V I C I S S I T U D E S

I N

G E N T E E L L I F E.

V I C I S S I T U D E S

I N

G E N T E E L L I F E

In FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

An Endeavour to please the Many, is not only a vain, but a

foolish Attempt, as the Success would be inglorious;

while the Approbation of the Few—the penetrating

and judicious Few—who can see, and will admire,

the Beauties that are meant, though imperfectly

expressed, rewards the Labors of a Writer,

and will perpetuate the Verdure of

his shaded Laurels.

SPECTATOR

S T A F F O R D:

PRINTED BY ARTHUR MORGAN.

AND SOLD BY

T.N. LONGMAN,

PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON.

M. DCC. XCIV.

VICISSITUDES

IN

GENTEEL LIFE.

LETTER, I.

MISS STANLEY, TO LADY STANLEY.

Woodstock, March 5th.

I Have now, my dear madam, been introduced to the respectable friends at the Lawn, and likewise to Lady Blurton and “the Honourable Miss Barbara Tupps.”

Yesterday, about twelve o'clock, a note arrived from Mrs. Stanhope to Mrs. Lawson, telling her that her niece and herself were just returned from Stanton; that Maria being impatient to see Charlotte's friend, they had determined to take the first opportunity of being introduced to her, and offered themselves to dinner, if Mrs. Lawson's family was not otherwise engaged. Accordingly, about half after one o'clock, setting out as soon as the servant returned, they arrived.

As the appearance of genteel people of this sect, is, I believe, rather new to you, I will endeavour to be a little particular in my description of theirs, the simplicity of it strongly striking my observation.

Their chaise was one of the neatest I ever saw in my life. Its colour was a light brown, elegantly ornamented, though in a plain way, with silver beadings, &c. lined with white sattin, and drawn by a pair of beautiful grey horses. The servants livery, if it can be called one, was of the colour of the chaise; buttons, the same, and, likewise, lined with white.

When the ladies appeared, I was surprised at the graceful ease of their manner, notwithstanding all that had been said to me about it; for I could not divest myself of the idea of some stiffness and formality; so unjustly has that opinion been generally imprinted upon the minds of those who differ in persuasion from these truly agreeable people; as Mrs. Lawson, who has had a pretty large acquaintance amongst them, tells me she has commonly found them to be. Charlotte confesses she had once a strong prejudice against them, from supposing she must never laugh, nor hardly speak, when in their company, which she says was entirely removed in their first visit to the Lawn. Mrs. Eleanor Lawson was always partial to them, but Miss Rachel dislikes them, she declares, “beyond all the people she knows upon earth,” because they will neither bow nor courtesy, and because they impertinently call her Rachel; a name, it seems, which she dislikes above all others; probably, on account of its being her own; and often quarrels with her mother and aunt, for their having imposed it upon her, without giving her any other to relieve it, as she says they might have done, without any affront to her lady-godmother. She is, to be sure, a most disagreeable tempered young woman, and ruins, as far as she is able, the harmony of this otherwise happy family.

When Mrs. Stanhope entered the room, I was struck with the agreeableness of her figure. She appears to be about fifty years of age; and has, I dare say, been very handsome when younger. Her complexion is very clear, and her hair dark. In her person she is rather tall, and inclined to be fat. She addressed me with a manner composed of true dignity and politeness; congratulating my friends at Woodstock on, what she termed, their acquisition.

I then turned to Miss Maria Lewis, than whom, I think, a more interesting figure never caught my eye. Her complexion is lovely fair indeed. Her features small, and her face so regularly pitted by the small pox, that I am sure it must have added to its beauty. Her eyes are dark; her lips a bright red. For the colour of her hair and eye-brows I can hardly find a comparison. It is not light; nor dark: yet rather dark than otherwise, and extremely glossy. It straggles about her neck; down the sides of her face, and upon her forehead, in a natural wave, forming itself, behind, into ringlets; evidently without having been curled. She is not quite so tall as Miss Lawson; rather more slender, and strikingly genteel. Her hands and arms particularly beautiful.

The elegance of her figure, prevented my noticing her dress, till a considerable time after her entrance; but I recollect she had on a light brown sattin gown; white sattin petticoat, with three welts. The sleeves of her gown came just below her elbow, and were bound with a strip of muslin: a piece of narrow black ribband was tied round her neck. Her linen was all of the finest buck-muslin; the apron laid in deep welts up to the top. There was not any thing about her which looked like trimming. Her bonnet and cloak were white sattin; the former almost round, and of the prettiest and most becoming shape imaginable: When she took it off, the simplicity of her head-dress pleased me more than all the rest. I cannot do justice to it by description. She has not yet, as I before intimated, turned her hair up from her forehead. I believe she endeavours to divest it of its curl in the fore part, but without success; its natural bend still persisting to give addition to its beauty. She wore a cap exactly calculated for the delicacy of her features. It was small and round. Her age, as I have said, is seventeen; but she appears still younger.

When Charlotte led her up to me, and put her hand into mine, introducing us to each other with a compliment to both, she animatedly said—“I am happy in being presented to the dearest friend of Charlotte Lawson, with whom I presume to hope her kind partiality will give me some distinction.”

I was so struck with the agreeable frankness of her manner, that I doubt I made but an aukward reply: however, I meant a sincere compliment, and she received it as such: thanking me for my prepossession, and asking permission to observe, that what she had already seen of me answered so exactly the idea she had formed, from description, that she was convinced she had likewise imbibed a just opinion of my character. I made my answer by my looks; and then, our matronly friends being seated, we took our places at the fire side; Miss Rachel not being yet ready to make her appearance. A more agreeable conversation than that which succeeded, I scarce ever remember to have borne a part in; the novel simplicity of the language of the friends, surprised and delighted me nearly as much as the delicacy and justness of their sentiments.

We sat chatting till near three o'clock, when a servant came with a letter to Miss Rachel, from Miss Barbara Tupps, apologizing for the short notice, and requesting her to get ready to return with Lady Blurton, who would follow the messenger; and indeed no sooner was the letter read, than, at a little distance, the chariot was in view. I had been told of the extreme gaudiness of this lady's appearance, but my utmost ideas of finery were short of the glare of her superb equipage; the showiness of which was, perhaps, more strikingly observable from the resemblance of the simple one that, about an hour before, entered the court-yard: indeed, no two things of the same kind could form a stronger contrast. In a few minutes the hall door was thrown open, and in rushed the ladies, both of them rather large in their make, and rendered much more so by the extreme bustle of their clothes, dressed—the one in an orange-tawney tabby; the other in deep red-rose sattin, with a profusion of feathers; flowers, and ribbands. Can you wonder at the surprise which filled the gentle Maria at this blazing appearance, or at the strong propensity to laughter which seized your saucy Emma! almost every body was inclined to smile. Mrs. Stanhope was, I believe, the only one who appeared unmoved. Yet even she, I fancied, looked with concern; as if she pitied them, and had said to herself—“Poor things!”—with an inward sigh of compassion for their folly. Even Miss Rachel, who professes to have a violent attachment to “the Honourable Miss Barbara Tupps,” was rather ashamed of their glaring finery. The friendship, as it is called, between Miss Barbara and Miss Rachel, arose from their having been together at school, one quarter of a year. Had they both continued there, it is probable this friendship would soon have given way to as great an animosity; their tempers being, as it seems it is generally known, by their friends on both sides, alike proud and unhappy. Mrs. Lawson and Mrs. Eleanor made considerable objections to Miss Rachel's accompanying these ladies to London: but upon her coming of age, which she did last November, she gave them to understand she should no longer think herself liable to any controul. Her conduct gives great vexation to her real friends. Mrs. Lawson, very tenderly and wisely, after due remonstrances, gives sometimes an apparent consent to what she can neither approve nor prevent, to avoid coming to extremities, and to save Miss Rachel from the open defiance which she seems to hold herself ready to commence: Hence, her permission to attend Lady Blurton.

When these honourable visitors entered the room, they were first introduced to Mrs. Stanhope; upon whom they seemed to look with inexpressible contempt; then to me, and then to Miss Lewis; over whom the eyes of Miss Barbara seemed to wander in a moment. They then sat down upon a sopha in silence; till at length Lady Blurton deigning to look at me—“I think, Miss,” said she, “Mrs. Lawson pronounced the name of Stanley, when she presented you.”

I bowed an affirmative.

Lady Blurton. O! aye—of the Stanley's in Derbyshire. Your father, I believe, Miss, has not yet succeeded in his endeavours to get a real title.

Emma. I do not know, madam, what you call a real title.

Lady Blurton. “Madam,” child! I am Lady Blurton. Well, but I believe, madam is the fashion; though, I protest, a very indecent one, as it sweeps away all due distinction: but young people must, to be sure, conform to the fashion, be it what it will.

Mrs. Lawson. Does your ladyship think that is always necessary? May there not be exceptions to the rule?

Lady Blurton. None, madam; none: none in life. If young people would cut any figures in the circles, they must be in the fashion; though, as the Earl of Banbury says, it should demand their walking with their heads downwards—He! he! he! he!

Mrs. E. Lawson. Then neither good sense nor morality are to stand out against this idol, fashion!

Lady Blurton. Good sense and morality, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson! you quite amaze me! How can a woman in your sphere talk in such a style! To be a fashionable person is sufficient. It includes every thing.

Mrs. E. Lawson. But are there not people in the world, Lady Blurton, who would look down with a little conscious superiority upon those who act upon this system? people too, whose opinion is truly worth regarding? And will there not come a time, think you, when these empty sentiments will prove not only very useless, but very painful to their adopter?

Lady Blurton was pursued to her last resource by Mrs. Eleanor Lawson's interrogations, which, she afterwards owned, she could not help bringing forward on account of Miss Rachel, who was so soon to be entrusted to her ladyship's protection.

The subject was now dropped, and Lady Blurton, not forgetting my reply, turned to me in front, and said—“Sure, Miss Stanley, you cannot have been brought up in so much ignorance, as not to know that a real title is such as confers nobility; all below that great boundary being merely nominatives. Your father, I fancy, is still nothing more than a baronet.”

Emma. Nothing more, madam; nor does he aspire to be any thing more.

Lady Blurton. O fye! O fye! Do not convey such an idea of your father's want of spirit. I dare say you four young ladies [looking at the two Miss Lawsons; Miss Lewis, and myself] would all wish to be married to real titles.

Charlotte. And does your Ladyship exclude Miss Barbara from a supposition of joining in the wish?

Lady Blurton. O Miss Lawson! Under the tutorage of such a mama, you must know better than to think it necessary to ask such a question. Miss Barbara Tupps was born honorable. It is not, therefore, essential for her to stand upon such a point; because were she to marry a plebeian, she would still retain her primeval distinction.

Lady Blurton judged politically in thinking it necessary to make this declaration; wisely concluding, no doubt, that it was very unlikely, “the honorable Miss Barbara Tupps” should ever be lifted into a sphere more exalted.

“True,” said Miss Rachel Lawson, to Lady Blurton's last speech, “I think your ladyship observes with great justness.”

No chance, to be sure, could ever have jumbled together a more unconsonant party than these ladies and the friends from the Lawn. I seemed to tremble for the events of the afternoon.

Just as Miss Rachel had replied to Lady Blurton, we were summoned to dinner, the greatest part of which passed pleasantly enough; but towards the latter end, an incident of the comic kind, made some of us put on tragic faces.

After an elegant table of fish, fowls, &c. &c. we had a genteel little desert of creams; jellies, and preserves. Near Miss Lewis stood some lemon slummery, which I could not help observing was particularly pleasant; Lady Blurton joined me in opinion; and Miss Tupps (her plate at that time being empty) fixing her eyes upon it, the gentle Maria, ever willing to oblige, took the spoon in her hand, and said with a pleasant air—“Barbara, wilt thou give me leave to help thee to a little of this nice jelly?”

This was the first direct address she had had occasion to make to either of these great ladies, and the consternation which appeared in the countenance of both, upon the occasion, is indescribable. They looked at each other with all imaginable surprise, and Lady Blurton, laying down the spoon she was lifting to her mouth, repeated the word BARBARA? in a tone (casting her eyes round the table) that asked the company whether she had heard aright.

“Barbara indeed!”—re-echoed the honorable Miss—while the modest, but unintimidated, Maria collectedly said, looking at both—“Friends, I meant you no disrespect. Were I in company with the daughter of a prince, the opinion in which I have been educated, would lead me to address her with the same seeming familiarity.”

“I do not know, Miss,” said the haughty girl, with a deep flush of resentment in her cheeks, “what your education has been, but the proofs you have, just now, exhibited, are not very strong in favour of its gentility.”

Mrs. Lawson, greatly hurt upon the occasion, and concerned for her innocent young friend, told this “honorable Miss Barbara Tupps,” that she would answer for it, Miss Lewis was very far from intending the least incivility; on the contrary, she evidently wished to oblige her, by helping her to some of the slummery which her friends had been so kind as to recommend.

Dinner was by this time finished; for no slummery would Miss Barbara taste; the table cleared; fruit and wine set on, and the servants going out, when the dowager lady took upon her to criticise Mrs. Lawson's address to her darling.

Lady Blurton. You say, madam, that Miss—I protest I forget her name—meant a civility, when she offered to serve Miss Barbara Tupps with some of that slummery, which, to be sure, was very nice. By the same rule, madam, you would affirm that the mistress of a London gin-shop coming to the door, and, with an offensive breath, asking you to walk in and drink, was a civil personage.

At this I saw Mrs. Stanhope, who had, hitherto, appeared unmoved, was offended; and, I believe, thought it was incumbent upon her to take some notice of this palpable affront to her niece; which she did by saying—“Permit me, neighbour Blurton, to observe that the dialect thou hast chosen to convey thy ideas in, is so new to Maria Lewis, that I apprehend she will not understand the allusion.”

The edge of this reproof was too fine for her ladyship's feelings to be hurt by, because she was insensible to its keenness; but she seemed to suppose it was a tart reply—not by Mrs. Stanhope's manner; for that was perfectly composed; but, probably, because she was conscious her speech merited one: therefore, drawing up her head, she said—“I cannot tell, madam, what you mean, madam; nor do I know that I ever was any neighbour of yours.”

Mrs. Stanhope. And yet I hope I should be a neighbour to thee, were I called upon by occasion, without removing into thy vicinity. I have been accustomed to think of, and to use, the word neighbour in an extensive sense.

Lady Blurton. Are you going to teach me the sense of words, madam? Or do you suppose I do not know what a neighbour is?

Mrs. Stanhope. It appeared as if thou wert a stranger to the sense in which I used the word; as else, thou wouldst not, I think, have been offended.

Mrs. Eleanor Lawson observing the attitude of consequence which Lady Blurton was preparing to speak in, and apprehending the argument might increase in unpleasantness, prevented her reply, by saying—“I do not pretend to understand the true etymology of the word neighbour; but we have the highest authority for using it for any one who would do another an office of kindness; though, as the example alluded to, says, they should be so far from living near each other, that they should even be of different nations: and this, doubtless, is the sense—the benevolent sense—in which it is constantly used by that sect of people, of which Mrs. Stanhope is a member; and, permit me to say, an ornament.”

Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, as she afterwards said, hoped this would finish the subject; but Lady Blurton, who always thinks, what she calls, her opinion, ought universally to be subscribed to, was not to be so answered. Without giving time for any body to introduce any other topic of conversation, as every one was endeavouring to do, she proceeded with—“Upon my word, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, you are all too wise; too learned, and too good for me. I protest I know not what to say to you. Pray what authority, and what example can you give, to bring that old-fashioned and vulgar word of neighbour into use?”

Mrs. E. Lawson. Your Ladyship certainly remembers the story of the good Samaritan.

Lady Blurton. Yes; I remember reading something about it when I went to school; though I protest I have almost forgot it. But the higher circles, madam, are not ruled by any of these things now; for if they were, all due distinctions would be laid aside, and we should be all friends and neighbours in a lump. He! he! he!

Miss Barbara, [continuing the he, he, he.] What, I wonder, would Colonel Morrington think of such antique doctrines! Cannot your Ladyship imagine you see that charming man, whom your ladyship always allowed to be a poignant wit, listening in the attitude of surprise, to such novel sentiments?

To the question of her daughter, Lady Blurton made the following reply—“Novel sentiments indeed! my dear Miss Barbara. Why we shall, by and by, have all the old stories in the Bible laid before us, as fit examples for us to follow. Pray madam”—turning herself in front to Mrs. Stanhope, in a disputing attitude—“is there in that old book any account of personages of real nobility?”

At that instant the door of the dining-room was thrown open, and Doctor Griffith, the venerable Rector of Woodstock, made his appearance. We all of us arose at his entrance, for which we received a reprimand, as he desires always to be permitted to come and go without any ceremony. After he had seated himself, which he did between Mrs. Stanhope and myself, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, desirous, as she owned after they were gone, to give, if possible, some check to the haughtiness of this really ridiculous woman, said, “Doctor, you are come in the right time to give an answer to a question of Lady Blurton's; her ladyship wanting to know if there were in the ages in which the Bible was written, any people of real nobility.”

Doctor G. [ addressing Lady Blurton.] Certainly, madam, a great number.

Lady Blurton. Well, I protest, I am heartily glad of that. Now, madam, [to Mrs. Stanhope] you will see your error. Doctor Griffith, you are a very learned gentleman. Well, and who were they? I protest I did not know this before. I declare I shall like that book better than ever I did in my life.

Doctor Griffith. Some of the most renowned in the earliest ages of the world were Abraham; Jacob; Moses, and David.

Lady Blurton. And pray how were they distinguished? And what titles did their ladies bear?

Doctor Griffith. The first, madam, was called THE FATHER OF THE FAITHFUL: Jacob was generally termed THE PATRIARCH: Moses, THE MEEKEST OF ALL MEN; and David—THE MAN AFTER GOD’S OWN HEART. As to their ladies, as you term them, I believe they thought themselves happy in being the wives of such GOOD MEN, without any desire of being considered as great women.

Lady Blurton. Well, but Doctor, I believe you are in jest all this time, and I protest—

Doctor Griffith. Indeed, madam, I am not in jest; this is to me a serious subject; and rather a melancholy one. To bring our ideas down to our own times—were the female part of the creation to think goodness of heart the best recommendation our sex could obtain, no one undeserving of that distinction would dare to offer himself to any woman of character. Were he inclined to make himself happy in marriage, he would first endeavour to retrieve his lost reputation. And were the male part of the world to give that due preference to the meek; the modest; the good-humoured, and domestic, though lively fair ones, which they so justly merit, we should not see our modern belles so studious to display such tinsel ornaments of person, and empty qualities of mind, as they now consider to be a first distinction. But, madam, [addressing Mrs. Stanhope] I did not know you were returned to Woodstock, or I certainly should have treated myself by a call upon you and my little dove here—[by which appellation he always distinguishes Miss Lewis.]

This, as the good doctor intended it should, gave a turn to the conversation. The rest of the afternoon was passed in lively chit-chat; and Lady Blurton seemed to regard Mrs. Stanhope as increased in consequence from the respect with which she was treated by Doctor Griffith, who being the son of a gentleman possessed of what she acknowledges to be a real title, had much of her observance. As the doctor has always been distinguished for his fine understanding; great goodness, and likewise true politeness, we were all somewhat surprised at his so unceremoniously replying to Lady Blurton; and, after they were gone, we remarked it to him; upon which he told us he so thoroughly knew the character of the woman, that he was convinced she needed some reproof, the moment he heard what subject we were upon, and was determined to endeavour to silence her.

About seven o’clock the ladies left us, taking with them, to her great delight, Miss Rachel Lawson, whom, I must confess, I was not sorry to see depart; except on account of the concern her going with such introducers into gay life, gave her mother, aunt, and sister: but she would not be prevented.

The remainder of the evening was convivial and agreeable, beyond my powers of description.

Mrs. Stanhope and Doctor Griffith are upon a very intimate footing, and greatly respect each other; a proof of the goodness of both their hearts.

Other subjects press for admittance, but I will not at this time enter upon any new ones.

By to-morrow's post I mean to write to Maria; who, let me repeat, is often in my remembrance. Her letter particularly obliged me.

I cannot suppress a wish to know if Sir Charles Conway keeps his intention of not making any long stay in London.

With an affectionate heart, I am,

My dear madam,

Your's, by every tie of

duty and gratitude,

EMMA STANLEY.

LETTER, II.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE

STANLEY, ESQ.

Portland Place, March 5th.

I Have received yours, dated Monday, and thank you for the smile with which some lines in it inspired my features. The sensation seemed new to me; and when it ceased, I wondered how it could have been effected.

To the first part of your letter, I say nothing; except that I hope you are not to be caught by a pink gown and white petticoat.

I arrived in town this morning at ten. As I told you, I intended to have been here last night, but was induced to stop at Barnet by our fellow-student, Herbert Evelyn. There never was a better hearted fellow in existence than Herbert. He has taken orders, and has, for some time, been enquiring for a curacy; for, would you believe it! his father has married that young baggage, who was his housekeeper at Reading, and since that time, poor Herbert has scarce known what to do with himself. I think he is grown extremely handsome, and his understanding seems even brighter than it used to be; yet it was always considered as of first rate: but he has too much real merit, and is too diffident to advance himself. I have, therefore, taken him entirely under my care. He is to accompany me in my present ramble, and, at my return, to live at Hawthorn Grove till our good old rector shall be translated to a richer inheritance, and then he shall be instituted to that living: but to prevent his having any temptation to wish for the arrival of the poor old man's last hour, I will settle an annuity upon him till that period, not greatly short of the good rector's income.

Herbert received my proposal with a peculiar grace. His eyes glistened: he pressed my hand; bowed, and left me. When we again met, he revived the subject, and ended it with expressing a hope that Mr. Eachard would, at our return, accept his constant assistance in the church.

I know you will be pleased at my having picked up such a companion; whom, by what is called mere accident, I met with half a mile on the other side of Barnet. We were driving pretty smartly along a smooth piece of road, when the rein of one of the fore horses got loose from its buckle, and James dismounted to fasten it; at which instant I observed a very genteel young man, exceedingly well mounted, who met and passed the chaise. I was struck, when I saw him, with an idea that I had some knowledge of him, but the difference, much to his advantage, which his canonical dress made in his appearance, prevented my recollecting who he was. Just as James had replaced the buckle, and was going to remount, Mr. Evelyn returned, and advancing to the chaise window—“Sir Charles Conway's carriage, by the arms,” said he; “and sure I see my old friend!” At that instant I recognized his features; gave him my hand, and, upon finding his business could as well be pursued in the morning, insisted upon his giving his horse to Joseph, and taking a seat in the chaise. Till we reached Barnet, we had only common chat; but alighting there, and ordering some coffee, the conversation became very interesting. Old Evelyn, as I told you, has married his housekeeper; Peggy Southern her name; who proves such a virago, and so entirely governs her old cully, that his father's house is no longer a residence for poor Herbert.

His mother's dying request that he might be educated for a clergyman, seems to have been a prophetic one. At the time she made it, it was hardly thought consistent with rectitude; as nobody considered him in any other light than as the undoubted heir to fourteen hundred a year; two only of which were settled upon the late Mrs. Evelyn; therefore the father has unlimited power over the other twelve; which, it is ten to one but he disposes of to the children of this young hussey, if she has any; though, perhaps, they will not be indebted to him for their existence.

Herbert has lately occupied lodgings in London; and, when we met, was going to a village near North-Mims, where he has a friend who promised to recommend him to a vacant curacy in that neighbourhood. He enquired very cordially after you, and sends his compliments.

Upon my word I have several times been surprised, since the short time of our meeting, at the extraordinary qualities which appear to be in the mind of this young man. You, George, will, I know, be particularly pleased with him, as he at once united the scholar; the good man, and the gentleman. The difference between what he is now, and what he was when we called upon him at Reading, two years back, is incredible.

The enclosed allegory respecting fate and free-will, which I scribbled last night before I went to bed, will give you my opinion upon what will, probably, be called the chance of my meeting with Mr. Evelyn. It is so entirely in your own way, that I will not apologize for presenting you with such a serious performance.

I have not yet fixed the day for leaving London, but mean not to stay in it long. My mode of travelling will now be altered, and, as you advised, shall go down with my chaise and four; but shall take only one saddle horse, as Mr. Evelyn’s must go likewise.

And now to another part of your letter—your Quixottic scheme.—The advice you give is, I think, exactly calculated for you to follow. It would be acting up to the very essence of your character. Leave Maria Birtles to your footman—though I must own, by what you say of her, and her conduct, she is rather too superior: but I do not credit one half of your account—and pursue the noble Lady Caroline. I will furnish you with a letter of introduction to her; and Stanley will supply the place of Pemberton, as well as Conway. Pursue and bring her back. This will be an atchievement worthy of you; and though, for various reasons, I decline the Knightship, as Sancho, I am at your command. Seriously though, I am under much concern for the fate of that justly celebrated young lady. Had I not known her, I should have pitied her from report; but whoever has once seen her, must be doubly interested for her. Who knows what she may not, at this time endure! In a foreign country, and, probably, if she misses the Maynards, without one friend near her! How severely must she feel her present destiny! Her misfortunes have frequently had a place in my contemplation since I have known the particulars of her history: the more frequently, because of my thorough acquaintance with that old hypocrite, Lord Crumpford; than whom I do not think there is a viler fellow breathing.

Such a wife as Lady Caroline Pemberton, George, I should joy to see you in possession of. She is the very woman to suit you. Want of fortune in her, ought not once to be named. If you hear any more of her, transmit to me the account.

* * * * *

Just as I was going to close my letter, Colonel Greville was announced. He met Joseph in Piccadilly; stopped him, and enquired for me. I could almost wish he had not known I was in town, for I do not want company. His enquiries about friends at Alverston were so very particular, that he unavoidably caught some knowledge of the present situation of circumstances; at which, as indeed he well might, he seemed astonished. We had not much conversation; he being engaged to a masquerade-party. I think he talked of going soon to Alverston.

Hang him! he seems to have oppressed my spirits. His questions, though obliging in intention, were, at this time, particularly irksome.

Farewell.

CHARLES CONWAY.

LETTER, III.

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

Alverston, Friday night, March 6th.

YOUR letter, my dear Charles, dated yesterday, was put into my hands just as I was sitting down to scribble to you. The contents greatly please me; at least, the major part of them. Your meeting with Herbert Evelyn, is just such an incident as I could have wished for. I have always loved that fellow for his generosity to the Hadderleys. Very few people would have acted as he did, in that business. Give my hearty service to him, and bid him not postpone his ideas of having a living in Derbyshire till your reverend friend leaves his terrestrial heritage, for Fowller is returned from Bath worse than when he left Alverston, and his dissolution is expected soon to happen. Poor young man! I but little thought, when he was inducted to this benefice, he would vacate it so soon; as who, at that time, was more strong and hearty than Fowller! While he lives, I shall say no more upon this subject; save that my father has given it to me to supply the loss we are so soon likely to experience.

Believe me, I perfectly coincide, and in my rational moments always did, with the allegorical realities which you enclosed. I firmly believe all you meant to infer upon the subject, yet cannot, for the blood of me, as my godfather says, bring my practice to my principles. My soul seems to be like tinder; the least spark sets it on fire; and, in half a minute, I am blown into a blaze. At this very juncture, I seem all combustible, and I did a violence to myself in suppressing a rhapsody respecting the events of last night, till I had paid my compliments to the receipt of your letter; which, however, I re-affirm has so much, on many accounts, pleased me, that it confined for some minutes, after perusal, my thoughts entirely to its subjects: a proof, and a strong one, as you will by and by acknowledge, of its importance in my estimation.

Lady Caroline Pemberton indeed! No; no, Charles, no Lady Carolines for me, I do assure you! Greatly as I admire and reverence her fame, I would not marry her were she sole heiress to the whole Danvers estate; and, indeed, that would have but little weight in determining my election. Tell me not, therefore, of Lady Caroline Pemberton. Tell me not, at this time, even of Maria Birtles: but tell me, Conway, tell me of my invisible enslaver—of the dear, charming, beautiful creature, who, for aught I know, may be as ugly as Hecate, as I am an entire stranger to her identity; yet I rave—I burn—I die to throw myself at her feet.

“Is the fellow mad!?” you will exclaimingly question.

Mad indeed, Charles! very, very mad: and mad I am likely to continue, without hope of relief. But I will try to tell you the rise of my distemper, with all the leading particulars.

I finished my last letter with the arrival of Bob Saunders, and the impossibility of any thing happening at the ball to afford me even amusement.

What incompetent judges we are one hour of what we shall be the next! How often are the most important events at hand—decisive of our happiness or its contrary—when we think ourselves in a perfect, and, as perhaps we call it, a stupid serenity!

Could you ever have supposed—but no; it was impossible. So listen, and be convinced.

Mr. Slayton not chusing to accompany us to the lodge, as he meant to pursue his journey to town early in the morning, my father was under the necessity of remaining likewise at Alverston. It was, therefore, agreed that our coach should convey my mother, Mr. Saunders and myself, and wait till morning (as it was not probable we should leave the ball till after midnight) for Bob and me; and that his chaise, my father's being at Derby to be new lined, should be sent for my mother between eleven and twelve, as she would not consent either to stay longer, or to permit our deserting the company so early. To the ball, then, about seven o'clock last evening, we were conveyed, where we met, I think, the most elegant company I ever saw selected. Beauties swarmed in every corner of the room; amongst whom, the most distinguishable were Miss Asheton; Miss Williams; Miss Prettyman; Lady Jane Stafford; the young Dowager Lady Brewster; Miss Sparkes, and Miss Louisa Levett. The smartest beaux—Lord Ramsey; Lord Ashburne; Sir George Nassau; Sir Cotton Delwyn; Sir John Byron; Captain Forbes; Mr. Smythes; Mr. Gladwyn, and Mr. Derelincourt; not forgetting myself and Bob Saunders. Bob danced with a Miss Allenton, and I with Lady Brewster. But the bride—I forgot the bride—was one of the prettiest women there; and her dress, by far the most elegant.

The first minuet was danced by Lady Jane Stafford with the bridegroom. The second, by the young dowager with Lord Ashburne. But I cannot go through all the ceremony. Suffice it that the bride begged off, and that I walked the Z with Miss Lucy Browne. After minuets, we proceeded to country dances; after country dances to supper; which was announced about half past ten. I told you I danced with Lady Brewster. The evening, as I prognosticated, had, hitherto, no particular charms for me; though my partner was handsome; lively, and good-humoured: but Maria Birtles held her place in my idea. About twelve o'clock, the dons and matrons began to retire; my mother was amongst the early ones; upon which occasion I was very near offending our ceremonious Squire Saunders, by preparing to attend her. He brushed past me; took my mother's hand, and asked me if I recollected in whose carriage she was going. I begged his pardon; bowed, and resigned to his care my mother; who, by the bye, was near losing one of her diamond earrings, in the anti-room. She was not sensible of its dropping, but a servant accidentally set his foot upon it, while she was putting on her cloak. Of this incident, Saunders made a long story to the ladies upon his return; observing to them how careful they ought to be upon such occasions; and ending his harangue with an account of the nobleness, as he termed it, of Lady Stanley's bounty to the fortunate finder. What a strange fellow this is grown! His particularities increase upon him most intolerably.

We returned to the ball-room, and continued dancing till after one, when a sudden confusion ensued, occasioned by the fainting of Lady Sardon, who fell lifeless upon the floor, no one being near enough to save her; but when she was down, she was surrounded in an instant: the dancing ceased; the music stopped, and all was bustle and hurry. Lord Ramsey and myself took her up, and carried her into the anti-room, where we placed her upon a sopha. The ladies thronged round her; each endeavouring to be of service. One drew from her pocket some eau-de-luce; another some hartshorn; a third a smelling-bottle, and so on all round, till at length she revived, and in a short time was entirely recovered.

The spirit of dancing seemed to be now evaporated, and two or three of the young ones began a gentle game of romps, which soon became general, and a universal hoity-toity filled the place. I seized upon the youngest of the Miss Bouvres, and was going to place her by my side as I sat upon the sopha, which stood behind the opening of the door; but she struggled from me, and ran to the other side of the room; at which, setting one foot back to spring after her, I trod upon some thing that lay just under the sopha, and was partly hid by the fringe at the bottom of the cover; when, upon stooping down, I saw and picked up a very neat vellum case, with a small gold stamped border, the contents of which I was strongly tempted to inspect; but honor forbad; therefore I took with me into the ball-room a small stool which was used to accommodate the ladies in stepping from the door to their carriages, mounted it, and proclaimed aloud my good fortune, offering to restore my prize to its fair owner (as, by its delicacy, it evidently belonged to a lady) for the reward of a kiss from the hand which received it, upon proof of just claim. I then made many little flourishes upon the nature of the oath I required to be taken upon the occasion, offering my right cheek (as a book might not be at hand) for sealing the affirmation; and soon drew round me a great number of auditors; but the perverse charmer, whose property it was, refused to make her claim; which, at the time surprised me, as there was no doubt of her being present; it having, probably, been dropped by some of the fair ones who bustled round Lady Sardon, and my O Yez! pronounced three times with a very audible voice, had charmed round my stage, every lady, and I believe every gentleman of the party. But the reason for this disingenuity soon appeared very obvious; for having continued my enquiry for some time, without effect, I stepped into an adjoining room to inspect the contents, that I might gain intelligence of the owner, and then saw the cause of its not being claimed. And now, Conway, figure to yourself the surprise; the astonishment; the something, for which I cannot find a name, that seized me when I drew from the little case a miniature portrait of myself. I started—I gazed—for the likeness was so wonderfully strong, that it struck me in a moment—I disbelieved the evidence of my senses; rubbed my eyes, and asked myself if I was awake. It was fortunate that I did not examine the contents of my prize in the ball-room, as every one who had seen me, must have wondered at my antic behaviour. I went to the glass—held the image by its side—looked at that—at myself, and was convinced it was my exact resemblance: no representation could possibly be more true: it was done in crayons, and executed by a most masterly hand indeed. This incident seemed to me to be the effect of enchantment; but the magical spell had not yet arrived at its greatest height, nor produced its greatest effect; for recollecting my absence from the company might possibly be noticed and wondered at, I was about to replace the little figure in the recess I had drawn it from, and return to the occupied rooms, when I again suspected my eyes of being under illusion upon their wandering over the following lines which appeared to be written with the greatest accuracy, and in the most particularly elegant characters I ever saw, on the back of the paper, which was double.

“The portrait which my pencils trace,

“Will give you Stanley's form and face:

“But not his form and face conjoined,

“My heart could steal, without his mind.

“There gentleness and spirit meet—

“There wit and sense each other greet;

“And form one, in my eyes, compleat.”

Charles, not the strongest—the most active—the most powerful imagination ever given to man, can come up to the idea of the effect these lines, added to the circumstance of the portrait, had upon my heart. From my not being able to fix upon any one individual, the dear performer was represented to my imagination as the most beautiful of all beautiful creatures. Of her mental perfections, I had the most absolute proof; and that her affection was decidedly mine, even modesty herself must allow. My vanity, Charles, was not awakened, high as were the encomiums of the poetry; but my tenderness—my gratitude—all the sensibility of my soul—was absorbed by this real—yet ideal charmer. For some time I stood lost in contemplation; fixing first upon one—then upon another of the angels (as I now thought they all were) which graced the wedding feast; every one being, in my opinion, more handsome than she was before this incident; but my idea could not rest upon any; so effectually had the real one guarded both her manner and her countenance, when the case was offered to public claim. I now determined to return to the rooms with the most watchful eye; judging it would be almost impossible the lovely creature could escape my observation, in the strict scrutiny I meant to set on foot. Upon going into the ball-room I found it vacated; dancing having been given over by universal consent, and the company retired to the drawing-room, having ordered their carriages to be got in readiness.

I now separately addressed every individual female present; endeavouring, by all the methods I could think of, to draw the confession I so ardently wished to obtain; but to no purpose. Some smiled—others blushed; but they were not the smiles nor the blushes of consciousness. Yet I was convinced the charming she must then be present, as no one had left the ball but elderly matrons, in whom not one idea could center upon the occasion.

I examined the possibility of the magic performance having been dropped by a mother or aunt of some absent enchantress; but my suppositions wearied me, without bringing to my view the least probable conjecture, and I was obliged to seem to forget the incident, though it united with my every idea. I wished to have set on foot some little puzzling play of the species of fortune-telling, making it necessary for every lady to give a sentence in writing, which at once would have rendered the veil transparent; the characters of the poetry being, as I have told you, so remarkably beautiful, that it was not likely any others would resemble them. My sister's writing is the most similar of any I ever saw; but it does not equal it. This method, therefore, I would certainly have taken, had it been an hour sooner; but it was then too late to permit my practising it with any degree of propriety; the company being all about to depart.

I would have given worlds to have detected the sweet assassinating thief who has thus wounded and robbed me under these impervious shades, and I think should have been tempted to have insisted upon the immediate sacrifice of her name as a recompense.

By my faith, Charles! I never before was under such perplexity. What can I do! How can I think of any other creature! The execution of the portrait, and the poetry, give proof of her genius and accomplishments: the sentiments of the verses evince her delicacy; her tenderness; her goodness: and the choice she has made FOR AN OBJECT OF HER SENSIBILITY—gives her, in my estimation—every power to charm. Maria Birtles—so late the image of my idolatry—seems nearly vanished from my remembrance; perhaps, because I have not seen her since my return.

Charles—knowing my temper as you know it—if you do not compassionate me, you are worse than a barbarian.

By my soul! I believe I shall go distracted. I cannot write: I cannot think: I cannot do any thing. I am ashamed of myself—ashamed of finding my heart, which I absolutely believed to be even more fixed than I would own to you, capable of being so changed—so divided—so I know not what to call it.

Yet can it be wondered at! A circumstance so singular—so extraordinary! I am, beyond measure, perplexed.

And you, I now recollect, will rejoice at this incident. You will think it a fortunate circumstance, if it frees me, in any degree, from what you dare to consider as an inglorious captivity.

Be not too sanguine. I own I feel, at present, rather aukward; but the effervescence occasioned by this ignis-fatuus must cease in time, if it continues to elude my exploration; and then the blaze, after its temporary suppression—

But, Charles! Charles! this is only to plague you; for I have not one distinct idea of what is probable, or of what my wishes lead to. My soul is all confusion.

I repeat that I cannot write: I cannot think: I cannot do any thing.

GEORGE STANLEY.

LETTER, IV.

MISS RACHEL LAWSON TO MISS LAWSON.

London, March 6th.

ABOUT two hours back we safely alighted in charming Hanover-Square with health and spirits unimpaired: for if they were a little wasted by the fatigues of the journey, they were instantly recruited by the very first view we caught of dear London.

Poor Charlotte! how I pity your situation! yet not so much as if your exile from all that is delightful was not voluntary. Strange that a young woman of your vivacity and accomplishments should have such an antiquated taste as to give Oxfordshire the preference to Middlesex!

Astonishing sister! absolutely astonishing!

I do not mean to offend any one in the circle which I have been taught to revere—else I should be tempted to repeat the hackneyed quotation of

“—Croaking rooks,

“Dull aunts and godly books.”

While Miss Stanley is with you, indeed, Woodstock may be supportable; provided—pray, Charlotte, do not be offended, but provided you could keep clear of—THE FRIENDS AT THE LAWN.

Miss Barbara Tupps has talked of nothing since she left Woodstock but Doctor Griffith's “Little Dove,” who, she observes, and I think not very unjustly, can never be of any earthly use but to soil a real fine lady.

But poor Charlotte! I must not make you quite sick of your sylvan scene, neither; therefore I am almost afraid that the contrast will strike you too forcibly when I tell you that we are going this evening to Drury-Lane Theatre; as Lady Blurton says that will be the best method to proclaim her return to town—To-morrow to Mrs. Linsted's, her ladyships cousin; on Sunday to Lady Beever’s card-rout, which Lady Blurton never fails to attend when in London; on Monday to a concert; on Tuesday to Covent-Garden; on Wednesday—but I forgot myself—I quere whether my mention of the Sunday's engagement has not so astonished you as to render you incapable of proceeding. But, child! I am not at this time within the precincts of the friends at the Lawn; nor yet in hearing of old Doctor Griffith's lectures. I must now conform to the fashion of the times, or I had better have staid at Woodstock.

When I have experienced the enchantments of the town, I think I will venture to give you a slight sketch of them, as you are so rooted to your native soil—alias dirt! Excuse me, Charlotte—that I need not, I believe, be very apprehensive of destroying you by envy.

Remember me, my good matronly sister, with due reverence, duty, love and compliments to my mother, aunt, and Miss Stanley; believing that this vortex has not yet so totally absorbed me as to prevent my still continuing

Your's, affectionately,

R. LAWSON.

LETTER, V.

MRS. LAWSON, TO MISS RACHEL LAWSON.

Woodstock, March 7th, Saturday morning.

YOUR letter to your sister, my dear Rachel, reached Woodstock just as we were sitting down to breakfast, after which Charlotte was retiring to answer it, but being disposed to write to you myself, I told her the employment should devolve upon me.

We are all glad, my dear girl, to hear of your safe arrival in London. Your aunt; your sister, and Miss Stanley, request to be remembered to you with tender cordiality, wishing your excursion may prove beneficial as well as agreeable.

Present the compliments of our circle to Lady Blurton and Miss Barbara Tupps.

And now, my dear, allow a mother, ever solicitous for the best happiness of her children, to express her apprehensions on your present situation; which, I must confess, is not exactly what I could wish it to be.

Lady Blurton is a woman of gaiety: for a woman of her years—of great gaiety. Miss Barbara Tupps is pretty much like her mother in almost every respect. My Rachel has, three times doubled, the understanding of either, and is greatly more qualified to lead both, than to be led by them; for which reason, I hope she will not give herself up to their guidance.

Were you, my dear child, a few years younger, I should think it my duty to write to Lady Blurton, requesting her attention to the principles in which you have been educated; and intreating her rather to leave you to amuse yourself, which you are exceedingly well qualified to do, than to introduce you to company unconsonant to such as you have been accustomed to, and likewise, I hope, to your disposition. But you are now of an age, and, as I before said, of ability to advise the person who is, at present, in the world's eye, your leader.

Lady Blurton, you say, constantly attends Lady Beever’s Sunday's card-routs. I know Lady Beever well. I knew her when she was Hannah Smith, and a seemingly modest young woman. Her father was an industrious, honest man, and happy in the notice his daughter attracted from our family; which was not withdrawn till the atrociousness of her conduct made it highly improper to be continued. When she was about eighteen, she went to live with Mrs. Beever, who died within a year after her going thither; but not before she found reason to lament her husband’s ever having known Hannah Smith.

Soon after Mrs. Beever’s death, Mr. Beever was knighted, and, in a few weeks, ushered Hannah Smith into the great world as his lady. The poor man lived long enough to recollect he had had one good wife; but his reason failed, and while he, for three years, was confined in a private mad-house, Lady Beever—or, as many people still think and call her—Hannah Smith—had her routs; her drums, and her gallants.

Such is the woman to whom my Rachel is to be introduced by Lady Blurton! whom, by the way, I wonder that her ladyship notices; because, to use her own expression, she is not of quality. Such is the woman who, upon the death of the man whose name she bears, removed to what is called “the other end of the town,” and has her Sunday card-meetings; to which people of reputation condescend to resort, because, as the phrase is, “she lives in style!”

Exert, my dear child, the reason with which GOD ALMIGHTY has so liberally blessed you, and instead of submitting to follow Lady Blurton and her daughter in their mistakes, give yourself the consequence, so justly your due, of endeavouring to teach them rectitude from error.

In a state where individuals, in general, are happy in the good order and government extended to every corner of the kingdom, it is wrong to infringe upon its laws (though, perhaps, there may be some which, in themselves, are of but small consequence) because it may prove an introduction to general disorder; for when the observation of customs, established by authority, shall cease, who can tell what bounds shall be set to the infringement? therefore, every law of the nation which is not contrary to the law of GOD, ought to be attentively observed, though in itself, as I have said, immaterial. Allowing, for a few moments, that the observation of the Sabbath is merely by human appointment, and that it might be as well if all respect to it were abolished—still, upon the foregoing considerations, it ought to be esteemed as the law of the kingdom requires, though it answers not the purposes for which people, in general, hold it in reverence. There are six successive days in which we have perfect freedom to pursue the fashionable diversions of the age; and if we will not be restrained by higher considerations, it is only varying our amusements to make the Sunday supportable!!!

The first part of any day is seldom spent in either card-playing; dancing, or theatrical entertainments. It is only a few hours in the evening that are employed in the prohibited diversions; and it is very hard if modern ingenuity cannot invent some method to kill this short period, less offensive to society, than an open defiance of law and decency. If the fine ladies of the present age, will not punish themselves so much as to be exemplary, let them be negatively virtuous, and not set a pattern to their children and servants, which, if generally followed, would, without dispute, bring inevitable destruction upon the nation: and what exclusive right have they to mis-spend the Sabbath-day? Where is the privilege to stop? At what ranks of people?

I have done with supposing the institution to be merely a harmless one. It is positively useful; and even necessary for the good order of society—for the well-doing of mankind: and it is, likewise, by Divine Command.

That it was a fundamental part of the old law will not be disputed. And was it ever repealed? No: it was enforced by the Great Teacher of the Gospel Faith.

“Keep the Commandments”—was an edict of His who enjoined nothing superfluous. The other nine, are, by every one, allowed to be reasonable, and why should this be singled out for exemption?

I am not contending for such an observance of the Sabbath as some people think necessary: that is to say, that we ought to look upon it as a day of austerity, throughout which, we must continue to mortify ourselves and all about us. By no means: let it be devoted to the happiness of society; but not in an inverted sense—not to the partial [and that false] happiness of a few; nor in dissipation by any individual.

It has been foolishly said, that by fixing one day in seven for the more particular exercise of religion, it is taken, by some people, as a licence for laying aside all serious thoughts till the return of that period. Let such superficial observers be asked whether it is probable that those people, who take this licence, would ever have any serious thoughts at all, if they were not, now and then, called upon to recollect.

Why (some are ready enough to ask) is SUNDAY more than any other day? Without entering into disquisitions about “times and seasons”—it may be answered by saying, that as all ages have agreed in thinking one day in seven a proper portion of time to set apart for rest from worldly business; and as all the Christian world has used the Sunday for a Sabbath, why should not Sunday be the Sabbath day? Without saying what reason there is for it, let it be asked if there is any against it, to authorise a change.

In support of a Sabbath it has been said—“We may surely afford the ALMIGHTY GOD one day in seven for his service.”

This, I must confess, is not an argument I am fond of using. Had it been advanced that the Almighty of his bounty has given us one day in seven, I should readily have subscribed to it. For is it not designed to be a day of rest from care and labour—from fatigue and all anxiety? A day of general jubilee, not only to man, but to even the working beasts of the field? Did GOD for his own sake command the Sabbath? No: for ours: for the poor and the rich: for the low and the high: for the servant as well as for his master. How, then, is the question, ought it to be observed? Doubtless in such a manner as shall most exclude every kind of labour. And what method so proper on that account, as well as others, as a due attendance upon public worship? In these solemn assemblies, all ranks of people are, or ought to be, upon an equal footing. Distinction then ceases; no one being more acceptable, to the Great Maker of all, than another, because of his being more rich; nobler in ancestry, or higher in power. And does not the aptitude of almost all mankind to forget the primeval and future equality of the human race, make it necessary to awaken, at stated periods, the consideration that there is no real—no durable distinction between the present Great and Small, save what is acquired by different degrees of purity of soul?

It has always been my opinion that we ought so to manage our worldly affairs as to give all possible rest on the Sabbath day to ourselves; our servants, and our cattle; which cannot be the case where assemblies are opened for public amusement; there being then no cessation from the drudgery of our domestics; the labour of our horses; or from the fatigues of pleasure—a slavery more injurious to the mind and the body than those who inlist in it will believe till too late.

Again—I do not, as I before said, wish it to be understood that I think it necessary to observe that formal severity which inverts (though by a contrary method) the design of this lenient donation, as I will call it—in almost as great a degree as its opposite extreme; [making it, however, more equal to all orders of people] and which our Redeemer censured in the professors of the Jewish institution, by the parables of the strayed beasts and withered hand; recorded by three, if not by all the Evangelists.

“The Sabbath was made for Man.” The institution is here confirmed by, at least, implication; its intended benefit to man ascertained; with a power given to his reason to employ it in moral and benevolent—as well as religious exercises: but his abuse—his total inversion of it—is not any where authorised, or even tolerated.

It therefore stands distinguished by divine—by civil—and by moral law; and must be approved by justice and reason.

You will therefore, my dear Rachel, very highly oblige me, by declining to mix with Sunday card-players; particularly with those of Lady Beever’s party. With peculiar earnestness I request what I will not command, because I hope to prevail by entreaty; and am very sorry this will not reach you in time to prevent your first introduction.

If you want an excuse—make a merit of your obedience, and plead the promise I request you to give me in an early letter: though I would rather you would give your own judgement against the practice. But this as you please—so you do but absent yourself.

Perhaps though you mean to assemble with the party, you have pre-determined—and indeed I hope so—not to be an actual partaker of the amusement.

Ah! my dear child! this will be playing with sharp-edged tools upon a precipice. For, in the first place, as every one is but one, and Rachel Lawson a young woman of reputation and some distinction, your presence will be a sanction to the more inconsiderate; as it will be obvious that though you abstain from being a performer, you are only prevented by your obedience to a mother, or by the not-yet-conquered prejudice of education; but that the practice is far from being offensive to your principles. Yet even this, my dear, is not the worst. How can you say how long you shall maintain your resolution of being only a looker-on? Pressed on all hands, as you undoubtedly will be (for it is the nature of degeneracy to endeavor to emit its contagious virus; the principles which have been sown in this island still remaining with such strength as to make their violators wish for the unavailing countenance of numbers) laughed at, perhaps, for your unfashionable objections by those who envy your uncorrupted integrity, and are maliciously bent upon its destruction—what in such a situation will not my girl descend to, if her principles, insensibly weakened by a frequent and familiar observation of their violation are not deliberately firm against the practice.

And now, my love, if what I have said prevails not; all I can say will be ineffectual; except my dear child will comply in simple pity to my feelings, and in consideration of the poignant affliction her refusal will give to her fondly anxious,

and tenderly affectionate mother,

ELIZABETH LAWSON.

P.S.

The clock now strikes eleven. I subscribed to the above about half an hour back, after which I found the subject of my letter so pressing upon my mind, that I could find no quiet till I ordered Richard to get ready to set off for London directly, that my request may reach you before your consent to the first introduction at Lady Beever’s Sunday’s-meeting, renders your refusal on the second occasion more difficult and disagreeable to you.

In doing this, my dear girl, I consult your ease and benefit; being desirous to relieve your duty as much as possible from all hard conditions.

Richard has orders to continue in London till six o’clock Monday morning. By his return my dear Rachel will tell me she is well and happy—that she considers and accepts my anxiety, and the step I am taking, as the strongest proof of my tenderest affection—and that, as a relief to herself, she promises to decline all such Sundays’ engagements as are incompatible with the long established, and universally approved custom of the nation—with morality—and with the tenets of the Christian dispensation.

And now, my dear-loved girl, will I pray to the Supreme that He may direct and strengthen you, till your happiness is fixed beyond reverse.

LETTER, VI.

MISS RACHEL LAWSON, TO MRS. LAWSON.

Hanover Square, Sunday evening, March 8th.

DEAR MADAM,

YOUR letter by Richard, I received, and read, with much surprise; and I cannot but say that I was sensibly hurt at the contents.

Permit me to observe, that if the occasion of your express were to be known, it would give room for a conjecture of my having been strangely educated, that at twenty-one years of age I do not know how to chuse my company. However, to show that I am not so disobedient as may sometimes have been thought, I will give the promise you so very particularly require (though the punctual observance of it will make me appear very singular) of not joining in Sunday card-parties, except when they are held at Lady Blurton’s, and then I am sure you will allow it would be an impossibility to avoid them without rendering myself more ridiculous than you, I hope, would wish me to be; therefore, my dear madam, I must, in my turn, be a little peremptory in almost insisting upon it that you do not lay upon me this injunction; with which, if you do, I really cannot comply; and I should be unwilling, as I hope you have some reason to believe, to act in direct opposition to your commands.

As to Lady Blurton and Miss Barbara Tupps—I do not want the information of their both being fools, because I never yet considered them in any other light: no great fear, therefore, that I should make either of them my pattern; nor do I think it worth my pains to set them one. As they are, they answer my purpose; which is, by their means, to see and enjoy the gaieties of life in a somewhat greater degree than it was possible to do in Oxfordshire; the pleasures of which are not, I must confess, much adapted to confine my affections within their circle. The very air I breathe in this place, exhilerates my spirits, and I feel in good humour from morning till night; else, let me observe, I should have been more sensibly affected by the severe sentiments of your letter, which are not calculated to draw my preference from London to Woodstock.

I may, perhaps, have written rather saucily; at least what I have said may meet with a stern construction; but my meaning is to prevent your troubling yourself, in future, on these occasions; as, though I have now submitted to the very unreasonable requisition, I will not promise any future concessions.

Excuse me, madam: excuse my explicitness. I now mean to spare you. Let it, however, be understood that I am sensible of the motive which induced you to take what was really an extraordinary step; and doubtless my thanks for it may be expected. I therefore will thank you; but as I feel a little acrimony arising in my mind, at the absurd difficulties this strange prohibition will lay me under, I believe I had best conclude my letter.

Lady Blurton says when she excuses me to Lady Beever, whom last night I promised to attend, she shall be obliged to make a little free with the obsolete prejudices of the Woodstock Bowerians; to which I gave my hearty concurrence.

With my love at large, to your domesticated—I was very near saying rusticated—party,

I am, my dear madam,

your affectionate,

and, I hope, dutiful daughter,

R. LAWSON.

LETTER, VII.

LADY CAROLINE PEMBERTON, TO MRS.

MAYNARD.

March 9th, 1789.

I Was this morning, my dearest Harriet, made inexpressibly happy by a letter from our good foster-sister, Mrs. Thompson, informing me that you and my dear Augustus are expected in St. James’s Square next Thursday.

Thank GOD for the intelligence. I hope I shall now soon be relieved from some of my perplexities, as I rest much upon Mr. Maynard’s influence with my father. To describe the various distresses I have undergone since we parted at Canterbury, would take up too much time at present, as I wish to hasten this, that it may be ready for your reception the moment you alight, knowing the anxiety you must both be in, respecting my safety. But before I give you my little narrative, which is not crowded with the most agreeable incidents, let me make you smile by telling you that I am, at this time, retained as a waiting-maid upon Miss Stanley, of Alverston-Park in Derbyshire; and that the name I at present bear, is that of Maria Birtles.

After assuring you that I am in perfect health—easy in situation—and in as good spirits as you can well suppose, I will proceed to give you a few of the particulars respecting my affairs, with which you are unacquainted.

The last letter that I am certain of your receiving from me, was the one which told of my father’s harsh determination about that vile Lord Crumpford—one of the most avaricious—most detestable old wretches, that ever could be thought of for the torment, and almost inevitable destruction of any young creature.

In my next letter, which I dare say never reached Ostend, till you had left it, I informed—or, rather, meant to inform you — of my father’s continued inflexibility, and that if he could not be softened, I should be obliged to fly from his authority; in which case, I would hasten directly to you. Another letter, and another after that, both very long ones, mentioned particularly what happened till the night I was compelled to leave Berkley Square; the chief circumstances of which were, that I had got every thing in readiness for a speedy flight, should I be driven to any emergency; that our good nurse Pooley, and her daughter Thompson, had taken to their house the clothes I should want to carry, for both myself and Jenny; packed them into proper trunks, and agreed with a hackney-coachman to wait for me every evening, at the corner of the Square, and that I had taken of Mr. Galliard, the day before he left London, five hundred pounds of the legacy left me by Mrs. Selwyn.

I then gave the particulars of the conversation I overheard between my father; Lord Crumpford; a villainous lawyer, and a parson still worse than the lawyer; from which I understood that the writings were all ready, and could be effectually executed without my signing them; that a special licence had been actually procured, and a determination made for the ceremony to be performed on the coming Thursday [and this was Tuesday] without any more deliberation, by the wretch of a parson, then present, who had once been a horse-jockey, but, by the interest of Lord Crumpford, who presented him to the living of Branton, had been ordained, to the disgrace of the clerical dignity. After what they thought proper to term the marriage, it was intended I should be carried to the new-fitted-up house in Woodstock, called the Cottage, accompanied by my father and Lord Crumpford; with his daughter, as bride-maid.

Harriet—Augustus—could I resolve to stay and be the victim of such—But hush, rash girl! Thy father was of the number thou art ready so severely to censure. He was: and it grieves me to recollect it. I have always loved him with the affection of an affectionate daughter. I loved him then. I love him still, with unabated love; and the idea of saving him from future regret, strengthened my resolution to leave him: for regret he must have had when he found how irretrievably wretched he had rendered a daughter, whom, till of late, he had always treated with an indulgence expressive of genuine affection.

What could be his motive! What could be his inducement to doom me to such destruction! If he thought of securing my happiness by ensuring to me the continuance of rank and fortune, how widely did he mistake the happiness I covet! Dear, calm, domestic felicity! how was it possible you could mix with such a union! Union—did I say? No: dissonance through life.

But I will proceed with my narrative. Yet first let me observe that it is wonderful my father did not prevent both my going out and receiving visitors. But I believe he had not the least idea that I would take the step I have taken: for though I often expostulated with him on the impropriety of what he called the match; and the impossibility of my ever reconciling it to either my heart or my conscience, I always endeavoured to speak in the language of respect and tenderness; and this, I suppose, led him to think I might be conquered.

Ungenerous—But—again—I am speaking of my father; of my father who placed such a confidence in me as to suppose I would not run from what he thought my duty; and indeed my heart would severely reproach me, had I pursued such a measure upon any less emergency.

As soon as I had heard the before-mentioned conversation, I hastened to Jenny, and ordered her to get ready for our leaving the house at seven o’clock, my father having, at that time, an engagement in the city, as I was determined not to venture staying any longer. It was then about four, and not having any thing to do, I set down and wrote a letter to you of all the particulars which had occurred since the dispatch of my preceding packet, that in case any thing should happen to frustrate my concerted plan, you might have the whole before you. This letter I did not intend to send to you, except I found myself disappointed; because by the time you could receive it, I hoped to be with you. However, after it was finished, I, in the hurry I then began to be in, as it was drawing near the time of my going, sealed, directed and gave it to a servant to take, with other letters, to the post-office; not considering how much you would be distressed on account of my safety, if, by any chance, it should reach your hands before you saw me; as I finished with telling you I was then upon the point of leaving my father’s house, and meant to go directly to Dover; from whence it was my intention to take a passage in the first ship that would sail, after my arrival, for any part of the coast of France, and that after landing, I should proceed directly to Ostend.

I told you I should take no attendant but Jenny, and that I had not one apprehension respecting the danger of the expedition; having not been rash in my determination upon the extraordinary measure I was pursuing; for hour after hour, in day after day, did I—to speak in a language you perfectly understand—enter in the most retired examination; offering my ardent prayers for direction; and found no path opened for either my own safety, or my father’s, but the one which flight led into.

In one of my letters—for I mention particulars as they occur, without any respect to method—I gave my reasons for not chusing to seek protection of any friend in England; the chief of which, next to the preference I naturally gave to you and Augustus, was the difficulty of my being concealed in the kingdom; as it was most likely my father would make strict search amongst those with whom I was most intimate; in which case, there must either be a great deal of evasion practiced, or I must openly brave his authority: all which, I hoped, would be avoided by my taking refuge with you, till Mr. Maynard had reconciled my father to my refusal of his very unreasonable command.

What, Harriet, would I not give to be reinstated in my father’s favor! How happy did I use to think myself in the approving smiles he, till lately, always bestowed upon my conduct in almost every particular.

What, again let me exclaim, could induce him to contemplate, with complacency, such a sacrifice!!!

But I will avoid, as much as possible, all animadversions upon what has happened. Yet my wonder is sometimes so predominant, that I cannot suppress my exclamations.

But for the above consideration of improbable concealment in England, I think I should have sought a refuge, till your return, if my father had not before that time relented, with Sir John Warburton, as I could not but believe that Fanny would experience much happiness in her father's being able to afford me protection.

After I had finished, and inconsiderately dispatched my letter to you, I stood upon the watch, with a throbbing heart, for my father’s going out, and, in a few minutes, saw his coach driven from the door, when (summoning Jenny to attend me) I hastened down stairs, and she followed me; but just as she reached the second landing, her foot slipped, and she fell to the bottom.

To describe the consternation I was in, is impossible. I stood some moments in a perfect stupor, till the noise of her fall bringing into the saloon two or three servants, I recollected myself, and assisting to raise her, said, after she was a little revived, I do not think it will be proper for you to go to-night, Jenny; therefore will send for Mrs. Thompson to attend me here. This thought happily came in my head, with the idea of the good woman’s anxiety when she found we went not; as about two hours before, I sent her a note to tell her my determination was fixed for that evening. This I hoped would obviate any suspicion that might arise upon sight of the parcel which Jenny let fall; therefore dispatched Peter to Mrs. Thompson, with orders for her to go to me directly and carry my gold dimitty gown, that she might try it on.

That she had one to make for me was actually true; yet, O! my dear father! why did you drive into such crooked ways a young creature whose ambition it ever was to tread the one, strait, unveiled path of rectitude!

When Jenny could speak, which was not till after she had shed a shower of tears, I found she was more hurt than, upon first lifting her up, I had supposed her to be. I therefore ordered her to be carried back into my dressing-room, for she could neither walk nor stand, and immediately sent for Mr. Bell, who, upon inspecting her hurts, found she had dislocated her ankle, and very much bruised her leg and foot.

I was extremely concerned, as you will believe, not only on my own account, but on the poor girl’s; who cried as if her heart would break; the chief cause of which, I well knew, was her anxiety for me, as I had long been convinced of the sincerity of her affection.

I asked Mr. Bell how long he thought it would be before she would be able to walk. He said he doubted a fortnight or three weeks, as the dislocation seemed to be a very bad one. Therefore after requesting him to give her all possible attendance; ordering her to be put to bed, and telling her I would soon see her again, I retired to my closet to ruminate upon this accident, and to consider the measure I must next pursue.

At first I was almost superstitious enough to view the casualty as a forbidding omen to my undertaking, but when I was more composed, I found myself still persuaded that it was the only plan I could pursue; and my judgement was so far from being in opposition, that it commended and confirmed the impulse.

Thus re-assured, I went into Jenny’s room, where I found Mrs. Thompson, whom I requested to come next evening in the coach which she had ordered to be at the corner of the Square. My trunks, she told me, were all in readiness, her husband having carefully corded and directed them, as I desired, for Mrs. Wilson, passenger; that being the character I meant to assume through my voyage. I then requested her to secure me a place in the Dover mail-coach; which I thought was preferable to going by myself, in post-chaises, through the night; but if no place was vacant, to have a post-chaise and four in readiness.

Poor Jenny and Mrs. Thompson were distressed, beyond measure, at the idea of my venturing by myself; but no argument could prevail with me to alter my purpose. Mrs. Thompson, good creature, earnestly requested to be permitted to attend me, to which she was sure her husband and mother would chearfully consent, rather than that I should go alone; but this, as you may suppose, I would not, on any account, permit; though I shall not soon lose the remembrance of the offer.

After giving orders about Jenny, I very early retired to bed, and, in good truth, to rest; for, strange as it may seem, I never remember to have slept more comfortably. You would smile if I were to tell you that my very dreams were refreshing; but it is absolutely true.

The next morning at breakfast, my father was so very kind in his behaviour, that he greatly distressed me. I would have given the universe that his command had been such as I could—such as I ought to have obeyed. But, my dear cousins, was it possible a compliance to his dreadful edict could have the least place in my contemplation! He was called out, and, for a few moments, left me to myself, when I again looked into my heart to see if duty demanded the sacrifice; but a strong negative immediately stopped the investigation. My father returned, and I once more endeavoured, by the most gentle means, to soften his determination; intreating his compassion in the most persuasive language; accent, and manner I was capable of using; but he started into a fury, and, by the immediate change, convinced me his prior tenderness was, in some degree, assumed; probably, to soften me to his measures. My father left the room with a menacing brow; telling me he should dine with Lord Crumpford; and bidding me avoid his presence till a sense of my duty produced obedience.

I was now more strongly determined; as I found no dependance could be placed upon the hope of my father’s relenting in the moment of my danger and distress, as I had sometimes fondly imagined.

To pass over immaterial circumstances—the evening arrived; the coach was ready; Mrs. Thompson attended, and I was driven to her house about half after six; from whence, in another coach, she went with me to the Dover-mail; in which, a place having been secured, I took my seat, and the next morning found myself in the desired port. I was excessively fatigued, but having intelligence that a vessel, called the Ceres, was just going under sail for Calais, I entered immediately, and as soon as I was on board, wrote to my father; the copy of which letter I inclose for Mr. Maynard’s perusal, that he may know how to proceed in the negotiation I am impatient to have him commence.

And now, as I am not absolutely mistress of my time, and as, therefore, something may occur to prevent my finishing the whole of my narrative in time for your receiving it upon your immediate arrival, I will conclude, and send this my first scribble by the next post.

Harriet—my dear Harriet! I long to see you. Write to me the first possible moment. You will remember and direct to Maria Birtles, Alverston Park, Derbyshire.

Tell Augustus, his prognostication that I kept not my heart a twelvemonth after you left England, was not verified.

“And have you, Caroline, really preserved it your own till this period?”

Do not be too inquisitive. That question varies from the point.

“Ah, Caroline!”

And ah, Harriet! It cannot now be helped. Heigh-ho! But I hope the case is not desperate.

Give my love to Mr. Maynard, and trust me that I continue his and yours with unabated fervency, notwithstanding the depredations which may possibly have been made upon my affection.

CAROLINE PEMBERTON.

LETTER, VIII.

LADY CAROLINE PEMBERTON, TO MRS.

MAYNARD.

(In Continuation.)

March 10th.

I Last night, my dearest Harriet, dispatched to you the first part of my secret history; therefore, as that letter and this will probably be both put into your hands at the same time, it is an even chance which of the two you first unfold. If this should obtain the preference, lay it aside, and let the other have its due precedency, or you will not know what you are reading about.

I left myself on board a little inconvenient vessel named the Ceres; the captain, as he was called, of which was good-natured and civil; though not without a tincture of the roughness of a British sailor. His name was Warder. There were two more female passengers, and several gentlemen; one amongst the latter, who was made the means of my now existing.

The captain intended to sail in about an hour after I went on board, but the wind continued contrary all the day. At ten at night he put off a little, and went about a league, but was then obliged to drop anchor, [you see I have learned the technical terms] and continue stationary all that night and the next day, there being a perfect calm. I found myself rather sick, but hoped, as I was no worse, I should weather the voyage, as the phrase is, tolerably well, without considering that as the vessel was perfectly still, there was no cause for my being otherwise than well, except the perturbation of my spirits. However, as I did not labour under a sense of having acted wrong on the occasion which fixed me in that situation, I was tolerably composed: and, indeed, I should be highly ungrateful were I to forbear saying that I was sensible of very great support through the whole of this—in itself—afflicting event.

About eight o’clock on the Saturday evening the wind arose, very strong from the South-East. This set the vessel into a violent motion; it being, you know, contrary to our course; which brought upon me so extreme a fit of sickness that I thought every moment must be my last; it being attended with an excruciating pain in my stomach. A most terrible storm indeed now came on: all hands were called upon deck, and I was left upon the cabin floor.

What language shall I use to describe the horrors of that period! None that I am versed in can give the least adequate idea of the scene which ensued. Some of the particulars I was sensible of at the time; of the rest I was afterwards informed.

In the little cooking place upon deck called, I think, the caboose, were two sailors; the one lame; the other (an apprentice just entered) extremely sick: these two poor creatures, caboose, and all the boats, were swept over-board, in one dark moment, by the violent rush of an immense wave that almost overwhelmed the vessel, which all this time lay nearly flat on one side.

I was entirely drenched in water, for by the inexcusable negligence of the carpenter, the dead-lights were not to be found; the sea, therefore, poured in at the cabin-windows in torrents, while the cups and glasses were tumbling about my head. Thus I lay, hour after hour, in total darkness; cries and shrieks echoing from every corner. At length the morning broke, when the storm, if possible, increased; and this continued till twelve o’clock on the Sunday night, when the repeated cry of “all lost!” made me hope the end of my distresses was at hand. The main and foremasts were broken and gone over-board; almost all the rigging was lost, and it was thought the vessel had sprung a leak; which, however, proved to be a mistake.

But what am I thinking of, thus to terrify you by this description!

Suffice it, that another morning appeared, when it was found we were within view of land; but no one on board could tell upon what coast we were; for during the storm, which, I ought before to have said began now to cease, the wind had shifted to every point in the compass, and we were driven to and fro. However, it was soon discovered we were within sight of Seaford in Sussex, but the wind was still blowing pretty brisk from the North, which made it be apprehended we should not be able to reach the shore.

About seven o’clock, my kind friend, before-mentioned, whose name I cannot now recollect, but which I have in a memorandum-book that I left in London, came down to see what was become of us females, when he found me in the condition I have described. He instantly called the steward, who, though the frightfullest black man I ever beheld, was one of the most humane and tender creatures existing. They raised me up between them, for I was utterly incapable of the least motion, and carried me to a bench, upon which they seated me, and pressed, as much as they could, the water from my clothes. My kind friend then left me, for a few moments, to the care of the steward, who, I had just sense enough to know, supported me in his arms, while he went to see if either of the ladies could give me any assistance. They had been so fortunate as to get upon their beds, and had suffered no personal inconvenience, save that of being violently rocked from side to side. They were then perfectly well, and were got together, “making themselves,” as they said, “fit to be seen;” till when, they told him, they could not do me any service. My friend was so offended with what he termed their inhumanity, that he left them in disgust, and returned to me, when asking the good steward for a blanket, he divested me, with the greatest decency, of my upper garments; wrapped me in it, and conveyed me to bed; after which, he made me drink a rich and strong cordial, and that threw me almost immediately into a very sound sleep, which continued till one o’clock, when I was awakened by a shout of gladness, occasioned, as I was soon informed, by the arrival of two boats from the Seaford coast, from whence the signals of our distress had been observed by some gentlemen who were walking along the shore; for we lay near a mile sideways of the town, or we must sooner have been perceived.

My friendly attendant now came to my bed-side to see if I was able to be dressed, when he observed, with evident pleasure, the happy effects of his kindness; for I could raise myself without assistance, and at last made shift to put on some fresh clothes, which, very fortunately, had been preserved from the water; but the box which contained them was the only part of my luggage I could find. Several trunks and large parcels had been thrown over-board to lighten the vessel: probably mine were amongst the number, for I never afterwards could gain any intelligence of any thing belonging to me. In one of the trunks which I lost, I had packed the five hundred pounds I received from Mr. Galliard, which I had requested him to let me have in cash; as I thought I might meet with some trouble in exchanging bills. However this loss did not give me one moment’s concern. We were saved—and I had clothes to go ashore in; a few guineas in my purse, and about seventy pounds in bank notes, in my pocket-book.

Gratitude now took entire possession of my soul. The sense of the great deliverance almost overwhelmed me; and it never, I hope, will be erased from my remembrance.

As soon as we were ready, we were put into one of the boats, and rowed to Seaford. It was about three o’clock when we reached the shore, which was lined with spectators. I immediately asked if a carriage could be had, and was soon accommodated with one that conveyed us (for I offered seats to the two ladies and my kind friend) to the head inn, where, ordering a fire in a chamber, and sending for a physician, I soon went to bed; neither of the insensible women offering me the least assistance, though I was then greatly indisposed.

The doctor, upon hearing the cause of my illness, ordered me some strengthening medicines, and desired me to take as much nourishing diet as possible; telling me I had more occasion for that than for physic. I was much pleased with this good gentleman, and asked him to recommend me to a nurse who could continue with me, during my stay at Seaford. He told me he would, and, within half an hour after he left me, a very matronly woman was brought to attend me.

I now seemed very comfortable, and soon after my nurse’s arrival, sent to beg the favor of seeing my kind fellow-passenger, whom I requested to dispose of some money from me to the good steward and amongst the sailors.

After this, I took my medicines and went to sleep, and next morning found myself so much recovered, that I arose and wrote to you an account of my late disasters and present safety, and of my being necessitated to lay aside all ideas of another voyage; having neither clothes nor money sufficient for that purpose. I then wrote to Chesnut Manor; giving Miss Warburton a succinct account of my distresses, and entreated her father’s protection, till my own could be brought to dispense with the hard conditions he had annexed to my duty.

For an answer to this letter, I waited four days at Seaford (having procured inconvenient lodgings in the house of a cousin of my nurse’s) with extreme impatience, and on the fifth, received the reply which I mean to inclose. You will read it at this place, and then will not wonder at the effect the great unkindness of it had upon my spirits, so much, before, oppressed! The only favor which she granted me was, as you will see, a promise of the required secrecy.

It is not in the compass of words to describe the surprise and grief I experienced upon this occasion.

But I will draw a veil over the period; as it would only give distress both to you and myself to describe the many painful days I afterwards spent at Seaford. Yet I confess them to have been the most profitable I ever lived through. It was there I was first taught to know, truly, the little dependance that can, with safety, be placed on the strongest human hope. It was there I was first led to rely entirely on the great FATHER of the Human Race. It was there I was convinced He was indeed my Guide, and that I must not look for help from any mortal creature. At first, I seemed to be forsaken both by GOD and man; but the brightness which afterwards broke in upon my mind, was like the sun gilding the sky in a fine summer’s evening, after a dismal tempest; every dark cloud being chased away, and a sweet calm taking place of the horrors of the storm.

To the Almighty GOD alone did I then look for strength and assistance; and in HIM found all I wanted. My mind was refreshed in a manner I cannot describe.

From Seaford I proceeded to London; and ordered my stages so as to reach Mrs. Thompson’s (to whom I had previously written) about six o’clock, where I was received by her and nurse with tears of joy, and by her good husband with every token of respectful affection. Their best bed-chamber, which is really a decent room, was got in perfect order for my reception; of that I took possession; and in that little abode experienced real tranquillity. However, I dared not to think of continuing there, as I must either totally have confined myself, or have hazarded being discovered. The first would have been detrimental to my health; the other, to my happiness. I therefore determined to disguise myself in humble garments, and take lodgings in some country place.

But as I have still a considerable deal to say, I will here conclude this letter, and begin afresh after Lady Stanley is retired to rest. Farewell.

C.P.

LETTER, IX.

LADY CAROLINE PEMBERTON, TO MRS.

MAYNARD.

(In Continuation.)

LADY Stanley is not well. She retired early. I am therefore sole mistress of the present hour, by the side of a good fire, in a pleasant apartment, destined to my use during my continuance in this really magnificent mansion.

“And are you then known to be the daughter of the Earl of Danvers? I thought your highest distinction had been Mrs. Maria Birtles!”

Have patience, my good cousins. All in due time. I have a variety of circumstances to acquaint you with before I lay aside my pen.

“Ah! Caroline—that love affair!”

We are not, Harriet, coming to that yet. I must first take a view—an unpleasant one — of what passed at Berkeley-Square after I left it.

By Mrs. Thompson’s means I was informed that poor Jenny was still exceedingly lame; having, through carelessness, caught a violent cold, which settled into her ankle; but that, however, she was, it was hoped, in a way to do well.

She told Mrs. Thompson (who sometimes went to speak to her when my father was from home; he not giving permission for her to enter the house, as she and nurse were suspected of facilitating my escape) that his Lordship was in a most tremendous passion when it was first intimated that I was not to be found.

Mrs. Dickerson, our new housekeeper, is a favourite with my father’s valet-de-chambre, and as Mr. Dupre is an almost continual attendant upon his master, very few things happen in the family with which he is not in some measure acquainted. Through Mrs. Dickerson, therefore, Jenny gained a considerable deal of intelligence.

It seems my father did not return home on the Wednesday night till several hours after I had left the house. Taking it therefore, I suppose, for granted, that I was in bed, he made no enquiry for me. The next morning he arose very early, and about eight o’clock, Lord Crumpford; a clergyman, and another gentleman—probably the lawyer—were driven to the door, and ushered into the library; where they continued some time in conversation with my father, who at nine o’clock ordered me to be called. It was then that the storm began. I tremble at the recollection. The idea of my dear father’s displeasure pains me beyond expressing.

Dupre was the messenger. After an absence of a few minutes he returned with—“Lady Caroline, my Lord, is not at home.”

“Not at home?” interrogated my father, “then order her to be sent for immediately. Whither is she gone?”

Dupre went out to make enquiries; his second return gave information that I had not been at home since the evening before.

My father began to look wild; Lord Crumpford groaned, it seems, sat down; repeated the word damned—and slapped his hand upon his forehead; the parson and the other man staring with surprize.

Jenny was ordered to attend.

Jenny was ill in bed.

It was a lie, my father swore. “Ill; dying; dead, bring her hither this instant.”

It was confirmed that Jenny could not be moved.

You have often rallied me upon the apparent affection of all our domestics, which now was of the greatest service to me; for had they given all the circumstances within their knowledge, my father might, possibly, have collected sufficient light to have pursued me before I had been secured from his authority.

Mrs. Dickerson was summoned; but Mrs. Dickerson could give no other information than had been given before.

“Lady Caroline went out between six and seven last evening; and we have sat up all night, every minute expecting her coming home”—was the sum of her evidence.

“Perhaps”—intimated the supposed lawyer—“she went to a play: Possibly some misfortune.”—

This set my father upon a different kind of enquiry. Who saw me go out? Who attended me? In what was I dressed?—were questions I wonder he did not ask sooner; but it is evident that my having escaped the intended persecution, was the first idea he entertained upon hearing that I was gone from home.

The porter was summoned—“At what time did Caroline go out last night?”

“Between six and seven, my Lord!”

“Who attended her?”

“She went without an attendant, my Lord,” said Jones; after his ceremonious manner.

“Without an attendant!—In what was she dressed?”

“She was all in black, my Lord.”

“In black! What does the fellow mean!”

“Indeed, an’t please your Lordship, she was in black; and I wondered what was the matter.”

Jones was right. I chose a mourning dress as convenient for the occasion.

“Did she not order a carriage?” proceeded my father.

“No, my Lord; she left the house on foot.”

“Which way did she turn?”

“She turned to the right, my Lord; and I thought went in at Lady Stebbing’s.”

Lady Stebbing was sent to. She had not seen me. Messengers were then dispatched to every place were it was the least probable information could be given, and to those who were the evening before at public entertainments; but no intelligence could be procured.

The return of every messenger with a negative, drove my dear father into repeated fits of fury. But I wish to close this day’s scene. Yet one ensued which was, if possible, still worse; the receipt of my letter, sent, as I told you, by the return of the mail, confirming my father’s suppositions of my escape. At first, it seems, he determined to pursue me to France; but soon laid aside the intention, leaving me, he said, to my destiny. Since that time he has not been much in London; therefore I cannot learn any thing of his present sentiments.

Poor Jenny is quite distressed about me; and would, doubtless, be made happy by the information of my return; but I think it would not be right to let her know any thing of what has happened. The belief of my having left the kingdom is so firmly established, that no one, now, will think of searching for me in England; whereas if the least syllable of the truth were to transpire, such an enquiry might be set on foot as I should find it hard to elude. Sir John and Miss Warburton; nurse Pooley; Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, are the only people intrusted with the knowledge of my return. Therefore, as I think I am at present tolerably safe, it surely would be wrong to run any unnecessary hazard.

Jenny told Mrs. Thompson several letters directed for me had arrived at Berkley-Square: amongst the rest, one from you, which my father opened, (as I suppose he did all the rest) and found you were upon the point of leaving Ostend. — This, it seems, alarmed him for my safety, and he again declared a resolution to pursue me; which resolution, like the former—Jenny knew not why—soon subsided.

You will now return with me to Mrs. Thompson’s, where I have told you I did not think it eligible to continue, therefore determined upon country lodgings; but before I put my plan in execution, Mrs. Thompson was sent for by Mrs. Douglas, of Grosvenor-Square, to take orders about a gown she was making for her, who (the time Mrs. Thompson was there) received a letter from Miss Stanley, with an enquiry after a young woman that once lived with her as a servant; Miss Stanley wishing to have her supply the place of one she was going to part with. This letter Mrs. Douglas read to a young lady—her niece I believe—who sat in the room at work, and from what passed, Mrs. Thompson found the young woman enquired for, was married. A conversation now opened between the two ladies upon the Stanley family; who Mrs. Thompson observed, seemed, by the character given them by Mrs. Douglas, to be all angels. Miss Stanley, the old lady said, was, she believed, one of the best and most amiable young women upon earth; and, indeed, I have, since that time, found Mrs. Douglas’ opinion of her to be a just one.

When Mrs. Thompson, at her return, recited the particulars of this conversation, I was instantly struck with a thought—a whimsical one you will say—of offering myself to attend Miss Stanley in the capacity of lady’s-maid; and the more I considered of it, the more eligible the idea appeared.

That you may not think my late adventures had infected me with the spirit of romance—attend a little to my situation at that juncture.

The intention of continuing with Mrs. Thompson had given way, as I told you, to considerations of health and privacy. Good as my constitution is, you know I was always made ill when debarred of air and exercise; neither of which, as I before said, could I enjoy without hazarding a discovery. Country lodgings, therefore, I had determined upon, and meant to enquire about that very day in which Mrs. Thompson attended Mrs. Douglas. My finances were slender—the time of your return uncertain—the resource I looked for from the Warburtons, shut up—In short, I thought an asylum in so respectable a family would, upon future investigation, best secure my reputation in the eye of the world, and likewise prevent my being under any embarrassment for want of money. The business of an attendant to such a young lady as Miss Stanley was represented to be, would, I conjectured, be only an agreeable amusement to one who always loved employment, and whose prospects were not so lively as to make rumination entertaining; and I fancied myself tolerably well qualified to execute such an office to the satisfaction of my patroness. Mrs. Thompson burst into tears when I mentioned my design. Nurse was, likewise, very uneasy; but I laughed away their scruples, and, at length, silenced their objections.

Ordering, therefore, a coach to be called, I dispatched Mrs. Thompson to Grosvenor-Square, desiring her to tell Mrs. Douglas she had, at that time, under her care a young woman—Maria Birtles her name—who would think herself very happy in the protection of the Alverston family. That she had been genteelly brought up under the care of an excellent aunt; after whose death she found herself in distressed circumstances; having some years before lost her mother; and her father—formerly an officer in the guards—more inattentive to her happiness than it were to be wished.

Except the fictitious name—not one syllable was here that deviated from the strictest truth. Mrs. Thompson added her own encomiums upon my character and abilities, and finished with saying the terms of my retention would be left entirely to Miss Stanley.

With this description, Mrs. Douglas, whose benevolence led her to wish to be of universal service, was so well satisfied, that she desired to see me as soon as possible. It was then settled that I should wait upon her the morning following, when dressing myself in some of my late-bought humble garments—the top of my finery being a pale pink silk gown and white petticoat—I took a coach, and, with Mrs. Thompson, was driven to Grosvenor-Square, where I was introduced to Mrs. Douglas as she sat at breakfast.

To finish my account of this business as soon as possible—the good lady was so super-abundantly satisfied with me and my character—given by Mrs. Thompson—that she immediately wrote the strongest recommendation of me to Miss Stanley; shewing Mrs. Thompson what she had written; the consequence of which was, my being, the next week, whirled down, in the Derby mail, to Alverston Park.

Had I leisure, I would give you a description of this beautiful situation; which, certainly, is one of the most enchanting spots in the universe: but this must be deferred till some future opportunity.

My reception at Alverston was pleasing beyond expression. Never, in the days of my prosperity, was I introduced into a family so perfectly amiable. Sir Edward Stanley is a phenomenon. I never before saw the steadiness and respectability of years so happily blended with the chearfulness of youth. He has been, and indeed still is, extremely handsome. In his temper there is a generous warmth, which makes his conversation pleasing past idea. His principles are unsullied. Charity and generosity have made his heart one of their mansions; while true courage, mercy and tenderness, are so inseparably united with his nature, that he must cease to exist when they are extinguished from his breast. This charming veteran, who never stirs abroad without receiving marks of almost adoration, has the most lively penetrating blue eye you can imagine; is an adept in every science, and, likewise, such an ingenious mechanic, that he sees, in an instant, how every machine which he hears talked of, must be constructed. I often sit and listen to him with the greatest admiration.

Lady Stanley is a wife exactly calculated for such a husband. Her person is truly elegant, and her face still descriptive of beauty. Her understanding is exalted; her judgment particularly excellent. Her disposition is sweetness itself, enlivened, as I may say, by a little aptitude to passion; which, however, she so corrects that one can but just perceive she has it in her temper. It seldom has any other effect upon those about her than to make them smile; which, indeed, she encourages, by smiling herself the moment she is sensible of having spoken with quickness. Her delicacy is the most genuine I ever observed, and compassion beams from every feature of her face.

On the day which compleated her twenty-fourth year, was this amiable woman (then Miss Henrietta Wilbraham) married to Sir Edward Stanley; since which time this accomplished pair have lived in the highest harmony, but not without experiencing considerable affliction in the death, or premature birth, of several children during the first years of their marriage. Miss Stanley, now about twenty-one, is the youngest of six that were born alive.

The chief of these particulars I gathered from Mrs. Moore, a worthy gentlewoman of scarce any fortune, who attends―or rather did attend, for she is now very ill—upon Lady Stanley.

I would hasten to give you some description of the darling daughter of this respectable house, but from a consciousness that I cannot do the subject justice. When I was first received by her at Mrs. Biddle’s, a mantua-maker in Derby, I seemed as if I had met with a long-lost beloved sister. Never before did I see a woman so fascinating. Her eyes; her air; her manner; her conversation, full of fire, duly tempered by the softest and most winning affability. As to her person—she is one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. Her understanding is equal to any thing in nature. Her temper above praise: no wonder she is almost idolized by all ranks of people.

When she first saw me, she looked with apparent surprize; and though she was perfectly familiar, treated me with such distinction, that I began to forget the character I had assumed, and to listen for the sound of Lady Caroline.

She took me with her in her chaise from Derby to Alverston. During the little journey we had a great deal of conversation upon various subjects. After I had been giving my sentiments on a late new comedy, with rather more freedom, I fancy, than became my situation—“It is well, Maria,” said she, “you brought me a letter from Mrs. Douglas, or I should have suspected you had been some person of distinction in disguise”—adding, with a lively air—“Why your sentiments, child, would do honor to a peeress.”

At this I blushed very deeply; not, as she must naturally conclude, at the height of the compliment; but, as you will readily conjecture, from consciousness.

“Do not blush, Maria,” said the charming girl; “I will not pain your modesty; therefore I suppress my opinion.”

When we reached Alverston she presented me to Lady Stanley; telling her, at the same time, in Italian, that she had found a wonder. At this—fool that I was—my face and neck were all in a glow. She then looked at me with a smiling penetration—“Italian too, my good girl!” said she. “French—I could allow you. But come, we shall understand you better by and by.”

My father, madam, I replied, is an adept in Italian. I did not always live with him, but I saw him, sometimes, at my aunt’s, and he would, now and then, give himself a little trouble in instructing me.

How fortunate that this was true. How else could I, with any consistency, have accounted for my information?

I must suppress the sequel of my tale till I see you; when you, I know, will take pleasure in hearing by what gradations I rose to my present distinction in this family, where I am now upon the footing of a companion, and that not an humble one, to Lady Stanley, during the absence of her daughter, who has been some time at Woodstock with Miss Lawson; the young lady with whose amiable manners we were so much pleased when she was introduced to us at Tunbridge.

When I first came to Alverston, it was expected the lovely Emma would soon be married to our old Weymouth friend, Sir Charles Conway. I had heard this before I came into Derbyshire; but it never occurred to my recollection till I arrived at my journey’s end, and I had not ventured the chance of his recognizing me. However, as it was some time since he saw me, I hoped my dress and situation would be my security, should I ever meet with him, which I thought it probable I might never do, as my station would authorize retirement; for at my first coming I did not think of being treated as I now am. Nor did I wish it. For some time I earnestly contended to act in the capacity I had entered upon; but all in this family seem so assured I was not born to servitude, that I am obliged to accept the distinctions they are determined to pay me; of which, and of Miss Stanley’s agreeable offer of a cordial friendship, I will tell you more when we meet. All I will add is, that I was obliged to be a little peremptory in declining to eat at their table: my motive was an apprehension of there meeting with company to whom I might not be unknown. Lady Stanley sometimes permits me, her own woman being, as I before observed, at this time very ill, to assist her in dressing, &c. and in instructing in the business of a lady’s-maid, a pretty, docile, little girl, who, if she proves tractable, will, I believe, be taken in that capacity by either Lady or Miss Stanley; as poor Mrs. Moore is not likely to get well again, and I am positively rejected, though I have earnestly requested, and that for a variety of reasons, a continuance in my servitude. The last time I mentioned it to Lady Stanley, she silenced me at once; telling me she should reproach herself while she lived, were she to permit a person of my appearance and qualifications [high compliments, cousin] to live with her as a servant. She gave me at the same time, as from Sir Edward, a thirty pound note; which I was obliged to accept, but shall lay by to return some time hence; desiring me to equip myself with such apparel as Emma, at her return, would wish to see a friend of her’s appear in.

What true generosity of soul runs through this family, Harriet!

It has, as I told you, been some time expected that Miss Stanley would, ere long, be Lady Conway.

What the matter is, I cannot yet exactly say; but the dear Emma told me it was all over, and owned to me her distress upon the occasion; adding—she wished to tell me all, but dare not. She dare not, she said, even tell her mother. She was promise-bound, and must be secret, though the task was very heavy. It was on this account that she suddenly left Alverston; and, I find, all the family are greatly dissatisfied with what has happened. For my part, I cannot help ardently wishing a reconciliation may take place between this, at present, separated couple; for I think they seem exactly calculated for each other. We all, you know, agreed Sir Charles Conway was one of the most amiable men we had ever seen; and that he was the life of our Weymouth party.

How long Miss Stanley will stay at Woodstock, I know not. She greatly obliged me last week by a most agreeable letter, which I answered immediately. If she does not return soon, it is probable she will never again see Maria Birtles; but I hope she, some time hence, will think her friend Caroline Pemberton an equivalent for the loss of her waiting-maid.

I am impatient to be with you, but will wait Mr. Maynard’s advice how to proceed, before I leave Derbyshire.

Having now brought you down to the present period, I think I will conclude this my last packet in the narrative way; or have you, Augustus, any questions to ask, before I finish?

“Why, yes, Caroline, I want to know if Sir Edward and Lady Stanley have no other child living than the amiable daughter you have been talking about.”

And pray, sir, why do you ask that particular question? Suppose they have a son—What then? Does it follow that I—Ah, my cousins! I doubt, I doubt—shall I own it? Come; yes, I will. I will confess that if my father, instead of Lord Crumpford, had proposed Mr. Stanley, I should not—have ran away from him. That is all. What a wonderful reputation should I have had, in such a case, for implicit obedience to parental authority! an absolute pattern of submission to all the girls of the age. Because my father had commanded—I, probably, should have been brought to accept of one of the most—what shall I say about him, Harriet, to express what he is, that will not, to my sarcastical kinsman, sound like the partiality of a simple girl in love? One of the most—what? I cannot find a fit phrase; therefore summon to your idea a very fine figure of a man, endowed with an uncommon understanding; of a most excellent disposition, though rather too impetuous; a sparkling wit, with finished erudition; then call him George Stanley, and you will have the person; the mind, and the name of the man who has—it would be a folly to deny it—stolen the heart of my father’s daughter; and that, I greatly fear, beyond retrieve. How all this came about, and what reason I have to suppose my swain is caught in the same net, must be the subject of some future conversation.

A few evnings back, I found myself in a very whimsical situation, through which I scarce knew how to conduct myself.

An old Mr. Slayton, of Oakley-Hill, a few miles from Mansfield, a relation to the Wilbraham family, was one of Mr. Stanley’s godfathers; and, I believe, means to present him with a very handsome sum of money—if I understand aright, a hundred thousand pounds—provided he marries with his approbation. This gentleman came last week to Alverston, in his way to London, and was introduced into Lady Stanley’s dressing-room, while she and I sat there at work. It was after tea. Sir Edward was not at home. Mr. Stanley came up with him. For some time the conversation ran on trifling subjects, but at length, according, as it seems, to his custom, Mr. Slayton began upon matrimony, and who should, in my presence, be talked of to Mr. Stanley as a wife, but myself! Do not mistake—not me, as Maria Birtles, but as Caroline Pemberton. Never before was I so overwhelmed with confusion. I absolutely thought I should have fainted; the throbbing of my heart being so great, that it made me quite sick. Fortunately the old squire’s broad shoulders, behind which I screened myself, prevented my embarrassment from being observed; otherwise, some strange construction must have been drawn from my emotion.

I must forcibly tear my pen from the paper, or I shall scribble over half a ream. Never did I know where to stop when writing to you, and the last subject is not quite exhausted.

Seriously, my dear cousins, as you have now the whole of my situation before you, I request you to advise me, and to manage for me, as your judgment directs; depending upon my approbation of your sentence. Let me hear from you immediately: yet I shall tremble when I see your letter, on account of the expected information of my dear father’s displeasure. I think you must not tell me if he is very angry; and yet you must; for except I am assured I know all, I shall be distressed by my own suppositions.

Farewell. I will not add another line.

CAROLINE PEMBERTON.

LETTER, X.

COL. GREVILLE, TO GEORGE STANLEY, ESQ.

Pall-Mall, March 10th, 1789.

DEAR SIR,

ABOUT five days since, I had the pleasure of seeing, in Portland-Place, our friend Sir Charles Conway; but my satisfaction on the occasion received considerable abatement, from the apparent lowness of his spirits. His dress told me he did not mourn the death of any body, or, by the solemnity of his manner, I should have concluded the existence of some beloved friend had been just terminated. He is no longer the lively—the gay companion we mutually have held in admiration. My concern for his happiness led to enquiries that produced answers which unfolded the cause; when my wonder changed its subject. I was no more surprised at his dejection of spirits. Such a deprivation happening to me, would, I honestly confess, have extinguished not only all my hope of happiness, but my whole portion of reason: for as the felicity he formerly enjoyed, was, in my opinion, the highest any man could experience upon earth, the loss of it must, consequently, be the greatest degree of torment. My wonder, therefore, when I learned the occasion of his melancholy, was, that he was not still more deeply afflicted. Such a woman as Emma Stanley!—Heavens and earth! who would not exchange every other species of bliss for that one of calling her his!

Another part of my amazement was what could occasion the rupture between a pair seemingly so affectionately attached to each other. That the primary cause of blame rested with Sir Charles, I not one moment hesitated to pronounce: for that Miss Stanley would not—could not have capriciously dissolved such an engagement, is an immovable article of my creed.

The sum total is—the affair is concluded; never, most likely, to be revived.

And now how shall I summon sufficient courage to enter upon the only purport of my letter! My hand trembles while it obeys the dictates of my heart.

Were the greatest monarch upon the habitable globe to pretend to merit the hand of Miss Stanley, he ought to be punished for his presumption, as it is impossible for any human being to deserve a jewel so inestimable. How then dare I breathe a wish to call her mine! Yet that I would contemptuously spurn at diadems, if put in competition with her yielding hand, is a truth which has long, long been fatal to my felicity. I have endeavoured to consider her as so absolutely united to Sir Charles Conway, that it would have been criminal to have even wished a dissolution of the engagement; but no ideal representation could silence the whispers of my heart, which always told me she was absolutely necessary to my ever knowing happiness; nor could I prevent my envy from resting upon a man blessed with Miss Stanley’s favor.

Convinced of the true nobleness of mind which inspires every individual of the Alverston family—shall I mention the present disparity of my fortune to that which your sister is already in possession of? Shall I imagine myself to stand so low in your opinion, as to suppose it necessary to disclaim every view of a mercenary tendency? No; I will not. Neither will I, to lessen, in appearance, my presumption, dwell upon the nobility of my ancestry and present connexions; nor upon the expectation of reversionary riches!

The whole of this great business I commit, my dear friend, to your management. Favor me with your interest, and oblige me with three lines by to-morrow’s post, to tell me I have not presumed too much upon the experienced generosity of your soul; which, great as I have often been convinced it is, my timidity, on the present occasion, tells me may be offended by this enormous intrusion.

Some times I am apprehensive of being too early in the disclosure of my sentiments; but my fear that delay should give an opportunity for some more resolute, and perhaps less-truly adoring presumer to succeed, impels me to urge to you my wishes; leaving the time and manner of further proceedings to your friendly direction.

On the greatly interesting subject, I will not now say any more; and after it, what can to me appear of consequence? Nothing—but the pleasure I take in seeing my name witnessing an avowal of the respect and affection with which I have the honor to be,

My dear sir,

your obliged

and devoted

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

LETTER, XI.

MR. STANLEY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

Alverston, March 11th, Wednesday evening.

DEAR SIR,

YOUR letter has this instant reached me. As you desire, I answer it directly, though it cannot go by this day’s post; that having been gone through some time back.

I write—not only at your request, but that I may shut the subject from my thoughts as soon as possible.

You mistake, Colonel—greatly mistake the point in question. My sister—whom on this occasion I could almost renounce—is the only culpable person concerned. Sir Charles Conway’s conduct is absolutely unimpeachable. It ever was, and will remain so. Justice, and my affection for my friend, which is at war with that for my sister, obliges me to give this testimony.

The caprice of woman—heard you never of this inherent quality in the sex?—is the only known cause of Emma Stanley’s rendering wretched the very man on earth most calculated to make her happy. To your success I shall not oppose any thing; but you, and every one who may think me a proper person to apply to on such an occasion, must excuse my declining taking any concern in her future choice.

Whomever she thinks proper for her husband, I shall, doubtless, consider as my brother; though if she elects with no more judgment than she has discarded, I shall blush at my relation.

Colonel do not mistake me. If she chuses you, you will not have any reason to complain of my want of cordial wishes for your mutual happiness. Had not my sister’s unaccountable excentricity so highly offended me, as to make me determine never more to give my voice in such an election, I would have espoused your cause with all due fervency. As it is, I repeat you must excuse me; still, however believing me to be

Your affectionate friend,

GEORGE STANLEY.

LETTER, XII.

COLONEL GREVILLE, TO SIR EDWARD

STANLEY.

Pall-Mall, March 13th.

MY DEAR SIR,

THE many instances of friendship I have received from all your family, give me hope you will indulgently listen to the request I am now presuming to make to you. It is of a very aspiring nature, and flattered as I always have been by your too high sense of an action which was nothing more than an office of common humanity, I am almost apprehensive you will think me too presuming when I tell you that my hope is to take from you, and that with the joint consent of your house, the rescued and inestimable jewel of your family.

The moment of my being assured Miss Stanley was at liberty from her late engagement, my wishes, before too unrestrainable, beat high to call her mine. For some days I hesitated; unable to summon sufficient resolution to dare the attempt: but equally unable to silence the importunities of a heart ever devoted to that most charming of women, I wrote, on Tuesday last, to Mr. Stanley, who obligingly gave me an immediate answer; but on account of his intimacy with Sir Charles Conway, declined taking any active part in the affair. To you, therefore, and to Lady Stanley, I make my appeal, and presume to hope for your concurrence with my wishes.

To delineate the circumscribed limits of my present fortune, would, on several accounts, be an affront to you. The first reason of my forbearance arises from a knowledge of the true nobleness of soul which so particularly distinguishes all of your name; my next—because you are as perfectly acquainted with the state of my finances as I am myself; you, likewise, well know the reasonableness of my expectations of reversionary riches and other distinctions. The promises I have received—not only from the minister, but from the king himself—give me a hope of being able to place Miss Stanley in a sphere not unworthy her distinguished merits. Of the sincerity and ardency of the affection I have long entertained for her, I could write volumes; but of this, I trust you will not entertain one doubt, as it must be a matter of easy belief, that a man, honored as I have been by her avowed sentiments of regard (to which, from the effusions of a mind too sensible of what she termed an obligation, she gave the appellation of gratitude) should conceive a tender prepossession for such a woman; though the idea of her predilection for another, kept down, in some measure, the rising wish of being the happy first in her affection.

With you, my dear Sir Edward, and with Lady Stanley, I now implicitly rest the affair which must constitute or destroy all the felicity this world can afford me; subscribing myself in the language of truth,

Your greatly obliged,

respectful, and

obedient servant,

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

LETTER, XIII.

COLONEL GREVILLE, TO THE HONOURABLE

MRS. DIGBY.

Pall-Mall, March 13th.

YOUR letter, my dear cuz, without a date, informing me of your safe arrival at the intended scene of action, reached me, a few days back, at Lord Farnham’s; and that dated Yarmouth, March the eleventh, I received yesterday. To the first I did not reply, because you sent me no address;—what, I wonder, were you thinking of when you wrote that letter!—To be sure it might be supposed that a cover directed to so celebrated a character as that of the Honorable Mrs. Digby, would have found its way to your hands, all over the king’s dominions; yet what I was then in the humour to have written, was not to be hazarded to the possibility of a miscarriage.

Do you not know from experience, Bella, that the old observation of every thing’s being made more dear by the difficulty of obtaining it, is most unquestionably true? Myself I acknowledge to be a melancholy proof of its verity, on the subject of our late—or, if you please, of your late, dexterous manoeuvring. While Miss Stanley was in danger of being Lady Conway, I would have given all the globes in the vast extent of ether, for the chance Sir Charles then had of possessing her—AND—her fortune. A mighty convenient thing that last, an’t please your ladyship, to a man who has dipped at both ends, (though I believe that is a circumstance not much known) a scanty patrimony: yet no sooner had you, with mighty art, loosened the silken fetters which tied this envied pair, than I found my relish for matrimony, which, let me confess, was never particularly strong, much abated; however my passionate tenderness for “the glittering bait,” continues in full transport. To facilitate, therefore, its gratification, I wrote, a few days back, to George Stanley, who gave me an immediate answer; but neither very polite, nor in the style I expected; for I had ventured to suppose he would have told me that next to his discarded friend, I was the man he wished to call brother: and considering the professions of gratitude which I had so repeatedly heard from all the family, for my heroic preservation of the phoenix from the flames, I do not think this supposition was a very unreasonable one. However it was not realized. The zealous friend of the outed member refused to have any thing to do in a new election. This disappointment stimulated, I believe, my wishes. I again found myself very much in love; therefore immediately wrote a letter to the father; giving him, as I had done the young one, a gentle hint of the conflagration at Mr. Symond's; intwining an address to the mother, and throwing myself upon their clemency. If the old don gives me an answer as laconic as that I have received from the heir-apparent, I am determined to besiege the girl herself, without delay; and if she refuses me—no more begging and praying: I will, at once, strike a grand stroke; seize my prey, like the monarch of the woods, and secure her from all others of my species.

But this plot is still in petto. I will not yet trust you with even the outlines; but keep, till the word of command shall be given, the why; the how; the when, and the where, in impervious darkness.

Having done with myself—let me talk about you.

Sir Charles is not yet, you say, arrived at Yarmouth; I did not expect to hear he was; as by his conversation, when I saw him in Portland-Place, I found he meant to take a view of the towns and villages upon the coast of Essex and Suffolk. When he left London I know not; for the day after I saw him I went to Windsor, and I was not, at my return, industrious to seek another meeting with him.

My letter, which met you at Mrs. Betterson’s, made but slight mention of the Mr. Evelyn who is to accompany your knight in his tour. I have since dined with him at Barclay’s, of Reading, in which town his father lives; and I now pronounce him to be one of the most accomplished young Levites I ever saw. I think if you manage right, he may be of use in your designs; as his friendship for Sir Charles will naturally lead him to wish his forgetfulness of the ungrateful Emma. This hint I give you, that you may make the most of it.

I cannot but say that I pride myself in your approbation of my managing conversation with Sir Charles Conway. The commendations of MRS. DIGBY—though she is my cousin—so confirm my sentiments, that I am quite elated at the recollection; therefore, in the height of my exaltation I subscribe myself her most respectful

and most obedient servant,

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

LETTER, XIV.

SIR EDWARD STANLEY, TO COLONEL

GREVILLE.

Alverston, March 14th.

YOUR letter, my dear sir, reached my hands about an hour since. I directly carried it to Lady Stanley, to consult upon the contents, and we immediately agreed in thinking there is but one answer which can be given to it with propriety.

Sir Charles Conway, as you well know, had not merely our consent to address our daughter, but our warmest wishes for his success. On every account he was the man to whose protection we were desirous to consign her; and it was our expectation, and the expectation of all our friends, that the affair would soon have been happily concluded. It has, however, been proved we were too sanguine; and the disappointment considerably affected us; being an added instance of the instability of human hope; for we were almost presumptuous enough to think nothing could frustrate the felicity we proposed to ourselves in this seemingly eligible union. And now, unwilling as we are to charge Emma with capriciousness, justice to Sir Charles Conway compels us to exonerate him from every degree of blame respecting the termination of this greatly approved engagement. Indeed we blame not any body; for as our dear girl was evidently much distressed; [we mean to be honest with you, Colonel] as we have great reason to believe she had a real predilection for Sir Charles, and as we never had occasion to suspect the goodness of either her head or her heart, we rest the matter on a belief that the whole is the effect of some cause which it is not yet given us to develope. Our answer to your letter, therefore, is, that we are firmly determined not to interfere in any new proposal which shall be made to our daughter; trusting she will not make a choice to our disapprobation. For this resolve, we have several reasons: one of the number is, a consideration for Sir Charles Conway; as we cannot but think his affection for Emma leads him to consider himself as a great sufferer from her very unexpected change of sentiments; though he has too much true goodness to distress us with his complaints. But it is an ill compliment to so finished a character as his is, to suppose a necessity for expatiating upon his merits.

You have now before you, my dear Colonel, our sentiments as plain as simple language can convey them. We wish to be frank and sincere to all the world; particularly to one to whom we shall ever think ourselves under obligation for the preservation of the darling child in question.

Point out some way wherein I can be of use to you; give me some opportunity of serving you. It will afford peculiar happiness to both Lady Stanley and myself to be able to shew a sense of our obligation by something more than language; but till an acceptable method can be found for that purpose, I must content myself with requesting you, my dear sir, to consider me as your ever grateful and affectionate friend,

EDWARD STANLEY.

LETTER, XV.

LADY STANLEY, TO MISS STANLEY.

Alverston, March 14th.

Notwithstanding I this morning dispatched to my dear Emma a large sheet of paper full written, I must again take up my pen to address her. But I will now be as concise as possible.

Inclosed, for your perusal, is a letter from Colonel Greville, with your father’s answer to it.

Read them both with attention; consult your inward mind, and then form your own conclusion.

I shall be glad to hear from you, when your sentiments are fixed; but do not write hastily.

May GOD Almighty direct my dear child in all her researches for true and lasting happiness.

I forbear to say more than that I am

her anxiously affectionate mother,

HENRIETTA STANLEY.

LETTER, XVI.

COLONEL GREVILLE, TO MISS STANLEY.

Pall-Mall, March 15th.

HAVING been attached to Miss Stanley for a series of years, by ties of a most tender friendship, hardly restraining my wishes for a connexion of a still more tender kind, by the belief of her heart’s being the property of another, it is not to be wondered at that the moment which informed me she was at liberty to elect, to the first seat in her favor, that fortunate individual to whose petition she would compassionately listen, should give birth to—or, rather, mature—my most ardent aspirations towards that long envied—that most blest of all sublunary distinctions.

I have been accustomed to consider a general at the head of his army as one of the most glorious objects in the creation. But, believe me, madam, he would, when compared with the man of your choice, sink, in my eye, beneath the meanest of those whom he commands.

These are my real sentiments, and with them I offer myself a suppliant—an admiring—an adoring suppliant—for your favor. Riches and titles will soon be laid at your feet. Candidates of the first distinction will crowd to enter the lifts, as soon as it is known you have a preference to bestow. But of these opponents I am not afraid. Riches and titles, with you, madam, have no very powerful charms; else would I dwell upon my considerable expectancies. But you know my reversionary rights; and you know, likewise, I am partly promised a revival of the title of my mother’s father.

Excuse me that I mention these matters. I repeat my conviction of their being considered as immaterial to you when put in competition with sincerity and affection; with which qualities I can boast myself to be nobly enriched. In these articles my wealth has been accumulating with rapidity ever since my first acquaintance with the treasures of your mind. Think of then, and pity me for, the torments I have endured in the constant empty wish for a return. Not but that I acknowledge my heart has been often elated by instances of your highly valued friendship. But what did that do for me!—increase the ardency of my wishes for the first share of your affection, to almost distraction.

I cannot paint the bitter heart-aches I have endured under the mask of a smile, when I have visited Alverston. Many times have I intended going thither, and then altered my intention; being unable to endure the idea of witnessing the happiness I so greatly envied.

But I will not at this time enlarge upon this head.

I have written to Sir Edward and Mr. Stanley on the interesting subject, and have been favored with letters from both, not prohibitory. Yet they decline interfering; rightly judging they may safely trust to your own discretion; which no one ever saw cause to question.

And now, madam, I will conclude; earnestly requesting a speedy release from that torment of suspense I must necessarily endure till you deign to favor me with a reply: such a one as will, I must presume to hope, open to me a prospect of future happiness.

I am, my dear madam,

your most fervently affectionate,

and truly devoted adorer,

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

LETTER, XVII.

COLONEL GREVILLE, TO LORD FITZ-MURRAY.

Pall-Mall, March 15th.

I Rather think I shall, at last, be obliged to adopt your scheme of conquest; which, however, goes most plaguily against my pride; not, you will believe, against my principle; for now all these pains have been taken to separate the cooing turtles, the fair one shall be brought to surrender by means of strength or stratagem.

Confound the stupid family for their stoical indifference about such a business. They ought to have interfered—to have enforced my proposal; instead of that, the young one, for I wrote first to him, laconically begged to be excused from having any hand in the affair, because of his friendship, forsooth! to his dear Sir Charles Conway! A curse upon such friendship! Is he not my friend too? and has he not reason to imagine I am so foolish as to be his, without any regard to interest? Besides are they not all under obligation to me? They have, it is true, made, what they may think, considerable returns; but can any favor pay the great debt of saving the young lady from such terrible destruction? Positively, no; they will ever remain my debtors.

My second letter was to Sir Teddy himself. His reply was rather more prolix than the youngster’s, but it amounted to the same sum total. He, truly! would not direct the matter, because his daughter was so well calculated to judge and chuse for herself. Dame Stanley, according to the tenor of his letter, was of the same opinion. I wonder the late dismission so contrary to their approbation, did not lower the parental partiality of these sentiments; as, according to all they can judge by, the girl must have acted very capriciously. Something the old fellow talked about a hidden cause, not yet developed. I did not quite understand what might be the full extent of his meaning, but faith! he made me tremble by his intimation. I must finish this business as soon as possible, lest any malicious demon should whisper a secret which may throw me at a distance. I this day received the father’s answer; have just now written to the girl herself; and beginning to find a wonderful increase of my passion, from the idea of its being likely I may meet with more difficulty in my pursuit than I had before permitted myself to apprehend, have, I do assure you, flourished off in style; for I am not yet enough in love to prevent my senses from having free exercise.

It most certainly is an observation founded upon incontrovertible facts, that a man who is fool enough to be in good earnest, as they say, in these matters, is never so likely to succeed as the honest fellow who has prudence and policy in view; and therefore reason and discretion at command.

I, working by this rule, have, as I told you, composed a gallant billet-doux for my lass; which I fancy to be the most lucky hit, my hand ever guided. Had I been quite sincere in all I said, my scribble would have wanted many of its little ornaments; for, as I have observed, a man who is really in love with a woman, without any regard to her appendages, can seldom, or never, either write or speak with pointed elegance.

Let us now suppose this celebrated fair should, out of pure constancy to her first flame, reject my humble petition. What, after that, must be my next step? Why this: to seize her, as you six months back proposed, and convey her to your Welch castle. Where I will treat her with so much love, that, surfeited with the richness of the banquet, she shall be glad to resign—nay to offer the name of Stanley, as a ransom for her liberty from that sweet thraldom; joyfully—even thankfully—consenting to exchange it for the one from which death only can release her.

I will inclose the particulars of the plan, that your useful Pandarus, and his still more useful spouse may have it for perusal.

Your scheme I have considerably improved upon; and have, as you will see, included Miss Lawson; that you, likewise, may have some little amusement.

And now, my Lord, if I can but execute the double plan of perfecting my own scheme and frustrating that of Mrs. Digby, I shall indeed be a man; which is one reason for my being in haste to pursue my project; though I take care to let my precious kinswoman, who has one of the most artful, plotting, guileful hearts that ever inhabited a female breast, suppose I am backward and dilatory. But the moment I am secure, I will blow her up, and spoil her match. She never, if I can prevent it, shall have another husband. No young fry to cut me out of the estate, do I want her to produce. I have recommended Herbert Evelyn to her acquaintance, who will, I think, soon see and frustrate her designs; as I employed Vandeput to give him a hint of her character.

She pretends ignorance—for I believe it is pretence—of the real purport of her father’s will; which, doubtless, is a very complex piece of business; but thus far the meaning is perfectly clear. If she dies without a child, what he left her goes to her sister; and if she likewise leaves this world without children (as most likely she will; it being improbable she should ever marry) it was to revert to James Bentley, who died soon after old Howard; and then, after his death, to rest in me; merely, I believe, because he did not care what became of it any farther. Had any distinction been made between the sisters, it ought to have been in favor of Matilda; but the artful Arabella was his darling; and, by her little serpent-like tricks, took effectual care to keep herself so, and likewise, it is said, to continue his resentment against Matilda; who, according to the voice of fame, for I never saw much of her, though we are so nearly related, is a most amiable character.

With Arabella’s disposition I am thoroughly acquainted, by means of our so often living together, in puerile days, at our old aunt Montgomery’s, and I know her to be fraudful.

As I told you—she believes, or affects to believe—that if she has no child, she has a power of disposal; and that only in case of her dying intestate, the estate goes as the will directs. But if I survive her, I shall let her executor know better things, with respect to all that was her father’s property.

Let me hear from you soon, and tell me if you have still any intention of carrying Fanny into Wales; or if she is now so well reconciled to her fate that you dare trust her at Bernford during your stay in London. Her brother, I find, has not the least idea of her being with you. Williamson is the person he suspects.

Till we meet, my Lord, farewell. That you may escape the due reward of your actions, is, I think, a very friendly wish; for which, I expect you will acknowledge you owe me obligation.

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

LETTER, XVIII.

MISS STANLEY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

Woodstock, Tuesday, March 17th, 1789.

SIR,

YOUR letter, dated the fifteenth, which I just now received, has distressed me beyond measure.

Why will you lay me under the disagreeable necessity of refusing any request of yours so earnestly made? for refuse it I must, or be accessary to the destruction of both my own happiness and yours. Believe me, my good friend, I speak from certain knowledge, or I would not speak so decisively. I have an infallible intelligencer to instruct me on this head, whose dictates, on such an occasion, it would be certain wretchedness to disobey. I owe you obligation of the highest worldly nature; and should experience inexpressible gladness to be able to add materially to your welfare; to promote which, I would make considerable sacrifices; but in the case in question, most sure am I that a compliance with your expressed wishes, would not only deprive me of felicity, but prevent your ever again having the least prospect of it while we both should remain in existence; it being utterly impossible you could be happy with a woman whose heart must constantly continue sullenly insensible to your affection; and it is this conviction, sir, that confirms my determination (which is indeed fixed unalterably) of never being more to you than

your much obliged,

and truly grateful friend,

EMMA STANLEY.

LETTER, XIX.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE STANLEY, ESQ.

March 17th, 1789.

YESTERDAY morning I wrote to you from Harwich. I now date from Framlingham, a pretty little market town in Suffolk, famous for its church and castle; the latter, as you know, celebrated for the refuge it afforded bloody Queen Mary, as she is called. It is one of the most agreeable pieces of decayed antiquity I have seen lately. Within-side is a very long room of rather modern date; built for the reception of the parish-poor, who are here maintained in great order and decency. The prospect from the top of the walls of the castle is very pleasant; affording a view of an estate of several hundreds per annum left to the poor of this place by Sir Robert Hitcham. His desire to have only a plain stone laid over him was prettily evaded by his executors, who ordered the repository to be distinguished by a large black marble slab, supported at the corners by four angels; each kneeling upon one knee. Though there are in this chancel several superb monuments to some of the Norfolk family, this of Sir Robert’s, from its simple elegance, claims the pre-eminence. The church is, I think, take it without and within, one of the handsomest structures I ever saw in a country town. As soon as I entered, I remembered to have seen it before; it was when I was brought by Lord Bristol upon a visit to a relation of his who lived in a village within four miles of this place: but I was either never shown, or had forgotten, the castle. My passion for music, I believe, imprinted the church upon my idea, as I now perfectly recollect hearing its organ touched by a gentleman whose very amiable and respectable character did honor, as our party afterwards observed, to advanced life. I still remember that I was, at the time, particularly struck with the similitude of his person and manners to those of your father.

These recurrences led me to enquire for him of the mistress of the inn, whose singular reply was—“O dear, sir! he has a long time been in Heaven!”—adding that he certainly was one of the best men that ever breathed. This led me to wish to extend my enquiries, and just as I had began to ask her the particulars of this exemplary character, an elderly gentleman of a respectable appearance, was walking through the gate-way, in which we were standing. He immediately caught our subject; stopped, and looked attentive. Seeing he wished to speak, I transferred to him the conversation, and received a compleat description of a truly good man. After talking some time with this gentleman, he said—“I was last night, sir, with a large company, in the room over our heads, when the virtues of my old friend made a subject of conversation. They were discussed some time, and the closing opinion was this—that no one could recollect a single fault in his disposition.”—Saying this, my intelligencer made a bow, and walked off, to conceal, as I conjectured, his emotion.

Just such an emulating character as the above, will Sir Edward Stanley leave behind him.

From Framlingham I mean to go to Orford, to look at the castle in that place; from thence to Aldborough, and along the coast, by Southwold and Lowestoff to Yarmouth.

Mr. Evelyn is now writing an answer to the letter he received from you yesterday. From poor Fowller’s sudden alteration for the worse, you will probably be his first patron. The idea of presenting him to you—not as an old acquaintance but as a friend, affords me considerable pleasure: but this is such a leading sentiment, that if I write any longer I shall glide into the prohibited subject; therefore I will bid you farewell.

CHARLES CONWAY.

After this reaches you, direct to me at Aldborough, Suffolk; to be left at the post-office. I mean to wait here till I receive your answer to my first from Harwich.

LETTER, XX.

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

Alverston, March 17th.

TEN thousand things crowd to the point of my pen. To which to give the preference I know not. My mind is in a tumult. Tell me not of moderation—of placidity—of philosophy, and such trumpery stuff; but give me the wings of a swallow, and the eye of an eagle, that I may fly, and penetrate at once, into the secret recesses of that shaded labyrinth, a woman’s heart.

But here I am proseing away with my pen, when I am in the greatest haste to let you into the light of interesting matters of fact. Take them, then, as soon as a swift quill and the mail can convey them.

I have found her, Charles. At least I know who she is, and am going to pursue the tender; trembling; sickening; flying, charmer. Conway! I am transported. Who but that elegant creature Lady Lucinda Harrington, (whom three years back, from the slight view we had of her, we agreed had all the symptoms of growing beauty in her face) should be the dear, submitting angel that dropped my resemblance at the foot of the sopha in the anti-room at Hazel-wood Lodge! Sweet, lovely Lady Lucinda! How I already adore her! What shall I do when I see her, and hear her condescendingly acknowledge, in delicate, hesitating accents, that her pencil had delineated my features; her blushes, and her timid eye, confessing her partiality! If I do not pity her—if I do not return her affection, I shall deservedly be reckoned a barbarian.

An earl's daughter—a rich heiress—a beautiful creature, [as I chuse to believe, for I own I have not a very distinct idea of her features] and, as the lost, and happily found performance evinces—a woman of genius, sense and sentiment, absolutely and beyond a doubt, as you shall hear by and by, prepossessed in my favor! In short—to put the matter into plain English—is in love with me.

And now, Sir Charles Conway, what is it you have to say upon this occasion? Do you not think I am a gentleman of high renown? Do you not envy me? Do you not—But I must hasten to the particulars of this glorious event.

About eleven o’clock this morning, Mrs. Raymond; Mrs. Willet; Mrs. Butler, and Miss Parker, were driven into the court-yard. I was walking in the garden; and hastening to hand them out of their carriage, conducted them into the library where my mother was sitting. After a little chit-chat, Miss Parker began with—“Well, Mr. Stanley, and how is poor Lady Lucinda Harrington?”

With a look of surprise, I asked the meaning of her question; when Mrs. Willett, joining in the conversation, pertly said, “Nay, nay, Mr. Stanley, no affectation! We are all in the secret.”

What secret, madam? asked I, with increased amazement.

Mrs. Willet. What secret! Why no secret at all: for every body knows that Lady Lucinda Harrington is in love with Mr. Stanley.

Stanley. Upon my word, madam, you do me high honor; but I must confess it is very unmerited.

Mrs. Butler. Mr. Stanley this is indeed affectat