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WHY, thou dear Don, all Dons ex|celling, from Don Bellianis of Greece, to Don Dismallo Thickskullo Half|witto, of Spain, how shall I be able to accommodate my style to thy romantic strains? Upon my life, Charles, a few such lovers as you would be sufficient to
restore the golden age of chivalry once more, and reinstate our mortal sex in their former rank of deities; altars and oblations would soon become the ton, and the grand tour be exchanged for pilgrimages to our shrines.
But for my own part I should never be able to endure such formal modes of proceeding—I should hate to be stuck up in a niche to be prayed to. I dare swear that, as music is generally a con|commitant of devotion, I should be tempted on the sound of a fiddle to step down, take my kneeling votary by the hand, and frisk a cotillon with him.
Your Julianas, and your Emmas are the right sort of people for such Platonic courtship—Gentle creatures, who are apt to sigh and look pale by the hour, with|out being able to tell why.
But now, to relieve part of your fond anxiety, I shall acquaint you that the fair Juliana's health is better than when I wrote last to you; though I cannot flatter you with the least hope, that her disposition towards you is the least amended by her getting the better of her indisposition—And therefore, my dear, dear brother, let me seriously en|treat you to resolve upon conquering this same—I was very near calling it a nonsensical passion—hopeless, you acknow|ledge it to be; and there needs nothing more to render it synonymous.
Why you out-do Petrarch himself in constancy—For dame Laura, notwith|standing the sublimity of her virtue, co|quetted a little with him now and then; and whenever she thought that her cru|elty would kill—or cure him—she treated him with a kind glance, or a few civil speeches, to keep him and his hopes too
from expiring.—Have you met with this charming book? the Life of Petrarch I mean—'Tis universally, and I will say justly, admired; because Mr. Stanley, who you know, brother, ecce signum, has a good taste, ag••ees with me in thinking it one of the most entertaining works that has been published these many years—and yet I would not have you read it; because I fear the delicate and tender sentiments it abounds with, might serve to super-refine you too much.
I am all impatience to know whether Miss Harley went with you to Ireland, and how you like the people and the country, &c. &c. &c.
I shewed your letter to Emma, and she seemed to feel a little jealousy at your not addressing it to her instead of me; but I told her, what I believe to be true, that the hint was equally meant
sor us both; and may say, with regard to Madame Dupont, that it was needless to either; for from a thorough know|ledge of her character, in which I confess I had been much deceived, we have con|ceived a mutual dislike to her—This however she either does not, or will not, see; for she continues to visit my sister Desmond very frequently, who is much too gentle to express her disapprobation of Madame by any stronger means than cold civility, which would be to me as forbidding as rudeness—but Madame laughs away with Sir James, and takes not the least notice of Emma's pouting—upon my honour, if I was in Emma's situation, I should do some|thing more than pout; I am sure I should go so far as to shut my doors against her; and indeed every one ought to discountenance her; for it is certainly true, that Lady Morton, who was one of
the fondest mothers, is at this moment boarded and lodged in a little hovel near London, to prevent her being thrown into gaol for debts which she contracted to indulge the vanity of her worthless daughter, who neither sees nor affords her any other kind of consolation—From my heart I pity the young man who is married to her—A bad daughter never did, or will, make a good wife—A defect in principle runs through the whole mass, in morals as well as chemistry. Gratitude is the most natural of all virtues; because it is the first affection that children become susceptible of.
Do you know that Emma and Mr. Stanley are both jealous of our cor|respondence, though I shew them your letters—but not my own—for I hate to
be corrected, and my husband is a critic, you know: and so adieu,
My dear Charles,
LUCY STANLEY.
P. S. Lady Juliana is gone to her brother's seat at Richmond, for a few days.
THOUGH you have changed hands, and seem more inclined to ad|dress yourself to Lucy than me, I will not, even to her, my other, better self, relinquish the pleasure I have always re|ceived from your correspondence; and though she and I are but one, in the common interests of life, I must insist upon preserving a separate and exclusive claim to the continuance of your former friendship.
The fullness of my heart requires a confidant—Happiness admits of parti|cipation more than sorrow—
For grief is proud, and makes its owner stout.
While felicity looks humbly round for objects on which it may diffuse itself; grief contracts, but joy dilates the mind—Then let me pour into your breast the effusions of my own, and tell my friend, with transport tell him, there never was a happier man than your brother.
O Charles! the treasures of my Lu|cy's mind have been concealed till now; beneath the mask of gaiety she hid the tenderest, noblest feelings of the heart, the justest sentiments, and the most per|fect female understanding—I glory in doing justice to her sex—Wherefore do blockheads affect to compliment a wo|man
of sense, by saying she has a mascu|line understanding? Learning cannot bestow either sense or genius; if it could, we should not have so many drones and boobies issue from our colleges.—Sense is the common of two, and not confined to either sex—suppose it then equally be|stowed on both, women must surely have the advantage over us; the purity of their minds and morals must render it less sophisticate than ours, which is even in our early youth debauched by vicious indulgences, and clogged with scholastic systems.
Did you imagine that I should ever become such a champion for the ladies?
But what can't a charming woman do?The discovery of your sister's uncommon merits, which were con|cealed by modesty alone, have rendered me such an enthusiast with regard to wo|men, that I cannot address a chamber|maid
without some degree of respect.—You may laugh, if you please, but I speak truth, upon my honour.
Is Miss Harrison a woman of sense? If she be, I should wish you were united to her. I think you formerly mentioned her being very lively—What a charm, when added to propriety, and gentleness of manners.—I sincerely long to see you as happy as myself, if that be possible; for I cannot help doubting, whether, to take her for all in all, there is such an|other woman upon earth as my Lucy.
It would be the art of sinking to men|tion any other subject. I shall therefore conclude, with entreating to hear from you speedily, and subscribe myself
Your happy friend, W. STANLEY.
Dublin.
MOST willingly, my friend, do I return to my colours, and renew a cor|respondence from which I have ever re|ceived the sincerest pleasure, though no part of it ever afforded me more than your last letter—O Stanley, how much are you to be envied! But envy is a mean, contemptible vice, and utterly in|compatible with friendship; I therefore
do not envy, but rejoice, in your felicity, though certain that I am for ever barred from tasting bliss like yours; for well I know that heart-felt happiness is only to be found in a tender and virtuous con|nection with the object of our love and esteem; and that, alas! can never be my lot—My youth must pass away in gloomy, dreary, pining discontent. Would it were passed, and that like Aetna, though my bosom flamed, my head was crowned with snow.—Here let me drop the painful subject, and never, never, reassume it more.
After a very agreeable journey, which would have been still more so, had we not been encumbered with Miss Harley—Heavens! that any thing which bears that name should be to me unpleasing!—We arrived at Holyhead—But I shall not attempt to describe the delight|fully romantic wildness of the country
through which we passed to it—From thence we embarked for Dublin; and without storm, tempest, or any other si|nister accident, arrived there in about eight hours. As Miss Harley has taken up her abode at Captain Harrison's, I have declined his friendly entreaties to become his guest, but am lodged very near his house in Kildare-street.
Yes, Stanley, Miss Harrison is very sensible; she has what I call a true feminine understanding, and is therefore more capable of inspiring love, than those ladies who are complimented with a masculine one. For I must dissent from your opinion, that there is no character|istic distinction between the understand|ings of the sexes—Manly sense has some|thing awful in it. When Dr. Johnson speaks, we listen with respect and admi|ration, and feel our minds impressed with such an attentive kind of veneration, as
I imagine was paid to the oracles of old. When Mrs. Montagu, in the purest and most elegant language, delivers senti|ments equally just and sublime as his, we are surprised and delighted; the grace|fulness of her manner seems to add beau|ty to her thoughts; her words sink into our hearts, like the softest sounds of the most perfect harmony, and produce the same placid effects.
I have now illustrated my opinion by the two most striking characters, in point of understanding, that this, or any other age has produced. The difference be|tween masculine and feminine under|standings appears to me as perfectly dis|tinct, as the contrasted style of excellence which is observable in the Apollo Bel|videre, and the Venus of Medicis.
I am extremely distressed by Miss Harley's conduct, or rather misconduct
—She certainly obtruded herself upon the Harrisons contrary to their inclina|tions; though their humanity and good breeding would not permit them to re|fuse her accompanying them to Ireland. During our journey, and ever since our arrival here, she has seemed to affect a particular attachment to me, yet talks perpetually in an ambiguous and ran|corous style of Lady Juliana.
Simple woman! were I even indif|ferent to her charming sister-in-law, I should detest her, for the malignant dis|position she hourly betrays—She throws out frequent hints of her having some-thing particular to communicate to me; but I am resolved never to listen to the envenomed tale, for such I am sure it would be.
In a short time I shall be freed from the irksomeness of her company, as Cap|tain
Harrison and I have agreed to make a tour of this country and visit some of the natural beauties it contains.—This scheme I trust will answer a double purpose;
for I have such a perpetual source of disquiet in my own breast, that rest is grown painful to me, and a state of agitation only affords me relief, by rescuing me as it were from myself.
In a few days I shall answer Lucy's lively letter, and am to her and you, a sincerely affectionate friend and brother,
C. EVELYN.
Dublin.
O MARIA! how do I curse the day that I left my own country for this land of savages.—Though, to be just, I must allow that the once highly favoured Evelyn is a more inhuman being than any I have yet seen here.—What an escape had you, my dear girl, of this same isicle? I really begin to think that his heart is "soused in snow," as Ma|dame de l'Enclos says of Sevigné, which neither your bright eyes or mine can thaw. I am sincerely
sorry that I have given myself so much trouble about such an insensible wretch.—I could almost go mad with vexation, if it were not for the comfortable remem|brance of his having slipt through your fingers, when you thought yourself al|most sure of him—pardon me, Maria, for confessing that this circumstance abates my mortification a little.
To you I will further own, that I was prompted full as much by spite, as love, to endeavour at this conquest; and I would still give a finger, nay, a whole limb, to rob that affected insipid lady Juliana of his affections; even if I did not care six pence for the man.—Heavens! how I hate her and lady Desmond: I am sure they are both hypocrites—but the men are such ideots as to admire these flat pictures of still-life, and prefer them even to you or me.
But I beg pardon for abusing your friend Lady Desmond; for though I am certain you cannot really like her, yet I hear you are vastly intimate.—For my own part I detest the whole race of the Evelyns, next to my sister-in-law.
You will, I dare say, expect some account of these Harrisons that I came over with.—The girl is naturally lively, and tolerably agreeable: I fancied, at first, that she was in love with Evelyn, and hated her accordingly; but I begin now to think I was mistaken, though she professes a tender friendship for him.—Ridiculous!
Captain Harrison is handsome and well-bred; but has a strong turn to ri|dicule, which I believe is a national qualification.—He sometimes rallies Evelyn, who is really the knight of the sorrowful countenance, upon his me|lancholy
and reserve; but his rallery has no effect—how should it? nothing can penetrate that obdurate heart.—I now wish that I had bestowed my affections on the Captain; my fortune, at least, would have been a desirable object to him, though it is none to the savage Evelyn.—But it is too late to think of that at present, for both the brother and sister have observed my attachment to this iron man.
I don't know why, but I don't be|lieve either of the Harrisons like me, though they are extremely civil to me; but that is no proof of regard from the people of this country, as their hospi|tality is unbounded to strangers, who generally laugh at, and despise them, for their officious kindness.—I shall avail myself of their generofity by staying here some time, if it were only to persecute Evelyn; for, alas! I am persuaded, that
all my perseverance will answer no other end.
Write to me, my dear Maria, and give me a full and true account of every thing that you think will raise my spirits, and enable me to support the mortifica|tions I daily suffer.—You know the sort of intelligence from whence alone I can derive comfort.
How does your Caro Sposo? is he as civil and as silly as usual, or has he as|sumed the lordly airs of an English hus|band? You were very fortunate, Maria, in meeting with such a pis aller * * * *. Don't be angry, my dear girl, for I am so much out of temper, that I can't help being peevish even to you: I really am, nevertheless, your sincere friend,
ANNE HARLEY▪
Richmond.
THE transient gleams of returning health and chearfulness, which I boasted to my Lucy, are again vanished, like the morning dews before the rising sun.
The joy I felt at seeing a much loved and long absent brother, was of that species that I hoped might have been in|dulged, without fearing to taste of those bitter dregs that have ever been largely mingled in my cup. For above these
three weeks, in this sweet retirement, with him and his friend Lord Somers, did I enjoy such a tranquil kind of hap|piness, as made me almost forget that I had been wretched.
The unhappy separation between our parents on account of their religion, had occasioned the same misfortune between my brother and me.—My mother, who was a catholic, when she parted from my father, took me with her to Dijon, where I remained till heaven was pleased to deprive me of this most indulgent pa|rent, and teach my youthful heart to feel too early sorrow.
At twelve years old I returned into England to my father, who, though possessed of every virtue, had an auste|rity of manners that rendered him more the object of my fear than love. My
brother was all kindness to me, heard all my little complaints, and soothed my private griefs. Judge then, my Lucy, how I loved him?—When I was about seventeen we underwent a second separa|tion.—He was sent to travel—had he staid in England, I think I should not have been what now, alas! I am.—But that is past.
After what I have said, will you not doubt my veracity, when I tell you that, within these ten days, that once kind and tender brother is become cold, distant, and reserved to me, and treats me like an alien to his heart! and all because I cannot bestow mine upon his friend Lord Somners.—Hourly I am persecuted with the flippant addresses of this unge|nerous peer.—How highly is Mr. Evelyn's conduct, towards me, exalted by so marked a contrast!
Lord Somners is about seven and thirty, and has lived abroad these twenty years; his dress, manners, and attendants are all exotic; his person is far from being disagreeable; but then he seems to think of it more highly than it deserves, and has sometimes dropt hints of my being engaged in a prior attachment, from my regarding his attractions with so much indifference. He bows, sighs, and sings, in a regular routine, and is, in short, the most complete petit-maître I ever had the misfortune to converse with.
You will naturally imagine that I might easily silence such a lover, or at least bear his impertinence with silent contempt; but with all the seeming vo|latility I have described, he possesses a dark, subtle, and, I fear, a treacherous heart.—He has gained the strongest as|cendancy over my brother's mind, and is perpetually poisoning it with the most
acrimonious resentment against me.—How this affair will end, with regard to the latter I mean, I know not; but this I am certain of, that no power on earth shall ever compel me to enter into any engagement with such a man as Lord Somners. Having once been led a trembling victim to the altar, where all my peace and happiness were sacri|ficed, I never will renew that scene of guilt, and its attendant, misery, again.
I would quit Richmond instantly, and go—I know not whither—but that I fear to offend my brother; my tender|ness for him, is so mingled with re|spect, that there is but one subject on which I should feel it possible to dissent from his will, or to know that I had one of my own. I ask no dominion even over myself, but of the negative kind; and surely every independent being has a right to that at least. Yet if my bro|ther's
infatuation should tempt him to abandon me, what would become of your unhappy friend?
J. HARLEY.
I WISH I was a conjurer for your sake, my dear Juliana, but as I hap|pen not to be invested with any of the occult qualities, and do not know a word of the Cabala, I find it impossible to comprehend your incomprehensible lady|ship—I confess myself such an absolute ignoramus, as not to understand why your health and spirits should decline, because your brother has proposed your marrying a foolish Lord, whom you dis|like.
—For my own part, I think I love Charles Evelyn as well as any sister loves her brother; but had he taken it into his head to propose my marrying any no|ble Lord, whose name and title was re|gistered in the Court Calendar, I should have answered, No, brother, I thank you, I beg leave to chuse for myself, and not be directed by an almanack—And had he thought proper to grow sulky upon such denial, I might have been a little sorry for the disappointment of his va|nity, but, I will venture to say, I should neither have lost my rest, appetite, or spirits, upon the occasion—And yet you know that till the other day I was but a simple spinster, and you are a grave, and, I wish I could say, wise relict, and have therefore a better right to judge for your|self; particularly, as I believe your in|clinations were not much consulted in your former connection.
Indeed, Lady Juliana, you treat this matter much too seriously, and from thence it has acquired a degree of im|portance, which it is by no means in|titled to—Surely you have not only a negative, but an absolute power, over yourself; and if your brother is worthy of that respectful tenderness you feel for him, he cannot resent your exerting your right, where your happiness, and your's only, is concerned.
Be assured of this, my good friend, that it is our submission which enables men to become tyrants—we have ourselves only to blame—and yet you gentle ones are not entitled to the merits you affect to have, as you yield more from indolence than resignation, and never comply without repining.
There's Emma, for instance, who I think has caught the sighing sickness
from your ladyship; she spends all her mornings in lamenting the mortification she will suffer in the evening from re|ceiving Madame Dupont, and some others of Sir James's gang, whom I think as bad as highwaymen, merely be|cause she has not resolution to order her doors to be shut against them.
In vain do I remonstrate to her, that an appearance of habitual melancholy is more likely to alienate her husband's af|fections, than her venturing to express her dislike of his companions can possibly do—she answers—"she never did, nor ever will, oppose his inclinations"—so broods over this moral sentiment, and sits pining all day in a corner,
Like to the culver on the bared bough.
Perhaps it is because I am plentifully gifted with both, that I think spirits, and spirit too, absolutely necessary to render the marriage state happy—
Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless; As well may heavenly concert spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass.
I would not wish you to imagine, from what I have said, that I have a mind to play Termagant myself, or that I would wish any woman I love to un|dertake the rôle; far from it, I assure you—but I would wish my whole sex to think, act, and speak like rational beings, and not furnish the men with an excuse for treating us like babies while we are young, and despising us as ideots when we are no longer so.
But to return to your present situation,—I would by all means advise you to throw off the self-imposed restraint you labour under, and seriously acquaint your brother with your dislike to Lord Som|ners;
at the same time, gently requesting that he will prevent his right honourable|ness from persecuting you with his addres|ses. If, after this, they should still persist in their obstinacy, order your carriage di|rectly, and do not stay moping and fret|ting at Richmond.
I rejoice that any thing has made you think favourably of my poor Charles; for my own part I condemn his conduct, as being infinitely too romantic; but the object or heroine of his romance ought to see his folly in a kinder light; and I am pleased you do so. How much do I wish it was in my power to improve that kindness into love—be assured I would not desire to do so, if I did not think that your union would contribute as much to your own happiness as to his. Re|member, my dear Juliana, that this is the first time I have ever gravely touched
upon this subject—and I will now drop it for ever, if it offends you.
I know I need not apologize for the length of my letter—Country ladies love to have a great deal for their mo|ney, and I am sure you will esteem this a tolerable pennyworth.
Adieu, my dear languid friend; rouse your spirits, and come amongst us, or I shall very shortly step to Richmond, and use a little gentle force to draw you from beneath the mournful cypress, or the weeping willow.
L. STANLEY.
SURELY, my dear Miss Harley, this unfortunate passion of your's has disturbed your mind a little; for in your sober senses you could not have imagined that I ever had any seri|ous thoughts of such an animal as Charles Evelyn—Slipt through my fingers, say you? Give me leave to tell you, that if I had chosen to have held him, neither you nor your delicate sister-in-law
would have been able to have wrested him from me—but I hate your water-gruel, whining, sentimental men, and therefore never could have been your rival.
However, I sincerely pity you, because I am convinced that your's is an hopeless passion; and to be sure it is rather mor|tifying to be rejected, especially at a time of life when one cannot hope to make many new conquests—Excuse me, my dear, but after thirty, you know, the bloom does wear off a little, and then the fruit is not quite so tempting.
My Pis-aller, as you are pleased to call him, is the very best husband in the universe—Foreigners, in general, are better tempered than Englishmen, and not so much infected with jealousy—this is a lucky circumstance for me, as I
confess that I have still a little remain of coquetry, and cannot find in my heart to quarrel with a man for thinking me handsomer than his wife; particularly when poor Lady Desmond is so horridly mortified at the preferences I receive.—The secret is out, and I know you will thank me for communicating it to you.
Your sister-in-law is at her brother's seat at Richmond—Lord Somners has proposed for her a great match, I assure you, and which she poor simpleton has refused, because she don't like the man:—As if, dans ce siecle, it signified who one married, provided there be a good for|tune to help one to support it. A hand|some woman will always have a number of admirers; and she must be hard to please, indeed, if in a croud she don't meet with one she can like. Marriage, formerly, my mother says, used to put an
end to gallantry; but in these happpier times, it commences even with our bri|dal days; and many a girl who passed unnoticed while she was only Miss, is courted and followed from the moment she is styled Mrs.—Therefore, my dear Harley, get rid of the forbidding appel|lation as soon as you possibly can—The Hibernian swains are generally supposed ready to assist a monied lass upon such emergencies; and I am sure you cannot make a better use of your fortune, than by sinking the opprobrious title of an old maid under the name of Mrs.—Any thing—
Apropos of Hibernia—I wish you could find out some part of that country, no matter how wild or remote, where I could place my mother to diet and lodge at a cheap rate—For my dear Dupont is sometimes unhappy at hearing of her distressed situation; and if she was re|moved
into another kingdom, he might know nothing of her circumstances, and I would endeavour to persuade him that she was perfectly happy—besides, the old lady has still some friends living, who speak hardly of my want of attention to|wards her; and tho' I don't value the censure of the world, my husband is made uneasy by it, for he wishes every one to think as well of me as he does himself; but you know that's impossible in such an ill-natured world, and I there|fore only laugh at all their malicious reflections on my conduct.
I perfectly agree with you that the Ladies Juliana and Desmond are a couple of hypocrites, but I think Mrs. Stanley worse than either of them; tho' hypocrisy, indeed, is not one of her fail|ings—She has written me a card, in an|swer to an invitation of mine, civilly for|bidding me her house! while Lady
Desmond, who has I own some cause to hate me, receives me with such an icy kind of politeness, as would freeze, or rather petrify me, if the warmth of Sir James's reception did not make ample amends for the bleakness of her lady|ship's air and manner.
I am grown extravagantly fond of play—Unluckily, Dupont dislikes it—In truth, he knows nothing of the matter; but his politeness makes him easily pre|vailed upon to fill up a corner at a whist|table, while I enjoy the delights of loo, or pharo, without controul.
You don't know how much you are obliged to me for devoting so much of my time to you at present; for as I am the only female of my party, I am sure they wait for me, and so does my car|riage to whisk me to them.
Adieu, my dear Harley; remember to enquire for some place to stuff my mo|ther into, and believe me
Your's, M. DUPONT.
P. S. If Lady Juliana had not marred her own fortune, by refusing Lord Som|ners, I should have done it for her, by dropping a few suspicious hints to his Lordship, who is an intimate acquaint|ance of Dupont's, and frequently visits here.—There is no pleasure like de|molishing a prude—but half my satisfac|tion is destroyed, by knowing that she don't like the man—yet it may mortify her pride a little to know that he thinks ill of her—It shall be done.
I TAKE up the pen to address you in the same manner that Queen Anne's ministers used to Lord Peterbo|rough, and write rather at than to you.
I hope you are by this time set out on your tour, and think it highly probable that this may find you measuring some of those stupendous lusus naturae, vul|garly called the Giant's Causeway—as if dame Nature, who is an admirable oeconomist, ever used two means to pro|duce one end, and first made giants
merely to lift these massy piles of quarry, which most assuredly grew in the very spot where you will find them. We have some such superstition, I think, with regard to Stonehenge also; but, like all other traditions, it is only believed by the ignorant; though, by the way, the learned have not yet been able to tell us how those huge pillars were conveyed to Salisbury plain; and I can hardly suppose them to have started up there of their own accord; though there are a sort of philosophers who liberally en|dow stupid and sluggish matter with both thought and action.
Now for matters less conjectural.—The case is pretty plain, I think, with regard to Miss Harley; yet on the face of the evidence I am apprehensive she will be nonsuited, for I well remember that hers was not a beautiful one some dozen years ago.—I pity her sincerely, however; all
unsuccessful passions are intitled to com|passion, and the distresses of a female interest our humanity, much more than those of our own sex. There certainly cannot be a more aukward or mortify|ing situation for a woman, than that of being in love with a man who dislikes her. There is in this, as well as many other cases, an unjust distinction made between the sexes, as there is a certain degree of disgrace attached to the idea of a rejected female, while a man may be refused by half a dozen ladies, and pay his addresses to a seventh, with as good a grace, as if she had been the pri|mary object of his affections.
I am ready to agree with you with regard to the effects produced by differ|ent modes of masculine and feminine elocution, for that is the sole distinction you have made, in your favourite in|stance,
between the two great geniuses you have named.
There is no sex in souls, and though Milton has been pleased to tell us, that on woman nature has
bestowed Too much of ornament, in outward show Elaborate, of inward less exact. For well I understand in the prime end Of nature, her the inferior, in the mind And inward faculties, which most excel.
I must beg leave to dissent from him, nay more, to say that he accuses Provi|dence of a particular partiality in the disposal of his intellectual gifts, between the human race, which is by no means visible in any other part of the animal creation. All instinctive qualities appear|ing to the full as strong, and as acute, in the female as the male, through every species of the animal world—Why then
should we conceive that the highest order of beings, that inhabit this terres|trial globe, should be more unequally dealt with? It is clear, at least, that Milton did not reason from analogy.
Superior strength of body appears to be the portion of the male through all degrees of existence; from hence, and hence only, they have arrogated to themselves an authoritative command over the weaker part of their species—but Providencc, ever equal in the distri|bution of its bounty to his creatures, amply atoned for this seeming partiality, by endowing the female part of the creation with beauty, to "subdue the strong," tame the ferocious, and make their boasted strength of no other value, but as it serves for the preservation and protection of the favourite female and her helpless offspring.
I think I have now established the sexes upon an equal scale, and fixed my proposition beyond the reach of contro|versy, I mean with regard to their natu|ral endowments, without the least atten|tion to the adventitious circumstances of education, which I am thoroughly per|suaded makes all the difference between what is styled a masculine and feminine understanding. From you, who are a lover, I cannot expect any opposition to the opinion I have advanced, but rather a folio of thanks for having raised the dignity of your fair-one's nature, to an equality with that of the self-named lords of the creation.
I have devoted so much of my paper to the honour of the ladies, that I have scarcely room to tell you that I earnestly wish for your return to London. There is something the matter between Sir James and Lady Desmond, though she
is much too good a wife to reveal the cause of her discontent either to Mrs. Selwyn or my Lucy; but that there is a cause, is perfectly apparent to them both; and they fancy she would be more com|municative to you than she is to them.—Indeed, I fear Sir James is posting to destruction; the company he keeps must sink his mind as well as his for|tune.—Lady Desmond is much to be pitied; she is now in the drawing-room with both her sisters: they all join me in wishing your return, and in sincere af|fection,
W. STANLEY.
THE deed is done, Jack! The re|version of Lady Desmond's jointure is sold, manor, house, and all! Chancel|lor Henley used to say, that a marriage settlement without trustees, was one of the cobwebs of the law, for there never was a woman who might not be kissed, or kicked, out of her consent to part with it. Henley was a wise man, and peace be to his manes.
But though this point has been gained, I am not much the richer for it; as Sir
James has been admitted of the club at Boodle's, and has played pretty deep with his usual ill luck, so that if it was not for his attachment to Madame Du|pont, which keeps him often at home, I should not have shared any part of the spoil.—He has entirely got out of my hands, and therefore I must take care of myself. I shall put his bond in force while he has any money left to pay it; but as this will make an absolute breach between us, and that I hate quarrelling with an old acquaintance, I shall set out for Bath a few days before the money is demanded, and if it is not paid on de|mand, I shall leave orders to have him arrested immediately.
I rejoice to hear you have such a noble harvest, and reap so plentifully; another labourer in the field may, I think, now be of use, as even fools are apt to suspect a player who always wins.—I think it
would be prudent in you to lose a little, if you can do it with a tolerable grace; but as you are apt to be peevish, you had better stay till I come, and let me win from you—you know we are to pass for strangers to each other—but all these matters we shall adjust at meeting—'till when I am yours,
G. SEWELL.
IT is all in vain, my Lucy! your kindness, your friendship, and advice, are all thrown away upon one who is fated to be unfortunate.—If I can, I will methodize the story of my present dis|tress: I begin from the receipt of your last letter.
As I had not resolution to speak to my brother, I wrote to him in the ten|derest terms, expressing the sincerest concern for having offended him, yet
positively persevering in an absolute re|fusal of Lord Somners.—Soon after he had received my letter he came into my dressing-room, and spoke more calmly on the subject than I expected.—He told me I should be released from his friend's importunities, but that in return for his giving up a point he had so much fixed his heart upon, he insisted upon my answering truly any question he should ask me.—I promised to comply with his request.—He then fixed his eyes sted|fastly on me, and asked, Did you never receive the addresses of a Mr. Evelyn? I was all confusion, and hesitatingly an|swered, Yes—before I was married.—Aye, and since too, Juliana—or my in|formation is false. Alas, my brother! I replied, that Mr. Evelyn is no more. He died within a fortnight of Mr. Har|ley.—He answered, I am satisfied; and left me.
We dined tête-à-tête,—and were to|lerably chearful; in the evening some com|pany came; I exerted my spirits to the utmost of my power, and retired to rest rejoicing that the impending storm was blown over, and flattering myself with a succeeding calm.
Yesterday we dined at Lord H—'s, and did not return 'till pretty late in the evening: my brother received a parcel of letters the moment we came home, and retired to read them; I amused my|self with playing on the harpsichord, 'till I was informed that supper was served.—On my entering the saloon, I saw no one but the servants, and enquired where their master was? I was told his Lord|ship was writing, and did not chuse to sup.—I sat down for form-sake, and in a few minutes desired them to take away.—During the short time I sat at table, I heard a little bustle in the hall, and
the sound of a chaise driving off.—I felt somewhat like curiosity upon this occasion, but asked no questions.
When the servants were withdrawn, I took up a book, and waited with an anxious kind of expectation for my bro|ther's coming into the room, till I heard the clock strike twelve—then rang the bell for Watson to attend me to my chamber.—When she came into the room I fancied she had been crying, but as I could not guess for what, I made no enquiry; but on my dressing-table I found a letter directed to me, and know|ing the address to be my brother's hand, I opened it with infinite perturbation—the contents were as follow:
I have received the strongest confir|mation of your falshood: Mr. Evelyn lives!—Lives to detest a woman, who, lost to all sense of her own, and her fa|mily's
honour, is become as much an object of contempt to him, as to her injured brother, R—.
P. S. I have quitted my house to avoid seeing you, nor will I ever receive a line from your contaminated hand.
Now, Lucy, judge what I must have felt, what I still feel, from this enve|nomed dart! yet I know not the shaft from whence it came; for, heaven so help me at my greatest need, as I with truth affirm, I do not know a person living that I have ever injured.
Yet I will own my punishment is just, and would with patience bear all that the hand of malice can inflict, were I the only sufferer—but my loved brother, he
is wounded too, even in the nicest point! Wretch that I am! I have undone his peace.
Do not write to me, Lucy; the mo|ment I have sealed this I shall quit this house for ever.
Watson is a perfect Niobe I cannot prevail on her to go to bed, though it is five in the morning.—With the dawn I shall depart.—I have left a few lines for my brother.
I intreat you to conceal my distress from Mr. Evelyn; I know it would afflict him.
The morning breaks.—
While night, even in the zenith of her dark domain, is sunshine to the colour of my fate.
J. HARLEY.
DEAR Maria, the men say that the purport of a lady's letter is always con|tained in the postscript; and were it not for that part of your last favour, I could not have forgiven the matronly airs you assumed in the rest of it—but the kind assurance you give me of mortifying that hateful prude, my sister-in-law, has bound me for ever to you—I am persuaded if we were acquainted with her real history, we
need not be obliged to invention to blacken her character; but she is a con|summate hypocrite, and has cunning enough to keep her own secrets; so that a shrewd guess is all we have for it, and I think we have a right to make free with that.—Do not spare her, Maria, I entreat you—I am sure if she was to be married to Lord Somners, it would break my heart.
Tho' I shall soon be entitled to be called your Ladyship as well as she, you see I am resolved to take your advice, and not, like Jephtha's daughter, con|tinue to bewail my virginity any longer.
Tho' the bloom is a little worn off, as you say, the fruit is still tempting enough to captivate a baronet, of one of the first families in this land of genealogers.—Sir John O'Shaughnasy has laid his laurels
at my feet, and opened his honourable trenches in due form before me.—He has been a soldier in the Empress of Germany's service, and has reaped more honour than wealth from the field; but that is of little consequence, as my for|tune is quite sufficient to maintain us in affluence in this country, where every thing is much cheaper than in England. My swain has all the manners of a fo|reigner, speaks French and German flu|ently, is above six foot high, and comely with all.—These little circumstances are not amiss, in my mind; for I cannot quite agree with you, "that it don't sig|nify who one marries." I only wish I could change his name, for the sake of my English friends, who I am sure will pronounce it horridly; tho' I am cer|tain my spouse-elect would as soon part with his life, as alter a single letter of it.—But every one has their foible, and this I think is my baronet's only one.
Do you know that the brute Evelyn has left Dublin without even bidding me farewel—He carried off Captain Harrison with him, and their intentions were kept as profound a secret from me, as if they were going to invade an enemy's coun|try.—I believe the sly Miss Harrison was in the plot against me; but I am suffici|ently revenged on her, by robbing her of Sir James O'Shaughnasy, who had dang|led after her for some time—A pretty Miss, indeed! with her three thousand pounds, to think of being a lady! thank heaven, I have ten times that sum to be|stow upon my worthy knight.
I will, if possible, be married before Evelyn returns; for to say truth, I would not wish to see him in company with my lover, as I fear the comparifon might shake my resolution; and if he were but to speak kindly to me, I might perhaps
be fool enough to break with the baro|net—but do you think there is much danger of such an event?
I rejoice also at your mortifying Lady Desmond—she is the second object of my aversion.—You are very lucky in be|ing married to a Frenchman; I fear if I was to amuse myself with a little co|quetry, my baronet would be jealous, as he is so distractedly in love with me; and it is not enough the mode here, for married women to be galant, to fami|liarise the idea to him.
When I go to my husband's castle in the country, I shall obey your com|mands, by looking for a proper place to settle Lady Morton in; but, take my word, it shall be far enough from me, for I hate poor relations, and I think her ladyship claims kindred with my mo|ther.
As you love me, Maria, proceed with caution against Lady Juliana; too much zeal often hurries us into mistakes; a hint well thrown out, is frequently more successful than a story unsupported by evidence; and, as I have already said, we have no other foundation to build upon but guess-work.
I have returned your compliment, by devoting time to you that is extremely precious to me; as I am certain my fond lover is now waiting with impatience to behold me enter the Rotunda, which you are to know is an humble imitation of Ranelagh.
In haste, your's, ever— ANNE HARLEY.
Killarney.
YOUR letter, my dear Stanley, found my imagination more agreeably occupied than you predicted, as I was just then returned from viewing the beauties of the lake, which takes its name from this town—Believe me they are past description; and every attempt that has been made to express the various ef|fusions
of nature, in the different scenes that constitute the whole, falls infinitely short of the originals—Neither the poet's pen nor painter's pencil have yet been able to give an adequate idea of this transporting spot.—
Here nature wantons, as in her prime, And plays at will her virgin fancies.
The beautiful and sublime are here mingled in the superlative degree; the great Creator's works, unspoiled by art, rush on the mind, and fill it with delight and awe.—These mixed sensations over|came my spirits, nor do I blush to say I found relief from tears. I should look upon a man who could behold this scene unmoved, to be deficient in some part of his organization, and pity him for his na|tural incapacity.
I shall not fear to be thought an en|thusiast upon this subject by you, who have sublimed your ideas as far as they can reach upon a more exalted ob|ject—
—Fairest of creation! Last, and best, of all God's works.
Believe me, I am highly charmed with your arguments upon this charming subject, and think with you, that if we reason from analogy, we must give up our boasted superiority, and admit of an intellectual equality between the sons and daughters of Adam. This position granted, give me leave to say the scale must neces|sarily preponderate in favour of the softer sex, since all we have left to put in equi|poise against their
beauty, winning softness, and attractive grace,amounts to nothing more than bodily strength, and the few advantages that may be de|rived
from a liberal education—The first can never be opposed to them; and the latter, by refining our ideas, renders us but the more susceptible of their charms and endearments. To sum up all, wo|men are, and ever have been, the so|vereigns of the world. But even mo|narchs are sometimes rendered unhappy by the vice or folly of their subjects; and the hint you give me, with regard to my beloved Emma, has alarmed me vastly—not that I doubt her reigning sole and absolute in her husband's heart; it is his weakness, not her strength, I fear.—Perhaps he has again been drawn into play, and in consequence of his folly, his circumstances may be again distressed; I know that Emma's tenderness will share his sorrows without upbraiding; she will mourn in secret, nor even, to a sister's ear, reveal her husband's faults.—Gentle sufferer! thou shalt be re|lieved.—
Be assured that Emma would take as much, nay perhaps more, pains to con|ceal any difficulty she may labour under, in pecuniary matters, from me, than any other person, and that from a point of delicacy.—It was honest Sewell, not she, that informed me of Sir James Des|mond's circumstances while I was at Bath; from him then I wish you to find out the situation of the baronet's finances; I think they cannot be much embar|rassed, as his debts were all cleared upon his going to London, and if he is not quite a lunatic, he cannot have involved himself greatly since.—
But no matter what the sum is, if it be within my power—For of what use, but to make others happy, can my fortune be? Alas! it cannot render me so!
Your not mentioning Lady Juliana in any of your letters I take unkindly;
it is treating me like an infant, who for|gets his play-thing when it is removed from his sight—Can you suppose that I should cease to think, because you do not speak of the sole object that occupies my mind?
My agreeable friend and fellow-tra|veller, grows impatient to return to England, as we have the pleasure of hearing that Mrs. Williams's health is nearly established.—I shall be sorry to quit this kingdom with which I am ex|tremely charmed, as much with the peo|ple, from whom I have received infinite civilities, as with the place.—But not|withstanding my reluctance, I shall ac|company Captain Harrison to Bristol, and use my utmost endeavours to put him in possession of the greatest treasure this world can afford, an amiable wife.—I think it is almost needless to tell you that I mean to resign Captain Williams's
legacy in favour of his widow; surely I have no title to his fortune, and only held it in trust till she was able to enjoy it.—The value of the gift will be en|hanced, by the pleasure she must neces|sarily receive from bestowing it on a man whose fortune, though by no means contemptible, is far from being adequate to his generosity.
Captain Harrrison's estate lies in a different province from this; he has bu|siness there, I shall attend him, and therefore soon bid adieu to this Eden.—As I am self-banished from London, it is of little consequence in what part of his Majesty's dominions I reside.—Your letters will be forwarded to me with punctuality, and I shall with impatience expect you to put it in my power to relieve my loved Emma's distress, by acquaint|ing me with the means that are wanting to her happiness.
I beg to be indulged with an account of Lady Juliana's health, and of every thing that relates to yours, and my sis|ter's welfare.—I live but in ye all.
CHARLES EVEYLN.
Roscommon.
THE post is come in without bring|ing me a letter, which is a real disap|pointment, because I fear the delay may retard the happiness of others as well as mine.
Harrison's business will oblige us to stay some days in this town, which is a very dull one, and the country round it
less cultivated than any part of Ireland that I have yet seen.—The lands are entirely given up to pasture, and we have rode over plains of five or six and thirty miles in circumference, without seeing the face, or even the vestige, of any human creature, excepting a few miserable huts, made up of mud and straw, which ap|pear to be scarcely habitable. Yet this country is not without its curiosities.—We went yesterday to see a beautiful lake, about twenty miles from hence, which runs above twelve miles in length, and eighteen broad in many parts of it. Like that at Killarney it is bordered with flowering shrubs of various kinds, which grow spontaneously, and on its banks are situated a number of gentlemen's seats.—I acknowledge the scene beautiful, yet it falls far short of the one just men|tioned. It wants variety, and that luxuriant wildness that transcends the efforts of art.
But here I was presented with a curio|sity of another kind, and of the first magnitude. As Harrison and I were riding on the edge of the lake, I ob|served a small brick house of two stories high, that seemed to have no window, or at least not one that looked upon the prospect I have described, though it stood within a few yards of the richest and most beautiful part of it.—I imme|diately enquired, what could that edifice be designed for? he replied it was the palace of a Prince, to whose presence he would endeavour to introduce me.—Of a lunatic, you mean, I answered, who is self-invested with royalty.
You are mistaken, said my friend, he is a real Prince, the Prince of Coolavin; his ancestors were lords of this wide do|main, and his proud spirit cannot bear to look upon those lands, which he con|siders as by right his own, though
Cromwell tore the inheritance from his family, and reduced his patrimony to the scanty pittance of two hundred pounds a year. For this reason he has turned the back of his house to this fair prospect, and looks with more delight upon his farm-yard.—But come, conti|nued he, as I am acquainted with the young Princes, I'll try if I can obtain admittance for us to the Monarch.
When we came near the house it ap|peared, in front, a very decent building, with sash windows; close by it stood a smaller one, only one story high, at which we alighted, and on our entrance were received by four young gentlemen, with such politeness as would have done honour to an higher roof.—The eldest of these was heir apparent, and married to a very pretty young woman, of the name of O'Connor, descended from the King's of Munster.
The second son had been educated in France, and taken his degrees as a phy|sician there.—The third was an officer in the Spanish service, now on a visit to his family; and the fourth was, I under|stood, designed for the service of the ca|tholic church.
On Captain Harrison's expressing our desire of paying our respects to the Prince, the eldest, Mr. O'Dermot, said he would signify our request to his father, and as Mr. Harrison's mother was of a true Milesian family, he did not doubt his compliance. We were offered a va|riety of refreshments, most hospitably in|vited to dinner, and informed that we might immediately be introduced to the Dowager and Princess Consort.
We were then conducted by the Spa|nish officer into a small drawing-room, where my eyes were struck with the most
venerable female figure they had ever beheld.—I declare, Stanley, I was al|most tempted to bend the knee before her. She was tall, and of a majestic ap|pearance, yet had infinite sweetness in her countenance: she was clothed in a blue damask dress, made like a man's night-gown; on her head she wore what they call a kercher, of thin cambrick, and from that head hung down, even to her seet, a profusion of the finest sil|ver tresses that Time had ever blanched. This reverend object brought to my mind that beautiful epithet in Shake|speare, of Time-honoured Lancaster.
To my surprize we were first presented to the young lady, who received us with a kind of dignified sulkiness, which was very disgusting; while the elder lady's manners and appearance at once attracted our affection and respect.—She entered instantly into conversation with us, and
amongst other things, informed us, that she had been full forty years a wife, and that during that time she had never passed the bounds of her sovereign's estate; though she owned she had once made an attempt to see a little more of the world when she was young; her lord, she said, was then from home, but the moment she had
passed the line,her horse threw her, and she broke her arm in the fall.—She consi|dered this incident as a judgment on her disobedience, and had remained a contented prisoner of her husband's mock-state ever since.
At length we were admitted to the Prince's presence; his person was large, and seemed to have been well made, his figure was erect, his eye piercing, and his countenance severe; he was seated in an oak great chair, from whence he did not deign to make the smallest in|clination
of his body on our appearance, but sternly asked the cause of Mr. Har|rison's desiring to see him?—My friend was a little disconcerted by the question, but soon recovered himself, and with infinite politeness replied, his visit was only meant as a mark of the sincere re|spect he had been early taught to feel for the Prince of Coolavin.
The old man's features became then less austere, and he talked in an enrap|tured strain of the beauty of Harrison's grandmother, who had, it seems, the honour of being allied to him, and bore the name of O'Dermot.—He scarcely deigned to turn his eyes on me, and mine did not solicit his attention, for they were attracted by an immense large coffin, covered with black cloth, that stood on one side of the chamber; there was an inscription on the plate in a lan|guage I did not understand, and there|fore
suppose to be Irish; and over the plate was a something like a coronet, but not appertaining to any rank of he|raldry that I was acquainted with. Over this gloomy apparatus was a shelf filled with some hundreds of wooden cups, neatly turned, which might each contain something less than half a pint; their appearance puzzled me, as they seemed to be rather a part of the furni|ture of a turner's shop, than of a Prince's presence-chamber. On enquiry I was informed they were designed to be used at the Prince's funeral, when they were to be filled with whisky, a species of malt spirit, the common beverage in this country, and given to each person who should attend his royal obsequies to the ruins of an old monastery, which was about an hundred yards from his present mansion.
When his Highness thought proper to dismiss us, we were conducted back to Mr. O'Dermot's, and had the honour of dining with the rest of this most extraordinary family.—The old Lady informed us, that not being royally de|scended, she had never been permitted to eat with the Prince, or to sit in his presence, unless in case of sickness, though he often indulged his daughter-in-law with these special honours.—But she is a Princess, added she, and is therefore intitled to such distinctions.
From the instant I heard this anec|dote, I took an aversion to the old sa|vage; and could easily conceive that he wanted nothing but power to be an ad|mirable tyrant. I thought of him in the same light as one of the Caribbee islanders, who, as Lord Kaims tells us, do not suffer their wives to eat in their presence, while the women of that
country are so remarkable for their sweet|ness of manners, obedience, and respect, to their brutal husbands, as never to give them occasion to remind them of their duty.
O, Stanley! what a falling off is here, from the pinnacle on which you and I have been labouring to place the fe|male party of our species? But let it be remembered, that savages only, treat women with haughtiness or con|tempt.
During the time of dinner we had an old blind harper, who played and sung ditties to us in the Irish language; some of the tunes were uncommonly sweet, and expressive of the deepest melan|choly. I was extremely charmed with the music, great part of which, the min|strel told us, was extempore, as well as the words.—If I could have spoken his
language, I should have been tempted to try if I could have prevailed on the old bard to have accompanied me to England; though Mr. O'Dermot assured me, that O'Farrel, that is the harper's name, would not quit the Barony of Costello, for a thousand pounds a year, but very politely added, that he should, if I pleased, attend me while I staid at Roscommon.—I accepted his offer with thanks, and he returned in our fuite to this town.
During my stay at Coolavin, I was extremely amused with the singularity of the characters I there met with; but my trusty Asiatic Scipio was a much greater object of surprize to the lower class of the family, than the heads of it were to me.—They had never seen a black man before; and the Princess's waiting gentlewoman sent off an express
for her sister, who lived at the distance of eight miles, to come and see Kouli Khan, the King of the black-men, who she said was come all the way from Tur|key to visit her master.—This was her geography about the matter.
It was very late when we got back to our inn; the night was fine and the roads good, and we travelled as safe as at mid-day, for there are no such beings as highwaymen throughout this country; the robbing a hen-roost, stealing a sheep, or a little whiskey, being the utmost of their misdemeanors.
Adieu, my dear Stanley, I have written a long, and I hope amusing his|tory, and left you at liberty to make your own comments; for were I to transcribe the numberless reflections which occurred to me upon this ancient
mixture of pride and simplicity of man|ners, I should swell my letter to the size of a volume.
Yours as ever, C. EVELYN.
SO all inconstant swains ought to be served, my good Mr. Evelyn. Here lie two of your letters to my spouse, un|opened, and of course unanswered—Had they been addressed to me, the case would have been otherwise, for I love to read letters exceedingly; but you grew tired of my correspondence, forsooth, and have left me off; so that if I was not the best natured sister in the world, I should not now take up the pen to acquaint
you that my husband has eloped!—It is true, Charles—I have not seen him these ten days!—And who do you think has spirited him away from me? why truly his grandfather, Sir John Stanley.—He is turned of ninety, and the express that came from Devonshire informed me that the good old gentleman could not hold out much longer; so that I presume he is now gathered to his fathers and grand|fathers, and I may be a Lady at this present writing for ought I know.
His knightship commanded me not to send his letters after him, as he should not stay a moment longer than decency required; for the old gentleman took care that affection or esteem should be entirely out of the question, by behaving like a savage to his family all his life—But peace be with his soul; and I am now glad that he has saved his grandson's feeling heart from being too
much affected at his death—I had like to have said loss, from a figure of speech that you scholars term lapsus linguae.
There is, perhaps, a latent kind of good-nature in behaving ill to one's near connections, for the reason I have hint|ed; but for my part I am selfish enough to wish to be lamented when I die, and am therefore maliciously resolved to be|have as well as I can while I live.
I never was so tempted to do a wrong thing, as I am at this moment to open your letters—But avaunt, foul fiend! tho' I know my sweet William will say—Why did you not, my love?
The temptation does not arise from mere curiosity neither, but I wish to know how far you are acquainted with certain subjects, that I may not tire you with a twice told tale.
But even with the fear of repetition before my eyes, I will venture to say that our dear Emma is extremely happy—I have made many guesses at the cause, but tho' it is too plain that she is on the rack, she will not confess—O Charles, how grateful is my heart to Providence, for having blessed me with such a husband as my Stanley! 'Tis true we have not been long married, and it may therefore appear presumption to expect a continuance of my present happiness—It might be so with any other man—but were his heart es|tranged, which heaven avert! I know he would, from principle, lament his own defection, and hide his weakness from me.—I must not trust myself upon this subject, for it is a theme on which my grateful heart could dwell for ever.
As I have an extreme good opinion of your understanding, I flatter myself
you have by this time triumphed over your only weakness, and that you can now read the name of Juliana without tremor or palpitation—I will therefore venture to inform you that she has re|fused a match her brother proposed to her; and, in consequence of her refusal, a brouillé has happened between them.—She acquainted me with these circum|stances before she left Richmond—I fancy she is gone into Yorkshire, as I have not heard from her lately, tho' I live in daily and anxious expectation of some further intelligence from her upon this subject.
It is a sad thing that this poor lady is not allowed to live single if she chuses to do so; but that right or wrong you men will marry her, whether she will or no—Seriously I think it cruel to persecute her into matrimony, because I really believe she is one of the few widows who wish
to continue so; and as I am sincerely in|terested for her happiness, I earnestly wish she was suffered to possess it on her own terms.
A letter from Stanley—I give you joy of my Ladyship, Charles, but feel much more from knowing that the dear dis|penser of all my happiness is well, and will be in town in a very few days.—I wish I knew when I was to rejoice in your coming; for we all think that Em|ma, like Hamlet's Ghost, "tho' dumb to us, will speak to you"—Haste then, my prince, to finish your travels, and keep your court amongst us here.
L. STANLEY.
JOY, double joy to you, my dear Harley! You are now triumphant in every thing—Good and bad fortune flow in a stream, and the current runs at pre|sent in your favour.
Our enemy is fled, and has left us mistress of the field!—I plyed my battery so close, that Lord Somners either was, or affected to be, convinced that Lady Ju|liana is every thing we wish to represent
her; and yet were his lordship to repeat every word I have said, it would not amount to a consistent story—There lies the true art of doing mischief with im|punity.
And who think you was the hero of my tale? The very man she despised and rejected, your obdurate swain, Charles Evelyn!
We are no longer rivals now, Nancy, but sincere friends; I will therefore ho|nestly confess to you, that I have borne the strongest hatred to Lady Juliana, from the moment that ideot Evelyn fell in love with her; not that I loved him, but I would have married him, for he is immensely rich: and yet I know not whether Lady Juliana was the sole cause of my disappointment.—I was weak enough to quarrel with him about a wretched prostitute, for such I am sure
she was that he picked up one evening in the Park, even before his saucy sister Lucy and me—But away with the re|membrance—I detest him, and all that belong to him; and some of his family shall yet feel my vergeance.
But I am delighted, transported, my dear, with your good fortune—You have waited to good purpose; I almost wish I had not been in such a hurry my|self; a title is a delicious thing; and even a baronet's wife has as good a right, you know, to be called Ladyship, as a countess.—In truth, one should have something to make one amends for being plagued with a husband; for even the best of them are but an incumbrance.—Dupont is not half so agreeable as he was; he sulks sometimes as much as any Englishman, but I suppose it is owing to his extreme fondness that he cannot bear to have any other person admire me; but you know
it is not in my power to prevent a man's being in love with one, if he chuses it, tho' I could almost wish that the party did not shew his attachment so openly.
I thank you a thousand times for your promise of settling my mother; I don't care where, so it could be done speedily; for, to let you into a secret, I am much afraid her creditors may get at her where she now is, and it would be rather dis|graceful to have it known that her lady|ship was in gaol, and what's worse, I fear Dupont would release her, tho' at the ex|pence of my diamonds.—Hasten your enquiries then, my dear Nancy, as I have now let you into the whole truth of this matter, and don't let your own happiness engross you so far, as to be unmindful of your's ever,
M. DUPONT.
P. S. You will again say my postscript is the most material part of my letter, for I had forgot to tell you that Lady Ju|liana is turned out of her brother's house by my machination, and, as we suppose, retired into Yorkshire.
DEAR Jack, I shall not see you as soon as I intended; the tide has turned in Sir James Desmond's favour, and he is once more afloat with a full sail—A lucky night at Boodle's has put him in possession of some thousands; but it will soon be low-water again with him I fancy, as he has found out more ways than one of dissipating his cash.—I shall stay till I find it near ebb. One should not fly from a friend while he is happy,
nor incumber him with company when he ceases to be so—I shall endeavour to nick the time of my retreat as exactly as possible.
My fair ally has, I think, duped me—Can you believe that I was silly enough to grow fond of her! But I have seen my folly, and am certain that all women are as surely jilts as the change|able goddess we worship.—I hope you still continue in her favour, dame For|tune I mean; no matter for the rest of the sex.
Your's, G. SEWELL.
THANKS to you, my dear Du|pont, for your congratulations; they ar|rived most critically upon my wedding-day—My dear baronet was so extremely pressing, that I found it impossible to re|sist, and gave him my hand last Thurs|day.—His fondness is quite romantic; he would not wait for settlements, but has assured me that I shall have an un|limited power over my own fortune, and that he will endow me with a noble
jointure.—The Irish are all generous, but I think my spouse rather too much so.
Miss Harrison, who is I believe burst|ing with envy, said every thing in her power to prevail on me to defer my mar|riage till her brother's arrival in town; I am certain she had some sinister view in wishing to delay my happiness, and yet I cannot guess what it could be, for it is impossible to suppose she could be vain enough to think of inveigling Sir John. No matter what her schemes were, I have put it out of her power to do me any injury.
I have not yet seen any of my hus|band's relations; they are all in the country, and indeed there are few people of quality in Dublin at present.—I am impatient till we go to our castle; tho' Sir John says it is a good deal out of re|pair, and therefore he seems inclined to
purchase a small seat within a few miles of town; but I love the grandeur of an ancient family-mansion, and have no doubt but he will indulge my wishes.
I am at present so much engrossed by my own happiness, that I have hardly leisure to rejoice in Lady Juliana's mis|fortunes; yet I am sincerely glad she is banished, and to the spot she hates, to Harley-hill.—I give you infinite credit for having brought about a breach be|tween her and her brother; that brother whom she used to boast of as being all perfection. But she was always insuf|ferably vain of the merits of her family, and used to talk of her mother as if she had been a phoenix; tho' I suppose she was neither better nor worse than your's or mine, except her being a countess.
Apropos of your mother; I shall look for a proper place for her amongst our
tenants; but you must excuse my repeat|ing that I don't chuse to have her very near our castle.—I suppose her Ladyship will be rather in the plaintive tone, and one don't love to hear sorrowful tales that they can't remedy.
That viper Evelyn is expected in town next week: I will set out for our seat before he comes—for, O my dear Dupont, I feel I cannot bear his sight! My baronet, tho' tall and handsome, would be annihilated in his presence; for tho' both you and I detest him, we must acknowledge he is charming, in his fi|gure at least. His foolish companion, Captain Harrison, is returning to Eng|land to marry the widow of a man who was killed in a strange way at Evelyn's lodgings at Bath; but, thank my stars, I have done with the whole set; for I don't intend to visit Miss Harrison when I come to town next winter.
For heaven's sake, my dear Dupont, take care of yourself, and don't be caught tripping, unless you are sure of a divorce, and even then you know Sir James Desmond can't marry you, unless you could contrive to detect his saint-like dame at a retaliation, which I be|lieve to be impossible; for she has not spirit enough for a frolic, unless she is mightily altered since I knew her; she was then called the gentle Emma, and I think can never rise higher than tago's praise—"To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer." Sir John is all impatience at my staying so long out of his sight. I hope you will excuse my quitting you for him, and permit me to subscribe my|self, my dear Dupont's sincere and happy friend,
A. O'SHAUGHNASY.
P. S. I don't think my name quite so terrible as I used to do.
DEAR Evelyn, the hurry of busi|ness I have been engaged in since my return to town, will, I hope, be a suf|ficient excuse for not having sooner ac|knowledged the pleasure I received from both your letters.—The first has inspired me with an earnest desire to see the beautiful lake, which you modestlysay you cannot describe; though you have contrived to give Lucy and me such an idea of it, that we have both resolved,
provided you will accompany us, to visit Killarney next summer; and when we are safe landed on the Irish shore, we shall also expect you will do us the ho|nour of presenting us to his Royal High|ness of Coolavin, and all the noble per|sonages of his family.
If the old savage, as you justly call him, should have retired into his coffin before our arrival, I shall hope to be in|dulged with a sight of his spouse, of whom I have formed so venerable an idea, that I would travel some hundreds of miles to have the honour of kissing her fair hand, and addressing her with that respect which is due, not to her husband's mock royalty, but to her sex and age.
Had I met with the relation, you have given of this extraordinary family, in a book of travels, or, as it is now more po|litely
styled, a Tour through Ireland, I should have thought the author a bad chronologer, and that he had stept back at least a couple of centuries, in order to characterise the national weakness of the Irish, that of uniting pride with poverty.—Your veracity, however, is sufficient to prove, that even in this en|lightened age it still subsists in a superla|tive degree amongst the illustrious inha|bitants of Coolavin.
I was much pleased with your account of the blind bard; I wish you understood his language; who knows but he may be a second Homer! and might sing the prowess of the progenitors of the O'Dermots, in as lofty strains as the Grecian poet bestowed upon that of Achilles and Agamemnon.—Be that as it may, I am persuaded that those ditties, which are framed in honour of their ancestors, serve to inflame the
pride of the descendants, and make them prefer indigence, in a genteel profession, to affluence in a meaner rank of life.—This may appear from the desti|nation of the younger sons, who are devoted to poverty, and can never be of use to their country.—I heartily pity their misguided youth, and think it amazing how such a family of gentle|men, even in the cheapest country, can be provided with food and raiment out of so small an income as two hundred pounds a year!
I have purposely deferred mentioning the most material subject of your letter, the unhappiness of Lady Desmond, be|cause I am by no means certain of the cause.—A trifling circumstance has con|vinced me that it does not arise from any pecuniary difficulty; nay, I have reason to suppose Sir James Desmond must be rather in affluence, though I hate gos|siping,
I think you have a right to be informed even of this trivial matter, lest you should think me tardy in the execu|tion of your generous intentions towards our dear Emma. As I have received a very considerable addition to my fortune, by the death of my grandfather, I meant to surprise my Lucy, by presenting her with a set of jewels which should correspond with the ear-rings you gave her, and called upon Bellis in Pall-Mall to be|speak them.—He shewed me many beautiful ornaments, and amongst the rest a diamond sprig for a lady's hair, that was both rich and elegant. I en|quired the price, which he told me was four hundred guineas. I would have paid for it directly, but he would not part with it, as he said it was be|spoke by Sir James Desmond, whom he expected to call for it every moment, as he had expressed the utmost impatience
to have it finished.—I immediately di|rected another to be made exactly like it, and felt myself extremely pleased with the information I had received, upon a double account, both with re|gard to the state of Sir James's finances and his affections.
Luckily I did not mention this matter to Lucy, as I meant to keep my trans|action with Bellis a secret till my design was complete. In the evening I pro|posed our going to Sir James Desmond's, Lucy, with her usual condescension, complied, yet I could perceive a some|thing more like reluctance, in her man|ner of assenting, than I had ever before observed to any request of mine.
When we came into Lady Desmond's drawing-room, we found her embroider|ing a waistcoat for Sir James, their little Fanny playing by her side.—At a card|table
were placed Sir Jame, your friend Sewell, two other men, and Madame Dupont most elegantly dressed; the finery of her whole appearance attracted my eyes, which were soon fixed by sur|prize on the identical diamond sprig, I had seen at Bellis's in the morning, con|spicuous amongst the other ornaments of her hair. I looked so long and steadily at her head-dress, that I fancied she be|came confused; but as she is not easily put out of countenance, my own dis|agreeable sensations upon this subject might probably occasion my thinking so.
Sir James, who is always polite, pressed us to join their party at loo, and the galant Mr. Sewel offered to resign his place at the table either to Lucy or me.—We declined their civilities, and sat about an hour conversing with Emma, who appeared more chearful than I have seen her for some time past, yet still an
air of melancholy dwelt on her lovely face, and like a summer cloud, slightly obscured the lustre of the sun.—While I turned my eyes alternately upon Lady Desmond and Madame Dupont, I was ready to exclaim with Hamlet,
Could'st thou on this fair mountain Leave to feed, and batten on that moor?But granting this affair as bad as I ap|prehend, we must leave it to time to cure.—Men will not be schooled out of their vices, and corrosives but inflame wounds.—All that can now be done is to guard the infamous secret from Emma, the only means of doing which is to get her as much out of the scandalous set, where she is only a cy|pher, as possible.—This thought imme|diately occurring to me, I proposed her going to the opera with Lucy and me to-morrow evening; she did not venture to reply to my proposal, but turned her
dove-like eyes upon her husband, as if to solicit his consent, which, to do him justice, he very graciously gave, adding, that he was extremely sorry a prior en|gagement must prevent him from being of our party.—He is neither a fool nor a brute, we may therefore have hopes of his reformation.
Remember, my dear Charles, that all I have said of Sir James and Madame Dupont, is founded merely on conjec|ture; she may have employed him to purchase this jewel for her, and it would be cruel to rob her of the
immediate jewel of her soul,upon a slight surmise.
The more I reflect upon this affair, the more pleased I am at your absence.—The warmth of your nature would not suffer you to wait till time shall unravel this mystery; you would precipitately
call for an explanation of your doubts, and by so doing, injure the very person whom you wish to serve.
The idea of mystery recals Lady Ju|liana Harley to my mind.—It is above six weeks since she left her brother's house at Richmond; neither Lucy, nor any other person, except old Watson, her steward, has heard from her since.—He, it seems, has received her orders to dispose of her house and furniture in Berkeley-square. Upon being ques|tioned, he told me his Lady was not at Harley-hill; but he either does not know; or will not tell, where she is.
Lucy is inconsolable about her; she fears some accident has befallen her, and is hourly making fruitless enquiries after her friend.—I confess there is some|thing very extraordinary in her conduct; time only can tell us more than we
know already, which is, that she is amiable and unhappy.
Since we are upon the subject of pri|vate history, I should be glad to know what Miss Harley is doing in Ireland, and whether she has yet made any im|pression on your obdurate heart? but if she has failed, I should hope that either Miss Harrison, or some other of her fair countrywomen, have been more success|ful.
I communicated some part of your letters to Mr. Selwyn, and he is deter|mined to visit Ireland.—He says, if your accounts are genuine, there are more strange sights to be seen there than in any other part of the world.—He longs to converse with the Prince of Coolavin, and shew him the sinfulness of pride; and says, if he will permit his youngest son
to take orders in the established church, he will appoint him to a curacy.
I have filled my paper with such a deal of tittle-tattle, that I have barely left room to subscribe myself ever yours.
W. STANLEY.
Dublin.
BELIEVE me, Stanley, I most sincerely rejoice in every acquisition of wealth and honour that can accrue to you and my loved Lucy, to whom I must intreat you to make my apology for not answering her letter; as the con|tents of your's have so entirely engrossed my thoughts, that I cannot direct them to any other objects but the dear suffer|ing ones, of my tenderest affection.
My sister Selwyn and Lucy will, I hope, forgive me, when I own, that even from my boyish days, Emma has been the darling of my fondness: but had I never known a partial regard for her till the present time, I should have felt it now.—She is unhappy!—Thank heaven! my other sisters are not so.
Lady Juliana too—where can she be fled! wherefore should she fly! or why conceal the place of her retreat from her loved friend, your wife!
Sir James Desmond is—what I have ever thought him. I will allow that our affections are not always in our power, they may change from the most charm|ing to the most odious object; but a man of honour will not add insult to injury, and triumph over the heart that he has wronged.
I think with you that violent means will not recall a wandering affection, and sure I am that Emma's gentle spirit will suffer all her husband can inflict in silent sadness; she will not reproach him, nor wound his ears with her complainings; her tears will flow in secret, their traces may perhaps be seen on her pale cheek, and by her husband's conscious heart, they may be deemed upbraidings.
It is extremely fortunate that I am not in London; I could not with pa|tience have endured the scene you saw at Sir James Desmond's—How dare he bring his paramour into the presence of his wife? 'Tis past conjecture, Stanley; I have no doubts of their infamous con|nection. You say he is neither a fool nor brute, and therefore we may hope for his reformation—that is, when his vi|tiated taste grows sick and weary of his present folly, he will behave less cruelly
to his wife, from conscious shame of hav|ing used her ill. But can the heart re|turn when once estranged? can she have that unbounded confidence in his affec|tion, which constitutes the charm of wedded love? Will she not fear a second change of his affection, and can she look with fond respect upon the man who has taught her to think slightly of him? Im|possible! The human heart was formed to feel, and when oppressed by unmerited sufferings, it will resent. Time's lenient power will no doubt abate the keen an|guish of disappointed love—Its cure at length is found in cold indifference, and she who had a right to hope for happi|ness, gladly compounds for ease. Such is the state of many a female heart; no wonder then if it should sometimes stray, and when rejected by its lawful lord, seek consolation in an alien's breast.
I have no fears of this kind for our Emma; she will, as I have already said, too tamely acquiesce in her hard fate. But here I swear she shall not be insulted—Madame Dupont shall be banished from Sir James Desmond's house; their scenes of galantry be played elsewhere.
This is a point on which I intreat Lucy to interfere—It may not be so proper for you to appear in such a mat|ter—Depend upon it, Emma is perfectly acquainted with her husband's folly; her sister therefore may speak freely to her, and I intreat she will.
There surely must be some cause for Lady Juliana's conduct—Why is it made a mystery to me? My tenderest wishes for her happiness accompany her flight, and ever shall attend her—But yet I am not weak enough to form a thought of pursuing her, nor would I ob|trude
myself into her presence, were it this moment in my power to do so—Then do not keep me longer in the dark, but freely tell me all you know about her.
That very silly woman, that was Miss Harley, has married a man who calls himself Sir John O'Shaughnasy; but from all the accounts that I can learn, he is a self-created baronet, and equally deficient in manners, morals, rank, and fortune. She has not been acquainted with him above a month. Miss Har|rison used every argument in her power to delay the marriage till her brother re|turned to Dublin, in order that he should make some inquiries into the man's character; but the lovers were im|patient, and married they were. They left this town on the morning of the day that Captain Harrison and I returned to it; they set out, with a very pompous
equipage, to a water-drinking place called Mallow, and no person has heard from them since. I hope the husband is not so bad as he is represented; for tho' I dislike, I bear no malice to her mock-ladyship.
No, Stanley! neither Miss Harrison, nor any other woman I have seen in this kingdom, has made any impression on my heart; tho' I acknowledge I have be|held much beauty here, and that the lady I have named has charms sufficient, both of mind and person, to inspire the tenderest passion in a vacant heart; but mine is filled with one adored idea, and never shall another enter there—I wish not to renew the painful subject.
Let your next letter be directed to Bath, where I hope to hear that my loved Emma is at least set free from the mortifying triumph of her detested rival;
and also, what part of the world Lady Juliana has retired to. Love to my sisters. I think I would not have Emma know that I am acquainted with her pre|sent situation; her delicacy will be wounded at knowing that I must despise her worthless husband. Adieu,
My dear Stanley,
C. EVELYN.
The Continent.
DO not imagine, my dear Lucy, that I have not fully shared the anxiety you must have suffered from my unac|counted-for absence. Thank heaven, this is the only time I have ever witting|ly given you pain since the first happy days we spent together in youthful inno|cence—Ah, why do I recall the fond remembrances?
I have heard it said that at the ap|proach of death we become insensibly weaned from our dearest connections, the fibres of the heart grow relaxed, and those dear ties, which were so closely wound about it, loosen and decay, so as to make us willingly resign what we can no longer retain.—How highly favour|able must such a dispensation be to the sons and daughters of sensibility! But why may not a living wretch partake of this indulgence? why must the absent forms of those from whom she is banish|ed haunt her retirement, obtrude into her solitary cell, and skim along before her la••guid eyes.
Why do I still behold my Lucy's face, see the bright drop stand trembling in her eye, or silent steal along her blooming cheek, drawn forth by pity for her Juli|ana? Why does my brother's form ap|pear
before me? why does contempt shoot from his angry eyes even through my sinking heart? But I have other vi|sions still more dreadful—spectres, in|deed, that have long stampt indelible im|pressions on my heart and mind.
Would I could tell you all—but soon I will—This bursting bosom shall have vent, and pour forth all its sorrows into yours.—A sad and cruel proof of friend|ship! yet when you know how dearly it must cost me, my Lucy will esteem it as she ought.
Judge, by your own feelings, what I must have suffered at tearing myself from you, without informing you of my in|tentions—Too well I knew that you would plead against my purpose, and I also knew, that even you must plead in vain.
Deprived of the only stay in life, that fate had left me, my unkind brother! on whom could I rely for comfort or protec|tion? A little twig, bending beneath the blast, without one fostering tree to shelter or support it.—I have at length escaped the storm, and never, never will I brave it more.
My rank and connections in life, un|happily for me, placed me in such a situ|ation, that it was impossible for me to in|dulge my sincere wish of living in retire|ment whilst I remained in England. I was by many mistaken for an object of envy, and malice pursued my steps, tho' their traces were marked by sorrow—What then have I to regret in the world I have left? ought I not rather to rejoice in the idea of being forgotten by every acquaintance, and by every friend, except yourself, who ever knew or loved me?
The pains I have taken to conceal, even from you, the place of my retire|ment, must convince you that my reso|lution is not to be shaken—But though determined on an entire seclusion from the world, I still wish to preserve the ten|der attachment that has so long subsisted between us, and which is now the sole remaining charm that can render life supportable to me; you may therefore conclude that I desire to hear frequently from you; for when we say we wish to be forgotten by the whole universe, there is still one tender bosom where we would repose, one dear and faithful friend, in whose memory we desire even to survive ourselves.
I did not bring a single servant with me from England—I have settled Wat|son, who was so many years my maid, with her father at Canterbury—The old
man was my father's steward, and still is mine; his long and faithful services amply deserve the independence which he now enjoys. If I were capable of tasting pleasure, I should feel it, from the recollection of having rendered a very worthy family happy.
Watson is the only person to whom I have confided the place of my retreat; you must inclose your letters to him, and he will forward them to me.—You see how strongly I rely upon your friend|ship—I cannot fear that I shall ever be neglected or forgotten by your tender|ness and virtue.
When I write next, I hope I shall be more composed.—Peace has began to dawn upon me since the determination of my purpose, and may perhaps again revisit my sad heart—Soon shall its faults
and follies be laid open to your friendly eye—But Oh, my Lucy, judge me not severely, and guard the fatal secret of
Your unhappy friend, J. HARLEY.
HOW have I trembled for the life, or what is dearer still, the reason, of my beloved Juliana; and though your letter has relieved my fears on the first subject, you must pardon my saying that I am not yet at peace upon the last.
Say, my unkind mysterious friend, what are those cruel ills your youth has suffered, that have determined you to
quit a world you scarce have entered? Blest as you are with every outward sign of happiness, with beauty, rank, and for|tune, what are those secret pangs that prey upon your heart? A life of inno|cence should be a life of peace; and sure I am my Juliana knows no guilt.
The only misfortune that has ever at|tended you was the death of Mr. Har|ley, or perhaps, I might rather say, your marriage with him. But those events are passed long since; and had you loved your husband with the tenderest fondness, time would ere now have softened your distress.—The youthful eye bends not its speculation always on the grave—Yours should look forward to long smiling scenes of happiness that wait you—Such should your visions be, because you have a right to hope they would be realized.
I cannot think so slightly of your un|derstanding, as to suppose your quarrel with your brother should disgust you with all the rest of the world.—Indeed, Juliana, you want not his support, but you want firmness to support yourself—The little tittle-tattle relative to my bro|ther must have quickly blown over—You have sunk beneath a whisper, not a storm.
Return, my friend, return, and face your foes; they will vanish at your pre|sence, their malice shall recoil upon themselves, and your fair fame appear more bright from their attempts to sully it. Flight is always construed into a confession of guilt; there is no retreating from slander; we must confront the blatant beast, or never hope to quell it.
I flatter myself this hint will have due weight with you, and make you reflect
that you ought not to let your enemies triumph over you, for the sake of your friends, your family, and yourself.
I am firmly persuaded that a great part of your unhappiness is constitutional, and proceeds from the weakness of your nerves; and hence arise those spectres that you say haunt your retirement: they are fancy-bred, Juliana, and would quickly vanish in the dissipation of the gay world—'Tis only in the gloom of solitude they ever dwell—Do not then mortify me, by preferring such horrid company to mine.
I believe it is near a dozen years since we were first acquainted, and during that whole time have I been striving to en|liven your spirits; for you have been ad|dicted to melancholy, even from your childhood, and of all persons breathing
are the most unfit for solitude—There may be truth in a paradox.
I shall not comment upon the unkind|ness of concealing your design of quit|ting England from me, nor on the childishness of your continuing to make a mystery of the place of your retirement. I shall only say, that whatever other proofs of your friendship you may think proper to honour me with, I shall still think it deficient, if I am to be kept in the dark with regard to your present situation; for I think you know me well enough to be certain that I can keep a secret.—My desire to be informed of this particular, arises from an higher mo|tive than curiosity; for that alone might well be satisfied with the unbounded confidence you have promised to repose in me.—But, indeed, my dear visionary, I think you can have no secrets that I do not know.—Perhaps I am mistaken,
but at all events you may safely rely upon the sincere and faithful friendship of your ever affectionate
L. STANLEY.
P. S. My brother is not yet returned to London.—I imagine he is now at Bath, and has truly shared in my distress for your unaccountable flight.—I shall remove his apprehensions for your safety by this post.—Would to heaven I could as easily relieve the pangs he suffers from disappointed love.
DEAR Charles, the business of administration, and a hundred and fifty other plaguy businesses, prevent my Stanley from answering your letter by this post; and I, though again rejected as a correspondent, have resolved to share my joy with you at finding our lost sheep.
I have had a letter from Lady Juliana; she is somewhere on the continent, but
as yet thinks proper to conceal the place of her retreat.—Why, I know not: but I am certain you will rejoice to know that she is safe in any place.—Though I am less unhappy on her account than I have been, I shall not be easy till she returns to England.—If the eloquence of my pen should fail to bring her back, I think my Stanley will be so indulgent as to suffer me to try my persuasive powers in person, provided we can dis|cover her retreat.—I would go to the antipodes for her service, and, I think, the most material one I can do her and myself, is to restore her to her friends.—I fear self mingles much in my affec|tion for her. I cannot bear to think of losing the companion of my youth and the friend of my heart. But away with the ungenerous suggestion.
Will you believe me when I tell you, that my lordly spouse has absolutely re|fused
to communicate the contents of your last letter to me? though he has had the modesty to enjoin my writing to you, and bids me tell you every thing I know.—No, truly, Sir, said I, I beg to be excused, for I shall take this op|portunity of convincing my husband and my brother, that I can at least keep my own secrets.—So mum is the word with regard to myself.
We have had more of Emma's com|pany of late than usual, and I have the pleasure to tell you, that her spirits seem to be much better than they were.—I wish I had a nostrum that could cure low spirits, then should Lady Juliana, Lady Desmond, and Charles Evelyn, be as well and happy as your affectionate
L. STANLEY.
P. S. Madame Dupont fell from her horse, in Hyde Park, and strained her ancle, about a fortnight ago, and has been ever since confined to her house, where she has my consent to remain as long as she thinks proper, for I like being sure of not meeting her either in public or private.
DEAR Jack, the scene is changed; we have removed our coterie from Charles-street, Berkeley-square, to Bury-street, St. James's, and I highly approve of our new settlement; for we have now no lookers on.
Monsieur Dupont is not in town, and Madame, his Lady, has met with a slight accident that confines her at home, though it does not prevent her being in
perfect health and spirits.—Her house is now our nightly rendezvous, and we have made some very agreeable additions to our party, particularly a Lord Som|ners, who is rich and fond of play.—As we are all pretty sharp set, his Lord|ship stands but a bad chance of increasing his wealth amongst us; but that is his look-out you know.—I earnestly pray that Monsieur Dupont may remain in the country, for I have a shrewd guess that he would disturb the nest, if he were to see how prettily we build under his roof.
Sir James Desmond is still a doating enamorato of Madame's, and she co|quets it away at a great rate.—There is a good pretty girl, a distant relation, by way of companion, in the house; she makes tea admirably, and sings agree|ably, when we can spare time to listen to her.—In short, all is mirth and jol|lity,
and the Peer's guineas chink sweetly in our pockets, yet I still keep my eye fixed on the proper time for decamp|ing, for I am quite certain this party is too pleasant to last, and that it will end sorrowfully to some of us.—I am resolved to take care of one, and let the rest shift as they may.—Sir James, as I predicted, is again out of cash, and has borrowed five hundred more from yours,
G. SEWELL.
P. S. I have taken care to get a fresh bond from the Baronet, payable on demand, for the fifteen hundred.—As both you and I are in cash now, suppose we looked out for a good mortgage, Jack: you may have many opportunities where you are; young heirs are the people to deal with.—We should strike the iron while 'tis hot.
Bath.
I AM truly grateful to my dear Lucy, for her kind attention to my happiness, which has received a consi|derable increase from the pleasing ac|counts in her letter.
I am, indeed, sincerely rejoiced to hear of Lady Juliana's safety, though I own our apprehensions on her account could have no foundation, but that of
uncommon and sinister accidents, for surely there does not exist a savage, in the wildest part of the universe, that would injure her.
I am still extremely perplexed by her conduct, in concealing her retreat from you.—It is not from me that she now flies; my word has ever been inviolable, nor for my own sake would I renew the pangs I have already suffered, by hazarding another interview.
I am highly pleased with your reso|lution of endeavouring to bring her back to England. What cause can she possi|bly have to shun a world that must adore her? I am lost in the conjecture.
Our Emma too, you tell me, is more chearful—pleasing intelligence! never may gloom again oppress her gentle spirits, or sadness cloud the sweet sere|nity
of her complacent brow!—I wish you to amuse her, Lucy: carry her from home—sad recipe! to seek for happiness by flying from the only spot where it is most naturally to be found! and yet in hers, as in many other cases, disappoint|ment blasts it in its native soil, while dissipation steals its fading colours, and wears a faint resemblance of it to the world.—For this, I fear, our Emma must compound.
Captain and Miss Harrison returned hither with me.—In a few days I hope I shall prevail on Mrs. Williams to make a very deserving man happy, by bestowing her hand and heart upon the Captain.—Soon after their marriage they purpose going to the South of France, for the entire recovery of Mrs. Williams's health, which is far from valid, though she is better than I ever hoped to see her. Miss Harrison, and a young man
a very good family and fortune, who is her sincere admirer, will accompany them.—She has not yet recovered the vivacity she possessed before her attach|ment to Captain Williams; but time, they say, can conquer every thing, and will, I trust, erase the memory of that disagreeable event from her mind.
I know not why, but my spirits are uncommonly low at present, there is no nostrum for a mind diseased, and there|fore your kind wish for your suffering friends is vain.
May you long enjoy those charming spirits, that contribute so much to your own and your friend's happiness.—My sincere regards attend Sir William Stan|ley, Lady Desmond, and the Selwyns.—Accept the same from your affection|ate brother,
C. EVELYN.
Mallow.
RUINED and undone, Maria! deceived, stript, and deserted! Can you believe there was ever such a monster in nature as this beggarly baronet, that has imposed on me? I shall keep my title, for a knight he surely is, of some foreign order or other; but the being stiled your Ladyship is all I have got for twenty thousand pounds; luckily for me there is a reversionary heir to the
other ten, and I could not bestow it on my vile husband.
I will be calm if I can, and acquaint you with the whole process of his vil|lainy.—He brought me to this place under pretence that his castle (one in the air) was in this county, and that he could have frequent opportunities of seeing how the workmen went on with the re|pairs, by making short excursions from hence.
When I had been here about a week, I expressed my surprize at not having received the usual compliments of visits, &c. from his family: he told me that most of them lived at a considerable dis|tance, but he would take care they should not be wanting in respect to me, and he would set out next day to ac|quaint them with my arrival in the coun|try.—He took the carriage with him,
and returned in two days, accompanied by a couple of the strangest female frights I ever beheld; the one old and ugly, the other young and rather hand|some. These vulgar figures he intro|duced to me as an aunt and cousin; I received them civilly, but the sight of these quite cured me of my impatience to be acquainted with the rest of his kindred.
These women got their persons and dress a little new modelled in a few days, and one evening we went to the rooms together, for this, you must know, is a water-drinking place.—I had sat down to cards with some ladies of fashion here, when my cousin Catty, came to the table, and whispered me that Sir John had sent to desire I would let him have my keys for a few minutes, as he wanted some paper out of my writing-box;
she said she would carry them to him and return immediately.
I complied without hesitation, and more than an hour elapsed before I grew uneasy at not seeing Sir John or his young kinswoman.—The old one, who stuck close to my side, said she believed Sir John and Catty were gone to visit a relation of theirs that lived about three miles off, for she had seen them drive by in the chariot.
Though I was by no means delighted with this intelligence, I concealed my chagrin, and waited in expectation of their sending the carriage for me, as it happened to rain, till every creature had left the rooms. But, had I staid till it came, I might have remained there for ever.
When I returned to my lodgings, I found the doors of my apartment locked, and, upon enquiring for the ser|vants, I was told the men were all gone with Sir John and the young Lady, and they believed my woman was in the bed|chamber, as they had heard an odd noise in that part of the house.—I called to my maid several times but received no answer, and upon having the doors forced open, I found her locked up in a dark closet, where she could scarcely breathe, and from whence it was im|possible she could be heard or convey me any intelligence.
My trunks were all lying open, my papers, jewels, money, and the best part of my wardrobe vanished.—I be|came almost distracted.—The old Jeza|bel of an aunt either was, or pretended to be, ten times more outrageous than me.—She tore her hair, and uttered a
thousand imprecations against Sir John, with whom, in her fury, she disclaimed all relationship.—But I found the great source of her sorrow was the being left behind by her hopeful daughter.
In this dreadful exigence I knew not how to act, but as soon as I was a little calm, I applied to a gentleman of the law for advice, he assured me there was nothing to be done for my service, as my husband had a legal claim to all my effects.—I fancied that even this grave sage of the law, and all the people about me, seemed rather to laugh at my dis|tress than pity it, 'till I informed them that I was still possessed of ten thousand pounds, which happily it was not in my husband's power to alienate. They then changed their manners towards me, and the counsellor would fain have persuaded me to institute a suit in the ecclesiasti|cal court against Sir John.—I shall not
take his advice, but mean to return immediately to England, and try what better information I can pick up there.
O, Maria, what vile hypocrites are these men! would to heaven I had re|mained single! and yet it was impossible to doubt the apparent fondness of this cruel wretch, who seemed perfectly to doat on me; and I am such a fool, I cannot help lamenting the loss of his tenderness. It must have been that cursed Catty that seduced him from me. How will my prudish sister-in-law, and all the other puritans of my acquaint|ance, laugh at my being taken in at this time of my life? I cannot bear the thought.—I think I had better retire into some place where I am not known, than expose myself to the ridicule of those, who pretend to stile themselves my friends.
No, I will pursue my husband; per|haps I may yet recover his affections or my effects, and get him to discard his infamous accomplice.—If you had seen how handsome he looked the very day he left me, you could not have be|lieved him a deceiver.
I know not what to do, my spirits are quite broken.—I will hasten to you, as I am certain you will pity your sincere friend,
A. O'SHAUGHNASY.
WHY will my dearest friend add pain to my affliction, by making a re|quest I cannot, must not, grant? Full well I know your generous motive, Lu|cy, nor have I once suspected that the inquiry owed its birth to curiosity mere|ly—Your kindness would attempt to rescue me even from myself; but in vain, my friend, for I am self-devoted. Soon will those vows have passed my lips which cannot, indeed should never
be recalled, and then your fond solici|tude shall be indulged; you then shall know the spot where I shall be irre|vocably fixed. This is no sudden start, believe me, Lucy—Long has the idea wandered through my mind—Long have I languished for that peaceful haven, in which this tempest-beaten bark can only anchor.
Too much a slave to all the fond af|fections of the heart, love for my bro|ther tempted me to hope that his society might sooth my griefs, and lull my cares to rest—The thought was weak and vain—Blest be the disappointment I have met with—Had it not happened, the arrow must have festered in the wound, and rankled there for ever—It may now be drawn forth, and the all|healing power of true contrition soften every pang.
This language must appear obscure to you, who, judging from your own un|spotted life, must have pronounced mine innocent.—Alas! you know me not—Peace flies from hidden guilt, nor can even penitence reclaim the wanderer back, while close concealment bars the door against it: confession must be added to contrition, and for such an act of hu|miliation the season now approaches.
Commune with yourself, my friend, and try your fortitude before you open the enclosed recital; if you shrink back from pain, commit it to the flames, and let the remembrance of the sad reciter perish with it—O no! that will not be; the tear of pity glistens in your eye, and purity like yours will weep for faults it could not have committed.
When you have read my story, you will be convinced that it is not the weak|ness
of my head that has conjured up spectres to haunt me—and yet I trust in the unbounded mercy of that gracious Power, whose eye alone pervades the hu|man heart; that these sad objects shall be banished from me, and peaceful visions bless my nightly slumbers.—My hopes thus raised, I cannot, will not, doubt of more than pardon, of pity, from my friend—'Tis all I now can ask, or you bestow, on the unhappy
J. HARLEY.
P. S. To any one but my Lucy, the enclosed narrative would afford little entertainment; it is not a series of events, but a continued conflict of the mind, and is a history of passions, not of per|sons.
STORY OF LADY JULIANA HARLEY.
Though my loved Lucy is al|already acquainted with all the little events of those blessed days we passed in youthful innocence together, and that I have already informed you of the cause of the separation that took place between my parents while I was a child, you must allow me to recur back again to that fatal circumstance, from which I have cause to date my every misery.
My mother, as you know, died at Dijon, a real martyr to the Catholic re|ligion, which she professed—To that she sacrificed all earthly ties; the tender wife and the fond mother sunk before the idea of a higher duty; the conflict was too great for her soft nature—
The saint sustained it, but the woman died.
When the period of all her sorrows drew near, she called me to her, and with her dying lips enjoined me to pay the strictest obedience to my father in every point, except that of renouncing the religion in which I had been bred, and which, she added, I trust my Julia will never forsake; for something tells me, that you may, at some time or other of your life, stand in need of such an asylum as can only be found in the bosom of our church. Too prophetic were her words, but ever blest be the guardian spirit that in|spired them! The deep melancholy which succeeded to the violent sorrow I felt for the loss of such a parent, marked my countenance with a timid and deject|ed air, which my father, at my return to England, unkindly misconstrued into a sullenness of disposition, or a personal dislike to him, and this opinion inspired
an haughty coldness in his manners to|wards me—I trembled whenever I ap|proached him; his hand was not stretched forth to sustain my feeble steps, nor did the encouraging smile of pa|rental fondness ever smooth the severity of his naturally austere brow.—My bro|ther was his darling, and my only conso|lation—Cruel as he is now become, my heart avows its gratitude to him for all the little happiness that dawned upon my youth. When I had been about a year at my father's, he proposed sending back the governess that had come with me from France, as he justly imagined that she kept up my attachment to the Catholic religion, which he was determined I should renounce. This was a severe stroke to me; I loved Madame Duval as a second parent; she had been a fa|vourite of my mother's, and many pleas|ing
melancholy hours we used to spend together, in mingling our tears to her memory.—On this occasion her dying commands occurred to me, and I sub|mitted without appearing to lament my loss. Her place was supplied by a very dif|ferent sort of woman, unpleasing in her person, and vulgar in her manners—But you must remember Mrs. Winterman—I conceived a very strong aversion to her from the first sight; and therefore from the moment that my poor Duval left me, I never had a female friend older than myself whom I could consult upon any difficult occasion, or to whom I could pour forth the sorrows of my o'er-burthened heart.
About this aera I had the happiness of becoming acquainted with you; the vi|cinity of our houses in the country pro|duced
an intimacy between our families, and soon, very soon, my Lucy became the adopted sister of my love.—About two years after our friendship had com|menced, my brother went to travel; my father, who could ill bear his absence, determined to visit his estates in Scot|land, and leave me with Mrs. Winter|man and the servants at home.—I know my Lucy's kindness then prevailed on Mrs. Evelyn to request my father that I might be permitted to pass the winter with her in London—His consent to this proposal was the only mark of his affec|tion I ever had received.—Wou'd to heaven he had been obdurate, as he was wont to be, and confined me at Fairfield: yet let me not unjustly charge him with the sad effects that sprung from this in|dulgence—The faults are all my own, the merit his.
About the beginning of the following spring, you may remember that your eldest brother returned to England on account of your mother's ill health, though he had not finished his travels, nor been abroad above three years. O Lucy, do you recollect his form? Alas! to me it is for ever present. He had such eyes as yours, and Emma's gra|cious smile—Never till then had I be|held what manly beauty was; yet had his charms been merely personal, I think they could not have obtained my heart. The tenderness he shewed his dying mo|ther, his fond attention to her slightest wish, the ease, the grace that marked his every action, his kindness to my Lucy and her sisters, joined to the passion he avowed for me, soon won-my youthful heart; nor did a thought of blame ob|trude itself upon my mind, when I be|stowed it on such worth as his.
On Mrs. Evelyn's death, my father sent for me imediately—Sad was the parting, Lucy; yet I own my tears had different sources, and flowed, perhaps, even more from love, than friendship—Though your amiable brother had offered every argument to sooth my grief, and solemnly assured me he would solicit my father's consent, (of which I could not entertain a doubt), as soon as it was decent after the loss of so good a mother, yet I could not command my sorrows; they were impetuous, I conti|nued to weep, and neither eat or slept dur|ing the journey. On my arrival at Fairfield, my father, in the same breath, inquired of Mrs. Winterman what illness I had just recovered from, and presented Mr. Harley to me as a particular friend of his and my brother's. I was struck with horror at the sight of Mr. Harley, yet could by no means
account for my disgust; both his per|son and address were pleasing, yet I shuddered when he approached me, as if he had been some noxious animal.—My father, in a few days, perceived my dislike to his friend, and spoke of my behaviour with resentment.—I told him I would endeavour to alter my manners, though I could not conquer my feelings, which I confessed were unaccountable, even to myself.—He sternly replied, I would advise you to get the better of your prejudice, for it is beginning at the wrong end to set out with an aversion to your husband. I was struck motionless at this expression, and stood for several minutes as if I had been petrified.—All the sorrows I had ever felt vanished from my remembrance, swallowed up in the superior gulph of miseries that my fore|boding mind then warned me to appre|hend. But tears came to my relief, and soon a ray of hope beamed through the
gloomy prospect. My father was se|vere, I knew, but I could not believe he could be so inhuman as to sacrifice the peace and happiness of an unoffending child—My brother would, I hoped, so|licit for me, and sure I thought my Eve|lyn could never plead in vain. I retired to my chamber, and wrote you an account of every circumstance that had happened; I was certain you would acquaint your brother with my si|tuation, and I had no doubt but that he would hasten his application to my father—That letter never reached you, Lucy; the cruel Mrs. Winterman de|livered it into my father's hands, and he became the more incensed against me.
While I daily waited in anxious ex|pectation of hearing from you, I en|deavoured to assume a more placid air and manner towards Mr. Harley than I
had at first put on; unfortunately he construed my behaviour into liking, and addressed me with all the warmth of a declared lover. My letter had betrayed me to my father, he saw through the thin veil of affability, and, as he after told me, rejoiced at my becoming a sa|crifice to my own deceit. When a whole month had elapsed, without my receiving a line from you, or my loved Henry, I grew almost distract|ed—I could no longer conceal the ago|nies of my mind—Despair inspired me with courage—I threw myself at my fa|ther's feet, revealed every sentiment of my heart, implored his forgiveness, and in the humblest, but most earnest, terms, besought him not to devote his child to certain misery.
He heard me with composure, and calmly replied, he did not think himself
indebted to my confidence for revealing the secrets of my heart, as he was already apprized of the weakness of my conduct in attaching my affections, without his consent, to Mr. Evelyn; but though he had no power over my passions, I should find he had some over my person.—He then, in the most solemn manner, swore he would never bestow his daughter on a man who had made her guilty of a breach in her first duty, and meanly strove to steal her foolish heart after so clandestine a manner. I attempted to exculpate my Henry, but he command|ed my silence, and sternly vowed I should accept of Mr. Harley for my husband, or from that hour be loaded with his curse; then left me drowned in tears, and sinking on the earth—O had it opened wide, and taken me to its bosom, I had been blest indeed!
After this dreadful interview, my spirits were so intirely depressed by sor|row, that I was utterly unable to leave my chamber for above a week, during which time I wrote to your brother and my own; but both these letters met the same fate as my former one to you, and served, if possible, to increase my father's rage, tho' heaven is my witness I spoke not harshly of his cruel conduct. He intercepted every letter that was ad|dressed to me; and, except the indul|gence of pen and ink to vent my sorrows, I was treated in every respect like a criminal confined in the Bastile. In this deplorable situation you found me at your arrival in the country, when I was permitted to receive the transport of seeing you; but Mrs. Winterman, you remember, never quitted the chamber, but sat like the figure of curiosity, with eyes, ears, and mouth wide open, to
catch every syllable that passed between us—Though I of course was silent, with regard to my situation, your perspicuity easily discovered that some unhappiness of mind was the source of my illness; and my poor Sally Watson, who had been banished from my sight, as she afterwards told me, acquainted you with all the par|ticulars of my distress. In consequence of your visit to me, I know that Mr. Evelyn immediately waited upon my father, and made the most liberal proposals for his alliance—I also know, to my everlasting sorrow, that my unkind, I will not call him cruel, father refused them with disdain; yet still my faithful Henry persevered, bore all the haughtiness of causelessly of|fended pride, and offered even his whole estate to be settled or disposed of at my father's pleasure. Alas! it was in vain; I was not sacrificed to interest, but ca|price
and resentment, which carried him so far as to command that all intercourse of visits, messages, &c. between your fa|mily and ours might cease from that in|stant. During the time of my voluntary confinement to my chamber, I received several polite and tender billets of inquiry after my health from Mr. Harley; from these I formed a romantic idea, that the gentleness of his nature might be pre|vailed upon to relinquish his pretensions to my person, if I could have resolution sufficient to acquaint him that my heart was engaged to another. I anticipated in my mind the pleasure he would feel in rendering two persons happy, and my eyes often overflowed with gratitude and esteem for Mr. Harley's supposed gene|rosity. This simple scheme became the darling of my imagination, and I re|solved
to put it in practice, as a last re|source. From the time that this thought oc|curred to me, my spirits grew better, and I rather wished, than feared, a meeting with Mr. Harley—It was not long de|layed. Soon after his total rejection of Mr. Evelyn, my father came into my chamber, and acquainted me with every thing that had passed between them, in order, as he said, to reconcile me to my duty, by totally destroying every vain imagination I might have conceived of an union with a family whom he dis|liked, for having attempted to seduce my affection, without the sanction of his ap|probation.
I replied not to this severe determi|nation, but with my tears; but when he added, with the most peremptory tone, that he expected I should be ready to
bestow my hand on Mr. Harley, without reluctance, that day se'nnight; I again threw myself at his feet, offered to re|nounce all connexion with my loved Evelyn, with you, my Lucy, with all my world, provided he would recal his harsh command, and suffer me to live and die his daughter. He looked upon me sternly, and taking up a Bible that lay upon my table, swore by it that nothing but my death should prevent my ful|filling the engagement he had made to Mr. Harley, at the time he had already mentioned; then left me, without wait|ing my reply. The little hope I had conceived of Mr. Harley's generosity was now my sole support, and I resolved to put it to the proof immediately.—I saw him from my window walking in the garden; I called for my hat, and with my tear-swoln eyes descended to him—He seemed surprised,
and rejoiced at seeing me, but took no notice of those strong marked traces of sorrow that appeared on my countenance—I tried to speak to him, but tears stopped my utterance, and the imperfect words died on my trembling lips.—I re|turned to my chamber, convinced of my own inability to express myself properly on a subject I was so much affected with, and thought I should be able to do it better in writing.—After many efforts, which all appeared inadequate to my feelings, I at length finished a letter, in which I exhausted every argument that I thought could move his honour or pity, and engage him to renounce the worthless hand that could not give a heart. When I had sealed and sent it, the agitation of my mind became almost insupportable, but still I flattered myself that a certainty of any kind would afford me relief.
I was not permitted to remain long in this error, for in an hour's time I received a very florid epistle from Mr. Harley, lamenting his misfortune in not having been able to engage my affections, but that as he had every thing to hope for from my virtue and good sense, he flattered himself that by a series of unremitted tenderness, he should at length triumph over every prejudice I might have conceived against him, and concluded with assuring me, that the request contained in my letter was the only one I should ever make that he would ever refuse. With the certainty I so much wished for, all my hopes were blasted, and I then thought it was impossible I could ever be more wretched.—Vain presumption! those sorrows were but the prelude to far greater woes.
Warned by my folly, let no woman ever confess a prior passion for another object to him whom fate allots her for a husband. My fatal letter turned Mr. Harley's heart to stone; his pride was piqued, and though I truly think he did not love me, he would have died rather than have surrendered me to a trium|phant rival. A thousand wild vagaries now rushed into my troubled brain: I thought of getting off in some disguise; of flying to my Henry—But then, would not my father force me from his arms? Might not some horrid scene of bloodshed fol|low? Could I sustain the curse of dis|obedience? O no! my heart shrunk within me at the shocking thought.—My mother's dying form seemed to ap|pear before me, and her last words to vibrate on my ear.
I could resist no longer—And when my father came to reproach me with the letter, which Mr. Harley had so unge|nerously shewn him, I pacified his wrath by telling him, with a composure that amazed myself, that I was ready to obey his will, and sacrifice my peace, my happiness, and all my soul held dear, to his commands, and go a silent victim to the altar with Mr. Harley.—At that instant my father gazed on me with an astonished look, and said, My Julia is incapable of deceit, she there|fore purposes what she now promises, and means to make her father happy at last. O, do not doubt it, Sir, I answered, if giving up much more than life can answer that great end, behold your daughter ready to make the sacrifice.—My father turned away his head to hide
the starting tear, then took me in his arms and blessed me. I was a perfect Niobe; yet at that moment felt a transient transport that absorbed my griefs.—Blest source of happiness, the consciousness of having done my duty; why wert thou not for ever present with me? Why has this feeble frame been ever torn between thy dictates and contending passions!
My father was so much pleased with me, that he became all kindness on the sudden. Sally Watson was allowed to attend me; I was no longer watched by Mrs. Winterman; and he was indul|gent enough to postpone my marriage for a fortnight without my requesting it, in hopes that I should, in that time, recover my chearfulness—Alas! it was for ever fled from me—and though I
wore the semblance of composure all the day, my nights were passed in agonies. My poor Watson was amazed at my conduct, and was afraid to mention the loved name of Evelyn.—But as she found me frequently in tears, she began to doubt the reality of my seeming calm|ness, and ventured to acquaint me with the numberless stratagems my Henry had vainly tried to accomplish his hopes of seeing me.—I was terrified at the ac|count she gave me of the dangers to which he had exposed himself for me, and told her, that were it in my power to see him, I would decline the inter|view, as my fate was now irrevocably fixed, and nothing upon earth could alter it.
She then implored my forgiveness, for having promised to deliver a letter from Mr. Evelyn, which she presented to me.
—I had not virtue to withstand this trial; I bathed the precious relic with my tears, and placed it next my heart, from thence my answer flowed, in which I solemnly conjured him, as he valued my happiness here and hereafter, never to attempt to see me more.—I told him that I now considered myself as Mr. Harley's wife, and that from that mo|ment, I never would receive a letter from, or write to him again.—I poured forth a thousand fervent wishes for his happiness, and for yours, my Lucy, and bade him everlastingly farewel. In spite of my injunctions he wrote again, and Watson brought his second letter; but I returned it as it came, un|opened, and fancied I had now gained a perfect victory over my fondness.—How vain the self-sufficience of our boasted reason!—The letter was no sooner gone than I a thousand times
repented my not reading it.—Perhaps my Henry acquiesced in my request, and readily resigned me to his rival.—Had I been sure of that, it would, I thought, have eased my tortured mind, for I too fondly felt his sorrows added to my own. My days thus wasting in a state of misery, brought forward that superla|tively sad one, that was to mark my future life with anguish. As it ap|proached I looked on it with horror, yet I wished it past. On the preceding evening my father took me by the hand and led me to the garden, where, as we walked, he condescended to apolo|gize for the seeming severity of his con|duct towards me, by saying, that he apprehended my opposition to his will, had proceeded from my mother's hay|ing ea••ly inspired me with an aversion to his person, and a contempt of his au|thority, which latter article of unduti|fulness,
at least, he was resolved to conquer. In the zeal of my filial affection to her injured memory, I exclaimed, O, Sir! you do her wrong.—I see my mother now, and hear her dying words.—At that instant, I beheld my Henry's form, concealed beneath a peasant's garb, standing near me; I gave an heavy sigh and sunk upon the earth.—My father stood amazed, and thought the power of fancy had so far operated on my weak spirits as to conjure up a spectre to my view.—He called for instant help, and when my sight returned, I still be|held my Henry's face, pale and dejected, with his hands fast closed, leaning a|gainst a tree.—I rose, the moment I had strength sufficient, and resting on my father's arm, returned into the house.
My father's late returning tenderness seemed much alarmed at this accident, and he told Mr. Harley, before me, that he thought it proper to deser our mar|riage for a few days longer.—Judge of their mutual surprize when I requested that it might not be delayed. The wretch condemned asks but an addition to his misery, who begs a reprieve when hope of pardon is past. You may be sure they readily assented, and I desired leave to retire to my chamber for the remainder of the evening. There I indulged my sorrows, and gave a loose to tears and to complainings—There I reproached the cruel Henry for having disobeyed my last command, and exposed himself and me to certain ruin, had he been detected.—And there I tried to tear-his image from my tortur|ed bosom—
But in the foldings of my
After a night passed in the bitterest conflict with myself, I arose more calm, and hoped the force of duty to my fa|ther, with a patient resignation to my irresistible doom, might enable me to go through the awful and irrevocable cere|mony with composure.—Before I left my chamber, I begged of heaven not to impute to me the sacrilegous, loveless vow, I was compelled to make.—But when the solemn words of adjuration, which begins the ceremony, were pro|nounced, I could no longer contain my sorrow; it burst forth; and had not my father supported me, I had again sunk lifeless on the earth.
On this occasion Mr. Harley appeared rather more offended than alarmed, and behaved with a gloomy kind of tender|ness
towards me; while my father seemed to impute, what he called accident, to the weak state of my nerves; and, as soon as I was able to stand again, they proceeded to finish the ceremony, and the indissoluble knot was tied. In about a week after I was, to my great satisfaction, conveyed to Harley-hill: I flattered myself that change of place and objects might amuse my mind, and that when I had quitted Fairfield I should lose the remembrance of the sor|rows I had experienced there.—There was another, and a stronger reason, that made me desirous of leaving it, the vi|cinity of your house to ours.—I had never ventured to walk in the garden, or even to look out at a window, since the evening before I was married, lest my eyes should encounter their dearest, yet most dreaded, object.—Alas! I knew not that grief had preyed upon my
Henry's spirits, and that he was at that time confined to his bed with a slow fever. I call heaven to witness, that, from the moment I became a wife, I most solemnly purposed to fulfil my duty, and never give Mr. Harlcy the smallest cause of discontent.—I concealed my grief, and even endeavoured to assume a chear|ful air; I received his friends and relations as graciously as I had power to do, and if a sigh escaped me in his presence, I blushed for having committed an invo|luntary fault; yet had I not at that time given vent to my swoln bosom, and poured forth all its sorrows to my faith|ful Watson, I must have died, over|charged with woe.
As soon as the hurry and dissipation of our wedding visits were at an end, my father left us, and from that hour Mr.
Harley became sullen and severe.—When we have been alone, and I have tried to sooth his temper, and to force a smile from his contracted brow, he would take out the fatal letter I had written to him before our marriage, con it over several times, then look upon me with contempt, and say, 'Tis damned dissimulation all.—I could not, at such times, command my tears, in spite of me they flowed.—He then would sneer, and say,Thank heaven, you feel the pangs of disappointed love.—So far we meet on equal terms.We passed four months in this de|plorable state; I had then the additional misfortune of losing my father, who died in scotland, and appointed Mr. Harley guardian to my brother.—On this ac|count it was necessary for Mr. Harley to go there; and after my grief for my father had a little subsided, I felt a secret
satisfaction in thinking that business, and a new scene, might contribute to raise his spirits, and give a more chear|ful and contented turn to his mind. From the time he left me, my days were spent in solitude, nor did my feet e'er pass the bounds of his demesne.—Miss Harley then was with me; our souls but ill accorded; she was quickly dis|gusted with the retired life I led, and quit|ted Harley-hill soon after her brother.
It was then the autumnal season, and thus freed from constraint, my time was all my own; a happiness I never had en|joyed before; and when the moon shone bright, I frequently indulged my medi|tations, even till midnight, in a grove and temple, that were situated at a con|siderable distance from the house, at the extremity of our improvements. I used to have lights placed in the temple, or
rather summer-house, that when I grew tired of walking I might sit there, and read, or weep, unheard and unseen. In this sequestered spot I sat one even|ing, gazing thro' the dim medium of my tears at Henry's last dear letter—I needed not to read it, the words were but too deeply engraved upon my heart—I thought I heard a little sound of gently treading feet, I snatched up my loved treasure, and placed it in my bosom, then rose to see from whence the noise proceeded—My Henry stood before me, but so much emaciated and altered, that I scarcely knew him—I shrieked, and would have fled; he clasped me in his arms, and held me there—I could not force my way; nor when he loosed me from his hold, had I the power to move.
He knelt and wept before me—Offended as I was at his intrusion, my breaking heart pleaded his cause too strongly, and I reproached him not but with my tears. Just then I heard the trampling of a horse close by the temple side, which joined a private road that Mr. Harley sometimes used—I bade my Henry fly—He pressed me to his heart, and left me—It was our last embrace. The door that he came in at to the gar|den then stood open, and I hoped he might escape unseen. Fear lent me wings; I ran, or rather flew, into the house, and gained my chamber; the family were all at rest but Watson—My looks were wild, she trem|bled at my appearance, and eagerly asked me what had happened—I could not answer her, but sat fixed in a gloomy stupor.
When I could speak, I ordered her to bed—When left alone, I became quite distracted, I tore my hair, and ran about the room, I knew not why; I threw up the sash to listen to some sound, and was a thousand times tempted to throw my|self out of it—I could hear nothing but the passing breeze, and dogs that bayed the moon.—I stole softly down stairs, and resolved to return to the temple, from whence I could look upon the road, and see if any one was there; but terror had unstrung my trembling limbs, and they would not support me, and in all the misery of anxious suspence, I waited for the morning. When the day dawned, I began to flatter myself that I might have been mistaken in supposing the horseman that passed the temple should be Mr. Harley; and yet he, and he only, had a key that opened all the gates that led into that road. Conjecture was in vain—my poor
disturbed imagination could not form one that did not teem with horror. About six o'clock I heard a confused noise at a distance, and a cry of fire—I looked, but saw none; the servants who were up ran towards the sound, and quickly brought me word that the sum|mer-house was in flames—But a still more horrid sound now pierced my sink|ing heart: in looking for water to ex|tinguish the fire, they had found Mr. Harley's body weltering in his blood, with a discharged pistol clenched in his stiffened hand.
The servants raised the body, and as they brought it towards the house, I heard their loud laments, and rushed amongst them—Think how my eyes were blasted with the sight! They could not bear it for a single moment—I sunk into a swoon—For above six days I re|mained
delirious, without a single inter|val of reason.—My faithful Watson never left my fide, nor suffered any person but the doctor to approach me. Though she has never hinted at it, I am certain that in my ravings I betrayed myself, and told the horrid secret of my having been the occasion, though not the cause, of my husband's death. When my senses and my misery re|turned together, I incessantly prayed and wished for death—
But he comes not at call, nor mends his slowest pace for plaints or cries.As a sacrifice of atonement to my husband's memory, I bound myself by the most solemn vow never to see my Henry more—Yet still I own I wished to know his fate, and be informed what provocation he had re|ceived' from Mr. Harley, that could ex|culpate him from the foul crime of mur|der. I knew he had not purposed this
vile act, and I most earnestly hoped that self-defence alone had forced him to commit it—I sometimes, for a moment, even wished that Henry had fallen in|stead of Harley. I considered myself as an accomplice in his death, and was a thousand times tempted to relieve my mind from the agony I suffered, by re|vealing the unhappy circumstances that occasioned it—But then, forgive me heaven! my love returned, and I rejoiced the man who killed my husband was in safety. Mr. Harley's relations took every possible pains to discover his murderer—Shocking term, my Lucy—Large re|wards were offered, but no trace ap|peared that led even to suspicion. The circumstance of the summer-house being set on fire was also unaccounted for, as none but Watson knew I had
lights there, which in my fright I had forgot to extinguish. From the time I recovered my reason, though anxious for his fate beyond ex|pression, I never mentioned Mr. Evelyn's name. I concealed all the misery I felt within my tortured boson; nay had that kind of tenderness for Watson, which Macbeth expresses for his wife, when he says, "Be innocent of the knowledge."—The unhappiness of my mind had humbled me so far, as to make me look up with respect to my servant—She was deceived by my outward semblance, and thought that grief for Mr. Harley's shocking and untimely fate was all the woe that preyed upon my heart. She delivered me a letter which had come by post enclosed to her—It was from Henry; it lies before me now; and if my tears will give me leave, I'll copy it.
TO LADY JULIANA HARLEY.
Most loved and most unhappy of your sex, how shall the cause of all your woes dare to approach you? O Julia, could I wash away my crimes with my heart's blood, I would freely let it out.
Yet do not think me worse than I un|happily am—tho' stained with blood, I am not a vile murderer—Heaven knows how earnestly I sought to avoid the fatal contest that has destroyed our every hope of mutual happiness! He called me villain, base adulterer! Impatient as my nature is, I yet forbore to answer him; for conscious innocence disclaimed the opprobrious terms.—He struck me, Julia—I could bear no more, but bad him use the weapons of a gentleman—We
both had pistols; he discharged one, but missed me; I fired one of mine in the air. He again presented at me, swearing with the most dreadful imprecation, that if I escaped his second fire, you should be his victim the next instant. My calmness left me; your danger roused my passions; we both fired at the same instant—I saw the unhappy Har|ley fall—I threw myself upon my knees beside him, but soon discovered that all help was vain.—Heaven is my witness! that at that moment, I wished to have been in his situation rather than my own.—But when I thought of what you must have suffered had he lived, it in some measure reconciled me to his death; tho' never, Julia, will my mind know peace, for having been the unhappy instrument of his untimely fate.
I was a thousand times tempted to give myself up to justice, and expiate my crime by yielding up my life—But there again you interfered; I could not bear the thought of loading you with igno|miny, of blasting your fair fame, and leaving you alone to stand the shock of infamy. Yet while I write I feel I shall not long support my share of misery—a burning fever preys upon my nerves.—How wretched is my lot, still doomed to add new sorrows to that heart, for whose dear peace I would ten thousand times have sacrificed my own.
I tremble for your sufferings, Julia, when you shall hear your Henry is no more—Yet, O my love, my life, re|member, that if my days were lengthen|ed, they must be days of sorrow, nor would our fate permit that I should
soften or alleviate yours—We must have parted, Julia, and what is death but parting? Its only pang is there, and that is past. Then grudge me not the sole retreat of misery, the peaceful grave; there only can your Henry know rest, and there I trust that he shall find it, if true contri|tion can atone his crime. O my loved Julia! add your prayers to mine, for pardon and peace to the departing spirit of your faithful dying
HENRY.
I will not vainly strive to paint the agonies I endured from the perusal of this letter, and the fatal account that fol|lowed it—but O my Lucy!
—Grief will not kill, For Julia lives, to say that Henry died!
Here let me close the sad detail of all my sorrows—They could know no ad|dition. Can you, my once dear friend, with|out abhorrence, think of her who robbed you of a brother, and was the unhappy cause his pure and spotless soul was stained with blood?
Are you not now amazed how con|scious of the evils I had brought upon your family, I dared to view your face, or to behold the day? Yet such was the fatality of my attachment to my dear de|parted Henry, I could not bear my own existence, but at those times my thoughts were fixed on him, and my sad fancy bu|sied in retracing the likeness of his fea|tures in an Evelyn's face.
The secret of my woes is now reveal|ed, and my heart lightened of an heavy
load.—But, after this confession I must decline our ever meeting more.—I should sink down abashed before you, and wound your gentle mind by my abasement. But, at this distance, we may still converse; the healing balm of pity here may reach me, and soften every pain.
May saints and angels guard your steps, and innocence conduct them to the paths of bliss!
J. HARLEY.
MY truly loved and most unhappy friend! Why have you broke my heart? I think my tears will never cease to flow. You deign to ask my pity, you have more, much more, my admiration and esteem.—Most truly do I revere your fortitude, and mourn your sorrows.
In what sad ills has your inhuman father's cruelty involved my hapless bro|ther, the ill-fated Harley, and your
dear suffering self? Yet I respect the mildness with which you treat the me|mory of him who was at once the author of your being, and your woes.
I at this moment blush from recollect|ing the petulance with which I have often jested with your grief, unknowing of the cause. Can you forgive me Julia? Yes, I know you will, though I cannot pardon myself.
It is impossible that any human being can think you guilty of Mr. Harley's death, and heaven, that judges from in|tention only, will most surely acquit you. Nor did my unhappy brother, I am well convinced, ever purpose such a crime; his guilt was accidental, and he most surely forfeited his life in expiation of it.—The rigour of the laws could ask no more, and heaven, I trust, ac|cepted of his penitence.
A thousand things recur to my re|membrance, that strongly proved my brother wished to die; he concealed his illness till it was past cure, nor even then would be prevailed upon to keep his bed, or take any kind of medicine.
Fear not, my friend, that I shall ever more attempt to change your purpose, or strive to draw you from your sanc|tuary.—The world contains no joys for grief-worn minds.—The slender super|structure of all earthly pleasures, must soon decay if not supported by an heart at ease.—But those more permanent de|lights, that arise from an holy and reli|gious fervor, which, like the vital flame, is never extinguished, shall still be yours, and time, that lessens the value of all other enjoyments, will but increase theirs, 'till even this life may afford you sueh a state of happiness, as only can be|heightened in the next.
Without your leave I never shall break in on your retirement, yet sure the time may come, when all your sorrows shall subside to rest, and my then sainted friend may look on Lucy's face without emotion. In the mean time my prayers and tears are yours.—Write to me, I entreat you; tell me that grief is banished from your bosom, and that the rose|lipped cherub, peace, has filled its room.
L. STANLEY.
DEAR Jack, the route is come, and I think it high time to march; Men|sieur Dupont will be in town in a few days.—I have reason to apprehend that there are others who mean to decamp as well as I; but I may, perhaps, put a spoke in the wheel of the ammunition-cart. I never was so near being nicked in my life, but as luck would have it, I dis|covered the trick before they counted game.
In return for the intended deceit, I have laid a train that shall blow them all up, though I will not wait the spring|ing of the mine.
This is all heathen Greek to you, but I shall see you in a few days, and at meeting the riddle shall be explained, by
Your's, G. SEWELL.
P. S. Provide me handsome lodgings, for I mean to make a figure.
DEAR Charles, matters are now come to such a crisis in the Desmond family, that I think your presence, and yours only, can adjust them.
I will, however, relate the particulars of their present situation, and leave you to determine, with regard to your com|ing, as you think proper.
The card parties at Sir James Des|mond's have been, for some time past, to all appearance, broken up; our dear Emma regained her ease and chearful|ness, and her husband seemed to behave with more affection and attention towards her, than he had done since her arrival in London.
But what can escape the piercing eyes of love? Emma soon found out that the scene was only changed, and that the nightly origes were still held at Madame Dupont's in Bury-street; her husband, who is much to be pitied, having been for some time in the country.
In consequence of this discovery, some little altercation passed between Sir James and Lady Desmond; he had, however, art enough to lull her anxiety to rest, and all seemed peace and har|mony between them.
On Saturday last Emma dined at our house, Sir James was expected, but sent an apology; after dinner she was affected with some little complaints incident to her situation, for she is far gone with child, and expressed an earnest desire to go home—Lucy would have attended her, but we had other company, nor did she think her sister very ill.
Our carriage was immediately order|ed for her, and she left us.—In a very short time after, one of her servants came running, almost breathless, to our house, and entreated I would come to his lady directly.
Almost at the same minute a messen|ger brought me a note from Sir James Desmond, dated from a bailiff's house in Carey-street, requesting me to come to him instantly.—I immediately sup|posed Emma's alarm to proceed from a
knowledge of her husband's situation, and flew to her to relieve her apprehen|sions and assure her of my assistance.
When I entered her apartment I found her lying breathless on a couch, her maids in vain endeavouring to recover her from a swoon; there was a letter lying by her, which I knew to be her husband's writing, and was shocked at his inhumanity, in having acquainted her with his distress.
I sent off directly for a surgeon to bleed her, and also a note to Lucy, desir|ing her to acquaint her company, that Lady Desmond was taken ill, and come to her as fast as possible.—I waited in hopes that her senses would return, that I might be able to set her mind at ease about her husband, but with all the aid that could be given her, she relapsed from one fainting fit into another, and
the surgeon who attended, seemed to be apprehensive for her life.
My Lucy was almost distracted; the poor little Fanny clung round her dying mother, and, I confess, I never was so much distressed upon any occa|sion in my life.
Lucy caught up the letter that lay by Lady Desmond, and before she could have read more than half of it, she burst into tears, and sunk upon the sofa, by her sister.—I seised the contagious scroll and read the following lines.
TO LADY DESMOMD.
Before this paper will reach your hands, we shall be many miles asunder.—I hope your sense and virtue will en|able you to conquer any remains of ten|derness
you may yet feel, for a man who acknowledges himself unworthy of it. Our affections are not in our power, and though I own that mine have strayed to an object perhaps less ami|able than yourself, believe me, Emma, I would not thus publicly have de|ferted you, had it been in my power to have supported appearances any longer. But, in truth, I am a ruined man, and had I staid, must have involved you in misery without extricating myself; for my pride would never suffer me to bear the being indebted to your family, for the means of subsistence, and I have long since parted with the last of mine.
The sincerest satisfaction I can at pre|sent feel, arises from the certainty that your brother will take care of you and my little Fanny, and will properly edu|cate
the child you carry, if it should be a son. The generous girl who accompanies my flight, has sacrificed all that was dear to her, for my sake.—Bear her no hatred, Emma; she is much less to blame than him who, for the last time, subscribes himself your husband,
J. DESMOND.
I was almost struck speechless with indignation at the perusal of this vile paper, and was no longer surprised at Lady Desmond's situation, but could by no means reconcile its contents with the summons I had so lately received from Sir James.—I instantly set about unravelling the mystery, and thought, if I could bring Sir James Desmond back to his house, his presence would more effectually contribute to his wife's
recovery, than any other medicine that could be tried.
When I reached Carey-street I saw Sir James Desmond's post-chaise and four horses standing at some distance from the bailiff's house.—When I came into the room where he was, Madame Dupont was seated by him, in an elegant travelling dress.—He immediately start|ed up, and said, Sir William, I fear your delay has undone me; I shall not get out of this odious house to-night.—I replied, Sir James, I cannot possibly think of speaking to you upon this sub|ject before a third person; I therefore must request that this Lady may be shewn into another apartment.
Madame Dupont rose with the most disdainful air, rung the bell, and said, she thought I might guess that there were no secrets now between Sir James and
her, but that she should, however, com+ply with my ill-bred request.
Upon the waiter's entrance, he told her there was not a vacant room in the house, but that there was an elderly lady in the next, who had been confined there about three weeks, and she might, if she pleased, walk in there.
She tripped out with the waiter, and in a very few minutes we heard her utter a loud scream.—I rushed out to see what was the occasion of it, when I be|held Lady Morton's venerable figure bending over her unworthy daughter, and heard her say, My child! you are come at last.—Madame Dupont turned from her, and with a look of indignation, said to me, I suppose this is your scheme, Sir William.
The good old Lady gazed in silence at us both, the tears fast falling down her pallid cheek.—I addressed her with the utmost respect, and told her, I was sincerely sorry to see her in a place so ill betfiting her rank and worth—She calmly answered, I can't feel sorrow in Maria's presence, if love and duty bring her to this place.—I thought those words must necessarily affect her daugh|ter deeply, and bowing, retired from the chamber.
When I returned to Sir James, I ac|quainted him with the interview I had been witness to.—He seemed much sur|prised, and said, It cannot be; Lady Morton is at her nephew's house in Shropshire; Madame Dupont assured me she was there.—I was charmed at his discovering this instance of her falshood and inhumanity, but could not expa|tiate long on the subject, as I was impa|tient
to acquaint him with Lady Des|mond's situation.—He was affected, even to tears, at my relation, but said it was impossible he could ever see her more.—I told him, if he persisted in this resolution, it was almost certain that his wife would never see another morn|ing, and that not only the whole world, but his own heart must tell him he had murdered her.
He started wildly at these words, and struck his breast—Then said, You know it is impossible, Sir William, I cannot if I would, go see my injured Emma.—That villain Sewell has un|done us all, 'tis at his suit I am here.
I replied, most willingly do I forgive his villainy, since he has detained you for the happy purpose of saving Lady Desmond's life, and your own character; but do not waver any longer; come
with me this moment, or we may be too late, I will be answerable to the bailiff for Sewell's claim, let it be what it may.
Sir James again repeated, It is im|possible—I can't forsake Maria, she has left all for me.—She never can return to her husband, and I will not abandon her to want and infamy.—Emma has virtue and religion to support my loss, and all who know, love and esteem her; I am the only man on earth that would forsake her, but she has better friends than such a wretch as me.
Long was our argument before I could prevail, but he at length con|sented to throw himself at Lady Des|mond's feet, and if she received him, as the returning prodigal, to remain with her till she was able to go abroad with him, if it should be her choice; but
that on no account would he remain in England a bankrupt and a beggar.—But the chief point he insisted upon, was, that if he gave up Madame Du|pont, she should be taken care of out of the wreck of his fortunes, and not be suffered to know distress on his account, but have some competent annuity settled upon her for her support.
Nothing but Lady Desmond's life being at stake, could have made me comply with these terms; for her sake I acceded to them all, and ratified the engagement with my honour, provided he would quit the bailiff's house with|out seeing his Circe.—He agreed, and sat down to write a short farewel.
There remained now, I imagined, no|thing to be done, but to pass a security to the bailiff for Sewell's demand, which was fifteen hundred pounds, and carry Sir
directly to his own house—But to my great concern and surprize, I found that there were already writs and executions, upon sundry notes and bonds, lodged in the bailiff's hand, to the amount of twelve thousand pounds, and that he would by no means consent to enlarge his prisoner till these debts were dis|charged.—Had I been in possession of so large a sum, and would have laid it down, that would not have procured Sir James's release at that time, as it was Saturday night, the sheriff's office was shut, and the governor of this enchanted castle would not suffer his guest to de|part 'till every form of law was fulfilled.
I had no resource left but an applica|cation to the bailiff's humanity, by ac|quainting him with Lady Desmond's situation, and offering to be security for Sir James's forth-coming on Monday morning.—The man paused for some
time; then said, So, the madam that came here with his honour, is not his wife—These are bad doings, and she shall walk out of my house directly—and if so be, that your honour will get another person to be security with you, the gentleman shall go and see his sick lady, for I never was hard-hearted in my life.
I immediately sent to my friend Mr. Drummond, who, at my request, became responsible with me for Sir James's ap|pearance.—I then ordered a chair to be in readiness to convey Madame Du|pont where she thought proper, as soon as we were gone out of the house.—I got Sir James into my carriage, and drove as hard as possible to Charles|street.
In our way, I inquired how his friend Sewell had been so far irritated against
him as to arrest him, without giving him the least previous notice of his in|tention? he told me, that he had dis|covered his design of eloping with Ma|dame Dupont, by a note which she had dropped, in which the time and place of their setting out was fixed; for, at the very spot, which was in Park-lane, and on the instant of their meeting, the bailiffs seized him.—He called Sewell a thousand opprobrious names, and swore his blood should expiate his villainy.—Yet, at the same time, he said, he re|joiced in his being detained, if his pre|sence could relieve one pang of Lady Desmond's; but he was certain she must feel more sorrow from seeing him lan|guish out his life in a prison, as he must probably do upon his being surrendered back into custody again, than she would have known from his leaving her.
As we drew near Berkeley-square he became extremely agitated, and talked and looked as if he was distracted.—I was sensible of a mixed sensation to|wards him, compounded of compassion and contempt, and felt very uneasy ap|prehensions for the consequences of the interview between him and our dear Emma.—He entered his house like a culprit, without even daring to enquire into the state of his wife's health. When I went up stairs, I found she was in bed, and that her fainting fits had subsided about half an hour, that she was perfectly sensible, though speech|less, and that her tears flowed abun|dantly.
When I approached the bed-side, she cast a look, expressive of the most anxious inquiry, towards me, to which I immediately replied, He waits but your permission to throw himself at his
loved Emma's feet.—She raised herself with an amazing quickness, and opened wide her arms, but instantly sunk back, and fainted quite away.
While the persons about her were using means for her recovery, I brought Sir James into the room; he knelt by her bedside and wept: the moment her senses returned, she gazed upon him with a look of tenderness, caught up his hand, and pressed it to her lips, and with a scarcely articulate voice, said, You will not leave me?—He replied, Never, by heaven, my love! and clasped her in his arms.—Her joy be|came too powerful, and she again re|lapsed into a state of weakness.
I forced Sir James out of the cham|ber, and never yet saw any person so strongly affected as he appeared to be; he called himself a murderer, said he
had never known how tenderly he loved his wife till that sad hour, vowed if she died, he would destroy himself, and doubted the possibility of her forgiving him.—Yet, in the midst of all his fond emotions, he lamented the unhappy situation in which he had involved Ma|dame Dupont; but fortunately he has since received a letter from her, which has entirely relieved his apprehensions for her, and contributed more effectually to the restoration of his affections, where they were justly due, than any other circumstance could possibly have done.
In this letter she loaded him with the most opprobrious terms, and added the epithet of mean, or poor spirited, to them all; thanked heaven for being released from a wretch who was con|temptible enough to return home, and ask forgiveness of his wife—Said, her spirit could never brook such meanness,
and that therefore she had sought, and found protection, in the arms of a man every way his superior, who was neither a bankrupt in honour, in fortune, or in love.—She assured him of her sincere detestation, and desired, if his wife's re|lations should be weak enough to trust him with his liberty, that he should avoid hers and Lord Somners presence.
Sir James was almost petrified at the perusal of this extraordinary epistle; but upon recollection, said he felt himself re|lieved from a weight which only such behaviour could ever have removed, as she had art sufficient to persuade him, that the violence of her passion for him alone could have prevailed on her to swerve from virtue; but he was now con|vinced that it was her aversion to the so|ber duties of a married life that had oc|casioned her misconduct. He however reproached himself severely as the prime
cause of her crimes and follies, which he said he should repent of, along with his own, to the last hour of his life.
A new cause of distress now occurred; Lady Desmond was seized with labour pains; I left Lucy with her, and brought Sir James to my house; yesterday morn|ing she was delivered of a son, who, tho' born two months before his time, is likely to live, and she, thank heaven, is in a fair way of recovery.
This morning I accompanied the pe|nitent baronet back to his prison in Carey-street, where he said he should be content to pass his days, provided Em|ma could be made happy. I find, upon enquiry, that most of his debts are of the same nature of Sewell's demand, from whom he did not receive above five hundred for the bond of fifteen.—These
matters must be litigated, and the scoun|drels who have cheated him exposed.
About noon I procured his release upon bail; and the moment I returned home, though much fatigued, sat down to give you this long and circumstantial detail of every thing relative to our dear Emma.
I again repeat my wish for your return to London; your presence will diffuse tranquility and joy amongst us all—But let we warn you, my dear Charles, against being too rigidly virtuous; the baronet is truly penitent—
And in sooth so humbled, That he hath left part of his grief With me, to suffer with him.
He seems to detest his former follies, particularly his fondness for play, which
he confesses has involved him, and all that is dear to him, in beggary and ruin.
With sincere concern I tell you, that my dear Lucy has for some time past en|tirely lost her chearfulness and vivacity; she has received a long letter, or rather history, from Lady Juliana Harley, which she says she cannot communicate even to me—She shuts herself up for hours to read this doleful tale, and comes out of her dressing room, with her eyes swoln with tears.—Thank heaven! the woes she weeps are not her own.
Adiu, my dear Evelyn, I can no longer hold the pen than to subscribe myself
Your's, W. STANLEY.
HOW could you, my dear Stanley, make me suffer, through the long detail of your letter, by not at first acquainting me that Emma's life was safe? Every paragraph I read made me tremble for the next, as I expected it to contain the period of her life and sufferings.—Un|happy, much loved sister! I fear they will not separately end.
Notwithstanding your caution, I feel the strongest indignation against Sir
James Desmond, and pay but little re|gard to his mere attrition, for such I consider his present state of humi|liation.
There is no palliation for his miscon|duct but the weakness of his understand|ing—What a tottering foundation to build any permanent hope upon? Ex|perience may make fools cunning, but nothing can make them wise; and his reigning vice is of such a nature, that men of the best sense, once infected with it, find it difficult to get the better of.
How do I lament that Emma's happi|ness is bound in his, and that he should ignorantly possess a treasure
richer than all his tribe.I have not your calm|ness Stanley, and cannot think with pa|tience of his casting such a pearl away—But Emma must be made happy, and if
my whole fortune can effect that pur|pose, it will be well bestowed.
That wretched scoundrel, Sewell, who is now here, and whom I sent for as soon as I had read your letter, has offered to reduce his demand to the sum of five hundred pounds, which he lent Sir James, out of the money he had cheated him of, provided he is not exposed; but I refused any terms of accommodation with him, threatened him with a prose|cution, and have publicly proclaimed him a cheat.
I perfectly recollect your antipathy, and my sympathy towards this man; your presentiment, tho' since proved more just, had less foundation than mine, which arose from an open, chear|ful countenance, that has always ap|peared to me the index of an honest heart; for I shall never read rascal in any
man's countenance, till his actions have rendered the characters legible—Tho' it seems that, as Hamlet says,
A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
I must necessarily be detained here some days longer, as I have promised to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Harrison till they are ready to set out for the Con|tinent; but had I no engagement, I should not wish to meet Sir James Des|mond, till my resentment towards him is somewhat abated. I also think that Emma must as yet be in too weak a state to bear even the slight emotion which might arise from seeing me after such an incident. In the mean time I intreat you to use every possible means of settling Sir James Desmond's affairs, and for that purpose enclose you an un|limited letter of credit on my banker. The first use I desire you to make of it
is to release Lady Morton from her con|finement. I cannot express what I felt at your description of the interview be|tween her and her unnatural daughter, whose infamous conduct has brought her mother's silver hairs, with sorrow to the grave.—Though this expression be a common one, it can never cease to be af|fecting.
Do not be offended with me, Stanley, for saying that I am not sorry Lucy's feelings should be augmented, even at the expence of her vivacity.—Tender|ness stands second in the catalogue of fe|male charms: modesty is its only ante|cedent, and always its companion; they are both derived from the same source, from sensibility; and those soft drops, which pity has engendered, add infinitely more lustre to the speaking eye, than all the jewels that ever issued from Golcon|da's mines, or blazed around a diadem.
But think what I myself must suffer, when you say that Lucy's tears flow for Lady Juliana's sorrow! Why am I ever doomed to be unhappy from the miseries of those that are most dear to me? There is a fatal influence attends my love, which equals the malignity arising from another person's hate.
Write to me by every post, I intreat you—I shall not know peace till I hear that Emma's is restored.
Your's, most truly, C. EVELYN.
London.
MY dear Shanasy—I must abbreviate your horrid name—I am extremely glad you are returned to this delightful me|tropolis, which I was near quitting upon a very foolish errand.—That worthless wretch, Sir James Desmond, is a greater deceiver than even your baronet—But I hope his wife will turn termagant, since he has bowed to the distaff, and re|venge my quarrel.—Luckily I had more
spirit than my contemptible lover; for having once broken ground, I did not chuse to return to my husband, and cry pray, pray, for forgiveness.
I am now extremely happy in the friendly protection of Lord Somners—I hear poor Dupont is almost distracted at my loss, and has commenced a suit in Doctor's Commons, in order to obtain a divorce.—I shall not oppose his incli|nation, for I have no doubt, if it takes place, that I shall obtain the title of Lady, instead of Madame.—But should I even be disappointed in this ex|pectation, one blessing I am sure of—that of being free.
Dupont's fortune was too confined for my inclinations, and ••he would by no means consent to my endeavouring to in|crease it by play, or any other of the polite moyens de vivre. Poor simpleton!
he went into the country to find out a proper place for us to retire to, where we might live soberly, within our income; but I had no idea of being buried alive at five and twenty, and therefore did not chuse to wait his return.
Though you have, as you say, been pillaged, I assure you that you may make a very tolerable figure upon your ten thousand; for I know many women in this town, who have not the tenth part of the money, who keep good company, and play at gold loo every night.—There lies the whole secret, my dear; and if I should be so lucky as to become Lady Somners, I will take care to introduce you into proper setts for the purpose.
Keep up your spirits, I desire you, and come to me this evening—I don't care to go much abroad in my present situ|ation, and shall be glad of an agreeable
female friend to join our little party. On your account we shall not play high to-night; so that if you put fifty pieces in your card-purse, for I dare say you have not a pam-box, they will pro|bably be sufficient.—Rely upon my friendship, and believe me sincerely
Your's, M. DUPONT.
I AM persuaded that a line from me will give you pleasure, as it will be a more convincing proof of my recovery than any other that you can at this di|stance receive—Yes, my most generous, and best of brothers! your Emma is again restored to health and happiness, and at this hour more blessed, than if she had never tasted sorrow.
My husband's tenderness and virtue are now established on a solid base—He sees his errors, and sure that is sufficient to prevent his ever falling into them again—But he does more, he feelingly repents them—His sorrow is sincere, it flows from love for me, and for our children, as well as from contri|tion.—He regards not his own suffer|ings, but cannot bear the thought of my partaking them; he strives to conceal the anguish of his mind from me, and would rather it should still prey upon his heart, than be alleviated by the sympathy of mine.
But I will watch over his dejected spirit, will pour the balm of tenderness upon his reclaimed heart, and speak of comfort to my afflicted mourner. These are the offices of virtuous love, the real proofs of conjugal affection; and most
supremely happy do I think myself in being called to this delightful task.
We never know our strength till it is tried; our virtues and our passions all lie dormant, unless occasion calls them forth. Bred up in ease and affluence, a life of poverty appeared to me a state of misery; the idea was delusive, and is va|nished.—Can I regret the pomp of dress and equipage, when put in competition with my husband's love? While I pos|sessed them, did they make me happy? Too truly I can answer, they did not—And are not millions so, who never have enjoyed them?
To this you may reply—There is a wide distinction between privation and deprivation; those who have never known the elegancies of life can easily support the wants they scarcely feel; but by habit they become necessary to those
who have long enjoyed them—But what is virtue, Charles? Is it not strength of mind to conquer habit, or else an empty name? I wish to express myself as strongly as possible upon this subject, to relieve your apprehensions for my hap|piness, which I am well convinced is to|tally independent of the goods of fortune.
Sir James, who is sensible of the most lively gratitude for your more than bro|therly affection, is resolved to be no far|ther burthensome to your generosity—His debts, my brother Stanley says, may be compounded for about five thousand pounds.—The sale of our house, jewels, plate, and other effects, will probably amount to more than this sum, and there is still a little estate left of about three hundred pounds a year.—With this, in many parts of the world, we shall be rich; but in any part of it we shall be more than rich, we shall be happy.
I have not yet mentioned your new relation, my little Charles; he was called after you by his father's particular de|sire, his mother not opposing—He thrives apace, and my sweet Fanny grows almost an angel—Think you I would ex|change these treasures for Potosi's mines.
I most earnestly wish to see you; and as we shall not stay longer in London than is absolutely necessary to the settling of our affairs, I hope you will not delay your coming.
I am, with the sincerest gratitude, my dear Charles's most affectionate sister,
E. DESMOND.
DEAR Stanley, I have by this post received a letter from Lady Desmond, which has affected me almost as much as your account of her distress, though the emotion I felt was of a different kind.—I am charmed with the virtue and good sense she possesses in her present unhappy situation, and my affection is encreased by my esteem for her worth.
I begin also to be sensible of a kind of sympathy towards Sir James, from the spirit he has shewn in rejecting my prof|fered assistance, at a time when he stand|so much in need of it.—I could not have avoided thinking meanly of him, if he had condescended to accept of a support from an injured wife.—The spirit of in|dependence is natural to men; from thence arises the only justifiable reason that can be assigned for the dominion they assume over the other sex; and whenever they relinquish the power of assisting themselves,
Housewives should make a skillet of their helms.
This kind of argument might appear to any one who did not know me as meant for a salvo to myself, on having altered my intentions towards Emma and her family—On the contrary, my attach|ment
to her happiness and interest is stronger, at this moment, than it has ever been; though I rejoice at finding that she will have less occasion for pecu|niary assistance than either she or her husband apprehend at present.
For this information I am indebted to Sewell, who, though undoubtedly a knave, is willing to make a merit of dis|closing the villainy of others, provided his own may go unpunished.—On these terms he has offered to make very ma|terial discoveries, and I have promised to secure him from any legal inflictions, leaving him to be punished only with the loss of character, and the stings of his own conscience.
Our King's evidence then has laid open a most complicated scene of wickedness, and is ready to prove that the Jew, who bought the estate on which Emma's
jointure of five hundred pounds a year was settled, the power over which un|luckily devolved to her, by my having ne|glected to administer to my brother, who was her sole trustee, did not pay in ster|ling cash above six thousand for it, though the bargain was made for fifteen thousand, which was much under the real value; but, in lieu of money, made Sir James accept of old goods and chat|tels, which, when sold, did not produce above eight hundred pounds. As this rascally usurer, who by the way is only a Jew in his dealings, has amassed a noble fortune by his villainy, I shall have infi|nite pleasure, not only in making him refund his infamous purchase, but in ex|posing him to the contempt he deserves.
O heaven, that such companions shou'dst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip, To lash the rascal naked thro' the world, Even from East to West!
I enclose you the heads of a bill, which I request you will get immediately filed against that wretch of an usurer.—I shall be in town in a very few days to prosecute the suit; in the mean time I insist upon it, that Sir James Desmond shall not part with his house, or any thing else that he possesses; for I have no doubt of being able to re-establish his fortune upon a better foundation than it has been for a considerable time past.
And if he has, as Emma says, seen his errors in a true light, I will en|deavour to hope that their happiness may be as permanent as their lives; at least, I shall take care that nothing on my part shall be wanting to ensure it, for it is only from the happiness of others that I can hence forward derive my own, the prospect of bliss in a direct line being for ever barred from my hopes.—All those fond schemes, relative to myself, which
youthful fancy once had formed, are now blasted; and in adopted children only, shall I look for heirs.
When I come amongst you, I flatter myself you will be a little more commu|nicative than you have hitherto been, with regard to Lady Juliana's situation; be it what it may, my warmest wishes for her happiness for ever shall attend her.
My very worthy friends, the Harrisons, set out from hence for Dover on Tuesday next—Miss Harrison has consented to give her hand to Mr. Stuart, the gentle|man I mentioned before as her lover, as soon as they arrive at a proper place on the Continent—Her delicacy would not permit her to be married here, as the scene would too strongly recall to her mind the imprudent step she was so near having taken with Captain Williams.
I shall hope for the happiness of seeing you and all my sisters in perfect health on Wednesday evening—I most sincerely long to embrace ye all—Nor shall the repentant Sir James Desmond be ex|cluded from his share of that brotherly affection, with which I am most truly
Your's, C. EVELYN.
P. S. I hope Lucy has recovered her chearfulness, without losing her sensi|bility, as I am very certain they are compatible.—Tell Emma I thank her for her letter, and will answer it in person.
MY dear 'Shanacy, I am utterly undone, and have no refuge but your friendship to fly to.—You know that Monsieur Dupont has obtained a divorce, and of course I am for ever barred from any claim to his assistance or support.—Wretch that I am! Why did I forsake the best and worthiest of men? But repentance on this subject is now too late—and I shall not take up your time with unavailing lamentations.
While the suir was depending, I did not perceive the least abatement in Lord Somners fondness for me; but as soon as the affair was determined, I affected to grow extremely melancholy, and more than hinted, that nothing but a matri|monial connection with him could restore my happiness.—He constantly waived the subject whenever it was mentioned, and I began to think I had better appear to be satisfied with my situation, than risk a quarrel that might possibly end in separation, and trust to my charms and blandishments to effect my purpose at some future time.
The artful monster took advantage of my apparent fondness, and one even|ing, that we unfortunately talked of that bane to my happiness, your detested sister-in-law, he drew me in so far, as to confess that my hatred to her arose from my love to him, and that I had
traduced her character merely to prevent his marrying her.
This, you know, was a falshood, for it was more to gratify you than myself, that I at that time unjustly censured her. However, I flattered myself, that as he seemed to have entirely forgotten her, he would only think of the affair in the light I wished, and receive the ca|lumny as a proof of my love.
But it turned out, alas! quite other|ways.—My cunning overshot the mark.—His pride appeared to be hurt at being deceived, and he wrote a letter directly to Lady Juliana's brother, Lord R—, who was in Scotland, acquaint|ing him with the means by which he had been imposed on, and intreating his and his sister's forgiveness.
This huff-gruff don of a nobleman, arrived in town yesterday, and came directly to our house; Lord Somners was at home, and I could hear enough of their conversation, to discover that there was a very warm altercation be|tween them.—I trembled like an aspin leaf, cursed my own folly for having betrayed myself, and when Lord Som|ners came into my dressing-room, I was as pale as death, and looked like a cul|prit that expected sentence to be pro|nounced against him.
The insensible barbarian, Somners, appeared perfectly composed, and with the utmost sang froid, said, he was very sorry to be under a necessity of informing me, that he could not have the honour of my company any longer under his roof, for that Lord R—had insisted on his abandoning the woman who had
injured and villified the spotless charac|ter of his sister.
Though I was shocked almost to death at his indifference, I mustered up courage enough to tell him, that I could not suppose him to be such a mean spirited wretch, as to give up a woman who had sacrificed every thing to him, to save himself from Lord R—'s re|sentment.—He replied, that this was by no means the case on either side, for he thought it but a flight compensation for the injuries he had done an amiable and virtuous woman, to give up one, who had made the sacrifice she boasted, to Sir James Desmond at least, if not to others.
I grew outrageous at his insolence, but my fury had no effect upon his im|penetrable head or heart.—He certainly never loved me. He took out of his
pocket-book a bill for five hundred, and left it on the table, saying, he hoped that sum would provide for me 'till I had formed a more lasting connection, and bowing, left me.
I think I should have gone mad but for this last proof of his tenderness, which has helped to console me for his loss.
I now propose, my dear Shanacy, that you and I should set out together for Brighthelmstone, Southampton, Scar|borough, or any other public rendez|vous of the gay and idle, where I hope soon to repair the errors I have fallen into, by drawing some young man of fortune into the matrimonial noose.—Your title and appearance will be of infi|nite service to me on this occasion, and the sooner this scheme is put in practice the better.
I shall send my trunks to your lodg|ings directly, and they shall be followed by your sincerely affectionate friend.
I do not know what to sign myself—but it shall be
MARIA MORTON.
REALLY, Miss Morton, I am quite astonished at your assurance, and were it not to prevent your coming, or send|ing your trunks to me, I should take no notice of your extraordinary letter. How could you ever presume that I would appear in public with a woman that has been divorced from her hus|band, and lived as a kept mistress with another man? Let me tell you, Madam,
you are extremely mistaken in my cha|racter.
'Tis true, that on my first coming to London, being very low spirited, and having no acquaintance in town, I did condescend to sup with you two or three times in private, and I think I paid pretty handsomely for my entertainment.—Besides you were not then divorced, and I might in charity suppose, that your connection with Lord Somners was perfectly innocent.—But the matter is much too clear at present for Lady O'Shaughnasy to be seen with Miss Morton.—How could I, with any face, upbraid my husband for keeping an infamous woman, if I should become the companion of such a one myself?
And as to your making a merit to me of your traducing Lady Juliana's charac|ter, you know full well, that it was to
gratify your own spleen and jealousy against her, for having deprived you of your fancied conquest, Mr. Evelyn.—But in truth, Miss Morton, though I do not wish to mortify you at present, I am certain he never did, or could like you—But nothing can conquer some people's vanity.
I have been informed that Sir John O'Shaughnasy is at Scarborough.—It is my duty to follow him there, and I have no doubt of recovering his affec|tions.—I mention this circumstance in order to prevent your bending your course that way, as I should be sorry to be obliged to treat a person with con|tempt, for whom I once had a small portion of regard; and for this reason I hope you will henceforth avoid any further intercourse with
A. O'SHAUGHNASY.
Dijon.
DRIED be my Lucy's tears, and may each trace of sorrow, she has ever felt for her unhappy friend, vanish at the receipt of this, like morning dews before the rising sun! No cause remains for Lucy now to weep, her sister Magdalen * 5.1 is well and happy.
Your letter was the harbinger of peace; I could no longer doubt of hea|ven's forgiveness, when a frail mortal, like myself, looked with compassion on my sufferings, and thought they had atoned for all my faults. Hope, once again, illumined my sad mind, and stilled the beating of my anxious heart.—I dared to make my vows—From that blessed hour no pang has harrowed up my soul, no bursts of grief have since deformed my face—Though the soft drops of penitence sincere will never cease to flow.
Yes, Lucy, I believe that I could bear to see you now, and meet your looks with firmness; yet, for your sake, I would postpone the interview, 'till use has made the idea of our separation more easy to your friendly heart.—Yet let me not turn boaster, perhaps your presence
might recal ideas that should be ever banished from my mind; then do not risk my present tranquility, but strive to wean yourself from the affection which you long have borne me, and think of me as a departed friend.
To complete my earthly happiness, I have received a letter from my brother, filled with the tenderest acknowledg|ments of what he calls the unlucky error, that had led him to behave unkindly to me, and the most earnest en|treaties to return and pass my days with him without controul.—Blest be the power of truth that has relieved his mind from the indignant, yet humiliat|ing sensation, that must arise from the dishonour of a sister.
For my own part I never felt resent|ment to my foes, and only grieved for
what my brother suffered. I am indebt|ed to their malice, Lucy.—They meant to sting my heart, but have procured its peace.—May penitence for the in|tended mischief assuage their own re|morse.
I am infinitely indebted to the amiable superior of our convent for many indul|gencies—She knew and loved my mo|ther, and has transferred that kind|ness to your friend.—From this cause, were there no other, I should be pleased with her society; but she is sensible, as well as good.
I mention this little circumstance to render you more easy at my seclusion from a world which has to me most surely been a world of woe.—May every happiness it can afford await my tender friend and may we meet again in that
blessed place,
where every tear is wiped from every eye,to part no more.
ST. MARY MAGDALEN.
The name Lady Juliana assumed with the veil.