher power to wrest her from you.’ ‘I have no right over her, she has a brother, and I am apt to believe if your eloquence was as fluent as Cicero's, it would hardly prevail on him to resign her.’ ‘But that brother, as you please to call him, shall be com­pelled to resign her very shortly.’ ‘What method will you adopt to oblige him?’ asked the Chevalier tauntingly. ‘Apply to the Chan­cellor,’ replied he, ‘and you will find yourself obliged to accede to my claim.’ ‘On the Chancellor's decision the cause shall rest,’ said Mr. Osborn: ‘his known integrity [Page 131] will guide him to pronounce judg­ment against a rascal, though he were to gain the first interest in the world to back him in an infamous prosecution.’ ‘Take that epithet to yourself,’ said Stamford, ‘it does not belong to me.’ ‘I have never committed an action that merits it,’ (returned Osborn,) ‘but you wanted not inclination to be guil­ty of that which disgraces the man.’ ‘An altercation in the hear­ing of ladies is pitiful,’ (interrupt­ed the Chevalier) ‘we must take another opportunity of meeting to settle the affair.’ ‘It may be con­cluded immediately, by Sir John's giving Miss Beaufoy into my care,’ replied Stamford: ‘If I harboured Miss Beaufoy,’ (said Sir John, an­grily,) ‘I could not be surprized at your conduct; but since I have repeatedly assured you, that I have never to my knowledge seen her, I think your uncommon behavi­our requires an explanation; and [Page 132] I must, and do, insist on your giv­ing me one before you leave this house.’ ‘Why not suffer the per­son whom you call Chattelher­hault to face me, and what you now call uncommon behaviour, will appear extraordinary no long­er.’ ‘There is not any necessity for your seeing her now,’ (said Os­born,) ‘neither shall you be allow­ed that satisfaction, till supported by good authority for demanding it. Then I will take care to expose your villany as it deserves.’ 'Don't be so hasty, Henry' (inter­rupted his father,) ‘I see no impro­priety in the gentleman's being permitted to see Mademoiselle Chattelherhault; and think the Chevalier cannot have any objec­tion, as it will end the contest, by convincing him of his error.’ ‘If you think, Sir John, it will con­vince Mr. Stamford of his error, my permission is granted; but he has imbibed the idea so strongly [Page 133] of my sister's being his ward, that I very much question if he does not swear more positively after see­ing her to what he has had the ef­frontery to affirm already.’ ‘Im­possible,’ replied Sir John, ‘be­sides, Morell's assertion must have weight, his word has never yet been doubted; nor can it, I trust, be disputed now. We have ano­ther witness that certainly will gain credit;’ so saying he came towards to closet. 'Oh Sir,' I ex­claimed, as the door was about opening, ‘I may now conclude my­self a lost creature, indeed.’ ‘Have courage, Madam,’ replied Sir Thomas, ‘this business will termi­nate much better than I expected.’ ‘Will you be kind enough to bring Mademoiselle Chattelherhault, forward, Sir, and let this unplea­sant affair be put an end to at once,’ said Sir John, as pulling the door open. In a moment I found myself in the same room with [Page 134] Stamford. Horror thrilled through every vein: instead of coming to­wards me, as I expected, he looked aghast, for, having arisen and ad­vanced to meet us, at sight of Sir Thomas he retreated a few paces and stood in the attitude of surprize. 'Stuart!' cried he, recovering him­self, 'How came you here?' ‘Op­pressed innocence demanded my attendance. Mr. Stamford, pain­ful remembrance tells me you were the companion of my youth; this is the first time of our meet­ing, since I embarked years back for India. I did not then expect the next time of seeing you to be obliged to renounce the friendship you so strongly proffered me.’ ‘Whatever has been insinuated to injure me in you good opinion is false as hell. It is a vile story trumpt up to gloss over their own conduct, that will not bear a scru­tiny. However, arguing longer is needless. Had you sent me word [Page 135] your daughter had found a pro­tector in’ —'My daughter!' echo­ed Sir Thomas, interrupting him. 'Now, Sir,' said Osborn to his father, ‘you find every syllable this fellow has advanced is false; and I hope you will not prevent my turning him out of doors.’ 'Hold,' said Sir Thomas, ‘he says she is my child, Great God! is there truth in the assertion?’ 'Not a word,' said the Chevalier, (exultingly rubbing his hands for joy,) ‘now we may sing Old Rose and burn the Bellows, as I've heard you English say. Oh, I [...] diable,’ (exclaimed he altering his tone) 'Osborn get help.' (For I had fainted in his arms) ‘Too sure­ly there is,’ said Sir Thomas, (un­heeding my insensibility)— ‘say, quickly speak. Where is her mo­ther? is she still my wife, or has she forgot she had a husband? Fool; madman that I was, continued he, stamping his feet, she was inno­cent of my accusation, and I have [Page 136] been the murderer of an honest man. Where is she? But why wish to add to the misery I en­dure, from a knowledge of her abode? Her name is changed, no longer Stuart, but Beaufoy. No wonder my enquiries proved a­bortive. Tell me, yet I dread to hear, is this my own child, of was her mother married again before she was born?’ ‘Her name is Beaufoy,’ (replied Stamford) ‘re­member your's is Stuart.’ ‘Oh Christ!’ (exclaimed he striking his hand on his forehead) ‘tell me no more; she is inconstant and I re­nounce her. Yet let me know all, proofs will assist me in tearing her once-loved image from my fond mind. Vainly I flattered myself, when cherishing the thought my fortune would atone for the ill usage she had sustained.’ During the whole of this unconnected ad­dress to Stamford, lady and Miss Osborn were striving to recover me, [Page 137] while Mademoiselle D'Aubigny, eager to learn my doom, could at­tend to no one but the afflicted ba­ronet. The first sentence I heard pronounced, after gaining my re­collection, was by her. ‘Suffer me to entreat, Sir’ (said she) ‘you will not pay any attention to what that vile man says. The mother of this young lady never had more than one husband. He went a­broad, and she quitted England, to reside in France.’ ‘You have infused fresh life, throughout my shattered frame, madam,’ (replied he). 'But why' (speaking with a­vidity) ‘commit the care of her child to him?’ ‘There was no other on the spot to whose care she thought she could entrust her with so much safety.’ ‘Why place her under any other protection than her own?’ 'Oh Sir Thomas,' (re­plied Mademoiselle D'Aubigny) looking mournfully at him—'What,' (cried he hastily) 'Is she dead?' [Page 138] 'Oh God,' (finding she forbore to answer) ‘my cruelty has too surely put an end to her wretched exist­ence.’ ‘When you are in a dis­position to be further informed, if you take the trouble of calling on me,’ (said Stamford) ‘I shall be happy to receive you, Sir; at pre­sent I have business of the utmost consequence, and must bid you good morning.’ Osborn would have stopt him, but was prevented by his father, while the Baronet in an agony of grief, flung himself in­to a chair, vowing never to know comfort more. ‘My dear Chattel­herhault,’ (said Miss Osborn,) ‘so I must still call you, what my­stery is this? Do for heaven's sake, if the task will not be too painful, explain it. Will you believe any thing I shall hereafter advance, Miss Osborn, returned I, striving to conceal my half averted face with a handkerchief, after disco­very of my being an impostor? [Page 139] You have gained so much on my esteem, that I could not suspect your veracity, though conviction stared me in the face, and be as­sured, whatever is in my power shall not be omitted, in striving to make you happy.’ Sir Thomas, starting from his seat, came with hasty strides towards me. ‘Why if you really are my daughter, did you submit to exchange the anti­ent name of Stuart, for that of Beaufoy?’ ‘That question, Sir, re­minds me I must not be too san­guine: Dare I flatter myself in the illusive hope of your being my father, when your's is called Mo­rell?’ ‘It is not Morell, neither had I suffered that name should take place of mine, but for an estate, which I fondly intended to make your mother's life easy with. Imagine not, that I have totally renounced it. No, the name of Stuart I pride myself more in than the empty title, annexed [Page 140] to Thomas Morell. My mother was a Douglass, and I cannot for­get my origin on either side, arose from kings. The Douglasses and Stuarts are renowned the world all over, for their honour, and ance­stry. The families are of the first in Scotland. Your mother de­scended from the Murrys and Campbells, was related to me be­fore our marriage; yet after it, re­linquished the tie of consanguini­ty, even in the names, with her family, and degraded both herself and me by changing that of Stu­art, for Beaufoy.’ I am obliged to resign the pen at present, Ma­dam, but will take the first oppor­tunity of resuming it. I have the honour of subscribing myself your obliged, no longer Beaufoy, but

To Madame Passerat.

BEFORE I conclude my narra­tive, Madam, I cannot refrain from telling you, that however ridicu­lous Sir Thomas's pride of family may appear to those who have not to boast of their alliance with one, I must own, I have my life through inherited, in some degree, his dis­position. I have felt it eminently when a child, if chastifed by those I conceived my inferiors, though hardly knowing what the pride of family-ancestry meant, and my sta­tion in life degraded at the same time. As I increased in years, my mind became more enlightened. I considered every person endued with merit my more than equal; but if treated with impunity, by those who were my superiors in point of fortune alone, my spirit [Page 142] could not brook it, neither could I forbear reflecting at the moment, that the great grandfathers of those very people were most likely beg­ging their bread, while mine were moving in all the splendour of afflu­ence. The painful idea has wounded my feelings to an excess—when a ray of consolation darting on my mind has dispelled the gloom and raised my soul superior to low ma­lice. I have triumphed in an inward self-assurance, that time would raise me infinitely above their level; the time is now arrived. The claims of society demand my civility to­wards those people; but friend­ship's sacred tie disowns them all. You will readily excuse the hauteur that appears to guide the preced­ing lines, they are written feeling­ly; I have been repeatedly ill treat­ed, by the very people who profest most friendship for me; yet if I know my own heart, it will never permit the actuation (if I may be [Page 143] allowed the word) of ingratitude towards any that have done me an act of kindness, though only often­tatiously meant to evince it was in their power to confer, rather than prompted by innate goodness of heart, to be capable of doing a ge­nerous action. I have surely said enough, Madam, to tire you with observation; now proceed to dia­logue. In answer to Sir Thomas's reflection on my mother for chang­ing her name, I told him, ‘that de­serted by her friends, she had on­ly a trifling pittance to support herself, and considered a very short time might render her a mo­ther, former rank could not be supported; she therefore deter­mined that the family of Stuart should not be wittingly insulted by an unfeeling world in her; and renounced the name. Beau­foy, she said, was answerable to the state of her own mind, for well she knew, Sir, continued I, death [Page 144] would not be permitted to close your eyes before you were tho­roughly convinced of her inno­cence.’ ‘She was purity itself, cri­ed he, and I a villain. I bartered my former peace of mind for rage and infamy.’ ‘Do not say so, Sir, interrupted I, my mother ever took the blame on herself; her own conduct she said, had been the occasion of all her misery, and she must endure misfortune with­out a murmur.’ ‘If you wish I should preserve my reason, tell me not of her superior excellence, the knowledge of her patient suf­ferance will drive me desperate. Oh heavenly God! what cruelty is there in human nature that I have not been capable of! Ruined the fair fame of a virtuous wife in the world's eye, and pierced my sword through the heart of a man I supposed her paramour Oh Je­sus! the last words he pronounc­ed as falling, still vibrate in my [Page 145] ears, "Stuart, your wife is wrong­ed, she is virtuous." He would have said more, but death sealed his lips. Reason forsook my breast a whole twelve-month; at length returned; yes, cruelly returned, with double force, to awaken me to an exquisite sense of complicated misery. So she is really dead? Best of women, ejaculated he, your life I rendered wretched; to your memory I will be just. Such meek forbearance to vindicate your conduct demands the tribute. It is the only one I now can pay. Your fidelity shall no longer be suspected, nor your child remain an alien to our family.’ He caught me in his arms; I wept, indeed there was not a dry eye in the room, ex­cept his own. ‘Why do you weep, said he?’ looking wildly at me. ‘Is it because you are consigned to the care of him who treated your mother within humanity? Put con­fidence in my honour, and for [Page 146] the sake of that suffering innocent I will treat you gently.’ His last speech, delivered mourn fully, af­fected me, if possible, more than the former ones. I could make no reply: taking my silence for a mark of disgust, he cried, pushing me from him. ‘Go, I find you hate me, you may from former beha­viour have sufficient cause for it, but I will not tamely submit to receiving contempt from you; though conscious of having me­rited it.’ 'Oh, Sir,' I exclaimed in agony of mind, ‘you know me not, my heart has received no impres­sion, exclusive of duty and affec­tion; those I feel are too strongly engraven ever to be erased by less tender passions.’ ‘I hardly know what this mystery implies,’ (said Sir John) ‘or how it will prove on investigation; but think, if left alone a few minutes, your thoughts will be more collected, and your­self better able to make, or answer [Page 147] any enquiry.’ 'Leave me, quickly' replied my father, ‘the sight of my remorse for offences past must be distressing to you all; besides I feel I am unfit for any company but that of my wretched self. I will strive to calm my mind and join you pre­sently.’ Osborn and the Chevalier supported me down stairs, where I acquainted the family with the occa­sion of my mother's unfortunate loss of happiness. Luckily I am possest of a letter which my father sent her the day of taking his departure: hap­pening to be looking over a small casket of her's the preceding even­ing, that I had not till then opened, I found it tied with a piece of black silk twist, to which was suspended a small parcel; on opening it, I found a pair of diamond ear-rings. On the paper was written: ‘These were the last ornaments Mr. Stuart purchased for me; all my other appendages to dress I have long since disposed of; but determined [Page 148] to preserve these, (unless my child was destitute of the necessaries of life) as reliques of his affection for an ungrateful woman.’ I gave Lady Osborn the letter to peruse, and through it have confirmed my­self the daughter of Sir Thomas. Miss Osborn was in raptures with her brother, for assuming so proper a spirit at Dover. Sir John said, ‘As it had turned out, there was no harm done; but he hoped Hen­ry would be more careful in fu­ture. I might have borne the most infamous character for any thing he knew to the contrary; he had only my own word for what I had advanced; and it was two to one, if every syllable had not prov­ed false.’ 'Well, well,' said Miss Osborn, in a lively tone, ‘you find it has not proved false, my dear Sir. I think instead of rebuking Henry for what is past, you ought to thank your stars on your knees, night and morning, for bestowing [Page 149] such a kind hearted fellow of a son on you; for my own part, I shall certainly think the better of him all my life to come. Honestly speaking, Sir John,’ continued she drily. ‘Do you really think you deserve him?’ Immediately al­tering her tone to a fearful one, ‘I must be careful in putting too many home questions; that seri­ous air bodes me no good. Come, Sir,’ (observing him smile) ‘look cheerily, cast aside the dumps while you remain with us, at least.’ ‘Are you not a very saucy daugh­ter, Matty?’ (asked Sir John) ‘However I have spoilt you myself by too much encouragement, and cannot blame any other person for it.’ 'Ah, Sir,' (in a tone of raillery) ‘too late you find the fatal effects of not checking young saucebox in her infancy. But what do you say now, to bestowing me on some honest John Trot kind of a man, who will give me all my own way, [Page 150] and taking in return this little de­mure looking damsel, for a wife to thy son Henry? Do you think now an alteration in the family of this kind would be taken amiss by either one of us?’ ‘My dear Miss Osborn,’ (said I, in a faulter­ing tone and blushing) ‘what do you mean? How can you talk so? You do not consider whom you are talking before.’ ‘I do not be­lieve you pay a thought to a single syllable you are uttering’ (replied she, smiling at my stupid confusion). ‘Do let me alone, I never invade your province, neither shall you mine.’ 'Very well,' said I (blush­ing still more) 'have it all your own way.' 'Hark ye, my dear,' (in­clining her head towards mine, and spreading a fan before our faces) ‘trust to the honour of Matilda Os­born, it cannot betray a confi­dence placed in it; but if once she finds you mean to deceive her, she gives no quarter. Ah those [Page 151] pretty blushes speak for them­selves. They say Henry has con­quered one heart, and I will be hanged if Miss Stuart has not been guilty of the same pretty theft with another. Nay, no declaration,’ (I was going to speak) ‘unless you are going to confess; if you will do that I promise to fight your cause ever after.’ My father coming in, put an end to the conversation and relieved my embarrassment: soon after the family agreed they would not be interrupted by visi­tants, and gave orders to be denied to whoever called on them that day. The next we were all to spend at Sir Thomas's, where I was to re­main, my dear Marianne having promised to give me her company some months.

Mademoiselle D'Aubigny writes.

Nay it does not signify, conten­tion will avail you nothing: this [Page 152] letter I certainly must finish by the way of informing my aunt of what you would blush to put pen to paper about. Miss Osborns hint has been improved, my dear Madam, and your young correspondent will re­tain her new name but a very short time. To spare her confusion, I took on myself the talk of informing Sir Thomas, that Mr. Osborn was the only man his daughter could ever entertain a regard for. He generously assured me, he thought the one who so nobly rescued her from infamy, the only person wor­thy to possess her; and the gen­tlemen of the long robe are as busy in preparing the marriage settle­ments as the expectation of good sees can make them. I have given a promise to remain in England till the spring, then my suite will be honoured on returning to the con­tinent, by Sir Thomas Stuart Mo­rell, his happy daughter and her husband, Sir John, Lady, and Miss [Page 153] Osborn, with the Chevalier; more properly, according to the national assembly's disposition of rank, Mon­sieur Chattelherhault. I am to be obliged in their company till the dullest season of the year is rapidly approaching to assist me in regret­ting the loss of such amiable friends. But they tell me I must not antici­pate evils, while at a distance, so to avoid that, and prepare to attend a rehearsal, at the opera house, I subscribe myself, dear Madam,

P. S. Stamford removed from his lodgings in Bond-street the same night that the happy discovery was made; and though the strictest en­quires have been made after him, neither Mr. Osborn nor Sir Thomas have been able to gain the slightest intelligence as yet.

To the Honourable Miss Townsend.

AFTER all this ado, would you believe, Mademoiselle Chattelher­hault has proved the daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas Stuart Morell, instead of sister to the Chevalier; the man might well be so polite to the little urchin if he had never seen her before. I thought he overacted the part of brother, and now the won­derment is out. That sly creature, Henry, too; well, I am not de­ceived in regard to his head. I ever suspected that to be a plotting one: but his late conduct has convinced us all he inherits a noble heart. 'The deuce take this girl,' I know you'll say, 'she begins where every one besides herself would leave off.' It is a happy knack I have acquired, and you must content yourself with the style, or forswear reading any [Page 155] more of my penmanship: to vex you still more by the way of hast­ening your return to town, I have determined to keep you in suspence for particulars, till you think pro­per in person to ask them; though, to stretch your curiosity, which I know has been long since awaken­ed, I'll tell you; Henry and she are to be married. Mademoiselle D' Aubigny and myself, are chosen bride-maids; and if Miss Town­send arrives in time, I promise you she shall be invited to the wedding. What is to be done now? A mes­sage from Sir John; I must attend him immediately. Appleton tells me, a smart young gentleman has been closetted with him this half hour: my heart flutters. Do not you think it must be something very extraordinary to occasion a palpitation there; I attend the sum­mons; you shall know the event the moment the interview is over.

[Page 156] In continüation.

Surprize, and ecstacy united, have nearly deprived me of the little rea­son I possessed. Congratulate me, Sophia, I am now at liberty to dis­close the secret of my heart, and in­vite you to partake of the happiness it occasions. You must be expedi­tious to a degree in hastening here, or positively I must look out for another bride-maid in your stead. Well; but the secret, lord I had almost forgotten that, though my heart, my head, my thoughts, all, all, are full of the subject. You certainly recollect young Hamilton, with whom Henry was at Oxford; two vacations he spent with us in Hampshire and three in town. Now comes the confession; shall I call him the wretch? Oh, yes, the plea­sing wretch (a very pretty epithet for a favoured lover) made captive, the wandering heart of Matilda Osborn, in the most assuming, nay, [Page 157] insolent manner you ever heard of. You will scarcely credit, that so flighty a toad as Sir John frequently calls me, could ever be won by the man who took pains to convince her he was not blind to her faults. Ah, you may stare! It is absolutely true. I have been flattered by one, treated with submissive respect by another, while a third more impe­tuous than either of the others, has dared to be jealous of the very peo­ple I despised; but not one, except Hamilton, presumed to say that I inherited the foibles of the whole of my sex. He professed himself my friend; strove to correct the errors of my judgment, while he made a point of ridiculing my levities with good humour, till the criticism en­gaged my most serious attention, and the author of it became dearer to my heart than a mind at unison with itself could admit of. Love, he had never so much as spoken of to me; yet the attention he paid me, [Page 158] was remarked by all my acquaint­ance. At this period his uncle died, and he became the Marquis of D— his visits from being fre­quent, were withdrawn on a sud­den; if by chance we met, a cool­ness that pierced my soul was substi­tuted for the warmth of friendship I had been accustomed to experi­ence. Hurt—beyond description hurt, at a change of conduct I had not wittingly given any occasion for, I determined his image should be erased from my mind though it cost me my life accomplishing. In this state of mind I continued when Grenvill's first visit was permitted; he was submissive to a degree. I strove to regard him in the light of one who was destined for my hus­band. It availed me little, and him still less: my heart would not suf­fer the lesson of affection to take root in my mind, for a character so opposite to that it had acknow­ledged for it's lord, and when he [Page 169] pressed for a decisive answer, I was obliged myself to assure him, I ne­ver could esteem him otherwise than a friend. He expostulated; but my heart was now too firmly at­tached to it's first choice to suffer whatever he could urge to prevail. His dismission was the consequence; since that, how often has my pride been piqued and love wounded, by the Marquis's treatment of me at the houses of different friends where we have met. I have witnessed his polite attention to every other fe­male in company, while I alone was neglected; or received the dis­tant civility due to an utter stranger. Instead of suffering a depression of spirits to become visible at those times, as a serious soul like your­self would have done, I have con­quered my feelings in some degree, and to support a shew of equal in­difference have coquetted with ev­ery other man in company; but this gaiete was forced, and generally [Page 160] forsook me the instant I had quitted the house which contained the Mar­quis; then I have given a loose to my sorrows; and the instant I gain­ed home retired to my apartment to indulge the horrors of despair. How the dence I have been able to plod on in the plaintive strain of a hope­less soul I cannot imagine, after the object of my every wish has not on­ly made a tendre of his title; but what is still dearer his heart. The reason he gives for the affected in­difference I pen with pleasure, be­cause it is an assurance that his heart was incapable of change, as my own was of being alienated. His mother wished him to marry la­dy Sarah Gibbons; to oblige her, he owns he did his utmost in striving to estrange his affections. It is well for me though the trial failed of ef­fect; and the behaviour I lamented in secret was merely an effort to comply with her wish. Hang lady Sarah, I was going to say, she has [Page 161] occasioned me the heart ake more than once; however I have no great occasion at present to repine, the cause is removed, and I made hap­py in the effect; so Mr. Care, my troubles having ceased, you may trudge, and I sincerely conjure you not to think of becoming a compa­nion of mine a second time. After all, Sophia, I believe this said court­ship would have proved but a stu­pid piece of business, had not the old gentleman enveloped the pros­pect of happiness a short time. Mercy on us, here am I, delibe­rately writing a long letter to you, while hurry scurry, and confusion, demands my attendance in a thou­sand different places. I have a headpiece, and so has a goose. I had forgot the poor man has been waiting this half hour below, in eager expectation of my approach. Nor should I have recollected it now, had not the impatient wretch sent up a message to hasten me [Page 162] down. Adieu; fail not in per­forming the promise you have fre­quently made to,

To the Honourable Miss Townsend.

YOU have assured me I may de­pend on your being in town before Saturday, yet a love of scribbling is so inherent in my nature, that I could rather forswear eating, when hungry, than writing, when tempt­ed by the circulation of news. That old figure, Mrs. Rawlins, has married the man she exultingly de­clared was without a fault. He proving a fortune hunter has shrewd­ly marched off with the whole of [Page 163] her fortune, and left his sturdy wi­dow to bemoan her hapless fate, and ponder over the dreadful cer­tainty of possession being nine points of the law. Her darling Jacky a­buses her for not knowing when she was well off, and swears she shall never get a farthing from him. ‘As she has made her bed so let her lie on it, by the way of giving ease to her old bones,’ said he, when Mrs. Crisp was striving one day to prevail on him to allow her a trifle. Fortunately a man whose cir­cumstances are easy fell in love with and married Nan, as the vulgar soul used to call her daughter, and the generous spirited woman has pre­vailed on him to maintain her mo­ther, that she may be kept from starving. To use Derby's term. Master Jacky is nearly done over, from a smack at high life, as he po­litely calls it: the inhuman brute lost thirty thousand pounds last week, and twenty this; most likely the [Page 164] next ensures him a compleat beg­gar; thus ends the ostentatious grandeur of low life refined. Hen­ry has written the memoirs of his charming little Stuart, for your pe­rusal; on looking it over, I see he has forgot to mention where Sir Thomas met with the supposed se­ducer of his wife's honour. He had been settled in the East twelve years, when a gentleman who had profes­sed a friendship for him, from the first of his arrival there, died, leav­ing his estate and title to Mr. Stuart, with the proviso that the name of Morell should take place of his own: a very short time after, hear­ing that the captain was in India, he sent him a challenge, the fatal consequence Henry's minutes in­form you of; therefore I need not dwell on the distressing subject. What tiresome creatures are the men after you have once given them cause to suppose they have the least right over you. The Marquis has [Page 165] sent up his compliments; hopes I am not indisposed; is rather fearful, as I have been so long alone. I wonder if the man means this as a hint to remind me I am likely to find a ruler in my lord; however next Thursday will witness two marriages; little Stuart would not suffer me to be her bridemaid when my own wedding was in agitation she said; so a cousin of hers is sub­stituted in my stead. I have not time to add more, therefore for the last time I sign myself,

To Madame Passerat.

YESTERDAY consigned the a­miable D'Arcy to the future pro­tection of her dear Osborn. His sis­ter, who next to our deserving friend prejudices every one in her favour, gave her hand at the same time to the Marquis of D—; he will make an addition to the party you may expect to see on my return. I retain in memory the promise I have so frequently made of not marrying any person till you had seen and approved my choice, otherwise I believe the two brides would have prevailed on me to lis­ten to Chattelherhault's solications of adding to the group of married folks; however, they have obliged me to promise I will comply with [Page 167] his wish, if you make no objection; so the days of my celibacy are en­tirely submitted to your determi­nation. I cannot lengthen this let­ter, having promised Sir Thomas, and the Chevalier, to take the air with them this morning; and I see the groom in the court-yard with the horses.