Emily Herbert: or, perfidy punished. A novel. In a series of letters.

EMILY HERBERT: OR, PERFIDY PUNISHED.

LETTER I. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

London.

Of all comforts I miscarried, When I play'd the fool and married.

THESE, Caroline, are the sentiments you have so often heard me most melo|diously warble forth, indeed with tears in my eyes—but I retract—I now bless the hour in which I became a wife, and look back to it with almost as much heartfelt joy as on that happy one, in which I be|came a widow—You are amazed—but

'tis a fact—and so great is my friendship for you, that in spite of my present afflic|tion I was determined you should receive the joyful intelligence from myself before my eyes were so totally destroyed with weeping, as to put it out of my power—Behold me then a widow, my old soul of a husband comfortably and quietly laid in his grave—can you figure to your|self a happier creature? I cannot. Young, handsome, rich—my own mistress, thank heaven! I cannot once more say, "the world is all before me—where to choose, as well as what to choose." Ambition has had its turn. I have seen my error; of matrimony too I have had a sufficient dose; 'twas a bitter one, but I am am|ply rewarded for my fortitude in swal|lowing it; it has produced the most salu|tary effects; what they are I have told you above, and now I can truly say, with the spirited Eloisa,

Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove, No, make me mistress to the man I love.

With these unfettered sentiments have I not reason to look forward with transport? Believe me, I do, and impatiently long

to begin a new course of life; what the past has been, you pretty well know; but what is to follow? Aye, child, that, take my word for it, shall be quite on a different plan. Will you come and be witness to it? Say the word, a female companion is not amiss, if I could meet with one according to my own ideas, and as such, I think you would suit me ex|tremely well; my late poor dear husband's apartments are at your service; come and occupy them, if the proposal meets your approbation—think of what I have said, and in the intervening time I will think of more important matters.

You never beheld mortal so ravishingly handsome as I look in my fables; the very few fellows I have seen since the glorious day I first figured in them, are all expir|ing, and swear I ought to be shut up in mere charity; but I have no such de|sign, believe me—however, I am on the point of bidding the dear creatures adieu for awhile; the town is almost deserted, and I am on the wing for the country; 'tis rather unlucky this unexpected event did not take place the beginning of win|ter, but one must endeavour to be con|tent;

'tis better late than never. My villa is a paradise, and in a genteel and chearful neighbourhood, and were it not, I have the vanity to believe, my attrac|tions would draw it a sufficient number of admirers, the only society likely to afford me consolation in my present me|lancholy state—To you, you see, I have freely opened my heart, but do not there|fore fancy I have so little of the hypo|crite in my disposition as to appear to the world in my true colours. No, no, that would never do, though I believe in my conscience, were every woman to speak her sentiments as freely as I have done, mine would not be found very singular; what think you? But since 'tis the cus|tom to wear a mask, I shall not take off mine 'till others set me the example.—Adieu, let me hear from you, and tell me what you think of my proposal; ac|cept it freely, if 'tis agreeable to you, and whether or not, believe me,

Affectionately your's, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER II. Same to the Same.

Stanley-Place.

YOUR congratulations, dear Caro|line, found me just arrived here, but I had so many matters to arrange on my first coming, (being now the sole propri|etor) that I could not find time to ac|quaint you with it before. I admit your reasons, for not at present accepting my offer, are weighty, but consess I am sorry you had any to refuse it, as I find I wish for you infinitely more now, when con|vinced I cannot have your company, than before; this is a true dash of the female, you'll allow: but I never aspired to be any thing better—that is to say, than exactly such a female as I am; 'tis true, there are beings who figure under that appellation, who do no great credit to it; mere milk and water compositions, who answer no earthly purpose in life except to fill up the space in which they vegetate, and fifty such have I already been pestered with since I came into the country, for I have received visits of con|dolence

from every soul twenty miles round, and what is worse, have been obliged to return them, not to mention being also compelled to settle my fea|tures in some measure answerable to my outward garb; under this restraint, you may believe, I made them as short as possible, to the no small mortification of some, and no less joy of others; the first class, you may guess, are males; the latter, their wives, sisters, daughters, nieces, &c. these naturally felt some un|pleasant sensations on seeing themselves so greatly eclipsed, and trembled for the effects my superior charms might pro|duce on their husbands, lovers, and so forth; and indeed not without cause, as every unprejudiced spectator must ac|knowledge.

As decency does not permit me at pre|sent, to grace any of their balls, either private or public, I am rather at a loss for amusement, but shall very soon emerge; the most rigidly scrupulous must acquit me of all indecorum, if, at the expiration of six tedious months, I ven|ture to appear amongst them; and thank my stars four of the six are over—in the mean while, I pass much of my time on

horse-back, conscious no woman ever ex|celled me in the accomplishment of rid|ing, or looked half so captivating in a habit; black, of all others too, by far the most becoming; my haunts are dis|covered, though I affect the most retired spots, and generally meet half the fel|lows in the neighbourhood prancing there, in hopes to get a peep at the enchanting widow; if a bow, or how do ye, should be graciously given to their peep, they look so delighted, so elate, that it would charm you to see them. I have not yet beheld the happy man who stands the smallest chance of being honoured, with my more particular notice, but flatter myself the time is not far distant, as I hear we are soon to have a regiment of dragoons quartered in this part of the country; and as I have a partiality for a red coat, shall look out amongst them for an object on whom to bestow my smiles; it will be hard if, out of the whole corps, I cannot find one worthy that enviable distinction, or who may at least serve to flirt with, and amuse me during the sum|mer. That over, my dear Caroline, away I fly on the wings of pleasing expetation, to the seat of dear delight, London, where

I need not be one moment at a loss; when, there, perhaps, you will comply with my former proposal; if possible, I hope you will.

Your's, &c. ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER III. The Same to the Same.

Stanley-Place.

I TOLD you a regiment was expected; they are arrived; but, my dear Caro|line, how shall I describe to you, with justice, the charms of their bewitching commander? The elegant, the enchant|ing, and I feel, I may add, the irresistible Lord Sommerville—yes, irresistible, I repeat, for I have a strong presentiment, he cannot ask any favour I shall have either fortitude or inclination to deny him; nay, should he even talk of matrimony, horrid as the subject would sound to me from any other, I vow, I think I could listen to him with pleasure; surely that is saying enough.

I happened to be taking my usual air|ing on horseback the morning my Lord made his first appearance at the head of his regiment, and met them in a road near the entrance of the town, which being rather narrow, I was obliged to stop my horse and place myself close to the side, that they might pass without in|commoding me: my Rosinante had not been accustomed to things of this nature, and was a good deal startled at the drums, music, colours, &c. This, however, gave me an opportunity to shew my skill in horsemanship, but great as it is, I found it no easy matter to prevent his taking a leap with me over the hedge, in order to escape from a scene that did not de|light him quite so much as his mistress: I kept my seat, however, pretty well, in spite of his prancing, for some time, but just as the blooming Sommerville appeared, whether struck with his superior attrac|tions, or those of the beautiful creature he rode, but certain it is, he gave a sud|den spring, and I being off my guard was in an instant thrown prostrate at the feet of my hero. Since he was to play me this trick, he certainly chose the moment most a-propos. I need not tell you, I pre|sume,

I found myself instantaneously pressed to the bosom of the gallant, the enchanting Sommerville: half a hun|dred of the dear creatures now left their ranks and flew to offer me their assistance, said a thousand gallant things of course; but I had no eyes, no ears for any except my charming deliverer, who appeared not a little delighted, at being the fortunate he, who had first flown to my relief.

It is now time to tell you, I received no other injury than the loss of my heart; and as I wished only for a proper object to bestow it on, I blessed the accident which had thus procured me one so per|fectly to my taste. Being at length re|placed on my saddle, I would have bid him adieu, after expressing my gratitude, and so forth; but this his Lordship would by no means allow; he insisted on my giving him permission to see me safe home. Could I, Caroline, refuse? Hav|ing ordered the regiment to halt, away we rode in full review, all eyes fixed upon us, and not a few conjectures form|ed, I presume, by those we left behind.

It was during the course of this delight|ful bustle, I happily learned the name and rank of my conqueror, though had he

been the lowest subaltern of the corps, his charms would have produced no less effect; and greater is impossible, for I ab|solutely adore him, and so would you, could you get one single glance of his en|chanting figure; for it is not merely the finest face in the world, it is his person—his manners—his language, the expres|sion in his eyes, in short it is Sommervile altogether.

Well—and pray, you impertinently ask, does my Lord appear as sensible of your Ladyship's charms as you are avow|edly of his? Impertinently, I say,—for what can be more so than to doubt it? Have I not already told you, he possesses every possible perfection? Of course taste to make proper distinctions must be of the number.—Yes yes, my dear I have the vanity to believe our passion is mu|tual—we are already on the most delight|ful footing, for you are not to imagine this is an affair of yesterday; no, my good friend, my time and thoughts were for the first ten days too happily employ|ed to think of writing, nor would you now have been thus favoured had he not been absent; pray now, you cry, is this the first moment he has left you then,

since the adventure happened?—Why no, not absolutely—though it is pretty nearly the case—it would delight you could you be a witness to the envy this affair has given birth to in every female breast in the country—No doubt a dash of scandal to accompany it, for they ge|nerally are of the same party; but you know me too well to believe this will sit very heavy on my heart; let the dear creatures vent their spleen in any way most likely to relieve their gentle bosoms, with all my soul. My Sommerville and I look down upon them with eyes of pity from the summit of our felicity;—do not mistake me, however, Caroline—Matters are not yet quite so far arranged between us as you may probably take it into your head to fancy—my sentiments have un|dergone a total revolution since I became acquainted with him. Matrimony, of which I had so justly formed such hor|rid ideas, does not, when I think of my Sommerville in character of a husband, shock me quite so much as it formerly did—I begin to fancy it might be bearable with him. I have made many very se|rious reflections on the subject; the re|sult is—I know not exactly—but, in

fine, he must be mine one way or other. So farewell,

Your's, sincerely, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER IV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq.

Colchester.

YOU have not forgot, I presume, Charles, how piously I cursed my stars for being compelled to join my regiment, at the moment I hoped to have brought matters to bear in a certain affaire de coeur, which for some time wholly engrossed me—how far my hopes were well founded remains to be proved. Vanity says well—but be that as it will, 'tis no longer in my power to proceed in it—here I am distant fifty long miles from the fair ob|ject of my pursuit, so she is safe for the present; and I, in the mean time, must endeavour to console myself the best way I can. Nature has formed me of a most happy disposition, and such as every sol|dier

ought to be composed of, since our motions are so very uncertain.

You know in what humour I drank my farewell bottle with you at Brookes's; in pretty much the same I began my march to these quarters; nor would it have been much improved yet, I believe, but for an adventure which I am now going to in|form you of in few words, for I hate long|winded stories, nor am I very good at the business.

We had arrived within a small space of our destined quarters, and were marching to drums beating, colours flying, music playing, &c. in order to make our first appearance with proper eclat, when, be|hold, in a narrow lane, through which we were obliged to pass, a fair creature on horse-back, attended by a couple of ser|vants in mourning, (she too in a habit of the same sable hue, which set off her charms to the highest advantage,) met us as we were flourishing along—she stop|ped her horse, fearing, perhaps, he might be a little unruly; and so it happened, for just as I came up, she could no longer govern him, he started, she fell, and I, Charles, had the good fortune to quit mine time enough to catch her in my

arms, almost before she reached the ground—on a nearer view I was struck motionless by her charms; such a face, such an elegance of person, and such a pair of wicked sparkling eyes, mine never before encountered—at that moment I as much forgot Maria as if no such dear creature existed; the betwitching Lady Stanley (for that is the title of my new flame) has most effectually done her bu|siness and mine too—she has nothing far|ther to fear from my persecution, as she used to call it, Charles. The less cruel Arabella, shall, nay, has driven her image from my breast, and has supplied its place by her own.

You may possibly have seen this lady, heard of her you certainly must, since her marriage with that old dotard Lord Stan|ley made so much noise, that even I heard of it though at that time in America—She was the daughter of a citizen, who, for the sake of having a Lord for his son|-in-Law, gave her and twenty-thousand pounds to a fellow old enough to be her grandfather; she had been blessed with a modern education, which accounts for her accepting such a husband. About six months ago she had the pleasure of see|ing

him laid in his coffin, but not till he had settled on her two thousand a-year jointure—her grief is not so violent but it will admit of consolation, nor if I mis|take not, her ideas of virtue so rigid as to make a fellow shoot himself that may happen to be enamoured of her; this may suffice to give you an idea of her charac|ter, in case you should chance to be a stranger to it, which I can hardly sup|pose; but of her beauty, if you have ne|ver seen her, I can give you none, since 'tis not in the power of language to do it justice.

Now, Charles, confess I have been a fortunate fellow, for you will not, I hope, be so impertinent as to fancy I can possi|bly fail to render myself agreeable to her.—Thus, instead of lounging about, at a loss in what manner to kill the time, while compelled to remain here, I expect, and not without reason, to pass every hour of it in the highest felicity; for, as I said before, my charmer knows too much of life to assume unnecessary airs of cruelty, or I am greatly deceived in the conjectures I have formed of her; a few I expect, nay, wish to meet with, as a conquest too easily gained would render

the business insipid, enchanting as she is. Farewell. I am on the wing to pay my devoirs; her seat is but half an hour's ride from hence, and she expects me.

Your's, &c. SOMMERVILLE,

LETTER V. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley Place.

HE loves me, Caroline! Yes, the ado|rable Sommerville loves me! He has de|clared his passion in terms so persuasive that I can no longer doubt his sincerity—what will become of all my vows against matrimony, should he tempt me to re|sign my liberty a second time? Ah! I fear they will avail me little when set in com|petition with his insinuating eloquence; yet I have not so far forgot what I suf|fered while in bondage, as to think of it without horror—for

Love free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

Is it not so, Caroline. Shew me the wife, at least in the beau monde, who is not look|ed upon with indifference by her husband after the first month or two—and could I exist under such a distressing circum|stance from the divine Sommerville?—No, Caroline—no—even my pride would not support me under it.

In answer to your's, what is the cen|sure of the world to me? which you endeavour to paint in such flaming colours; who does it spare? None but the old and ugly, believe me; nay, did it spare me? Was I not as much censured for marrying as I did, as I can be for—for—you understand me, child—vain would be the attempt to please every one, take my word for it, and that being the case, the wiseft thing we can do, I think, is to please ourselves; and so, my dear, do not be shocked if you should hear of a little flirtation being carried on between me and my Adonis. I make no more vows, however, observe that—If nothing but the sober state will serve his turn, why, I must e'en try what I can do to make him easy.

Last Monday, for the first time, at my Lord's request, I made my appearance at

the assembly—I could not, with propriety, dance quite so soon, nor would I if I could, as my vanity was infinitely more gratified in having him and half the pretty fellows in the room attached to me the whole evening, to the unspeakable mortification of the misses who languished in vain for partners. 'Twas delightful beyond ex|pression, to see with what envious eyes they gazed upon me, at the same time af|fecting to put on airs of indifference and contempt; the truth is, I believe, his con|stant attendance at my villa has already set the silly souls a talking—my husband dead only a few months, and I already on so intimate a footing with a gay young fel|low; fie upon it!—'tis a fine text for the good souls, and I'll be sworn has been twisted and turned a thousand different ways by every female in the country—'tis ever so in these country places, and really, one must pardon it, in consideration of their being often at a loss for conversa|tion—no wonder they make the most of a subject when they happen to find one, and that too, so perfectly suited to their taste. I am now going to take an airing with him on horse-back, so must bid you adieu, as I expect him every moment,

and merely took up my pen to kill the time till he arrives, and to tell you that I am your perfectly happy,

A. STANLEY.

LETTER VI. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

Colchester.

MY aunt has carried her point in spite of all opposition, Sophia, and I am actu|ally at this moment writing to you in my old apartment in her mansion; whether I shall find myself much happier here, than at home, is a point I am, by no means, clear in, for though a good wo|man, and very fond of me, she has her humours as well as some other folks, but this, at least, she has promised, that I shall suffer no farther persecution from the wretch (as she calls him) to whom my dear father has been prevailed upon, for the sake of a quiet life, to promise my hand—this assurance, so necessary to my peace, will enable me to bear without a murmur

all her whims, however ridiculous they may sometimes prove; I am, therefore, highly delighted with the change in my situation, and should be still more so were I not by it so far removed from you, to whose society I have been so long ac|customed; but to expect to pass through life without a few disappointments would be expecting more than mortals are enti|tled to; young as I am, I think I may with truth say, I have already had pretty evident proofs of it.

Never rage equl'd my mother's. Hea|vens! that ever I should be compelled to give that appellation to a being so totally unworthy of it, so very unlike her amia|ble predecessor. Ah! Sophia, what a revo|lution has taken place in our once happy family, since she assumed the reins of government; but as I was saying, we carried our point in spite of all her elo|quence—my father is conscious I never could be happy with the creature in whose cause she so warmly interests her|self; he knows it well, yet such is the ascendancy she has gained over him, he had not courage to declare his sentiments.—My aunt, whose pride was shocked at the idea of such an alliance, and who was

glad of an opportunity to mortify a wo|man she most cordially despises, spoke her's, with all imaginable freedom and severity, and, declared, rather than see her niece married to such a low bred! insignificant! illiterate fellow! were he ten times richer than he is, she would with pleasure follow her to her grave. What! should her sister's daughter, who might boast of having some of the noblest blood in the kingdom in her veins, de|base herself by an union with an upstart! a mushroom! who could not trace his pedigree even to his grandfather! For|bid it pride!—No, madam, cried she, (animated by the glorious subject, of all others most dear to her) no, I will take care her daughter shall never bring such a disgrace upon our family. Though Mr. Herbert has been weak enough to form so mean a connection, let your nephew look out amongst his equals for a wife; there he may find numbers who will pay that respect to his wealth which he is so ambitious to obtain; but assure him from me, people of family know better on whom to bestow it.

Happily for me, Sophia, my poor fa|ther was not present during the dialogue,

of which the above is a part; I should have sat in misery if he had; but as he was not, I own I enjoyed it exceedingly. To repeat all that passed is impossible. Suffice it to say, I am actually here, and depend so much on my aunt's pride and spirit, that I trust I have nothing farther to apprehend from my ignoble lover. Now let me tell you, my dear Sophia, what changes have happened amongst my old friends here since I left them; so many, indeed, that thought it is but two years, I find very few of my com|panions remaining; some married, some dead, and others removed to London; of the latter are the two amiable Fitzher|berts; they have bid adieu to this part of the world, and are both going to be mar|ried. The gentle Maria Danby is no more; this news, though it grieved, did not surprize me; I feared I had taken a last leave of the dear girl when I was sent for home. The lively Miss Mason has at last given her fair hand to Mr. Mountague, and is as gay, and and as giddy, as if no such sober event had taken place; she called upon me the moment she heard of my arrival. These I think, Sophia, are all the names you are ac|quainted

with. As Mrs. Mountague was my first visitor, I learned all the above particulars from her, with a thousand diverting anecdotes of many others, for nothing escapes her observation. The following, therefore, you will readily believe could not easily do so.

But this is not all I have to tell you, Emily, cried she, after having answered all my questions; we have got a new neighbour, you must know, to supply the loss of those who have forsaken us; and such a flirt—a lady of quality, child, just imported from London, with all the airs and graces of a town bred belle. You remember, I presume, that old sould of a lord, (whose seat is just by, and which you and I used so often to wish in our possession)—perfectly well, my dear; you cannot then have forgot that he, like a wise man, married a miss; (I forget her name) about two years and a half ago.—Well, and pray what next? has he brought her down here to set example to our country damsels?—Lord child! why he is dead! she is a widow of six months standing! and, if I mistake not, has already made choice of a second husband. We are all ready to run dis|tracted

here you must know, for she has, by a single glance, of her wicked eyes, robbed us of the most elegant fellow that ever figured amongst us. Well pray, my good friend, what pretensions have you to—? Pho, pho, interrupt|ing me, I guess what you are going to say, my dear—I am married—very true, but is that a reason why I should not rail at this impertinent monopolizer as well as others?—She is very handsome then, I suppose? O intolerably so! replied my friend. There is positively no in|during it—then so conceited, so horidly conscious of her charms. So—so—in short so provokingly insolent, that we are all in a rage, and wish for nothing so much as to see her fairly eclipsed by some superior beauty; and, thank my stars, I no longer despair of it—you—yes even you, my dear Emily, shall effectu|ally do her business we have all tried it, but to no purpose, that glorious at|chievement is reserved for you.

Really you are wonderfully kind, Char|lotte, in wishing to bring me into such a dilemma; what have I not to dread should I rob the fair widow of an admirer so highly favoured? No, no, I will have no|thing

to do in the affair, so pray settle it the best way you can without me, not to mention my doubt of success after the ac|count you have given me of her attrac|tions.

O! you are wonderfully humble, my dear, at least you would endeavour to persuade me so, but I will disappoint you, no compliments shall you get from me, I promise you, though you have given me so fine an opportunity. I leave that to Lord Sommerville—A Lord! say you, nay then I must positively try what can be done; a new face is something in my fa|vour; aye, Emily, and such a face as your's too, I'll take any bet, the first glance of those soft blue eyes shall put the widow's black ones quite out of fashion. So pray exhibit as soon as pos|sible: I die to see the effect they will infallibly produce.

But where am I to engage in this ardu|ous undertaking? How am I to get a sight of him? Or rather how is this prodigy of a man to get a sight of me?

Where? why at the assembly to be sure, for there they never fail to make their appearance; but as her Ladyship's recent state of widowhood does not per|mit

her to dance, they sit as spectators, flirting at no small rate, scarce deigning to take the least notice of any of the com|pany; and finding this is to be the case, the company now, by one consent, take as little of them: the truth is, we begin to suspect—O fie, Charlotte!—Nay, child, wait till you hear others on the subject, I have been moderate.—Remem|ber to put on all your airs and graces next Monday; I will chaperon you should your aunt decline going.—Saying this she took her leave.

Now, my dear Sophia, I must bid you also adieu, having spun out my letter to the extent of my paper. Mrs Mountague has imposed a pretty kind of task upon me, it must be confessed; I cannot say I have quite so great a share of vanity, notwithstanding her flattery, as to hope for success; however I will try what can be done to revenge the cause of our ne|glected belles. Believe me ever,

Sincerely your's, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER VII. Same to the Same.

Colchester.

YOU are, no doubt, Sophia, desirous to hear what success I have had in my intended conquest; but I would ad|vise you to suspend your impatience, as I am sorry to inform you I have not yet seen this formidable beau.

On mentioning to my aunt, Mrs. Moun|tague's request that I should accompany her to the next assembly, she not only declined going herself, but begged I would not think of it till she could in|troduce me in a proper manner; after that she should have no objection to my going with any of my friends.

I own I was a little chagrined at being thus prevented, yet upon the whole I believe she was right. She piques herself, you know, upon acting in all things with the exactest propriety.

The above point being settled, my aunt told me she intended to wait upon Lady Stanley, as she heard she was come to make some stay in the country.—The hint Charlotte had given me, made me

hesitate in my assent to her proposal, yet how could I venture to object on so slight a foundation? And if I had, I fear the good Lady's prejudice, in favour of those happy mortals dignified with a title, would have got the better of all I could say. She observed, however, I did not so rea|dily answer her as she expected, it seems, and asked why I paused?—I was then obliged to say something, and therefore replied, Mrs. Mountague had been talking to me about her, and seemed to think her rather gay for one who had so lately lost her husband.

So you very wisely concluded Mrs. Mountague a better judge of decorum than I am. Did you, Emily? She forgets, child, that some grains of allowance are due to persons of her Ladyship's rank; people of quality have a manner peculiar to themselves, which those who are not accustomed, as I have been, to associate with them, do not comprehend. I shall most assuredly visit her; and have too much regard for you, not to take that op|portunity of introducing you, as from such an example you cannot fail to im|prove yourself in a thousand things, which, though trifling perhaps in themselves, are

yet essentially necessary to render a woman perfectly well bred; and which there is no acquiring, except by keeping com|pany with those of a certain rank.

This, Sophia, was so like my aunt, that I could hardly keep my gravity; however she luckily did not perceive my looks, and it was settled that we were to pay our respects to Lady Stanley the next day. We accordingly did so, but had not the felicity of finding her Ladyship at home, being told she was gone to take an airing.—I own I was disappointed, as my curiosity was greatly excited; the fol|lowing morning our visit was returned; but alas! we were then from home also.

Thus all things remain just as they were when I wrote last, except that we have taken the preliminary steps towards mak|ing an acquaintance with this beauteous widow, whose charms have caused such violent emotions amongst us. I ought not indeed to include myself, since I cannot say I am conscious of any at present. How it may be when I have seen her and her adorer, I know not; in the interim, I am busily employed in making prepara|tions for the assembly, and that, let me tell you, is now an affair of no small im|portance,

seeing I am deputed to so great an undertaking as the conquest of a Lord.

Were I to let my aunt into the grand secret, I am persuaded she would, with joy, play the part of my Abigal herself, on the occasion, could she thereby hope to facilitate so glorious an enterprise. How would she exult! how triumph! if she could by my means, or indeed any other, add another twig of quality to her genealogical tree.—Farewell, dear So|phia; in my next I hope to give a more particular account than I can do at pre|set. In the mean time, believe me ever,

Affectionately your's, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER VIII. Same to the Same.

Colchester.

THE important day is over, Sophia, and I have seen them.—But I will, for once, endeavour to be circumstantially minute, as I know it will please you better than to skim the surface over as I gene|rally do.

Well, my dear—I dressed, and will freely own, paid rather more attention than usual to the labours of my toilet: this labour was not lost, for if I might trust my glass I really looked more than bare|ly tolerable.

At the hour appointed, Mrs. Mounta|gue and her handsome husband called upon us, for she had agreed to go with us, though my aunt was to be of the party—The moment she saw me, ah, the poor widow, cried she, alas! thy tri|umph is near an end.—Why, Emily, for heaven's sake what kind fairy has presided at your toilet to day? In my life I never saw you half so lovely, what say you Mountague, don't you think a certain event is on the eve of taking place? I know not, Charlotte, replied he, what event you particularly allude to, but this I will venture to prophesy, there will be many a wounded heart sent home this evening from the assembly.—Aye that there will, cried she, both male and fe|male, or I am much mistaken; but let us be going, we are late enough.

Away we drove, the room was already crowded: Mr. Mountague led my aunt to a feat. Sir Charles Neville, whom we

met at the door, took Charlotte's hand, and a friend of his, a Mr. Aston, presented me his, and we followed them.—'Twould be nothing, Sophia, were I not to add, all eyes were fixed upon us as we sailed up the room; this you must take for granted, or all my trouble in decorating myself must have been to very little pur|pose.

I was impatient, you may believe, to discover the captivating widow, and no less to have a peep at her charming cap|tive; in this I was instantly gratified, as they sat exactly oppofite to us; Charlotte was going to point them out to me, when I said in a half whisper, you may save yourself that trouble, I cannot be mista|ken; in my life I never saw so striking a figure—as which? As her Ladyship, to be sure, replied I—you have quite over|looked her impertinent lover then, Emi|ly?—Not absolutely; but one at a time if you please; we will think of him by and by.

While this passed, (for it is a farce to deny it) I observed his Lordship's eyes frequently strayed to where we sat; or, must I be vain enough to say? they were fixed upon me; her ladyship too favour|ed

me with some very scrutinizing glan|ces. My aunt now being informed who she was, desired the master of the cere|monies to introduce us to Lady Stanley; this done, the usual compliments of being sorry we had not the honour of meet|ing her Ladyship at home, &c. &c. pas|sed on all sides, and we again took our seats. I confess I found her manner and address rather cold, and a little haughty. My aunt, however, was very well satis|fied, and declared her quite the woman of quality.

Minuets were now going to begin; we observed Lord Sommerville press Lady Stanley to walk one with him; she ap|peared surprised at his importunity, as if she had said, why this whim to night, when you know I never do? This was the interpretation my friend and I put upon it; be that as it will, she declined his invitation, but judge of her emotions, for believe me, Sophia, they were abun|dantly visible, when, on her Ladyship's refusing, he instantly came up to me, and begged I would do him that honour. She appeared shocked to death; and really if she had made a point of aving him wholly to herself, not without reason, since

it seems this was the first instance in which he had presumed to swerve from his allegiance.

I certainly had no pretence to follow her Ladyship's example, as I was not obliged to know that by complying with a re|quest so natural, I planted daggers in her gentle bosom. I gave him my hand then, not, I do assure you, with an air of tri|umph, but with as much ease and indif|ference as I should have given it to any other man in the room.

How we performed will no doubt be recorded in the annals of the assembly, so to their authority I shall leave you for in|formation; I may now truly affirm every eye was intently fixed upon us, except when turned to observe what effect this wonderful event produced on his morti|fied fair one. I durst not, for my life, meet those of my friend Mrs. Mountague, least her looks should have disconcerted mine, for well did I know they would be archly expressive of her triumph.

By the time we had finished our mi|nuet, her Ladyship had pretty well reco|vered from the shock her vanity had re|ceived, and my Lord having led me to my seat, not without a gentle pressure, for

that Sophia would have been a solicism in gallantry of which I presume he is in|capable; he found her, on his return, flirting most unmercifully with one of his brother red coats; her hoop, flung so gracefully over him, one could barely dis|cover the beau's head from under it; and so intent were they on what they were saying, that it was some time before they observed his Lordship had joined them, or at least chose to observe it; how, or whether he made his peace, I know not; I rather doubt not, as in spite of her La|dyship's uncommon flow of spirits, we could perceive symptoms of their being a little forced; as for him, though he did not leave her side during the rest of the evening, I am sorry to say I caught his eyes wandering now and then, and by fre|quent taps she gave him with her fan, it appeared she found him somewhat remiss in his attentions.

The room was so much crowded that I was averse from joining in the country dances, but was at length prevailed upon to go down one with Mr. Aston, who is a very handsome and very pleasing young man; indeed the ladies in general speak of him in warmer terms, and perhaps he

deserves it; but you know I had other things in view.

Now, my dear, I leave you to draw what inference you think proper from the im|portant particulars above recited.—Have I, or have I not, fulfilled my friend Mrs. Mountague's prophesy? For my part I pretend not to judge. That her Lady|ship was under some unpleasant apprehen|sions, there is no denying, but whether she had cause for them is another affair; they served however to divert Charlotte, and her friend Emily, as well as if ever so well founded; nay, she insists upon it they were so, and is positive her reign is drawing to a conclusion.

You will naturally expect I should tell you what is my opinion of the hero who has made so capital a figure in my epistle.—Why, really, my dear, I have scarcely formed any; that he is uncommonly hand|some is most certain;—that he dances gracefully, presses one's hand with a ten|derness, an elegance of manner quite out of the common run, is no less so—his eyes, his teeth, his hair, are fine beyond expression I must acknowledge, in short, he is, "take him for all in all," the kind of man one would not wish to be robbed

of. Can I then blame her Ladyship's fears?—Were he as tenderly attached to me as it seems he is to her, I presume—but we will presume no farther.—She is much too handsome to be so easily rival|led. No, no, Sophia, take my word for it, she knows full well how to preserve the conquest she has gained, but so much for badinage.

My aunt, whose passion for whist is as great as ever, is to have a party in a few days. Lady Stanley will not fail to have a card of invitation you may be sure.—My Lord, I imagine, has no chance for that, as he has not yet been introduced; and, we do nothing contrary to the strict|est rules of etiquette; but as we have a violent predilection in favour of quality, 'tis possible she will contrive to get it done before the day arrives.—I, therefore, need not give myself any trouble, suppos|ing I was anxious about the matter, which I by no means grant.

Farewell, dear Sophia, believe me I am sufficiently happy in being relieved for the present from the teazing importuni|ties of that odious wretch Fitzpatrick. Were I but certain I should be no more tormented on his account, Lady

Stanley should have my free consent to convert her so much envied lover into a husband, whenever she pleased. Witness my hand,

EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER IX. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley Place.

WOULD you believe it, Caroline, I have had a fracas with Sommerville—'twas a foolish affair, and certainly un|worthy my notice; but one is not always on one's guard against those kind of weak|nesses.—Will you credit me when I tell you, I was the other night seized with so unaccountable a fit of humility, as to ex|perience something very like symptoms of jealousy! True as you are alive—I now blush while I write it, and wonder at my own folly. Not but he behaved in a most ridiculous manner, as you will say, and I have since made him confess.

You must know there is a Mrs. Gren|ville, who has a house in this neighbour|hood; she was absent when I first came, but returned about ten days since, and brought with her a niece, the daughter of her sister, who it seems died a few years ago; but why the deuce should I take the trouble to give you their stupid history?—This niece, I'll warrant ye, is looked upon as a beauty, and so was of course dressed out as if for conquest, and introduced at the assembly last Monday. I should tell you, however, they had lest their names at my door some time before.

I happened to be at the rooms when Miss made her first appearance. Fellows are so volatile, you know, Caroline, any thing new, no matter what, attracts their silly notice. Not but the girl is handsome enough; that is, she is tall and fair, and really at a distance looks very tolerable; in short, she no sooner marched up the room, than I heard a general buz of who is she? Who can it be? and such kind of vulgar country-like exclamations. I now turned my eyes, and found this prodigy such as I have described her.—She was accompanied by a Mrs. Mountague, who is also reckoned a beauty, (we have a pro|fusion

of such beauties here, you must know) and who affects to give herself as many airs as if she really was one.

Well—up they came to me, and made some aukward speeches about not being at home, when I did them the honour to return their visit, and such kind of com|mon place chat; to which you may be|lieve I paid very little attention.

I own I rather wondered Sommerville made no remarks when they went back to their seats, as she certainly is not the sort of girl to be wholly overlooked; but I soon found he had not been stupid enough for that neither; for no sooner were the minutes going to begin, than he was visi|bly in the fidgets. I saw plainly she had caught his observation, and that he died to exhibit his fine person with her.—I enjoyed his perplexity, though not a lit|tle chagrined, I confess, to find she had made such an impression on the sly wretch.—But you will scarce believe me when I tell you, the artifice he had recourse to, in order to gratify the whim that had taken possession of him.

Nothing would serve him truly, but I must oblige him by dancing a minuet with him.—The first time, observe, he

had requested such a favour, knowing I had made a point of not doing it—nor had he till then looked upon it as any mortification; but now he began to think me much to blame to appear so singular. Why not do as others did? He longed to have me shew them what a minuet ought to be, and a profusion of such nonsense.

Never, Caroline, had he appeared to me in so truly ridiculous a light. I how|ever refused, and that too with a counte|nance which pretty plainly expressed my sentiments.—He affected not to observe it; but with a forced laugh, cried, How can you, my dear creature, be thus per|verse? How can you, when you see the dancing fit so strong upon me, thus re|fuse the honour of this dear hand? But I will be revenged; in the mean time I will go and figure with that new comer, whose looks tell me she would be horribly disappointed, after all the pains she has taken to decorate herself, if she should not get an opportunity to display her finery to advantage.

Away he flew, not daring to wait for my reply; well knowing, I was not so easily to be imposed upon, as he affected to believe. What would I not have given

that she had been engaged? How should I have enjoyed it? But no such matter—up she got, and simpered not a little at being so distinguished.—How she per|formed you must guess, as I cannot in|form you, for I took care to cast my eyes another way.

Major Mansell sat at my elbow while this pretty scene was going forward. I now turned all my attention on him, and when Sommerville had ended his frolic, he found us so deeply engaged in a lively conversation, that it was a consi|derable while before I saw he was re|turned to his seat.

As my spirits were by that time reco|vered, most unmercifully did I torment him. The Major, quite elate with the notice I had taken of him, joined me, and I believe before we had done, the poor penitent Sommerville wished from his soul he had rather been seized with a fit of the gout than that of dancing.—And he is now so heartily ashamed of his absurdity, and the figure he cut while we were plaguing him, that I think we have fairly destroyed any impression the girl had made upon his mind. You know my talent for satire, Caroline; I

exerted it to the utmost, and set Miss off in such whimsical colours, that I'll en|gage he will never be able to overcome his regret, for giving occasion to so much raillery.

From that moment he has been more assiduous, more attentive, more devoted to me than ever; and whenever I at|tempt to make her the subject of our conversation, which I have several times done in a ludicrous manner, he begs me to spare him, and confesses the joke is so entirely against him that he cannot stand it.

Thus ends the story of our first fracas; but whether it will be the last, heaven knows! That he at present adores me, is most certain; and that I adore him, is no less so.—Judge then, Caroline, what would be my feelings were he to—Ah! let me not for one moment suppose him capable of inconstancy.—Yet have I not some little cause to fear?—when even an insignificant chit, like her, could for an instant produce such an effect.

But, Caroline, let her beware how she presumes to form hopes of his attch|ment.—I am not a woman formed to set tamely down under such a mortification.

I know not what I say—I hate, I despise myself for deigning to bestow a thought upon her.—But let her, as I said, beware how she presumes to lay snares for a heart I think worth preserving.

Let us talk no more of her. She has already engrossed more of my time and thoughts than she has any title to; more I am persuaded than she has of my en|chanting Sommerville's. However, she may flatter herself to the contrary, and flatter herself she will, I make no doubt, since her pert friend, Mrs. Mountague, will not forget to inform her, she is the only girl he has hitherto condescended to distinguish.

This will of course set her silly heart in a flutter; and—But no more of the hateful subject.—I detest myself for troubling my head so much about it. All I meant when I took up my pen, was to divert you with the ridiculous story, and to laugh with you at it; and yet it has actually put me out of temper—nor can any thing in life be more stupid?—We are to visit too, that's the best of it; we shall, no doubt, be prodigiously intimate.

Adieu, dear Caroline, I do not intend being at their next trumpery assembly.

I am sick of them: one cannot for ever laugh at the same thing, however laugh|able.

Your's, sincerely, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER X. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

Colchester.

CHARLES, I have got into a most confounded scrape, and how to extricate myself in the manner I wish, the Lord above knows. I am cursedly entangled with this seducing, this bewitching wi|dow. I still do justice to her charms, and confess they are superior to most I have seen; yet I never told you they were such as to make a serious or lasting impression on me: this you cannot deny.—She is not the kind of woman with whom one's heart has any thing to do.

All I meant by my connection with her, was to amuse the time likely to hang heavy on my hands while confined to

country quarters. This purpose she fully answered; but for any thing farther, I never had an idea of it.—True, one could not be quite so explicit with her on the subject; and she has unluckily taken a thousand ridiculous things for granted, which never once entered into my head. The consequence is, I do not know for my soul how to get handsomely quit of her.

But why in such a hurry? You'll pro|bably ask, since our amour is of so short a date?—That is the very thing, Charles, I am to explain to you.

Though my heart has been merely passive in this affair, it is now in a very different state; nay, if I may judge by its present feelings, I am apt to believe it has never known any thing of a real pas|sion; for ah! Charles, never till now had it seen the lovely, the engaging, the blooming Emily Herbert. All language must fall far short of her perfection; it is impossible to give you an idea of her—suffice it to say that I love, love even to madness, and nothing but the possession of the heart and person of her I adore, can restore me to my sober senses; mar|ry her I cannot, for am I not as bad as

married? already fettered by that cursed engagement to my cousin—would to the Lord she were buried fifty fathom deep.

My wife father may thank himself for all the irregularities I have been and may chance to be guilty of; had he left me at liberty to follow my own inclinations, I am positive I should have led a better life than I have done; not that I have been much worse than my neighbours after all; though they are pleased to take some liberties with my character; let them be placed in my confounded situation, and see if they will behave bet|ter. Marry her I certainly never will, but unless she is graciously pleased to re|lease me from my engagement, I can marry no other.

Is this, Charles, so great a trouble a man cannot get over, do you think? Or equal to losing the better half of my estate?—I think not. Now, should I be refractory, and take any other woman to be my wedded wife, in defiance of the family compact, that precious better half goes to her Ladyship.—Curse me if it shall! No, no! my consolation is, I am not compelled to be hers—that is no inconsider|able one; and since I cannot be another's,

Charles, let the dear creatures look to themselves. It would be devilish hard if I may not be permitted to amuse my|self amongst them the best way I can, since my perverse stars forbids my figur|ing in the sober character of a husband. That is to say, unless they have the li|berty to chuse me a wife.

What I have now said, I hope will fully justify any steps I may find it ne|cessary to take in the prosecution of the affair on which my whole happiness at this moment depends, in your opinion I mean; in my own, it certainly will—but, I confess, I have so much regard for you, though you are rather a queer fellow too in some respects, that I should not like to incur your censure.

I wish to the Lord, Charles, you would go and pay your addresses to my rib elect; perhaps you may like her well enough, though I do not; for she is thought, by the unprejudiced, both hand|some and agreeable. I will lay my life she will not refuse you, you are as clever a fellow, pretty nearly, as myself; nay, she may chance to give you the prefer|ence, for women are whimsical kind of animals. That she does not care a straw

for me, she has the impertinence to ac|knowledge; but loves mischief so much better than any thing else in life, that she vows she will either have me, or my estate, out of pure spite and revenge for my indifference.

There's a spirit for you—Don't you think I should be wonderous happy with such a helpmate? She, like a vixen as she is, enjoys my hampered situation be|yond expression, and makes it the subject of her mirth, not only to me, when we happen to meet, but to every body else. Would to heaven she was as madly in love with me as I am with my adored Emily, that I might have it in my power to break her heart by my cruelty.

Yet this is the girl my father thought fit to entail upon me for a wife, because, truly, he fancied himself under obligati|ons to her father, who chose to ask only that as a return for the favours he had conferred. Had I been in England when he died, I might perhaps have contrived to have got the article relating to the cursed agreement struck out of his will, but as ill-luck would have it, before I ar|rived all was over, and I found myself

fettered as securely as law could bind me.

Thus circumstanced, Charles, what's to be done?—My Emily's situation in life is such as precludes all hope of ob|taining her on those terms, as I only am at liberty to offer. I saw her for the first time, at the assembly, about ten days since. I was sitting by Lady Stanley, who had, till then, wholly engrossed me, being by far the finest woman in the place; and having, as I told you before, in very plain terms expressed her partia|lity for me, I could not do less than make a suitable return.

We were of course on the most amicable footing imaginable—But ah! Charles, who can express either my emotions or embarrassment on seeing the most angeic creature my eyes ever be|held walk up the room? Embarrassment I say, because I durst not for my soul let her Ladyship see the impression her beauty had made upon me—I was com|pelled to dissemble, yet made so bung|ling a piece of work of it, that it was to no purpose. She saw it, and though visi|bly enraged that I should presume to cast an eye on any other than herself, affected

to rally me with an air of indifference, and to turn those perfections, she secretly envied, into ridicule; we both failed in our purpose however; it was no subject for a joke.

I used all my efforts to command my|self for that evening at least, but found it absolutely impossible; in spite of the mortification I well knew my mistress must suffer; the music no sooner began for minuets than up I started, Charles; the idea of her dear hand being given to another was not to be indured; I made an offer of mine to my widow, begging she would for once indulge me; she saw through me, and gave me such a look—but no hand, you may believe.

Away I flew to my charmer; and she with an ease, a grace, there is no de|scribing, granted my suit. Heavens! what elegance, what modest dignity did she display in every motion. Had she not thought fit to put an end to it, I should have danced on for the whole evening; she smiled at my visible inattention to the business, but whether she imputed it to the right cause I know not; though I flatter myself she could not be at a loss to guess.

Figure to yourself, Charles, what passed on my return to my angry fair one. Words would never give you an idea of the scene; I certainly looked as truly ridiculous as even she could wish; indeed I felt it. She, however, was flirting at no small rate with our major, quite un|concerned as it were, affected not to observe me for some time, and when she did cast an eye upon me, was so gracious, so lively, so witty—In short, Charles, it was an excellent farce.

I have since patched up a kind of peace, but I shrewdly suspect it will not be very lasting, though she endeavours to make me believe she has forgot the whole affair; this I know is far from being the case, and I shall therefore be upon my guard; for, I am fully persuaded, she is not of a temper to put up, without re|sentment, what she will doubtless deem an unpardonable insult offered to her charms. She has a devil of a spirit, and I am well assured would stick at nothing to be revenged. It is this belief makes me say I am got into a confounded scrape.

Had the lovely, the enchanting Emily been some weeks longer before she made her appearance, it is probable she might

have found Lady Stanley in a more fa|vourable disposition, her partiality might, by that time have been lessened, for I have not the vanity to flatter myself even my attractions, great as they are, and violent as the effect is they have produced on her, would have power to fix a woman of her principies for any considerable period.

But to rob her of her captive in the very height of her passion, to rival her in my love at the moment she believed me blind to the perfections of every other woman—is this to be borne, Charles, by a female of her spirit? I sear not. I own I have my suspicions, as I think she over acts her part; I doubt the sincerity of those smiles she favours me with, and shrewdly suspect they are intended to conceal some hidden purpose; it is unnatural to be|lieve she could so easily pardon the emo|tions, to which she was a witness, the first sight of her rival gave birth to; it is true I said all that man could say to appeafe the storm; and, as I was telling you, she endeavours to persuade me I have succeeded, thogh I doubt the fact.

But this is not the worst.—How shall I presume to sue for the affections of the

lovely Emily, at the time when every soul in the neighbourhood are talking most impertinently of my passion for the widow?—You will easily guess our flir|tation has afforded ample scope for tea-table chat, and that she has already been let into the whole secret.

My constancy, to be sure, will appear to no great advantage; yet must it not be more flattering to her, to find her charms have had the power to diffolve such an attachment, than if she had mere|ly captivated an unengaged heart?—Cer|tainly. And, depend upon it, this re|flection will have its due weight. Thus I reason upon it, Charles, and I hope you will think it reasonable.—Pardon the pun, should it strike you as one.

Well, don't you think I am in a hope|ful way? Entangled with one woman, for whom I never in reality cared six|pence, and dying for another, who pro|bably cares as little for me. But I will not think my case so desperate, because I should be tempted to shoot myself through the head, did I believe it.

After this, I need hardly tell you, I mean to try my sate with the dear girl, and shall soon know whether I am to

load my pistols or not; for as to living without her, it is an impossibility.

This is all I can tell you at present, except that my torment (for as such I now look upon her) visits the idol of my soul.—Her aunt, with whom she lives at present, has so great a partiality for every thing dignified with a title, that in spite of a few scandalous anecdotes which have flown about concerning her Ladyship, she has called upon her on her return to the country.

The same favourable circumstance may perhaps gain me admission: hitherto I have only had the felicity of meeting my adorable once or twice as she was airing in the carriage with her old duenna. My bow was graciously returned, accompa|nied by a most bewitching smile.—Adieu.—

Your's, sincerely, SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XI. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

Colchester.

SO you are perfectly of Mrs. Moun|tague's opinion, Sophia.—Surely this cannot be from any thing I told you, since I merely said I had seen his Lord|ship, and that he had done me the honour to dance a minuet with me. If this is a proof of conquest, it renders the matter mighty easy.

But what will you say, my dear, when informed that he is now not only a visitor here, but a first rate favourite of my aunt's. She has had several parties, and his Lordship is never left out of the list of her invited friends—he is so well bred, so agreeable, so perfectly the man of quality.—These are her remarks, not mine, pray observe that. Though I con|fess I must subscribe to the justice of them, for he really has the art of pleasing in a very eminent degree.

And does he practice this dangerous talent on you, Emily? My Sophia would

I presume.—Why not? It would be pay|ing me a poor compliment were be to make me an exception.—But no more trifling, I love you too well to teaze you.

Know then that I have some little rea|son to believe, I have made a deeper im|pression upon his mind than is perfectly agreeable to his friend, the charming wi|dow, for she now affects to talk of him merely as a friend, a young man for whom she really has a particular esteem; one whom she wishes well, as he appears to be de|serving, and to whom, as a stranger in the country, and a man of fashion, she has shewn some little attntion.—You stare!—That, my dear, is merely because you are unacquainted with the ton, or the manners and caprices of a belle from the metropolis. I doubt not you was simple enough to expect I had to tell you, her Ladyship, like our coantry bred damsels, was sighing and pining herself to death, and was actually driven to despair by the perfidy of her fickle admirer.

No such thing, believe me. 'Tis not the fashion, my dear, in the beau monde, "In love to pine and languish,"—is quite out of the question there. Such a con|duct

would imply a degree of constancy, at which a fine London Lady would blush. What their real feelings may be, is ano|ther affair; but to appear as if they felt themselves forsaken, what woman of spi|rit would submit to? Not Lady Stanley; at least I can answer for her. And cer|tainly it is the wisest course, though every one has not a sufficient share of philoso|phy to put it in practice.

My aunt is now fully convinced there never was any other than a friendly re|gard between them. Perhaps she is the more inclined to be of this opinion, be|cause she has, I verily believe, from the particular attention my Lord begins to honour her niece with, formed some very ridiculous (and most likely sallacious) hopes. Ridiculous I call them, and I think justly; for can any thing be more against them than this recent proof of his inconstancy.—What reliance can we, or ought we to place on a man of such a changeable disposition? Any new face, I presume, if tolerable, would produce the same effect. He vows the contrary; for he has already begun vowing, and all that, Sophia; but whatever the neglected widow may think proper to confess, she

too could tell the same story, or I am much mistaken.

After all, I cannot persuade myself her passion for him has been very deeply root|ed; since if it had, I think, artful as she is, she could not all at once have assumed such an air of in 'ifference; 'tis more probable she is, as well as himself, blessed with a dash of inconstancy in her nature, or she could not so calmly resign him.

Do not from this, Sophia, infer, I think him so valuable a prize; I must know him better before I determine that point: at present appearances are rather against him, according to my ideas.—And were it otherwise, and he should really mean to gratify my aunt's ambition, what am I to do with my Nabob?—Can she sup|pose my step-dame will so easily give up her point, and consent to her hopeful ne|phew's being rejected for any Lord in the creation?

Oh! Sophia, if I can contrive to delay that hated match, 'tis all I dare hope for.—Yet, mere delay will not do neither. Heaven forbid! I should ever be compel|led to be his; but I mean, if they will permit me to live single, it is all the fa|vour I can expect; and, compared to giv|ing

him my hand, would be perfect hap|piness.

I tremble every day, left I should get letters to order me home; my only trust is, that my aunt is, if possible, as averse from calling him nephew, as I am to call him—Ah! I shudder even to write it—And that she will not easily be prevailed upon to put me again in his way: now indeed she will be more averse than ever, having, as I said, formed hopes of so su|perior a nature, all his boasted wealth will never, in her opinion, compensate for the meanness of his origin—this is with her an unsurmountable objection; but I, So|phia, find a thousand others. He is a creature of no education, no breeding, no delicacy; I should blush every time he opened his lips; there is a vulgarity about him that absolutely shocks me. Yet he has the vanity to fancy himself a man of the first consequence, and has more hau|teur than if he really as so; but this is natural, since pride and meanness are inseparable companions.

Most fervently do I pray he may meet in London (where he is at present) some sair creature more to his taste; there he may find numbers who will gladly accept

him with all his imperfections. 'Tis only such silly souls as you and, Sophia, who having unfortunately more sentiment than ambition, could resist so splendid a temp|tation. That this may be the first news I hear, is the sincere wish of

—Your affectionate friend, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley Place.

HELP me, Caroline, to execrate the most ungrateful, the most perfidious of men; and above all, help me to take am|ple vengeance on the detested object who has robbed me of his heart.

Yes, Caroline, I have lost it—in vain would he add to his guilt by endeavour|ing to deceive me. I despise him for daring to sancy he can impose upon me by his feigned tenderness. Long have I been sensible of the mortifying truth. A love like mine was too clear sighted

not to perceive it, in spite of all his ef|forts to conceal what he had not courage openly to avow.—Ah! no wonder he should blush at so preposterous an attach|ment.—Heavens! that I should live to find a rival in a creature so insignifi|cant; a mere ignorant girl, who has no one thing to recommend her, but youth and novelty.

Oh! how I could curse the hour in which I was fool enough to fix my affec|tions on a wretch so unworthy that ten|derness my weak heart has lavished on him.

Why are you not here, that I might, without the trouble of writing, vent a part of the rage which at this moment con|sumes me?

I am distracted! driven to madness, nor shall I ever know one moment's peace of mind till I have effectually destroyed theirs.

Let her not presume to flatter herself her triumph shall be of long duration; she shall be humbled, Caroline, humbled to the dust, if my good genius does not forsake me in the glorious attempt.

Can you figure to yourself what were my feelings, on finding my suspicions of

his infidelity confirmed beyond all possi|ble doubt? Yet, what a question?—No, you must first have loved like me, and like me have been—

I will not, cannot proceed—my pride forbids it.—Let me from this hour banish that horrid idea from my memory, and for the future devote my whole atten|tion to dear revenge.

Little does he know the woman he has dared to slight; but he shall, by dear bought experience, learn she is not formed of such soft materials, as either to forget or forgive an injury, though she has art enough to concenl her resentment till a proper opportunity presents itself, in which she can display it to some pur|pose—and of that she does not despair. But let me endeavour to be calm, that I may give you some idea of my present situation.

What I have now said will not much surprise von after the hints you will find dropped in several of my letters. I confess I found it no very pleasant busi|ness to be more explicit; however I have at lerght conquered that scruple, and have freely told you Sommerville has proved himself a villain—that is to say a

man, for are they not all deceivers, born for our destruction?—'Tis the character given of them by one of their own sex, yet in spite of this we continue to believe, and are of course undone.

Finding all hopes of regaining his per|fidious heart at an end, I at once deter|mined to deceive him in my turn. I could not stoop to reproaches; scorned to gratify his vanity so far as to give him so clear a proof that he had it in his power to mortify mine. I took a different me|thod, and flatter myself he is the dupe of my artifice.

Spare yourself the trouble, my dear Sommerville, said I one day, (while he was endeavouring to persuade me of what he well knew was a falsity;) why this re|serve with your friends? I am not to learn that we cannot command our affec|tions, I know it by experience; mine has betrayed me into a weakness which those destitute of my sensibility would un|doubtedly condemn; perhaps I ought to condemn myself—that you did love me, I have had many prooss; but that you now love another, is no less clear to me.

Ah! my charming Lady Stanley, cried he, attempting to take my hand.—

Do not interrupt what I am saying, nor fancy an apology either necessary or pos|sible to excuse you for what most women would style your perfidious conduct—I scorn to reproach you; nay, I am sensi|ble the crime is as involuntary as were your professions to me of an everlasting attachment; you then believed what you swere; I was happy while that attach|ment continued: but do not fancy me so unreasonable a creature as to blame you for what I know it is not in your power to help.

Inconsistency is rooted in our nature, it is vain to deny it. You have only got the start of me, my good friend; for, do not flatter yourself, my passion for you could have retained its first fervour much longer; I might, indeed, have followed your example, and have attempted to deceive you. I will also add, I think I should have been more successful too; for you men are sad bunglers in these matters; but my nature is open, frank, and honest.

Since love is then at an end, let us at least continue friends; I will not swear I shall not look out for another Adonis to supply your place; a woman must have

somebody to say civil things to her; per|haps I may not easily find one who is so well qualified for the employment as yourself; perhaps too, I wish you had not quite so soon resigned it: but, as I said before, I am, for a woman, a tole|rably reasonable being.

Now, Sommerville, (giving him my hand) we are friends: he pressed it to his lips. Ah! how I adore this noble can|dour, these truly generous sentiments; I ever knew my lovely Arabella was above the little foibles of her sex.

No compliments, I beseech you; you forget your conduct flatly contradicts the flaming speech you have just made. Fare|well; I am going to dress; when you can spare an hour from more agreeable avo|cations, let me see you. Saying this I bid him good morning; and he, not less astonished than delighted, I presume, at my heroism, left me.

Now, Caroline, let me know what you think of my fortitude; it cost me some pangs I own, but trust I shall be amply recompensed before I have done with them.

To facilitate my purpose, I judged it proper to cultivate some degree of inti|macy

with my rival, and her old aunt. The latter thinks herself a prodigy of wisdom, but is, in fact, a fool, whom I most cordially despise.

As much do I despise the distinction she treats me with, for well do I know it is my title alone to which I am indebted for it: to her inferiors, or such as she is pleased to look upon in that light, she be|haves with all the insolence and pride you can possibly imagine; she absolutely sick|ens me with her fulsome adulation. I am so my Lady'd and Ladyship'd whenever we meet, that I can hardly restrain my risible faculties. I see plainly she bridles not a little at the conquest her baby-faced niece has made, and has already set her down in her stupid imagination a ladysip also—but I'll take care to disappoint her silly hopes, supposing the fellow has in reality any such views, which I am, how|ever, very far from believing.

Heavens! were I convinced he had ever formed so foolish, so absurd an idea, I swear to you I would not seruple to treat them both with a dose of poison; I freely confess that would be a triumph I could not stand—but enough of the detested sub|ject

for the present, I must now reflection what is to be done.—Adieu

ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XIII. Miss Herbert of Miss Fermer.

Colchester.

WILL it greatly suprise you, my dear Sophia, to hear that the elegant Sommerville has actually declared him|self my lover?—Not at all, you reply, since you foresaw what would happen from the first.

You have certainly proved yourself mistress of no small share of discernment, for it is really and truly the case—that is to say, he swears it—how truly, I dare not yet pronounce. But if this should not excite your astonishment, surely, what I am going to add, must.

Lady Stanley and I are now on the most sociable footing imaginable; she calls up|on me frequently, and talks of his Lord|ship with so much ease and indifference,

that I am almost tempted to believe the report of her intimacy with him has ab|solutely been groundless. Either this is the case, or she is the most complete dis|sembler I ever met with. She told me he had made her the confidant of his pas|sion for me; spoke of him in the highest terms, and really pleaded his cause with nearly as much warmth as he does him|self.

What are we to think of all this, So|phia? For my part I am wholly at a loss—If she does, nay if she ever did love him, it is most unnatural, most unaccoun|table—yet what interest can she have in playing the hypocrite to me.

I confess I doubt exceedingly those pro|fessions of regard and friendship she con|tinually expresses, not only for him, but myself also. They are too violent to be sincere on so short an acquaintance as ours. I believe, were the truth known, she sets me down as a very cold insipid kind of a girl, for I cannot prevail on my|self to make suitable returns to all the civil things she is pleased to say to me. I have not lived long enough in the beau monde to be mistress of such a flattering talent.

My aunt and her Ladyship are exceed|ingly gracious, and no wonder, for she affects to pay the highest deference to all she says, and in my humble opinion, that has been a great deal more than was ne|cessary to one who is in fact a stranger. But who can feel any degree of reserve, or conceal any thing a person of quality will do one the honour to listen to?

This obliging condescension has induc|ed my loquacious aunt to acquaint her with all our family affairs; and, amongst others, my father's ridiculous plan (as she calls it) of giving my hand to Mor|ton, whose accomplishments she has paint|ed in no very flattering colours, nor has she forgot to assure her, it is a match which never shall take place while it is in her power to prevent it. Her sister's daughter shall never be thrown away on such an upstart; a fellow of yesterday, whose fortune is the only circumstance that could possibly gain him admission to the company of gentlemen.

Lady Stanley applauds her spirit, the delicacy of her sentiments, and the no|ble resolution she has formed to oppose so preposterous an alliance, and then flat|ters her vanity by mentioning Lord Som|merville's visble attachment.

I generally sit silent on these occasions, horribly vexed at my aunt's well-meant simplicity, and doubting the truth of every word her Ladyship utters.

How is it possible, Sophia, to conceive a regard for a person of whose veracity you are by no means certain. A first im|pression is not easily conquered, and the first I received of this (I suspect artful) dowager, was not the most favourable.

A title in the opinion of my good aunt, is like charity, it covers a multitude of faults. But I am sorry to say, I have not so high a veneration for it, so his Lord|ship need not be jealous of his, since it will have very little influence in deciding the answer I am to give to his suit.

I begin to fear you too, Sophia, will think me, as well as Lady Stanley, rather tinctured with insipidity, by the cool un|impassioned manner in which I write of a lover, and of such a lover too as the ac|complished Sommerville.—But you are mistaken, my dear, if you fancy I am quite insensible to his merit and attrac|tion.—Ah! Sophia, would it not be bet|ter, could I with truth assure you, they had made no impression on me? Most

certainly it would; for what can I ex|pect but trouble and distress from indulg|ing hopes which never may be realized?

My aunt, on the contrary, sees no ob|stacles; insists upon it I shall accept his hand without consulting even my father; is positive he will be highly delighted to find she has been able to procure for me so noble an alliance. It is all to be her doings you see, Sophia.

That he is amiable, and that my heart is but too sensible of it, I will not pretend to deny. Yet still I dare not look for|ward; I see nothing, as I was saying, but trouble and disappointment. Think of the rage and indignation I should bring upon my poor father's head, however he might secretly approve my conduct. Can I, without pain, think of subjecting him to the storm he must consequently ex|pect from a wife, of whose implacable disposition he has had so many proofs? I am shocked at the idea—yet still more shocked at the thoughts of appeasing the storm, by the sacrifice of my peace of mind, and of every possibility of happi|ness.

'Till I saw, that is, till I knew Lord Sommerville, the utmost of my hopes

was, permission to live single, rather than give my hand to the man I detest. But now, Sophia, I am afraid that permission alone would not content me. Yet even that is not yet granted.

I every day expect to be obliged to re|turn home, in spite of all my aunt's ef|forts to detain me: the hated time draws near, when my tormentor is again to be in our neighbourhood, which will I doubt prove the last of my liberty, as they will certainly recall me; then farewell hope! Farewell happiness! And farewell my too amiable Sommerville.

The subject has quite disconcerted me; Sophia, I must bid you adieu; dearly, I I fear, shall I pay for the few weeks hap|piness I have enjoyed since I came here. Alas, alas! How little do we know what is likely to promote our felicity; to avoid one kind of misery, have I not foolish|ly plunged myself into another; which may, perhaps, prove as fatal to my peace?—Adieu, once more.

My dear Sophia,

EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XIV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

Colchester.

I Plead guilty, Charles, so pray let me have your pardon; yet is it so very won|derful I should have been a little negli|gent, when you consider the nature of the business I am engaged in? To get fairly quit of one mistress, and to gain the heart of another; no tristing affair you must confess, and what none but a fellow of my spirit, I will venture any bet, could have so happily accomplished in so short a time.

I told you, in my last, I believe, of being introduced to Mrs. Grenville, and of course to her adorable niece, the love|ly Emily: this I feared was not the most difficult part of the undertaking; how to appease the apprehended wrath of my fair dowager, appeared to me infinitely more so.

But judge, if you can, of my astonish|ment, when on my attempting to make a blundering kind of defence, for a con|duct my conscience told me deserved her indignation; she very coolly and calmly acquitted me of all blame; said the in|constancy of men never in the least sur|prised her: she was sorry my passion had been of so very short a date; her's, she confessed, might have held out some time longer, though that it would have come to end as mine had done, she had not a doubt; was too generous to blame me for a fault which nature had intailed upon every son and daughter of Adam; wished me success in my new amour, and concluded, by saying, since our love is thus come to an untimely end, let us commence friends, and see how that will do.

This, Charles, or words to the same purpose, was the substance of her lady|ship's speech—I was confounded—'twas so wholly out of the common stile, so new, so very whimsical, that upon my soul I looked like one doubtful whether to langh or cry; would you believe it? I felt a kind of disappointment, a sort of

mortification, at finding myself held so confoundedly cheap.

I endeavoured to persuade myself 'twas merely a feint, in order to recall me to my duty, and by no means the real dic|tates of her heart—but faith, she keeps it up; not the shadow of displeasure have I had the consolation to perceive in her from that time to this.

'Tis rather provoking, Charles, howe|ver convenient it may be to my future ope|rations; but I now begin to suspect I have been the dupe, and that she never cared for me farther than to gratify her vani|ty; the devil's in it if she could so easily have given me up; if she had, what think you? Yet you need not subscribe to that opinion, 'tis not quite so pleasant as one could wish.

She bid me too not be surprised if I found her looking out for another Adonis to supply my place, as she could not exist without somebody to say civil things to her—so cool, so cursedly easy, Charles, I could cut my throat for having held so despicable an employment; not one tear, not even a sigh escaped her—so far from it, finding I was in no haste to leave her,

she very composedly told me she was go|ing to dress, should always be glad to see me, and wished me a good morning.

Thus ends the story of me and my im|pertinent widow, and now for that of my divine Emily; and a wonderful story you'll say it is when I tell you, I begin to suspect it must, in spite of a thousand obstacles, end in sober, serious matri|mony.—I see no other resource, Charles; she is not the kind of person to whom one dare offer less honourable terms of capitulation. I see plainly, with her it must be neck or nothing; and certainly if any woman can merit such a sacrifice, she is to all intents and purposes that woman. Yet the thoughts of being fet|tered, not to mention the loss of two thousand a year by the bargain, goes cursedly against the grain; then what a triumph to that spiteful witch, who is to be so great a gainer.

At some moments I am tempted to play the hero, and carry her off; but what next—the scene which must of course follow so glorious an atchieve|ment, does not appear very delightful. I will honestly confess, when I figure to

myself the dear girl, fainting, dying, distracted, and justly accusing me as the author of all that misery, I have not cou|rage to undertake it, unless I could per|suade myself she would condescend to pardon such a step, in consideration of the unconquerable passion which impel|led me to take it; and this I find no easy matter—a woman of virtue never can, and my Emily is pure and spotless as an angel, both in mind and person.

What's then to be done? It is a ques|tion not easily answered, Charles; I have asked it of myself a thousand times, but never could hit upon one in any degree satisfactory; one expedient there is, and but one, which, if I can manage the point, may at least remove part of my trouble, and no inconsiderable part nei|ther—it is this: Could I prevail on her to consent to a private marriage, and to conceal it 'till the patience of Lady Mary is exhausted, it might save me the mortification of see|ing my estate played the very devil with—for I cannot suppose she will submit to lead apes, merely to plague me, fond as she is of mischief. I would gladly hope

when she finds she can make nothing of me, she will make a husband of some|body else, and that too before 'tis very long—there will certainly be no joke in playing the fool till she is as grey as her grandmother; at least if she does carry it so far, the laugh will be at her expence.

Now if I can bring my mind to fix on this plan, which is by no means clear yet, I do not absolutely despair of suc|cess. My hopes of it are founded on two circumstances, which I think have some weight.

First my beloved's hand is promised by her father to a fellow, who, though rich as a jew, she abhors. Her aunt, who has a convenient dash of family pride in her composition, is no less averse from the match than her lovely niece. The second is, that rather than give up the prospect of her being one day acknow|ledged the wife of a peer, she would wait for that day, any reasonable time, pro|vided the matter was made honourably certain—ambition is her hobby horse, this I discovered before I had been an hour in her company, and to a view of this nature I impute the gracious recep|tion I met with.

If, therefore, I can bring myself to swallow the bitter pill, and can also bring her over to my party, I think my ador|able will not be able to withstand our united eloquences.

Had any one, Charles, six months ago—nay six week, told me I should now be talking thus seriously of matrimony, I should have given them little credit for their skill in divination—yet, so it is you see; judge then what an angel, what an irresistible creature, my Emily must be, who has in so short a time wrought a miracle of this nature.—Love, Charles, all powerful love—Omnia vincit amor—there's all that can be said for it, and so fare ye well—my next, may, probably, tell you on what I have finally resolved—till then, and ever,

believe me your's, SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XV. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

SOPHIA, I have a thousand things to tell you, would to heaven you were with me at this moment, not only to hear them; but to advise me, never in my life did I stand more in need of an able coun|sellor; I am perplexed, distressed, and tormented with a thousand fears—my Aunt—what shall I say of her? I believe she means well, nay, I cannot possibly doubt it; yet, yet, my dear Sophia, I tremble at the very thoughts of a propo|sal, which she nevertheless consented to with joy.

Ah, if I should be prevailed upon, what will my dear father say? how shall I ever after such a step, so derogatory to female delicacy, have courage to look him or the world in the face? I cannot, cannot bring myself to follow her advice; indeed, I dare not do it.

Yet, Sophia, let me blushing, confess my folly; my weak heart would tempt me to gratify her wishes, were I to listen to its dictates; but take the particulars, and then tell me, what you, my dear girl, would do were you in my situation.

I told you, in my last, Lord Sommer|ville had given me reason to look upon him as a lover; my Aunt, you may be|lieve, was highly delighted to find I had made a conquest, so perfectly consonant to her ambitious desire; I verily believe, she could hardly have been more so, had she herself been the object of his regard—He called upon, her yesterday; I ob|served and embarrassment in his manner, a something I had never seen before, and could not now account for; it struck me, it fluttered me exceedingly; I feared, I knew not what; my looks, I found, had betrayed my emotions, for he took my hand, and pressing it to his lips, in the tenderest accents, eagerly enquired if I was ill? glad he had given me that pre|tence, I said I had been teazed with a head ach all the morning.

Ah! my beloved Emily, would to hea|ven your Sommerville had no greater cause of complaint!

What do you mean, my Lord? (now more alarmed than ever!) for heaven fake! speak, and tell me what occasions your distress! He then took a seat be|tween my Aunt and me, still holding my hand, and thus addressed me: That I love you, my adorable Emily, I flatter myself, you cannot doubt. Love you with a tenderness which no language can possibly describe; that my whole hap|piness depends upon possessing the most invaluable of human hearts, and this dear hand; yet, such is my unhappy situation, that I fear to ask that blessing, without which life will be no longer desirable.

As you may imagine, Sophia, I was much affected at this speech, but remain|ed silent.

You cannot be surprised, my Lord, (said my Aunt) if I take the liberty of saying this discourse is rather extraordinary; you could be no stranger to the circumstances you allude to, when you first saw my niece; was it then acting like a man of honour to attempt gaining her affections, so circumstanced? Miss Herbert, is not in a line of life to be trifled with, and—

Ah! spare me, my dear madam, nor injure me so far as, to believe me capable of it; I know her inestimable worth, I adore her, I honour her; she is and ever must be the sole mistress of my heart.

I came now, madam, with full purpose to lay every sentiment of that heart before you, and also my very embarrassed state, if I durst hope, when you are acquainted with it, you would not withdraw from me the favourable opinions you at present honour me with, I should look upon my|self as the happiest of men.

He then told us, that his father had for several years before his death, projected an alliance between him and a cousin of his own.—Sommerville was ever averse from the match; but as she was then very young, he continually flattered him|self that time might produce some fa|vourable alteration, and that the affair might be dropped. He went abroad on his travels, his father died before his re|turn, and to his infinite surprise, he found a clause in the will, binding him either to marry the lady or give up half his estate; and to add to the cruelty of his fate, she was left free to reject him,

though he had not the same indulgence. Ah! Sophia, too well they knew there was little danger of her taking advantage of that liberty; the too amiable Sommer|ville need never fear—or rather hope for a disappointment of that nature.

This, my dear friend, is the substance of what he related.—I thought it needless to be more minute, as the subject is too painsul, to dwell upon longer than was necessary to prepare you for what fol|lowed.

This, my dear Sophia, was a proposal for me to consent to a private marriage, and to conceal it till we saw whether time would not effect a change in the lady's sentiments.

Ah! never, never, my Lord! will I vo|luntarily consent to be your's at the ex|pence of another's happiness, that other too the chosen of your family, this consi|detation independent of a thousannd others must determine me to reject your Lord|ship's proposal

Is the happiness of your adoring Som|merville, then, so very indifferent to you, my lovely Emily? that you should so cruelly sacrifice it for that of a person

who is an absolute stranger to you? For pity's sake reslect a moment! You cer|tainly have it in your power to render me the most miserable of men; but by so do|ing, believe me, you cannot promote, her felicity (supposing it depended on my giv|ing her my hand, which I am by no means persuaded is the case,) since I here so|lemnly swear, no woman, except your dear self, shall ever possess it.

No! Miss Herbert, no! if you inflexibly persist in sentiments so injurious to my peace, to no other shall it ever be offered. Then, turning to my aunt, ah, madam! dare I presume to flatter myself I shall find an advocate in you to plead my cause with your charming niece? He took her hand, and, putting one knee to the ground, continued, let me implore you, my generous friend, to use your influence in my favour.—I know it is great—I know my Emily pays the highest defer|ence to your judgment; on whose, indeed, can she with greater security rely? Speak then, for heaven's sake! Say—

My Lord, (interrupting him) I am ex|tremely concerned to learn you are so un|fortunately circumstanced; I feel for

your embarrassed situation, but still more for that of my niece, and wish it were in my power to extricate you both from your present difficulties; but how this can be effected without doing violence to that rule of conduct I have ever made it a point to be governed by, I really am at a loss to determine.—I certainly cannot thoroughly approve the plan your Lord|ship is desirous of pursuing; yet I may, perhaps, on reflection, find it attended with less impropriety than it appears to be on a first view: allow me then some time to take the affair into serious consi|deration, and believe it will give me most sensible pleasure, should I, after that, without fear of incurring the censure of the world, be able to give your Lordship such an answer as you wish.

How shall I, said he, (pressing her hand to his lips with servour) find words to ex|press a thousandth part of the gratitude, with which my heart is replete, for this condescending goodness? You do not then bid me despair—Ah, my dear ma|dam! believe me it shall be the future study of my life to make you sensible this

generosity is-not thrown away on an in|grate.

My Emily (again placing himself by me) why those averted eyes? Why those cold, those killing glances? Surely the prospect of felicity your Sommerville looks forward to, with such unspeakable rapture, cannot—?

My Lord, (interrupting him in myturn) though I am extremely sensible of my Aunt's kindness, I must take the liberty to observe, I think she will, on mature reflection, see so many obstacles, so much glaring impropriety in what you propose, that her answer cannot possibly confirm those hopes you indulge on such a slight foundation.

If my looks express less pleasure than your Lordship expects, believe me, it is because I see more clearly than you will suffer yourself to do, that every hope, of the nature you mention, must be fruit|less.

I have a father, my Lord, who is in|titled to every mark of respect and obe|dience, as far as I can pay it, without ren|dering myself absolutely wretched; and to that I would gladly believe he will ne|ver

compel me. That duty teaches me I ought not to engage in an affair of such infinite importance, without his know|ledge and approbation.

Emily, cried my aunt, though I must approve the sentiments you have expres|sed; yet, in your situation, I will take upon me to say, I think they may, with|out a breach of duty, be dispensed with; the persecution you have already suffered too clearly convinces me you have little reason to expect that indulgence you talk of; were your father suffered, indeed, to act according to his own ideas of recti|tude, perhaps you might avoid the horrid fate which now awaits you; but too well do you know this is not the case; he has delegated his authority to one who is not disposed to make a very generous use of it; from her you also know you have no|thing to expect but tyranny, as she has a soul destitute of every sentiment of hu|manity.

Ah! spare me, my dear madam! I am too sensible my happiness or misery are alike indifferent to her.

I could not refrain from tears, Sophia; the subject she had started quite over|powered

me—they fell in abundance on Sommerville's hand, in which mine was tenderly pressed.

He was affected beyond expression—I begged they would permit me to retire, to which my Aunt readily assented; but his Lordship said all the most fervent passion could dictate, to sooth, and prevail upon me to stay—I left them however, and by what she told me when we met again, after he had taken his leave, I found he had nearly gained his point with her; some scruples, she confessed, still re|mained, yet they were overbalanced by the pleasure she felt at the thoughts of my being placed in so distinguished a rank in life.

This circumstance she endeavoured to paint in the most seducing colours; such a triumph too, over my step-mother and her illiterate nephew. I own to you, Emily, my dear, these are motives which have great weight with me, said she, and I think you too cannot be so insensible but that you must feel satisfaction in hav|ing so glorious an opportunity to mortify one who has given you so much uneasi|ness, and who you have abundant reason to

know will stick at nothing to accomplish the scheme she has set her heart upon.

I certainly wish, my love, his Lord|ship's affairs had been in such a situation as would have enabled him to marry you publicly, then would my utmost ambi|tion have been amply gratified; but since they are not, I advise you, by all means, to accept him on his own terms; the re|straint he now lies under, cannot, in the nature of things, be of long duration; we cannot suppose the Lady will live single, merely with a view to dispossess him of a fortune she is in no want of; depend upon it, when she finds there are no hopes of gaining his Lordship's affec|tion, she will look out for a more discern|ing lover, and you will then be introduc|ed into the world in so flattering a stile, that your father will not only pardon the part I have acted, but thank me for it most sincerely.

You see, Emily, my Lord is so generous as never even to enquire what fortune he may expect with you; this is a noble proof of his love, nor shall he lose by his disinterestedness; that shall be my care, granting your fa|ther

were inclined to take a mean avan|tage of it, which, I cannot however, be|lieve he would even think of.

I will not hurry you, my dear, take a reasonable time for reflection on what is past; of his Lordship's passion you can have no doubt; consult, then, your own heart, and if you find in it those senti|ments which you ought to feel for the man to whom you mean to give your hand, tell me freely, and I will be an|swerable for all the consequences which may follow the step I advise you to take.

Had he made such a proposal, indeed, without consulting me, I should have had an ill opinion of him; and you, my dear Emily, would have been unpardonable had you been prevailed upon to consent to it; but he has proved himself a man of honour, he has acted nobly, generously, and with an openness and sincerity, for which he deserves a proper return from us.

What could I answer to all this, So|phia? Alas! it coincided but too much with my own wishes to offer those objec|tions I could and ought to have made; I was silent only, promising a retrospec|tion on it as she desired.

I have obeyed her most faithfully, as you may well believe, for it is never one moment out of my thoughts, yet have I not courage to give the answer for which I am so earnestly importuned; soon, however, I must determine: how that will be, my next will probably inform you; till then, my dear friend, adieu.

Your ever affectionate, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XVI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley-Place.

PREPARE to be astonished, Caroline! And, if possible, as enraged as I am at this moment! Would you believe it?—Ah! would to heaven there remained a single doubt of the horrid truth! He has absolutely proposed marr age to her—I have it from such authority as admits of none.

No matter how I came by my intelli|gence, I have more ways than one of div|ing to the bottom of all their secrets; for this affair, they are stupid enough to ima|gine, is a profoumd one, and to remain so for a certain time, for reasons which I confess I am at a loss to guess at. But I will do more, Caroline, than keep their abominable secret—I will prevent their putting it in practice.

Yes, however certain she may at this moment think herself; however she may now triumph, it shall be of short dura|tion; if my wits do not fail me, I have a plot in hand which I believe cannot fail to blow all her ridiculous impertinent hopes far from her, and I think a day will come when the perfidious, the designing Sommerville, will bless me for my friend|ly interposition, in saving him from so preposterous a piece of folly.—But whe|ther or not, my trouble will be amply repaid by the gratification of my re|venge.

Do you not honour me, Caroline, for my astonishing command of temper? It is true I have a set of simple souls to deal with; this, indeed, makes my merit the less, yet some contrivance it has cost me,

and a sew falsehoods; but that's a trifle.—My mind is not, thank my stars! formed on a narrow contracted scale; it is free and unfettered by vulgar prejudi|ces; and, of course, perfectly fitted to the work I have in hand.

Ah! how I shall enjoy their mutual disappointment! Nay I already antici|pate the pleasure I shall experience.—Poor, ignorant, conceited creature, to fancy Nature ever intended her to figure as Lady Sommerville! The very idea drives me to madness! and the old doat|ing fool of an Aunt too!—Caroline, it will be a scene delightful beyound all pos|sible expression, thus to blast all their hopes at the very moment they look upon them as certain.

I told you formerly, of a fellow her father meant her to marry—my business of late has been to learn every particular relating to that affair; his character, his disposition, place of residence, &c. &c.—all this I am now mistress of, and, to my infinite satisfaction, find him exactly the kind of being I wanted to complete my revenge—rich, low born—of course purse-proud, and overbearing—envying

those who have a family name to boast of, yet affecting to despise them for set|ting any value on what he calls the most absurd of all imaginary advantages. Self-willed, obstinate as a mule, and to crown all, dying for the creature who has pre|sumed to—(Caroline I could execrate her very name!)

This animal, then, is destined to be the hero of my tale; and, in return for the service I expect him to do me, is to be put in possession of his dulcinea.

Now read the enclosed copy of an epis|tle I have just dispatched to him, then tell me whether you think it can fail to produce those glorious effects I expect from it.

To John Morton, Esq.

THOUGH personally a stranger to Mr. Morton, I am well acquainted with his character, and distinguished situation in life; such is the high opinion I entertain of the former, that I cannot, without pain, see him on the point of being base|ly robbed of the woman whom he ho|nours with his tenderest affection, the

woman whose hand he has been promis|ed by those who alone have a right to be|stow it on him.

The disappointment of those hopes you have formed, is, nevertheless, preparing for you by the only person I presume who can be an enemy to so amiable a man as Mr. Morton; this you will rea|dily guess can be no other than Mrs. Grenville, aunt to the lovely Miss Her|bert; who, if left to follow the dictates of her own inclination, I well know would prefer you to the man this truly ridicu|lous woman has made choice of for her.

He has a title it is true, this is his only recommendation, surely a very poor one to a mind of liberal sentiments; but of those Mrs. Grenville is wholly destitute. You cannot be ignorant of her character—it is a compound of pride and mean|ness; I tremble for the fate of my love|ly friend—she trembles for herself, as she sees no possible means to escape the threa|tened danger. Her aunt has contrived to get her into her possession, and we now find it was wholly with a view to put her into that of this insignificant Lord.

As she is denied the liberty of writ|ing to her friends on this subject, for she

sells me her aunt will not suffer any let|ter to go without first inspecting its con|tents, she is in absolute despair.

This, Sir, inspired me with the idea of informing you of her danger, who are so deeply interested in it, and can alone relieve her; I consefs I am at a loss to say how this must, or can be done; one, and one way only appears to me practica|ble, and though a method I should high|ly disapprove in any other case, I will yet venture to propose.

Taking it for granted, Sir, you will, rather than see the woman so justly dear to you, given to another, endeavour to frustrate such a malicious intention, by any means, however desperate; my plan is this: If you will so disguise yourself as to prevent all possible suspicion, and as soon as possible come to me, having a carriage ready, and also a proper place where to convey the dear girl, I will undertake to have her at my house at the time ap|pointed, from whence you may, with|out hazard, carry her off.

You will, by the step I have taken, judge how deeply I am interested in the

happiness of my amiable and truly distres|sed friend. Miserable she must be if her vile ambitious Aunt succeeds in her present views, since she abhors the man by her defrined to possess her. With you, who I am well assured know her inesti|mable worth, and who adore her, she can|not fail to enjoy that felicity she so justly deserves.

This is the only adveie I have it in my power to offer, and I flatter myself it will meet your approbation, both for the gen|tle Emily's sake and your own.

It hurts my feelings to think a man of your character and fortune should be in|jured in so tender a point; and that an insignificant boy, merely because he has a title, should thus triumph over you. I think, by what I know of Mr. Morton's spirit, he will not tamely put up with such an indignity.

Let me know what my poor friend has to expect as soon as possible; since there is not a moment to lose, if you wish to save her from inevitable misery, or to possess the object of your affection.—

I am, Sir, &c. &c.

There, Caroline, what think you of my eloquence? Can it fail of success?—Impossible! I think I have thrown in a convenient dose of flattery; it will work like a charm, I'll lay my life.

Farewell; I every moment expect the fellow's answer! and then, should he agree to my scheme, I must contrive to get the girl here; this, indeed, will be no hard matter, as her Aunt is never bet|ter pleased than when I honour her with any degree of attention.

I must ask you once more, have I not a wonderful command over my passions? Am I not a finished hypocrite? when it is necessary to assume that character.—They are firmly persuaded my attach|ment to Sommerville was merely friend|ship; and he, though he knows we trans|gressed the bounds of that frigid senti|ment, yet as firmly believes I never had any regard for him; a circumstance not a little mortifying to his vanity. What else can he think, on finding I gave him up to another with so much cool indiffer|ence?—Oh! it was a glorious thought! And will, I trust, be productive of most joyous mischief!

Adieu. ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XVII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalion, Esq

Colchester.

PREPARE your congratulations, Char|les!—the adorable Emily will soon be mine!—mine by every tender, every so|lemn tie! What a miracle has her num|berless perfections wrought on the once volatile mind of your friend Sommerville? He now talks of matrimony with as grave a countenance, as if he were an old prac|titioner in the business.

Yes, Charles, nothing is now wanting but the nuptial benediction to complete my wonderful transformation; my mind is made up, there was no getting my beloved on any other terms, and to give her up was death; and after all, what does it signify; one must marry some time or other, why then delay it?

Have I then, you'll ask, settled matters amicably with my cousin?—Don't mis|take me!—she is to know nothing of the

matter, nor any body else except your wor|ship and the parties concerned; that is to say, my charmer, her Aunt (to whom, by the by, I owe my success) and your hum|ble servant; without that kind Lady's interposition, I am sensible I never should have prevailed on the engaging Emily; but through her sagacious arguments (though mine could not get the better of her delicate scruples) she has consented to keep our union a secret for some time, persuaded no less than myself, that Lady Mary Craven's patience will not hold out much longer.

And if the worst happens, namely, that she should discover it, she can but claim her legacy—a devlish slice it will cut off my estate, Charles, that's certain; but there's no help; I would rather submit to carry a musket than be tied to her for life—this, however, she cannot claim, till I have in plain terms refused her, or am married to another—now she has not yet, you see, asked me the question, and if she waits till I ask her, our affairs are likely to remain in statu quo.

To prevent all possible suspicion, my beloved is to continue with her Aunt till such time as I can publicly acknowledge

her—and should her father make any disturbance, and insist on her returning home, Mrs. Grenville has taken upon herself to make that matter easy by ac|quainting him with the whole truth, not doubting but he will be mighty well pleased to find she has dispofed of her in a manner so much more eligible, in every respect than he intended to do him|self; since it was merely for the sake of a quiet life he ever consented to a match he by no means approved.

See what it is, Charles, to have a shrew of a wife—but a wife like the gentle Emily—aye, that is quite another affair, and three days hence your friend will have that blessing to boast of—yet, no boasting, I forgot that—Well a time will shortly come, I hope, when I may pro|claim to all the world my unbounded happiness.

My widow and I are on the best terms imaginable; she even condescends to talk to me, of my charmer; asks how long this passion is to last? says I am an incon|stant wretch; but too much like herself in that particular, to excite either her wonder or indignation.

I have some reason to believe, she has found means to console herself, for my

infidelity, as our Major now does the honours of her house. She is blessed with a most capacious heart.—Ah! little does she dream I am on the point of giv|ing mine away in earnest.

Three tedious days over, Charles, and I shall be able to subscribe myself, your supremely happy,

SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XVIII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley-Place.

GIVE me joy, Caroline! All is over, and I am beyond expression delighted with my handy-work.

No, positively there never was my equal; nor a set of stupid mortals so completely outwitted. I could expire with laughing when I figure to myself their consternation.—If you do not see it in the same ridiculous light, it appears

to me in, I would not give a straw for your feelings.

My doughty hero swallowed the bait I threw out with the avidity of a gud|geon.—His answer was exactly what I wished—he expressed some doubts, how|ever, in regard to the damsel's being pre|judiced in his favour. And well he might, for she detested his very name, and had ever used him accordingly.—So much the better, I trust he will now repay her in kind.—But though he had doubts of the sincerity of her passion, of his own he had none, for he swore most manfully he would carry her off at the hazard both of soul and body rather than forego his hopes.

Bravo, cried I, as I perused his scrawl. This is the very man I want, it would be surprizing, with such noble spirits as we are possessed of, we should not play the deuce before 'tis long.

The happy pair were to have been fet|tered as last Tuesday.—Every thing was finally settled. Miss was to remain as a Miss, with her plotting Aunt.—So happy so elate, I'll warrant ye, with their ima|gined dignity.—O dear! O dear!

Well, child, I had called ore fre|quently on them than usual for some time past.—My Ladyship always did them honour; the evening before the day of days, my said Ladyship was seized with a violent headach, a card was dispatched, intreating the favour of Miss Herbert's company, for an hour, to accompany me in a walk, as I thought the air might, possibly remove it.—No refusing her Ladyship's request.—She came—away we strolled.—But alas! alas! had not proceeded a quan|ter of a mile, before we were terrified by the approach of four ill looking fel|lows making directly towards us.—I screamed, calling on all the gods and god|desses for protection; she, more courage|ous, begged me not to be alarmed, they could not mean us any injury.—A mo|ment served to undeceive her, for before you could count twenty, Madam was wisk'd up by one of them, carried to the carriage prepared for her reception, and away it flew like lightening.

I now made the best of my way home, my heart as light as a feather, but my outward appearance in a state of distrac|tion—fit succeeded fit, my servants frightened out of their senses, begging to

know what had reduced me to such a de|plorable condition; it was an hour before I was sufficiently recovered to gratify their curiosity; at length I accomplished it, and amazement followed of course.

To keep up the farce I was put to bed extremely ill—had not courage enough to inform Mrs. Grenville of the disaster—no hurry for that you know.

At length comes her carriage to convey Miss Herbert home. What was now to be done? Why, my woman was compel|led to be the relater of the melancholy story. I ordered her to go in it, and to give the best account of the matter she could; and above all, to describe the la|mentable state in which she had left me, by way of apology for not waiting on her myself. All this she would do perfectly well, as she had not an idea that the whole was a concerted plot.

It was now the old soul's turn to be distracted in earnest. Never was such a scene of confusion as Wilson was witness to; and to crown the whole, in the midst of her despair, and before my abigail had quite finished the task imposed upon her, in comes Sommerville.

Ah! What would I not have given to have seen his frantic behaviour? I envied her, and sincerely wished I could myself, with propriety, have related to them the delightful particulars, but that was impos|sible. He raved, he stormed, he cursed; and, as in duty bound, vowed he would never rest till he had discovered the vil|lain who had robbed him of his heart's dearest treasure! These were his Lord|ship's very words, said Wilson, while giving me an account of what passed.

Why, to be sure, my Lady, he must have quite doated upon her, as one may say; and to be sure, she was a mightly pretty creature. But yet to take on so for one who was only an acquaintance like, amazed me; for had she been his own wife, I verily thinks he could not have been in a greater taking.

No, nor perhaps half so great, few men look upon the loss of a wife as any vio|lent affliction.

Fearing to betray my real feelings, I dismissed my maid; when, in a few mi|nutes after, comes Mrs. Grenville, beg|ging, for heaven's sake! I would allow her the honour of a moment's conversation,

that she might learn the distracting parti|culars from my own lips. This I could not decently refuse, so up she came to my bedchamber.

Oh! Lady Stanley, I am the most wretched of women! My poor dear child! What must she now suffer to be thus torn from her friends, thus exposed to a thou|sand insults? Alas! I cannot support this dreadful shock.

And still more dreadful disappointment of all my high raised hopes, she would have said, I presume, Caroline, had she been honest enough to speak her mind freely.

I pity you from my soul, my dear ma|dam; if I feel this horrid affair thus sen|sibly, what must you do, who are so near|ly connected with the amiable girl? Have you no idea who it can be, that has dared to commit this horrid outrage.

None in the world; I can form no con|jecture, and it is that distresses me. I came now principally to ask if your Ladyship can give me any intelligence of the road they took, or any particular description of the villains, that I may as soon as pos|sible send in pursuit of them. Lord

Sommerville, (who has shewn us a thou|sand civilities) has kindly offered me his services on this melancholy occasion—Pray, Caroline, observe the cool manner in which the old hypocrite mentioned his civilities.

I am persuaded, my dear madam, he will do it with pleasure; he is really a very worthy young man, and alway, pro|fessed the highest esteem for my amiable friend Miss Herbert.

I then, in few words, gave her the best account I could of what she wished to know, that is to say, misled her as far as possible, and wishing her success in the important search, she took her leave af|ter having in the warmest manner acknow|ledged her gratitude for the kind concern I had expressed on the occasion.

From that moment, Caroline, the whole neighbourhood have been in the finest confusion imaginable: one friend gallop|ing here, another there; some running this way, some that; but first on the list stands the gallant! Woe begone! Despair|ing Sommerville!—What are all their feelings when compated to his?—Aye child! what indeed? Had I been kind

enough to have waited till the honey moon was fairly over, he might perchance have got the better of his affliction—but to dash the cup of happiness from his lip in such a manner, O fie! fie, Lady Stan|ley! it was really a wicked trick, and what, if known, they would certainly ne|ver forgive.

Then such a virtuous love too, none of your modish intrigues, none of your modern fashionable matches, where nei|ther party care a fig for the other—in that case it might have been borne with christian patience—but here was nothing but downright love; a passion pure and unsullied; and who knows whether the poor dear creature will ever find himself in so pious a frame of mind again as long as he lives.

There, Caroline, I think I have given you a treat; sure I am, if you enjoy it as truly as I do, you are not a little oblig|ed to me. I have got pretty well over the horrid shook, and am now able to see my friends again, of course I hear the story told a thousand different ways, and am compelled to repeat all I know of it

as often; it will afford conversation for ages—Adieu.

Your's ever, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XIX. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

Colchester.

KEEP your congratulations, Charles, for some happier fellow! I am at this mo|ment completely wretched!—Never was there so unaccountable, so cursed an af|fair.—I have almost turned my brain by fruitless conjectures, my mind is in a state of absolute distraction, my body sinking under the fatigue I have suffered.—Faith, I almost blush to explain myself more clearly, I feel myself humbled so confoundedly.

Ah! could I but learn by whom, I would take ample vengeance for the in|jury; the indignity I have—But no more

threats till fortune puts it in my power to realize them; then, Charles, call me a paltroon if I am worse than my word.

Know then, that the very day preced|ing that on which my angel, Emily, had promised to make me the happiest of men, while she was taking the air with Lady Stanley, she was seized by three or four villains, and carried off.

This, Charles, is the horrible story in few words. Where, or by whom, the Lord only knows, for not the least infor|mation have I yet been able to gain, though I have made it my whole business, as you may well believe, from the cursed mo|ment. I have not had an hour's rest since the affair happened; on horseback for ever, enquiring at every stage, every inn, of every soul I meet; yet, how describe what I am in quest of?—One carriage so like another, and hundreds passing in all directions.—I am frequently taken for a lunatic, nor are they far mistaken.

Oh, Charles, can you form an idea of a more distressing, more mortifying situa|tion; on the very eve of enjoying the highest possible happiness—my Emily, all engaging, modest tenderness—by hea|ven

it is too much!—It unman's me quite, but for the rage which animates me, and the glorious hopes that I shall yet be able to discover the wretch who has thus blast|ed all my prospects of felicity, I should sink under my affliction.

At some moments I have been tempt|ed to suspect Lady Stanley; I know she has a soul capable of any thing, however inhuman—I know it well—yet, I believe, I should injure her; she was confined for some days by the shock she received, spoke of it with unfeigned concern to Mrs. Grenville, and was apparently lit|tle less afflicted than herself.

I know not what to think; I am per|plexed, bewildered in a variety of fruit|less conjectures; perhaps her father—yet that is ridiculous; why have recourse to stratagem, when he might have order|ed her home whenever he pleased? And, as for the fellow to whom he had pro|mised her, he, for that very reason, could have no inducement to play the knight-errant; he was favoured by her friends, nay, looked upon her as his own.

Yet, Charles, it occurs to me at this instant, he might possibly, though I can|not

well conceive how, have heard she meant to disappoint him; in that case who can say what a brutal passion like his might tempt him to—for brutal I may well call it; since he knew he was her aversion.

By heavens! this is the only idea that has yet struck me with any appearance of probability.

But then, again, why this force? Why not prevail on her father to send for her home, and according to his promise give her to him?—Would not this have been a more natural plan? No doubt of it.

In short, as I said, I am in a labyrinth, and absolutely unable to determine which way to bend my course next. I write this, while my horses are resting, for my own part I can take none—they are ready—Farewell.

SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XX. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley-Place.

SOMMERVILLE has commenced Quixotte, and is galloping all over the country in quest of his Dulcinea; the Grenvilles and Herberts all out on the same wild goose chase—air and exercise will do the good sculs a world of service; in the mean time my hero is quietly en|joying the fruit of his labour.

Yet, not very quietly, neither, for I find Miss is rather resractory, and by what he says, I begin to suspect he wishes he were fairly quit of her, or that he had got possession of his prize by more justi|fiable means.

The fellow's a fool, and of course has not a spirit equal to the task I have assigned him; but that's his affar. I have brought him into the scrape, it is his bu|siness to get out of it the best way he can.

You must know, he has wrote to me, begging my further advice how to pro|ceed;

I have not yet, nor am I clear that I ever shall take the trouble to give it; certainly not, unless I find on reflection, I can strike out any thing new or likely to afford me a little more diversion. He describes her terrors, on finding herself thus kidnapped, in a style that plainly says he is not a little terrified himself, for what may be the consequences of his va|lourous atchievement. To say truth, they may be rather serious, but this he ought to have foreseen.

He says, in his vile scrawl, for the wretch can hardly write legibly, that he had at first intended carrying her home to her father's—but on finding she freely declared no power on earth should ever compel her to give him her hand! That she abhorred him! That death in any shape would be infinitely preferable to her than being united to a villain who had dared to insult her in the manner he had done! He was so highly provoked, and at the same time fearing her father, on finding her so resolutely determined a|gainst him, might retract his promise, that he, in an evilhour, resolved to convey her to a house of his own, and there to treat

her with less ceremony than he had hi|therto done in revenge for the contempt with which she had treated him.

He at once put his plan in execution, so that he had her now intirely in his power; but with the violence of her agi|tations she had thrown herself into a se|ver; was at the moment he wrote deli|rious, and by the doctors pronounced in the utmost danger.

After the fatal step I have taken (adds he) it is not in the nature of things I can inform her family of what has happened; this would be setting myself in no very favourable light, and all my hopes must then be at an end, since it is impossible they can pardon this outrage; gladly would I marry her, even now, though convinced her heart is in the possession of another, could I thereby get honourably out of this confounded trouble; should she die, and, if I may believe the physici|ans, her recovery is very doubtful, I shall have reason to curse the day I ever set eyes on her.

He then, Caroline, implores me to write instantly, and tell him what I would ad|vise

him to do. Were I to give him any advice it should be to hang himself at once, both for his own sake and mine.

The fellow's an errant coward, it is evident, and of course may be tempted by his fears to impeach; yet, as I am not, let him do his worst, with all my soul. The letter I wrote on the subject is all he has to produce against me, and it is wrote in so friendly a stile, so consonant to the wishes of all her family, except the old Aunt, that I think it will acquit me of any evil intention, did I care any thing about it. But the truth is, I do not.—What are the animals to me? If the girl will be such a simpleton as to fret her|self to death, who can help it.

Had she not robbed me of the only man who ever had power to gain my affections, she might, for ought I cared, have flirted on to the end of the chapter, with every other she could find foolish enough to think it worth their while. But to rival me there! To rob me by her—heaven knows what, Caroline!—Of a Sommer|ville!—It was not to be borne.

Ah! death is too gentle a punishment; let her die then, and let the fellow make the best of the story he can.

The silly whim over, Sommerville may again be mine. Heavens! the very hope of such an event gives me new life, nor is it in any degree improbable; a short time must convince him of the difference between an ignorant country girl, and a woman of the world, who knows how to set a proper value on his merit and ac|complishments.

It was a whim, Caroline, a mere whim of the moment; I have not a doubt he will soon conquer it, and return to me a true penitent. I will not humble myself so far as to make a comparison between her personal attractions and mine; and, as to her understanding, it would be still more ridiculous.

Farewell.—ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXI. Same to the Same.

Stanley-Place.

THE wandering knight, Caroline, is returned—but what a change! He is ab|solutely worn to a shadow; looks like the ghost of his former bewitching self, and appears in the deepest despair.

I have only seen him en passant; think of that—not once called upon me, though I condescended to write him a note to enquire after his health; a cool card, with compliments, was all the return I got.—I was weak enough to write a se|cond time, and, I fear, with a degree of tenderness, for which I now detest my|self. This produced no better effect—polite, but freezingly cold. Farewell all hope then! Farewell love! And wel|come hatred!

Yes, Caroline, I think I now hate him! Hate him most heartily! Sure he might have continued to me his friendship; com|mon civility at least—to this I was cer|tainly intitled—but be it so.

Since then he will not help to fill up my time in the manner I wish, I must even find a way to do it without his assistance; I will not be so ungrateful to him, I will find employment for him before I sleep; yes, I will rouse him from this lethargy of woe; if nothing but his beloved Emily will serve his turn, he shall have her, but on such terms as, I trust, he will have reason to think a dear bargain;—that is to say, if she has not, by this time, given us both the slip, by a journey to the other world, for I have heard nothing of the matter since my last. He arrived here a day or two after, and the dear hopes of again having him all to myself, put her and her whole tribe out of my head.

It is too sure, Caroline, that he loves her—I can no longer doubt it. Could I ever do so? You'll ask, since he was ac|tually on the point of giving so incontes|table a proof of it by marrying her.

I believed, indeed, he had a passion for her, which as he could not contrive to gratify on any other terms, he, in a fit of desperation had agreed to it; but that it was, by no means, so rooted in his breast as to produce the effect I am now a wit|ness to.

I was persuaded a few weeks would have restored him to reason and to me. I have, for once, been deceived—he too shall be deceived in his turn—I will wring his heart, since I find her detested image is so deeply imprinted there.

How this is to be done, you shall know in my next—so till then, adieu.

ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXII. Same to the Same.

Stanley-Place.

READ the inclosed copy of an epistle I have fabricated, Caroline, and which the despairing lover will receive by this time to-morrow—If I am not mistaken he will once more take horse, but in what temper of mind I'll leave you to guess; it will at least free me from the mortifi|cation of seeing him here, and that of

having others witness to the indifference with which he nows treats me.

My Lord,

IN pity to an amiable young creature, in whose happiness I know your Lordship is greatly interested, I take up my pen, and trust my motive will plead my excuse.

I have been an unwilling spectator to a scene of such complete villainy, that my heart bleeds when I think of it.

I blush to say I am house-keeper to the wretch of whose unexampled trea|chery I am now going to give an ac|count.

Your Lordship must have heard Miss Herbert speak of Mr. Morton—he is the man who has, by an unheard-of piece of cruelty, for ever destroyed her peace, and of course Lord Sommerville's; for I am not to learn the happy event which was to have taken place, had he not base|ly robbed you of her.

She has, by the injurious treatment she has received, been reduced to the point of death; and no wonder, since loss of honour to a mind pure as hers,

was, I doubt not, infinitely more dread|ful.

Though now in this humble station, I have seen better days, my Lord.—I felt for—I pitied her distress, and only regret it was not in my power to save her from ruin—Alas! it was not—she was too nar|rowly watched by the monster who has undone her.—But finding to what a con|dition his brutality had reduced her, he was compelled to put her under my care.

I have the satisfaction to inform your Lordship, that care has not been in vain; she is, at length, out of danger, and I hope will shortly be able to leave this detested house, could I contrive to find any way for her to escape—I offered to write to her parents—"Ah! never! she cried, never can I see them more! No—get me but out of this wretch's power, and I will, in some obscure corner, hide my miserable head! and trust death will soon, in tender compassion to my unspeak|able misery, put an end to my days!"

I would also have offered to write to you, my Lord, but judged she would be still, if possible, more averse from that.

I have ventured, therefore, to do it with|out her knowledge, not doubting but you will find means to deliver her, and to pu|nish the wretch who has thus destroyed the happy prospect which awaited you.

'Till then, which I hope will not be long, depend upon my utmost care and attention, and believe me, your Lord|ship's

Most obedient, &c.

What do you think of madam house|keeper, Caroline?—Don't you think her letter will produce some rather un|pleasant feelings in the gentle bosom of our despairing swain. I flatter myself the account she has given him, will, on this occasion, at least put his matrimonial whim out of his head, and may be the means of his getting himself run through the body into the bargain; for a tilting bout there must be or the deuce is in it; should he come off conqueror, my honest friend, the Nabob, must even submit to the operation himself—no great matter which; and as to the damsel, we must leave her future fate to chance; I think it does not promise to be any longer en|viable.

I have contrived to send the fine epis|tle to him, by such a conveyance as shall leave him no possible doubt of its authen|ticity, and expect to see him gallop off full speed, as soon as he has properly di|gested its contents—dearly do I love a lit|tle innocent mischief—and this is perfectly so, you'll allow.

I am now all impatience for the issue of this manauvre, as it cannot, I think, fail to produce the best possible effects. I have a presentiment that the poor de|vil of a Nabob will come off with the worst, for that he is an errant coward, as I said before, his style plainly evinces; yet, coward as he is, I believe in my con|science the fellow would gladly compound for a slight scratch to be fairly quit of his refractory charge.—Adieu, Caroline.

Your's, sincerely, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXIII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

London.

I HAVE been engaged in a most won|derful piece of business since my last, Charles, which has produced a total re|volution in my sober matrimonial scheme, as you will readily conceive when in|formed of the infernal particulars—no fault of mine, you must allow, if I am compelled to take to my old courses again. I was on the point of reforma|tion, but fate forbids, and to that I must submit.

After having made every possible en|quiry after my adorable Emily, to no pur|pose, I returned in a truly disconsolate condition to my regiment; Lady Stanley, on my arrival, sent to enquire for me, wondering, I presume, I had not called upon her. I was in no humour for it, and sent a very cool answer. This pro|duced a second note, but wrote in a style

which very clearly convinced me she not only wished for my company, but hoped I would put it in her power to console me for the loss of my beloved—I have no longer a doubt that the airs of indiffer|ence she had thought proper to assume, on finding my attachment for herself at an end, were put on merely to conceal her mortification; it must be owned it was of very short duration; but all her condescension was thrown away upon me; I could not, for the soul of me, in the humour I was, take the trouble to visit her.

What change time might have effected, I know not, but a letter I got, of which I inclose you a copy, put her as much out of my head as if no such person had ever existed.

I will now, Charles, suppose you have read it—judge, then, of my feelings, on finding the horrid intelligence it brought me.

'Till then, I had never been wholly without my suspicions of the widow; but at length compelled to acquit her, as she knew nothing of the scoundrel who has been the author of all this misery.

He is now, however, smarting for his temerity, and will not, a second time, I fancy be easily tempted to play the hero in such an adventure. I think I have made him pay pretty handsomely for his frolic! By heavens! when I think of the sufferings of the gentle Emily! (that dear object of my tenderest, my everlasting affection) I am almost distracted, and could inflict a thousand deaths, instead of one, on the vile wretch who has so cru|elly betrayed the innocence he ought to have protected. But no more of this; I will, if possible, proceed in my narra|tive.

I instantly sat off, attended by a cou|ple of servants, on whose courage and fidelity I could depend; determined to rescue my dear girl from the power of the monster who had thus undone us both, and severely punish him for his infamous conduct.

I left my carriage at a little distance, and mounting one of my servants horses, bidding the other follow me, rode up to the house.—A fellow was standing at the gate—I demanded if his master was at home, to which he replied in the affir|mative;

then asked who he should an|nounce.

No matter, shew me in directly; he led the way into a parlour, and then went to inform his master, who in a few mi|nutes, made his appearance.

Whether he guessed my business, I know not, as he was a stranger to my person; but I did not leave him long at a loss—I had my pistols ready, which he no sooner cast his eyes upon, than a guil|ty conscience informed him at once of my purpose; and like a coward as he is, he made an effort to escape.

This I prevented by setting my back against he door; he now began to bluster, and asked what I meant by daring to in|sult him in his own house?—

I mean to punish a most consummate villain, and you are the man! If not a coward as well as a villain take your choice of these pistols, and be thankful I give you so honourable a chance for preserving your worthless existence.

Still affecting to look bold (though he trembled in every joint.) And pray who are you that thus presumes to put my life in danger?

Oh! no matter who; and as to the why, you can be at no loss to guess.

He still drew back, refusing to accept my offer. Finding, however, nothing less would do, he at last took one, and (scarce giving me time to lay hold of the other) fired and missed me; I now fired in my turn, and had the consolation to lodge the ball in his body.

The report alarmed the family, and a number of servants assembled; take care of your master, said I; then seizing one of them by the arm, I ordered him to shew me instantly to the apartment of the lady who was by violence detained there, unless he wished I should treat him as I had done his scoundrel of a master.

The choice I had given him, was easily decided, and he immediately cried out, this way, please your honour.

But now, Charles, all language must fail me!—My Emily, no doubt, terrified by the confusion she had heard, lay life|less on the floor, without a soul to afford her any assistance.

I rung the bell in an agony it is im|possible to give you an idea of—I believed

her gone for ever, as not a symptom of life appeared. A woman came in, ter|ror and amazement depicted in her coun|tenance—I ordered her to call for help, and to procure whatever she judged most likely to restore my angel. I had, before I went up stairs, dispatched my servant to bring my carriage to the door; it ar|rived in a few minutes, but all our efforts were ineffectual, she shewed no signs of life; I then judged the air might be of more service to her than all their drops, &c. &c. in case she was not absolutely past recovery.

Lifting the dear girl, therefore, in my arms, and leaning her pale (though still infinitely lovely) face on my bosom, I carried her gently to the chaise, and put|ting her in, took my seat by her, and bidding the postillion drive slowly on, left the cursed crew in a state of astonish|ment at what had passed, which there is no describing; they stood gaping with open mouths, and every mark of stupid amazement, not one of them having had courage to offer any resistance to my un|dertaking—Indeed the whole took up so short a space of time that they had not

got over their surprize, nor had they re|covered the use of the little sense nature had given them when I left them.

I now endeavoured by a thousand ten|der caresses, to restore my beloved; and, to my unutterable joy, at length per|ceived she began to open her languid eyes.

Oh, Charles! guess, if you can, what was my rapture at that blessed moment—My Emily! My angel! (cried I) in an ecstacy, look up, my best beloved! Ba|nish all your fears! and behold your Sommerville, whose whole happiness de|pends upon your recovery. She now sighed deeply, and a few tears fell from her eyes on my bosom, which supported her; my hopes began to revive, this I thought a favourable symptom, and I was not deceived.

Alas! where am I? said she at last; but, in so faint a voice, I could scarcely distinguish her words.—Oh, Save me! save me from him! And she burst into a flood of tears.

I gently pressed her to my throbbing heart—be comforted my Emily, you are no longer in the power of the wretch

whose presence you so justly dread; it is your Sommerville, it is the most ten|der of lovers, who implores, who intreats you to calm your agitation.

Sommerville! exclaimed she—Som|merville!—good heavens! am I awake! may I believe my senses? And again her dear head, which she had made an effort to raise, sunk on my breast.

It is! it is your Sommerville, my best beloved! Who has been the happy means of delivering you from the power of a villain, and who now with transport folds you to his bosom!

Ah! my Lord! (turning her mild dove-like eyes upon me) How shall I be able to express my gratitude?—Heaven has at length then heard my prayers! and sure was doubly kind in sending you to my relief! Alas! my Lord, you know not the terrors I have indured!—Ah, Charles! too well I knew them for my peace!

Think no more of it, my angel; en|deavour to forget the past and look only forward to scenes of happiness; for hap|py you shall be if it is in the power of the most faithful, the most ardent of lo|vers to make you so!

Oh! my Lord, I have a thousand things to tell you, a thousand questions to ask; but am still so weak! so very faint! that I have not power to utter them—of this, however, be assured, my heart is perfect|ly grateful for the important service you have so generously, so nobly conferred upon me; my family too will join their thanks to mine for so infinite an obligati|on. Ah! they will now be convinced, the man they so highly favoured, was a despicable wretch; he has given but too fatal proofs of it.

My poor dear Aunt too—I dread to ask, my Lord, what effect the shock had upon her? But I shall soon, I hope, have the happiness of seeing her; of removing all her apprehensions; this delightful thought has given me new life; I am better, my Lord, much better; pray order the ser|vant to drive on as fast as possible, indeed, I can bear it now. Gracious heaven! how will her kind heart rejoice to have me thus restored to her at the moment, perhaps, when she wholly despaired of it?

If I now, Charles, feared her impati|ence, and violent emotions of joy, might

be too much for her still weak spirits; how then have courage to tell her I had no design to put her again under her Aunt's protection?—A thought, however, instantly struck me.

Mrs. Grenville, my dearest Emily, is no longer in the country, business of im|portance obliged her to go to London soon after the shock you mention, and a severe one it was; you will have no ob|jections then, my love, to join her there, as it is a shorter journey than going to your father's seat. Indeed, I ventured to resolve on this plan before you were in a condition to give me your opinion of it, judging it would be more agreeable to you; we are now on our way thither, and shall, with ease, reach town early to|morrow.

Gone to London, said you, my Lord? This surprises me! Are you perfectly sure of it? (with some emotion.)

Perfectly, my dear, and it was on that account, as I observed before, I took this road.

Certainly, my Lord, if that is the case, I prefer it greatly. I wish not to see my father, unless accompanied by her; I

have not, indeed, courage for it—Yet, alas! how am I to blame for what has happened?—Proceed then, my Lord, since it must be so, let us get on as fast as possible; I am miserable beyond ex|pression, nor shall I know a moment's peace till once more under her protec|tion.

Is this kind, my Emily? (taking her hand) Is your Sommerville, then, so perfectly indifferent to you, that his pre|sence gives you no degree of pleasure? I flattered myself your tranquillity would have been wholly restored on finding yourself under that of the most tender, the most faithful of lovers.

Ah! my Lord, do me the justice to believe I am deeply sensible of the infi|nite obligations I am under to you. I should be the most ungrateful of crea|tures, were I not; but can it surprise you, that I should impatiently wish to relieve my friends from the distress this unfortunate affair must have involved them in? Surely it ought not; complete then your kind intentions, convey me, as soon as possible, to my Aunt; and de|pend upon it you shall have no cause to

accuse me of indifference; till then, I can think of nothing but the joy I shall experience in removing all her trouble and anxious suspense, which you are sensible must have been greater than I can express.

I now ordered the carriage to drive on, and in the mean time did all in my power to calm her perturbation; and, as she had not a doubt of my sincerity, by the time we reached the inn, at which we were to rest that night, she was tole|rably composed; more so, indeed, Charles, every thing considered, than I could possibly have expected.

To say truth, her behaviour surprised me a good deal, and I could only account for it, by supposing she consoled herself with the idea, that I was unacquainted with the whole adventure, and that by marrying her immediately, all would be set to rights. This conjecture did not serve to raise her in my esteem; in her situation, it was certainly natural to form such a wish; but it set her delicacy in no very favourable point of view.

I expected to have found her over|whelmed with sorry, covered with con|fusion

—In short, I conceived it utterly impossible, the amiable, the modest! blushing Emily! could, after what had passed, so soon regain any degree of tran|quillity; I had figured her to myself a prey to despair, and so far from desiring to meet the eyes of her family, that she would rather have wished to bury herself for ever from the sight of any human be|ing, than appear before them.

Such was the notion, Charles, I had foolishly formed of her sentiments; her ideas of virtue:—it is pretty plain, I had over-rated them, or, as I said before, she put a constraint upon herself, in order the better to deceive me—neither the one nor other of these opinions gave me much sa|tisfaction.

Yet, I adore her person, however her mind may have suffered in my esteem;—and I will freely confess, I shall, with less scruple, endeavour to gratify my passion, though compelled to do it by less honourable means than I formerly proposed, after this proof of her artifice and duplicity; no doubt, were I in the same predicament, I should act as she does—it is a wise though not a very gene|rous

plan—but it will not take, Charles—thank my kind stars, I am a little too far in the secret.

Happy, as I said before, she shall be, if the intire possession of my heart and fortune can make her so; but my hand she must no longer expect. 'Twould be ridiculous—every idea of honour, of de|licacy revolts at it. Should the fellow live, what an additional triumph would it be for him; you see it is absolutely im|possible to think of it: however blame|less she may, strictly speaking, be; and, I flatter myself, she will, on serious re|flection, be convinced her wisiest course will be to accept the only terms it is in my power to offer; she can expect no other—that she should endeavour to gain the same as before, is, as I said, natural enough, or at least would be so to the ge|nerality of women. But, I own to you, I believed till now, she was superior to the rest of her sex, and am hurt by find|ing it otherwise.

Yet every thing considered, it is per|haps better as it is; since being more on a level with them than I had ever imagin|ed, she will with less reluctance do as as others have done before her.

How to inform her of the change in my sentiments I know not; for after all, there is an undescribable something in her looks, her manner, in every word she utters, that commands a respect absolute|ly incompatible with the proposal I wish nay, must make, since my heart tells me she is as dear to me as ever; and that my whole happiness depends upon her smiles.

Charles, you can form no idea of her beauty; her numberless attractions; by heavens! they are irresistible, and would almost justify any folly a man could com|mit!

But it must not be! I trust the engag|ing, lovely girl will see her situation in a proper light; and grateful for the ser|vice I have rendered her, and what I still mean to do, will generously reward my attachment. But a truce with reflections. Let me put an end to our journey to London.

We arrived the following day; she was a good deal startled on my proposing her going to my house; but having as|sured her I knew not in what part of the town her Aunt resided, though it should

be my first business to enquire, was com|pelled to acquiesce, being as ignorant of it as myself, and having no other friend in this place.

It was too late that evening to begin my search, of course she was obliged to accept an apartment for the night, not without the greatest reluctance; but what else could she do?

I took care that my behaviour should be such as to banish every apprehension, in case she had formed any; it was tender and respectful; I judged it time enough to let her guess my design when I had pretended to make the enquiries she was so anxious about.

How she spent the night, I know not; but I, Charles, never closed my eyes; and was a thousand times tempted to put an end to her suspense at once—Can you wonder at it?—So wholly in my power—I did not, however, interrupt her re|pose.

The next morning I sent up my com|pliments intreating she would indulge me with her company at breakfast; her an|swer was, she had slept but little, begged I would excuse her, and permit her to

have a cup of tea in the dressing-room; adding, she hoped I would not a moment delay the business I knew was so inter|esting to her.

This message she sent by my house|keeper, who delivered it very distinctly; this I readily granted, ordering her to pay the lady every possible mark of respect and attention; but in case she should ask for writing materials, to take care not let|ters were sent out of the house till I had seen them.

This encreased Watson's curiosity; which I saw, by her looks, was highly ex|cited on our first arrival. I did not, how|ever, think proper to indulge it just then, though I believe, Charles, I might have trusted her, as she knows me pretty well, and has not hitherto presumed to see far|ther into these kind of affairs than I would have her; she is persectly satisfied with her situation, and justly concludes I have a right to render mine as agreeable, by any means I please; I am master, and she has been accustomed to obey me as such.

That point settled, and some other or|ders given to Frank on the same subject,

I sallied forth, not with hopes of finding our good Aunt, but my good friend Dal|ton. I would rather have staid at home to reflect at leisure on the delightful busi|ness I had in hand, but feared my adora|ble might discover it, which would at once have alarmed her, and, perhaps, crushed all my hopes at once; it was time enough, when compelled, to inform her my search had been in vain.

I went out accoringly, meaning, as I said, to call on you to give you this ac|count—I did so, but to my no small dis|appointment found you had left town the very day before—I was cursedly vexed, having a thousand things to communi|cate, besides what I have now mentioned; finding no better might be, I marched up to your study, and there wrote this enor|mous packet, which you will get, I sup|pose, on Tuesday—so farewell.

I can tell you no more, till I have again seen my beloved—I hope she will not re|fuse me her company at dinner—it is now near the hour—I tremble, I was go|ing to say (only that it is rather too femi|nine a foible for a fellow of spirit) at the scene I have to encounter, when I ac|quaint

my angel her Aunt is not to he found—I wish it were fairly over with all my soul, and that she may bear the dis|appointment with more fortitude than I da••e at present expect.

Would she, my dear Charles, but con|sent to bless me, without driving me to extremity, there would not exist a hap|pier fellow than your.

SOMMERVILLE.

P.S. I shall, when my affairs are a little better arranged, make some enquiry concerning the rascal I left wounded; should he be mortally so, I may have more trouble on his account than he is worthy of, yet the affair properly stated, must, I think, assuredly acquit me.—Adieu.

LETTER XXI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvonor.

Stanley Place.

I HAVE just had a visit from Mrs, Grenville—no suspicion you see, Caro|line, of the hand I have had in the plot—so much the better; since by this means I shall hear, without trouble, how matters go on.

She is just returned from her brother's, where they have had so delightful a squabble on the subject of their fair he|roine, that she vows she will never enter his doors again while she has life.

Mr. Herbert and his rib, blame her want of proper care and attention for all that has happened. She lays the whole on them for encouraging the presumptu|ous hopes of a fellow, who has proved, by his villainy, how little he deserved it; for you may well believe they soon heard who the hero was, who had been the au|thor of all this consusion, but are by no means certain who the person is to whom

she is indebted for her deliverance; though they suspect Sommerville; find|ing, by the old woman's blabbing, (for she could not keep her own secret) the footing his Lordship was upon; nay, she brags of it, and says, but for that au|dacious wretch, Emily would ere now have been in so elevated a style as to have looked down on them all with the con|tempt they deserve; nor does she yet de|spair, if their conjectures are well found|ed, since she knows his Lordship is a man of honour; were she once convinced her poor child had sallen into his hands, all her cares would be at an end.

Certainly, there can be no doubt of it, if, as you say, they were so soon to have been married, (of this circumstance, Ca|roline, I pretended ignorance.)—But what surprises me is, her not writing to insorm you of her present situation; this is the only thing which, on that surmise, I cannot clearly account for, unless by supposing they mean to give you an agreeable surprise.

Ah, Lady Stanley! it is certainly so; how could I be so stupid as not to think of that before; depend upon it, it is as

your Ladyship guesses; what else, indeed, could prevent her letting me hear from her. Heavens! what a triumph shall I yet enjoy over her ridiculous family, who have presumed to treat me with so much indignity; my spirits revive, I am quite delighted with your Ladyship's superior discernment; but my ideas have, for some time, been in such a state of confusion and perplexity, I could think of nothing.

And pray, ma'am, may I ask, what is become of that wretch, Morton? I long to hear the particulars of my lovely friend's deliverance.

Ah! he met not with half the severity he deserves; death would have been too mild a punishment for his infamous con|duct; he is, however, most desperately wounded, and still lies in the utmost dan|ger: one of his men, immediately after the affair happened, set off to Mr. Her|bert's in order to inform his Aunt of the horrid transaction, not by his vile mas|ter's commands, he owned, for he was in no condition to give any; nor would he, I presume, have given those if he had; since it is more natural to believe he would have withed the whole odious

story buried in eternal oblivion, since he made so despicable a figure in it; but the fellow thought it his duty to do so, what|ever might be the consequence.

If we may credit the account he gives, my poor niece met with more respect during her confinment than she had any reason to expect from such a brute; he assures us, his master, as far as he was able to judge, appeared as much concern|ed for what he had done as she could be, on finding it was all likely to be ineffec|tual, since she repeatedly assured him no power on earth should ever compel her to give him her hand.

She never lest her apartment, except once for an hour at his earnest entreaty, and he said they concluded it was only then with a view to prevail on him to re|store her to her friends—but finding all her eloquence, tears and threats, lost upon his hardened heart, she left him, nor ever would a second time admit him to her presence; she was then seized with a violent fit of illness, and how it would have ended (continued the old dowager) had not heaven interposed in her favour, it is not easy to guess.

And pray, ma'am, in what light does he appear to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert? Surely they cannot acquit him, while they presume to blame you.

O! as for Mr. Herbert, it is long since he has given up all pretensions to judge for himself; yet he does condemn him as far as he dare do it—but she vows he act|ed like a man of spirit; the girl was his by the most solemn promise; he had res|cued her from those who were on the point of robbing him of her for ever, he would have married her—what then had he done amiss? All she regretted was that he had not been fortunate enough to revenge the intended injury as she most fervently wished; he was dear to her, and ever should be if heaven spared his life; but as to the undutiful, the disobe|dient creature, who had been the satal cause of all this trouble, she hoped Mr. Herbert had too much regard for her peace of mind ever to expect she would see her more, should he be weak enough to think of such a thing; she had taken her resolution, one house should never contain them both, on this she was fully

determined; her father might do as he thought proper.

This, Caroline, is the substance of what passed, during Mrs. Grenville's vi|sit; she left me clearly convinced in her own mind that her niece would soon be here, figuring away in all her glory, as Lady Sommerville. Don't you think she stands a chance of being finely mortified by the disappointment of all her high raised ambitious hopes; most horridly should I be so, I confess, could I for a moment believe he could be such an idiot.

At any rate, indeed, I think he will not make himself so completely ridicu|lous; nor will ••e, I presume, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 quite so easily forbid her presence, as that poor tame fool it seems has been—No, no, Caroline! Sommerville will not be so soon intimidated, take my word for it.

I die to know how they are going on, but am out of the track of gaining far|ther intelligence; this, in spite of my better judgement, leaves me in some de|gree of anxiery—I hate suspence—yet it is impossible—absolutely impossible he can marry her. Ah! I could not sup|port

that horrid stroke after the pains I have taken to prevent it; I think he can|not be quite so lost to common sense, though, after all, men are the absurdest of animals, and the wisest of them at times are the direct contrary.

Would I had never seen him! or that I could tear his perfidious image from my breast! I detest myself for bestowing a thought upon such an inconstant; yet he is never one moment out of my head!—My present cicisheo does all in his power to supplant him in my affections, and if any man could do it, Mansell would be the man; he is not wholly void of at|tractions, and I believe adores me: but he is not a Sommerville—however he has no reason to complain of my cruelty; there is no doing without somebody to trifle with, and he has that talent to per|fection.—Farewell.

Your's, &c. ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXX. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

London

ON my return home, after having dis|patched my last packet to you, Frank, with a grin of self applause on his coun|tenance, presented me a letter, which he said Miss Herbert had given him to put in the post; but as my honour had ordered him to keep any he might get, till I came home, he thought it his duty to obey.

I found it addressed to a friend of her's, Miss Fermor.—I had some thought of committing it to the flames without gra|tifying my curiosity with a sight of its contents; but could not resist the tempta|tion of seeing in what manner my adora|ble spoke of me and her past adventure.

I retired to my room, and, not with|out emotion, broke the seal—I had every possible reason to be flattered by her ex|pressions

of gratitude for the service I had done her; but you shall judge for yourself, Charles—I will transcribe her epistle, having a leisure hour, and that done, proceed to inform you of other matters.

To Miss Fermor.

AH! Sophia! What a dreadful situ|ation have I been in since last you heard from me! what inconceivable terrors have I suffered!—At the very moment I believed myself going to be united to the most amiab••e of men! Was I torn from him! and from all my friends! terrified!—insulted!—Oh, my dear girl! it was more than human nature could support without sinking under it. What a wretch has the man, so highly favoured by my poor father, proved himsfelf! Good heavens! that ever he could have been so infatuated! Need I, after what I have said, inform you, that wretch was Morton.

You would, no doubt, wish to know all the particulars of so extraordinary an event; but spare me the repetition till we meet, that time I trust is not far distant; I am no longer in his power, for

which my thanks are due to heaven and the generous Lord Sommerville, who at the hazard of his life has been my de|liverer; yes, Sophia, I repeat, at the hazard of his life, he has rescued me from a stale of absolute misery.

Ten tedious days did I pass in a dis|traction of mind no words can describe; he did not even attempt to apologize for what he had done, on the contrary he seemed to triumh in the success of his odious scheme, and the disappointment of all my hopes of happiness. Swore I should now be compelled to give him my hand, which, though he no longer valued, he would accept, believing he should by that means mortify me more than by any other method he could de|vise.

Shocked beyond expression, as you may well imagine, at such a declaration, and fearing he would contrive to put his hor|rid threat in execution, I endeavoured to soften his resentment, by promising to give up Lord Sommerville, and to use every possible effort to conquer my for|mer reluctance, on condition he would restore me to my Aunt.

In vain were all the promises I could make; he insisted I should instantly marry him either with or without my con|sent; never till I was his wife, should I have leave to quit that house; this he assured me was a point no power on earth should make him relinquish; if, there|fore, I wished to revisit my friends, I knew on what terms I could do so; bid me seriously reflect on my situation, as he was not a man to be trisled with; that he had my father's approbation, nor did he sear losing it by any step he had, or might be compelled to take, in order to accomplith his purpose; that I was his by the most solemn promise; as to those I made, he knew me too well to put any trust in them.

His cool determined manner terrified me, Sophia, infinitely more than any other could have done. I retired to the apartment allotted me, plunged in the deepest despair, and there gave free vent to my unavailing tears.

Next morning I found myself extreme|ly ill; he sent up to beg he might be permitted to see me.—Alas! was it in my power to prevent it by a refusal? He

came, and appeared alarmed at the con|dition in which he found me; I had not undressed, but had thrown myself on the bed, where I lay the whole night with|out closing my eyes.

I was soon after seized with a fever, which I sincerely hoped would have put an end to all my troubles. I believe he now very sincerely repented the step he had taken, fearing the fatal consequences likely to ensue.

I musst confess every possible care was taken of me during my illness, no doubt as much, or more perhaps for his own sake than mine. I kept my bed for se|veral days, and when able to leave it, he again requested admittance.

I now found his behaviour much chang|ed; he, with a tenderness I did not think him capable of, implored me to consent, without obliging him to have recourse to compulsive measures, which he wished to avoid; declared he loved me with unabated passion, that it should be the study of his life to make me happy, beg|ged I would forget the past, confessed he had been much to blame, that he had made use of some harsh expressions, for

which he was now truly concerned, &c. &c.

My only reply was as before, restore me to my friends, and depend on my gra|titude, and the promise I have already made to give up Lord Sommerville.

Whether he would at last have com|plied with my request, Sophia, heaven knows! I am rather inclined to think he would, since he must have been sensible it would have been no easy matter to have married me without my consent, though he had threatened it.

How the matter would have ended, I cannot say; this however is certain, I would rather have submitted to the most cruel death, than have consented to be his.

In short, Lord Sommerville was sent by heaven to my relief, he left the wretch desperately wounded and brought me to London; my Aunt being here, it seems, and I chusing rather to be conveyed to her than my father.

We arrived last night; I was much shocked on finding myself under the ne|cessity of remaining till this morning in his Lorship's house; but what could I do? It was too late to enquire for her

then; he is now gone out for that pur|pose, and I, in the mean time, have given you this imperfect account of an affair which has, as you may easily believe, destressed me beyond conception.

In a few hours, I trust, all my anxiety will be over; I think I can now have nothing to fear from that odious creature, should he recover, which (besides the horror and regret I should ever feel at being the cause, though an innocent one, of a person's death) on Lord Sommer|ville's account, I most sincerely wish, least he should be brought into trouble. My father cannot, after so base a conduct, continue to favour his addresses; it is impossible, Sophia, do not you think so? This consolatory reslection almost makes me forget what I have suffered. Were I but once more with my dear Aunt, I should be comparatively happy; and this, I hope, I shall be before night.

Adieu, my dear friend; I expect his Lordship every moment to conduct me to her; I will then write more fully, as my mind will be more at ease.

Ah! what gratitude do I not owe my charming deliverer.

Your's, E. HERBERT.

Transported, Charles, to find my|self mentioned by my beloved with such warmth, such eloquent tenderness, I felt a kind of pang at the thoughts of the de|ception I was on the point of putting in practice: I paused for a few moments—Had I fellowed the first cictates of my heart, I should have instanly led her to the altar, and made her honourably mine by the most sacred ties;—every obstacle was then sorgot—but a little recollection of what had passed brought me to my so|ber senses; vet even then, I was stagger|ed—what was I to think of the account she had given of the adventure? So whol|ly different from that I had received of it. Was it possible she could so calmly talk of happiness, of all her troubles being at an end, if the rascal had treated her in the manner described in that cursed let|ter. This puzzled me—but I considered the same motives, which I concluded had made her conceal the horrid truth from me, might induce her to be silent on the subject to her friend.

This idea put an end to all my doubts and scruples at once; my passion for the lovely, injured creature continued in full

force; but all thoughts of matrimony fled with them. The only remaining difficul|ty was, how to inform her my search for her Aunt had been fruitless, since her next request would of course be that I would convey her home, which you may believe I had no thoughts of complying with; in short it was to be done, the hour in which she expected me was come, what would she think of not seeing me?

While thus deliberating, I heard her bell ring, and presently a servant came to let me know she had enquired whether I was come in.

I now could delay no longer, but bid him return and tell her I was in the draw|ing room—down she came instantly.

Well, my Lord, cried the lovely crea|ture, with sweet impatience; what says my Aunt? Have you seen her? Will she come sor me, or am I to go to her? Per|haps she is now in the house—Oh! tell me, do not keep me in suspence! I beg of you.

Why these emotions, my adorable Emily? Compose yourself, my best love, (taking her hand and leading her to a seat) are you, then, so very impatient to leave the man who lives but in your presence.

Ah! my Lord! No trisling I beseech you, as you value my peace! Where is my Aunt! Why is she not here? She was going to the window, Charles, no doubt in hopes of seeing her carriage at the door.

Why is my angel thus disturbed, (again taking her hand) did I not flatter myself, she would think herself perfectly safe under the protection of her adoring Som|merville. I should fear to tell her all my enquiries this morning have been in vain; but I hope to be more successful another time.

In vain! (with a look of terror) Have you not found her, then, my Lord? Good heavens! What will become of me? How very, very unfortunate! Are you certain she really came to London? I now begin to fear your Lordship has been misinform|ed; she had no such design when I left her. I am miserable beyond expression at this cruel disappointment.

Why miserable, my angel? (interrupt|ing her) I may be more successful in my next attempt; are you not with the man who adores you? Who would with joy sacrifice his life to give you a moment's pleasure!

Ah! talk not of pleasure, my Lord! while I am thus at a distance from my friends. Let me be gone; I will wait no longer. Alas, I have been here too long already. I wished to see my Aunt. I feared to meet the eyes of my father unless supported by her presence; but since that cannot be, let me set off instantly, for rather would I encounter his indignation, however severe, than. remain another hour in my present situa|tion; your Lordship cannot but see the impropriety of it, and will, therefore, pardon me if I appear to forget my obli|gations to you—I do not, believe me, I have a proper sense of them, and ever shall; when my mind is more at ease than it can be at present, it shall be my study to make you sensible of my gratitude.

And can my charming Emily, then talk with so much cool indifference of leaving a man she once prosessed to honour with her esteem? (attempting to press her hand to my lips.)

You astonish me, my Lord! (hastily withdrawing it) can Lord Sommerville be surprised at my impatience? Surely if so, I must have been greatly deceived in the opinion I believed he had formed of

me! But let us drop the subject. Per|mit one of your servants, my Lord, to get me a carriage; I have not a moment to lose; and she was going to ring the bell.

At that moment we were informed din|ner was served.—Indulge me, my Emily, with one short hour of your dear com|pany, and then if you will persist in your cruel intention, you shall be obeyed.

Can you doubt it, my Lord?—I took her hand to lead her to the dining room.

First let me give directions, and, till the carriage arrives, I will not resuse you my company, though in my present per|plexed state of mind it can afford but lit|tle pleasure.

Frank was waiting; the moment we entered the room I bid him order my post chaise to be got ready as soon as possible, at the same time giving him a look, which he perfectly understood.

But why your's, my Lord? pray allow me to—

Do as you are told, (interrupting her) can Miss Herbert suppose I will suffer her to go such a journey in any other?

She was tolerably easy, Charles, dur|ing the time we sat at table, though fre|quently looking at her watch and listen|ing

for the sound of the carriage—above an hour passed and no account of it. She then grew impatient, and implored me to enquire why they were so dilatory?

I rung the bell, pretended to be in a rage at their stupidity, and charged them to make all possible haste; in the mean time said all that man could say to re|move her anxiety; but guess how it was encreased on Frank coming to inform me the postillion was not to be found; he fan|cied he was gone to see his mother, who he had heard was at the point of death, and who lived at the other end of the town.

I now stormed at his daring to go out of the way without permission. My gen|tle Emily begged me to consider the cause, and on that account to forgive him, at the same time intreating him to get her another as fast as possible.

I need hardly tell you, Charles, it was so contrived, that under one pretence or other, the day was so far advanced before, we heard any more of the carriage, that it was too late to think of setting off that night.

It is utterly out of my power to give you an idea of her distress at these re|peated

and unlooked for disappoint|ments: she wept, she wrung her hands ••n absolute despair; and, I believe, was not even then wholly void of suspicion; yet my behaviour was so guarded, that not a look or word escaped me that could justly alarm her.

Alar med she certainly was, however, to the last degree, and almost fainting with terror and apprehension, when, find|ing she was under the necessity of staying another night, she begged to retire.

I now rung for Watson, who conducted her to her apartment, and afterwards told me the young Lady had strictly and positively desired to have a chaise at the door by day light next morning, as she wished to set out as early as possible.

The morning came, but no carriage;—the dear creature had taken no rest, her bell was rung repeatedly many hours be|fore day; but I had given directions not to answer it till the usual time of break|fast, and to secure the street-door in case she should make any attempt to leave the house; whether she did or not atttempt it is uncertain.

About ten I went up to her dressing|room, and, tapping gently, she instantly

opened the door, no doubt believing it to be Watson. On seeing me she started; her lovely eyes were red, and visibly de|clared she had been weeping.

What am I to think, my Lord?—(with a dignity in her manner, Charles, that actually overawed and disconcerted me most confoundedly) of the treatment I have received? I would gladly believe the disappointments of yesterday were accidental: but why were my orders dis|obeyed this morning? Why, or by whose authority is it I am now detained here, when you know the impropriety of it, and my extreme impatience to be gone?

I paused, Charles, absolutely unable to please myself with any answer I could give.

Finding I still gazed on her in silence, and no doubt seeing guilt pictured on my countenance, she continued—Oh! my Lord! Do not for heaven's sake! Do not give me cause to change the opinion I have hitherto entertained of you! I have, till now, believed you a man of honour; that my happiness was dear to you; tell me, then, have I been deceived? Speak

at once, my Lord, and relieve me from this dreadful suspence. Most sincerely do I wish you may be able to remove those suspicions which this strange, and, let me say, cruel and incomprehensible behaviour has given rite to.

Throwing myself at her feet, I passion|ately exclaimed, Oh! my Emily! My adorable Emily! Behold the most faith|ful, the most tender of lovers, imploring your pardon; yes, my best beloved, I will confess I cannot whol••y justify the conduct of which you complain; I must own my crime, but surely, surely, I have not sinned beyond forgiveness! Could I, was it in nature, I could resign, without distraction, the object on whom my soul doated, and on whom the whole happi|ness of my life depends. Oh, my charm|ing! my dearest Emily! Did you love, did you adore as I do! how easily would you pardon the step that Love has impel|led me to take? What hopes could I be able to indulge of ever seeing you again, had I suffered you to leave me after what has passed? Your family, no doubt, are now too much irritated against me to fa|vour my addresses; nor is this all, have I not cause to sear the idol of my affec|tions

might have met with a cool recep|tion? Na, severity from those who have never, even before this unfortunate event, treated her with that tenderness she is intitled to, and so justly merits.

This is my apology (gazing on her with supplicating looks) Oh! for pity sake, let it find acceptance, treat me not with as|perity, but tell me you forgive, and make me the happiest of men!

It is well, my Lord! Pray rise, you have cleared up all my doubts, and I thank you for it; henceforth I shall know in what light to look upon those pro|fessions of love you may think proper to make, as well as those you have hereto|fore offered; you have, as far as you possibly can, made me miserable; and, no doubt, find it a pleasant reflection; how I have deserved this treatment I know not, unless, as a punishment for my cre|dulity in believing you incapable of such an atrocious action? I have only one question to ask, for I scorn any reply to the very elaborate speech you have taken the trouble to make, I should blush to at|tempt it, though your Lordship has not blushed to utter it—Am I at liberty to quit this house? I know it is in your

power to detain me; and you may, by so doing, make me a very wretched, a very unhappy creature, but a guilty one you never can.

I would now have taken her hand, Charles, but she withdrew it with a look of the utmost contempt.

Is your Sommerville then sunk so very low in your esteem, my lovely Emily, that he merits nothing but repulses. Ah! too sure he has been fatally deceived, while believing he once had a place in it? What have I done to deserve this killing reserve! These cruel suspicions? I have loved! Adored you with the most tender passion that ever warmed the breast of man! The whole study of my life shall be employed to convince my angel of its fervour and sincerity; here on my knees, on this dear hand I swear—

Swear not, my Lord! (interrupting me) reserve those vows for some other, believe me they will be lost upon me; that you were once dear to me I must acknow|ledge; but that time is passed, never, never to return! I now see you such as you really are, before I saw you only such as my weak simple heart represented

you; how flattering was that picture when compared with the original!—Surely, my Lord, if not wretchedly har|dened in guilt, the horrid contrast must shock even yourself.

But I lose time in these fruitless reflec|tions—if your Lordship wishes to regain any part of that confidence you have so justly forfeited, suffer me instantly to set off for my Father's house; this is the only favour I have to ask, and the only proof you can give me that you are not so whol|ly lost to every sense of honour as I am at this moment compelled to believe.

In this cool, this mortifying style, Charles, did the dear creature continue to treat all I could say, either in excuse for my conduct or to convince her of the warmth of my passion.

Determined not to comply with her request, I took no notice of it; but in the tenderest manner, pressed her to indulge me with her company at breakfast; this she pe••emptorily refused, declaring she would never, on any terms, quit that room till she left it in order to return home.

Thus, Charles, ended our first confer|ence; you will, perhaps, tell me, I be|haved like a fool, that having proceeded so far, I ought not to have been quite so passive, that a little more courage and less respect would sooner have brought mat|ters to a conclusion.

But you know her not, she is not a girl to be dealt with in the common way; she has a dignity, a delicacy, in short, a something about her that forbid one's presuming to take the smallest liberty, certain never to be forgiven.

How the devil Morton managed, I cannot divine! Not by fair means, I'll be sworn; or how she, conscious as she must be by the past, that to be thus in a fel|low's power is no joke, dare treat me with so high a hand, I know as little.

I expected nothing but weeping and wailing; to have seen her at my feet im|ploring mercy; for a scene of that nature I was prepared, but her behaviour has totally disconcerted my plan of opera|tions; so much good sense, so much calm argument, and so void of apprehen|sion—Cursedly provoking, Charles! Is it not? Faith I now begin to fancy she ne|ver

cared a straw for me! If she had, she could not behave in this unaccountable manner. No, it is as plain as the day, she neither loves nor fears me; but, by heavens! she shall do one or the other—I will be revenged for this proof of her duplicity! I have so long been accus|tomed to treat her as a divinity, that I know not how to lower her consequence, and rank her as a mere mortal. But my pride is now concerned; it is piqued at her coldness; she shall find I will no longer be such an egregious puppy as to be so easily intimidated! I have gone too far to recede, and at my next visit, shall more explicitly inform her of my present intentions, which, if she is wise, she will not reject.

Upon my soul, every thing consider|ed, she might listen to my vows with less contempt! She cannot seriously, after what has happened, expect a renewal of my former proposals, though scrictly speaking she is still virtuous; I would do her all possible justice; I believe her mind pure and unsullied; but still, I say, Charles, she should consider her situation is widely different from what it was before that cursed event; yet she

does not seem to value herself the lefs. Indeed, when I think of the modesty and delicate reserve with which she conducts herself, and with which every look, and every action is blended, I cannot but wonder she should now wish me to marry her, which she certainly expects; how|ever, I hope a time will come, when she will see things in a better light.

I shall, for a day or two, content my|self with enquiring after her health, as I I would give her time to make proper reflections, and if she does so, Charles, she shall have no reason to complain; she shall find me all her heart can desire, the whole study of my life shall be to render her happy.

If she ever did love me, I cannot doubt but she will comply; but that is a point I am not now so clear in as I could wish—naturally all softness, all gentle timi|dity, how she has acquired her present courage I cannot possibly conceive—Adieu.

SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XXXI. Same to the Same.

London.

I TOLD you in my last, Charles, I had determined to give my beloved a few days leisure, to reflect seriously on her situation, flattering myself the result would be favourable to my wishes.

At our next meeting, I had every rea|son to believe I had acted wisely; but you will find before you come to the end of this epistle, she is as artful as the rest of her bewitching sex.

Having, with infinite difficulty, re|sisted the temptation of seeing her for two tedious days, on the third morning I sent a note by Watson, intreating she would permit me the honour to wait upon her, adding, my visit should be no longer than was perfectly agreeable to her. My request was granted.

I found her in her dressing-room, she had been writing, and had just laid by

her letter when I entered, to whom I did not then know; but the subject had af|fected her reatly, for the enchanting girl was still in tears—she endeavoured to check them, and to resume her former ease and indifference; but it would not do, she threw herself back in her chair and wept aloud.

I was softened beyond expression—My angel Emily, cried I, throwing myself at her feet, and pressing her now unreluct|ant hand to my throbbing breast, why these tears? Why this distress? Look up my best beloved; turn those dear eyes on your adoring Sommerville; say but you forgive him; that he has not wholly lost that place in your esteem, you once gave him leave to hope he possessed, and make him supremely blessed:—his heart, his fortune, all, all are your's, and every moment of his future life shall be entirely deveted to his Emily.

What can I say, my Lord? (with a softness, a sweetness in her voice and manner that melted my very soul) You have succeeded but too well in your de|signs; you have for ever ruined the peace of a young creature, who certainly never

injured you; but who, on the contrary, beheld you with too much partiality. Oh, my Lord! could I have believed the amiable, the generous Sommerville, for such, till fatally undeceived, I fondly believed you; who, I say, could have suspected him capable of such barbarity? Alas! I, at least, was far, far indeed, from thinking it in his nature!

Ah! wound not my soul with these unkind reproaches, my amiable creature; I cannot bear them from those dear, those lovely lips, (interrupting her, and trans|ported to find her thus softened) forget the past. Deign but to bless your peni|tent Sommerville with one smile in token for forgiveness, and look forward to many years of exquisite, uninterrupted happi|ness.

Ah! my Lord! what reliance can I place on the man who has already so cru|elly deceived me? Or how look forward to happiness when all my hopes of it are thus destroyed for ever?

Is it nothing then, my Emily, (ten|derly pressing her dear soft hand to my heart) to be adored, to be loved as never woman was loved before, by the most

fathful, the most constant of men, by that once happy, because once favoured Sommerville; my Emily is all the world to me, I ask no greater blessing; I can|not figure to myself a more exquisite fe|licity than a return of that passion which can end only with my existence; give me but permission to hope that you will endeavour to forget any part of my con|duct that has incurred your displeasure, and I will patiently wait your time, you shall never again have cause to reproach me; every thought, every sentiment of my impassioned heart shall be laid open before you; you shall be my guide, my monitress—I here solemnly swear to be wholly directed by my best beloved in every future action of my life; form me, make me such as you would have me, only promise—

I will promise nothing, endeavouring to remove farther from me on my at|tempting to throw my arm round her de|licate waist, as she sat by me on the so|pha; (it was not in nature to resist it, Charles;) however as I saw my angel was alarmed, I made shift to command my|self, fully persuaded that a short time

would remove those delicate, those en|gaging scruples, and make her wholly mine.

I will promise nothing, my Lord, nor ought you yet to expect it; let your future conduct deserve my approbation, and trust to my gratitude; leave me now, I have been too much agitated for the present state of my spirits, and wish to be alone.

Shall I venture to ask my Emily's dear company at dinner? (quite transported with her condescending goodness.)

I have already said, my Lord, I will promise nothing; if I find myself able, I will not refuse; in the mean time allow me to compose myself; I am far from well, I have suffered much, and my mind is extremely distressed.

I now, unable to command my emo|tions, clasped the lovely creature to my beating heart, and having printed a thou|sand kisses on the foftest, whitest hand that ever nature formed, thanked her for the delightful hope she had given me, and withdrew

From that hour, till the moment I ex|pected to be again blessed with her pre|sence,

I sat lost in a thousand transport|ing reflections, all my fears were ba|nished, and I gave a loose to the most unbounded joy. Can you, Charles, won|der at my ecstacie, sweetly engaging as she had been during our enchanting in|terview?

The dear girl did not disappoint me, she came down, and still continued the same amiable creature; yet so much blushing modesty; so perfect a propri|ety in every word and look, that for my soul I durst not take advantage of her re|turning partiality.

She left me early—and lest me full of the most flattering hopes, that my love would be soon returned, which was now become more ardent, more firmly rooted than ever.

I saw her no more that day, as she de|clined meeting me in the evening, and I would not be too importunate, but rea|dily admitted her apology.

Just as I was going out, Watson brought me a second letter, which she said Miss Herbert had prevailed upon her to send to the post-office, but finding my honour was still at home, thought I might chuse to take that trouble myself.

A pretty turn that, Charles, was it not? I eagerly took it, saying she did perfectly right!—and returning to my apartment broke the seal, and had the felicity to find the contents as follows:

Mrs. Grenville.

HAD I not received a thousand proofs of my dearest Aunt's tender friendship and affection, I should scarcely have cou|rage to address her, after having been the fatal, though heaven knows! the in|voluntary cause of so much misery and trouble to her, and my other friends; but trusting she is too generous to blame me for what it was not in my power to prevent, I with less apprehension take up my pen.

Oh! my dear madam, I have been cruelly deceived! Deceived too by the man I believed incapable of such base|ness, the man even you looked upon as the most amiable, the most worthy of his sex; how will you be shocked when I add this man is Lord Sommerville. Great as I believed my obligations were to him for rescuing me from the no less

detestable Morton, they are now cancel|led by his present behaviour.

Uncertain whether these sad lines, blot|ted by my incessant tears, will ever be permitted to reach your dear hand, (though one of the creatures he has placed about me has promised to convey them to the post) I will not waste my time in giving you all the horrid particu|lars of his perfidy; they shall be reserv|ed till we meet, should that wished-for hour ever arrive; suffice it to say, when he had nobly, generously, as I then ima|gined, delivered me from the power of that wretch, he brought me to London, assuring me, you, my dear madam, were there. This greatly surprised me, as I knew not you had any such intention; but could I doubt the veracity, the ho|nour of a man with whom I was a short time before to have been united by the most sacred ties?—Impossible—and Alas! if I had, what would my doubts have availed?—He had deliberately formed his cruel plan, every circumstance too plain|ly proves it; I have since remarked it was not the sudden thought, but evident|ly preconcerted and deeply laid.

My first request, on our arrival, was, that he should instantly oblige me, by making enquiries, where I could find you. He appeared no less anxious for it than myself, and sat off that moment; but to my inexpressble terror, confusion, and disappointment, returned without suc|cess.

Judge what must have been my feel|ings on finding myself under the dreadful necessity of remaining all night in his house; but think how infinitely more I am now distressed, convinced he has base|ly betrayed me.

Oh! my dear madam! for heaven's sake! compassionate a wretched creature, whose only hope rests on you! To my (no doubt) enraged father, I dare not presume to apply; I sink under the apprehension of his too just indignation. But you! you were ever my kind, my indulgent friend, hasten then, on my knees I entreat you, and save me from destruction!

Hitherto I have had nothing to reproach him with but his cruelty in detaining me. Alas! I am compelled to dissemble—his odious views are but too clear; he no lon|ger thinks me worthy of his hand, yet

professes himself the most passionate of lo|vers! He knows but little of your unfor|tunate Emily, if he presumes to hope she would now condescend to be his, even on those honourable terms he sormerly pro|posed—No! believe me, the man who has dared to insult and treat me in the man|ner he has done, who has for a moment suspected me so lost to every sense of ho|nour and of virtue as to comply with his present infamous designs, must, while I have life, be to me the most detestable of monsters.

I fear being interrupted—Alas! I have ten thousand fears!—Hasten then, my dear Aunt, I once more implore you, to my relief: Should heaven so far pity my wretched fate as to suffer this melancholy epistle to reach my only friend; hasten, and, by your loved presence, put an end to the unspeakable affictions of your af|fectionate and obedient niece,

E. HERBERT.

What say you to this, Charles; is she not a dear, perverse, bewitching, little hypocrite? Can you, after this proof of

her artifice, blame me for using a little in return?

So, while she has life, I am to be look|ed upon as the most detestable of mon|sters! It is devilishly severe faith! But what say you to her easy manner of skim|ming over the adventure she met with from the other monster? Not a word of that escapes her! Ah! let women alone! It is said they cannot keep even their own secrets, but I shall henceforth beg leave to deny the fact.

Here have I read two of the sweet crea|ture's letters, wrote to two of her dearest friends; but not one syllable has transpir|ed in either of them relative to the ill usage she has received. Upon my soul I cannot, will not pardon this duplicity; by her deceitful proceeding, she sets me the example; and, by heavens! I will profit by it.

I too will dissemble; for mine she shall be—on that (as I said besore) I am deter|mined; but if possible, it shall be with her own consent. I love! I adore her! more than ever man adored! It is there|fore I wish to reconcile her to her fate.

That she did love me, even this imper|tinent letter testifies; I will rekindle that love, or perish in the attempt—yes she shall confess I am still dear to her—that I am not the monster she at present affects to think me.

Had I still talked of matrimony she would have treated me with less severity; nay, even now, I'll be sworn would joy|fully listen to me on that subject, though she is pleased to say otherwise; it is a conviction that I have no such intention, which has given birth to this outrageous virtue, delicacy, and so forth.

She declares her Aunt is her only friend; and I believe, except myself, she has not another: what her father might be, were he at liberty to follow his own inclina|tion, I know not; but his better half ill talke care of that, my life for it she will not suffer his indignation to evaporate; it is in the cause of her hopeful nephew, who it must be confessed has been rather roughly handled, though he has a conso|lation to boast of, such as it is, which, to me, I own would afford but little. The passion must be mutual, or it has no joys

for your friend Sommerville, a monster though he be.

Now, Charles, if I can contrive to per|suade the dear girl, this only remaining friend is a friend no longer, I trust she will have sense enough to see her wisest course will be to lay aside her present haughty resentful sentiments, to accept my offers with a good grace, and thus confer happiness both on herself and her adorer. This is my scheme; it is simple and easy, as thus: She shall believe her letter dispatched; in due time comes a short, categorical an|swer; not indeed wrote by the dear hand of her Aunt—too much inraged for that—but by those of her. Aunt's abigail. Do you comprehend me? In the mean time I continue all submission, attention, and respect; this restores me gradually to my charmer's good opinion, and prepares her mind to make the best of her present situation on finding she has no other re|source.

This is a short sketch of my plan, which I think can hardly fail of success, when you reflect that her heart was once

mine; nay, still is, I fondly hope, and am willing to believe.

Adieu, my dear Charles, I am now go|ing to write the important serawl, on which I place my greatest dependence.

Ever your's, SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XXXII. Same to the Same.

London.

It is over, Charles—my lovely weep|ing Emily is now convinced she has no friend on earth to whom she can apply for protection; of course I have only to wait patiently till the first tumult of her sorrows subside; and then, I trust, reason will convince her she cannot do better than resign all thoughts of asking it of any other than her devoted Sommerville.

I contrived to get the letter sent by the post, she received it from Watson with joyful emotions, and having no doubt of her fidelity, hastily broke the seal before she left the room; and happy was it she did, for no sooner had she cast her lovely eyes over the first lines, which were abun|dantly expressive, than clasping her hand in an agony of grief, and faintly exclaim|ing, then I am lost indeed! She fell life|less on the chair where she sat.

Watson, terrified at her fainting, flew to assist and support her, having first rung the bell with great violence.

Guessing what had happened, I ran up stairs, and sound my angel in this condi|tion, the letter lying by her on the floor; I instantly raised her in my arms, and conveyed her to her bed, where kneeling by her, I tried by every endearing and tender expression, to recall her to life: these, and some drops which Watson ad|ministered, at length, in some measure, restored her to my wishes.

I now ordered the servants to leave the room, and pressing her almost liseless hands in mine, begged her to tell me what had occasioned so sudden an indisposition?

She no sooner observed me, than she look|ed terrified; crying, Leave me! Leave me, my Lord! nor cruelly attempt to re|call to life a wretched creature who can never again know peace: then, bursting into a flood of tears, she, in the most pa|thetic, heart-melting expressions, bewail|ed her miserable fate.

My love, my dearest Emily, tell me, I conjure you tell me, what has happened thus to distress you? Am I not your friend? Your adoring lover? Can you doubt my zeal and readiness to serve and oblige you? Or even to sacrifice my life was it possible I could thereby restore my angel to peace and happiness? Speak to me; command me; here, on my knees, I swear by all that's sacred to refuse you nothing you can ask! Are you not dearer to me than my own soul?

On my Lord! my Lord! attempt no longer to deceive me, too well do I know what confidence to place in your vows and protestations. Perhaps when death has released me from this treacherous, this wicked world, a moment may come in which you will reflect with anguish on

your conduct to one who once was weak enough to believe you faultless.

Heaven has severely! Ah! how very severely punished my too easy credulity! At present your Lordship may perhaps triumph in your success; you have, in|deed, succeeded but too well! You have undone me!—ruined! for ever ruined a poor young creature, who deserved a bet|ter fate! But I forgive you! May heaven also be merciful! and forgive you too, and soon take me from this scene of inex|pressible misery! Forsaken! Given up by all my friends! Become a wretched outcast! What have I now to hope?

Every thing, my best beloved! Every thing in the power of the man who adores you! whose whole study it shall be from this moment to supply to you the loss of those unkind friends you lament; they were not worthy to possess so inestimable a treasure, they knew not the value of the jewel they thus reject; but your de|voted Sommerville knows it well, and will preserve it as the greatest blessing heaven can bestow on him.

Look up then, my best love, turn those dear eyes upon him; trust him, place a

proper confidence in him, and you shall be happy, happy as it is in the power of the most faithful, the most tender of lo|vers to make you.

Let me instantly quit this house then, my Lord? This, and this only, I ask as a proof of your sincerity.

By heavens you shall, my Emily! Even this cruel request I will comply with, though I thereby deprive myself of every possible hope of felicity! Yes, I will give you this painful proof of my sincerity; but first let me see you restor|ed to tranquillity; you are not at present, my angel, in a condition to think of re|moving; surely my behaviour has been such as might banish every idea of fear, or suspicion; depend upon its continu|ance, depend upon my honour. Never, my lovely Emily, shall it be such as to incur your displeasure.

I love, I adore you, it is true, with a passion more ardent than words can ex|press, on a return of which, my whole happiness is centered; but it must be vo|luntary, never will your Sommerville for|get that respect you so justly merit; he will leave to time, and his unremitted

endeavours to convince you of his ten|derness and affection, to produce that wished-for change in your sentiments, which can alone constitute his felicity.

In the interim he is, and ever will be your unchangeable friend; as such look upon, as such command him—but do not be too precipitate, my dearest creature, reflect seriously on what you would wish to do, whether return to your Father—your Aunt—or. …

Oh, my Lord! (again bursling into tears) Why! Ah, why all those obliging professions of friendship now? When well you know they come too late for my peace! My Father!—My Aunt!—Alas! Alas! I have no longer!—

She could not proceed, her anguisn put it out of her power to finish the sentence. Upon my soul, Charles, her distress sof|tened me even to tears; the drops sell on her lovely hand.

Ah! my Lord, is it possible there should yet remain any degree of tenderness, of compassion, in a heart that ha hitherto been so callous, so capable of acting as you have done? Even you weep, my Lord, who have been the voluntary au|thor of all my sorrows, think then, can I

ever hope that my tears will cease to flow? But let me seize the favourable mo|ment to renew my suit: am I at liberty to leave you? No matter where! or to whom I go! Heaven, I trust, will not wholly abandon me; on that I rely—I have been a weak but not a guilty crea|ture, my Lord, and doubt not providence will guide my steps to some more hospi|table door than those which are now for ever shut against me! And again she sob|bed as if her heart would break.

By heavens! Charles, it was too much! I could hardly support her ten|der, gentle complaints; no reproaches! No violent exclamations! But all angelic softness! I was temped to pronounce myself a villain; to repent, and to make a full confession—I did not, yet, how|ever, still hoping time would be my friend.

I left her rather more composed, (con|fiding in the promise I had given her) that she might consider what step she was to take, saying I would wait on her again when she did me the honour to let me know she had come to a resolution.

I waited several hours, but no sum|mons coming, my patience was at length

exhausted, and I went up to her apart|ment.

Forgive me, my Emily, I come to make a proposal, which I flatter myself will meet your approbation.

Though it is worse than death to part from the dearest treasure I have on earth, to be spearated from the loved object of my tenderest affections; I will not break my word, I have promised and will per|form; hear me, my angel, and then judge how far it will be agreeable to you.

At present, I presume, from some words that dropped from those dear lips, you would not wish to return either to your Father or Aunt.

She sighed deeply, and raised her fine eyes to heaven in despair.

Suppose then, my dearest creature should, till their displeasure subsides, go to a house of mine in the country.—

Of yours, my Lord! (exclaimed she.)

Here me patiently, my Emily; it is mine, but I never reside there, nor will I presume to attempt seeing you without your permission, of this I give you my honour; the present inhabitants are only the steward and his wife, worthy honest

people—I will not even offer to accom|pany you; Watson shall conduct you to them, and if you will permit her, remain there to attend you; she is now no stran|ger to you, and I trust you have found her behaviour unexceptionable.

The situation is retired, but a most de|sirable summer residence; there you will be at liberty to write to your friends, to make your peace with them, which I cannot believe will be attended with any difficulty, and every scruple raised by my beloved's ideas of delicacy must vanish, as no one need know the house is mine.

Some where you must be, and certain|ly the country is more eligible, on every account, than being in town, where you are so intirely a stranger.

I shall give proper orders that you shall find every thing as convenient as possible, and be treated with that respect, which indeed no one can possibly resuse to so much excellence; my carriage, or any other if more agreeable, tho' I could wish you would not so far mortisy me as to reject that, shall wait your commands.

Yet I hope you will not leave me till to-morrow; one short day my Emily may

surely indulge me in; what says my an|gel? Have I been so happy as to propose a plan that does not displease her?

Alas! my Lord, I would gladly believe you really now are desirous of repairing, as far as possible, the cruel injury you have done me! I can have but one objec|tion—it is still being, in some measure, under your Lordship's protection! How is it possible to reconcile this with my ideas of propriety?

(She then paused for a moment,) Yet what better can I do, situated as I un|happily am; to stay longer here would be infinitely worse! it is a sad alterna|tive, my Lord! but I think you must be sincere, and shall therefore only stipulate, that you will not attempt to see me while I am at your house.

Most solemnly, my love, do I swear it, unless by your permission, (and in this I was sincere, not doubting but that permission would in due time be granted.)

Before I left her every thing was final|ly settled; I prevailed on her to remain that day and the next, that I might have time to write to Brown and his wife, in

order that every thing might be ready for her reception.

To-morrow! Ah, Charles! to-morrow then my charmer bids me adieu! Wat|son accompanies her, and is to remain as long as she is found necessary; by this means I shall learn how things go on; I did not demand the liberty of writing to her lest she should have refused me. Now I can do as I please, and shall not fail to indulge myself in that satisfaction.

My heart tells me, all will yet be well; she cannot but approve my whole con|duct, one instance of it excepted, and that I trust will be forgiven.

What an enviable fate will mine then be, and how amply shall I be rewarded for all the self-denial I have practised while I had the lovely creature thus in my power? Can there be a greater proof, Charles, of the fervour and purity of my passion? Perhaps you may look upon it in a different light, but you are deceived, a heart like my Emily's is worth waiting for, and her person without it, all beau|tiful and desirable as it is, would not satisfy me.

To-morrow!—Ah, would that painful trial was over! To-morrow my adorable

leaves me! But I must hope, and think there is a reward in store for this heroic deed.—Farewell, my dear Dalton, I am ever your's,

SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XXXIII, Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

OFFER your thanks to heaven! with mine, my dear Sophia, for the hap|py preservation of your friend, in the great danger I have exposed to: that I have escaped from a state of un|speakable misery, and from the power of a man whose artful conduct I had every reason to fear, would, in the end, have wrought my undoing, in spite of all my caution.

Oh! my dear! What terrors have I not suffered? It is impossible to tell you the pains that have been taken to seduce

me from the paths of virtue, by the most artful! the most dangerous of men! Dangerous, because but too amiable! once I thought him more so than any of his perfidious sex—but now my prayer is, that I may never behold him more.

Yes, Sophia, I now see him as he is; and happy, thrice happy do I think my|self in making the discovery of his base|ness before it was too late.—

I have some reason to fear, the few lines I wrote to you on my deliverance from that wretch, Morton, never reached you, as I think you would not have failed to oblige me with an answer. If so, you are yet, 'tis probable, ignorant of many things, which, to repeat, would only distress us both. Spare me, then, my dear friend, let me pass them over in silence, and merely tell you, by what fortunate event I now write from a place of safety.

Sommerville!—Yes, Sophia, the ele|gent, the accomplished Sommerville! For in spite of the wretchedness he has so cruelly brought upon me, I must do him the justice to say he merits those epithets. But alas! How are those en|gaging

perfections obscured and tarnished by ten thousand vices?

Deceived by Sommerville, I say, into a belief that my Aunt was in Lon|don, I consented to let him convey me to her there.—But had I not agreed to this plan, I am now fatally convinced I could not have avoided the snare he had laid for me. I soon discovered his un|generous, his infamous views; though he took all imaginable pains to alarm me as little as possible.

His behaviour, during the tedious days I was compelled to spend in his house, was perfectly respectful; his care, his attention, and unremitted endeavours to oblige, and reconcile me to my fate, great beyond expression! I saw plainly he had not a doubt of success, and had nothing, therefore, to fear from vio|lence.

Shocking as it was, to be thus cruelly detained from my friends, it was yet a considerable consolation, his housekeeper had orders to provide me in those neces|saries I stood in need of; this she obeyed, and I was under the necessity of making use of them, having been torn from the

protection of my Aunt, with no other cloaths than those I had on.—I need hardly add, many more were provided, and those too, in more profusion, and of a more costly nature than I had either in|clination or occasion for.

Ah! how little was he acquainted with the sentiments of your Emily! If he could, for a moment, believe, trifles of that kind could aid his vile purpose!

Determined by some means or other to make my escape, I judged it prudent to dissemble, as this would make him less on his guard.

I first, however, wished to inform my Aunt of my situation; no difficulty had been made when I begged they would put the letter I wrote to you in the post; at least I prevailed. Though now I fear, as I said, it never reached you. Alas, Sophia! that to my Aunt was more for|tunate. But how was I shocked? How were all my hopes crushed, when I re|ceived her cruel, her dreadfully cruel answer?

I had scarcely cast my eyes over its heart-rending contents, than, unable to support the blow, I fainted.

How long I continued in a happy in|sensibility I know not; but when I re|covered from that enviable state, I found the author of all my sorrows kneeling by my bed-side, to which they had con|veyed me, diftracted by his apprehen|sions.

He had, no doubt, read the fatal let|ter, and I am persuaded pleased himself with the thought, that I had not now a friend on earth to whom I could fly for protection; for so my once kind Aunt assured me in the most severe terms—yet he appeared sincerely affected at the con|dition in which he saw me, and in the tenderest, most affectionate manner, pro|tested there was nothing in his power he would not do to restore my tranquillity; begged me to command him; declared my happiness was infinitely dearer to him than his own; that every word, every action of his life should prove it to me.

All I ask, my Lord, is liberty to leave this house.

How was I delighted, Sophia, to hear him, without hesitationi, grant my re|quest. I really believed he at last began

to repent of what he had done. True, he used every possible endeavour to dis|suade me from my purpose, but finding nothing would prevail, he left me to compose my spirits, and at leisure, to reflect on the plan I meant to pursue.

Alas, Sophia! on what could I now determine? Forbid my Aunt's, forbid my father's house, their doors for ever shut against me—to whom could I fly for protection? My mind was in a state of distraction; my thoughts all confusion, I could fix on nothing, but at all events to leave the man I had so much reason to dread.

Finding I did not send for him again as I had promised, when I came to some resolution, he retrned to me, and beg|ged I would calmly listen to a proposal he had to offer, which he flatttered him|self would meet my approbation.

This was, since I would not be pre|vailed upon to bless him longer with my company, which he valued more than life, that I would condescend to reside for a while in a house of his in the coun|try, where I should be perfectly retired, and where I might, without those deli|cate

scruples which now robbed him of me, try every means to make my peace with my family, who would perhaps be more readily reconciled to me, when no longer with him.

I naturally objected to this, as being still his house.

He replied, they might remain igno|rant of that circumstance, as he never had lived there, and repeatedly swore he never would attempt to visit me with|out my permission.

I paused a while, distressed beyond measure, not knowing on what to re|solve; at length, however, I considered I might possibly find it easier, as he said, to make my peace there, than while under his immediate protection; and, I confess, I shuddered at the idea of find|ing myselt in London without a single friend to whom I could apply for it—those in the country, I feared, might be as much prejudiced against me as my own family.

In short, Sophia, I agreed; glad, be|yond expression, at his consent at any rate to my release.

He begged me to delay my cruel pur|pose for a day or two, that he might write to his steward to get every thing in order for my reception; his housekeeper was also to accompany me, and to conti|nue as long as I found her necessary.

The happy wished-for hour of my de|liverance at length arrived—I left him, Sophia, and though still distracted with ten thousand painful apprehensions for the future, found my heart relieved from great part of its distress.

I confess I had still many doubts of his sincerity—I could not easily persuade my|self he had wholly given up his disho|nourable views; the change in his senti|ments was too suddden, after all the arti|fice, all the trouble he had taken to get me into his power, to leave me without suspicion; but, to get from him was a great point gained.

I might be mistaken; it was possible he might be less wicked than he had hitherto appeared;—at any rate it was infinitely better than continuing where I was; that, was certain misery, this step might pre|vent my ruin.

Thank heaven! my dear Sophia, this has been effected; for Providence, ever kind and merciful, sent me a friend when least expected; an amiable, generous, compassionate friend, who does me the justice to believe me innocent, though un|fortunate; and who, by every obliging attention, endeavours to make me forget the past, and look forward to happier days.

We set out pretty early in the morn|ing. Mrs. Watson, the name of my tra|velling companion, and who I till then had looked upon as a decent good kind of woman, now began to talk to me with more freedom and familiarity than she had ever presumed to do, ran out in most ridiculous praises of her Lord, said he was the most generous, the handsomest and best of men, that where he once took a fancy (this, Sophia, was her elegant ex|pression) he spared no expence, nothing was too good or too dear.

Ah! you are a fortunate young lady I am sure, (continued she) how many, no less beautiful, would envy your situation! Here now you are going to reign sole mis|tress of the sweetest spot that ever you

saw in your life; and, to be sure, 'tis far more agreeable than being cooped up in London as you were.

I was astonished—shocked—and all my fears returned; fully convinced she was sent with me merely as a guard, to prevent any attempt I might make to escape: she durst not have talked in this style had not her vile employer let her fully into his infamous intentions; she, no doubt, had her instructions, and, I am persuaded, would have been but too faithful to the trust reposed in her.

I made few answers to her imperti|nence, but suffered her to run on as she pleased, fully determined to proceed no further than the inn we were to sleep at, if I could possibly help it. I took care, however, to say nothing likely to create suspicion; she then had none, believing I was perfectly satisfied with my condi|tion.

When arrived at the last stage of that day's journey we stopped, and she went to order beds and supper.—I observed an ele|gant carriage in the court-yard as we came in. Ah, what would I have given to have known whether it belonged to male or fe|male;

if the latter, I was determined to contrive some means of making my situa|tion known. Alas! I had already been too cruelly deceived by the former, ever to trust them more.

On Watson's return, I carelessly asked her if she knew the owner; as I was then viewing it from the window, being still light enough for that purpose. Know! Yes, that I do full well! and little does Lady Mary Craven guess, I fancy, I am here, unless she may have seen my Lord's carriage, as you have seen her's. Mercy on us! What would she say, did she know as much as I know! she would tear your eyes out!

My eyes! (amazed.) What on earth do you mean?

Mean! Why surely you must have heard his Lordship talk of her; why she is the very person he was to have married! Aye, and would have married had he not taken such a fancy to you, at least the world says so; and to tell you the truth, I believe it; but to be sure his honour has a right to do as he thinks fit; though by not doing it, he must, they say, lose great part of his fortune.

Sophia! can you conceive my afto|nishment? I was now, if possible, more anxious to meet with an opportunity of speaking to her: much I had indeed heard of her, and even my cruel betray|er spoke of her with esteem, though he had hitherto declined fulfilling his en|gagement.

The horrid phrase the creature had made use of shocked me, I instantly con|ceived her Ladyship had heard of my in|tended union with him; and also, per|haps, of what had since happened. I felt mortified, exceedingly so, and would have given worlds for an opportunity to justify myself, but how to procure it I knew not.

A thought occured to me; the first time Watson left the room, which she fre|quently did, as I presume she found the people of the house more cheerful com|panions than I was.

I took a slip of paper, which fortunate|ly lay on the table, and with my pencil wrote a few lines, strongly expressing the misery of my situation, and begging, for the love of heaven! her Ladyship would condescend to see me! The means of

doing so I left to herself, as I could think of none likely to succeed, without creat|ing suspicion in the creature I had every reason to believe was placed over me as a spy.

This I sealed, and gave the waiter, who came to cover the table for supper, charging him to convey it instantly into the Lady's own hand.—He could have no reason to refuse this request—away he went, and left me agitated with ten thou|sand hopes and fears.

Near half an hour elapsed before his return.—I sat in terrors. Watson had two or three times been in the room dur|ing his absence, but still finding little pleasure in my company, made her visits very short.

To my no small joy, at last the waiter entered, Sophia, and giving me a sealed note, said, if I had any further commands, I had only to ring the bell, and he would attend.

I opened it, trembling from head to foot, and had scarce power to read the contents; my eyes grew perfectly dim, I feared I should faint; however, a glass of water, which I instantly drank, relieved

me.—These were the few words the dear paper contained: MADAM, "I FEEL myself much interested in your happiness; I cannot doubt the facts you have mentioned, they are dreadful! Your applying to a stranger, is a convinc|ing proof the situation you are in is not agreeable to you; depend on seeing me this evening; I will contrive to dispose of the woman you tell me has the charge of you, and shall be happy to render you any service in my power."

Heavens! Sophia! judge what were my feelings at that delightful moment; it is not in the power of language to give you an idea of them! Supper came in a moment after, and Watson followed it.

I feared she would remark the change which must have taken place in my coun|tenance: at dinner I had desired her to sit at table with me; but now, under pre|tence that she would be better amused elsewhere, I told her I would dispense with her company; she seemed perfectly fatisfied. I, Sophia, was still more so.—I soon finished my repast.

The cloth was but just removed when the door opened, and in came my gene|rous friend! for well does her Ladyship merit that tender appellation.

Ah, Madam! (covered with blushes, and attempting to throw myself at her feet) can you pardon an unhappy young creature for presuming to take so great a liberty? Were I also a guilty one, believe me, I would not have.—

Say no more—make no apologies, ten|derly raising me, and taking my hand in the most engaging manner, I have not a doubt of your innocence; that lovely countenance, that amiable timidity, those artless blushes, plainly declare it.

Sit down, (continued she, seating her|self by me, and still kindly holding my hand) we have no time to lose in idle ce|remony; I am not intirely a stranger to your story, I have even heard part of it since I came into this house; your duenna has not the talent of keeping a secret; she has already been talking of it to my wo|man, and no doubt to others; but it is of no consequence, if you wish to escape from her.

Ah, Madam! (interrupting her) it is all I ask of heaven.

Enough, my lovely girl, depend upon it you shall then; and for all other matters, we will leave them to talk over at more leisure; at present, let us think only how to manage the first point; yet it will not, I believe, require much con|trivance: I think the wretch will not dare to dispute my authority.

She was silent for a moment; then said, I have ordered my woman to keep her in chat till I return, and that will be no very difficult matter, for she seems an arrant gossip; but I have changed my mind, she may as well find me here, my presence, I am persuaded, will not pro|duce any bad effect: ring for her, Miss Herbert, and without scruple, say, you have accepted the offer I have made you, of sleeping with me; let her form what conjectures she pleases, my life for it, she will not dare to oppose your design.

How, my dear Madam, shall I ever repay this goodness; this unspeakable obligation? (taking her hand, and res|pectfully pressing it to my lips.)

O! very easily, my dear! But we will talk of that another time, you for|get that I have a double pleasure in what I am now doing: first, I hope I am serving you; and secondly, disappoint|ing a man who richly deserves some mor|tification from me. You know not how I enjoy the thoughts of his amazement, when he hears his intended wife, and in|tended mistress, have so accidentally had a rencontre.

Pardon me, my dear, for the expres|sion; it can only cast a reflection on the wicked seducer! His vile intentions you have nothing to do with, he is a wild good for nothing moital, nor have I ever, believe me, regretted his not claiming my hand, which, I give you my word, would have been to no purpose; I shall chuse to bestow it on a worthier object, I do assure you; but ring your bell if you please, it is late, and we must set out early to-morrow, as I mean to get home in the evening.

Is she not a delightful woman, Sophia?—I obeyed, and the waiter entered.

Tell the person who came with me, said I, I shall be glad to speak to her.

She made her appearance a moment after; but, to give you an idea of her astonishment on seeing my companion is utterly impossible. I could hardly keep my gravity.

Your young Lady (said Lady Mary) has been so good as to say she will oblige me by steeping in my room to night; you may carry her things there, my maid will show you the way.

Madam! my Lady!—I—I!—in your room, did your Ladyship say?—I—fear!—that is, I!—

O! fear nothing! I will take as much care of her as you can do. I am rather a coward, and dare not sleep alone; you may go, we shall follow you presently. Order my woman to bring lights.

Sophia, never was there a more comic scene; the creature was ready to ••ink into the earth—the style in which my kind friend spoke to her; the easy man|ner; as if she took it for granted she could have no objections, so wholly dis|concerted the few ideas nature had given her, that she could make none.

Never mortal looked so soolish. She had nothing for it but to sneak off and

obey. Taken so entirely unawares, so unprepared for such an event, what could she do? She was utterly confounded, and unable to say one word either for or against the plan, so left us to enjoy her perplexity; which we certainly did not a little.

Soon after her Ladyship's woman came to let us know our apartment was ready—she, too, looked amazed, but said nothing. In the entry we found Wat|son, accompanied by the servant (who had attended us from London) and also the postillion; as I passed she attempted to stop me.

Miss, Miss! Pray let me speak one word? For heaven sake do!—John!—Richard!—can't your!—I wish—they stood gaping, but made no answer.

I slid by; saying, she could have no|thing to tell me but what I could hear as well in the morning; and, with trem|bling steps, scarce able to support myself, hurried up stairs.

It was evident she had made this effort to prevent me; and certainly might have made a very disagreeable bustle, had her auxiliary troops seconded her motion

with spirit; but happily, for me, they did not. They had, I presume, received no orders from their master on the sub|ject; who, with all his art and cunning, had not, I fancy, foreseen that such an accident might happen; perhaps too, though so greatly his inferior in some things, they might be no less superior in others; and scorned to be farther con|cerned in so treacherous an affair.

In short, my dear Sophia, every thing fortunately succeeded to our wish. Next morning we left the house, without in|terruption.—Watson was not even visi|ble; I gave every thing I had been obliged to receive from her, to one of the ser|vants, charging her to deliver them into her own hands; and with a joy you can have no conception of, drove to this hos|pitable, this delightful mansion, where I meet with every possible attention and respect.

My only distress now is, the displea|sure of my dear Father and Aunt; could I but obtain their forgiveness, my heart would be at peace. Lady Mary has kindly promised to intercede for me; I mean to write again; she is to write also.

Ah, Sophia! pray with me her eloquence may not plead in vain; this alone is wanting to complete my felicity.

Adieu, my dear friend, you shall hear from me again when these important let|ters are dispatched, and then have a more particular account of my generous protectress; there cannot be a more amiable creature—Ah! the deceitful, the cruel Sommerville, is unworthy of her! She knows it now better than ever. She detests him for his perfidy to your poor Emily; and I need not, I hope, add, I too look upon him as the basest of men. Thank heaven, I have happily escaped all his snares! May he, before it is too late, see his errors and repent!

I go now to write to my father and aunt, should their answers be propitious, I shall be once more your truly happy, as well as affectionate,

EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XXXIV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq

London

NEVER! Never Charles, was there so unfortunate a fellow as I am at this moment; by heavens! I could curse my very existence, for being such a con|founded fool! duped by an artful witch, I have acted the part of a consummate villain! I have injured, insulted, the best, the most estimable of her sex, and have deservedly lost her for ever! Yes, she must look upon me as the most de|testable, the most unworthy of mankind; but here I swear by all that's sacred, I will be nobly revenged! that fiend, in the shape of Lady Stanley, shall not escape with impunity: dearly shall she be made to rue the effects of her diabo|lical plotting, or my wits shall sail me.

Oh, Charles! I am undone! ruined! all my hopes of happiness for ever de|stroyed!

by that vile harpy's contrivance, my Emily! my lovely, my engaging, gentle Emily!—must at this moment exe|crate the very name of her repenting, truly penitent Sommerville! I am now astonished at my stupid credulity! How was it in nature, I could believe so scan|dalous, so improbable a story? her very looks! every word! every sweet expres|sion the dear girl uttered!—her letters, which, I like a mean despicable traitor saw, by such unjustifiable means, all! all might have told me it was false.

In those artless, innocent letters, she calls me a Monster, Charles! Too justly might the lovely injured creature look upon me in that odious light! No never! never while I have breath, shall I reco|ver my own good opinion! How then dare I, can I hope to regain hers? and yet without that blessing, life must be a tor|ment.

But let me endeavour to be more expli|cit, that you may comprehend me, and you will then confess I have but too much cause for these exclamations.

My adorable Emily, not wholly void of suspicion, (I now know to my cost) lest me, accompanied by Watson, as I men|tioned

to you we had agreed upon. The very next day, to my utter confusion, I received the following letter from my friend, Major Mansell; judge if you can of my emotions, on reading its dreadful contents.

Had this reached me a few days soon|er, it might have saved me from endless remorse, and I might now have been su|premely blest in the possession of my an|gel, Emily; for angels are not more pure, more spotless.—Ah, Charles! I ought never to have entertained a doubt of it; but my conscience tells me, I was unworthy to call such excellence mine.

Read Mansell's letter, and then say, is there any punishment I can contrive, equal to crimes of that hagg, Lady Stanley?

My dear Sommerville,

I THINK I know you too well to be|lieve my succeeding your Lordship in the good graces of the fair widow, gave you one moment's uneasiness, or that it could possibly weaken your friendship; as a

proof of mine, accept this letter, which I wish from my soul, may come time enough to prevent those infamous effects, which an injured, a jealous woman in|tended to produce by arts she practiced, with but too much success.

I had long suspected the indifference she affected, on your quitting her for the amiable, the much injured, Miss Herbert, was merely put on to conceal the pangs it gave her; it was unnatural to imagine a conquest, like Lord Som|merville, could be resigned with so much ease; you cannot have forgot how often I have said I doubted her Ladyship's sincerity, I have now most incontestable proofs of my penetration.

You know I was on a pretty intimate footing with her before you left us; she has attractions, my Lord, and knows how to set them off to advantage as well as any one of her sex. I had no serious views in the devoirs I paid her; she could not but know it, I have therefore nothing to reproach myself with.

I often talked of your Lordship, I wished to discover her real sentiments, as I suspected them, and did all in my

power to throw her off her guard; I part|ly succeeded, and was fully convinced, by her own confession (though she did not, I believe, mean to be quite so expli|cit, had I not artfully drawn her on by my questions, and appearing to admire her spirit) that the lovely Emily was car|ried off by her contrivance.

My manner of treating the affair gratified her vanity, and she was weak enough, in the course of several conver|sations I had with her on the subject, not only to own it, but to triumph in the success of her cruel plot, laughing at the fellow who had been her dupe, and the reward he had met with for his heroic achievement.

I also found she had formed hopes of drawing you again into her lure, having thus robbed you of her charming rival; this, it is true, she had too much pride to acknowledge in direct terms; but I more than surmised it from several unguarded expressions she occasionally dropped.

You, my dear Sommerville, returned unsuccessful, after having made every possible inquiry, in order to discover the wretch who had injured you in so flagrant

a manner, you had searched in vain, and it appears her hopes of regaining your heart were no less so, she could not con|ceal her mortification at the disappoint|ment even from me.

You soon disappeared a second time.—Little did I dream Lady Stanley was the secret spring that occasioned your sudden departure.

But of this, too, I have by mere acci|dent discovered such evident proofs as almost amount to certainty.

Going a few days ago to call upon her, I found she had walked out, but had or|dered the servants, in case I came before she returned, to say she should be at home presently.

Accordingly I went up to her dressing room to wait for her, meaning to amuse myself with a book till she arrived; I saw none on her toilet, and began looking about in hopes of finding one; her cabi|net stood open, I fancied I might meet with one there; several letters and loose papers lay scattered up and down; and there they might have lain in perfect sase|ty for me, had not my eye caught the name of Miss Herbert on one of them;

all things considered, I think my curio|sity was pardonable—I took it up—but guess my surprize when I found it addres|sed to your Lordship, as coming from the fellow's housekeeper who had carried off your lovely Emily.—I hastily took a copy, which I enclose, that you may be enabled to judge whether you ever re|ceived such a one—if so, we cannot doubt her being the author, as it is in her Lady|ship's own hand writing, though she would hardly send it to you without being sus|ficiently disguised, or more likely, get some other to write it for her.

One of the two you may depend on, for how else could she come by such a wicked abominable scrawl?—true—it might never have been sent, one can hardly believe any woman could be ca|pable of such an infernal scheme; but this your Lordship will be able to clear up to yourself.

I would gladly hope, she did not carry her malice and revenge quite so sar, and if she actually did, that you would give no credit to the horrid story; since in that case I fear the amiable Miss Herbert, in regard to whom I am told your inten|tions

before her unfortunate adventure were perfectly honourable, may have sunk in your Lordship's esteem.

Whether the wretch really did treat her with indignity—whether he was brute enough to take advantage of her unhap|py situation, having her thus in his power, I cannot say—but this vile forgery is at least no proof of it.

It is suspected the lovely girl is now your's, my Lord; but this wants con|firmation; her friends, I hear, have not yet been able to trace her steps, or to dis|cover who it was that delivered her from Morton; however by the description he gives of the person, they guess it is your Lordship.

But if so, why does she not appear?—This question I ask, and can only account for it, by supposing, what I am very un|willing to believe.

By our past friendship, my dear Som|merville, let me entreat the favour of hearing from you, and if possible clear yourself from suspicions which pain me to entertain. I know you are not fault|less more than myself; the very best of us are not so; but surely, my Lord, you

would respect the virtue of a young lady so truly deserving your tenderness and protection.

Pardon the freedom of these reflections in consideration of the motives which in|duce me to trouble you with this letter; that it may fully answer my well meant purpose, is the sincere wish of your Lord|ship's affectionate friend, and most obe|dient servant,

F. MANSELL.

Taking it for granted you have now, Charles, read my friend's distracting let|ter, let me ask what punishment you think sufficiently severe for the author of all this misery?—I need not remind you of my receiving the cursed scrawl, of which he found the copy, you know it—and know also, I was dolt, idiot enough to give credit to the vile tale, and also the fatal, the unpardonable effects of my too easy credulity.

Ah, Charles! they have for ever de|stroyed my peace! I now, when too late, find my injured! much injured Emily! is dearer to me than life, that to call her

mine, honourably mine, is so necessary to my happiness that I think I shall not have patience to endure the insipidity of my existence without her!

And yet what hopes remain? None I am afraid! she cannot but despise my conduct, ignorant as she is of the cruel deception that had been practised, and conscious of her innocence, I must appear a brute.

Well might the angelic girl call me monster; had I not obtained the promise of her dear hand? Were we not on the point of being for ever united by the most sacred ties? What had she done then to produce so horrid a change in my senti|ments!—Ah, nothing! Nothing!

I am absolutely more than half distract|ed, Charles, and cannot proceed, though I have still much to tell you, and much you will wonder, I am certain, at the strange event I am going to relate; you will con|fess it is one of those unaccountable acci|dents, which one can hardly conceive happen by chance—yet, so it certainly was.

The account Watson gives, (whom I had nearly put to death in my first trans|port

of rage and disappointment) is as follows:—

At the inn, where my Emily was to sleep the first night of her journey, whose carriage do you think, Charles, was the first object the stupid animal saw standing in the yard? and which she well knew, as she had seen it often, nor was she ignorant of my engage|ment with its owner!—No other than Lady Mary Craven's!

To be sure, my Lord, I had no notion of what would happen—how should I? (cried she, when attempting to justify herself)—I knew her Ladyship's woman, and thought there could be no harm in chatting to her a little; and please your honour, I am sure I said nothing that could discover my business there, nor did I know Miss Herbert was acquainted with her Ladyship; nay, for that matter, she certainly was not, for her maid told me so.

What you mentioned her name then, and told her she was with you? (cried I, in a rage.)

Oh, dear, my Lord!—Indeed, indeed! I—I!—that is I only!…

Go on, (interrupting her) scarce able to contain my indignation.

Why, my Lord, when Miss rang her bell and ordered me to attend, which I supposed was to conduct her to her bed|chamber, who should I find sitting in the very same room with her, but Lady Mary. Your honour may well think I was very much surprised, and knew not what to say or do.

I have prevailed on Miss Herbert (said she) to sleep in my apartment to night; just for all the world, please your Lord|ship, as if they had been the most intimate friends. Go, carry your Lady's things up stairs, my woman will show you the way—these were her Ladyship's very words, my Lord. I stood like a fool, to be sure, for what could I say?—I never was so slustered in all my days; at last, however, I did venture to say something, though I hardly know what; but her Ladyship cut me short, by repeating her orders, so I was obliged to obey.

When come a little to myself, I ran to John and Richard, and bid them stand by me, and I would try to prevent her getting up stairs—I trembled every joint of me,

as I waited their coming—but it was all to no purpose. Miss, some how or other, slipped by me, though I once had hold of her gown too, and they stood looking on, never so much as putting out a hand to help me, or daring to speak a word.

And, so, please your honour, next morning, they were both gone in her La|dyship's carriage, before I was up; and one of the maids delivered me all her things; that is, the trunk, and the key; and to be sure, I found every individual thing in it, except the cloaths she had on.

Confess, Charles, this is a very extra|ordinary event;—most unaccountably so; how, in the course of a few hours—nay less, she could contrive to introduce herself to an absolute stranger, to interest her so much in her favour, (yet who could behold the sweet creature with indiffer|ence?) to contract such an intimacy! such a friendship!—I am bewildered! perplexed—and what is worse, feel all the horrors of re••orse and despair!

I absolutely cannot upport the torment of her thinking me •• villain.—And how justify myself? granting I could, by re|lating

facts, mitigate my offences? How attempt seeing her in the presence of her new friend? How appear before her? Had she fallen into any other hands, I might have found courage for it, despica|ble as I must be in her dear eyes; but here it is impossible.

I have deserved some reproaches also, I am sorry to fay, from her Ladys;hip:—Ah! how will my character be torn to pieces between them; what a subject for their tète-â-tètes? Could my evil genius have been more perverse, than in thus bringing the only two women acquaint|ed, I wished might never meet! There is a whimsicallity in it, Charles, which, were I not half mad with vexation, would force a smile.

Let me now say a few words of that serpent! that worse than witch! that dia|bolical widow!—I cannot give it up, Charles, I must be revenged—help me, if you ever wish I should know one mo|ment's rest; help me to contrive the means.—Poison would be too merciful! No, I wish to torment, to mortify, to hum|ble her in the most abject manner. Try what you can do for me. But at present

I can only think of my lost, my adorable Emily!—Mine did I say! Ah, Charles!—Yet she might have been mine—she had promised it;—that reflection drives me mad.

Farewell. SOMMERVILLE.

LETTER XXXV. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

TEN thousand thanks to my dear Sophia, for her obliging congratulations on all my troubles being happily over:—they are nearer being so, my dear friend, than you yet know. You say you have not a doubt of my being soon restored to the favour of my family; you are not mistaken; I have received the tenderest letter imaginable from my Aunt, who gives me hopes my dear Fa|ther will pardon all the trouble I have involuntarily occasioned him: nay, does now pardon me, but cannot yet so far

succeed as to gain my Mother's permission for me to return home.

This circumstance gives much pleasure to my generous friend, who had pressed me not to leave this place; and if oblig|ed to go for a while, insisted I should re|turn, and if possible, spend some months with her; finding how matters were at my Father's, and that of course I was to go to my Aunt, she has wrote in the most polite and pressing terms to beg she will spare me to her for some time; I think she will not refuse some flattering a request.

And now, Sophia, let me tell you, though it will shock you as much as it has me, to find man can be so very base, so wholly lost to every sense of honour, I find Lord Sommerville is more guilty, more treacherous than even I till now be|lieved him; though, alas, there needed no further proos to render him, in my opinion, completely worthless.

Would you believe it, Sophia, my Aunt tells me she never received the let|ter I wrote her, and to which I received so cruel an answer.—How mean! how horrid, to stoop to such artifice!—It is now evident he got possession of it, and,

in order to facilitate his vile schemes, wrote the answer himself, which gave me such infinite pain and distress: that to you, no doubt, shared the same fate, since you wrote me word you never received it.

Good heaven, Sophia! that a man so apparently amiable and generous, so very superior to the generality of his sex, should, under those engaging appearances, conceal so bad a heart, so despicable a character.

Ah, how thankful am I, our intended union did not take place; misery must inevitably have been the consequence, what else could have followed? Though for a while I might have been deceived; soon, too soon, I doubt not he would have thrown off the mask, and your poor Emily would have been completely wretched.

Have I not then infinite cause to thank the merciful interposition of Providence, for delivering me from so dreadful a fate; and also for procuring me so amiable a friend as I find in my generous, my kind protectress.

My dear Lady Mary informs me, te greatest friendship had subsisted between

her Father and the late Lord Sommer|ville, that an alliance between the fami|lies had for many years been an object on which they had both set their hearts; that in an affair of the utmost importance, her's had conferred a very essential obli|gation on his friend: this he could no otherwise repay, than by confirming the promise he had before given, that his son should, since his Lordship did him the honour to wish it, either give his hand, or forseit half his estate, which in that case should be settled on the lady. To this her father objected—but in vain; it was the only return he could make, he said, and should his son be so blind to his own interest and happiness as to refuse fulfilling the engagement, (a thing he had no reason to fear) he thought in settling his fortune in this manner, he inflicted but too mild a punishment for his folly and ingratitude.

Her Ladyship's father died before she had attained her fifteenth year; she then accompanied her Aunt (who still lives with her) abroad.

Lord Sommerville died some years after; his son, who was then on his tra|vels,

was sent for home, but arrived too late, as his father had breathed his last: what his sentiments were, on finding the clause I have mentioned fully ratified, she can only guess by his conduct, which pretty clearly informed her he had no in|clination to perform the stipulated en|gagement.

One thing I had almost forgot, which is, that they are second cousins; and, that Sommerville succeeded to the estate he now enjoys, in consequence of its being entailed on the male heir, otherwise it would have devolved to Lady Mary; so that strictly speaking, he is not to forfeit any part of it, but which is nearly the same thing, is to pay to her an equivalent sum of money.

These, in as few words as I could give you them, are the particulars of that affair; he has never been more attentive to her than even cold good breeding requires; and happy it is her Ladyship never be|held him with any degree of partiality; she wished him to reject her, yet would not inform him of her sentiments, merely that she might have it in her power to punish him for his irregularities, well

knowing he is highly povoked at being thus fettered.

Her own fortune is very considerable, nor does she mean to augment it by the sum she is, on his rejecting her hand, to receive from him: had he proved him|self more worthy, she assures me, she intended resigning her claim; but since he is such a libertine, she proposes ac|cepting the money, and settling it on a young gentleman, his Lordship's nearest relation, who is uncommonly amiable and deserving, but whose family estate, by the extravagance of his predecessor, is reduced almost to nothing.

This, Sophia, is her generous inten|tion, nor is it possible to find an objec|tion to it: the artful, the designing Som|merville will, after all, in his estate, pos|sess but too much for the base purposes in which he employs it.

Lady Mary has a great share of vivaci|ty, and often diverts me when talking of Lord Sommerville's embarrassed situation, and the astonishment he must have been in on hearing of our first meeting, and that I am now actually resident with her—it was certainly a very droll accident,

Sophia, as could possibly happen, yet nothing of the marvellous neither, as her house is within a few miles of that to which I was going.

I am delighted to find, by my Aunt's letter, that wretch Morton is in a fair way of recovery, since base as he has proved himself, I should have been shocked be|yond expression to have been the cause of his death: she tells me, when he is able to travel he is going abroad and of course has no farther thoughts of persecuting me.

Thus you see, my dear Sophia, my troubles are really nearly over; not en|tirely, indeed, since I cannot be perfectly happy while my poor Father is thus go|verned by a tyrant, and not at liberty to shew me that indulgence to which his heart inclines him; but he has so long been accustomed to obey, without a murmur, that I trust he is not so sensible of his dis|agreeable situation as I am.

Lady Stanley, she also says, is flirting away, at a great rate, with Major Man|sell, and seems wholly to have forgotten the inconstant Sommerville, and by the manner in which you find I speak of him,

I hope you will see plainly all your kind fears are groundless.

No, no, Sophia! partial as I once was to him, believe me I am so no longer; nor is it in nature he ever should regain that place in my esteem he has so justly forfeited; be under no apprehensions therefore on that account, nor fear that I shall find any difficulty in expelling his image from my breast; it is already done, Sophia, and were I even to see him again, which I sincerely wish I never may, be assured it will be with all the indifference you can possibly desire. One may pity, but to love an unworthy object, knowing him to be such, must, I think, be an im|possibility.

I have not yet, Sophia, said half I ought to have done, in regard to my amiable friend; but hitherto I have had so many other subjects which I wished to acquaint you with, that she must, and I am con|vinced, would readily excuse me, did she know I had been guilty of this apparent neglect and ingratitude.

My dear Lady Mary, then, is about two and twenty, tall and elegantly formed; her face, tho' not perfectly beautiful, has

yet an unspeakable sweetness of expres|sion, which many, who from having mere|ly a regularity of features are stiled so, have not: her eyes are particularly fine, her teeth uncommonly so; in short, to me, she is an exceeding fine woman; and for understanding, real wit, and vivacity, I have never met with her equal; add to this, she is mistress of every fashionable accomplishment, and has the most melo|dious voice I ever heard in my life.

Such is the woman whose hand Lord Sommerville declined accepting; or, ra|ther properly speaking, declined paying his addresses to, for it is by no means clear he would have obtained it if he had: now it is most certain, as she tells me, her heart has long been engaged to another; to whom she would ere now have been united, had she not made a point of waiting a decent time to see how his Lordship would proceeed.

But, I will wait no longer, said she, to me, yesterday, as we were talking on the subject; my resolution is unalterably fixed; I will now make it my business to know his; it is not usual for ladies to make the first advances, nor should I in

any other circumstances; I might no doubt marry without consulting him, but I feel a wicked pleasure in the thoughts of the dilemma into which I shall throw him, by desiring his final determination.

Ah! my dear Lady Mary, is it in na|nature he should one moment hesitate?

Oh! very possible my dear! of that I think he has given me pretty convincing proofs, but thank my stars, all men do not see with his eyes! I purpose writing to him, his answer will no doubt afford me some diversion; and not a little will he be amazed, as well as puzzled, when he has the felicity to receive my epistle; he no doubt flatters himself I shall (in hopes some twenty years hence, he will relent and take me) live quietly a spinster till that joyous hour arrives.—Woefully does he deceive himself, if he has any such ridiculous idea: In a few days I hope to present my intended caro sposo to you Emily; you shall then judge whe|ther it is possible I am likely to be such a fool.

And now a word or two of her Lady|ship's Aunt, Mrs. Selby, and I have done. There cannot be a more worthy, or more

agreeable woman, she doats upon her charming niece, who has for many years been intirely under her care, is highly pleased with the object on whom she has placed her affections, and is no less impa|tient than he is, to have the affair finally concluded; to me she behaves in the kindest, the most friendly manner; in|deed, my being a favourite of Lady Ma|ry's was quite sufficient to insure me a gracious reception from her.

I have every reason to think her Lady|ship has conceived a very sincere regard for me, the unhappy situation in which she first found me, greatly interested her in my favour; and since she has, as she obligingly says, known me better, she finds me worthy her tenderest friendship and esteem, and hopes our attachment will not only be mutual, but lasting as our lives.—Nothing she smiling, as|sured me, the other day, could possibly weaken it on her side, except my robbing her a second time of her lover—as to Sommerville, I pardon you, Emily, said she, but should you presume to captivate Lord Neville, not all those bewitching smiles shall save you from the effects of my wrath and indignation.

Farewell, my dear Sophia, I shall be ever your affectionate friend,

EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XXXVI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley-Place;

WHAT a couple of bungling fools have I had to deal with, Caroline! my revenge is but half completed, and I could curse them for their stupidity!

Would you believe it! the girl has, after all my trouble, escaped from them both! and that too in triumph! The first was too great a coward to accomplish my purpose; and the other, though I doubt not his intentions were favourable as I could wish, yet by his ridiculous delicacy, respect, and such stuff, has succeeded no better; he, however, cannot know Mor|ton was such an idiot, unless he has been

dastardly enough to confess it, in hopes to screen himself from farther vengeance; and this I think cannot be, as they have never met since the damsel was rescued by the valourous arm of Sommerville; who of course, believes the story I wrote him, in the name of the honest house|keeper.

She has now, as I said, made her escape from him too; but never! never will you guess by whose means!—Only Lady Mary Craven! The very woman to whom he has for years been engaged to give his worthless hand!—True as you are alive! with her she is at present, and there, I pray heaven she may remain! For I could not so far command myself, as to see her with patience; my only consolation is, I have kept them all in a pretty decent bustle for some time past; and, I think, put a final stop to her being Lady Sommerville.—Should he, after all, be foolish enough to think of such a thing—her gratitude to her bene|factress, to her new friend, must be an unsurmountable bar to a Lady of her re|fined, romantic, sentiments; so I have done with the whole set, and shall now find some other way to amuse myself.

Mansell, yesterday, while at dinner with me, received letters from London; one of them seemed to give him particu|lar pleasure; to tell you the truth, I fancied it might be from some favourite fair one; and jokingly told him my sus|picions.

He kept me some time in suspence, not a little flattered, I suppose, at the symptoms of jealousy I had discovered: at last, however, he gave it me to read, and I found it was actually from Som|merville, acquainting him, a friend of their's, the Duke de Saint Clair, whom they had both known in Paris, and from whom they had received a thousand dis|tinguishing marks of attention, was then in town, had visited most parts of the kingdom, and meant soon to set out on another tour. The reason of his writing, was to inform Mansell, the Duke had made many obliging enquiries after him, and finding it would not be far out of his road, intended calling upon him, he therefore thought it not amiss to give him notice of his Grace's design, that he might be prepared to receive him, and to shew him every thing worth no|tice in this part of the country.

And pray, what kind of mortal is this fame Duke? Young, or old? handsome, or a fright? rich, or poor?

Nay (laughing) half these questions at a time would be more than my memory could retain; pray begin again.

Pho! how horridly stupid! Why old or young then? come try if you can answer me that?

Neither; about two or three and thirty, will that suit you? just my age!

Don't be impertinent, Mansell! I care not a straw though he were as old as—what do you call him? I give you my word.

Well, now to your next question, let me see, what was it? O,

handsome, or a fright.

—Why to this too, I must reply as before—neither!

Ah shocking! I'll lay my life he is some queer figure, some aukward ill made animal, before I see him!

Now for the last, and not least import|ant, "rich, or poor?"

Aye, as you say, that circumstance may help to decide in regard to his other perfections, out with it!

Rich as a sew then! immensely rich! and sprung from—

No matter who (interrupting him) we are too wise in England, and know too well the value of money, to trouble our heads about family; we leave that silly pride to those poor souls who have no|thing else to boast of.

Well, what think you of him? (smil|ing)

Oh, charming! Is it possible I should not think him so?

One question your Ladyship has quite forgot.

Pray what may that be? I know full as much about him already as I desire.

What no spark of curiosity remaining, to be informed whether he has a heart and hand to bestow?

Why what a jealous wretch thou art, Mansell! No, positively then, I will not ask any such matter, lest I should hear of your dangling in your garters before to-morrow, and I do not want to be haunted by your ghost; it is quite sufficient that I am so by your imper|tinent self! So pray make yourself easy.

This same Duke, should he keep his word, Caroline, may afford us a little

amusement; I should rather say we must contrive to amuse him, as he is a stran|ger, which comes all to the same thing.

To tell you the truth I begin to sigh for a little variety, and have thoughts of going to some watering place; the wo|men hereabouts are a parcel of formal odd beings, and pretend to give them|selves airs truly; as for the men, I am tired of them, there are too few, one hates to see the same faces perpetually; I shall stay, however, till I see what kind of a creature this same Duke turns out: I fancy, by what I can gather from his friend Mansell, his riches are his great|est recommendation, and no bad one neither let me tell you.

Adieu.—Sommerville is not expected here for some time—so much the better. I have now for ever done with him.

Your's, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXXVII. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

LADY Mary has received a polite answer from my Aunt, with her ready consent to my staying as long as it is agreeable to her Ladyship; adding, she is highly flattered by her very obliging request. She also, Sophia, writes in the kindest manner to me, so that I really am now the happiest creature imaginable; every thing I meet with here conspires to make me so, and to banish the hor|rid remembrance of past sorrow from my recollection; the whole now appears like a frightful dream, and as such, I endeavour to drive it from my memory, on which it has neverthess made too deep an impression ever to be intirely erased.

Lord Neville arrived here a few days since, accompanied by a particular friend,

a Sir Henry Cardigan; the former is one of the finest figures I ever saw, and his manner equally pleasing, he seems to adore Lady Mary, who is no less partial to him; one may hope, therefore, they will, though in high life, be a truly hap|py pair, which, I am afraid, is by no means a common case in the fashionable circle.

Her Ladyship has wrote to Lord Som|merville.—I would give worlds you could have seen her letter, but it was impossi|ble to ask a copy, nor could I do it justice by attempting to repeat its con|tents; no other woman, I am persuaded, could have acquitted herself so well on so aukward an occasion. Lord Neville is impatient for the answer, as on that depends his happy day.

She cannot forgive Lord Sommerville, for proposing to me a private marriage, since avarice could alone be his motive, no doubt he hoped thereby to evade the clause in his father's will, but had he entertained for me that regard she is pleased to say I merit, that circumstance ought to have had no weight.

Ah, Sophia! there is too much truth in her remark; I was a very, very weak creature, not to see his conduct in the same light I now do; perhaps there might be some little excuse for me, young and inexperienced as I was; but my Aunt! Surely, Sophia, she ought to have—Yet this is ungenerous! It is an ungrateful re|turn for her well meant compliance; she could only have my happiness in view, But let me drop the humbling, the morti|fying subject; never again shall his detest|ed name sully my paper, nor should I have mentioned him now, had it not been to tell you of the letter he has by this time received. Should he at last consent to ac|cept her Ladyship's hand, (which I need hardly add she has no thoughts of giving him) he will thereby prevent the loss of that money, on which it is plain he sets so great a value; if he declines it, it is her own, and as I told you before, she purposes bestowing it on a more deserv|ing object. Lord Neville, so far from disapproving this generous design, de|clares, if possible, it raises her in his esteem, and renders her more dear to him.

Thus, Sophia, we are on the point of having a wedding, at which I am to figure as bride's-maid, and the amiable Sir Henry, as my companion on the happy occasion; by the bye, I have not treated that gentleman well; I had nearly finish|ed my epistle without saving one word about him, though were I to say all in his praise, they tell me he deserves, I might fill another page or two. How true the eulogium I cannot judge on so short an acquaintance; all I can at present affirm is, that he is uncommonly engaging, and his person very elegant. He has been unfortunate, I hear, in a first attachment, which has left a kind of melancholy on his spirits, which interests one sirangely in his favour. Lady Mary has set me the task of removing his dejection, says she is otherwise employed, and therefore leaves him wholly to my care; adding, there is a sort of similarity in our situations, and of course I must feel for him. How far they are similar, I know not, being yet a stran|ger to the particulars of his; in my next I may, perhaps, be able to inform you.

I must, now, my dear friend, bid you adieu—they send for me. We are going

to have a little concert, and I am to ac|company her Ladyship on the harpsi|chord; I told you, I believe, she sings like an angel. Another summons.—Adieu.

Your's ever, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XXXVIII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley Place.

Our formidable beau is arrived; and, would you believe it, after the account Mansell gave me, is actually handsome? Much more so than with his more impor|tant attractions was by any means necessa|ry. As for his Grace's understanding, that is neither here nor there; he is a Duke, Caroline; and, were he an idiot, I have too much sense myself to quarrel with him for that.

It will not, I presume, surprise you much to hear, I, as usual, engross his whole attention; can I possibly help it, if the fellows will be perverse enough to prefer me to the mortified Colchester beiles? It was much the same case in London; and I have accordingly been most joyously hated in both places.

Poor Mansell, I believe, wishes him at the devil; and heartily repents introduc|ing him; but there's no help for that nei|ther. What would you think if I should, a second time, give up my liberty for the sake of being Madame là Duchesse? Hea|vens! What a glorious triumph over Sommerville! Would it were in my of|fer! But I dare not expect it, for fear of a disappointment; yet he is certainly struck with me; nay, even Mansell (though much against the grain) has assured me he has been making a thou|sand enquiries—Says he never beheld so fine a woman! So much of the easy, French vivacity—so much wit—in short, so many attractions, that he fears he shall not be able to escape the fascinating pow|er of my charms.

Much of this, Caroline, I must set down as Parisian gallantry. Yet, saying it of me, is more flattering than to me—not that he is wanting in the latter, for his whole conversation is made up of compliments; he has sense enough, it is plain, to know his forte; he would not shine much I believe on any other sub|ject but that's a trifle, and you know "nonsense is eloquence in, love."

We were last night at the assembly. Every eye was fixed upon us. I danced with him—to be sure, he made no very brilliant figure on the occasion—well enough, however, for a Duke—a stranger to our country dances too. By the bye I forget who it is that asserts for a fact that fools can never excel in that accomplish|menth—Do not set his Grace down on that list, neither, I beseech you; not quite so bad as that, though no Soloman!

This morning we had a party on horse|back; he was in raptures—swore nothing could excel the elegance of my figure, the grace, the ease with which I managed the animal. It is a mercy I am so perfect a mistress of the French language, or I should lose a thousand flaming speeches,

for he cannot express himself well in English. I have promised to teach him, on condition he will prolong his stay, but he fears it will not be in his power, hav|ing promised to meet a friend, who is to proceed with him in his intended tour.

This is rather against me, Caroline, to be sure; and perhaps Mansell too, may, out of revenge, (for he is jealous as the very devil) whisper a few anecdotes in his ear, that may damp the ardour of his passion. This evening I am to have a concert and supper at my own house; there is no time to lose you see.

If I can succeed, Caroline, how I shall enjoy the delightful thoughts of Sommer|ville's astonishment. I vow this is my principal motive for wishing I could gain so important a conquest; he may then, perhaps, see the folly of prefering an in|significant girl to me; besides, I die to see Paris—see it, to be sure I may, whenever I please; but to make my first appear|ance there with so much eclat, and so much splendour!

Adieu, I must go and dress may all the graces lend me their aid on this occasion,

and I will be their most obedient servant ever after.

Your's, ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XXXIX. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

THE expected answer is arrived, So|phia; I may, perhaps, before I close this, be able to get permission to take a copy of it, which you shall have, in the mean time I will only tell you, Sommer|ville has set her Ladyship free:—in the most graceful and delicate manner a thing of that nature was capable of, he has de|clined the honour of her hand.

Lord Neville has now prevailed upon his adored Lady Mary, to fix the day which is to make him (he says) the happiest of

men, and I believe he says true; this day fortnight she has agreed to give him her hand, in the mean time, preparations of every kind are going on with the ut|most expedition, and all is joy and festi|vity.

Even Sir Henry's spirits are much more chearful than they were; this her Lady|ship is pleased to attribute to me; but I cannot take the merit of it, Sophia, though I confess I have obeyed her in|junctions to the utmost, and he appears grateful for my attentions; I play to him, ling to him, and frequently walk with him before the rest of the family are stir|ring, for we are early risers: his conver|sation is highly entertaining; there is a softness a gentleness in his manners, which is extremely pleasing.

Do not be silly now, Sophia, and infer from what I have said, a thousand ridicu|lous things; I will at once convince you, you are mistaken, by telling you the cause of that melancholy to which he has so long been a prey, and you will confess there is little chance of his ever forming a second engagement with any of our sex.

A young Lady of large fortune saw him at Scarborough, about three years ago; she fell desperately in love with him, and tried every possible means to at|tract his attention, but in vain; she was not, it seems, remarkably handsome, though agreeable, and highly accom|plished: every one saw the conquest he had gained, and many wondered how he could resist the temptation of so great a fortune; that alone was none to him, his own was abundantly sufficient to satisfy his ambition. They met again in Lon|don: still his behaviour was merely po|lite, and such as every woman of fashion is intitled to, from a man of breeding; she was taken extremely ill—the doctors de|clared her in the utmost danger; nothing they could prescribe gave her the smallest relief: she repeatedly said, she wisned not to live, life was insupportable to her, that she looked for death as for her dear|est and only friend: this astonished and shocked her doating mother:—in short, Sophia, she at last confessed, it was her hopeless passion for Sir Henry which had reduced her to the condition in which she then lay.—Mrs. Johnstone instantly sent

for him, and plainly told him her distress; that her daughter was infinitely dearer to her than life, besought him if his heart was not already engaged to another, to take pity on her loved Julia; her fortune was very considerable, her temper the most amiable, her family and connections such as would do honour to any man.—The generous Cardigan was deeply af|fected, he had no attachment, and was persuaded he could not but be happy, united to a woman who had given such striking proofs of her partiality, though he felt for her no other sentiments than those of esteem and friendship; these re|flections induced him to comply with her wishes, and those of her despairing mo|ther. This information soon restored her to health—in a short time they were married, and she was the happiest of wo|men; Sir Harry, too, perfectly satisfied with his condition, from the pleasing re|flection that he had, by the sacrifice he had made, rendered her so.

Sophia! my dear Sophia! blushing for my sex I write it! This very woman in less than a twelvemonth eloped with an Ensign in a marching regiment, fled

with him to France; soon in her turn for|saken by her worthless gallant, she gave in to every kind of excess, and about a year and a half ago she died an object of pity and wretchedness in Paris. I leave you to make your own reflections on this dreadful story, and shall only add, you may now judge, if after having experi|enced such misery in the married state, (though with such flattering prospects) it is likely he should ever venture to con|fide a second time in any of our sex, or trust his honour, his selicity, in their hands. No, no, Sophia, be assured he never will. Adieu for the present—I will try what I can do to get the copy I mentioned.

In continuation.

WE are so perpetually, and I may just|ly add so agreeably engaged, Sophia, that it has not till now been in my power to finish my letter, though it was begun some days since.—We have been to a ball, given by a family in this neighbour|hood, the company not very numerous, but, what is much more to my taste, in general pleasing and agreeable.

Sir Henry, before we set out, asked for the honour of my hand—Lady Mary look|ed arch, and smiled; she whispered some|thing, I know not what, though guessed it was in consequence of his request; yet, surely, nothing could be more natural; but the truth is, her Ladyship pretends to foresee, what I prophesy will never happen. Ah! Sophia, we have both sus|fered too severely already from the source at which she hints. That he esteems me, I have not a doubt; that he is pleased with the attention I pay him, and is grate|ful for it, I am exceedingly sensible; and who can see him and not seel themselves interested in his happiness—but what has all this to do with love?—Nothing! It would he hard, Sophia, it one could not see perfections in a man; nay, have a very sincere, a very tender friendship for him, without having also sentiments of that nature—I feel the attachment of a sister for him, and am sully persuaded that of a brother is all he does, or ever will experience for your Emily.

What I now tell you is a fact, you may depend upon it; Lady Mary laughs at me when I talk to her on the subject,

and says, I am a sly girl, and know more of the matter than I chuse to consess—in vain I declare the contrary—Sir Henry's cyes have let her into the whole secret, she says, and she daily expects his tongue will follow their example—As for you, Emily, cries she, I take it for granted you have made a thousand vows never again to trust the faithless sex; it would, no doubt, be highly ridiculous having sound one amongst them perfidious, and of course poor Sir Henry can have nothing to ex|pect—is it not so child?

Pretty nearly; and really Sir Henry must have a greater portion of faith than a man ought to have; if he has not also made a few resolutions on the subject.

My life for it he has (said her Ladyship, laughing) but I'll take any bet, they are not such as you would persuade me you imagine them to be. But here he comes, so adieu; I leave you to settle the impor|tant point by yourselves—and away she tripped, though I made signs for her to stay.

As he entered, I felt a blush on my cheeks; why, heavens knows! Since he certainly could not tell he had been the

subject of our conversation, at least I hop|ed so, though I had soon reason to fear he had overheard part of it as he came in, by what he said.

And what is the important point we are to settle, (said he, tenderly taking my hand) if it is one in which I am any way concerned, I know no person on whose judgment I could so firmly depend as in that of the lovely Miss Herbert—what is the resolution the charming Emily is so positive I have formed.

Ah, replied I, smiling, though a good deal disconcerted, it is not, I may safely say, that you will not be a listener, Sir Henry, but I will punish you by not grati|fying your curiosity.

Then you must permit me to guess again, (taking my hand) and if my con|jecture is right, I may venture to pro|nounce you are deceived, whatever reso|lution I may have formed, I feel it will not long be in my power to keep it.

Here, Sophia, to my infinite satisfac|tion our tête-à-tête was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Neville. I slipped away and came up to finish this epis|tle. Perhaps you will think the last page

contains more interesting matters than the first.—I know not, Sophia, nor can I with certainty say, whether I wish what I have just related, will bear the interpre|tation I well know you will put upon it; I will consider it more at leisure, and once more bid you adieu.

EMILY HERBERT.

P. S. You must be content without the copy of the letter I hoped to have got for you. Lady Mary is so much engaged, I could not think of giving her the trou|ble of looking for it; nor am I quite cer|tain it is a proper request—Suffice it to say, his Lordship has managed the point with a better grace than we expected.—The pretence he urges for declining the honour of her hand is, that his heart is irrevocably attached to another, of course unworthy her Ladyship's acceptance; she has only therefore to command him, and shall find him ready to fulfill the engage|ment, to which he is bound by his fa|ther's will, wishing her every possible happiness with a more deserving object—

Ah, Sophia, a more unworthy one she can hardly meet with.

LETTER XL. Same to the Same.

MY dear Sophia, my Aunt has just wrote me a most wonderful piece of news!—Yet, I know not why I should look upon it in that light neither, since her Ladyship's beauty at least, whatever her other perfections may do, is suffici|ently attractive for even a conquest of this flattering nature—Lady Standley I mean!—A Parisian Duke, my dear, of im|mense fortune too! He came it seems, to spend a few days with Major Mansell—saw her—was captivated—and has ac|tually made proposals; whether they have met with a gracious reception my Aunt is not certain, but I can hardly doubt of it, her vanity alone I think will induce

her to be propitious; nay, few women, I fear, could resist so brilliant a tempta|tion—a Duchess, Sophia,—Virtue, you see, is sometimes even rewarded in this life.

Lady Mary's day of days, as you call it, draws very near; this is Monday, on Friday next she has promised to reward Lord Neville's patience: heaven grant they may be happy as they deserve to be! You beg me to tell you minutely every thing that passes between the en|gaging Sir Henry and your Emily; you have taken, it would seem, a prodigious fancy to him, Sophia.—Shall I, or shall I not gratify your curiosity? I think I will, as I know it is not of the impertinent kind; know then that I begin to believe he spoke the truth, when he said, I was mistaken in a certain conjecture I had formed: if he ever has vowed to revenge the injury he has received from one of our sex by slighting all the rest; I suspect he begins to repent of his intended cru|elty, at least he evidently makes your Emily an exception, for to her he devotes his whole time and most pleasing atten|tion.

And now let me observe, it is either a mistaken notion to affirm, we can only once in our lives experience a serious at|tachment, or I certainly never yet did so; and, when I compare my present senti|ments with those I felt for that wretched man who so ill deserved my partiality, I am of opinion I deceived myself, and that the terrors of being compelled to give my hand to one my heart abhorred, made me the more readily believe the other had made an impression on it: my Aunt, too, so averse from the one match, and so very anxious for the other.—In short, Sophia, I will be ingenuous; should the amiable Sir Henry really entertain any such design, as Lady Mary, and in|deed I myself am rather of opinion he does, I feel it will not greatly displease me.—But am I honest, my dear Sophia, in speaking thus coldly on the subject? I fear not, yet till one is quite certain, you know, it is at least prudent.—Ah! So|phia, you would absolutely adore him; he is exactly the original of that picture you have so often drawn, for the man who alone could have power to engage your affections; and is not your friendship and

mine founded on a similarity of senti|ments; judge then, whether it is possible I should behold him with indifference.

Farewell.—I had no design, when I sat down, to write so long a letter; all I meant was to tell you of Lady Stanley's conquest—yet, like a silly weak crea|ture, as I fear I am, I have told you things infinitely more interesting; I do not re|pent, however, and am, your's.

EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XLI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Grosvenor.

Stanley-Place.

COULD I have patience to delay for a few days, I should no longer have addres|sed you as the comparatively insignificant Lady Stanley, but in the character of Madame la Duchesse de Saint Clair; very true, Caroline, so make up your mind

to bear this event without envy; no very easy matter let me tell you; but it is the wisest thing you can do, since what I now say is a fact;—a something has ever whis|pered me I was born to make a distin|guished figure in life; talents like mine were not given to be hid in a napkin; is not that the phrase, Caroline?—No mat|ter, I do not mean to conceal them; I have before said, how astonished, how delightfully amazed will Sommerville be, his Dulcinea too, who presumed to dis|pute his heart with me; let me repeat the joyous intelligence, Caroline; in a few days, nay before this can possibly reach you, I shall be no more, but Madam In Duchesse may perhaps condescend to let you know what is become of me.—I have consented to accompany his Grace in his intended tour; pity to disappoint him you know; seeing a little more of the world is not amiss, nor will he be the worse for it, if, as they say, it tends to improve one.

No violent passion on my side you are a witness, since I am not quite blind to his imperfections,—no—but I can shut my eyes, which comes exactly to the same thing.

Ah! "he comes! he comes! the con|quering hero comes!" I fly on the wings of ambition to "meet the Lord of all my wishes;" and such he is, for what can any reasonable woman wish for more than to be decorated with a ducal coronet.—His carriage is at the door.—Your's, for the last time.

ARABELLA STANLEY.

LETTER XLII. Major Mansell to Lord Sommerville.

THE happy knot is irrevocably tied, Sommerville—but she will poison us both, I believe, for the tricks we have played her, yet I can hardly hold my pen for laughing;—I had even the impudence to stand father on the occasion, and give her away—his Grace! Ha! ha! ha! his Grace, I say, behaved thro' the whole farce infinitely better than I expected; for though a brazen dog, yet he is as ig|norant

as the devil!—How she could be so easily duped is beyond my comprehen|sion; yet every thing was carried on so plausibly; the letter you sent me, telling me of his intended visit, on purpose for her Ladyship's inspection, was an excel|lent stroke; it had all the effect you could desire.—I saw she instantly formed her plan of conquest.—He came—I said no|thing of introducing him to her;—wil|ling to prevent suspicion, the motion should come from herself; she gave ma|ny broad hints,—but for two whole days I would not understand them;—at last she plainly asked me, saying, she thought she could not do less than show some lit|tle attention to a stranger of his rank.

How I kept my countenance the Lord knows; nothing could have given me the power of doing it, but my desire to re|venge the irreparable injury she had done you, and faith, Sommerville, we have succeeded to a miracle! I accompanied his Grace to her house, she was adorned for conquest, so that he was caught by the first glance of her eye; she saw it, and did her utmost to secure her captive; from that moment he was her most devoted slave; and flattered her as never woman

was flattered; this covered all his de|fects.—In short, he had not been here above a week when he made honourable proposals; she faintly objected to their short acquaintance—this obstacle he con|trived to remove.—She, now, as her friend consulted me; I replied, her Lady|ship could alone judge of what was likely to make her happy—no doubt in point of rank and fortune, the offer was un|exceptionable, but I had hoped her heart was otherwise engaged—meaning to my|self.

Pho! pho! (scarce able to conceal her joy) we have played the fool long enough, Mansell, it is high time we should grow wise!

I acquiesced; affecting, however, to put on a mortified look—the day was accordingly fixed, a license obtained, and as I have already told you, I had actually the face to lead her to the altar and give her away.—His Grace was all rapture, and her Grace no less delighted I believe, though she did not so very plainly dis|cover her transport—I spent the evening with the happy pair, and at a proper hour left them.

How to describe the next day's scene is absolutely out of my power.—Indeed, you may swear I did not think proper to be a witness; I had not courage or impudence for that, call it which you please; but his Grace's two servants—Alas! his no longer—gave me a few of the particulars. I had given them their instructions, and they implicitly followed them.

About one o'clock next morning they both went to her house; and finding the happy couple were sitting most sociably togeter at breakfast, marched in with|out ceremony, and Richard being the best orator of the two, his hat in one hand, and scratching his head with the other, said, I suppose you have done with us now Mounseer, and we may take back the carriage and horses to our mas|ter; you know his Lordship said he could not lend them to you for above ten days or a fortnight, and you have had them almost twice that time already, not that I believe his honour will be an|gry, seeing, as how, you have married so fine a Lady.—I hope, however, be|fore we go, you will please to give us

something to drink your's and madam's health.

Her Grace, astonished and enraged at their behaviour, (and believing they had drank too much already) was still more so on finding the Duke bore with so much patience their unparalleled insolence.

For heavens sake! my dear Lord Duke, (rising terrified from her seat)—turn those abominable wretches out of the room; how can you suffer them to ap|proach you in that condition?

Why what offence pray? (returned Richard) we only came civilly to tell him we were going home with the car|riage to our master; he knows we ought to have been at home before now.

The fellow's mad, cried she, almost frantic; for his Grace still kept silent; who is your master? What Lord are you a talking of? Get out of my presence this instant or I will order you both to be thrown out at the window.

What Lord! Why Lord Sommerville to be sure! Mercy on us! has not Moun|seer there told you all about it? I beg pardon if I have said any thing amiss—I thought, for sartain, your Ladyship

must have known that you had married my Lord's Valee de Chamber. I am sure, we all knew he came down here on pur|pose, and borrowed the horses, carri|age, aye, and us too, to make a figure with.

Heaven and earth! What is it I hear? and, instantly overpowered by the shock, fell lifeless on the floor.

His Grace now rung for help, dismis|sed the fellows, and what followed I know not, farther than that she had set off in a post chaise and four early next morning, leaving him master of the premises; and as her lawful husband, I should imagine he has a right to enjoy all the profits arising from them. I have not seen him since, having been obliged to go to Norwich on particular business that very day, where I shall remain, pro|bably, a week or more; so expect to hear from you before I return to the re|giment.

You may well believe the whole coun|try will be in a fine buz about her Lady|ship's adventure, nor is there one soul, I may venture to pronounce, who will not rejoice in her disgrace; the airs she

gave herself, added to some other mat|ters, had rendered her odious to every mortal hereabouts, to the women parti|cularly; as for us fellows that is another affair.

Where she will bend her course, hea|ven knows! but I fancy she will never figure in this part of the world again. Perhaps she is gone to Paris, in order to look after his Grace's property there, while he condescends to superintend her's in England. Ignorant as he is of most things, I'll lay my life he contrives to receive her rents, and to spend them too; but all this is mere conjecture, for ought I know to the contrary he may by this time have gone after his bride.

I presume your Lordship cares as lit|tle about the matter as I do; we have done her business pretty effectually, and she may now make the best she can of her bargain. Perhaps Richard may have been able to give you some of the particu|lars I have related, more distinctly than I have done, he being a witness, nay, a principal in the denouement of the plot. Adieu, dear Sommerville. I hope you

find your too just ndignation pretty well appeased.

Your's, sincerely, J. MANSELL.

P. S. To complete your Lordship's triumph, what think you of inserting the following paragraph in the Morning Post:—A few days ago was married, by a special license, the Right Honourable Lady Stanley, to Monsieur Courrois, Valet de Chambre to Lord Sommerville.

LETTER XLIII. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

WELL, my dear, our wedding is over!—My friend, Lady Mary, is now the happy, the adored wife of her amiable Neville!—This is the first leisure hour,

since the joyful event, I have been able to dedicate to my Sophia; nor have I time at present to write much, as we are to have half a hundred people to dine with us, and I am not yet dressed; we have balls and concerts out of number, as will be the visits we shall have to re|turn; but those once over, I hope we shall settle for a while, though not very long, I believe, as my Lord is impatient to conduct his lovely bride to his own seat, where she insists upon it I must accompany her. Her Aunt will remain here.

I have not yet given my answer, nor can I, till I hear from mine, which I expect to do every hour, having already wrote to her on the subject; my dear Father is out of the question; he seems to have given me quite up, but too well I know it does not proceed from want of tenderness—I hope a time will come in which I may receive, from his own lips, pardon for all the trouble and uneasiness I have given him.

Sir Henry—What of him? (cries my kind Sophia.)

Why, my dear, I think I may now venture to say, my company has in a great measure made him forget his past misfortunes;—he has in the most engag|ing manner, assured me, the possession of my hand, and heart, is alone want|ing to render him the happiest of man|kind.

And what answer did I make? you ask, Sophia.

Ah, my dear friend, could I believe this, and one moment hesitate? Impossi|ble! In my own mind I mean!—No necessity for being quite so hasty in ac|knowledging my real sentiments, though I fear he guessed them!—In fine, he by some means or other obtained my per|mission to write to my Father. Lady Neville is almost as much delighted with the prospect of your Emily's felicity as she was with her own.—The post this moment arrived—a letter for me—I must lay down my pen till I read its contents.

In continuation.

Good heavens! Sophia, what a story is here? I am utterly confounded!

Amazed beyond all possible conception.—It cannot be!—She is! she surely must be mistaken! Never since I was created did I hear such a history! No my dear, I shall never so far get the better of my unspeakable astonishment as to be able to tell you.

Lady Stanley—Lord bless me! I know not where to begin. The Duke I wrote to you about some time since, proves to be an impostor. This is not all.—Be|fore it was discovered, he had actually married her: but what appears to me the most inexplicable of the whole is, he is said to be valet to Lord Sommerville, and had borrowed his master's carriage, servants, &c. &c. to carry on the abomi|nable deception.

This part of the story I cannot possibly give credit to—would she not have known again both one and the other? Yet that's a silly objection, since if it really is so, he would no doubt take care to send none she had ever seen; but what in the name of wonder could induce him to have any hand in it? It is this I cannot fathom. What had she done to deserve such a pu|nishment from him? How had she offend|ed?

I am perplexed! confounded! and know not what to make of it! My Aunt, too, is on the spot, so that there must be some foundation for it one would think, were it not so very improbable—Lady Neville calls me, I will return in a mo|ment.—

It is certainly a fact, Sophia, her Lady|ship, and all my friends below, are in no less astonishment than myself; they were reading the news papers and actually met with the story there, which was the occa|sion of their sending for me down; we are all now in the greatest consternation, and would give worlds to know the whys and wherefores of the matter, for it is those we can make nothing of.

Bad as his Lordship is, we can hardly conceive he could take part in such an in|famous transaction unprovoked; and I never heard she had given him any reason for resentment. He had a pretence for his vile conduct to me, though such as no man of honour would have looked upon as a justifiable one; he no doubt excuses it to himself, by pleading the violence of his passion, as those libertine creatures all do I suppose; but here we can find no

earthly cause for what he has done; if it is true that he actually is guilty, but this I say, bad as he is, I cannot believe—The fellow must have made use of every thing without his knowledge: in short, the more I think of it the more I am be|wildered, so I must leave the affair as it was.

One thing I had almost forgot, and no wonder: her Ladyship no sooner found how she had been deceived, than she set off in a post chaise and four, nobody knows whither; taking only her woman and one man servant with her; his Grace is left master of the mansion-house;—how long he means to occupy it, or what he intends to do next, no soul can guess.—Adieu. I have scribbled till I have scarce left time to dress.

Your's. E. HERBERT.

LETTER XLIV. Same to the Same.

READ the contents of the inclosed, my dear Sophia, and you will find a full

explanation of the mystery contained in my last; I will not anticipate, nor add even one of the thousand reflections I have made. Return it by next post; and believe me your's, in a violent hurry,

EMILY HERBERT.

THE INCLOSED LETTER. To Miss Herbert.

MADAM,

Colchester.

IN justice to Lord Sommerville, I take up my pen—A story you would probably hear of, in which his Lordship bears a considerable share, must, to those igno|rant of his motives, set him in no very favourable point of view. I am far from justifying his conduct in regard to Miss Herber: it will admit of no apology; no one can more severely condemn it than myself; every man of honour, of delicacy, must hold it unpardonable; forgive me, madam, for presuming to recall circumstances to your remembrance which must be painful; all I mean is to lay open a scene of treachery practised

but too successfully against him by the most artful of women, which I hope will convince you he is not quite so culpable as you have hitherto had but too much cause to believe him; and also excuse the revenge he has taken on his greatest enemy; an enemy who has for ever de|stroyed his peace of mind, and every pos|sibility of happiness.—That happiness wholly depended on the amiable Miss Herbert's esteem, and he has for ever lost it; he knows, he confesses the justice of her resentment, and though rendered the most wretched of men, submits, with re|signation, to the punishment inflicted on him.

Know then Miss Herbert, that woman is no other than Lady Stanley. It was myself who made the discovery of her baseness. Envious of your virtue and superior attractions, she wished to reduce you to her own level. But heaven! ever watchful over the innocent, preserved you from the snares she had laid, and she now suffers very severely for her crimes.

She it was, madam, who, by her arts, persuaded Mr. Morton to carry you off from Lord Sommerville, for whom she had then as warm an attachment as a

a mind depraved as her's is capable of: her motive was not only to revenge her|self on you for robbing her of his affecti|ons, but she also hoped to regain them when he found you were lost to him for ever. In this (as well she might) she was deceived. Miss Herbert's charms had made too deep an impression to be so ea|sily effaced.

More enraged than ever, she next forged a letter as from a servant at Mr. Morton's, while you were confined in his house, which she sent to his Lord|ship, telling him you were there, and ex|pressing the most sincere sorrow for the insults and brutal treatment you had re|ceived from her vile master. In short, to spare your delicacy the shock of hear|ing more of its horrid contents, imagine, if you please, the worst so wicked a wo|man could invent.

Lord Sommerville, enraged and dis|tracted with this intelligence, having no suspicion of the fraud, and believing the infamous story, instantly set off for the place of your confinement, and rescued you, as you know, from the power of the man who forcibly detained you.

I wish I could as fully justify his Lord|ship in what followed, as I trust I have thus far!—but I attempt it not! It is impos|sible! He is deeply sensible of it himself. The punishment he has inflicted on the worthless Lady Stanley, I need not relate. Mrs. Grenville has no doubt given you the particulars! but it was only in my power, or that of his Lordship, to explain his reason for arrogating to himself that prerogative, and he would not presume to take so great a liberty, I am fully per|suaded; give me leave to assure you upon my honour, he is even ignorant of my having done it.

Faulty, nay unpardonably so as he has undoubtedly been, I yet cannot but pity him from my soul, when I consider the inestimable treasure he has lost, in losing the lovely, the amiable Miss Herbert. Ah! He too, is indeed sufficiently punish|ed—Pardon my engrossing so much of your time, and believe me, with the most perfect esteem and respect, madam,

Your most obedient, Humble servant, J. MANSELL.

LETTER XLV. Miss Herbert to Miss Fermer.

WELL, my dear Sophia!—our curi|osity you find is at length fully gratified—What think you of the artful! The horrid Lady Stanley! Your astonishment, no doubt, equalled mine, surpass it, it could not.—Was there ever, do you think, another so complete a wretch in female form? I would gladly hope not.

The amiable Sir Henry was much alarmed on reading the Major's letter; I saw his colour change as he perused it, and his eyes frequently turned on me—was it possible he could really for a mo|ment fear my resentment was over, be|cause his friend had proved he was not quite so great a villain as I had believed him?—Or rather made an attempt to prove it, for in fact, I do not find him much less so than he was before; her Ladyship being so very vile a creature does not excuse him; whatever he might, by her arts, be persuaded to believe, it is impossible to justify him—nay, I think

his base, his ungenerous behaviour to me afterward was infinitely the more unpar|donable.—Was he not, Sophia, the most abandoned of mankind! Could he, be|cause he believed me so cruelly injured by another, have wished to render me still more miserable?—Ah! No, no!—None but a libertine, like himself, could have been capable of forming so execra|ble a design—Well may he despair of re|gaining my esteem—heaven forbid I should be so lost to every sense of honour and delicacy, as to be able to beslow it on so unworthy an object.

Lady Mary, as well as myself, observ|ed Sir Henry's emotions.

Ah, (cried she smiling) poor Sir Henry has now no chance; he may even take refuge on the nearest friendly willow he can meet with; to be sure our Emily cannot be so cruel as to refuse her pardon to his Lordship; you see he is not quite so black as his friend would persuade us, and we foolishly believed him; she is too good a Christian, I hope, not to forget and forgive, besides, you find he repents most seriously.

Ah, Lady Neville, spare your raillery, do not torture me by.…

Nay, Sir Henry (interrupting him) I I beseech you spare me, you surely pay me a wretched compliment, while you suppose it possible I can ever feel any sentiments but those of horror and con|tempt for so worthless a being—could I ever look upon him in a more favourable light I should little merit that friendship and esteem with which you honour me.—I believe, Sophia, I looked rather grave.

He threw himself at my feet and (re|spectfully taking my hand) cried, never, my adorable Emily, will I rese from this humble posture till you have smiled for|giveness! I ought, indeed, to have known my angel better! I blush for my folly, but a true passion is ever apprehen|sive; only say you pardon me, and tell me I have not wholly forfeited!

Come, come, Emily! put the creature out of his misery. I am too happy my|self not to wish every mortal equally so (looking on her amiable husband, who seized her hand, and pressed it with fer|vour to his lips.) Come, say something civil, and set his simple heart at rest!

It must then be on condition Sir Henry does me more justice for the future than

to believe I can ever be so blind to my own felicity as to prefer any man to him, much less the worthless one who has caused his present perplexity.

He flung his arms tenderly round me, and before I could possibly disengage my|self, pressed me to his breast, with looks which plainly spoke his gratitude.

That's a good girl! You have really made me a handsome speech, considering it was extempore, and since we are all friends again, suppose I make a proposal, which I think will contribute not a little to keep us so.

Oh by all means, (not dreaming what it was to be) I give you my word there is nothing I desire more.

Well then, Emily, suppose!—suppose now you were to do the very genteel thing! and tell us, you will, before the end of this week—let me see—this is Wednesday—aye just so—before the end of this week give your hand to—

Ah! my dear Lady Neville, (endea|vouring to interrupt her) how can you be so very silly?—I felt my face in a glow, Sophia! and stopped.

Sir Henry flew to her, (joy sparkling in his intelligent countenance) thus, on

my knees, let me thank my kind, my good friend, for her generous interposi|tion! Then rising, and taking my hand, can my lovely Emily refuse to oblige the amiable Lady Neville? Say my dearest creature, you will comply with her re|quest, and make me the happiest of—

Stop, I beseech you, Sir Henry; posi|tively, I will not be so taken in: her La|dyship is very sly; how could I evr ima|gine this was her fine proposal? If I had, can you believe I should so readily have agreed to hear it?

Oh! not for the world, to be sure, laughing at my foolish attempt to justify myself (and, to say truth, Sophia, it was sufficiently so; but I was horridly disconcerted) who could ever have fan|cied such a wicked thing? But now, having so clearly acquitted yourself to the satisfaction of all whom it may con|cern, suppose, as I was saying, you should name to-morrow.

To-morrow! exclaimed I— Oh! next day then!— Pray Lady Neville!

And pray Miss Herbert! But we will not differ about trifles; so, to end all dis|putes, let it be Saturday.

In short, Sophia, by some means or other, she actually carried her point; and, on Saturday next! Bless me, my dear friend, what am I to do? No pre|parations made! Mercy on me! I had a thousand things to think of! A thousand things to settle!—She says all that will be an amusement hereafter—it is so in the common style, to lay in a stock of fine|ry, as if a girl was afraid when once mar|ried she should never get another new gown again as long as she lived.

I should have told you, Sir Henry has received most gracious answers both from my Father and Aunt. I wished much to have had them both present at the ce|remony; but the former (had there been no other impediment) is at this time laid up with the gout; and, as for the latter, Lady Neville jestingly says, one old fidget|ing Aunt is enough at a time, and she will lend me hers—the truth of the mat|ter is, Mrs. Grenville earnestly begged to be excused, but is extremely desirous of seeing us as soon as possible after|wards.

So the important affair was settled this very morning—Wednesday—Thursday Friday—only three days—Good heaven!

my dear, Sophia, is it actually possible? Sir Henry assured me of it not an hour ago; and can I now, for the first time, begin to doubt his veracity.

Affectionately your's, EMILY HERBERT.

LETTER XLVI. Lady Neville to Miss Fermer.

YOUR friend, Emily, was on the point of taking up her pen to tell you she was married last Saturday. I happened to pop into her room at the very instant, and foreseeing she would make but a poor hand of it, with her tremors, trepidations, and so forth, took it quietly from her, sent her down to her Sir Henry, resolv|ed to acquaint you with it myself.

As to my being quite a stranger to Miss Fermer, that obstacle, we flatter our|selves, will soon be removed, as we hope to call in upon you in the tour we are going to make, and by that means I shall be so no longer; in the mean time you

must fancy the visit over, and it is per|fectly the same thing—Do you compre|hend me?

Well, and so on Saturday, as I was saying, the dear girl was married!—Some folks now, who have happier ta|lents, would fill half a dozen pages hav|ing such a theme; but I see nothing wonderful in it—She so lovely! He so discerning!—

As soon as we are ready we shall set off for her father's; it is proper I, under whose roof this affair has been transact|ed, should present Sir Henry, you know, lest they should accuse him of running away with her without my leave.

Then away we march to show him to her Aunt—next to you; but you, (pray observe) are to pack up your very best bib and tucker, as we mean to take you with us, so pray don't fail to be ready.

When we leave our Aunt, we proceed to my Lord's seat, stay there till I have looked about me a little; set matters to rights, as a notable wife ought to do, find a thousand fauts, turn off half a score of his favourite domestics, &c. &c. to show I know who is mistress, and that he has not married a raw ignorant girl.

Well, after that Sir Henry takes us all to his Chateau, trembling no doubt for the example I have set his gentle Emily; when she has, in her turn, played the wife there for a few days, we whisk up to London and buy finery; of course are presented, show ourselves at every public place, meet with universal admi|ration; and then return to the country; where, having composed our features into a proper degree of gravity, we commence wives in sober downright earnest.

That very amiable creature, Lady Stanley, alias Madame la Duchesse, has wisely taken herself out of the kingdom, some say to France; and his Grace having consulted a lawyer, and finding he is, bona fida, lord and master of all she has left behind her, makes himself easy, and is resolved she shall seek him before he goes in quest of her. How they will end their days, the deponent saith not.

There child! there is all the news I am mistress of. Don't forget the part I have assigned you, and believe me,

Your's. M. NEVILLE.

LETTER LVII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Esq.

Dover.

CHARLES, I have actually seen her!—seen my enchanting, my still ador|ed Emily!—Seen her the wise of ano|ther, and yet I live!

In the opposite box, at the playhouse, I beheld the lovely creature, infinitely more so, if possible, than ever—I had heard of her being married only a few days before; but, for the care and watchful attention of Sedly, who was with me when I was informed of it, and who has never quitted me since, I should certainly have shot myself through the head!—I was mad! Distracted! and I have him to thank for not being guilty of some desperate action.

When I saw her, he forcibly held me, for I was absurd enough to attempt fly|ing to her.—Happily he made me quit the house—happily, I say, for with con|fusion I write, I have injured the dear angel too much already ever to wish to distress her farther.

I returned home in an agony, that I think would even have excited pity in her dear breast; ordered my things to be packed up, late as it was, and actually set out that night for Dover, from whence I write these lines while waiting for the packet.

Never! never more! will I subject myself to the inexpressible torment of seeing her again, but will quit England for ever, that I may not run that ha|zard.

Now, my dear Dalton, for the last time while resident in my native land, do I bid you adieu, and am your unhappy, but sincere friend.

SOMMERVILLE.

FINIS.