MY story is already prefaced; so I need but proceed, repeating as before, after Mrs. Walter.

For the first ten or twelve days that I passed at Paris, the novelty of the scene, with the grandeur and brilliancy of the objects that surrounded me, lifted me, as it were, out of myself, and helped me for that time almost to forget my misfortunes. The marchioness made me several very [Page 2] considerable presents, and ordered her trade's people to attend me, that I might chuse my own cloaths, only desiring they might be handsome enough to appear in along with her.

Madame de Fribourg received a vast deal of company, and kept very late hours; monsieur de Lovaine was seldom of her parties, and sometimes withdrew himself intirely from the house, for a fort­night together; she used to appear dissatis­fied at his absence, and frequently com­plained to me of the coldness and con­straint of his manners towards her.—He used sometimes, to visit me, in my apart­ment, seemed fond of my little Olivia, and often wished that he had such an­other child—He said the marchioness's mode of living, was by much too gay and [Page 3] dissipated for him, and that he languished for the pleasures of society in a more rational course of life.

Small as was my knowlege of the world, I could not help perceiving that there was something particular in mon­sieur de Lovaine's address, whenever he spoke to me; but this circumstance, how­ever, was not of a nature to give offence, as it amounted to nothing more than an additional softness, in his looks and voice.

The marchioness certainly perceived it as well as I, and would often fix her piercing eyes upon me, and ask me if Colonel Walter was as handsome as monsieur de Lovaine? I always replied, as I really thought, that the Colonel was by far the handsomest man I had ever [Page 4] seen—She used to appear pleased with what she called my simplicity—At other times her manners were severe towards me; and, though perfectly convinced of my own innocence, I began soon to fear that I was become the object of her jealousy.

This idea was productive of the most fatal consequences to my peace; it ren­dered my behaviour timid and con­strained, before her, and totally depriv­ed me of that ease and chearfulness which I had before endeavoured to as­sume, in hopes of rendering myself agree­able to my kind benefactress—This al­teration in me, which her own manners had occasioned, she construed into the effect of guilt, and became every day more cold and reserved towards me, [Page 5] scarce ever asked me to go out with her, and as often affected to be surprised, when she saw me come into her drawing-room.

Though my situation with the mar­chioness was by no means the ne plus ul­tra of my hopes and wishes, which con­tinually pressed forward to the meeting of Olivia's father, my still loved, cruel husband! yet certainly I had reason to consider it as an happy asylum for my child, and me; her bounty had rescued both of us from the iron hand of pover­ty, and placed us in the lap of plenty, of honour, and of ease! How then could I bear the being suspected of repaying such benefits with the basest sort of in­gratitude! It was impossible! I deter­mined, therefore, to come to an expla­nation [Page 6] with the marchioness, if possible; to convince her of my innocence, and do all in my power to recover her esteem; but if I failed of removing her suspicions, I firmly resolved to quit her directly, to throw myself and my infant once more into a merciless world, to la­bour for our bread, and suffer any mise­ry that poverty could afflict me with, ra­ther than that of embittering her life, to whom I owed the generous support of my own.

I had revolved this subject in my thoughts for several days, and impati­ently waited for an opportunity of exe­cuting my scheme, but the distance and hauteur of madame de Fribourg's man­ner, overawed me still. I found I could not muster up spirit sufficient to speak [Page 7] to her on such an interesting topic, and I resolved, therefore, to communicate my sentiments to her in writing.

One evening that she went to the Ita­lian comedy, I retired to my chamber, in order to execute my purpose; and, that I might not be interrupted, I desired the maid who attended Olivia, to take her down stairs and amuse her, till I should ring for her to come up, as I had some letters of consequence to write—She withdrew, I bolted my chamber door, sat down to the task I had assigned myself—I found it infinitely more diffi­cult than I had imagined; I wrote, and burned several sheets of paper, and blot­ted, others, with my tears.

In this situation, I heard a key turn, as it were behind the arras, and saw [Page 8] monsieur de Lovaine entering by a door which had been till then concealed from me. I started up, when he threw him­self, instantly, at my feet, said he had long waited in vain for the opportunity of finding me alone, for a moment, and hoped I would pardon his acquainting me, perhaps, a little too abruptly, with a secret on which more than his life, his happiness, depended—to be short, he then declared his love for me, with all the asseverations, protestations, and trans­ports, that the most violent passion could suggest.

No words can paint the surprise and confusion of my mind, which I thought it was impossible to augment, till I saw the marchioness come in at the door which monsieur de Lovaine had left open, [Page 9] and find him on his knees before me. Luckily for me, I was saved from distrac­tion, by the total suspension of all my faculties; and I sunk motionless in my chair.

Many hours passed, before my reason returned—My recollection of the events that had happened on the preceding night, was such as one feels on awaking from a painful dream; yet I flattered myself I should still be able to undeceive the marchioness, by the most solemn assu­rances of my innocence, and though I could never hope to regain her favour, justice methought ought to have restor­ed me to the place I had before obtained in her esteem—Alas! I knew not then that jealousy, like the adder, is at once sharpsighted, deaf, and venomous.

[Page 10]I rose as soon as it was day, and upon inquiring for the papers which I left up­on my table, was informed that the mar­chioness had taken them away—I waited impatiently for her rising, I was deter­mined to throw myself at her feet, the moment I should be permitted to see her, to acquaint her with every sentiment of my heart, and to set hers at ease, on my account, by withdrawing myself from her's, and monsieur de Lovaine's sight, for ever.

While I was ruminating on my un­happy situation, a servant brought me the following letter.

I sat down, on the instant, and wrote to the marchioness, and, in the strongest and most affecting terms, implored her to admit me to her presence, for a few mi­nutes—but in vain; she returned my let­ter unopened, with a message by her wo­man, [Page 14] that she would never read a line that I should write, or ever suffer me into her presence more.

I grew almost distracted at this treat­ment, and tried to force my way into her apartment, but was prevented from entering by her servants, and treated like what I really then was, a poor fran­tic wretch!

The consciousness of my integrity might possibly have supported my spirits, at any other time, but the terrors I felt, lest the marchioness should see my hus­band before I did, and poison his mind with her unjust suspicions, were not to be endured—My situation was as com­pletely miserable, as any thing, but guilt, could possibly have rendered it.

[Page 15]While I laboured under these agoniz­ing sensations, monsieur de Lovaine entered my apartment—The moment I beheld him, rage, for the first time of my life, became the predominant pas­sion of my soul. I accused him as the author of all my wretchedness, would not suffer him to speak, though he was prostrate at my feet, and commanded him to fly from my sight for ever—Un­willing to irritate me farther, he rose and retired; and had there been an instru­ment of death within my reach, I fear I might at that instant have put an end to a wretched being, which saw itself mark­ed out for destruction.

I was at last informed by the marchi­oness's orders, that a fiacre waited to car­ry me where I pleased.—Though I had [Page 16] been near ten months at Paris, I was as much a stranger in that great city, as on the day I first arrived there. I im­plored the servant who had attended Oli­via, not to forsake me, and to direct whither I should go, and what course I should take! She applied to her lady for leave to attend me, but she had not hu­manity sufficient to grant her request.—The girl had, however, resolution and compassion enough to disobey her com­mands, and accompanied me to a small house in the suburbs of St. Germains, that belonged to her sister.

As soon as she had brought me there, she returned again to the hotel de Fribourg, without my knowledge, to pack up my cloaths, and her own—When she came back, she gave me a [Page 17] pocket book, which she said I had left behind me; as soon as I saw it, I knew it was not mine, and desired she would find the owner, and restore it—She open­ed it, and a letter dropped out, addres­sed to me—the hand appeared to be the marchioness's, and it occurred to me that she might have so far relented, as to acquaint me with what she knew of Co­lonel Walter—I instantly broke the seal, and read as follows.

Enclosed in this letter there was a bank note, for two hundred louis d'ors, which I immediately sealed up with it, and sent Maria to deliver back into the hands of monsieur de Lovaine; but he had quitted the marchioness's house, an [Page 20] hour before that time, and no person could tell where he was gone to.

The violent agitation of spirits I had gone through brought on a feverish complaint, and though I had resolved to go, alas! I knew not where, in pur­suit of Colonel Walter, I found myself unable to sit up, and was obliged to sub­mit to my disorder—I grew worse every hour, and by the next morning I be­came delirious—The physician who at­tended me, thought it was impossible that I should recover, and at the end of six weeks, my being able to crawl across the chamber was deemed a prodigy.

The anxiety of my mind, doubtless retarded my recovery; my impatience to see Colonel Walter, or at least to hear [Page 21] something of him, increased every day; and Maria's sister was sent to inquire for him, at all the hotels, and houses of English resort, in Paris, but without ever receiving the least glimmering of light to trace him by.

As soon as my strength would permit, I was carried in a sedan to the Luxem­burg gardens; Maria attended, that I might lean on her, in case I should be able to walk.—I was moving slowly on, in one of the most retired walks, when I heard Colonel Walter's voice; I turn­ed quick to look for him, and saw him coming towards me, with another gen­tleman—But I saw no more, my senses forsook me; in spite of Maria's sus­taining arm, I fell motionless on the ground.

[Page 22]The first emotions of humanity natu­rally brought both these persons to my as­sistance, the colonel raised me in his arms, and carried me to the next seat; but the moment he beheld my face, he started from me, and cried out, Come away, my lord, and leave that abandoned wo­man to practise her arts on other men, for here they cannot be successful.

He then took hold of his companion, dragged him off, and quitted the gardens with the utmost precipitation—And though Maria had sense enough to know that this must have been the person we had so long been in search of, yet it was impossible for her to quit me, in the situa­tion I then was, in order to pursue and watch his haunts.

[Page 23]This last shock quite overcame my spirits; I was conveyed home in a state of insensibility, fell from one fainting fit into another, and for several weeks my existence was marked only by the hourly expectation of my dissolution—Yet was I at that time more anxious to live, than I had ever been before; I had seen my husband, and hoped there was a possibi­lity of seeing him again, of clearing my innocence, and at least of placing my be­loved child under the protection of her father! These were strong motives, and they operated accordingly—I recovered, to the amazement of every creature that knew me; and again vainly renewed my search after my unkind fugitive.

Maria used sometimes to visit a fa­vourite fellow-servant at the marchion­ness's, [Page 24] who told her it was universally believed in the family, that I had had an amour with Monsieur de Lovaine; that he had entirely absented himself from his lady; and that she seemed inclined to console herself for his loss, by a particu­lar intimacy with an English gentleman, who made one in all her parties, and was going with her in a few days, to the waters of Barege—The description she gave of his person exactly resembled Co­nel Walter, and I was perfectly convin­ced that this new friend of the marchi­oness's was my still beloved, deceived, and unkind husband!

I had no person to consult, who was capable of advising me how I should act upon this occasion; and amidst a variety of wild and romantic schemes, I at last [Page 25] pitched on that of writing to him, and requesting the favour of an interview, in the character of a stranger. I had no doubt that if he accepted my invitation, nature would recover her rights in his heart; and that the sight of a woman whom he had once fondly loved, and cruelly deserted, with the additional influence of his lovely child, would melt his obdurate nature, or at least soften it so far as to allow me to assert my innocence, and endeavour to awaken the feelings of parental affection, if every other species of tenderness were even totally extinguished.

Full of these fond ideas, I wrote to him in an ambiguous stile, disguised my hand as much as possible, and would not even venture to direct my letter, lest the recollection of my writing, which is ra­ther [Page 26] particular, should prevent his open­ing it.—Maria prevailed on her friend, who lived at the marchioness's, to deliver this billet to his servant, and to desire that the answer might be left with her.

Every thing answered to my expec­tations, and, the morning follow­ing, I received a very galant note, as­suring me that the person I had honoured with my invitation, would most gladly accept of the favour I intended him, and have the happiness of waiting on me, at eight o'clock that evening.

My poor foolish heart exulted with joy, at the success of my little stratagem. I dressed and undressed Olivia, an hun­dred times, in order to try if I could add any ornament to her natural beauty, and [Page 27] render her more lovely in her father's eyes—as to myself I disdained the aid of dress, well knowing that my wan com­plexion, and my wasted form, could only furnish him with such a reproachful idea as my ghost might have done, of what I was when he forsook me.

I counted the minutes quicker than they passed, and thought them ages, till the appointed hour arrived—but, gracious Heaven! how shall I express the astonishment I felt, when I saw an utter stranger enter the room, with a mixture of libertinism and freedom, in his looks and manners; I let go Olivia's hand, which I had held in mine, gave a loud shriek, and fainted.

Maria ran to my assistance, the stran­ger gazed intently on me, and said to her, [Page 28] with a kind of sneer, it was a pity that her lady was subject to such violent dis­orders, but hoped she would recover her health before she made another assig­nation with him; for he had seen her faint twice, and he did not think fits were the least addition to female beauty—How­ever, as he believed she might be in dis­tress, he would make her a present of five guineas, for the sake of an old friend of her's, honest Jack Walter—and that when he came back from Barege, he would call upon her again, in hopes of finding her in a more sociable state than she appeared to be, at present.

Maria instantly recollected that this gentleman was with the Colonel, the day we met him in the Luxemburg gardens, and endeavoured to convince him, that [Page 29] he was not the person I expected to see: he said that was impossible, for he had my note in his pocket, and had shewn it to Colonel Walter, who knew my writ­ing perfectly well, though I had at­tempted to disguise it.—She tried every argument to make him take back his money, but in vain; and as he found that I did not immediately come to my­self, he quitted the house, with strong expressions of dissatisfaction at his disap­pointment.

This last stroke was infinitely more severe than all that I had yet endured; I now saw the impossibility of ever clear­ing my conduct to my husband, and de­voted as I was, by him, to infamy, the peaceful asylum of the sheltering grave was now become my only hope, or wish; [Page 30] even a mother's tenderness could not re­concile me to such unmerited and end­less sufferings; that virtuous fondness which had sustained me through all my former trials, was now absorbed in mean self-love, and I could not refrain from praying for an end of my misery, though certain that my Olivia's misfortunes must commence from the conclusion of mine.

I languished on, for many months, in this state of passive despair, when the fight of the good father Guillaume, whom I had never heard from since I left Mar­seilles, and of course concluded to be dead, brought back a gleam of joy.

He told me that after his return to Marseilles, he had a long and severe ill­ness, and on his recovery had been obliged [Page 31] to go to Rome, on business; that he had written to me, several times, and was grieved to find that his letters had mis­carried.—He informed me, that Nan­nette had died, in about six weeks after I left her; that she was extremely pe­nitent for the injuries she had done me; and retracted every thing she had said to my prejudice—I dropped tears at her untimely fate—while my own misery taught me to envy that lot, which my humanity lamented.

The marchioness had written to fa­ther Guillaume, and accused me of the basest ingratitude to her, and the most infamous conduct with regard to myself; and the good man had come on purpose, to Paris, to be, as he said, convinced of my innocence, or to relinquish his opinion [Page 32] of female virtue. The situation he found me in, afforded him sufficient conviction of my integrity; and when I related the circumstances in which I had been in­volved, the gracious drops of pity that he shed for my distress, were like a heal­ing balm to my poor wounded heart.

He would have gone directly to the marchioness, and tried to undeceive her, but she had been at Barege, for some time, and no one knew whether she would go from thence to Paris, or Mar­seilles.—He undertook to find out Co­lonel Walter for me, if he remained in Paris; and cheared my spirits with the hope that he would at least vindicate my injured character, and leave him no ex­cuse for the inhumanity of his beha­viour.

[Page 33]After a fruitless search of several weeks, he learned that Colonel Walter was then at Genoa—He wrote to him, in the most forcible terms, in my favour; but to this, and many other letters, he never deigned an answer, though we were satisfied that he had received them from the hand of a person that Father Guillaume could de­pend on; who afterwards informed us of the Colonel's setting out for England, and of his design of returning to settle in his native country.

As to myself, I had now no hope left of ever recovering his esteem, or my re­putation—To my great joy I perceived I was going fast into a consumption; but though I longed for my release, it was impossible to quit my little charge ex­posed to all the miseries of unfriended [Page 34] youth, without suffering the severest agonies; and after many consultations, upon the subject, I at last acquiesced in Father Guillaume's opinion, that it was my duty not to leave her totally an or­phan, but to place her and myself under the protection of her father, before I should be taken from her.

Upon this principle I set out for Ireland, as soon as I had received information, through Father Guillaume's means, of my husband's being there. I arrived about four months ago: my reception sur­passed even my apprehensions! inhumani­ty and insult were added to unkindness, and my not being turned out to perish in the highway, was accounted a favour far beyond my desert.—What account the Colonel gave of me to his servants, I [Page 35] can only suppose; but he told me that if ever I attempted to converse with one of them, I should not remain another mo­ment in his house; he commanded me never again to appear in his sight, and confined me to a wretched garret, where I am supplied with such food as his servants think proper to afford me.

Unworthy as I am, I have often re­pined at the continuance of my existence; but I now bless the chastening hand that has enabled me to support my miseries to this auspicious hour; when I can no longer doubt that my child shall find pro­tection from your humanity, and no more be involved in the unhappy fate that has so long attended her truly wretched mother!

[Page 36]The agonies which Mrs. Walter sus­tained, during the recital of her affecting story, made me fear that her death would bring it to a period, before she had fi­nished the relation—But my appearing, as I really was, sincerely interested in her misfortunes, seemed to furnish her with such a recruit of strength and spirits, as enabled her to undergo the reflection and recital of her unmerited sorrows.

The morning was pretty far advanced, by the time Mrs. Walter had concluded her narrative; I gave her the strongest assurances of my doing every thing in my power, both for herself, and her child—I pressed her to take share of my bed, for a few hours, which she refused, though she seemed so faint and exhausted, as to be scarce able to get up stairs. She said, [Page 37] if Olivia should awaken and miss her, she would be alarmed, and might disturb the family. She added that one of her greatest anxieties, for some time past, had been for what her child should feel, if she should happen to expire in the night, and that the little helpless innocent should find her cold and insensible to her soft touch and voice!

As soon as she left me, I went to bed, but found it impossible to rest—I knew not in what manner to act; Sir Wil­liam would probably be displeased at my interfering in Colonel Walter's affairs, yet was I determined, at all events, to fulfil my promise to this amiable unfor­tunate, and protect her and her child, as far as it might be in my power!

[Page 38]With this resolution I shall now take leave of my dearest Fanny, as I am ex­tremely fatigued with writing; yet would not trespass so far on your patience, as to break off again, till I had concluded Mrs Walter's story.—But, interested as I am for her, be assured that I am much more so for my beloved Fanny, and Sir George.

Where is he now, my sister? has Mrs. Colville's mystery been explained? is his heart more at ease after it? and has your's yet recovered that tranquility, which should be the portion of the good and amiable? Alas! why is it not unalienably so? Yet Mrs Walter wastes her days in sorrow, my Fanny mourns her ill-requited love, Sir George hangs pensive o'er his Delia's tomb, and my sad heart, too much in unison with mournful tones, [Page 39] responsive echoes back the sighs of all, and mingles plaintive notes for its own woes!

A Thousand thanks to my dear Louisa, for the pleasing painful entertain­ment which she has taken the trouble of affording me—which is at present more particularly suited to my situation, than any other that could possibly be devised.

In quest of happiness we should for ever cast our eyes downward, and the [Page 40] tears that flow from them, in contem­plating the miseries of those who are more wretched than ourselves, will at elast stifle the voice of self-love, and silence the complaints that arise from lesser sor­rows—sometimes imaginary ones.

When I compare my sufferings with those of the unfortunate Olivia, I am shocked at my own ingratitude and im­piety, for having ever dared to say I was unhappy! The greatest misery I have en­dured, falls infinitely short of the least of hers.—

Like her, I have been forsaken by the man I love; but then I have not, like her, been exposed to want and ignominy. Sheltered in the fostering arms of tender and affectionate friends, who sympathize [Page 41] even with my weakness in lamenting an inconstant lover, blessed with reputation, health, and fortune—these circumstances render the comparison so very unfair, that it must be disadvantageous to make it. No, she is alone the paragon of unearned sufferings; and I hope there is not any one person living who has a right to dispute the ‘"painful preeminence"’ with her.—

But where is she, now, Louisa? It is not possible that you can have left her in that Pandaemonium, which the great fiend inhabits! I cannot speak of Colonel Walter in milder terms. I am provoked that the infernal should have any shadow of pretence, for his barbarity to his angelic wife.—When the world once gets hold of a tale of scandal, is it not easy [Page 42] to wrest it from them.—That wicked marchioness—but there will be no end to my letter, if I go on entering into par­ticulars.

All I can say upon the whole, is this, that I fear your bringing her to South­field may engage Sir William in a strife, either with the Colonel, or yourself: no one can tell which part; he will take, I should rather apprehend his siding with the monster, and quarrelling with you for intermeddling.

To avoid all this apprehension, if Mrs. Walter be able to bear the journey, on the easiest terms it can be made to her, request you to send her and her child over to me, as quick as possible. I will receive her with open arms, and do [Page 43] every thing in my power to procure her health, and peace: I have no person to whom I am accountable for my conduct, and therefore stand clearer from diffi­culty in this affair than you do.

I hope these reasons will incline both Mrs. Walter and you to comply with my entreaty, and that I shall soon have the happiness of embracing the two lovely Olivias.—She may depend on my secrecy: I can prepare this family, in half an hour, for the reception of a lady and her daughter from France, whom I have invited to spend some time with me; I will carry her to Bristol, or any other place that may aid her recovery—She must not die Louisa; and, for Heaven's sake, let me have the happi­ness of being concerned in her preserva­tion.

[Page 44]I fear self his predominated too much in this wish, for indeed I look forward with an uncommon degree of impati­ence, to the pleasure of having it in my power to serve such an amiable creature—Do, my Louisa, then, indulge me with the true enjoyment of the fortune I am possessed of—Let me know the transport of succouring merit in distress, and I shall henceforward look upon riches as a real blessing!

I have this moment received a letter from our dear brother, that has amazed me.—What think you is the pretended request of the dying Delia? Why no­thing more, than that Sir George should marry her mother! I have long suspected her passion for my brother; I knew her to be an artful, that is, in other words, [Page 45] a vile woman! I cannot help the evil thoughts which obtrude themselves on my mind, with regard to my dear De­lia's death—If Mrs. Colville be innocent, Heaven forgive me!—But I have not charity enough to pray for her, if she should be guilty.

Sir George does not express half the horror that I feel at this shocking pro­posal! the gratification which our va­nity receives in knowing we are beloved, even by the most worthless person, can, I perceive, soften our contempt into compassion, and deceive us so far as to make us think such pity the offspring of our virtue—However, do not be alarmed; for though he speaks somewhat too ten­derly of her pretended sorrow, I am cer­tain no power on earth could ever make [Page 46] him think of such an unnatural al­liance.

I have little to say of myself; nothing of moment has happened to me since I wrote last; and I endeavour to think as little as possible, of what happened be­fore.—Adieu, my dear Louisa! I hope there is a letter of yours now travelling towards me, for I am most extremely impatient to know what you have done, or intend to do, with Mrs. Walter. I beg you to assure her of my affectionate regard, and to believe me ever

THIS letter, my Fanny, shall go on in the narrative stile, at least so far as it relates to Mrs. Walter; for as her adventures are intirely detached from any thing relative to us, I will not min­gle them with mine.

I lay till it was very late, on the morning that the fair unfortunate had re­lated her story, yet I had neither slept, nor fixed upon any scheme for deliver­ing her from her hated prison, except that of bringing her and her child to Southfield, which I foresaw must be at­tended with very hazardous consequen­ces; [Page 48] I therefore summoned a little coun­cil, the moment I arose, and after com­municating the most distressful circum­stances of her situation to Lucy, Har­riet, and my faithful Benson, I desired them to give me their advice how to act, on this critical occasion; having first informed them, that I was determined not to desert the cause I had undertaken, by leaving this amiable woman to perish at Waltersburgh.

Various, as you may suppose, were the plans offered and rejected—It was at last agreed, that we should return home as soon as possible; and that Mrs. Wal­ter should remain where she was, for three or four days after our departure; that, in that time, Benson should be em­ployed in fitting up a chamber for her [Page 49] reception in the house of one of our tenants, whom I formerly mention­ed to you, as having his house burned, and who had now got a very comfort­able, though small, habitation, within a short walk of Southfield; that as soon as every thing was prepared, Benson should come for her in my chaise, to a particu­lar spot, at a time appointed, and con­vey her and the little Olivia to this house, where she was to remain in pro­found secrecy, till we saw what effect this innocent elopement might produce, till every thing in our power should have been done for the recovery of her health, and till we could fix upon some more eli­gible plan for her future happiness.

As the Colonel's servants gave them­selves not the least trouble about the fair [Page 50] recluse, we found it very easy to convey proper food to her, unobserved; and as I thought it right that she should have time to consider of our scheme, I wrote to her directly, and desired to have the pleasure of another interview with her, in my apartment, that night.—I gave her to understand, in the politest man­ner I could, my reasons for declining to bring her directly to Southfield, at least till I had consulted my husband; and as­sured her in the strongest terms, that while I lived, neither she, or her child, should ever be reduced to the misery of seeking support or protection from the inhuman Colonel Walter. I added every thing that I thought could soothe her mind, and implored her to take care of her health, for the sake of her lovely in­fant.

[Page 51]She replied almost instantly to my let­ter, poured forth the warmest acknow­ledgments for my goodness, again call­ed me her guardian angel, and said she was ready to be guided by me in every thing; and that, as the strongest mark of her gratitude, she would at my com­mand endeavour to live, were it only to bless and thank me!

The impatience of Lucy and Harriet to see Mrs. Walter was extreme; they looked at their watches an hundred times, and would fain have persuaded themselves they did not, go from the mo­ment it grew dusk till our hour of retir­ing; though it was yet a moot point, whether they were to see her or no, as I meant first to ask her permission, cer­tainly, before I should present them to her.

[Page 52]When she entered my apartment, her countenance seemed at once more animat­ed and composed than it had been the preceding night—the effusions of her gratitude were such as must flow from a heart like hers, and were more fully expressed by the silent eloquence of tears, than by the pomp of words—She rea­dily and most gracefully complied with the request I made her, of giving me leave to introduce Lucy and Harriet to her; who, notwithstanding the descrip­tion I had given them of the delicacy and elegance of her form, were both amazed when they beheld her, and could hardly consider her as of flesh and blood, but rather a form of unsubstantial air, or else composed of that fine ether with which we suppose angels indue themselves, when they deign to become visible on earth.

[Page 53]As both Mrs. Walter and I wanted rest, we parted sooner than we had done the foregoing night, after having first settled every thing for the execution of our project, and fixed on the day follow­ing for my quitting Waltersburg. Ben­son packed up a part of hers and Olivia's cloaths with mine, and we contrived to leave her every little necessary that could be conducive to her comfort or conveni­ence, while she remained behind us.

I have now the pleasure to tell you that every thing succeeded to our wishes, and that she and her sweet girl are safely and privately lodged at ho­nest farmer Wilson's, for the present. I write to her every day by Benson, but have not yet ventured to see her, as I am not able to walk, and the eclat of my [Page 54] carriage stopping at a farm-house, might occasion suspicion.

Benson assures me that she already per­ceives a change for the better in her ap­pearance; and I begin to hope she may recover both her health and peace of mind. The little Olivia is quite wild with spirits, and is trying to learn Eng­lish from Lucy, who visits Mrs. Wal­ter every day, and the first words she de­sired to be taught, were meant to ex­press her thanks to me for my kindness to her mamma.

Though I reflect with sincere pleasure on having been able to rescue this ami­able woman from a scene of the severest distress, yet I cannot help feeling an anxiety for her future fate, which gives [Page 55] me extreme pain—She cannot long re­main where she is, undiscovered, and no one can tell what step that barbarian, her husband, may take to distress her yet far­ther—My apprehensions are, that he will force Olivia from her; and the loss of her child would, I am certain, occasion the loss of her life.

But supposing that he should never discover her retreat, or even inquire about her, I see no asylum, except a con­vent, where her youth and beauty will not subject her to a thousand misfor­tunes.—You are sufficiently acquainted [...]ith my sentiments on the subject of mo­nasteries, to know how very unwilling I should be to recommend a state of se­clusion to any creature I either love or esteem; yet, in her unhappy situation, [Page 56] I see no other resource—However, I shall not advise precipitately.

Not but that I should approve ex­tremely of an establishment of this kind, in our own country, under our own re­ligion and laws; both equally free from tyranny—An asylum for unhappy wo­men to retreat to—not from the world, but from the misfortunes, or the slander of it—for female orphans, young wi­dows, or still more unhappy objects, for­saken, or ill treated wives, to betake themselves to, in such distresses. For in all these circumstances, women who live alone, have need of something more than either prudence or a fair character, to guard them from rudeness or censure.

Now some sort of foundation, under the government of a respectable matron­age, [Page 57] endowed for such a purpose, would certainly be an institution most devout­ly to be wished for, as a relief in the dif­ficulties of those situations I have just mentioned. Here women might enjoy all the pleasures and advantages of living still in the world, have their conduct re­ciprocally vouched by one another, and be screened from those artful and insidi­ous essays, which young or pretty wo­men, when once become helpless adjec­tives of society, are generally liable to.

I have had a letter from Sir William, and for once he seems pleased with my determination of staying in the country. This has made me very happy—tho' had he commanded my attendance in Dub­lin, I would have obeyed; for I will at least endeavour to deserve the character [Page 58] which the offended Moor gives of the gentle Desdemona— ‘"As you say, obe­dient,—very obedient!"’—and, as I have already told my Fanny, that is all that I can at present promise.

I think it is a little century since I have heard from you; I suppose you did not chuse to interrupt me in my narrative, but I expect, and I think reasonably, that you should now hold forth, in your turn, and allow me credit for the enter­tainment which I am certain you must have received, from Mrs. Walter's story. I have this moment got a card from Miss Ashford, to congratulate me, on my re­covery, and to let me know that Lord Lucan and she will wait on me, this afternoon.

[Page 59]Is it not odd, Fanny, that I should not have heard of his being at Sir Arthur Ashford's, till now? Perhaps he went there directly from Waltersburgh; if so, he must certainly be attached to Miss Ashford. But of what consequence are his engagements to me!

I shall not know how to behave to him, uncertain as I am with regard to that unaccountable adventure, at Co­lonel Walter's.—If he is innocent of that insult, he will be astonished at the cold­ness and distance of my manners towards him; if guilty, surely his own confusion will betray him, and he shall never see my face again.

But why should he bring Miss Ash­ford with him, to Southfield? Does not [Page 60] this look as if he feared an explanation? Guilty, guilty, upon honour!

I Have such a variety of subjects to treat of, that I know not which to be­gin with; but I think I ought to pay my dear Fanny the compliment of attending first to her long wished-for and truly welcome letter.

I had not a doubt but that your huma­nity would be both affected and interested for the unhappy Mrs. Walter. The good­ness both of your head and heart is eminently conspicious in the proper use [Page 61] you have made of her misfortunes. To lighten and invalidate our own sufferings, by comparing them with those of others, is truly philosophic: but that firmness of mind, or rather toughness of heart, which enables us to bear our own miseries with patience and composure, is, in general, but too apt to render us callous to those tender feelings, which should be excited by the woes of others.—Let me then con­gratulate myself on having a sister whose Stoicism is confined only to herself, while her tenderness and compassion are ex­tended to the numerous, the unbounded circle of the unhappy!

Yes, my Fanny, your request shall be complied with; Mrs. Walter is al­ready made happy in the hope of being known to such a generous mind as yours. [Page 62] She has confessed to me, that, in her pre­sent situation, she had suffered a thousand apprehensions, lest my kindness to her might involve me in difficulties with Sir William; but that she could think of no expedient to prevent this evil, but flying to a convent, which she feared to pro­pose, as her going there must be attended with what she thought too considerable an expence.

I should have strongly objected to this scheme, from her ill state of health, though she is, however, amazingly recovered, since her enlargement from that worse than prison, where her poor mind was fettered, though her limbs were free—And I have great hopes, from the calm state in which she now appears, of her recovery.—She has really an extraordi­nary [Page 63] understanding, allowing for her youth and inexperience; and from that, I trust, that she will be able to conquer the tenderness she formerly felt for the most worthless of his sex.

She is to set out this night for Corke, where she is consigned to the care of an eminent merchant, a particular friend of Lucy Leister's, who will ensure her a passage in one of the best ships that sails from thence to Bristol.—On her ar­rival there, she is to be put into the care of Benson's niece, who is married to a stationer, and is commanded by her aunt to attend her up to London, and lodge her safe under your kind protection. One of farmer Wilson's daughters goes with her, to attend the little Olivia—The girl has lived in some creditable families, [Page 64] and is tolerably clever—Both Mrs. Wal­ter and her lovely child have made an astonishing progress in learning English; they have capacities for every thing.

When the moment arrives of bidding her adieu, which it shortly must, I shall be sensible of a more mixed sensation than I have ever felt before; I know that I ought to rejoice at our separation, for her sake; but I cannot help being selfish enough to regret it, for my own.

Amazement falls infinitely short of what I felt, when I read the paragraph in your letter relative to Mrs. Colville! I am shocked as well as you at the train of ideas which obtruded themselves upon me, in consequence of her unnatural pro­posal— ‘"Alarmed about my brother!"’ [Page 65] No, Heaven forbid that I should ever think of him in such a light! He ever disliked, and he must now detest her—But Sir George is of a mild and gentle nature, not apt to give the reins to his resentments; his natural and acquired good breeding must prevent his speak­ing hardly of a woman who even pretends to love him; and the involuntary respect with which he is inspired for Delia's mo­ther, must increase his restraint, and si­lence every sarcastical reflection.

Now for myself—I know not what to think about Lord Lucan; never was confusion equal to mine, at seeing him—this rendered me incapable of observing him; but Lucy, who was present at our interview, assured me there was nothing particular in his appearance, except the [Page 66] paleness of his countenance, and his sur­prise at my manner, which I am sure must have been perfectly distrait.

Why did he bring Miss Ashford here? She doubtless remarked the alteration in my behaviour; and I am perhaps, at this moment, the object of their ridicule.—I never saw her look so handsome as she did that evening—I suppose they will soon be married: I wish it was over, and that they were both gone to his seat in the North.

I have been extremely uneasy, these three days, about my little Harriet—she looks ill, and neither eats, or sleeps, yet will not allow that she is sick. I should certainly apprehend her being in love, if she had seen any object lately, that could have inspired her with that passion.

[Page 67]No, my dear Fanny! my adventure at Waltersburgh was not a dream; yet I sometimes think with you, that Lord Lucan could never have been guilty of such an indecorum; tho' I do not now agree with you, that he is at all affected with any particular sentiment towards me. And I sincerely rejoice in dissenting from your opinion, on this subject.

By sending Mrs. Walter to you, I have barred my own hopes of seeing you in Ireland; and I, alas! have none of meet­ing you, in England—I cannot let this effort of generosity pass, without marking it, for perhaps it is the highest exertion of that virtue which I may ever have an opportunity of displaying.

I go now to bid adieu to your future charge—She will have the happiness of [Page 68] seeing my Fanny, almost as soon as this can reach her hands.—An involuntary sigh has just escaped me! Down, selfish thoughts!

I Have received your letter, my Lou­isa, and I have also received your fair, your lovely friend! Mrs. Walter arrived in Dover-street last night—Prepared as I was, by your description, the extreme delicacy of her form surpassed my im­agination—I can scarcely persuade my­self that she is compounded of the same materials of which common mortals are made; at least I am certain that there [Page 69] must be as much difference, as there is between the clay of which the finest por­celain is formed, and that which makes the coarsest earthen-ware.

I am sorry to say the simile is strength­ened by an appearance of extreme fragi­lity and weakness, which alarms one's tenderness into a kind of apprehension for her safety, every moment; and is, in my mind infinitely more interesting, than the most healthful glow of beauty in its highest bloom—I am sure if I were a man, I should be in love with her, and of course miserable, for I could not help considering her but as a mere beauteous shadow, which arough blast too quickly might dissolve—But though not a lover, I am determined to cherish this fair idea, and for that purpose I shall take lodg­ings [Page 70] at Kensington Gravel-pits, tomorrow, for three weeks, or a month; as I do not think the season far enough advan­ced, to carry her to the Hot-wells, or venture her even so far as Cleveland-hall.

There is, as you have already observ­ed, something uncommonly engaging in her manner of speaking; but her senti­ments need no addition—I never heard such warm, yet elegant expressions of gratitude, as she used in speaking of you; her tears flowed fast while she uttered them. The little Olivia took her hand, and said, ‘"Mamma, Lady Barton is so good, that I know it would grieve her to think she made you weep; for I am sure she meant to dry your tears."’

But Mrs. Walter is at this moment writing to you, I will therefore leave her [Page 71] to express her own sentiments, which she will do much better than I can, because she feels more.

I am charmed with your scheme of an English protestant monastery, though I am much afraid that both you wrote, and I read, that passage in your letter, with too selfish feelings and reflections. The general idea of convents I am as much averse to as you are; and I am sure that none of those abroad, would be a proper retreat for our fair client—The strictness of their institutions, and the harshness of their discipline, would soon dispatch her to the region of saints. Be­sides, such a place would be as unfit for one in her state of mind, as well as of bo­dy—Need the already unhappy afflict themselves still further, with austerities?

[Page 72]There is a paragraph in your letter, which gives me infinite concern: my dear Louisa must no longer boast a heart quite free from love—She is, I am afraid, a stricken deer; but I will hope that the wound is not mortal, and that it may yet be healed, though not with­out a cicatrice.—Why!—Ask yourself, my sister, why all these apprehensions about Miss Ashford? Why is she to be married to Lord Lucan, merely because she came with him to visit you? And why should you suspect an amiable young woman of such mean malice, as, without provocation, to attempt to render you ridiculous?—These are not the genu­ine feelings of my Louisa's heart! the stings of jealousy have instilled its ve­nom, and this passion has but two sources, pride and love.

[Page 73]I most sincerely wish that Lord Lu­can and Miss Ashford were married, and that they were gone to his lordship's seat in the North, or to any other point of the compass that may be most re­mote from the neighbourhood of South­field.

I cannot help trembling for your hap­piness, Louisa—I well know that I have nothing else to fear for; but is not that sufficient! I have, with pain, long beheld your growing partiality for his lordship; yet I hoped, against the conviction of my own heart, which still overflows with tenderness for an unworthy object, that you would be able to conquer it—But let me here observe, Louisa, that our situations are so widely different, that the weakness which may in mine, not [Page 74] only be pardoned, but pitied, becomes criminal in yours.

This you may possibly say, is hard measure; but as we were none of us in a condition to make terms for ourselves, before we came into the world, we must submit to those that this same world has imposed on us since; and believe me, that they who struggle least against those chains which custom has forged for our sex are least likely to feel their weight.—The world is jealous of its rites; it haughtily resents, and harshly chastizes, the smallest breach of them; nor did I ever know a man or woman, who boast­ed that they despised its laws, and trust­ed to their own integrity, who were not soon severely punished by its contempt or censure.

[Page 75]So much by way of censor; now let the friend and sister plead for the preser­vation of your peace, which cannot be maintained with loss of fame, though conscious innocence might plead your justification ever so strongly—Should your character happen to be impeach­ed, from any misconduct of yours, remember that your husband has a right to resent your having forfeited the high­est trust which manly confidence can commit to female delicacy, the preser­vation both of his honour and her own! and that from that moment you must appear in the light of a criminal, towards him at least, tho' you stand ever so clear, with regard to yourself. How truly hu­miliating must such a situation be, to a mind like yours!

[Page 76]I have drawn this sad prospect in the strongest colours, in hopes that my Loui­sa will start from the brink of the pre­cipice where she now stands, and in­stantly retreat into the gentle path of do­mestic happiness.—I am truly grieved that the roughness of Sir William's man­ners may render this walk less smooth and pleasing than it should be; yet sure­ly it is easier to tread on pebbles than on thorns! And with the latter we shall cer­tainly find those ways strewed, that lead from the road which Providence has marked out for us.

I should detest myself if I were able to add another line on this subject, yet I hope that my tears have not so much blotted what I have already written, as to prevent your reading it.

[Page 77]Mrs. Walter is determined to write to her husband, and I think her right in it, for some of the reasons given above; though Heaven knows she owes him no compliment, nor scarcely duty—She shall not, however, if I can prevent her, write for some days, as it must hurry her poor weak spirits, which want much to be recruited.

I have not heard from my brother, for some time. Adieu,

IF I were not perfectly convinced of the fallacy of judicial astrology, I should fancy you were a conjurer, Lu­can; and that you had calculated Mar­garita's nativity—How else could you, at such a distance, discover that she was compounded of art; while I, who saw her every day, and all the day, was so thoroughly hoodwinked by her beau­ty, as to imagine her mind as faultless as her form! What a numscull! what a coxcomb have I been? She had cunning enough to persuade, and I folly enough to believe, that she loved me to distrac­tion—For the rest of my life I shall con­sider [Page 79] myself as an idiot; though yon are to take notice, that I will not be called so, even by you—But the worst of it is that I am a ruined fool too.—Don't laugh, Lucan; I shall be ready to cut your throat if you do; but I know you will not, when I tell you that I am severe­ly hurt.

In my last I acquainted you, that I had lost a large sum at play, and was wait­ing at Venice for remittances, which ar­rived in a few days—Margarita had a mind, as she said, that we should quit Venice with a coup d'eclat, and prevailed on me to hire jewels, to the amount of two thousand pounds, to ornament her­self on the last night of our appearance at the carnival. I readily complied with her request, though I had before laid [Page 80] out very near that sum in the same sort of trumpery for her.

She looked like an angel when she was dressed, that I must acknowledge; and I never once thought of searching for the cloven foot, beneath such a dazzling brightness.

We went together to the masque­rade, and with us a man she called her brother, whom I have since discovered to be her galant, and a notorious sharper. I soon engaged at play—fortune favoured me, for a time; but before the conclusion of the night, she was at her old tricks again, and I lost five-hundred guineas.

The agitation, naturally attendant on the vicissitudes of play, had taken off [Page 81] my attention, even from Margarita, so that I felt no anxiety at not having seen her for several hours. It was very late when I went home; and judge of my amazement when I was told she had not returned, from the time we set out to­gether—I flew back again into the street, and ran, like a distracted man, into every house that was open; but the company were retired from every place, and I could find no trace of her.

I will not pretend to give you an idea of my situation, for I can now hardly recollect the state of my mind at that time, much less describe it.—About nine o'clock in the morning, a Mendicant friar brought a letter to my door, in which were contained these words.

The reading of this letter intirely conquered every passion of my mind, but rage; and I think I could at that moment, have stranged the insolent gypsy who wrote it—But I was not suffered to brood over it long; for the Jew, from whom I had hired the jewels, came to demand them.—I knew not what to do; I had settled with my banker the day before, and as I intended leaving Venice, I had withdrawn my letter of credit, and had [Page 84] not half so much cash as would answer the Israelite's demand.—Lord Stormont happened luckily to come in, to pay me a visit; I frankly told him my distress, and he kindly lent me a draft on his ban­ker, which satisfied old Shylock.

I wrote on the instant to my agent, to cut down a wood that was planted, for ought I know, by my great-grand­father; and thus my good tall oaks, that have been at least fourscore years grow­ing, have vanished into the hands of Jews, and jades, for one night's no diversion at the carnival.

Indeed, Lucan, I begin to think that we English are very silly fellows. But why should I lump my countrymen, when I am really convinced that there is not [Page 85] such another noodle in the world, as myself?

How go on your love affairs? They can't be in such a desperate state as mine.—Our countrywomen have not spirit enough to strike such a stroke as my Diàvolessa has done, and I now begin to think that a man had better be con­tented with the wholsome home-brewed beer of old England, than pay too dear for Tokay.

Now I talk of England, I should like very well to return there, if I were not ashamed to see Fanny Cleveland, and afraid of being laughed at by my old friends at Almac's, and Boodle's, and in short every where.—Do, my dear Lucan, tell me what I shall do with myself? [Page 86] for I am at present the most desolate, as well as desultory of mortals.—But in all states I shall continue affectionately yours,

AS you have made it a point, I will not laugh at what you seem to con­sider as a misfortune, but you must per­mit me to say, that I have not received so much pleasure, for a long time, as from your account of Margarita's elope­ment.—Believe me, my friend, you have got cheaply off, even with the loss of some thousands—Character is of infinite­ly more value than fortune—But I am [Page 87] persuaded that both yours would have been totally ruined, had you continued much longer connected with that most in­famous and artful woman.

There is nothing so very particular in your adventure, as to make you ap­prehend yourself peculiarly ridiculous; for I will take upon me to say, that there is not one in ten of our countrymen, that has made the same tour which you have done, who has not been duped by some ‘"Jay of Italy."’—Don't publish the story yourself, and others will be cau­tious how they mention it to you.—I will also venture to promise that Miss Cleveland has too much delicacy herself, to wound yours, though I have not the honour of knowing her.

[Page 88]If you have no other objections but those I have alluded to, and which I have sufficiently obviated, I would, by all means, wish you to return immedi­ately to England.—But pr'ythee why, my dear Hume, have you made a com­parison so extremely injurious to our fair countrywomen? whose beauty, is at least the boast of Europe; nor do I believe that either Georgia, or the Grecian isles, can produce any thing that surpasses them, in loveliness or elegance of form: your home-brewed beer was a simile for a porter, or at best for a mere hunt­ing 'squire.

I am firmly persuaded, from this in­stance, that you have conversed more with Englishmen than foreigners, since you have been on the continent—This is [Page 89] one of the unpardonable absurdities com­mon to our nation.—We go, or are sent abroad, by our friends—I had almost said our enemies—at great expence; and then, instead of informing ourselves of the manners and police of the places we are in, our first pursuit is to find out our countrymen, and herd with them con­tinually, merely because they are so; by which conduct we contrive still to re­tain those prejudices we should have left at home, and cultivate only the follies and vices we meet with abroad.

But a truce with reflections of every kind: and in answer to your query, with regard to the situation of my heart, I can with truth assure you, that it is infi­nitely more wretched than your own.—I never had the least reason to flatter my­self [Page 90] with the most distant idea of being beloved by the object of my passion, yet had my vanity inspired me with the fond hope of having obtained some small share in her friendship and esteem—How I have forfeited this blessing I know not; but it now is fled, my friend, and with it all my happiness.

I have been, for some time past, at the seat of Sir Arthur Ashford; you must remember him at college; he has a sister, who is both handsome and agreeable; and had I a disengaged heart, I know no woman to whom I would sooner offer my hand—But never shall I be guilty of such, baseness, as to defraud an innocent and amiable woman of her affections, while, like a wretched bankrupt, I have not an equivalent to make.

[Page 91]The circumstance of Miss Ashford's living with her brother, will prevent my spending as much of my time with him as I could wish.—The world will be apt to suppose that her attractions might have drawn me thither, and this may possibly prevent a real and deserving lover from making his addresses there—I will, therefore, speedily retire to my own seat, to solitude and sorrow.

You are incapable of forming any idea of the charming, delicate, but distracted situation of my mind—May happier days be yours! Adieu,

YES, Fanny, I confess it! you have searched my bosom, and found the arrow rankling in my heart! Too cruel sis­ter! better, sure far better, that you had re­mained ignorant of my disease, unless you can prescribe a cure! I now detest myself; and all that generous confidence, which is the true result and firm support of real vir­tue, is for ever fled! I shrink even from the mild eye of friendship—The tender, the affectionate looks of Harriet and Lu­cy, now distress me! How then shall I endure the stern expression of contempt and rage, from an offended husband's angry brow! There is but one thing [Page 93] that could be more dreadful—I mean his kindness—That alone could add new horrors to my wretched state, and make me feel the humiliating situation of a criminal still more than I now do.

I am, I am a criminal! Alas! you know not to what degree I am so! But I will tell you all, lay bare my heart be­fore you, and beg you not to soothe, but probe its wounds.

At about a quarter of a mile from our house, there is an octagon temple, which overlooks a fine piece of water, adjoining to which there is a beautiful and extensive wood; this room then, I have fitted up in a very elegant taste, as a small library, or museum, for myself, and it is intirely devoted to my hours of [Page 94] retirement—Here I read, write, draw, or ruminate. In this spot, on the day after I last wrote to you, was I sitting and mu­sing, I will confess it, on the happiness which might have been my portion, had I happened to have met Lord Lucan be­fore I was Sir William Barton's wife.

The tears streamed insensibly from my eyes, and so much dimmed my sight, as to make it doubtful whether the figure I then saw of Lord Lucan, walking by the canal, was real, or visionary—I rose immeditaely to the window, and per­ceived it to be him.

He came slowly on, gazing intently on a miniature picture, which he some­times pressed to his lips, and sometimes held at a distance, as if to place it in dif­ferent [Page 95] points of view. Blushing, I own it, Fanny, I felt the pangs of jealousy; I doubted not but it was Miss Ashford's picture, and instantly detested the origi­ginal—How unworthy, how unjust, do I now appear, in my own sight!

My feet became as much rivetted to the place where I stood, as Lord Lu­can's eyes were to the picture—He saw me not, till he came close to the window, and then, in the utmost confusion, slipt the portrait into his pocket.

He came into the temple, covered with blushes, made a thousand apologies for having intruded upon my retirement, though he said he had come on purpose to take his leave, as he meant to quit Sir Arthur Ashford's, and set out for his own seat, the next day.

[Page 96]With more pique than prudence, I told him that I was surprised at his hav­ing resolution sufficient to tear himself from a person, whose picture was so dear to him as I supposed that to be, to which I had seen him pay his adorations, when I fancied he might have the ori­ginal as a companion for life, if he chose it.

I never saw surprise so strongly paint­ed, as in his countenance—His voice faltered while he replied, ‘"Were that possible, madam, I should be the hap­piest man alive—But, alas! there is a bar, an insuperable bar, which cannot be surmounted! therefore, madam, do I tear myself from the too lovely object of a despairing passion."’

[Page 97]I was very near as much confused as Lord Lucan, and, without knowing what I said, replied, ‘"I pity you, my Lord, and am truly sorry."’—At that instant, he in an extacy, exclaimed, O stop! most honoured! most beloved of women! nor raise my transports to that dangerous height, which may exceed to madness! yet, yet again repeat the charming sound! and by your pity overpay my sufferings.

It was impossible for any one, not quite an idiot, to misunderstand this declar­ation—Yet was I absurd enough to seem ignorant of his meaning, and answered that I did not conceive of what use my pity could be to him, as I could not hope to have more influence on Miss Ashford, than himself.

[Page 98]He started from his seat, and, with a look that seemed to pierce through all my little artifice, cried out ‘"Miss Ash­ford, Madam! how is it her concern? Surely, my Lord, I replied, I thought it was that Lady's picture, with which you seemed so much delighted, as you walked along."’

He gazed on me again with earnest­ness, as he would read my thoughts, and then with downcast looks, as speaking to himself, he said— ‘"It must be so! that form, that angel form, cannot deceive, and my temerity is yet a secret—It shall remain so; for I will fly, for ever, from her sight."’

He turned away his face, to hide his tears; and had I suffered our conversation to have ended there, I had been far less [Page 99] guilty than I am.—But vanity, that bane of female virtue, led me on, to tell him that I could not be satisfied, without a farther explanation on this subject; and that, as he had declared Miss Ashford was not the object of his passion, I hoped he could have no objection to shewing me the picture of a person, whom, in all probability, I neither did, nor possibly might ever know.

He looked at me then, with a counte­nance more solemn than I had ever seen him wear: I blushed excessively, from a consciousness of my own insincerity; he saw into my thoughts, and, with a firm, and yet affecting manner, spoke thus.

‘"Do not, for your own sake, Madam, extend the cruelty of your triumph be­yond [Page 100] my demerits, nor wantonly sport with the miseries of one, whom yon have, though innocently, rendered wretched. Nature formed you in her most perfect model, and gave me susceptibility to ad­mire those charms, which, to my endless grief, were then devoted to another.—I sought, not Madam, to invade his right, or soil the purity of your fair bosom, with one improper thought. Your friend­ship, your esteem, I wished to gain; and for that purpose kept my love concealed. Chance only has revealed it—How am I to blame? or wherefore should I now become the object of your hatred, or contempt? Your pity was the sole indul­gence I ever should have dared to have solicited and that you might, without a crime, have bestowed. The wildness of my passion flattered my fond hopes that you [Page 101] had just now granted it—Judge of its value by my transports, Madam—But you recal the precious gift; and all that I now dare presume to ask, is your for­giveness; allow me that, and never more shall the unhappy Lucan offend your eyes, or feast his own, with gazing on your charms."’

Tears stopped his utterance—O, Fan­ny! was it possible that my eyes should be dry? they streamed too surely—I con­fess my weakness—At that moment my heart first felt the luxury of tears—The soft effusion flowed from pity, from ten­derness, from—dare I pronounce it, love!

The emotion he discovered at seeing me weep, was quite extravagant—He [Page 102] threw himself at my feet, snatched my hand, and pressed it to his lips, and vowed he would never rise till I pro­nounced his pardon. At that instant, I heard the sound of voices that ap­proached us, and exclaimed, ‘"Rise, my Lord, I pardon, and I pity you."’

He had scarce time to obey me, before Colonel Walter, Lucy, and Harriet en­tered the temple—The apparent con­fusion, both of Lord Lucan's looks, and mine, with the tears that still trembled in our eyes, was but too visible to pass unnoticed; Lucy appeared surprised at the sight of Lord Lucan, Harriet's face was covered with blushes, and the Co­lonel, by a malignant smile, shewed that he enjoyed our distress.

[Page 103]He presented me with a letrer from Sir William, whom he had left in Dublin, and said he hoped that would plead his excuse, for having interrupted what he thought the most agreeable party in the world, a sentimental tête à tête; and turning briskly to Lord Lucan, asked him if he had been relating the melancholy story of Eloise and Abelard, or the more dis­astrous loves of Hero and Leander?

Pique now got the better of my con­fusion, and, without waiting for Lord Lucan's reply, I answered, that we need not go so far back, for melancholy tales; for that I was acquainted with some per­sons now living, whose sufferings far exceeded those of the unfortunate ladies he had mentioned. He turned his pier­cing eyes quick upon me, at these words, [Page 104] and for the first time of his life, I be­lieve, blushed.

O, Fanny, what an indiscreet, and consequently unhappy wretch, is your sis­ter! Thank Heaven, Mrs. Walter is out of his reach! But have I not, by this un­guarded speech, betrayed the secret to her tyrant! I never shall forgive myself.

My Lucy, ever kind and attentive to her now unworthy friend, relieved us all from our embarrassment, by rendering the conversation general, and proposed our returning to the house, as there was hardly time for me to dress, before dinner; and added, that she would either endea­vour to entertain the gentlemen at the harpsichord, or engage with them at billiards.

[Page 105]We then all set out, seemingly at ease—But who can read the human heart, or the various springs that actuate its move­ments! Mine, wretched as it is, had then received a hateful guest, unknown to it before! Consciousness of having erred! its sure attendants, fear, and shame, now followed close, and when I reached my toilet, and viewed my sha­dow in the glass, my colour varied, as these passions worked, and I became al­ternate red and pale.

Poor Benson saw the effect, without the cause, and was alarmed—She would have got me drops, which I refused: sick, sick at heart I was, but where is the medicine that can abate its conflicts! Le­the! O for a draught of it!—A shower of tears somewhat relieved me; I read [Page 106] Sir William's letter; cruellest of hus­and's! it was the kindest that he had ever wrote, since he obtained that title! He will return to Southfield, in a few days—How shall I look upon him, Fanny?

I cannot now go on, my next shall tell you all.

P.S. I have read Mrs. Walter's let­ter, and yours; but am at present inca­pable of answering either.

AMIDST the variety of disagree­able thoughts which had disturbed me, curiosity asserted its rights in a fe­male breast, and increased my uneasiness, by a wish to know how Lord Lucan had obtained my picture.—I never had but two miniatures taken of me; one, in my happy days, for my dear Fanny; and a second, last winter, in Dublin, at the earnest request of my niece, soon after she came to live with us.—It was impossible that he should be in possession of the first, and a train of very unpleasant ideas succeeded to the thought of Harriet's having given him the latter.

[Page 108]I sent for her directly—When she came into my dressing-room, I perceived she had been weeping, and I also perceived my picture on her arm—This put a stop to the inquiry I had designed to make; and by way of saying something, I asked her where Lord Lucan was? She said she had just then left him in Sir Wil­liam's library.

My curiosity was again raised to know the cause of Harriet's tears; I could not ask her—But my heart informed me—She loves Lord Lucan.—Unhappy girl! yet still far happier than I! she may, with­out a blush, avow her passion; while mine must cover me with endless shame.

Yet wherefore should there be this false distinction? If passion is involuntary, [Page 109] it cannot be criminal; 'tis consequences only that can make it so; and Harriet and Louisa both may love, with inno­cence.—

Flattering sophistry! Alas! I would deceive myself, but cannot! Have I not vowed, even at the altar vowed, to love another? Yet can that vow be binding, which promises what is not in our pow­er, even at the time we make it? But grant it were, the contract sure is mutual; and when one fails, the other should be free.

Wretched Louisa! strive no more to varnish o'er thy faults—Thou wert a cri­minal, in the first act, who wedded with­out love; and all the miseries which pro­ceed from thence, too justly are thy due.

[Page 110]Yes, Fanny, I will take your counsel, and will patiently submit to those cor­rosive chains, which I myself have rivet­ed; I will not murmur, but I must com­plain to you, and you alone, my friend, my sister! Desert me not, while I deserve your pity, and I will still endeavour to deserve it!

Lord Lucan is gone! My intreaties have prevailed, he returns not to Ash-park, or Southfield, any more.—Do not congratulate me on this imaginary tri­umph; I have bought the concession but too dear—I have avowed my love! Do not detest me, Fanny! I saw no other way to secure my virtue—By confessing my passion, I have put it out of my pow­er ever to see, or converse with the object or it more—He is banished for ever from [Page 111] my sight—What would my sister, or what the rigid world, have more!

With infinite difficulty I discovered that the innocent and undesigning Har­riet had lent him my picture, and he sent off his servant to France, to get it copied, who returned with it to Ash-park, on the day I first saw it in his hand.

I shall never take notice of this affair, to her, as I too well know how difficult it must be to refuse the request of one we love—But surely his making this re­quest must have severely pained her ten­der heart—Sweet, gentle innocent! I most sincerely pity her distress.

The detestable Colonel Walter stays with us still, though unasked—I think [Page 112] he looks with prying eyes, on all my actions; yet what are they to him? He has no friendship, either for Sir Wil­liam, for me, or any one else.—Cruel consciousness that compelled me to ban­ish Lord Lucan, and suffer Colonel Wal­ter to remain in my house! Have I not, Fanny, sufficiently sacrificed to forms and scruples?

I have this moment received a letter from Sir William; business detains him for a month longer in town—I rejoice, for his sake, as much as my own; as I hope I shall recover a greater degree of com­posure, than I am at present mistress of, by the time he returns.

I detest dissimulation, yet as Lucilla says, ‘"Dissembling may for once be [Page 113] virtuous,"’ ^* at least so far as to con­ceal that fault which cannot now be pre­vented—Yet trust me, Sir William, trust me, my honoured brother, and beloved sister, no stain shall ever rest upon your names, from my misconduct! I only ought, and I alone will suffer—My vow is passed to heaven, and to you.

This unhappy subject has so totally en­grossed my thoughts, that I find it im­possible to think of any other; excuse me, therefore, to our amiable friend, Mrs. Walter; embrace her, and kiss the young Olivia, for me. Tell me of all your healths, and happiness, which will supply some to your ever

P.S. The Colonel has never taken the least notice of the suspicious appearances in the temple—He has informed us, that his intended match with Mrs. Layton is quite off; seems perfectly gay and alert, and appears inclined to pay his addresses to Miss Ashford.—I have injured her, without design; but should he have the least chance to succeed there, I will atone the injury I have done her, by preventing the connection.

Lucy sets off this moment—An ex­press from her lover, who lies dangerously ill in Dublin, hurries her away—She is distracted—I envy her distraction—She may to all the world declare her grief, her love, for the deserving Creswell!

INDEED, my Louisa, your two last letters have afflicted me beyond mea­sure: my heart bleeds for your sufferings, yet reason and virtue both forbid my en­deavouring to soothe your grief, or stop your flowing tears, unless I could remove the cause from whence they spring—That, alas! can only be hoped for, from the lenient hand of time, and your own fortitude.

I know how very difficult it is to enter so far into another person's situation, as is necessary to judge their actions with candor; we must first feel and think as they do, before it can become possible [Page 116] —I have, therefore, endeavoured by a thorough recollection of your temper and sentiments, joined to the similarity of our natures, to put myself as it were in your place, in order to be able, with justice and precision, to give my opi­nion freely, both with regard to your past and future conduct.

I will now venture to tell you that the source of your present unhappiness is to be traced much higher than the aera you date it from, your marriage with Sir William Barton—Though I ad­mit your own confession, that your first fault was committed then—It must be the joining of hearts, not hands, that can insure the marriage rights—I don't mispell the word ^*—And the woman who stretches out an empty hand, at the altar, [Page 117] but mocks the institution; and, if I may hazard the boldness of the expression, becomes guilty, before her crime; receives an antepast of misery, ‘"And puts her trust in miracles, for safety."’

But the partiality of our ever dear and respected parents, sowed the first seeds of vanity, in my Louisa's mind; they lived not long enough to be alarmed at its growth, and to eradicate the poison­ous weed—By their death, you became your own mistress, at an age when self-applause is predominant, in every female breast—Young, beautiful, rich, and accomplished, how was it possible you should escape the snares of flattery? They twined about your heart; and I have great reason now to believe, and lament, that the envied preference you [Page 118] gave to Sir William Barton, by becom­ing his wife, was owing more to his having persevered longer than the rest of your admirers, in his attentions and at­tendance on you, than to that just selec­tion, which should be the reward of dis­tinguished merit, and in which both love and esteem should happily unite.

At the time of your marriage, I had made but very slight observations on the matrimonial state, and therefore did not doubt, that though you declared yourself insensible of any passion for Sir William, you might be perfectly happy with him, all the days of your life—I am now convinced of the fallacy of this opi­nion, as well as of the imprudence of the declaration you then too openly and unguardedly made.

[Page 119]Believe me, Louisa, that this was the first thing that soured your husband's temper—Men are naturally proud and jealous; they do not easily brook disap­pointments, or mortifications; a hope­less pursuit must be attended with both—We are not then to wonder either at Sir William's declining it, or resenting his ill success.

In a former letter you say, that ‘"had Sir William continued to solicit your affections a little longer, they would have been all his."’ You know not that, Louisa; your vanity was flattered by the assiduities of a lover, and your pride revolted at the authority of a husband—Neither of these sentiments have any thing to do with passion—Had you loved the man you married, you would have wished [Page 120] to preserve his affection, without being vain of it; and had you seen it declining, you would have tried every means to re­cover it, without considering how much your pride would be hurt by its loss.

There are, I am convinced, abun­dance of ingredients necessary to form an happy union for life; but love is, in my opinion, of all others the most necessary—Like the sun, it not only brightens and gilds every amiable quality of the beloved object, but draws forth every latent vir­tue in our hearts, and excites us to be­come as perfect as we can, in order to merit that affection which constitutes our true happiness.

Milton seems to be of my opinion, when he makes the first of lovers, and of men, say thus to Eve,—

I know not why, or how I have launch­ed out into this dissertation upon matri­mony, unless it be that I wish to avoid the painful subject of your last letters, and yet cannot turn my thoughts upon any thing quite foreign to it—I think I ought, at least, to acknowledge that I am pleased with the resolution you have shewn in banishing Lord Lucan; and the delica­cy of your motive for confessing your passion to him, is the only possible excuse that can be urged for such an hazardous impropriety.

But let me now hope that my dear Louisa's virtue will soon enable her to [Page 122] rise above the want of an apology, and that a proper consciousness of what she owes to herself, will assist her to triumph over that unhappy weakness, which she so pathetically describes, as the harbinger of fear and shame—Hateful, destructive passions! O be they banished far from every generous breast! and, in their room, may hope and joy expand my sister's heart!

Mrs. Walter's health continues ex­tremely delicate; the physicians, who at­tend her, give me hopes that she may re­cover, though slowly—If it were not for that sweet promiser Hope, I should at this moment be the most wretched of mor­tals, for at this moment every creature that I truly love, is unhappy—Can I then be otherwise? I should be sorry if I could.

[Page 123]My brother has given his final nega­tive to Mrs. Colville's proposal: on her account he will not stay longer in Paris; and on his own, he will not return to England—He intends to cross the Alps, in pursuit of amusement—May he find that, and every thing else he wishes!

I Cannot help saying, Fanny, that these lines seem but too applicable to your last letter. When I poured forth the an­guish of my breaking heart before you, had I not a right to expect that my friend and sister would have spoken peace to its sorrows, and poured wine and oil on its wounds? You tell me that ‘"reason and virtue forbid these tender offices, in my unhappy case."’ Are reason and virtue, then, at war with wretchedness? And must guilt be al­ways [Page 125] connected with misery? Or is it, can it be true, that misfortunes loosen the ties of blood as well as friendship, and leave the wretch infected by them, to be hurried down the stream of life, at the mercy of their own wild passions, more destructive far than raging winds and seas!

Forgive me, Fanny, for this horrid thought! I know your heart is generous and good, and that you did not mean to add to my distress—Nay, I am cer­tain that each wound you gave, was doubly felt by you—Yet why, my sister, should you think it necessary to deal se­verely with me? If, as you seem to think, vanity is my predominant foible, why did not my fair philosopher find out its use, and play it off against my [Page 126] present weakness? We should never humble that heart too much, which we have any hopes of reclaiming.

When we become completely vile in our own sight, we have but little reason to hope for the good opinion of others, which, I much fear, is one of our strong­est incitements to virtue; and when, as you have before observed, we are totally indifferent to what the world thinks of us, we too generally not only meet, but deserve, its censure and contempt.

A woman still, my Fanny, under all my distresses, I am inclined to justify the foible you hint at; nay more, to prove that it approaches to the very pro­vince of virtue; as it is at least capable of rousing it to action, and sometimes of assisting its operations.

[Page 127] ‘"Respect thyself"’ is certainly one of the best tenets, that has ever been con­veyed to us—Yet surely it savours a lit­tle of l'amour propre; which term, though exactly translated by the words, self love, conveys yet a different idea to my mind, and appears to have some­what more of the lightness of vanity, than of a self-applause, in material matters.

Bravo! Louisa! How admirably have you trifled through this page, on a sub­ject absolutely foreign to your heart? But has not my Fanny set me the exam­ple? And shall I not endeavour to imi­tate her? Alas! like all other copyists, I fall short of the original, for if I write on, I shall again recur to the sad source of all my sorrows,

[Page 128]For your sake, then, my Fanny, I will restrain my pen, and suffer this let­ter to reach your hands, free from the severe tax which has been too often im­posed on you, by my late correspondence. ‘"For indeed I am not merry, but do beguile the thing I am, by seeming otherwise."’

I am running into quotations; but they are natural to a disturbed mind; as persons in such a state would rather use any body's sense, than their own—For whatever can divert the mind, or turn it from its own reflections, must be a point gained from misery. Therefore do I en­deavour thus to sport, I find, in vain; for laughter without mirth, is but hysterical, and may end in tears.

My sincerest good wishes attend Mrs. Walter, and I may venture to add, that [Page 129] I am both to her, and you, much more than to myself,

I Might with great truth and justice re­ply to the lemma of my dear Louisa's letter, by quoting the words that follow it, in the original; ^* but though I may not express myself as elegantly as Mr. Rowe, I will trust my defence to the feelings of my heart, on a subject where it is so truly interested.

[Page 130]If soothing could alleviate your suffer­ings, my pen should be taken from the cygnet's wing, and dipped in the honey of Hybla! But alas! my sister, yours is a disease that will increase by indulgence, and which severity alone can cure!

There have been instances where the hand of a surgeon has trembled, from a consciousness of the misery he was obliged to inflict on his patient.

Judge then how unsteadily I now hold the pen that is to wound the heart of my Louisa, by telling her that I fear she has committed an almost irreparable error?

I have already told you that it is long since I with grief beheld your partiality [Page 131] for Lord Lucan; but from the idea which you taught me to form of him, and from my thorough knowlege of the deli­cacy and propriety of your sentiments, joined to your situation, I had lulled my­self into a perfect security, that Lord Lu­can would never dare to insult the wife of Sir William Barton, with a declaration of his passion; and that finding it intirely hopeless, he would either conquer or transfer it to some other object, from whom he might reasonably expect a pro­per return.

Such an attachment as Lord Lucan's be may compared to winter plants, which, by the aid of hot-houses, are ren­dered capable of producing summer fruits, but must decay and die without such artificial aid. Hope is the nurse of [Page 132] love—without it, I am certain it cannot long exist, even in the most romantic bosom.

Can I then consider my Louisa's con­duct as blameless, when I find Lord Lu­can has avowed his passion? But what is the sentence which you would have pro­nounced, twelve months ago, upon a married woman who had declared that passion to be mutual? Guilty, guilty upon honour! ^*

You have still candour enough to judge yourself as severely, as you could any one else; you acknowlege yourself a criminal; but whither are your candor, and your judgment both fled, when you endeavour to derive merit from what you [Page 133] allow to be a crime, and say, that ‘"You confessed your passion, to preserve your virtue?"’

I begin to be extremely apprehensive that reason is a very useless property to man, and can seldom do more than di­rect our choice, in things that are merely indifferent to us. Apathy is not natural to the human mind; and yet from the mo­ment our passions begin to operate with any degree of vigour, that same boasted reason, which philosophers tell us supplies its place, by controuling their emotions, and directing their pursuits, not only be­comes instantly subservient to them, but meanly condescends to enter into the de­fence of their most pernicious consequen­ces, and readily engages in the pleasing, but baneful office, of assisting us to im­pose upon ourselves.

[Page 134]This is, and must be true—At least I wish to think so; for I would much ra­ther attribute my Louisa's errors to the general defects of our nature, than ac­count for them by supposing any parti­cular weakness, either in her reason, or her virtue—And surely she must herself acknowlege a failure in that judgment, that can be persuaded we may set bounds to the encroachments of a lover, by tell­ing him that he is beloved!

Alas, Louisa! Lord Lucan is not banished from Ash-park, from Southfield, from your sight, for ever! But both the world, and I, without being over rigid, have a right to expect that he should no more be permitted to plead his passion, or avail himself of yours.

If you should be inclined to dispute the authority which demands this sacrifice, [Page 135] let me remind you that there is one, who has an undoubted right to claim it; let your honour then make a willing sa­crifice of all future connection with Lord Lucan, as the only atonement you can now make for the injury you have done Sir William Barton.

By this means, and this alone, you may again recover your happiness; for I know you too well to suppose that it can ever be compatible with a consciousness of continuing to act in opposition to the strictest rectitude—I know too, that you have strength of mind sufficient to accom­plish this arduous task; and that our men­tal, like our bodily strength, is increased and invigorated by use. That generous frankness, which is the genuine offspring of virtue, shall again reanimate my be­loved [Page 136] Louisa's face, the mild eye of friend­ship shall no longer be painful to her, and she shall endure the piercing look of inquiry from her husband's eyes, with soft, yet steady dignity.—O may my wishes be prophetic! Amen, Amen!

I will now venture to tell you that I am truly grieved for the young, the in­nocent, and amiable Harriet! My con­cern may possibly remind you of Swift's lines,

I acknowledge the sympathy between us, and would do much to cure her ma­lady.

She has, however, the advantage of me in every respect;—she is younger, and, of course, the impression which her [Page 137] heart has received is more likely be eras­ed.—The letters we carve on saplings, wear out with their growth, while those that are imprinted on the perfect tree re­main indelible.

Besides, it is by no means impossible that Lord Lucan may love her yet; for I repeat my opinion, that his passion for you is quite a sickly plant, which must necessarily perish, as I am perfectly con­vinced that you don't mean to cherish it longer.

For all these good and weighty rea­sons, I think she may hope, or, at least, I will do so for her, that, one way or other, her heart may be set at ease.—I am in a praying mood, and will say, amen! to this wish also.

[Page 138]I would add another petition to those I have already made, if I hoped it would succeed; but I almost begin to despair of Mrs. Walter's recovery—She conti­nues to languish, without any visible sign of amendment, and the physicians now think that the air of a more south­ern clime, is the only chance she has for life.

She has written to the good Pere Guil­laume, to recommend her to a convent that will receive her and her child, as pensioners, and allow her the liberty of going out in a carriage, for exercise, which is absolutely necessary to her ex­istence.

Were I only to consider myself, the pain I feel at the thought of parting [Page 139] with this charming woman would tempt me to wish that I had never known her; but how amply am I recompensed for that, and a thousand other sufferings, by the delightful reflection of having ren­dered her mind perfectly tranquil, nay happy, by indulging myself in settling a small, but decent provision, on her darl­ing child.

Can all the diamonds that ever issued from the Indian mines afford to their possessors that heart-felt glow of satisfac­tion I enjoyed, when I had perfected the deed which conveyed two thousand pounds into the hands of trustees, for the use of the young Olivia Walter?

I was so apprehensive that the strong emotions of the mother's gratitude, [Page 140] might have affected her delicate frame, that I was almost tempted to conceal this matter from her; yet I wished to remove every fear or doubt, which the weakness and languor of her spirits might suggest, with regard to her child's future fate.

I wrote her a few lines, to tell her what I had done; and added, that I would de­bar myself from the pleasure of seeing her, till she should give me a promise un­der her hand, never to mention this bu­siness to me.

She promised, indeed, what was im­possible for her to perform; and, at our next interview, I was convinced, that, as the Peruvian princess says, ‘"To be thoroughly generous, you must listen to acknowledgments."’

[Page 141]I have promised, that if it should please Providence to call her to a state of bliss, I will immediately take the little Olivia under my care; and, if I live, I will most faithfully discharge the pleasing and im­portant trust.

My spirits, not much elevated before, sink under the sad idea of Mrs. Walter's death.—I cannot at present say more, than that I am, with unabated tender­ness,

SEEK no longer, my Fanny, to save me from the miseries which I have brought upon myself, but try, my sister, to secure your own peace, by devoting to oblivion, the memory of a wretch that seems marked for destruction.—I feel the snares of fate wound round me, and I but vainly struggle to escape the toils.

A little gleam of comfort had beamed upon me, from your last letter;—the kindness of your wishes had raised an ar­dor in my mind, for their accomplish­ment, which amounted almost to a hope of success; and I looked forward, with anxious desire, to some future aera, when [Page 143] my happiness should confirm your pro­phecy.

In this temper of mind, I walked slow­ly and lonely along to the temple, which I have already mentioned to you; and if now and then a few vagrant tears stray­ed down my cheeks I considered them as drops of salutary woe, and did not once wish to restrain the healthful cur­rent.—In fine, I may truly say, that many weeks have passed since my poor harrass­ed mind enjoyed so sweet a calm before.—When I had reached my little asy­lum, I re-read your letter, and found but one passage in it that gave me pain; I will not now say which it was, for that anguish has been entirely absorbed in a far greater one.

I took up a pen to write to you, which instantly dropped from my hand, at the [Page 144] sight of Lord Lucan's portrait, which lay before me on the table.—By an involun­tary motion I took up the picture, and, looking on it, exclaimed,— ‘"It is too true, Louisa! Lord Lucan is not banish­ed from Southfield, from Ash-park, from my sight, for ever!"—’encroaching and pre­suming man! cou'dst thou not be con­tent with that ideal likeness, which my too fond fancy had already traced upon my mind, but at the hazard of my reputa­tion would obtrude this mimic resem­blance on my sight.

While I pronounced these words, the door opened, and Colonel Walter stood before me.—I dropped the picture—he took it up,—seated himself by me, and addressed me in pretty near the same [Page 145] words, which Polydore uses, when he finds Monimia in tears.

I had just presence of mind enough to say, that I was not then disposed to play the fool.—He instantly assumed a more serious air, caught hold of my hand, and insolently declared a passion for me, which, he boasted, had commenced at the same moment with Lord Lucan's—That respect had hitherto kept him silent, till he found that his rival was likely to carry away the prize by his audacity, and that this alone had determined him to urge his equal attachment to me.

Surprize had hitherto kept me silent, grief now stopt my utterance.—I saw myself in the power of a wretch, whom I knew to be devoid of generosity or pi­ty [Page 146] —I saw my ruin plain—I see it still!—it was in vain to deny my regard for Lord Lucan;—the words which he had heard me utter, and the fatal picture which was then in his possession, were proofs incontrovertible.

My tears had no effect upon him—He pursued his brutal discourse, by say­ing that Lord Lucan was certainly more calculated for inspiring a romantic child­ish passion than himself, and that he most willingly resigned all the sentimental and platonic part of my affection to him, but that I had charms sufficient to render them both happy, which he hoped my prudence would incline me to, when I reflected that he was not the confident of my choice, and had therefore a right to expect that he should be bribed to se­cresy.

[Page 147]I could contain my resentment no longer, but, with eyes sparkling with in­dignation, bad him fly that moment from my sight, and make whatever use his villainy might suggest, of the secret which his meanness and insolence had obtained—That I would rely for my jus­tification from his malice, on my own in­nocence, and the candour of Sir Wil­liam Barton, who should certainly be acquainted with the return he made to his friendship.

He replied, with the most insulting froideur, that if Sir William had really a friendship for him, he would certainly give him a preference, in the purchase of a jewel, which he neither knew how to value or preserve, and in which he seem­ed to have nothing more at present than [Page 148] a nominal property.— ‘"In short, Ma­dam,"’ continued he, ‘"though I have been a soldier, I am not so much in­clined to cutting of throats, as to de­liver you from Sir William's tyran­ny, merely to leave you at liberty to bestow yourself on Lord Lucan; but, if you will condescend to make a con­cession to the warmth of that passion your charms have inspired me with, I will protect you from your husband, and the whole world beside, at the ha­zard of my life and fortune.—In love, at least, I am a Swiss, and will not fight without pay—Remember, Madam, that you are much more in my power than I am in yours, and that if you should attempt to raise Sir William's resentment towards me, I can, with the greatest ease, return it upon yourself—This picture, Madam!"—’

[Page 149] ‘"Restore it, Sir, this moment."’— ‘"On certain terms, you may command it, Madam."’— ‘"What are they?"’— ‘"Make me as happy as you have made the original of it, and all my future life shall be devoted to you."’— ‘"Hear me, Sir, while I call Heaven to wit­ness, that Lord Lucan never solicited a criminal indulgence from me! and that my heart has never yet admitted a thought that could reflect dishonour on my husband."’

‘"Yet criminal to him, and Heaven, I am, perhaps, for having yielded a secret, though involuntary preference, to another object.—The punishment of this my greatest guilt, I now receive from you; and if there be a spark of honour or humanity remaining in your [Page 150] breast, you will not only cease to per­secute an unhappy woman, who has confessed her weakness to you, but convert the unworthy passion you have dared to urge, to pity—Alas! I dare not say, esteem!"’

He was silent, I ventured to look up, and through the dim medium of my tears, I thought he seemed affected.— ‘"Charming! angelic tyrant! (he ex­claimed) O were that tender weakness you have now avowed, but felt for me, how should I worship even that false delicacy, which deems it criminal—But it is deceitful all—Lord Lucan, Madam, has solicited."’— ‘"Never! ne­ver, Sir!"’— ‘"Recal the morning scene, at Waltersburgh."’—Conviction flashed upon me, at the instant, and resentment [Page 151] hurried me beyond all tamer considera­tions.— ‘"I do, Sir; and am now con­vinced you were the person who then insulted me—You only could have had the presumption to attempt so base an outrage, and your knowing it, has now revealed the mystery; you were the audacious monster, who violated at once the laws of decency, and hos­pitality! would to Heaven my death had been the consequence! But let what will happen now, I will no longer hold a moment's parley with you."’

I strove at that instant to rush out of the temple, but he prevented me, by seizing one of my hands, and saying, ‘"I plead guilty, Madam; but be assured I never should have made so daring an essay, but that I thought, in such a [Page 152] situation, Lord Lucan might have suc­ceeded; a thousand circumstances con­curred to make me think so; I looked upon the straining of his leg as a con­trivance to excuse his going out with the rest of the hunters, that he might spend his time more happily with you—And had it been so, could you blame me, madam? My love, my admira­tion are as strong as his."’

‘"Detested love, detested admiration!"’ was all that I could utter.— ‘"I know it, Madam?"’— ‘"Then leave me, Sir, this moment."’— ‘"Not till you have pardoned a fault, for which I never can forgive myself, as it has distressed, or offended you."’— ‘"On one condi­tion I will pardon you, Sir, and on no other."’— ‘"Name it, Madam."’— [Page 153] ‘"That you shall never presume to hint your hateful passion more."’— ‘"Impos­sible! as well not bid me breathe! But let not your sentence be too severe, for I have terms to make, as well as you—Suppose that I—"’

At that instant I heard the footsteps of a person running towards the temple; it was Harriet, who came to tell me that her uncle was arrived— ‘"Gracious Hea­ven! (I exclaimed, in a low voice) What will become of me?"’ The Co­lonel replied, in the same tone, ‘"Rely upon my friendship, and be happy."’—Harriet looked amazed; but with the utmost tenderness begged that I would compose myself, as she was sure Sir Wil­liam would be shocked, were he to see my agitation.

[Page 154] ‘"Not if he knew the cause,"’ said Colonel Walter. I stared upon him wildly; he proceeded, ‘"Lady Barton has had a fall, and sprained her ancle, the shock has hurried her spirits, and I was this moment going to the house, to order the cabriole to bring her home."’

Harriet looked as if she doubted, but took the hint, and said, ‘"you had best do so, Sir, and let my uncle know of the accident, as it will account for my aunt's delay."’—I was silent; yet sure my situation was truly pitiable, in being reduced to the sad dilemma, either of joining in a deceit with a person whom I detested, or of exposing myself to the prying eyes of my husband, under such circumstances as must alarm him, and call for explanation.

[Page 155]The Colonel then turned to me, and said, ‘"Is it your pleasure, Madam, that I should go?"’— ‘"Yes! yes!"’ was all that I could utter, and the moment he was gone, burst again into a passion of tears; upon which Harriet cried out, ‘"Why is not Lucy here? I have no in­fluence upon my aunt, I am not wor­thy to advise."’

‘"You are, you are, my dear, what would you have me do?"’— ‘"Have pity on Sir William, and yourself, and try to calm your spirits; for sure he never will believe they could be ruffled thus, by so slight an accident.—Believe me, Madam, I would lay down my life, to make you happy, though that is but a small compliment, for it is of very little value to myself."’ [Page 156] She turned aside, to hide a starting tear—I clasped her to my breast, and said, ‘"Do not, my Harriet, add to my dis­tress, by suffering me to think you are unhappy."’

Sir William and the cabriole came together; he embraced me very affec­tionately, and rallied me on my coward­ice in being so affected by my fall; wanted much to see my ancle, which I declined, took me up in his arms, and seated me in the chair, walked by my side, till we got to the house, and again lifted me out of it into my dressing-room.

O think, my sister! what I then endured! But you can never know it; deceit has ever been a stranger to your heart, and [Page 157] the sharp stings of self contempt have ne­ver entered there.

Benson flew to me with arquebusade, vinegar, &c. The consciousness of the mean part I then acted, rendered me peevish, and I hastily bid her leave the room.—I blushed as the words escaped me—was it her fault that I was become contemptible!—When she was gone out, Harriet said, ‘"I fear, Madam, you are much hurt, indeed!"’— ‘"Yes, Harri­et, to the heart!"’ I sunk down upon the couch, and covered my face with my handkerchief.—She threw herself at my feet, and, without attempting to pry in­to the cause, implored me to let her put a bandage round my ancle, lest Sir Wil­liam should be alarmed at my supposed obstinacy, and send for a surgeon.

[Page 158]This I refused, and, on the instant, re­solved to extricate myself from the hate­ful appearance of having entered into a mean collusion with Colonel Walter. I rang the bell for Benson, and, assuming as chearful a countenance as I could put on, told her that I had not received any hurt that required particular application, and that time should be my only physi­cian.

I then dressed myself as usual, and, when the last dinner bell rung, I desired Harriet to accompany me to the parlour.—Sir William seemed surprized at seeing me walk, and said he was just then com­ing to assist me, or, as the old ballad said, to take up his load of vanity.

When I sat down to table, I found my­self extremely ill;—I tried to eat, but in [Page 159] vain.—I soon retired after dinner, and sat down to write this account of my morti­fication to you.—It is now eight o' clock, and I can no longer support the violent pain in my head, or hold the pen.—

P.S. By whom, or how contrived, the picture had been laid on the table in the temple, I cannot guess; nor know I yet through what medium to inquire about it.

MANY days have elapsed since I concluded my last letter to my Fanny, some of them have passed like the arrow that flieth through the air, and leaves no trace behind—Would I had accompanied their flight! but, alas! it will not be! and by the same Almighty fiat which first called me into being, I am again recalled from the confines of eternity—May that gracious Power that has been pleased to prolong my exist­ence, endue me with resignation to his all-wise decrees!

I am at present but ill able to write; the account I can give you of myself, [Page 161] must therefore be short, but it will tell my sister that I live, and, notwithstand­ing my desiring her to forget me, I still flatter myself that my life is of conse­quence to her happiness.

The moment I had sealed my last let­ter to you, I found myself unable to sit up, and went to bed, but not to rest. About eleven Sir William came into my chamber, and on finding me extremely feverish, muttered something about fine ladies being always vapourish, or indis­posed, and wished me a good night.

Never was health more sincerely wel­comed by a dying wretch, than sickness was now by me—I hoped, I trusted, I should be released! and invoked the king of terrors, with the unhappy Constance,

In this manner did I pass the night, rejoicing in the increase of my disorder, till the delirium which it brought on ren­dered me insensible to it, and every thing else: for five days I continued in a state of mental annihilation, the return of my reason, was like the appearance of an ignis fatuus, it glimmered, and va­nished, several times, as if unwilling to return to the wretched habitation which it had forsaken.

Harriet, my beloved, my gentle Har­riet, whose tenderness and attention to me has been unremitted, assures me [Page 163] that Sir William was much afflicted dur­ing my illness; and that though Colonel Walter endeavoured to console him, yet he also appeared much affected, and quitted the house the next day.

May the miseries which he has brought upon me, make a proper impression on his heart, and turn his detested passion into contrition for his crimes, and com­passion for the sufferings of his injured wife! As soon as I was pronounced out of danger, Sir William went to visit a distant part of his estate, where he is establishing a manufacture.—He has been gone ten days, and in that time, I think both my mind and body have ac­quired strength; perhaps it is owing to the weakness of the latter, that the former is more composed. But I will [Page 164] endeavour to enjoy the temporary calm, though I fear that the storm has only subsided, and may perhaps return with double fury, to wreck this feeble bark—Be that as it may, I shall ever remain

P.S. Where and how is Mrs. Walter? assure her of my kindest remembrance: her sufferings are so deeply engraved on my heart, that not even my own can efface them—Happy Fanny! that have been able to mitigate even a part of her sorrows, by removing the bitter pangs of maternal anxiety for the fate of a be­loved child!

THE seeing my letter dated from this place, will in some measure account to my dear Louisa, for my silence, at a time when she stood most in need of every consolation that friendship could bestow on a tenderly beloved and suffering sister—I am however selfish enough to rejoice that I was unacquaint­ed with the danger that threatened your life, till it was past, for I had the painful pleasure of receiving both your letters, on my arrival here, last night.

Truly distressing and affecting as they are, my head is at present so filled with [Page 166] the extraordinary events which have hap­pened within a very short space, that though my heart is truly sensible of your afflictions, I find it impossible to give its feelings vent, till I have informed you of a circumstance which I am certain will afford you the sincerest pleasure.

Delia! my brother's beloved Delia! Delia Colville lives! as Zanga says, ‘"First recover that, and then you shall hear further."’—Our good angel! our dear Mrs. Walter! received a letter from Pere Guillaume, about the middle of last month, acquainting her that he would meet her at Calais, and attend her to what part of France she pleased; but were he to recommend any particular convent, it should be Les Dames Ursu­lines, at St. Omers, as the superior [Page 167] was his near relation, and particular friend.

This reeommendation was perfectly agreeable to Mrs. Walter, for many rea­sons; the vicinity of St. Omers to Eng­land, was perhaps the strongest, as it flattered her with the hopes of seeing me, at some time or other, if she lived; and rendered the immediate removal of her daughter convenient, in case of her death.

I accompanied her to Dover, and feared that I had taken my last farewell of my amiable friend, when I saw her embark for Calais—I heard from her, in a few days after our parting, and she was not worse—I had then determined to spend the remainder of the summer [Page 168] at Cleveland-hall, in executing some lit­tle romantic plans of improvement, in order to amuse myself, and surprise Sir George at his return from Italy, which he had promised should be before winter. But a second letter from Mrs. Walter afforded me an opportunity of surprising him, indeed! She told me that in the convent where she then resided, there was a very beautiful young English lady, who went by the name of Wilson, who, upon having seen the address of her let­ter to me, as it went to the tour, in or­der to be sent to the post office, implored her permission to speak to her in pri­vate; that some time had elasped before she could find an opportunity, and when she did, she informed her that her name was Colville, Delia Colville! I again re­peat it! That she had been placed there, [Page 169] by her mother, without her knowledge, or consent, who had desired that she might be closely confined, debarred the use of pen and ink, and prevented from even going into the parlour, or convers­ing with any of the pensioners; as she was represented to be so artful, that she would corrupt and impose on them by the insincere plausibility of her manners, and was actually upon the point of dis­gracing her family, by a shameful con­nection with a man of inferior rank and fortune.—That in consequence of this cruel aspersion, she had been treated with the utmost severity that the rules of the convent would admit of, and that from the time of her entrance, till that moment, she had never heard from her mother, or any other person what­soever.

[Page 170]She then, blushing, mentioned Sir George Cleveland, and said she had long vainly flattered herself, that he would have sought her out, and released her from so inquitous and cruel a confine­ment; but that if even he had forgot­ten and forsaken her, she was convinced that his sister's humanity would interest itself in behalf of an oppressed and injur­ed person, whom she had once honoured with the name of friend!

She added, that the mildness of her temper, and the perfect acquiescence she had shewn under the severe restraints that were imposed on her, had influenced the nuns to treat her with less harshness than at first, and that she had been lately al­lowed the honour of conversing with the superior; but that the moment she at­tempted [Page 171] to justify herself from her mo­ther's slander, she was enjoined silence, and obliged to retire to her cell; after having this reflection urged against her, that it must be always more natural to sup­pose children to be undutiful or ungrateful, than that parents should be unkind or un­just. This maxim is certainly true, in ge­neral; but there are sometimes instances which occur in life, that baffle all philo­sophy, with regard to the human mind.

O, my Louisa, does not your heart grieve for the sufferings of the innocent and unoffending Delia? When Mrs. Walter promised her to acquaint me with her situation, she cried out, ‘"It is enough! I know Miss Cleveland; I shall be released! Yet sure Sir George will at least accompany his sister, if [Page 172] she should come to take me out of my confinement, and I shall see him once again."’

Mrs. Walter told her, she believed that would be impossible, for—She in­terrupted her, by exclaiming, ‘"Is he married? If he is, I may as well stay here; Miss Cleveland's kindness will be useless to me."’—On Mrs. Walter's telling her that he was in Italy, and not married, she kissed her hand, and bathed it with her tears, and said, ‘"Do not despise me, madam, for loving the most amiable of men—He is the coun­terpart of your Miss Cleveland; and if you knew him, you would love him also!"’

The moment I received Mrs. Walter's letter, I went immediately to councellor [Page 173] W—, to know what were the proper and legal steps to be taken for the reco­very of my beloved Delia: he told me he would wait on the lord chancellor, next day, and furnish me with pro­per powers to compel Mrs. Colville to produce her daughter in the chancery-chamber, who, as a minor, was to be considered as a ward of the court, though the guardianship of her person and for­tune had been before granted to her detestable mother.

I then returned home, wrote to Mrs. Walter, and enclosed a few lines to De­lia, entreating her to keep up her spirits, till I could effect her release, which I promised to do with the utmost expedi­tion.—I ordered my cloaths to be pack­ed up, and a chaise with four horses to [Page 274] be in readiness, the next day; and the moment Counsellor W— furnished me with my instructions, I set out for Dover, accompanied by my maid and two men servants.—There was a mes­senger dispatched at the same time, with his lordship's order, to Mrs. Colville; but if she should not be found, or should ab­scond upon receiving it, I am to apply to Lord H—, our ambassador in France, whom I have the honour of being very well acquainted with, to procure a spe­cial mandate from the court of Ver­sailles, for her release.

I wrote to my brother, who is now at Naples, in a very ambiguous stile, hint­ing as if I had heard some vague report of Delia's being alive; for I durst not trust him with the mighty joy at once, [Page 175] as I have been told that the sudden ef­fects of that passion have sometimes been as fatal in their consequences, as those of grief.

I then informed him of my intention of going to Paris; and said, as I knew all places were indifferent to him, I hoped he would have galantry enough to meet me there, as the pleasure I pro­mised myself in seeing him, was the principal cause of my undertaking the journey.

The moment of my arrival at St. Omers, I was met by Mrs. Walter: I need not describe to you the effects of our interview.—I flatter myself that she looks better than she did: she says the joy she feels at having been, though ac­cidentally, [Page 176] the instrument of good to the amiable Delia, has roused her spirits from the torpid state they had continued in, while she considered herself but as an useless burthen, or, at best, an insignifi­cant blank, in life.

She told me she had not had an oppor­tunity of seeing Miss Colville since she received my letter, but at prayers; that she had endeavoured to render her looks as expressive as possible, by the chear­fulness of her air; and that Delia seemed to understand the hint in her favour. She advised me not to go to the convent, as it was certain that I should not be permitted to see Miss Colville; and her hearing that I had been there, might throw her off her guard, so far, as to alarm the nuns, and make them con­fine [Page 177] her still more closely, or perhaps, tranfer her, as is sometimes the case, over to some other convent.

I was convinced by her reasons, and, restraining my fond impatience, I set out the next morning for Paris, where I arrived last night, and have the mortifi­cation to learn, this morning, that Mrs. Colville is gone to Toulouse, as it is thought, to settle there.—The lord chancellor's messenger is gone off post to her; and here must I remain till his return.

And now let me assure my Louisa, that not even the joy I feel at the cer­tainty of Delia's restoration, can prevent me for a moment from sympathizing, in the tenderest manner, with her distress; [Page 178] the circumstances of which are certainly equally difficult and mortifying.

There never was any thing so unfor­tunately critical as your situation with that vile Walter, when Sir William's ar­rival was announced: the snare, as you say, seemed contrived by fate—I honour your struggling through it, and not let­ing the wretch triumph in the success of his scheme, which he certainly would have done, had you carried on the de­ceit beyond the moment that it was ab­solutely necessary—I am grieved, but not surprised, at the effect which the anguish of your mind has had upon your consti­tution; and am, I hope, truly thankful for your recovery—And may it be a perfect one!

[Page 179]Surely, Louisa, you ought to think Lord Lucan to blame, with regard to the picture; he must have hazarded your reputation, by making a confidante of the person who placed it on your table. Can it be possible that the enamoured Harriet can have verified, nay exceeded, the romantic ideas of submissive tender­ness, which Prior has given us in the character of his Emma.

I know not what to think; but if Har­riet be indeed the confidante of Lord Lucan, she claims the highest degree of admiration, that the strongest fortitude, joined with the tenderest sensibility, can possibly excite—But this character com­prehends, perhaps, something more than woman. Do not be outdone by her, my sister, but strive to emulate the vir­tue which you must admire.

[Page 180]Were you to look minutely into the situation of my heart, you would find that I can practise, as well as preach; for though I perhaps may never be in­tirely able to eradicate all traces of my weakness for Lord Hume, I have, by a kind of discipline, more severe than any in the Romish church, conquered my desire of speaking of him; nor do I al­low even my thoughts the fond, though sad indulgence of contemplating either his faults or merits; for the moment his idea obtrudes itself upon my mind, I snatch up a book, or pen, and drive him directly from that place which he was not worthy to inhabit.

Take notice, that the poets are ba­nished out of my library; and that my present studies are of the reasoning kind, [Page 181] and call for all my attention—I wish you could be prevailed upon to try this re­cipe—For indeed I am, for many reasons, more anxious for your recovery even than for my own! My malady can only injure an individual, and that myself: yours, like a contagion, must be fatal to many—Stop the infection then, be­fore it spreads, and you will hereafter reflect, with pleasure, that so many per­sons, who are, and ought to be, dear to you, are indebted for their happiness, to your virtue.—I am convinced that this sentiment will have more weight with you, than any selfish consideration could; for full well I know the nobleness of my Louisa's nature.

I was much pleased with Sir William's behaviour, on account of your supposed [Page 182] lameness; and still more so, with your candour, in relating it to me; as there is no doubt but that his kindness must have luckily increased your own self-condemnation.

I wish Harriet would make you the confidante of her innocent passion for Lord Lucan; as your tenderness for her, joined to your own delicacy, would then restrain you from the too dangerous in­dulgence of talking of him, at least be­fore her; and I should then wish that she might not be a moment out of your sight.

Forgive me, my ever dear and ami­able sister! for presuming to dictate to a heart and understanding like yours; but the greatest physician will not pre­scribe [Page 183] for himself when sick, and will even condescend to take the advice of a person whose skill he knows to be infe­rior to his own—All I can plead in fa­vour of my present prescription is, that I have tried it myself with success, and that it is recommended to you by the warmest affection of

I Verily believe, my dear Lucan, that there never was a more unfortunate kinght-errant than myself, and that the renowned hero of La Mancha was but a prototype, both of my folly and my [Page 184] sufferings. I think, I want nothing but a 'squire as tristful as yourself, to record my misadventures in the stile of a ballad, called the Disastrous Traveller, or Lord Hume's Garland—which would certain­ly supersede the Babes in the Wood, and Barbara Allen, in the English Chronicle; and set all the nursery-maids and chil­dren in our nation a-blubbering.

My last informed you how completely I was duped at Venice; that I had lost my mistress, and my money: ‘"Baga­telles! not worth thinking of, say you; cheaply off, for some thousands,"’ &c. &c.—Well! philosophy is a fine thing, said I to myself! and I will endeavour to think like Lord Lucan—But I had better have recollected the famous sen­tence recorded to have been uttered [Page 185] from the pulpit, by an Irish bishop (who by the way was an Englishman,) and prepared myself for what was to follow— ‘"Single misfortunes, (said his reve­rence) never come alone, and the greatest of evils is attended by greater."’

Now to apply my text.—In a very ill temper, and with about a hundred pieces in my pocket, I set out from Venice; and journeying by land and by water, arrived safe in the Ecclesiastical territories. About two leagues from Tivoli my car­riage broke down; I had no attendants but one servant, who sat in the carriage with me, and very ill supplied the place of my former fellow-traveller; I had left one footman sick at Venice, who was to follow me, and discharged all the rest of my useless parade.

[Page 186]I did not chuse to leave my baggage to the care, or rather mercy, of the posti­lion, and as it was not quite dark, I or­dered Saunders, you know old Robert, to stay by the chaise, till I could send people from Tivoli, either to mend it, or assist him to bring my trunks to some place of safety.

I had not walked half a league, when I was attacked by banditti, who de­manded my purse, and on my attempt­ing to make some resistance, as I wore a couteau de chasse, they knocked me down, gave me several cuts over the head, stript me of my money, cloaths, and watch, and left me for dead on the spot.

As it grew late, Saunders became alarmed for my safety, and tried to pre­vail [Page 187] on the postilion to let him have one of the horses, in order to overtake and guard me on the road to the town. The fellow either was, or pretended to be, afraid to stay by himself, they therefore mounted the pair, and set out together for Tivoli.

As I was left directly in the highway, the horses started as they came up to me, and when the men alighted to see what was the matter, they found me weltering in my blood, but with so much appear­ance of life that I still breathed, and sometimes groaned.—Poor old Saunders tore off his shirt to bind up my wounds, as well as he could in the dark, and co­vered me with his own cloaths, while the postilion rode off in search of a sur­geon and a litter, to convey me to some shelter.

[Page 188]My senses did not return till the next day, when I found myself covered with bandages, and so faint and weak with loss of blood that I could not speak. Saun­ders gave a scream of joy, at seeing me open my eyes, and recounted what had befallen me.

I lay in this state of misery above three weeks, and when I was able to rise, I had not a single garment of any sort to put on; for the postilion, I presume, considering that I should have no further occasion for them, had assumed to himself the office of an executor, and carried off my baggage, with the chaise and horses, and got clear out of his Holiness's dominions before there was any inquiry made after him.

I sent Saunders off immediately to Rome, with a draught on my banker, [Page 189] which he received, and returned as quick as possible; but I was still unable to travel, and a wound which I had re­ceived in my right arm, prevented my being able to use a pen, without suffer­ing extremely—Let this account for your not hearing from me during my con­finement.

As I had a good deal of leisure to re­flect upon my own folly, I determined to grow wise incontinently; and thought the best proof I could give of my discretion, was to turn my steps towards England—I was however obliged to go to Rome, for a few days, to settle with my banker—As soon as my business was dispatch­ed, I set out, in pursuance of my plan, and have arrived thus far, on my route over.

[Page 190]I went, as was natural, to the house where I had formerly lived with Marga­rita; and could not help making some inquiries after her: to my great surprise, they told me that she was then in this city, and lived in a most exemplary man­ner, with an ecclesiastic, who was be­lieved to be her brother.

A spirit of revenge took possession of me the moment that I heard of this pre­tended priest and brother, and I deter­mined to see my fallen angel, upbraid her with her perfidy, and punish the vil­lain who had robbed me of my mistress, and cheated me of my money.

I wandered about Naples, for several days, without being able to discover any trace of her: at last I bethought myself [Page 191] of visiting the churches, for as she now pre­tended to be a devotee, I might possibly meet her in one of them—Accordingly I one day saw a woman kneeling at a confessional, who, though she was veiled, I immediately knew to be Margarita.

I waited for a long time before she had concluded her devotions, and joined her just as she was going out of the porch; when I spoke to her, she lifted up her veil, and looked at me with a counte­nance so full of sweetness, that I instant­ly forgot my resentment, and could have fallen at her feet, and entreated her to be reconciled to me.

She spoke to me in a low voice, and said, ‘"I have used you ill, my lord, but I have been severely punished for my [Page 192] crime; I dare not hope you should again receive me into your favour, but come and accept of all the restitution that is now in my power to make you; I live in the Strada del Santo Marco; my tyrant will be asleep by eleven o'clock, I shall then at least have an opportunity of imploring your for­giveness—I dare not talk to you longer, adieu."’

Despise me as you will, Lucan, I con­fess that I felt my tenderness for this infa­mous woman revive, and instead of go­ing directly to a magistrate, or endea­vouring to do myself justice on her, and her vile accomplice, I counted the mi­nutes with impatient expectation of that happy one, which should again restore me to the pleasure of seeing and con­versing with her.

[Page 193]At the time appointed I repaired to my rendezvous, which was at a consider­able distance from the place where I lived, and in a very retired part of the town: as I passed through an unfre­quented street, I was set upon by four bravos; I instantly drew my sword, and determined to sell my life as dear as pos­sible—As I had the advantage of a wall at my back, I defended myself success­fully, for a few minutes; but should have been overpowered if providence had not sent Sir George Cleveland, and another gentleman, to my rescue. At their approach the bravoes would have fled, but I secured one of them whom I had wounded, and who proved to be the pretended priest and brother of Mar­garita.

[Page 194]When we had lodged him properly, and I had got a slight wound, which I had received, dressed, I communicated the whole of my adventure frankly to Sir George, and wished him to accompany me in pursuit of that worthless woman, whom I supposed to be an accomplice in the intended assassination, and whom I now resolved to give up to justice.

Sir George is a gallant fellow, Lucan. He talked so very rationally, that he dis­suaded me from my purpose, as he said the bringing Margarita to punishment, if I should have resolution sufficient to do so, must of necessity expose myself; observing also, that I ought not to pur­sue a wretch with too much rigour, whom I had formerly contributed to render abandoned.

[Page 195]His remarks upon the folly and base­ness of men, in their commerce with the unhappy of the other sex, were truly ge­nerous—I remember but one of them at present. I think he said, ‘"That we first take pains to destroy the founda­tion of every female virtue, modesty; and are then surprised to find the su­perstructure totter."’—That is foolish enough to be sure, though we practise it every day.

But to conclude, for I begin to think you are heartily tired, as even I grow a little weary, though I am talking of my­self, which is the pleasantest of all sub­jects.—The next morning brought me a most doleful letter, from my Fair Peni­tent, entreating me, for the love I once bore her, not to prosecute her brother, [Page 196] as she still affected to stile him, declaring herself intirely innocent of any evil inten­tions of his, with regard to my life, and offering to refund whatever remained of the jewels she had robbed me of, provid­ed I would but remit the prosecution.

I consulted with Cleveland, who ad­vised me not to be prevailed on to suffer such a pest to society, as Pere Jacques, to escape; but if he would give up his accomplices, to use my interest to get them all sent to the gallies together; as to la bella Signora, he thought I should make terms with her also, and let her compound for her crimes by a life of re­pentance—That the jewels she men­tioned, should be sold, in order to pay her pension among les Filles repenties, where she should be obliged to enter on her probation immediately.

[Page 197]I was charmed with this scheme, and by his assistance have happily put it in execution.—Would he could be as suc­cessful in restoring me to the esteem of an amiable woman, as he has been in extricating me from the artifices of a vile one—But I have never yet dared to name Miss Cleveland to him; and I will patiently go through a year of probation under his eye, before I even presume to hope that he will favour my suit.—In the mean time I am happy to find, from his behaviour, that he is a stranger to mine, upon that occasion.

He talks of returning to England in a few months.—I am determined to ac­company him, and I hope that you will have got so far the better of your ro­mantic passion, by that time, as to quit [Page 198] your sorrowful solitude, and meet us there.

Here ends my woeful story, which however, has had a fortunate conclusion. May all your adventures terminate as happily, sincerely wishes your

P.S. I have this moment received a billet from Sir George Cleveland, ac­quainting me that he means to set out immediately for Paris—This is a sudden flight, but I am determined to accom­pany him. Direct to me accordingly.

I Sincerely congratulate you on the operatical denouèment of your Ita­lian comedie; and think that even Me­tastasio has not wound up any of his catastrophes with more poetical justice, than you have shewn in the disposal of your dramatis personae.

But the most enviable part of your good fortune, is the having met with such a friend as Sir George Cleveland, whose knowlege of the world, joined to an ex­cellent understanding, and an amiable heart, (all which he has shewn in the ma­nagement of your affair with Margarita) must render him at once an object of your [Page 200] affection and respect; and afford you an opportunity of benefiting, both by his precepts and example.

I have not the honour of knowing Sir George, but have heard his character, description, and story. He is neither older, wiser, nor better principled than you are; to what then are we to impute the difference between the preceptor and the pupil? To nothing more than a cir­cumstance which I am glad to lay hold of, for your instruction. He had con­ceived a strong, but chaste passion, for a woman of merit, whose name I know not; than which, nothing in nature more elevates the mind, improves the understanding, refines the manners, and purges the affections of man. His mis­tress is dead, I hear lately, but the influ­ence [Page 201] of virtue reaches beyond the grave; for a heart once rendered pure, like a transmuted metal, can never degenerate into its original baseness again.

I have often thought that many of the errors of our young men of quality, are owing to a wrong choice of the govern­ors to whom they are intrusted, at the most critical aera of their lives, when their passions are strongest, and their judgment weakest—I mean when they are thought old enough to be sent abroad for improvement, and not deemed wise enough to conduct themselves.

Fathers and guardians, on this occa­sion, generally fix on some person of learning, which by the ignorant is fre­quently mistaken for sense; as what is [Page 202] called a liberal education, is as falsly, and frequently, supposed to be as synonimous with a liberal mind.

The greatest blockheads I have ever known, have been bred in college—Neither absurdity nor meanness pre­vent a man from becoming master of a language, nor of arriving at a competent knowlege in any particular branch of science.

But these are not the qualifications ne­cessary to form a noble mind; and yet an ignorant pedant, is not only the first person from whom we receive the rudi­ments of education, but is too often the last, to whose final care we are consigned, to receive that fine polish, to which our mind and manners owe their most distin­guished [Page 203] lustre—that moral enamel, which both brightens and preserves.

If I should ever be happy enough to see a son of mine at a fit age to send abroad, I shall endeavour to find out a governor for him, qui a vecú; I mean one who, with a complete experience of the world, has both sense and virtue suf­ficient to detest vice, admire virtue, and yield indulgence to the foibles and irre­gularities of youth and inexperience; whose morality should exceed

and whose principles of religion, though perfectly conformable to our established mode of worship, should, with regard to the best characteristic of it, know no dif­ference of sect, but extend itself to the [Page 204] outermost line of the great circle of cha­rity, which embraces all mankind.

You will, perhaps, say that I have drawn an ideal character, like that of a patriot king.—It may be so; but the person I should select for such a purpose, of entering a young man of rank or for­tune into the world at large, should be some reduced officer, whose humanity had been rather softened, than hardened, by danger and disappointment; one who had been trained up in the school of ho­nour, which may be styled the true su­blime of morals—And such a guardian, preceptor, or passport through life, I should prefer to the whole conclave of parsons; out of which class of men are too generally chosen the bear-leaders to our modern cubs of quality.—So much for governors.

[Page 205]I think you judge rightly, in not men­tioning Miss Cleveland to Sir George, while your amour with Margarita is so recent—There is something extremely indelicate in professing a passion for a virtuous woman, before we have under­gone a sufficient quarantine, after the con­tagion of an abandoned one—A man in such a situation resembles a centaur, half human, half brute—Or at best he can but say with Cyrus's friend Araspes, ‘"I have two souls!"’ Sir George is too good a judge of human nature, not to excuse your infatuation in favour of an artful beauty; but how shall Miss Cleve­land be reconciled to your infidelity? or on what security shall she rest her hope, that you may not be subject to a second delirium? Indeed, my dear Hume, a year is too short for a term of probation, [Page 206] or rather of atonement, though you were to spend it in the severe penance which your prototype Don Quixote endured, for the disenchantment of Dulcinea, upon the Black Mountain.

By the way, I think the constancy and sufferings of that renowned knight bear a much greater similitude to my suffer­ings than to yours; for I do not find that you resemble him in any point but your misadventures, which like his, were the natural and necessary consequences of madness, enthusiasm, and folly—I hope I may venture to say this without offence, as you have so seriously declar­ed your determination of becoming wise incontinently.

If any thing could have tempted me to leave Ireland, at present, it would [Page 207] have been to meet you in London; but as you have now a much stronger in­ducement than my company, to urge your return, I shall remain in what you call my sorrowful solitude, as it is now not only become pleasant, but dear to me; for solitude is sometimes the nurse of contentment, as well as of woe.

From this hint, you will conclude my heart to be more at ease, than when I wrote last to you, and your conclusion will be just.—It is, indeed, much more at ease, yet more anxious still—Love deals in contradictions you see.

I shall now conclude, with subscrib­ing myself, my dear Hume's

I Tell you, Lucan, there is no such thing as resisting fate—Here am I, with as good and sober dispositions as any man of two and twenty in Europe, for ever getting into some scrape or other, without temptation, or excuse; or even knowing how, or why, I became engaged! Well, then, a knight errant I certainly am, of nature's own dubbing, and I will now courteously relate to you, myself, for want of a 'squire, my new achievement.

But first I must acquaint you, that ever since our arrival here, Sir George [Page 209] Cleveland has been so totally taken up with some private business of his own, that poor melancholy I have been left to the pleasant amusement of contemplating my own extravagance, and folly, which has, you know, deprived me of the hap­piness of seeing, or conversing with his charming sister, who has met him here; and as I quitted Naples almost at a mi­nute's warning, I left old Robert to pack up my cloaths, and bring them after me.

In this situation I could not possibly make my appearance in public, or even venture to visit any of my quondam ac­quaintance, in my travelling-dress.—I spent two days, tout seul, and found an unlucky truth, that any company would be less dull to me than my own.

[Page 210]On this discovery I sallied forth, and in sauntering along the Boulevard, I happened to meet Jack Wilson, of the guards, who is as dissipated a genius as myself. I proposed to him our going to dine at some of the environs of Paris, to which he readily agreed—A chaise was ordered directly, we drove of to Noisy le Sec.

We walked about while dinner was preparing, and at a little distance ob­served a castle, defended by a deep moat, great iron gates, a draw-bridge, and im­mense high walls.—The appearance of this extraordinary mansion, roused my chivalry; I figured to myself a beaute­ous damsel confined there by some hor­rid enchanter, or giant, and determined that I would, if possible, set the fair cap­tive [Page 211] free. Wilson laughed at my ro­mantic ideas, but they had taken too strong possession of me to be easily baffled.

When we returned to our inn, we in­quired from our host, who were the in­habitants of that Gothic fortress.—He told us they were two very beautiful young ladies, of high birth and large fortunes, who being determined never to marry, yet disliking the severities of a convent, had chose to seclude them­selves from the world in that retirement.

He added, that the curiosity of all the neighbouring gentry, was so highly raised, that many attempts had been made to get a sight of these fair recluses, but in vain; for no mortal had ever seen [Page 212] them, since their arrival there, though it was known they walked in their gardens every day.

Curiosity began now to operate upon Wilson, as much as romance had done before on me, and we resolved that we would take a peep at these voluntary vo­taries of Madam Diana, coute qui coute—Many and various were the schemes which we framed, and rejected, for the gratification of our idle and impertinent inquisitiveness, during the course of that night: we lay in the same room, in or­der to continue our consultations; but when the dawn appeared, we were just as undetermined on what method to pursue, as we were at the moment we lay down.

[Page 213]We rose, and called our host into council, who assured us that the castle was inaccessible, unless we were mad enough to venture our lives by swim­ming over a deep fossé, which defended it in front, or scrambling through a thicket of briars, which prevented our approach on the other side; and that if we should even be able to subdue these difficulties, there was still an immense high wall to climb, which no man could get over without hazarding life or limb.

Opposition but increased our ardor, and we at last resolved to attempt the thicket, in preference to the fossé, as we thought we should make a better ap­pearance in the eyes of these supposed charmers, even with our cloaths torn, than after emerging dripping wet out of [Page 214] a dirty ditch.—And by the way, Lucan, I think that all the water in and about Paris, wants washing, as was said once, by a witty friend of mine. I never saw such a muddy puddle in my life, as their boasted Seine—The yellow Tiber, or the Bristol Severn, are crystal to it.

I will not detain you by repeating the fatigues and difficulties we suffered, in this attempt; suffice it to say that our cloaths were torn, and our hands, legs, and faces, as much scratched, as if we had made a party on the pantiles with a groupe of amorous tabbies.—But what are not patience and perseverance able to subdue?

In short we scaled the walls, and seated ourselves in a good pleasant arbour, in [Page 215] a corner of the garden, valuing ourselves on our heroic achievement, and impa­tiently expecting the reward of our toils, by being blest at last with a view of these fair vestals.

In a short time after we had made our lodgment in this redoubt, to our inex­pressible delight, we heard the sound of female voices talking in a chearful lively tone; and soon saw two ladies walking towards us, down an alley that fronted the harbour we were in.

But no language will ever be able to describe our amazement, when the speak­ers had advanced near enough to be clearly seen, and distinctly heard by us.—No idea either of Venus or the Graces, or Diana and her Nymphs, will suit the description—But if you can rumage up [Page 216] any recollection of Cybele, or for that matter you need not go so far back, as mother Shipton will serve as well, to re­present the two old hags, that appeared then before us.

‘"It must be enchantment,"’ said I, to Wilson.—He replied, ‘"I see nothing en­chanting about them; they are both ugly and old."’— ‘"No woman is old in France, remember that, Wilson; or at least let us endeavour to persuade these grannams that we think so, for civility is the only passport by which we can hope to get over the draw­bridge in safety.’

When they approached the arbour, perceiving us they started too, in their turn, and would have fled back, if their [Page 217] old shanks had been supple enough to have corresponded with their fears; but we soon quieted their apprehensions, by the mildness of our demeanour, and the frank confession we made of the romantic curiosity which had prompted us to this frolic.

Being thus recovered from this alarm, they both laughed immoderately at the aukward confusion which appeared in our faces; and one of them, addressing us with infinite good humour and vi­vacity, said, ‘"We are extremely obliged to you gentlemen, or rather courteous knights, for the perils you have encoun­tered, for our sakes; and also for convin­cing us that the noble spirit of chivalry, is not yet quite extinct in the world. Be­lieve me, we wish rather more earnestly [Page 218] than you, that we were possessed of those charms which you expected to have met with, in this galant adventure; but youth and beauty are transitory things, and with them we have lost the admiration of your sex, and merely in sport had yet a mind to try if it was not still in our power to occasion a disappointment as great, though not indeed so severe, as any young and beautiful coquette might make her lover feel. If I may judge by your countenances, I think we have so far suc­ceeded; and the only amends we can make you, for having sped our frolic, is to desire the favour of your compa­ny to dinner, and to promise to convey you back again, by a shorter and plea­santer road than you came, to Noisy le Sec, without any further damages than what the view of our persons seems [Page 219] already to have made you pay for your peeping."’

You may suppose how confoundedly silly Wilson and I looked all this while; but I was so much pleased with the spirit and good humour of this lively dowager, that I wished her thirty years younger, intirely for her own sake. We accepted her invitation with the best grace we could, and entered into a very chearful conversation with them both, during which they discovered that we were Eng­lishmen, and informed us, that they were our country-women. The one, who seemed to take the lead in every thing, is a sister of Lord D—'s, and had been, while she lived in England, an intimate acquaintance of my mother's—Who the other lady was, did not transpire.

[Page 220]Before we parted, Wilson and I both promised her not to disclose their secrets, if she chose to carry on the jest for any further time; but she gave us leave to publish it to our friends, if we pleased, as she meant to quit that place immedi­ately; said she and her companion were both tired of their voluntary confine­ment, and did not believe that, if they were to remain there seven years longer, any Frenchman would ever give himself as much trouble about them as we had had done.

I charged myself with some commis­sions, pour mes belles antiques, which I shall execute in England with the most knightly punctuality imaginable, and re­turned laughing to Paris, about an hour ago.—Robert is arrived with my bag­gage: [Page 221] I shall dress and go to the Co­medie, though I believe it will be near over, before I get there.

As I am resolved to attend Sir George Cleveland's motions, and that he seems to be upon the wing, I shall not expect to hear from you, while I remain upon the continent, but hope to find a pacquet from you, at my arrival in old England; till then, adieu, my dear Lucan, says

PLeasure! Joy! they are both ina­dequate to what I feel, from your account of Delia Colville! my brother! my beloved! my happy brother! what will his transports be! He may certainly say, with Lord Townly, ‘"Long parted friends, that pass through common voyages in life, receive but common gladness at their meeting—But from a shipwreck saved! we mingle tears with our embraces!"’ And surely the recovery, I might almost say the resur­rection, of the beloved and lamented Delia, is a still higher cause for rap­ture.

[Page 223]I should fear for his life, or senses, if this secret was in any other hands but yours—Yet even for you, I think it will be a difficult task to moderate his extasy—Were I now to meet him, I should fly into his arms, and cry out, She lives! I know you will not do so; but though you may restrain your tongue, will not your eyes betray the mighty joy? will they not sparkle with unusual lustre, and speak of Delia Colville? Mine do so at this moment, though their weak beams have long been quenched in tears.—I wait impatiently for another letter from you—Do but tell me they have met, and my mind will be at peace, for I shall then suppose, that nought but death can part them.

I do not wish to mix one gloomy line with this joyful subject, I shall, therefore, [Page 224] say little of myself.—I am recovering from my late illness, though slowly; Sir William is returned, in an alarming state; he fell from his horse, about a fortnight ago; his physician apprehends that he has received some inward hurt, as he spits blood ever since.—My attention to him is unremitted, he seems pleased with it; and I begin once more to flatter my­self that my Fanny's prediction may yet be verified.

Colonel Walter has renewed his visit, and made several attempts to speak to me alone, which I have happily evaded; for when I am absent from Sir William, I take care to keep Harriet constantly with me—I perceive he is mortified at my caution, in which, however, I am deter­mined to persevere.

[Page 225]Last night, when our letters came from the post the Colonel took them from the servant, and conveyed one out of his pocket into the parcel: quick as his motions were, this action did not escape me; and the moment I had re­ceived those that were addressed to me, I retired, and immediately enclosed the letter which bore no post mark on it, in a blank cover, directed to the Colonel, and ordered it to be instantly delivered to him. When I returned into the par­lour to supper, there were strong traces of resentment in his countenance, and he talked rather at, than to me, for the re­mainder of the evening.

This morning he went from hence, before I was up—Surely he will at length desist from an hopeless pursuit—Twice [Page 226] have his detested and unsuccessful at­tempts brought me near the grave—Heaven preserve me from a third! I shudder at the bare apprehension!

Your wishes with regard to my becom­ing Harriet's confidante, are almost ac­complished; for she has confessed to me that she corresponded with Lord Lucan during my illness, and also that she con­cealed my danger from him, as she judged what his sufferings would be, on that oc­casion, by her own.—Was ever any thing more truly delicate, than her endeavour­ing to save him pain?

She offered to shew me his letters; I refused to see them, and told her I had no doubt of his friendship for me, or the propriety and politeness of his [Page 227] manners towards her, but that I could not help observing to her, as a friend, without the authority of a parent, that I feared there was something inconsistent with the strict rules of decorum, in her carrying on such a correspondence.

She blushed extremely, and I could perceive there was something more still labouring in her artless bosom—Lord Lucan's picture came into my thoughts, at the same time, yet I had not resolu­tion sufficient to ask her a single question relative to it.

After a minute's silence, I saw that her face was bathed with tears, she caught my hand, and said, ‘"I have been much more imprudent, Madam, than you yet know of; but if you will be my [Page 228] friend, indeed—Alas! I have no other! and conceal what is past, from my uncle, I will tell you all my folly, and submit my future conduct to your di­rection."’—I gave her every possible as­surance that the tenderest friendship could suggest, and I know not which of us was most agitated during this scene—She owned her having lent my picture to Lord Lucan, at his most earnest intreaty, on condition that he should give her his; that he had kept his promise, but that she had been so unfortunate as to lose his gift; and that she had lived in perpetual apprehension, ever since, lest any acci­dent might betray this act of indiscretion to her uncle, or to me.—But that she still more dreaded its injuring Lord Lu­can, by raising a suspicion of his being her lover, when heaven, and she could tell, he had not such a thought!

[Page 229]Her colour rose to crimson, as she pro­nounced the last sentence with clasped hands and streaming eyes—I never be­held a more animated figure.—Generous Harriet! I said softly to myself, and my heart reverberated the sound—What pains has it cost her to defend the fide­lity of the man she loves, to her rival!—Yes, Fanny, I will emulate the virtue I admire; every effort of my life shall be exerted to promote Harriet's happiness, and from that pure and unsullied source I will endeavour to derive my own!

I confess I am pleased at being able to acquit Lord Lucan of the indiscretion of having made a confidante; his picture must have fallen into the hands of Co­lonel Walter, when Harriet lost it, and the vile artful wretch contrived to place [Page 230] it as a snare for me, and watched the moment.

How to recover it for the innocent owner, is now the question? I cannot think of any prudent, and therefore pos­sible means, of effecting this, at present. I can neither ask it as a favour, with a safe condescension, nor demand it as a right, without danger.

The variety of distressful subjects with which my late letters have been filled, have so much engrossed my thoughts while writing to you, that I have never mentioned a circumstance which has given me sincere satisfaction, the recovery of Mr. Creswell, Lucy Leister's lover—His father is since dead, by which he is now be­come Sir Harry Creswell— Ma chere amie [Page 231] est au comble de ses voeux, but delays the completion both of her own and her lover's happiness, till I am able to be pre­sent at the joining of those hands, whose hearts have long been united.

Sir William's indisposition prevents me from having their nuptials celebrated here, as the custom of this country would, on that occasion, require such an exertion of what is called hospitality, which is an­other term for drinking, as might be pre­judicial to him; and my attendance on him restrains me from going up to Dublin to her, so that our wishes alone can attend upon this happy union.

Sir William is not calculated for soli­tude; he is now debarred from field-sports, and every kind of exercise, and [Page 232] he seeks for amusement from books, in vain—That taste which can alone render reading pleasant, or useful to us, must be acquired in youth; the Muses, like the rest of their sex, resent neglect, and may be wooed, but not won, by those who only seek them as a supplement to more lively pleasures, ‘"Youth's the sea­son made for joy,"’ and for literature also.

Colonel Walter's housekeeper has been to visit Benson, several times of late, and has endeavoured, with a com­petent share of art, to discover how Mrs. Walter had escaped, and where she now is: you may suppose that she has not gained the wished-for intelligence—Ben­son would die sooner than betray me.

[Page 233]Harriet and I have often wondered that no hint relative to Mrs. Walter has ever escaped the Colonel—I am sometimes tempted to think that he believes us ignorant of that affair; but when I recollect his blushing, in the tem­ple, upon some hint of mine relative to it, I change my opinion.—What a heart must that man have! How black! and of course, how wretched! I am inclined to believe, that the wicked expiate a great part of their sins, in this world, by their constant fear of detection.

Sir Arthur and Miss Ashford are often with us. I begin to apprehend that she has a partiality for Colonel Walter, and am distressed how to act on this occa­sion—Should I speak of him as I think, she may attribute my sentiments, either [Page 234] to private pique, or a general love of slander, as I am not at liberty to ac­quaint her with those facts, on which my dislike to him are too justly founded—Yet will it not be an act of baseness, to suffer this charming girl to throw away her affections on such a wretch? Think for me, Fanny, and direct me how to conduct myself, in this critical situation.

Give a thousand loves and congratu­lations for me, to my brother, and his

Wishes for their happiness must be su­perfluous, yet they have mine most truly—accept the same from your ever

P.S. I find I cannot write a short let­ter to you—When I began this, I deter­mined not to exceed a page, but, like Eloise,

And wherefore should I restrain them, or debar myself from the greatest satis­faction I enjoy? I am not good catholic enough to have faith in the merits of voluntary penances, especially as I feel that I am not without my share of those that are imposed on us—No works of su­pererogation for me—Once more, adieu.

PARIS still, but on the point of quitting it, in a few hours.—My brother arrived here, on Sunday night, and with him—but no matter—He is not of sufficient consequence to interrupt a narrative in which we are all so much interested.—You may be curious tho'—Lord Hume then came with Sir George, from Naples! he has had a thousand ridi­culous adventures in Italy—I have not seen him yet, and do not know when I shall.

My eyes, as you apprehended, certain­ly told tales; for the moment Sir George saw me, he said there is a glad expression in my sister's face, that would almost [Page 237] tempt me to hope, beyond the bounds of reason; but, alas! Fanny, there is no redemption from the grave!

True, Sir George, I answered, but perhaps your treasure may not yet be consigned to that strong chest.—He caught my hand, and pressing it to his heart, cried out, it is impossible that you should mean to trifle with my anguish! Yet did she not expire at Amiens?

She never was at Amiens, I replied—Where! where then did her pure spirit take its flight, and quit her lovely form?—You must be more composed, Sir George, before I can talk further on this subject.—Why was it started, Fanny? Why are my wounds all made to bleed afresh? Can you delight in cruelty!

[Page 238]Far from it, you know how tenderly I sympathized with your distress, when I believed her dead—If there is a cause in nature, that can make you doubt it now, O! speak it quickly, and ease my anxious heart!

I have strong reasons to believe she lives, or I should not thus have alarmed you—My friend, Mrs Walter, has seen and conversed with a young lady, of the name of Delia Colville, in a convent at Saint Omer's, who may be her.

He dropped upon his knees—and ex­claimed—Gracious Heaven! but realize this blessed vision, let me no longer mourn my Delia's loss, and unrepining will I then submit to all that fate or fortune can inflict upon my future days! [Page 239] Speak, speak on, my sister! and say again that you believe she lives!—Indeed I do believe so, my dear brother—He rose and caught me in his arms, while the large drops ran plenteous down his cheeks—Tears relieved us both.

I then proceeded to acquaint him with those circumstances which I have already informed you of; as I thought I might now venture to speak to him with more certainty, and that I felt too much pain in keeping him longer doubtful—His transports increased, and it is utterly impossible to give any idea of the excess of his joy.

It was with difficulty I could prevent his going at midnight to Lord H—; but though I prevailed on him to defer his [Page 240] visit till morning, I could not persuade him to go to bed, or attempt to take any rest or food, except a little wine and water, and the whole night was spent in repeating what I had told him before, and re-reading Mrs. Walter's letter.

Selfish mortal! as he is, he barely mentioned his having extricated Lord Hume out of some doleful disasters, that befel him at Naples, in which an opera-singer was the principal performer.—But what consequence could he suppose the story to be of, to me?

Though I neither am, or ever mean to be connected with his Lordship, I am pleased that my brother saved his life, and that by his means he has got quit of an artful woman, who might pro­bably [Page 241] have ruined his fortune; and I have a kind of satisfied pride also, in think­ing that he is so much indebted to our family.

I am afraid there is something mean in the above reflection—but I am not now at leisure enough to trace it back to its source—at some other time I will fair­ly and philosophically investigate its na­ture, and receive or reject it, according as I find it derived from a good or bad origin.

Long before the ambassador's ser­vants were stirring, my brother attempted his door, and I think he returned three times before his excellency was visible. As soon as he had acquainted him with his business, Lord H— very obligingly [Page 242] set out with him, for Versailles, and has promised to get the order for Delia's en­largement as much expedited as possible.

My brother, as you may suppose, re­mains in waiting, till it is finished, and is then to call on me, and fly to St. Omers, without staying for the return of the chancellor's messenger from Tou­louse. I have sat all day in my travelling dress, as I would not delay him for any consideration.

I mentioned your joy on the recovery of Delia; he returns your love, an hun­dred-fold, and says he will write both to you and Sir William, as soon as his spirits are a little more composed.

I fear to attempt answering my dear Louisa's letter, at present, as I expect [Page 243] to be summoned by my brother every instant.

His carriage turns into the porte co­chere, this moment. Adieu,

THOUGH I have been here three days, my head is still giddy with the violent motion and emotion I have gone through, since I left Paris.—We set out the moment I had sealed my last letter to you, and travelled with as much expedition as French roads, horses, and post-boys would permit. Sir George [Page 244] was determined to stop at Amiens, and notwithstanding the certain assurances I had given him that his Delia was alive, he seemed to be strongly agitated when we drove into the town.

He inquired from our landlord, whe­ther he recollected a young English lady's dying there, at such a time? And being answered in the affirmative, the colour forsook his cheek, he fell almost lifeless on a settee that was near him, and sighed out, ‘"Ah Fanny! why have you deceived me!"’

I could not help being provoked at his weakness, and told him I did not know that he was to be a mourner for all the young English women that should die in France; that I was perfectly convin­ced [Page 245] Miss Colville was alive and well, or I should not have set out on our present expedition; but if he was inclined to think otherways, he had better not pursue the journey any farther.

He replied, with his usual mildness—

But my reliance on you has banished my apprehensions, and I now only de­sire to inquire into this affair, to know by what means Mrs. Colville could avail herself of a stranger's death, to carry on the vile deceit she has practised.

Our host, like most others, was very well inclined to be communicative, and informed us of the following particulars; that on such a day, the diligence that [Page 246] goes to Paris, stopped at his house, and set down a very pretty young woman, who was so extremely ill, that she was not able to travel farther; and that not­withstanding all possible care was taken of her, she expired on the fourth day after her coming there.

They had discovered before she died, that she was an English heretic, as she absolutely refused to let any of their cler­gy attend her during her illness; but they knew not even her name, nor whom she belonged to; and though her cloaths and effects were sufficient to defray the expences of her funeral, yet as she was not a catholic, she could not be interred in consecrated ground; and mine host, to use his own phrase, said he was in a perfect quondary, to know how he should dispose of the body.

[Page 247]But as good luck would have it, a lady and her maid arrived at his house the next day, in a post-chaise—As they were English, he acquainted them with his distress; and the maid was sent to look at the dead person, in order to know if she could give any account of her—She returned to her mistress, and they were for some time shut up together—At last the lady herself went to look at this lifeless beauty, and the moment she saw her, she gave a loud scream, and ran back into her apartment.

Some time after, the maid called for him, and told him that it was her lady's daughter who had died there, and gave some hints of her having eloped from her friends—She desired that every thing might be prepared in the best manner, [Page 248] for sending the body to England; and strictly charged him not to let any per­son go into the chamber where she lay, but those who were immediately con­cerned about the body.

She added, that he might dispose of the young lady's effects as he thought proper, except a small trunk, which con­tained only a miniature picture, a pocket book, and some letters; and the lady would pay all the necessary expences on this melancholy occasion.—Every thing was then done as she directed, to the mutual satisfaction of mine host, and that burier of the living and robber of the dead, Mrs. Colville.

I have not now leisure to expatiate on this extraordinary coincidence of circum­stances, [Page 249] yet I must observe that fortune seemed inclined to favour Mrs. Colville's deceit, by the particular situation of the young woman at Amiens, whose inter­ment had imposed on all Delia's friends, even on her lover, and prevented any further inquiry about her.

I dare say you are by this time very impatient to get us to our journey's end; but don't be in a hurry, Louisa, for our haste in setting out before the next day occasioned a very disagreable delay, as it brought us to the gates of St. Omers, an hour after they were shut, and obli­ged us to pass a miserable night, in what they call an auberge, but in our coun­try, I think it might more justly be stiled a barn.

[Page 250]At last the wished-for morning came, and we pursued our way directly to the convent.—It is impossible to give you any idea of my brother's emotion—When we were shewn into the parlour, I desired to see the superior—I know that I must not stop here to give you a description of her person, but indeed she is a fine old lady.

As soon as she appeared, I delivered the king's mandate to her, which she read with great dignity, but not with­out surprise; and said if she had been im­posed on, with regard to the young lady in question, she was not to blame; and added that she was ready, on the instant, to obey the king's order, by delivering Miss Colville to my care.

Sir George in a transport exclaimed, ‘"Let me but see her, Madam"’—There I [Page 251] interposed my negative, for Delia's sake, as I feared the effects which so unexpected an interview might have upon her spirits.—It was therefore at last agreed to that I should go into another parlour, see Mrs. Walter, and send her to prepare De­lia for such a joyful event.

Our amiable friend soon came to me, and I have the happiness to tell you, that she is most wonderfully recovered; but, in pity to my brother's impatience, I scarce waited to inquire her health, be­fore I appointed her the messenger of glad tidings to our dear Delia.

She returned with her, in an instant; but when the lovely girl beheld me, she could not speak; she made an effort to put her hand through the grate, and funk down on a chair that stood near her— [Page 252] Tears came to her relief, and she at last articulated, ‘"O, my beloved Fanny! my more than sister!"’ At that word she blushed, and hid her face, as if to wipe away the tears.

I instantly replied, you are, my dear, the sister of my choice; and by that ten­der name, and for my brother's sake, I beg you to compose yourself—He is now in the house, and most ardently longs to see you, but must not be indulged at the expence of injuring your health, by an increase of agitation—If you were calm, he should appear this moment.—I am quite calm, she said, and fainted away.

I do not think I was ever so terrified in my life—By the assistance of the nuns [Page 253] she was brought to herself in about ten minutes, and, by the superior's permission, Sir George was admitted into the par­lour with me—I thought their meeting would have killed us all—Even an old nun wept, while she administered drops and water to the whole company.—I feel myself too much affected, even at this instant, to be able to repeat the no-con­versation that passed at the time. Sir George embraced me, as if I had been his mistress, and Delia clung round Mrs. Walter's neck, calling her deliverer, guardian angel! &c.

When our transports had a little sub­sided, I proposed our adjourning to the inn, till we could be accommodated with private lodgings; for we had before agreed to wait the return of the chancel­lor's [Page 254] messenger at St. Omers, as it was absolutely necessary that my brother should have a little rest, after his fatigue both of mind and body—But he was not fated to taste repose as speedily as I then hoped for.

I received Miss Colville in due form, from the hands of the superior, by whom many compliments and apologies were made to her late prisoner.—Delia's beha­viour was charming, for instead of re­proaches for the severity she had suffer­ed, she returned thanks for the great care that had been taken of her, and took a most polite and even affectionate leave of the whole community.

Mrs. Walter and Olivia accompanied us to the inn, and we passed the day in [Page 255] mutual congratulations, and in mora­lizing on the providential series of inci­dents that had procured Delia's deliver­ance—But towards evening we all per­ceived a visible change in her coun­tenance, and before midnight there ap­peared strong symptoms of a fever.

My brother was almost distracted; my heart bleeds for him—Should she again be torn from his fond heart, I think it would be impossible that he should sur­vive the second blow—But I will hope the best—He has not gone to bed, since we left Paris; he never stirs from the ante-chamber of the room where she lies, and looks so dreadfully, that I am shock­ed at seeing him.

The physicians here say that she is not in danger, but they are so miserably [Page 256] ignorant, that I cannot rely on their judgment in a case where I am so sin­cerely interested. Mrs. Walter and I sit up by turns, and never leave the dear invalid a moment; I fear she suffers from her concern for us, but she promises, and I hope will perform her engagement, to be well in a few days.

On the very day that we took her out of the convent, there came a letter from her mother, intreating the superior to send Delia to some other nunnery, and charging her to deny her ever having been there, to any person who should in­quire after her.—Thank God, we have counter-acted her wicked scheme, and I trust he will restore her to our prayers and wishes!

[Page 257]Again excuse me, my Louisa, for not entering upon the subjects mentioned in your last letter, as the present situation of our beloved brother, and adopted sis­ter, engrosses all my thoughts, and I can­not even allow a minute's attention to what appears a very extraordinary cir­cumstance, which is Lord Hume's fol­lowing us from Paris, and lodging direct­ly opposite to us, at St. Omers! He sends five or six times a day to inquire Delia's health, and writes a letter once a day to Sir George.

I can't help being pleased with this appearance of attention and good-nature to my brother, and at the proper respect he shews, in not taking the advantage which he might, of obtruding himself into my presence, under pretence of visit­ing his friend.

[Page 258]Why, O why, has he foolishly depriv­ed himself and me, of what once appear­ed to have been so great a pleasure to us both! But that is past—I do not, nor I will not, think of him—

P.S. You know that Sir George, Mrs. Walter, Delia, and Olivia, all love you, forgive me then for uniting their af­fections with mine, and presenting them in one bouquet together, instead of of­fering them to your acceptance in de­tached sprigs.

Delia has slept all the time I have been writing; she wakes this moment; she is much refreshed—I fly to tell Sir George.

OUR fears have been much increas­ed for Delia's life, since I wrote last, but, thank Heaven, they are now happily over; her disorder turned out to be the measles: the physicians have pronounced her out of danger, and all our spirits are attuned to the sweet har­mony of love and joy—If I had not been witness of them, I should not easily have credited an account of the extravagan­cies which Sir George was guilty of, dur­ing her illness.

I find, Louisa, that when these philo­sophic gentlemen are thrown the least [Page 260] out of their bias, they are not a bit more steady than ourselves; and ‘"Hang up philosophy"’ should be the motto of them all, whenever their passions are thoroughly interested.—But not to treat my brother too severely, his was a very particular case; and had his treasure been snatched from his arms, almost in the moment he had recovered it, the trial would, I think, have been too severe for human fortitude.

The messenger returned from Toulouse while Delia was in the utmost danger; we did not therefore at that time trouble ourselves to inquire what Mrs. Colville had said, or done, on this extraordinary occasion; but we are since informed, that she absolutely insists on her daugh­ter's being dead and buried, and denies [Page 261] her having placed her in the convent—It is shocking to think how very near she was to speaking truth, at the very time she uttered this falsehood.

She sent off another express to the su­perior of the Ursulines, with a letter to tell her, that more than her life depend­ed on her steadiness in denying her ever having received Delia into the convent; and promising to give a thousand guineas to the foundation, provided she took care to secrete her effectually.

The good old lady has put this let­ter into my brother's possession, and he in return, has made a present to the sister­hood of five hundred pounds.—This paper would be proof sufficient against Mrs Colville, if we had not a still more [Page 262] undoubted evidence in the person of our dear Delia.

The moment her health is established, we shall return to England, and, notwith­standing my joy at her recovery, shall quit St. Omers with regret, as I can­not prevail on my beloved Mrs. Walter to accompany us.—She and her sweet lit­tle girl are perfectly idolized in the con­vent; and I fear if Mrs. Walter's situ­ation would admit of her taking the veil, that she would certainly pass the remain­der of her days in that quiet asylum.

To prevent this, I wish long life to the most worthless being upon earth—I should not specify Colonel Walter here, if Mrs. Colville were not alive.—I wish they were married together, and then I [Page 263] am pretty sure there is not a pair, in the drawing-room of Pandaemonium, that would not readily give them due place and precedence—But I will have done with these infernals—and now for your long, too long unanswered letter.

I hope by this time Sir William's re­covery has removed the anxiety you must necessarily feel on his illness, and released you from a confinement that might pos­sibly injure your health—Were it not for these considerations, I know of few of­fices more pleasing than attending a per­son we love, in slight disorders—There is something extremely flattering to a generous mind, in the idea of adminis­tering relief to another's pains—To

What a delightful employment! and when crowned with success by the reco­very [Page 264] of our patient, we are conscious of a certain exultation in the mind, which can only arise from the certainty of hav­ing done what nature claims, and cha­rity enjoins.

I have of late experienced great plea­sure in the execution of this duty, from my attendance on Mrs. Walter, and De­lia, and am therefore inclined to elevate the office of nurse-tending, by placing it amongst our rational pleasures, and rescuing it from the mean character of one of the mere duties of life.

Yet I fear I shall make but few con­verts to my opinion; especially amongst the gay world, who, looking upon it in such a servile light, rank it with fasting, penitence and prayer; and too often postpone them together, till they may [Page 265] need them all themselves, and then are left, in their turn, to the care of servants and other mercenaries.— Mais assez sur ce point.

If Miss Ashford be a woman of sense, you run no hazard in trusting her with your opinion of Colonel Walter, though she were ever so much in love:—If she be weak, she stands more in need of such a friendly warning; and if she should break with you, in consequence of it, I think you may easily console yourself for the loss of such an acquaintance, by re­flecting that you acted from a spirit of friendship, of which she has shewn her­self unworthy.

I perfectly approve of your conduct towards the person himself; and am, for your sake, glad to exculpate Lord Lu­can [Page 266] from the weakness, might I not add the dishonour, of having made a confi­dant.—What a charming girl is our Har­riet!—I must call her so; for indeed, I have a very great claim to her affection, from having, unsolicited, bestowed so large a portion of mine on her, which I hope, when she is Lady Lucan—don't start, Louisa—and her heart quite at ease, she will generously repay.

Now, pray let me be indulged in talking a little of myself, et mon pauvre amant humilié et humiliant,—for I be­lieve one, and confess the other.—My brother has informed me of Lord Hume's misadventures at Naples; the particulars of which I shall not trouble you with at present, as they are nothing different from the too general pranks and hazards of youthful spirits, and may serve us better [Page 267] to laugh at, on the first tête-a-tête we may ever have the pleasure of enjoying together.

I bestow a generous wish that Sir George's notion about this matter may prove true; that as he has not only seen, but felt, his folly and extravagance, he may be more likely to act prudently, for the rest of his life, than if he had never erred.

This is a maxim universally propa­gated, and may in some instances be true; but I can scarce think it a sufficient found­ation for a woman of sense, to build her happiness on—To a man who has been accustomed to the artful blandishments of an abandoned woman, I should much fear that the delicate endearments of a [Page 268] wife would appear as tasteless and in­sipid, as true wit to the epigrammatist, or the sweetest viand to the spiced palate.

But all this is merely matter of specu­lation, and of no manner of consequence to me; for Lord Hume has never yet attempted to pay me a visit, either at Paris, or here; and Sir George has not hitherto been in a situation to invite him, especially as, from a very proper deli­cacy, he has never acquainted him with the circumstances of Miss Colville's story; and though we set out from Paris at the same time, he kept different stages from us, all the way.

The account that my brother has just given me of that particular, is this, that they had agreed at Naples, to travel to­gether [Page 269] to England, but on their arrival at Paris, and his hinting to him that I had come to meet him there, on account of some singular piece of business or other, he had immediately estranged himself from any further connection with him; saying, after his lively manner, that as he looked upon himself to be in the nature of a redeemed knight, he thought it his bounden duty to attend his deli­verer, in the quality of an humble 'squire, till he had escorted him safe into his own country; but should wait upon him at such a respectful and unprying distance, as might leave the privacy, both of his conversation and transactions, perfectly free from any manner of restraint.

My brother, you know, was abroad, when our affections commenced and [Page 270] grew together, while I was under the matronage of my aunt Marriot; when he returned, I had not courage enough to acquaint him with a secret, which would better have become Lord Hume himself to have informed him of, as they have ever lived on the most friendly terms to­gether; and in the present situation of the affair, it would be extremely indis­creet and absurd to breathe the least hints of it now.

Our childish affections, as they must naturally be formed without judgment, are generally unfortunate attachments, as they sometimes leave such traces on the heart, as a long life of maturer reason can scarcely wear away; and to you I will not blush to own, that were it not for that fatal letter which Lord Hume wrote [Page 271] to me from Naples, and which is as in­delibly engraved on my heart as the first impression he made there, I could again be weak enough, were he to solicit it, to reassume those rosy fetters which I fan­cied our juvenile hands had formed suffi­ciently strong to hold us both for life.—But that letter, Louisa! I cannot forget it—I must therefore try to forget the wri­ter of it!

I am, however, vastly pleased with the delicacy of his present behaviour.—I told you, in my last, that he lodges opposite to us; he is generally planted at his win­dow, but whenever I approach mine, he bows and retires immediately.—He has, it seems, no kind of business in this place, but stays here from the mere possibility of his being in some degree, or by some [Page 272] chance or other, useful to my brother, to whom he thinks himself everlastingly indebted for his kindness to him at Naples.

Gratitude cannot exist in a base mind.—How then can gratitude and ingrati­tude subsist in the same heart?—How can the same man run so far in ar­rear to the account of love, and be so ready to overpay the debt of friendship? Were he a man hackneyed in the ways of the world, I should not be so much sur­prised at this inconsistency of charac­ter.

Men of galantry, I have heard, con­sider women as bigotted catholics do heretics, and hold no faith with them;—And that sweet line which Shakespeare has put into the mouth of the innocent [Page 273] Juliet, is repeated, with perhaps an equal degree of contemptible exultation, by the abandoned courtier, and the apeing cit,

But Lord Hume is young, and youth is the spring of virtue; at least it is the season when we are most liable to feel

in consequence of our trespassing against her laws, by injuring the peace or hap­piness of others.

But I am myself trespassing against her first emotion, that of self-preservation, by dwelling on a subject which must for ever be productive of pain, notwith­standing my repeated efforts to blunt the arrow's point.

[Page 274]I congratulate you on the near pro­spect of happiness which opens to your friend, Miss Leister—May it terminate in the possession of all her wishes! I hope she is by this time Lady Creswell; and that my sweet little Harriet had the pleasure and honour of being her para­nymph—I consider this office as a step to advancement, and I suppose most young ladies are of my opinion, as they are generally very desirous of it.

I think I have now, though slightly, touched upon every article of your last letter; and I hope to find a pacquet from you, at my return to Dover-street, and that soon, very soon after, I shall be able to give you an account of the joining of a pair, whose hearts are, I believe, as firmly united, as any that ever took [Page 275] hands, from the first wedding in Eden, down to this present day.

Adieu, my dear Louisa; you are loved and remembered by all here, but by none more affectionately than

HERE I am, and here, like a fool as I am, I have been loitering, these three weeks, without any kind of business or pleasure to pursue, or even a creature to converse with, except honest old Saunders, who wonders mightily at my lordship, for passing my time so lone­somely, as he phrases it.

[Page 276]You will, perhaps, wonder too, till I inform you that I have the pleasure of seeing Fanny Cleveland, every day—Don't envy me, Lucan! for I am only permitted to gaze at her, across the street, where we both live, at present—I wish I had a little of the fascinating power of the basilisk in my eyes, that might make the dear girl throw herself into my arms; and may I perish if I would injure her, when she was folded there.

But how came I here in the midst of my friends, alone, you'll be curious enough to ask? To which I can make no other answer than to repeat the hint I gave you, from Paris, with regard to some mystery or other, relative to Sir George's concerns. It cannot be any af­fair of galantry, or a sister would not be [Page 277] his confidante—it cannot be a business of honour, or I should probably have been let into the secret—we may fairly conclude then, that it must certainly be some second love engagement, or other, of difficulty, which his romantic punc­tilio may not leave him yet at liberty to divulge—For he appeared to be one of the knights of the sorrowful countenance, as well as your lordship, when I met him first at Naples—However that matter may be, I have taken care, ever since his reserved communication to me, never to distress him by my visits; and though we travel the same road together, I may be rather said to attend on, than accompany him, all the way.

I remember when my infatuation for Margarita was at the height, your [Page 278] telling me that I loved Fanny Cleve­land notwithstanding—I was surprised at an assertion then, which I now find to be true—But allowing this fact, which I suppose she must be certain of, as well as you, by my hankering after her at this rate, and the timid respect I treat her with, from my window, which is directly opposite to her's—

Don't you think she uses me rather too severely? But all lover's are unreason­able—and false one's deserve mortifi­cation.

Though perhaps it may be my own fault that I am kept thus aloof; for I am such a bashful penitent, that I have not courage enough to desire leave to [Page 279] wait on her, though surely some favour­able interval might be contrived, even amidst the occupation of the most secret family intercourse, to afford sufficient leisure for the common decencies of friendship, or politeness.

I would give any consideration that the [...]rst interview was over, end as it may; but I do noturge it, though I am con­vinced that Sir George knows nothing, either of the engagements, or the breach, between his sister and me—I wish I could pluck up heart of grace enough to tell him all about it. For, as I told you before, he is a very sensible man; and though he had lately some honour­able attachment or other, and may per­haps have entered into a new one since—without any manner of imputation—for [Page 280] constancy to the grave, is both madness and folly—yet I think it is at least ten to one, that he has had some little gayeté de coeur, in the Margarita stile, himself, at some time of his life, and therefore would not make such a fuss about a man's having strayed a little out of his road, on a common, as his prudish sister might do, who to be sure, like all other Dianas, steers exactly by rule and compass.

I wish you were here, this moment, to advise me how to conduct myself un­der my present difficulty, for I am in con­founded aukward circumstances; and though you pretend to be a much modest­er youth than me, I will be hanged, were you in my situation, if you would not extricate yourself much easier than I can possibly contrive to do.

[Page 281]But whither has my former undaunted spirit taken its flight to, of late? I had once the courage to give a bold affront, and yet tremble now at the justice of asking pardon for it—Thus conscience, conscience, Lucan, makes cowards of us all.

If they get over to England before I have obtained leave to wait on Miss Cleveland, it is all over with me; for I may visit Sir George seven years, and never see his sister. My last resource must be to get into the same pacquet-boat with her, and pray most devoutly for a good storm, in our passage, that we may be cast away, and that I may have an opportunity, like Jaffier—

Or else, that the waves may swallow me [Page 280] and my folly together, and so leave no trace behind of your affectionate friend,

P.S. You are so confoundedly dry, and uncommunicative, that I have left off asking you any more questions about your mistress—If she should turn out a diavola, like mine—I mean Margarita—I am sure you won't be such a simpleton as to tell me; and yet it would be but good-natured of you, to let me laugh in turn.

Write to me, however, and direct to Almack's; for I hear we are all to set out for old England next week.

ST. Omer's still, and my tutelar Saint shall Omer be, as long as I exist—Little did I think, my dear Lucan, when I concluded my last letter, that I should write to you again from this place, where the dull uniformity of my life seemed nothing calculated to afford the least sub­ject matter for another line; but chance—how much are we all indebted to chance!—has happily furnished me with materials sufficient to write an epic poem, if I were but as good a poet Homer as, who must certainly have taken his name from this place— H non est litera, you know—For I insist upon it, that the burning of three real good and substantial houses in this [Page 284] town, is to the full as interesting a sub­ject, to all mortals now living, as the famous conflagration of his imaginary Troy.

I further affirm, that Helen was but a sun-burnt dowdy, to the lovely Fanny Cleveland, whom I, happier far than any hero, living or dead, have just now re­scued from the flames! and that the gentle Delia Colville is much handsomer than Madam Andromache, who, I think, ranked next to her in beauty; that Sir George Cleveland is as brave as Hec­tor; and that your friend Hume, is at least as much in love as monsieur Paris: I do not mean either the Taylor, or the Saint of that name, but the very identical Trojan, with whom Leda's daughter ventured herself on ship-board, as my adorable Fanny will presently with me.

[Page 285]May prosperous gales attend our Ar­gos; a richer sure than ever sailed from Colchis! for I do not now stand in need of the machinery of a storm—The glorious element of fire has purged away my foulness, and, like the asbestos, I am rendered pure again. My Fanny, too, rises a new-born phoenix from her nest.

I am in such spirits, Lucan, that I find it impossible to give you a rational ac­count of this charming adventure—Suf­fice it then to say, that I had the hap­piness—that expression is too faint— an­agogy ^* is the word—to save my Fanny's life! may I not add—I dare not pro­nounce it—She must, she will be grate­ful; in her soft looks and downcast eyes, I read my pardon signed—The regards [Page 286] of anger are erect and fierce; those of disdain, oblique and scornful—But Fan­ny's eyes! they never were so beautiful as now—scarce raise their lovely lids, and only sparkle through their sable fringe, like stars in a clear sky.—I think that is a poetical image; beat it, Lucan, and I'll allow you to be about half as much in love as I am.

I cannot stay to scribble any more to you, rejoice with me, congratulate me, and believe me yours, sincerely

P.S. If I ever recover my wits again, I'll deal out the particulars of my trial ordeal—but believe me I would prefer my present inebriation to all the sober sense that ever was, from Solomon down to Samuel—need I add the sir-name of Johnson here?

I Received both your letters, my dear Hume, by the same pacquet, and as I think it much pleasanter to congratulate than condole, I shall only reply to the last of them; for if you are, as I now be­gin to think, a true lover, your present happiness must have banished every trace of your former disquiet.

You have, indeed, my lively friend, been mightily indebted to chance, and I hope you will pardon me for saying, that it has done more in your favour than you had any right to have hoped for—But you careless fellows sometimes pro­fit more by getting into scrapes, than we sober ones do by keeping out of them.

[Page 288]I think it requires the utmost effort of disinterested friendship, not to envy you the happiness of having been service­able to the woman you love—And such a woman too! whose generous nature can be softened into a forgiveness of in­juries, by the small merit of having done an act, that any man in the world, though not a lover, would have been proud to have performed. But who is Delia Col­ville, pray? This is another personage added to your former drama—being her first appearance on the stage—But she must be the new mistress of Sir George, I suppose, whom you hinted at before, and so that mystery is unravelled at last.

Helas! que mon sort est plus bizarre—The object of my adoration has been ill, dangerously ill, for some time; and I [Page 289] have not even dared to express my sor­row for her sufferings, or relieve my anxiety by incessant and minute inqui­ries about her health—We are many, many miles, asunder, almost at the oppo­site extremes of this kingdom; and I am debarred even the poor indulgence of lamenting by secret correspon­dence, the pangs I hourly feel from ab­sence—But she is the ruler of my desti­ny, and I will not murmur or repine at whatever she shall ordain.

Do I not then deserve that chance or fortune should do something in favour of such an humble and patient sufferer, as I am?—Yet what can it do for me! circumstanced as my unhappy passion is, it must be criminal even to hope that those insuperable bars which now [Page 290] divide us, should ever be removed—And yet my weak, my guilty heart, even at this moment, feels a gleam of joy, in thinking that there is a chance, which soon may set her free—Let me not dwell upon the subject, or breathe a wish that must render me unworthy of her.

I have received an invitation to attend the nuptials of an intimate friend of mine, who has been long in love with a very amiable young woman, but till now, ‘"With-held by parents."’—Though utterly unfit for any scene of festivity, I cannot refuse this summons, as I am truly interested in the happiness both of the bride and bridegroom—I shall, therefore, set out immediately for Dublin. The wedding will be ce­lebrated [Page 291] a few miles from it; but di­rect to me there.

And if you have yet descended from your hyperbolical heights, pray let me have a simple news-paper paragraph about the fire, and the facts that at­tended it. Your hopeless state has been bettered, I find, by the same unnatural means that the wretched farmers of this country use with their land; when their crops begin to grow thin, they burn it. But you are a lucky fellow in every thing—Even your ill behaviour to Miss Cleveland, turns out now to your ad­vantage—A woman affords an irrefra­gable proof of her love, who forgives such an affront; for if she does, believe me, that 'tis her own passion, not your chivalry, that has recovered her to you.

THANK you, my Fanny, for the pleasure I have received from all your letters, but particularly for the last, which announces the glad tidings of Delia's recovery, of my brother's ap­proaching happiness, and of your return to England.

You will see, by the date of this, that I have made an excursion from South­field, since my last—Sir William, who is now, I hope, in a fair way of recovery, has at last consented to Lucy's most ear­nest and repeated request, and has kindly permitted me to attend her nup­tials [Page 293] —He intends to pass the time of my absence with Colonel Walter—I am sorry he has chosen him for his companion, but what arguments could I oppose to his inclinations?

On my arrival in Dublin, yesterday morning, I was met by my beloved Lucy, and her beloved lover—I never saw de­licate happiness so strongly impressed upon elegant features, as it appeared in both their countenances; yet there was a little mixture of timidity in Lucy's eyes, which abated their vivacity, but encreased that charming look of sensibi­lity which is the natural result of refined tenderness—the most irresistible of female charms.

Harriet, who came with me, is in high spirits; she is to have the honour [Page 294] you wished her, of being bride-maid, on this occasion—Young girls are always delighted at the prospect of a wedding, and consider that most solemn and hazardous act of our lives merely as a festival—When, alas!—But this wedding will, I hope, and believe, jus­tify their opinion, and make a holiday for both their lives. Amen, Isay, with all my heart!

Mrs. Layton, Lucy, Harriet, and I, came here yesterday, in my coach. This morning I have been all about the place, and never saw a sweeter spot; the pros­pects are delightful; there is an ample view of the bay of Dublin, and of the opposite hills, which for many miles are richly cultivated and adorned with numberless gardens and villas—There [Page 295] is nothing in the environs of London, half so beautiful; as neither the Thames or Medway, can pretend to vie, in beauty or in grandeur, with the ocean.

This lovely seat Sir Harry Creswell has just purchased, and settled it as a jointure house, on my fair friend; leav­ing his family-mansion to descend in the usual course, to his heirs male.—I am pleased with the propriety and delicacy of this action, as I have always thought it extremely cruel that a woman should be obliged to quit her house, on the death of her husband, and be as it were turned adrift in the world, at the time she has lost her chief stay and support in it.

Sir Harry is to dine with us here, this day, and to go back to Dublin, [Page 296] which is just six miles off, at night: to­morrow he returns here again, to part from his Lucy no more. The ceremo­ny is then to be performed in a neat private chapel within the demesne—Miss Creswell, a sister of Sir Harry's, is to be the other bride-maid; and his bride-men, whoever they are to be, will I suppose, attend him hither.

I hear a carriage driving furiously, and am not yet dressed—It must be Sir Harry—Lovers are impatient—'Tis he, indeed; but can I believe my sight? Lord Lucan with him! My fate pur­sues me! O Fanny! I can write no more.