﻿WORKS of this kind are in general of so captivating a nature to young readers, that let them run through but a few pages of almost any Novel → , and they will feel their affections or curiosity so interested, either in the characters or the events, that it is with difficulty they can be diverted to any other study or

amusement, till they have got to the end of the story.
From the experience then of this species of attraction, such sort of writings may be rendered, by good and ingenious authors, extremely serviceable to morals, and other useful purposes of life—Place the magnet low, and it will degrade our sentiments; hold it high, and it elevates them. Imitation is natural to the human mind; and as we copy those patterns best, which we are most conversant with, it depends upon the choice that

parents and preceptors make of such compositions, to produce the best effect from this general sympathy.—Tell me your company, is a just adage; but tell me your studies is as true a maxim.
In the selection of proper pieces to assist toward so pleasing a method of instruction, no inconsiderable part of the attention ought to be paid to the stile and language of the writers; for it is certain that those who can best express their sentiments, are those who conceive them best; and the same idea delivered by a gentleman,

will have double the effect to what it would have if uttered by his valet de chamber.
All authors, therefore, of mean or illiberal education, or stationed below the familiar converse of polite life, should be wholly excluded from the sort of library I am here recommending. Nor should any translations be admitted there, though done from the originals by the best hands, according to the phrase of their title pages—For there is a stiffness in the stile of all the publications of this kind I have

ever met with, that constrains the ease and freedom of our language, and impures it with a number of Gallicisms, Italianisms, &c. which even those who are allowed to be the best hands, that have ever condescended to so servile an office, find it impossible to avoid. A work, framed from one's own ideas, is like learning to write from a copy, a translation is like tracing the letters after the master has penciled them for us.
If I have had any success in this, or my former work of the same

kind*, it is owing more to accident than genius, and may therefore be deemed rather fortunate than meritorious. I have had a good deal of acquaintance with the world, and have known many private memoirs, and particular circumstances in life, which has afforded me an opportunity of supplying both my characters and situations from the living drama, instead of borrowing them from the mimic scene. I felt, as I wrote, and lived along the line, from the sympathy of friendship, or the tenderness

of compassion. This is contagious—I hope my readers may catch the infection also.
For I shall think myself extremely happy, if I can, in any degree, contribute towards forming, or informing, the young and innocent; the task of reforming I leave to greater geniuses, and abler pens. The characters which present themselves in this work, are, as I have already hinted, mostly drawn from real life, they are therefore natural, and proper objects, either for imitation or avoidance,

" Virtuous, and vicious, every man must be;
" Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree."

But, when writers exceed the bounds of probability, and describe an angel, or a devil, in human form, our reason is shocked, and revolts at the idea of a character so much above, or below, our nature; the semblance of truth vanishes, the reader's attention becomes relaxed, and both the events, and the moral, if there should be any,
" Fade like the baseless fabric of a vision,
" Nor leave a wreck behind!"

With such productions our circulating libraries, those slop-shops

in literature, abound, and with them must they still be filled, till our legislature shall think proper to enable the booksellers to pay for better works, by passing an act to secure their property, in the copies they purchase: till that is done, no person in the trade can afford to pay a large sum for any manuscript, be the merit of it what it will; and of course no authors, except the very poor ones, indeed, both in the literal and metaphorical sense of the word, or the rich, who form but a small squadron in the host of writers,

will devote their time and labour to the public, without hope of some adequate reward.
Those who amongst our legions, neither want, nor abound, have therefore but one way of contributing their mite to the Parnassian treasury; that of publishing by subscription, which in my estimation is at once both flattering, and humiliating, as it proves the attachment of our friends, while it lays us under the painful necessity of taxing their regard.

Happy and honoured as I have been by the favour of the public in general, as well as by the kind partiality of my particular friends, I shall ever be both proud and pleased to offer my present and future efforts to their indulgent candour, upon any terms, and to subscribe myself their
much obliged, most grateful, and obedient servant, E. G.




Bangor Ferry.
" Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
" Where mountains rise, and where rude waters flow,
" Where e'er I go, whatever realms I see,
" My heart untravelled, fondly turns to thee.
" Still to my Fanny turns, with ceaseless pain,
" And drags at each remove, a lengthening chain."
HOW much am I indebted to the author of these beautiful lines, for having expressed my present feelings, so much better than I could myself. The address was originally made to a brother, there can therefore be no impropriety

in applying them to a sister—and such a one as mine—
You desired me, my Fanny, to write to you from every stage—this is the first moment I have had to myself—one of Sir William's most favourite maxims, is, that women should be treated like state criminals, and utterly debarred the use of pen and ink—he says, that
"those who are fond of scribling, are never good for any thing else; that female friendship is a jest; and that we only correspond, or converse, with our own sex, for the sake of indulging ourselves in talking of the other."

Why, Sir William, why will you discover such illiberal sentiments, to one who has been so lately prevailed upon to

pronounce those awful words,
"love, honour, and obey"
! The fulfilling the two first articles of this solemn engagement, must depend upon yourself, the latter only, rests on me; and I will most sanctimoniously perform my part of the covenant.

Yes, my sister, I will stifle the rising sigh, and wipe away the wayward tear, that steals involuntarily down my cheek, from the fond recollection of those dear friends, that I have left behind me. Would to nature that the objects necessarily followed their affections, or else retained them with themselves, instead of suffering remembrance, like a tyrant, to pursue the unhappy traveller, adding anxiety to fatigue, and grief to danger.

Sir William has met with some gentlemen of his acquaintance, here; he presented them to me, and I could see that he seemed pleased at that sort of approbation which is expressed by looks, at first sight of a person who happens to please us—there would be something flattering in this idea which I should wish to cherish, if I did not fear that his pleasure arose more from vanity, than affection.—Yet why should I think so? Has he not pursued me with unabated ardour, near two years, and triumphed over the repeated refusals of my friends, and self, by the most obstinate perseverance? But might not vanity—be still, thou restless, busy, perturbed spirit! and no longer seek to investigate an humiliating cause for an event which is irrevocably past!

These gentlemen, then, that I told you of, are to join company with us, for the remainder of our journey and voyage:—there is one of them a Lord something, I forgot his title, who is just returned from making the grande tour; his person is elegant; I think him, both in face, and figure, vastly like Colonel Stanford.—I suppose this young nobleman will be the bon ton of this winter, in Dublin; it may therefore be of some use to a stranger, as I shall be, to be known to him. I shall not, however, cultivate the present opportunity, as I have left the room, determined not to return, on pretence of a head-ach, in order to tell my dear Fanny what she already knows, that I am her more than sister, her affectionate and faithful friend,
LOUISA BARTON.

P.S. Love to my brother, and to my dear Mary Granville; but I charge you not to show my letters, even to either of them.


Holy-head.
WILL you not doubt my veracity, Fanny, when I tell you, that three days spent in this dullest and most disagreeable of villages, have not appeared tedious to me! There is certainly a wonderful charm in variety of situations—every change produces a new assemblage of ideas; and actuates the mind with curiosity, comparison, and inquiry.

The wildness, or even horror, of this place, for we have had a perpetual storm, is so strongly contrasted with the mild scenes of Cleveland Hall, or indeed any other part of England that I have seen, that one would scarce think it possible for a few days journey to transport us into such extremes, of the sublime and beautiful—
I am persuaded that all the inhabitants of Wales must be romantic:—there never was any place appeared so like enchanted ground, and the scenes shift upon you almost as quick as in a pantomime—from the stupendous, bleak, and barren hills of Cambria, you are almost instantly transported into fertile and laughing vallies.—There never was a richer, and more beautiful view, than

that of the Vale of Cluyd.—I am not at at all surprised that poetry took its rise in this part of Britain; the ancient Druids could not be at a loss for poetic images—every object they saw must have inspired them, and exceeded, both in beauty, and wildness, whatever sportive fancy could have invented, or creative genius drawn forth from the store-house of imagination.
I think that even I seem to be possessed with a kind of poetic rapture, while I describe these charming scenes; but I will not anticipate the pleasure that I hope you will yourself receive from them, next summer; tho' I already forestall the much higher delight I shall feel, on seeing my dear Fanny at South-field.

Sir William has been in great spirits ever since we have been here; and highly pleased at a very trifling mark of my obedience:—he proposed riding out, the morning after we came; and though there was a high wind, and a drizzling rain, I made not the least objection to mounting one of the little Welsh palfreys, and clambering up the hills, at his request—our fellow travellers, Lord Lucan and Colonel Walter, accompanied us.
I have described the former to you—the latter is remarkably handsome, but with a peculiar expression in his countenance, which is not the result of his features, but seems to arise from the predominancy of a particular passion in his mind—in short it is that sort of expression,

which has made you and me dislike so many handsome men.
The Colonel is to be our neighbour in the country; he is now going to Ireland, to take possession of his estate, and a seat in parliament for a borough he never saw—I am no politician, or I should animadvert a little upon this subject. This self-same Colonel has just tapped at my door, to tell me that the wind veers a little, and that Sir William desires I will hold myself in readiness to embark. I obey! adieu, my Fanny.
LOUISA BARTON.
P.S. I forgot to tell you, that Lord Lucan was at Paris when we were there, last year—he has made me smile, two or

three times, by his pathetic manner of lamenting his not knowing me then. I tell him that he may date his acquaintance from what era he pleases, as our living together in an inn has brought on a greater intimacy, in four days, than almost as many years could have effected, in the usual course of meeting at Operas, Routes, &c. But he sighs out a rueful, O que non! and the Colonel laughs, to show his white teeth, and superior understanding—
I come, Sir William! adieu, adieu—



Dublin.
WHAT scenes of distress have I gone thro', since I concluded my last letter to my dear Fanny! We embarked aboard the pacquet-boat, with what they called a shifting gale, and to do the captain justice, he was unwilling to sail. But Sir William and Colonel Walter were both impatient; and their impetuosity, as it generally does, triumphed over our calmer reason—
We had not been three hours at sea, before there arose so violent a storm, that the captain said it was impossible for the ship to weather it, six hours: he was, however, mistaken, for it continued six

and thirty—during which time we had been driven upon the northern coast of Ireland, and it was then to be feared that we should beat to pieces, on the rocks. There was a great number of passengers on board, and their groans and lamentations would have affected me extremely, in any other situation; but the violent and continued sickness which I suffered, rendered me insensible, even to my own danger; nor did I feel the smallest emotion when Lord Lucan, who had seldom left my bedside, caught hold of my hand, with a degree of wildness, and pressing it to his lips, said,
"We must perish!—but we shall die, together!"

The Captain had fired guns of distress upon our approaching the shore; and a fishing boat came to our relief, into

which the passengers crowded so fast, that the gentlemen were obliged to draw their swords, to prevent their sinking it. How I got into the boat I know not, but I found myself there, rolled up in Lord Lucan's rocquelaure, and my head supported by Sir William's knee—there were two other ladies in the boat with us, the youngest of whom, a Miss Leister, seemed to be, if possible, worse than I—but I will not detain you longer in this scene of horror, where we expected to be swallowed up by the waves, that came rolling on us, like moving mountains, every moment, till we reached the shore.—
Behold us then landed upon what may almost be called a desert island, for it is entirely surrounded by an arm

of the sea, and uninhabited by every thing but a few goats, and some fishermen, who are almost as wild as they.—It was about four o' clock in the morning, when we arrived at this dismal place, and such a morning, for darkness, rain, and wind, I never saw!
Neither Miss Leister nor I could stand, much less walk, and the gentlemen were obliged to carry us in their arms, by turns, for near two miles—till we arrived at some of the huts, where the hospitable cottagers received us with that sort of surprise, which I imagine we should feel, if an order of higher beings were to descend by miracle to visit us.—But be their kindness never forgot by me! and may their beds of straw, and smoaky rafters, yield them

such soft and balmy sleep, as they afforded to my harrassed frame! and let them never envy those that toss on down.
I did not wake till near ten in the morning, which was then as mild as it had been tempestuous when I retired to rest. Lord Lucan and Miss Leister were seated on a little bank, without-side the door of the cottage where I slept, to prevent any person from disturbing me; as soon as they heard me move, Miss Leister came to offer her assistance, in dressing me—she smiling said that breakfast was prepared for me, in a large drawing-room, and under the finest canopy she had ever seen; then led me by the hand to the bank where she had been sitting—I was surprised to see tea there, which, tho' made in wooden

vessels, appeared to me more delicious, than any that I had ever drank out of the finest Dresden china.—
Lord Lucan told me, that Sir William, the rest of the gentlemen, and Mrs. Layton, who is Miss Leister's aunt, were gone to reconnoitre la carte du paï, de la terre inconnuë, ou nons etions—and that now he had seen me so happily recovered, he wou'd try to join them.—
I found that another boat had arrived from the ship, and that our servants, and a part of our baggage were come—when my poor Benson saw me, she cried for joy; and indeed nothing but the state of insensibility, in which I quitted the vessel, could have made me leave her behind.—

Upon enquiring, we were told that there were neither horses or carriages, of any kind, to be had, to convey us out of the island, but that we might cross, in a boat, to a piece of land that lay opposite to one side of it, which, when we reached, was eight miles from any town, or village. As soon as I had changed my clothes, Miss Leister and I set out to meet, or overtake, our company; to confer about the difficulties of our sad situation.
I will bring you acquainted with Miss Leisler, in my next letter; and for the present I will call her Lucy, for I am sure I shall love her, and in that case I hate the formality of Miss—
Suppose us now to have walked about a mile and a half, without discovering

any object but the sea, which surrounded us, when, to our great delight, we spied land, tho' still divided from us by a gulf we thought impassable. We stood however on the shore, inventing a thousand impracticable schemes to cross this tremendous Hellespont, but never once thought of the only possible one, tho' we had been told of it. We at last grew weary of indulging our visions, and Lucy, who I find is extremely romantic, said, that, were she in my situation, she could, with the utmost pleasure, think of passing her days on the spot we were thrown on; for that the constant presence of the beloved object, must render any place an Eden to her.—I told her, that if we were fated to remain there, that either Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter, would, I hoped, make this spot

a paradise to her, on her own plan. She wiped away a starting tear, and said that was impossible.—
At that instant a new object roused our attention; we perceived a gentleman, well mounted, and attended by a couple of servants, on the opposite shore; Lucy put up a most fervent ejaculation, that he might have knight-errantry enough to cross the river, and rescue us from our melancholy situation: her prayer was heard—he swam his horse across the flood, and Lucy called him a second Leander! He came up to us with infinite politeness and address, and told us, that the mail which had been put on shore with us, had been forwarded to his father, who was the next justice of peace, and lived about twelve miles from

thence; that by that means he became acquainted with our distress, and had sent his carriage, as far as the roads were passable, with a number of saddle horses, to bring us to his house.
I confess I was charmed with this instance of hospitality, and generosity; I hope I should have been as much pleased with it, had I only heard it related, without having benefited by it.—There is nothing affects my heart so much as benevolent actions; I will flatter myself, that this is owing to a natural sympathy.—We made all the acknowledgments that our joy would permit; and walked, or rather ran, back to our cottage with the stranger; where we met our company, and many more of the passengers, who had come in the second boat from the ship.—

Mr. Mathewes's servants were by this time come up to us, and opened two large baskets of provisions, cold meats, wine, tea, &c. Every person seemed surprised and overjoyed, while universal gladness diffused itself through our little colony—Lucy appeared almost frantic with delight—the common occurrences of life appear like enchantment to some minds—but there was an elegant simplicity mingled with her transports, that rendered them extremely pleasing.—
I have now, my dearest Fanny, delivered you from the painful anxiety, you must have suffered from the first part of my letter; my next, I hope, shall transport you to more pleasing scenes. In the mean time rest assured, that thro' every

change of circumstance, or situation, I shall remain unalterably yours,

I long to hear from you: pray tell me, have you heard from the continent; and how, and where Lord Hume now is?


FOR the present, I will continue my letters journal-wise, as Miss Byron* calls it; but I cannot for my life be circumstantial, and carry you up and down stairs, to the parlour, the drawing-room, the harpsicord, the card-table, &c. &c. &c.

Suppose us then to have crossed the so much dreaded arm of the sea, with some difficulty, and less danger; that we have performed our twelve miles journey, thro' rugged roads, and over hills and dales; and are at last safely arrived at Mr. Mathewes's very handsome seat, welcomed by him and his lady, and a very numerous family of sons and daughters, grown up to men and women's estate.
On our entrance we were shown into a room, where there was a table laid with all kinds of breakfasts, that could be pleasing or necessary to the sick, or healthful appetite, and were informed that there were beds prepared for any of the company, who might require rest after their fatigue. This offer was declined by us all, for the present; but the

whole company, which amounted to eighteen ladies and gentlemen, besides servants, accepted Mr. Mathewes's invitation, to spend that day and night at his house, except Colonel Walter, who said he would go on to Newry, the next great town, and send us carriages from thence.—
From the first notion that you could conceive of our generous hosts, you must believe that we were politely and elegantly entertained; but neither your idea, nor my description can do justice to their hospitality; they have given me the most favourable impressions of this country, on my first entering it; but even Sir William, who is partial to his native land, says I am not to expect a whole nation, of such—fools! I think he said

—heigh, ho! this is my only comment.—
The manners and behaviour of this worthy and amiable family, were expressive of the sincerest pleasure at having had it in their power to relieve our distress—may they or their's never know any! Lucy was in raptures with the young ladies; both she and I flatter ourselves with a prospect of much pleasure, from a future intimacy with Mrs. Mathewes and her daughters.
Next morning, our carriages, a coach and four, and several post-chaises, arrived; and we took a grateful and affectionate leave of our kind hosts. Our journey had nothing remarkable in it, except Colonel Walter's waiting for us, at the

first stage we came to, which, considering the hurry he affected, when he left us, was rather an overstrained piece of politeness, arising I imagine from a supposition that his company was of some consequence to the party.
And perhaps he is not mistaken—Lucy's aunt, Mrs. Layton, a good, agreeable, and well jointured relict, about six and thirty, seems to admire him much—she speaks Italian badly—he is master of the language, and she is for ever applying to him, to correct her pronounciation—who knows but he may find pleasure in instructing so hopeful a pupil.—
The Colonel is what is called a woman's man: he has lived a good deal

abroad, and has a superficial knowledge of almost every science—his head may be aptly enough compared to the drawer of a lady's writing cable, which contains a little of every thing—I have this moment looked into mine, to see if the allusion is just. Its contents are a miniature picture of Sir William, with a slight crack in the enamel, and the catch that fastens the bracelet broken—my house-keeper's accounts—a little billet from Lucy—a French song, that the Colonel gave me—some scented sealing wax—writing paper—message cards—and a pocket book, with scissars, penknife, pencil, blank leaves, &c.—I do really think that this farrago of materials, conveys a very expressive image of what I would describe—I hope you will think so too, and henceforward acknowlege the Colonel as an acquaintance.—

I promised, in my last, to give you a sketch of my Lucy, but I find I am not equal to the task; for even in her outward appearance there is a variability, that renders it almost impossible to draw an exact resemblance of her; at some times, you would think that her form and face were designed to personify Vivacity.—
" Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air."

At other times, a soft melancholy usurps the place of gaiety; so that, at different aeras, she may pass alternately for a Melpomene, or a Thalia*; yet she is agreeable, under both these characters, and I by no means think her temper changeable; but am rather inclined, tho' sorry to believe, that these transitions are

rather the effect of peculiar circumstances, than natural constitution—
I know she is in love—but I should suppose that to be rather a consistent passion, where the flame is mutual; and I should be tempted almost to despise her, or any other woman in the world, who continued still to love, without sympathy—for true love is a passion of that extraordinary nature, as some author has well expressed it, that it requires the felicity of two persons, to render one happy—Without being positively handsome, the men all like her, she has good eyes, hair and teeth; a lively, tho' not a fine complexion; and a form that may justly be stiled elegant, tho' small.—
And now, my dear Fanny, let me speak of, and to, yourself. It is above

a month since I left London; I have been a fortnight in Dublin, and have not received a single line from you, or any of the other dear friends I parted from in Dover-street!—They tell me something about contrary winds—for my own peace, I will believe them, but if I am to remain in this island, much longer, under such suspense, I shall be tempted to sell my jewels, and send the money to Lapland, to purchase, I know not whether it is to be an easterly, or a westerly wind—but it shall be a fair gale to waft your letters to me—for the story of Aeolus and Ulysses, you know, is quite an arrant fiction.
Your impatient, but truly affectionate LOUISA BARTON.



Dover-street.
I Received my dear sister's two letters, from Wales, together; and am pleased to find that you illustrate your own remark on the good effects which change of objects produce upon our minds. I have always thought, that in the separation of two persons, who love each other, the one who is left, is by far the greatest sufferer. The mind, in spite of us, must necessarily, in some degree, accompany, or rather attend upon, the body; and while that is in motion, it feels a kind of rotation also—
" Beaux, banish beaux; and coaches, coaches drive."
And now I talk of coaches, I have never

set my foot in ours, since you left London: I begin to think that this is carrying the idea of locality too far, and will therefore order it to set me down at the play-house, this evening.

Your description of South-Britain has increased my curiosity, but not my desire of travelling through it—for what can augment my wishes to see you! Your first letter affected me, extremely—Oh! beware of a propensity to unhappiness, my much loved sister! Sir William has a roughness in his manner, which I really believe to be more owing to an illiberal education than a coarse mind—I say illiberal, tho' I know he was bred at a college—learning and science may be there acquired, but alas! I fear the professors of universities do not attend

much to les petites morales—There are many men weak enough to imagine that an affectation of contempt for the understandings of women, is proof sufficient of the superiority of their own—but these persons ought never to marry; for we can neither love those we despise, nor those who seem to despise us—But I am far from imagining this to be Sir William's case; I know he both loves and esteems my Louisa, though he be deficient in that sort of galant address, which might better inable him to show his sentiments—But how few husbands are there, after all, even in what is stiled polite life, who seem to think such an attention necessary? I affirm it to be absolutely so—for they must be sad philosophers, indeed, who mistake the possession of a treasure for the enjoyment of it: but I will not

forgive your trifling with your own happiness, by seeming to doubt a fact, on which alone it can be founded.
I am glad you have happened to meet with the gentlemen you mention—Agreeable society is always pleasing to a rational mind, but more particularly so when there is any little difficulty, danger or fatigue, to encounter; and notwithing your flourishing description of Wales, I cannot help thinking that a journey thro' it must be attended, in some degree, with those slight evils I have mentioned.—
My brother has been remarkably grave, ever since you left us; but I will not flatter you, by imputing his reserve entirely to your absence—his Delia! his beloved Miss Colville! is going to France,

with her ridiculous mother—and ill used as my sensible brother has been, by that absurd widow, I have no doubt but he will be weak enough to follow her daughter there, and leave poor solitary me to pass the winter, tout seul, in Dover-street.
I have told him, and I really believe it, that Mrs. Colville has no exception, either to his person, rank, or fortune, tho' she will never consent to his marrying her daughter; but I am persuaded that she would most readily accept of him herself.—Sir George cannot help smiling, when I talk in this strain, tho' he affects to be displeased, at what he calls my folly.
I know you will expect that I should say something of myself.—Alas, Louisa!

my history, like poor Viola's‡ is a blank! I have not received a line from Lord Hume, since I saw you! my apprehensions for his health and safety, are however relieved, by a letter his sister had from him, dated at Sienna, a few days ago—
I will believe, for his sake, as well as my own, that he has written to me—a letter may miscarry; I have often heard that the posts upon the continent are not so regular, as ours—I will believe any thing, but—that he has forgotten me—Is this philosophy, or vanity? and is my opinion of his constancy, founded on his merits, or my own? I ask questions without wishing to have them resolved.

—Adieu, my only confidante, my much loved sister,
adieu,

P.S. Sir George's best affections, along with mine, wait on Sir William, and our dear Louisa. Mary Granville is at Bath, with her aunt.


London.
WHY surely, my dear Louisa, you intend to publish your travels, and to push Madame de Scuderi from the shelf she has so long usurped in a lady• library.—What a sweet romance is yours! what hair-breadth 'scapes! what amazing perils, by sea and by land! what imminent danger of passing your life on

a desolate island, which, by the way, would, I fear, had you remained there, have become a dissolute one; for I don't find that you had a parson among ye, and I have doubts whether the colonel and the widow would have waited till another shipwreck might have sent you a Jonas—as to Lucy, and Lord Lucan, to be sure they would have remained in a state of perfect purity; and Sir William and you are already joined in the holy bands of matrimony—So that, upon a fair calculation, I do not think that your community would have been worse than the rest of this habitable globe; for one couple of delinquents, in three, is as little as can be expected, even in the island of saints,* of which you are happily now become an inhabitant; or in the territories

of his holiness the pope, where all should be perfect.
But a truce with Badinage, and be assured, my dear sister, that I felt for your distresses; and sincerely rejoice at your safe arrival in Dublin. I both love, and admire, tho' not without a little mixture of envy, your generous hosts. What extreme pleasure must they have received, from such a noble exercise of their benevolence and hospitality!
All girls build castles; mine have been always situated on a sea-coast, and in them have I often received shipwrecked princesses, and drowning heroes; I have chafed their temples, and rubbed their hands, for whole hours; and when my great care and humanity have brought

them back to this world of woes, they have repaid my pains by a faithful recital of their doleful adventures.—I once fell in love with a man I never saw, for the same sentiment.†—I did not then imagine I should ever have so near and dear a connection as my Louisa, involved in the reality of such a dreadful situation; and now may heaven be praised for my loved sister's preservation!
I like your description of the Colonel, much—one knows abundance of table drawers, tho' not all as well furnished as yours—but I do not much like the character—smatterers in science are generally triflers in every thing—that same want of stability which prevents their being master of any art, like a shake in

marble, runs thro' the whole block, and lessens the value of every part.—I should not like such a man, either as a friend, or lover, tho' he may perhaps be an agreeable acquaintance.
I am much more charmed with your Lucy, your little pocket Iris; I hope she always wears changeable silks, and alters them from grave to gay, according to the complexion of the day—I did not mean to rhyme, as you may see by my mode of writing.—I agree with you, that those transitions you mention, may possibly be owing rather to particular circumstances, than a peculiar inconsistency of mind—the latter would render her contemptible, the former entitles her to our tenderness and love. I think, even from the slight account you

have given of her, there must be a charming frankness in her manner; which is one of the first qualities I would seek for, in a friend. Life is not long enough; but were I an antediluvian, I should not think it worth while to seek for a heart that is wrapped up in a hundred and fifty envelopes—Un coeur serré would disgust me, tho' the possessor of it had ten thousand amiable qualities.
I think that your misfortunes, with regard to the storm, like most other disasters, have been productive of some good, by bringing you acquainted with Miss Leister.—But what have you done with Lord Lucan? when the pencil and pallet were in your hands, why lay them by, without giving a sketch of him? I should fancy, from his rueful O que non!

that there were traits of character sufficient to mark him by;—if so, I desire you will resume your new calling, and let me have a full length of his lordship, by the next post.
Sir George, as I guessed, actually intends to set out for Paris, in a fortnight.—I am strongly tempted to accompany him, Louisa—I should then be on the same continent, nay, perhaps, in the same city, with Lord Hume; for as his route is not absolutely determined, I think it is most likely that he will pass the winter in Paris, as I know it is his favourite city.—But then—may not my delicacy be wounded, by its being said, or even thought, that I pursued him thither? and to what end? if his heart, as I much fear, be already estranged,

will my presence recall it? ah, no! to what then should I expose myself? to be slighted by the man I love!—O, never! never! in woods and deserts let me rather dwell, and hide my woes in solitude.—
I now wish I had gone with you to Ireland—and yet I should not choose to be farther removed from that blessed spot, where ere it be, for at present I know not, that holds my happiness—perhaps my misery! How can you say, Louisa, that love is a consistent passion? alas! you know it not! ten thousand contradictory wishes are born and perish in my mind, in the same moment—and yet there was a time, when you, my sister, used to blame my calmness, and upbraid me with having too much philosophy—

where is that calmness, that philosophy fled to, now! Oh, let me once more woo them to my breast! and be what I then was, your happy, as well as affectionate sister,

P.S. You will perceive by this long epistle, that I have received both your letters, from Dublin—I do not, my dear, expect two for one; but the first came last night, when I happened to be out, and the last arrived this morning.—You may also perceive I began my letter with an affected gayeté de coeur, and ended it in real sadness.—I had determined not to mention Lord Hume, but my brother's coming into my dressing-room, and telling me of his going to Paris, threw me off my guard—excuse my weakness, my loved, my dear Louisa.



Dublin.
INdeed, my dear Fanny, your last letter has hurt me sensibly—I cannot express the tender concern I feel for your sufferings—yet with that frankness we both so much admire, I will confess that I am, on this occasion, conscious of the force of Rochfaucault's selfish maxim,
"In the distresses of our best friends, we find something that does not displease us."
Horrid adage! yet how true! when I cannot help rejoicing that I have never felt the passion of Love, in the extreme that you seem to do—I have ever thought that love, like friendship, could only be founded on

the amiable qualities of its object, and that with them it must, because it ought, decay.—How often have you and I laughed at the persevering passion of Miss B—, when we knew that Lord M— despised her?—But the little tyrant has taken ample vengeance upon you—Heaven shield me from his resentment!

I am, however, far from doubting Lord Hume's constancy or love to my sweet Fanny; and my opinion is founded on your charms, rather than his merits—yet grant him to be all you can wish, surely it is a miserable state to have our happiness so totally dependent upon any human being, that our not hearing from them, for a few days or weeks, shall render us totally wretched, and create such a fever in the mind, as you

describe, and I tremble at! Heavens! what a wretch should I be, were I possessed of this tormenting passion. I am certain Sir William has no more idea of it than of a sixth sense—how would the roughness and asperity of his manners which are now scarce sufferable, then wound me to the heart!
Rejoice with me, my Fanny—at what? not at my want of sensibility, for sure I think not even you have more—and can I be delighted, then, at not having found in Sir William an object to awaken it! O, no! I fear I ought rather to lament than exult, in my present torpid state—but still I have a subject for my tenderness, my much loved, dearest sister! Come to me, then, my Fanny, and I will soothe your sorrow, will listen

to your soft complainings, and share each pang that wounds your gentle heart!
I was alarmed at the first part of your last letter; your treating the distresses I went thro', ludicrously, was not like my Fanny; and when we stray so far out of ourselves, there must be some particular cause, which we would wish to conceal, that occasions our acting or speaking out of character—you were unhappy, and did not wish that I should know it? But let not even that sort of pious fraud be ever practised between us, more.—You may write freely, your letters are sacred; no eye but my own will ever see them. Sir William is satisfied with our correspondence; and says, he is sure we shall both be tired of it, in three months—I will venture to say he is mistaken in us both.—

And so my brother is a stricken deer, also, and is setting off, on a wild-goose chase, after Miss Colville! surely two victims to love, in one family, are quite sufficient, and don Cupid will, I flatter myself, let the third go free—
" Fantastick tyrant of the am'rous heart;
" How hard thy yoke, how cruel is thy dart!
" Those 'scape thy anger, who refuse thy sway;
" And those are punished most, who most obey."

For heaven's sake, Fanny, if you have not by this time received a volume of billet doux from Lord Hume, get up your spirits, break at once into open rebellion against him, and the little purblind deity; fly to me and try whether an Hibernian swain cannot make you amends for his loss.—I am persuaded that it is possible to shake off an ill placed affection; but I am afraid by saying so, I may offend you; however I shall

let the sentiment pass, since 'tis written, and you are welcome to make as free with it as you please; and perhaps may say, with the philosopher Boyle,
"that to undertake the cure of a lover, is perhaps, the next weakness to that of being one."

I perceive myself falling into the very error which I reprehend in you, that of affecting to treat your distresses lightly; but believe me, my Fanny, that I lay a restraint on myself, in doing so, and feel them not the less.—Chearfulness and dissipation are the only remedies for a wounded mind, and if I can make you smile, even at my folly, my end will be answered.
You will, I dare say, discover that this letter has been written at different

aeras—morning visitors are a pest that rages in all cities; but is, I think, more violent, here, than in any place I ever was in, except Bath.—There is some excuse for this intemperate desire of gadding, there, as the use of the waters forbids all sedentaty amusements; and a game of, Neighbour, I'm come to torment you, may be conducive to health—but here, without temptation or excuse, the ladies make it a rule to pass their mornings in any one's house but their own; and would almost persuade one that they can neither read, write, work, houswife, or pray.—
Exclusive of this grand mal, I like the people and country extremely—there is an air of freedom, cheerfulness and affability that runs thro' all the better

sort of men and women, and inclines you to like them, even at first sight. Rien qui gene, rien serré—we may be allowed to speak of a people in this language, who seem to resemble the French more than any of their nearer neighbours.—The old Irish families stile themselves Milesians, from Milesius, a Spaniard, who brought over a colony of his countrymen to people the island.—But I should think, from their manners, as I hinted at before, that they were originally derived rather from the French—I hate all national reflections; but they seem not to have any thing of the Spanish character among them.
The court, which is called the Castle, here, is extremely agreeable, as well as brilliant, both in beauty, and finery—

it abounds particularly with the former—I think I never saw so many handsome women together in any place, as I have seen here, on a ball night.—Beauty is not, however, so general in this kingdom as in England: it is chiefly confined to the higher ranks of life; while there I have observed that it was most frequently met with in the middling and lower classes.—
I have run this letter into such an extravagant length, that tho' I am very well inclined to proceed in the picturesque stile, and give you an idea of lord Lucan, en gros, which is certainly as much as I can venture to pretend to, at present, I find my paper has circumscribed me within the limits of the smallest miniature; and as my art cannot yet rise to

the nicer touches requisite to that small scale, I shall begin his portrait on a new sheet, next post: in the mean time, this will barely allow me to assure you that my affection and tenderness are, if possible, increased by the unhappiness of my ever dear Fanny.
LOUISA BARTON.
Miss Leister is highly pleased, with the title you have given her; and says she will charge all her poetic swains to celebrate her, henceforward, by the name of Iris.



MY dear Louisa's agreeable melange gave me infinite pleasure, as I am very certain it is an exact representation of her soft yet lively mind.—I am sorry the gloomy picture I sent of my own, affected you even transiently.—Lovers, my dear, are a strange inconsistent race of mortals; their pains and pleasures so totally dependant upon trifling accidents, and yet so exquisite, that they are scarcely to be considered as rational beings.—You, who are not of the sighing tribe, will be amazed when I tell you, that at the time I received the effusions of your sympathetic tenderness, I had almost forgotten the source

of my own distress, and could have cried out, with Orestes,
"I never was unhappy."—

After this, I think I need not tell you that I had just then received a letter from Lord Hume. He is well, and kind, my sister! but, alas! he talks of spending three years on his tour.—We are both young, 'tis certain; but three years are three centuries, in a lover's calendar—and should he hold his purpose I should fancy myself old as a Sybil, or as Cybele, before that time may elapse.—
Tho' I detest the maxim you have quoted from Rochfoucault, I do not blame you for rejoicing in your own ease and tranquillity; but you surely might

do so, though I were not in love—and yet, perhaps, the idea of your own felicity would not have struck you so strongly, if you had not then thought me miserable! They say it is in sickness that health is only valued; I fear there is a certain perverseness in human nature, that enhances the value of every blessing, from the privation of it—I had conceived an idea, here, but fear I have not sufficiently expressed it; but what I mean, is that as a friend is a second self, you have had the happy occasion of comparing the good and ill together, without the sad experience of the latter.
You see I am becoming a philosopher again—but alas, Louisa! my philosophy is literally the sport of chance; for I confess that the only happiness I am at present

capable of enjoying, is absolutely dependant on winds, tides, post-boys, and a thousand other wayward contingencies!
I very sincerely join with you in wishing, since you have not yet, that you may never feel the passion of love, in an extreme degree; for I am firmly persuaded, that it does not contribute much to the happiness of the female world—and yet, Louisa, I will frankly tell you, that I am extremely grieved at some hints you have dropped, in your letters, which speak a want of affection for Sir William.—It is dangerous to sport with such sentiments; you should not suffer them to dwell even upon your own mind, much less express them to others—we ought not be too strict in analyzing the characters of those we wish to love—

if we once come to habituate ourselves to thinking of their faults, it insensibly lessens the person in our esteem, and saps the foundation of our happiness, with our love.—
I am perfectly convinced that you have fallen into this error, from want of reflection, and through what is called une maniere de parler; for I will not suppose that my Louisa, tho' persuaded by her friends and solicited most earnestly by Sir William, gave him her hand without feeling in her heart that preference for his person, and esteem for his character, which is the surest basis for a permanent and tender affection.—
I almost condemn myself for the severity of this stricture; but my Louisa's

happiness, is of too much consequence to mine, to pass over an error that may destroy it, unnoticed, before she is aware. We are all wiser for others than ourselves, but let this pretence to sagacity be pardoned by an elder sister, as proceeding from the tenderest affection of her's,
most truly, F. CLEVELAND.
P.S. Sir George holds his purpose, and sets out, in two days—I shall not accompany him, nor can I at present accept of your kind and soothing invitation; I mean that in the first part of your letter.—I abominate your volatile idea of an Hibernian, or any other swain, as a remedy for hapless love—Adieu, my Louisa, and forgive me the matronly airs I have

assumed in this letter; for I shall think myself extremely happy, if, in the future correspondence of our lives, I do not make you more than amends, by affording you, in your turn, many opportunities of appearing as much wiser than I, as you are in reality.—


INDEED, my Fanny, I rejoice in your happiness, tho' I cannot help feeling that I am a sufferer by it; for if you had not received a very kind letter from Lord Hume, you would not, in all probability, have had spirits sufficient to have written an unkind one to me.—You are, my dear sister, perfectly acquainted

with every sentiment of my heart, therefore to repeat what you already know, is needless. But in my own justification I must hold up a portrait to your view, which, from a very short absence, you seem to have forgotten.
By the loss of the best of parents, I became my own mistress, before I was seventeen—my brother, who is three years elder than I, was then returned from the university, and set out almost immediately on his travels. I then looked up to him as the sole stay, both of your youth and mine; and tho' my father's indulgence had rendered us all independent of each other, I firmly resolved never to marry, without the consent and approbation of Sir George.—

Young as you were you may remember that during the time we passed at my aunt Marriot's, in Wiltshire, there were several proposals of marriage made to me; and among the rest Sir William offered me his hand; but as my heart was by no means engaged by any of the persons who honoured me with their addresses, I adhered to my first plan, and referred them all to my brother's decision—as there had been no time fixed for Sir George's return, most of those who called themselves my lovers, withdrew—but Sir William, either more enamoured, or more artful, than the rest, set out immediately for Naples, where my brother then was, and by conciliating his esteem, obtained his consent, which he pretended was all that was wanting to complete his happiness.—

When my brother wrote to us to meet him at Paris, I was transported at the thoughts of seeing him, after a two years absence, but did not once reflect upon his motive for sending for us, nor did I even know that Sir William Barton was to be one of the party.—Sir William's galantry in coming from Paris to meet us at Dover, flattered my vanity, I will c•nfess; the continuance of his assiduities, during our stay in France, confirmed my brother's opinion of his passion for me.—But alas! I was still incapable of making any other return to his attentions, than what mere politeness exacted from me.
How often have my brother, Sir William, and you, seemed to doubt my sincerity, when I have declared I knew not

what love was! and, O! how fatal has that inexperience been to my peace, since! Yes, Fanny, your sister is a wretch! and gave away her hand, before she knew she had a heart to transfer.—
Yet this I am convinced of, that had Sir William persevered, perhaps a few months longer, in wishing still to obtain that heart, it might, I doubt not, have been all his own. But can it now bestow itself unsought, and trembling yield to harshness, and unkindness? Impossible! The little rebel owns as yet no lord, and it may breck, but it will never bow, beneath a tyrant's frown!
There never was any person's behaviour so altered as Sir William's.—I perceived a visible change in his manners,

before we left London; but it has gone on in a blessed gradation, ever since, and is at length arrived at the ne plus ultra of matrimonial disgust.—I shall tell you a short story by way of instancing the uncouthness of my present situation, with regard to him.—Sir William is naturally humane, at least he used to seem so—I was applied to by a wretched family, tenants of his own, who had lost their entire substance by fire—I immediately took ten guineas out of my purse, to pay my charity, when he, with the most supercilious air imaginable, took hold of my hand, bid me put up my money, and not meddle with matters that I did not understand—said I was rather too young for a Lady Bountiful yet; and that if I went on at that rate, they would fire every cottage on his lands, and he

should be run into a goal by my generosity. I stood amazed at this harangue—however I obeyed my husband, by putting up the money, but made Benson convey it to the poor sufferers, as from a third person; while they with transports of gratitude, acknowleged their having received twenty pounds from Sir William, tho' forbidden to reveal his bounty to his steward, or any of his family, on pain of his displeasure!
Now, pr'ythee tell me, Fanny, if you do not consider this as an instance of a peculiar sort of perverseness? Why should he wish to restrain me from the virtuous pleasure of bestowing charity? or endeavour to persuade me that he was totally devoid of it himself? Chide me no longer, my sister, for what is much more

my misfortune, than my fault—and what a misfortune, at my time of life, to look forward to a length of years that must necessarily pass away,
" Joyless, loveless, unindeared!"
May you be happier far! dissipation must now be my resource; 'tis all that I have left—what a slight and worthless counterpoise for domestic felicity!

I will change the subject. We are to spend the Christmas at Southfield—Lord Lucan, Colonel Walter, and my Lucy, are to accompany us—next to yourself, she is the most agreeable companion I could have met with—her mind is as delicate as her form—and I can see that she is frequently hurt at the roughness of Sir William's manners, tho'

she takes infinite pains to conceal her feelings from me, on such occasions.—I once wished that Colonel Walter would have fallen in love with her, that I might have had the happiness of her living near me in the country, but I am now convinced that they were not formed to make each other happy; and that she woud have refused him, had he been an emperor.
She has made me her confidante—she loves, and is beloved, by one of the most charming men in the world; yet the odds are many against their ever being united.—I often tell her I envy her situation; for surely there is something infinitely delightful in suffering for, or with, an amiable person whom we love—it almost equals the happiness of sharing their good fortune!

I am sorry I did not sketch out Lord Lucan's portrait, while I was in the vein; but he is now so much altered, that my former idea of him would bear no resemblance to what he appears at present.—From the extreme of gaiety, he is fallen into a profound gravity, and sometimes appears gloomy and distrait—It is impossible to account for this change, as he is much liked and admired by every one who knows him; and I cannot conceive him to be in love, as he is hardly ever absent from our coterie, and I have never observed the least particularity in his behaviour or address to any member of it, tho' there are a number of pretty and agreeable women in our circle.
The Colonel perceives the alteration, as well as I, and seems to hint as if his

sagacity could discover the cause of it; but I have never given him the least encouragement to reveal his friend's secret, and I almost hate him for affecting to triumph over him.—I have another reason for disliking the Colonel, which I will not at present communicate, even to you—he continues to court Mrs. Layton, but I will not take upon me to say they will be married; tho' I am sure it would make her very miserable to doubt it.
There is an orphan niece of Sir William's, a very lovely girl, at a boarding school here—I have endeavoured to prevail on him, to let her live with us.—She is near fifteen, which, in my mind, renders her present situation extremely improper; and indeed I have a particular dislike to a boarding-school education, for

girls, at any age; as they must necessarily contract from it two qualities that I detest, formality and insincerity.—Harriet Westly has just written to her uncle, to second my request; and he has complied with it, tho' in his ungracious manner, by adding an observation, by way of codicil to his consent,
"That two women in a house, are two too many."—

Perhaps Sir William only meant to be witty, and not ill-natured—a play upon words is apt to dazzle those who cannot play with them—I am glad Colonel Walter was not by, when this ingenious remark was made, as he seems to take a particular pleasure in repeating Sir William's bon mots.—

As the scene I am engaged in is not extremely active, my dear Fanny must be contented with letting me fill my paper with such trivial and domestic occurrences, as may arise from day to day; nor must she expect order or connection, in any of my letters—I write at every leisure moment, and am perhaps interrupted ten times in the filling of a page.—You are very differently situated; mistress of your leisure, and yourself, and I cannot forgive your barely mentioning events, in which you know I am extremely interested, as they relate to a brother, and a sister, whom I can never cease to love; and therefore I can readily pardon your reprehending the weakness, the indiscretion—call it any thing but a fault, of your affectionate
LOUISA BARTON.

P.S. I know not whether I told you before, that Lord Hume and Lord Lucan are intimately acquainted.


BELIEVE me, my ever dear Louisa, when I tell you that my heart feels, at this moment, the tenderest sympathy with yours, and most truly resents the unhappiness of your situation. I will chide no more, my sister, but henceforward endeavour to sooth those sorrows, which I cannot cure.—Dissipation, as you say, must be your course: any thing is better than brooding over irremediable evils; yet great are the hazards which a young and beautiful married woman has

to run, who enters too deeply into a life of gaiety—the grave part of the world will censure her conduct, as arising from the levity of her mind; and the dissolute will form schemes for the destruction of that innocence, which is the only true foundation and support of cheerfulness, or vivacity.—
Beware of artful men, my dear sister! I cannot help it, I will tell you all my sears; they may be, nay I hope they are, quite vain. But I will confess I do not like your intimacy, either with Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter—I am persuaded that you have not the least apprehension from your connection with them, but remember, Louisa,
"The dangers that we see, are easily prevented; but those strike surest that come unexpected,

like lightning, which we view, and feel at once."—

I am much pleased that Sir William's niece is to live with you; there is a something flattering, even to virtue, in having a constant witness to approve our conduct; at least I think we should be more at ease, more self-assured, in any trial, with a companion, than when left alone—
"Not that I think my sister so to seek; or so unprincipled in virtue's book,"
to need a guard, save her own purity.—

I remember poor Sterne used to say, that all the mischief which was done in this great city, was brought about by morning tête-a-têtes—which must be unavoidable, without a female inmate, and she should always be a near relation—On

this principle I think you extremely lucky in having Miss Westly for an eleve—as her presence will be a perpetual guard against another danger you have to fear, the envenomed tongue of Slander.—
The house is an uproar! what can be the matter! Sir George is returned—I fly to him.—
O Louisa! my heart is in rent in pieces; I have seen my brother almost distracted, his manly face bedewed with flowing tears! Miss Colville is dead! she died at Amiens, of a three days fever—my brother met her hearse at Dover—I fear, Louisa, he will never recover this sad stroke.—Sweet Delia! I may say with the Queen, in Hamlet,—
"I thought thy

bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave!"

I cannot write more, my tears blind me—you know that I most truly loved this dear departed saint! her brutal mother is gone on to Paris: would she and her whole race had perished in her stead!—My brother's bell rings, adieu, adieu, my sister.



MY dearest Fanny, your letter has affected me more than I can express; I am indeed most truly grieved for my brother, for the sweet Delia, and yourself—yet why lament for her, whose

state I envy! her life was innocence; her death was •arly! would mine had been so too.—Young as she was, she yet had tasted sorrow; her mother's cruelty in first accepting Sir George's proposals for her, and then rejecting him without a cause, preyed on her tender heart: she loved him, Fanny! and he deserved her passion—her death has sealed his constancy; her merits, nay her beauties, are graved upon his heart, in their full lustre: they will remain for ever undiminish'd in his memory, and bloom before him from the silent tomb! My dearest brother! how my heart bleeds for thine!
I would write to him, Fanny, but fear to increase his grief, by mentioning the cause—you will be watchful over his distress, till time's lenient power shall

blunt the arrows of disastrous love, and soften its sharp pangs to gentle melancholy! why am I not with you, to share this tender office! alas! why am I not any where, but where I am!
O, my sister!
"I could a tale unfold"
—but I will not add to your present distress, nor take off your attention from that dear brother, to whom it may be useful, to bestow it on one to whom it cannot be of service, but who will ever be with the tenderest affection to Sir George, and you, a faithful

friend and sister. LOUISA BARTON.
P.S. As soon as my spirits will permit, I shall reply to the first part of your

last letter—I will not now, my Fanny, insist on regular answers, as I am sure you will devote every moment of your time, to our dear mourner. But if any extraordinary particular, relative to poor Delia, shoud come to your knowledge, pray acquaint me with it.


I Now sit down to thank my dearest Fanny, for the kind caution she gave me, in the first part of her last letter; I will try if possible to forget the melancholy conclusion of it, and reply only to what relates to myself.—I have had Harriet Westley with me, for some days, and find as much comfort in her innocent and cheerful society, as my unhappy

situation will admit. But, alas! she is incapable of administering either consolation or advice to me; her knowledge of the world is even less than mine; nor would I, for that world, render her wretched, by reposing the distresses of my perturbated mind, in her soft bosom.—O, Fanny! there is neither friend nor confidante for a married woman, who does not find them both in her husband!
I am almost afraid to communicate my thoughts to you; yet why? for they are innocent—but letters may miscarry, a thousand accidents bring them to light, and oft undo the peace of the poor writer—but I have nought to lose, my peace is fled! your apprehensions are but too well sounded, I am in the most imminent

danger from my acquaintance with Colonel Walter—but, as Isabella says,
"Danger, Claudio! 'tis here and every where our forced companion; the rising and the setting sun beholds us environed with it: our whole life's a journey ending in certain ruin."
Woud mine were come to the last stage!

I told you before, that Lord Lucan was extremely altered, from gay to grave; and that Colonel Walter affected to know the cause of this sudden transition, and repeatedly offered to acquaint me with it, which I constantly declined, and turned it off with raillery—
I will confess to you that I before suspected what the Colonel meant to inform me of. Women are generally too quick sighted,

in these matters, and I by no means wished to have my doubts upon this subject confirmed. I observed that whenever Lord Lucan was present, the Colonel used to strive to sit as near me as possible, and frequently whisper nothing in my ear, then laugh as if he had said something smart and lively: I have often looked grave, and sometimes silly, on these occasions, but could not divine the meaning of this absurd behaviour, till this morning.—
I was at work in my dressing-room, and Harriet reading to me, when Lucy came in—I could visibly discover that something had affected or ruffled her mind, and therefore made a pretence to send Harriet out of the room.—As soon as she was gone, Lucy burst into tears,

and drew a letter out of her pocket, which she had just received from Colonel Walter; she made a thousand apologies for putting it into my hands, but said she knew not how to act, upon so nice and critical an occasion—the contents were as follow.

Dear Madam,
THE friendship you profess for Lady Barton, of which I can no more doubt the sincerity, than my own to you, inclines me to acquaint her, through such a proper medium, of an affair which I think of some consequence to her, but of which she at present seems wilfully ignorant; through I dare say you, and every other person who knows her, except Sir William, have long seen the ardent passion which Lord Lucan has conceived for her.

Now really, my dear Lucy, it is a thousand pities that such a fine young man should waste his life in sighs and groans, for a perverse beauty, who will not even deign to own that she perceives his passion. We all know it is impossible that she can love her husband, and in that case, it is highly propable that she should love somebody else, and why not her poor sighing swain?
I have tried every possible means to prevail on Lord Lucan to avow his passion, but the simpleton denies it, even to me, though he must be sensible that I have seen its rise and progress, from the first moment he beheld her, at Pangor Ferry, to this present writing—I have even attempted to make him jealous, by an affected familiarity with Lady

Barton, though both she, and you know, que mon coeur est devoüe a madame votre tante—but all this I'll swear I did in pure good will, in hopes of bringing the lovers to an explanation, which might possibly prevent their going on at the absurd rate they do, at present.—You know, my dear Lucy, that I have a very high opinion of Lady Barton, I therefore could not presume to mention Lord Lucan as a lover for her ladyship, if I were not perfectly convinced that he is as true a Platonic, as she, or even your little romantic self.—
I would not, by any means, have you venture to show her this letter; but you ladies have a thousand agreeable ways of conveying a secret to each other, especially where you have reason to imagine,

that the information will not be displeasing.
I shall have the honour of seeing you, this evening, at Mrs. Layton's; but pray don't take notice of this letter to her, or to any other person, but the one whom it concerns.—Adio, mia bella, e buona figliuola.—
J. WALTER.
I shall never be able to describe what I felt upon reading this detestable scroll! this outrage to honour, delicacy, friendship, virtue! But how to act! it was impossible to think of showing such a letter to a husband, as the consequences must, in all probability, and ought to have been fatal.—And neither Lucy, nor I, could submit to the meanness of telling a falsehood, by saying she had not shown me the letter.—

In this dilemma, I determined on sending for Colonel Walter, myself, to speak my sentiments to him, upon the occasion; which I did.—He came, and on my asking him what I had ever done to provoke his malice, or how he dared to insult me, by his letter to Miss Leister? he burst into an affected laugh, and said he was sorry to find that English Ladies had no idea of a jest; that he really meant nothing more than a little badinage, and to bring about a kind of Platonic galantry, between Lord Lucan and me, which might serve to amuse us in the long evenings we were to pass together at Southfield: but if his raillery had given me a moment's pain, he asked my pardon, and promised never to offend again on the same subject.—

I was, in prudence, obliged to acquiesce with this insincere submission; but from this hour I know him for mine enemy—O Fanny! what a situation is mine! would to heaven I could exchange it, for that of our dear departed Delia—she is at peace, my sister—while I—But let me not distress you farther—tell me, I conjure you, tell me, that my brother's virtue and philosophy have calmed his sorrows, and that he now only feels that sort of tender regret, which arises from the fond idea of a long absent friend.—Tell me something of yourself; but let that something give me leave to hope, that you are happy, and I shall repine the less at my own wretchedness—My true love waits on Sir George, and you. Adieu, my Fanny.
LOUISA BARTON.



MY dear Louisa, I have received both your letters, and really think no situation can be more difficult than yours; but as you see the precipice before you, I will trust in that good Providence which is the guardian and support of innocence, that he will enable you to avoid it.—I am persuaded I felt as much resentment as yourself, on reading Colonel Walter's letter: I perfectly approve of your not showing it to Sir William; but I cannot by any means divine what could be the motive for writing it.—
Ever since you mentioned the change in Lord Lucan's behaviour, I have had

some apprehensions of his passion for you, but would not hint them, for fear of giving you uneasiness.—O, my Louisa! how nicely circumspect must your conduct be, if you mean to escape the dangers that surround you! and how much brighter than gold, seven times tried in the furnace, will that conduct appear, when it has passed through more than a trial ordeal, unsullied, and unhurt!—
You have never given me the least reason to apprehend that Sir William is inclinable to jealousy: this is certainly a very fortunate circumstance, in your present situation; but do not suffer yourself to be lulled into a state of security, by his apparent indolence; vigilant and watchful must that woman be, who has so many foes to shield against—the unkindness

of Sir William—the passion and merits of Lord Lucan—the arts and malice of Colonel Walter—but the last and most formidable—shall I venture to speak out?—is your own heart.
You have not yet begun to suspect it. It is therefore the more dangerous enemy. Examine it, my sister; call it to strict account; and if you find one sentiment or wish, that lurks in secret there, unworthy of yourself, banish it, I beseech you: thoughts, even without purposes, are criminal, where our honour is in question. Consider the slightest idea of this kind, as a young serpent; though stingless now, its growth will give it strength and power to wound the breast that nursed and cherished it! crush it, betimes, Louisa; and be at peace for life.

I weep faster than I write; my brother's unhappiness, and yours, have sunk my spirits to the lowest ebb: he is still inconsolable.—He has received a most extraordinary letter from brute Colville—I can call her nothing else—she says,
"She hopes he has by this time surmounted his grief for her daughter, as it is highly irrational to mourn for one who is so surely happy.—She intreats him to go directly to Paris, as she has something very particular to inform him of, relative to Delia's last request, which she will not communicate by letter."

This hint has roused Sir George's curiosity, or rather awakened the fond desire of fulfilling any wish that Delia might have made; yet he says he could not bear the fight of Mrs. Colville, whom

he considers as her daughter's murderer, and the destroyer of his earthly happiness.—
I know not what to think of this affair, but I most earnestly wish that he would go any where—exercise is always of service to an oppressed mind—like the wheels of a machine, it lessens the weight, which rest restores again—however, Sir George shall not go by Amiens, if he goes at all, and that I have any power to persuade him.—
No one can tell where Lord Hume has been, for some time past—the only letter I received was dated from Naples, which he said he should quit the next day, and write to me the moment he was determined to fix at any place.—If

a brother's and sister's unhappiness did not at present take up all my thoughts, and as it were usurp the place of my own sorrow, I could allow it ample scope, Louisa; but I will now restrain it, at least within my own breast, and indulge myself in the more generous sensation of grieving for the distresses of those who are more wretched, and not less dear to me, than myself.
Sir George returns your love, an hundred fold. I have never given him the least hint of your being unhappy, as I knew it would render him still more so.—I do not think that even a brother should interfere, between husband and wife, unless matters were come to such extremities, as I hope they never will between Sir William and you.

I would by all means wish you to make a friend, tho' not a confidante, of the young Harriet; if her heart and understanding be good, her want of knowledge in the ways of the world will not render her a less eligible companion or adviser. There is something extremely striking in the natural sentiments of an untainted mind—they resemble the purity and delicacy of water drank at the fountain, before it has been impregnated with these adventitious flavours, which it acquires in its currency.
I know not why, but I am vastly prejudiced in Harriet's favour—I am apt to think she will lessen your domestic uneasinesses, or at least prevent your brooding over them, in solitude and

silence.—If I ever visit you in Ireland, I shall endeavour to obtain a corner of her little innocent heart: this will be no robbery; for I flatter myself that she will love you the better, the more she loves me.
Miss Granville is returned from Bath, she is at present my only companion—within these two days Sir George has admitted her into his apartment. She has lost all her spirits and vivacity, and is perfectly qualified to perform the part of a mute in a tragedy; for she sighs often, and never speaks: she has not however communicated the cause of her mourning to me; yet I fancy if she were obliged to sing a French song, Maudit amour, would be the first that would occur to her.

You will easily perceive that my letters, like yours, are written at different intervals; and I hope you will also perceive that my spirits are better than when I began this epistle, tho' nothing particular has happened to enliven them, except my taking an airing with Sir George, and my quondam admirer, Mr. Loyd, in Richmond Park, this morning.
The moral of the tale I sing, as before, is, that air and exercise are the best medicines in the world, both for mind and body.—By the way I hope you both continue and indulge your passion for riding—I hear the outlets about Dublin are delightful; you will be unpardonable if you don't visit them all.

Pray give my love to the little Harriet: you may also offer it to Sir William; for, indeed, I am, very well inclined even to bestow, since he will not suffer me to pay it to him.
Adieu, adieu, ma tres chere soeur,

P.S. Pray enquire of Lord Lucan, if he ever hears from lord Hume?



Naples.
YES, my dear Lucan, I will acknowledge your censure just, in some degree; and that I think is full as much as can be expected from a person of my lively and volatile disposition—we idle fellows are seldom perverse enough to defend our follies; or perhaps the same indolence of temper which makes us commit, prevents our justifying them—no matter from what principle our humility arises, I hate searching for remote causes—'tis like seeking for a grain of wheat in a bushel of chaff. I never was a good logician, tho' a very tolerable sophist, for myself at least; and

while I find the effects of my passion for the lovely Margarita, pleasant, I shall never perplex myself with endeavouring to find out why they are so.
You cannot, my dear Lucan, have an idea of any thing half so charming, or you would not only excuse, but countenance my fondness, by your own admiration.—No, hang it, I should not like that, either—nor would I have you see her, for a thousand guineas, notwithstanding what you say of your being already in love—you know I thought myself the most enamoured swain alive, when I left England, and used to write you the most doleful accounts of my sufferings—you laughed •t them, then, I laugh at them, now—tempora, aut mores, mutantur—no matter which. I can't help,

however, sometimes feeling a little qualm, not of conscience tho', Lucan, for my former mistress—she is handsome, I confess, but Margarita is divine.
When I landed on the continent, I was such a novice in love, as to fancy that I could not bear a six month's absence from Fanny Cleveland; but I had not been six days acquainted with my present object, when I found that I could sacrifice friends, country, nay myself, to her; I had never felt passion before. And
"What's life without passion? sweet passion of love."

I have, I hope, dealt like a man of honour, with Miss Cleveland, by not dissembling with her. I have written but once to her, since I came here; and

then told her I intended to stay abroad, for three years, and had not fixed upon any place of residence; nay even said I should quit Naples directly, merely to prevent her writing to me.
I hope she will understand all this, properly, and that her pride will get the better of whatever regard she might have had for me; and that whenever I return to England, if that should ever happen, I may find her, what I really wish, married entirely to her own satisfaction—for, notwithstanding my infidelity, I think it impossible that I should ever be capable of divesting myself of the warmest interest in her happiness. I have now, my dear Lucan, laid my heart as open before you, as I would, were I a catholic, to my confessor. I expect much more from

you, than I should from him, not only absolution and indulgence, but a reciprocal confidence also.—Tell me who, and what, this fair Hibernian is, whose torrid charms have been able to thaw your frozen zone? Is it une affaire de coeur, ou d'honneur? is she kind, or cruel? brown, or fair? in short, deal as frankly with me as I have done with you, and we shall then have mutually exchanged the truest test of friendship, with each other.
Yours, most truly, HUME.
P.S. I purpose spending the winter here, and setting out early, in spring, either to Rome, or Venice, which ever my fair compass points her taper index to, that we may enjoy the carnival together.



MY dear Hume, your letter has relieved me from a thousand apprehensions, which I suffered on your account—it is written in the true spirit of a heart at ease, which no man ever possessed that was thoroughly in love—and though you call me grave and philosophic, I am much better pleased that your present attachment should be of the frolic, than the serious kind.—Most of our young men of fortune and fashion look upon a foreign mistress as a part of their travelling equipage; and I think Margarita as well qualified to fill up the train of milord Anglois, as any other of her sister syrens—of the opera.

I have seen her often, and acknowledge her beauty, though I could gaze on her for ever, without feeling any other effect from her charms, but what might arise in my mind from contemplating her picture—yet I do not think her inanimate; on the contrary, she has great vivacity, both in her looks and manners, but alas! she is totally devoid of sensibility, that first of female charms! her eyes are taught to languish, and every graceful movement of her form has been acquired in the school of art.—Read the thirty-seventh and fiftieth letters of Ninon de l'Enclos, to the marquis de Sevig•é, and they will help you to judge more justly, both of her and yourself; they are cases exactly in point.
She lived with the marquis de Richelieu, at Turin, when I was there—I

knew him intimately; he adored Margarita, and was one of the handsomest and most amiable young men I ever met with—he died of a fever. I pitied Margarita from my soul, and about ten days after his death, went to pay her a visit of condolance, and was informed she had set out for Naples, two days before, with an English gentleman whose name was Williams.
I am much too young to set up for a stoic, or a cynic; I know, nay I feel, all the weaknesses and follies of youth; yet I cannot help thinking that an attachment to a worthless woman, is capable of debasing the noblest mind.—Virtue, I fear, is not radical in human nature; its seed must be sown by precept, cherished by example, and cultivated

by habit; but when the object of our affections has a distinct interest rather to extinguish, than inspire it, the general bias of our passions, aided by the natural indolence of dissipation and debauchery, suffer the plant to wither in its bloom, and thus obliterates the truest character of manhood.
On the contrary, let the most vicious man become truly enamoured of a virtuous woman, and he will at least assume the semblance of those virtues he admires in her, and
"Use (as Hamlet says) can almost change the stamp of nature, and master even the Devil, or throw him out with wonderous potency."

I find myself growing grave prematurely; for there is but one paragraph

in your letter, that I meant to answer seriously: you may easily guess—I mean the one where you speak of Miss Cleveland, and seem to acquiesce so entirely in your behaviour towards her—and now that I have entered upon this subject, I am at a loss to know how to treat it properly—I would fain persuade myself you were but in jest; yet surely it is wrong to trifle with the esteem of a friend, by suffering me to suppose that you could possibly behave so unworthily to a woman of merit and honour.
That the gaiety and levity of your temper and your youth might render it possible, nay probable, that you should change your affections, and cease to love a mistress you once admired, I can readily believe—but that you can suffer an

amiable woman, whom you both flattered, and inspired, with a serious passion for you; to be informed of your inconstancy, through so coarse a medium as rudeness and neglect, I will not, nay I cannot suppose.—My friend knows better what he owes to himself, and to the world.
I must be excused from replying to your queries, relative to the object of my passion, except so far as to afford you some faint description of her beauty and merits. Her personal charms are so obvious, that whoever views her does not wait to judge—they strike so suddenly that we feel before we think. The excellencies of her character require some refinement to become sensible of—one must have a nice discernment for natural beauties, and a

certain classic taste for the great simple.—Her mind is in such a state of perfect nature, that she is not to be examined by the rules of common life; for her words, her actions, and her whole manners, borrow a peculiar propriety, from herself alone.—She appears to be a sort of privileged genius, of whom may be said, with Milton,
" That whatso'er she says, or does,
" Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best."

In others we may trace the mechanical finger of the nurse, the mother, the tutoress, or the priest—In her can be discovered but one only forming hand—even his who made her.
In fine, such beauties, both of mind and person, have inspired your, till now, insensible friend, with the most tender,

ardent, and hopeless love, that ever yet possessed a human heart! and in my breast, shall that fond love lie ever buried—I think it will not cease even with my life, but death itself shall never force me to reveal my passion.
Press me no farther on this theme, my friend, nor cast away your useless pity on me; for while I can behold her lovely form, and gaze in silent rapture on her beauty, I am not wretched—nay in those blissful moments, I feel a sort of happiness I would not change for all your joys with Margarita.
You may, very probably, have but an imperfect idea of that kind of passion, which I have described; but do not from thence unphilosophically conclude that

it cannot exist in any heart, because you do not feel it in your own. This I know to be a common, but erroneous mode of judging—we are all too apt to search in our own breasts for the motives of other people's actions; and when a want of sympathy of sentiment, prevents our discovering similar principles in ourselves, we are too often tempted to deny their existence in others.
I have particularly warn'd you, my dear Hume, on this subject, because I am certain I could full as easily forgive your doubting my honour, as the unsullied purity of my passion.—I most sincerely wish you every pleasure that a life of frolic and gaiety can yield, but beware, my dear Hume, of those thorns, that grow spontaneous with the rose.

Write to Miss Cleveland, I conjure you; and, when your leisure will permit, bestow a few lines on yours sincerely,
LUCAN.


MAY I perish this moment if ever I read such a letter! I shall begin to look upon Ovid's Metamorphoses, as a history of serious, and natural events; and not be at all surprised, if I should find myself fluttering through the air, in the form of a lapwing, or a butterfly.—Surely your transformation is still more miraculous! what, Lucan! the gay, the lively Lucan! changed into a melancholy, timid, whining, love-sick swain;
"and death itself shall never force him to reveal

his passion!"
Why what, in the name of nonsense, must she be, that has inspired it? deaf, and blind, I suppose—for no woman that has ears and eyes, need ever be informed that a man is in love with her—in those cases, they are sharp-sighted as the lynx, and quick-eared as the mole; and I would lay a thousand guineas, that your Dulcinea was thoroughly informed of her conquest before you were even aware of it yourself.—

But why you are so cruelly bent upon not indulging her with a repetition of her triumph, I cannot for my soul conceive—I have formed a million of conjectures, about whom and what she is; and have at length acquiesced in believing her to be the sanctified spouse of some methodist teacher, or presbyterian parson; for

you have, according to your own plan,
"assumed the semblance of those virtues,"
which such a puritan fair one might also pretend to.

And so poor
"Margarita is compounded of art, and wants the first of female charms, sensibility."
Beware, my friend, that your idol may not have one vice more, at least, than mine; I mean hypocrisy—the marquis de Richelieu is still remembered and regretted, by Margarita, though she did not absolutely break her heart for his loss, as you may perhaps vainly imagine your dove-like dame, your saint trembleur, whom nothing but the spirit can move, would do for you.

In short, you are welcome to make as free with me, as you please; the privileges

of friendship permit it; but neither its laws, nor those of chivalry, can pardon an affront or injury offered to the heroine of our romance—Besides, you must be but a bad philosopher, Lucan, if you do not know that there is such a perverseness in human nature, that the abusing a mistress is the surest way of rivetting the lover's chains—
" I'll be revenged, and love her better for it."

And so you are very angry that I have not written a full and true account of my inconstancy, to Miss Cleveland! why how the devil can any man sit down to tell a woman that he no longer loves her? But 'tis a proper measure; I owe it to myself, and to the world—I repeat your words seriously, here, for I think them just.—And now you will for ever oblige me, my

dear Lucan, if you will do it for me; for may I die this moment, if I am not so wholly illiterate, in this noble science of defence, that I know not even how to set about it.
On my honour I both respect, esteem, and admire Miss Cleveland, more than any woman in the world, however the caprice of my heart may have rendered me capable of an infidelity; and I most devoutly wish, that I had address enough to extricate myself out of this unlucky business, without sacrificing any more of my character than I fear is already forfeited.
I cannot help smiling, when you say,
"while I can behold her lovely form,"
&c. But I must acknowledge this to be

the best, perhaps the only receipt, in the world, for insuring our constancy—I'll frame it into a distich, extempore, for the help of memory—

Your love would you preserve the same,
Still fan, but never feed the flame.
If you were at Rome, instead of Dublin, I should swear that you were turned Virtuoso, and became enamoured of Madame la Venus de Medicis, or some other old fashioned marble beauty—the world's a farce, and it is acted thus—the bad impose on others, the good deceive themselves.
But happiness, the way we choose it, is sufficient for us all, and as you are so very reasonable in your option, they must be niggards, indeed, who would desire to deprive you of the least portion of it;

therefore, that you may long possess ideas, is the complying wish of yours, ever.
HUME.


Southfield, January 1.
I Have this moment received my dear Fanny's last letter, though, from the date, I think I should have been in possession of it much sooner; but perhaps Sir William detained it, on purpose to deliver it to me on this day, as knowing it to be the most agreeable new-year's gift he could have presented me with. In return then, my Fanny, accept my thanks and fervent prayer, for your happiness.

But I have something more substantial than wishes, to contribute towards it; for I can with truth inform you, that the little time I have spent here, has passed away much more agreeably, than any that has elapsed, since I left Dover-street.
To a mind not perfectly at ease, there is something extremely pleasing in the quietness of the country; it is like that artificial repose, which is acquired by opiates, after long watching—like that too, though it neither strengthens, nor nourishes, it allows us time to recover our faculties, which are often as much harrassed by living constantly in the midst of crouds, as our nerves are by an acute disease.

I am very glad to find that Sir William loves the country, and is particularly fond of this place, where nature seems to have exerted her utmost powers to please—If it is charming now, when stripped of all its ornaments, think what it will be, when summer shall redeck it in its leafy pride, and spread her gorgeous carpet o'er the plains?
I look forward with delight to the happy era of your arrival here, which I hope will be early in spring; and as the Irish parliament meet but every second winter, I purpose spending the intermediate time of their recess in this sweet retirement, with my Fanny, my Harriet, my books, music, drawing, planning, planting; and perhaps there may be a little interloper, who will, I trust, increase

both our pleasures and employments—my Lucy too will be near, if not with us; for Colonel Walter's house is about five miles from hence, and every thing seems in great forwardness for his marriage with Mrs. Layton?
I begin to flatter myself, that he is really in love with the lady he is going to marry; for he talks of her incessantly: yet Lucy has remarked, that he spends more of his time here than at Mr. Usher's, where Mrs. Layton is now upon a visit; though that is two miles nearer to Waltersburgh, (that is the name of his seat) than this.
He is to give a magnificent ball at his house, next week; he asked me last night to dance with him on that occasion; which I refused, as I thought he ought

to show every mark of attention to his future bride—I shall not, however, dance with any other person; not so much on his account, as for a reason I have hinted at above.
I fear you will chide me for not having mentioned my present situation to Sir William, as it is natural to suppose it would give him pleasure, and indeed I wish to do so; but there is something so indelicate in his manner of treating this subject, that I have not yet been able to prevail upon myself to speak of it to him.
Lord Lucan has been absent from us some days, on a visit to Sir Arthur Ashford—they are both expected here this evening—I have great pleasure in observing

that Lord Lucan is vastly more cheerful, and seemingly at his ease, than he was before we left Dublin—indeed I think we are all so: which serves to illustrate your favourite opinion, as well as the latter part of your last letter, that air, exercise, and change of objects, are of infinite use, both to the mind and body.
From my not mentioning my brother, till now, do not conclude that I have for a moment forgotten him, or his griefs; they will live together in my memory, to the last period of my existence.—I cannot conceive why Mrs. Colville should wish to see Sir George, as she must be conscious of having done him an irreparable injury; and sure there is nothing on earth so formidable, as the sight of a person we have

wronged.—Yet I earnestly wish that he knew his Delia's request, as the obeying it would afford him a very high, though a melancholy pleasure—
" Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown."

I wish too, with you, that he would go abroad.—Do, my Fanny, send him to search for your wanderer, on the continent; and in the mean time do you take sanctuary in this island, which boasts a privilege of being free from all noisome animals—you may therefore at least promise yourself safety, if not delight, amongst us.
I am sorry for the change you mention in Mary Granville; her charming vivacity would, I hoped, have assisted you in keeping up your spirits, under the treble

pressure of my brother's, mine, and your own distresses, which I begin to fear will soon outweigh our's, for I think that even the death of the object of our affections is more supportable than their unkindness.—This hint is meant to arm you; for, I confess, that Lord Hume's silence has made me think he is in the high road of inconstancy; and I do most earnestly wish that you would endeavour to forget him, and be happy.—
I have, my dearest sister, at your request, most seriously examined my heart, and will candidly acquaint you with its real situation—'Tis free from love, and thence is all its danger.—O! why am I debarred the chaste indulgence of a virtuous passion? why must a heart that overflows with tenderness, have all

its currents dammed? like a poor river forced from its natural course, am I to blame if it should steal away in useless, nay improper channels?
But hitherto, my sister, all is safe—the man I most esteem, I have no passion for, nor feel a fonder warmth, on mentioning his name, than my dear brother's—this surely is an innocent affection—Had I been his wife!—but you have warned me not even to hazard, much less indulge, such thoughts.
Harriet is vastly happy at your predilection for her, and bids me offer you the second place in her heart—she kindly, and I believe at present truly says, I occupy the first—yours is, I think, likely to be the most permanent station;

as I shall have many rivals to contend for mine, and happy will he be who shall displace me.—
Lucy, who came hither with me, is this day gone to pay her respects to her aunt, at Mr Usher's; we are to meet them at Waltersburgh, next Monday; and she is then to return with me to Southfield, where we have, alas! but a very few days to spend, before we set out for Dublin: I shall truly regret the changing of the scene—but must obey.
Sir William returns his affectionate compliments to my brother, and you, and was kind enough to say he wished you would both come over, and see how we live here—what is still more extraordinary, he seemed both surprised and

concerned, when I told him of our dear Delia's death; for he is sometimes tender, when he is off his guard; so that I often flatter myself that 'tis rather his manners which are harsh, and not his nature hard. You see how I strive to sooth myself, and plead for him. He says he cannot be persuaded that she could die, in three days, unless it were of a French physician.
Sir Arthur Ashford, his sister, and Lord Lucan, are this moment arrived. I have never seen the Lady, but hear she is extremely handsome; grant heaven that Lord Lucan may think so! now, Fanny, you can have no doubts or fears.
Adieu, my sister—




REPORT does not always exaggerate—Miss Ashford is really beautiful—the ladies of this country are in general remarkably fair, but the whiteness of her skin surpasses any that I have ever seen; her eyes are dark hazel, her hair jet black, which forms such a contrast to her neck and forehead, as images Shakespeare's simile,
" Fairer than snow upon a raven's back."

She is tall and thin, and though not elegantly made, appears perfectly genteel—while she sits still—but the moment she is thrown into motion, or emotion, she ceases to be lovely—a something

more than want of grace accompanies her action, and every movement of her head, or hands, seems performed in opposition to nature—in short she is the only young person I have ever seen, whom vivacity does not become. She seems sensible, mild, good-natured, and in every respect qualified for making an amiable figure—in still life.
I am much pleased to find that Sir William is extremely hospitable to his country neighbours, and likes to have company in his house. This tendency may doubtless be attended with some inconveniences, which I had rather submit to, than live unknown and unloved, amongst one's tenants and dependants—it is their industry and labour which supports our affluence, and they certainly

have a right to a certain share in our enjoyments, in proportion to their rank and situation.
An accident that happened this morning, had like to have triumphed over Sir William's good humour, which is not of the invincible kind.—As we sat at breakfast, in a room that looks into the garden, I observed Miss Ashford's eyes fixed on a particular object, in the walk before us—I thought she seemed surprised, and I naturally directed a look of inquiry, to discover the occasion; which was a little basket, that appeared to move, though gently, of itself.
The moment I mentioned this circumstance, the gentlemen came to the window, and Lord Lucan flew directly into the

garden, and explained the phenomenon, by bringing the basket and its contents into the parlour, which was an infant, about a week old, clean, though poorly clad, with a paper pinned to its breast, which said, this child has been baptized by its father's name, William.
This circumstance disconcerted Sir William, who, after many unnecessary asseverations of his innocence, upon this occasion, at which the whole company smiled, as they knew that he had been above a year out of the kingdom, determined to prove his virtue, at the expense of his humanity, by ordering the child to be again left in the garden where it was found, till the parish officers should come to take charge of it; and by commanding a strict search to be

made for the mother, that she might be punished, according to law.
We all opposed the severity of this resolution, as the poor infant appeared almost perished with cold, and hunger; but Sir William persisted in acting like an upright magistrate, according to the letter of the law—till Lord Lucan declared that he was ready to adopt the little foundling, and promised to take care of it for life, though his name was Thomas. Sir William then relaxed a little of his austerity, and gave vent to the remainder of it by attacking Lord Lucan with all the coarse raillery usual upon such occasions.
I confess I was pleased with this instance of his Lordship's humanity—I

have seen many others, even in the short term of our acquaintance—yet, at this instant, I could wish to have robbed him of this little act of benevolence, and have transferred it to Sir William—There is a secret and involuntary sympathy, that attaches us to generous minds—our affections are insensibly riveted by esteem, and in that case we may defy even the power of time to break the charming tye! O, why am I not bound in such a chain!
Though you will see by my letter, that I had nothing to say when I began to write, yet as it is probable that I shall not have half an hour's leisure, for some days to come, I have devoted the present moment to convince my Fanny that she is never absent from my thoughts, to enquire

after her's and Sir George's health, and to assure her of the sincerest regard, of her ever affectionate



DIstracted as I am with my own griefs, let me thank my dear sister for having removed some of those apprehensions which I had suffered on her account; and by that means leaving my heart, as it should now be, devoted to selfish, undivided sorrow.—Lord Hume is false, Louisa! I am forsaken, in the pride of youth; but for whom I know not.

I cannot write, read the enclosed, then give the hateful scroll to the devouring flames—no, send it back—alas! for what? the fatal lines are graved too deeply, on my breaking heart!
My brother set out for Paris, last week; a second letter from Mrs. Colville, more ambiguous than the former, determined him: I am glad he is gone,—I should have tried, but fear it would have been in vain, to hide my anguish from him—and he has griefs too weighty of his own, to suffer me to add resentment to them.
You say your heart is free from love, Louisa: O, triumph in that blessed indifference! and know you cannot taste the extreme of wretchedness, without feeling

a tender passion for an unworthy object!
" Ah! fond remembrance blinds me."

If I were capable of joy, I should receive it from the hint you give, of your being soon likely to be blessed with a proper object for your utmost sensibility! Repine no more, my sister, but let the current of your fondness flow in this most natural and pleasing course; in the rich channel of maternal love.
I entreat you to acquaint Sir William, as soon as possible, with this happy event; there are numberless reasons that render it proper: those you urge against it, are childish; your situation must naturally increase his tenderness, and of course your happiness, which is all that

can now diffuse the smallest gleam of satisfaction, to your ever affectionate

P.S. I have this moment received a second letter from you, for which I return my thanks; but am not, at present, able to write more.



A Consciousness of error is, they say, the first step toward reformation; but there are some cases, in which we may be sensible of having done amiss, yet find it impossible to amend: this is certainly a very unpleasing situation, and well worthy of pity, from a generous

mind.—So circumstanced I acknowledge myself, and throw myself at your feet, for pardon.
Can you, madam, rise so far above the unworthy man who asks it, as to grant him your forgiveness, while he confesses that the natural inconstancy of his sex, and the mutability of his disposition, have triumphed over a passion, which was once his highest happiness, and honour; and which he then thought would have been as permanent, as his life?
I cannot, without descending to the meanness of a falsehood, affect to suppose that I am indifferent to you; I know but too well that I was honoured with a place in your affection—but I also know that

Miss Cleveland has sense and resolution sufficient to conquer her regards for one who owns himself unworthy of it—Humiliating confession!
Let me, however, madam, as a motive to your forgiveness, plead the small, and only merit, that is in my favour, the not having attempted to deceive you.—I can now only add, that notwithstanding the change of my affections, rather than my sentiments, I shall ever retain the sincerest respect, and, if I may be allowed the expression, the tenderest esteem, for Miss Cleveland, to whom I have the honour to be
a most devoted, and obedient servant HUME.


Miss WESTLEY to Miss CLEVELAND.
Waltersburgh.
HOW happy should I be, my dear madam, in having the honour of paying my respects to you by letter, and thanking you for the kind partiality you have expressed in my favour, to my dear aunt, if her illness had not been the occasion of my writing: but don't be alarmed, madam, she is at present out of danger, though still so weak as to be unable to write, even to you.
She was taken ill, the day after she came here, and miscarried, the day following. How I grieve for the loss of my dear little cousin! he would have been a charming

play-thing for us all. You can't imagine how much my uncle has fretted about it: but though my poor dear aunt has the most reason to be sorry, she bears every thing with her usual sweetness of temper—but I need not expatiate on her gentleness, to you who know her, for every creature who does, must be charmed with her.
Miss Leister, who was to have been here with us, was confined with a quinzy, at Mr. Usher's, when my aunt grew ill; but she came to us, yesterday, and the gentlemen are all gone to Dublin—It was intended that we should be very merry, when we arrived here, but I never saw such a dismal house; I long to get back to Southfield, which I hope we shall be able to do, in a few days.

My aunt desires me to assure you of her tenderest affection, and says she will write, the moment she can hold a pen.
I hope my dear Miss Cleveland will not take an aversion to me, for being the messenger of disagreeable news, but believe that it would have afforded me the sincerest pleasure, to have informed her that my aunt was as well and happy as I know she deserves to be, and I most truly wish her. I have the honour to be, dear madam,
your much obliged, and most obedient servant HARRIET WESTLEY.
P.S. I don't know whether you are acquainted with Lord Lucan; but I can't

help telling you, that he had the misfortune to sprain his leg, so that he could not dance, or walk, even the first day he came—there never was any thing so unlucky as this party has been! for every one has had something to distress them.


I Lament with you, my dear Harriet, that our correspondence should commence on an occasion so painful to us both, as Lady Barton's illness; but I should be unworthy of that regard which you seem inclined to show me, if it were possible that I should conceive any dislike to you, for acquainting me with our common misfortune, I mean the loss of our

little cousin—however, as you assure me that my sister is at present out of danger, I think we may reasonably hope that our present loss may be repaired in future, and that we may yet have many pretty play-things, in which we shall be mutually interested.
The sweetness of Lady Barton's temper must interest all who know her, in her sufferings of every kind, and lessen even to herself the painful sensations arising from her present disagreeable situation—Such is the potent power of gentleness! I have no doubt of your tender attachment to her; there is a natural sympathy between the good and amiable, which far exceeds the ties either of affinity or consanguinity.
I have not the honour of knowing Lord Lucan, but am sorry for the accident he

has met with, both for his sake and yours, as I fancy his lameness interfered with the amusement you proposed to yourself, in dancing.—But we are all liable to disappointments, my young friend; and may this be one of the greatest that you shall ever experience!
Assure my beloved sister of my servent and unceasing wishes for her speedy recovery. And believe me to be my dear Miss Westley's
affectionate friend and servant F. CLEVELAND.



Waltersburgh.
MY dearest Fanny, I lay hold of the first possible moment to calm your fears for my safety, I mean with regard to my health: Harriet, by my desire, has given you an account of the accident that befell me here; but she and all the world are strangers to the cause of it.
But before I enter into a detail, that must affect you, let me congratulate my dearest sister upon the timely discovery of lord Hume's inconstancy—Rejoice, my Fanny, that this worthless man is not your husband! and that you are at

liberty to indulge your resentment, or contempt, without a breach of duty—This, though you may not be sensible of it, is certainly an allevation of the misery which arises from ill-placed love—but time, and your sense and virtue will, I hope, enable you to triumph over any remain of weakness, for such an unworthy object—Yet, contemptible as he is, I cannot help being pleased with his letter; frankness always charms me, and, like charity, in my mind it covers a multitude of faults.
Do not, from what I have said, imagine that I think lightly of your present distress; I am convinced, that to a heart tender and good as yours, it must be severe; but I also know, that there are other situations much more intolerable,

and I am almost tempted to exclaim with Lord Littleton.—
" What are, alas! thy woes, compared to miner?"
You shall be yourself the judge, and I will now proceed.

Sir Arthur, Miss Ashford, Lord Lucan, Sir William, Harriet, and I, set out together for this place, the Monday after I wrote to you—We were to have met Mrs. Layton, Miss Leister, the family of the Ushers, and several other ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood—The first mortification I received, was hearing that my Lucy was ill of a sore throat, and could not come from Usher's Grove; her aunt, and the rest of the family came, but were all to return after supper.

I told you, in my last, that I had refused to dance with Colonel Walter; I was also asked by Lord Lucan, but desired to be excused, and entreated he would take Miss Ashford for his partner. He said he would obey me, and accordingly desired the honour of her hand, which she readily granted—About a quarter of an hour before the ball began, he unluckily strained his leg, and was not able to fulfil his engagement.—Sir William, though not fond of dancing, was polite enough to supply his place, and Lord Lucan and I were reduced to play at quadrille, with a couple of dowagers, and an old parson.
The evening, however, passed off, very tolerably, and we retired to our chambers about twelve o'clock. The gentlemen

had agreed to meet and hunt, the next morning; and I determined to pay a visit to Lucy, between breakfast and dinner, that day; for the Colonel had insisted on our not leaving him till the next.
According to appointment with his companions of the chase, Sir William rose early, and left me asleep; I had resolved not to acquaint him with my situation, till our return to Southfield; as I knew that many coarse jests and common-place sayings would pass, on the occasion; which I should wish to avoid, at all times, but especially before strangers.
About eight o'clock in the morning, I was waked by a person who knelt at my bedside, and pressed my hand to their lips—the chamber was dark, I could

only distinguish that it was a man, and instantly concluded him to be Lord Lucan; from this circumstance only, that I recollected Colonel Walter was to have rode out with Sir William.—I strove to withdraw my hand, but could not; upon which I addressed him with the strongest expressions of surprise and resentment, at his having dared to take so unwarrantable a liberty; to which, he answered, only in a whisper, entreating me to forgive the effects of a passion too violent to be restrained.—He then attempted to press his lips to mine, and when I was going to ring my bell, I heard Sir William's voice upon the stairs, and fainted.
When I came to myself, I found Miss Ashford, Sir William, and Harriet, in

the room, standing about my bed-side—I suffered infinite anxiety at that instant, to know whether Sir William had found Lord Lucan in my chamber, and what had passed between them? Harriet and Miss Ashford were bathing my temples with lavender water, while Sir William held one of my hands between his, and as soon as he found that I was recovering, press'd it gently, and withdrew; saying that he supposed ladies understood how to manage one another better, in such circumstances, than he—his calmness amazed me! in short the various emotions of my mind, for some time, are not to be expressed.
I determined, on the instant, to return to Southfield directly, let the consequence be what it would; and never to suffer

Lord Lucan to come into my sight again; but, alas! when I attempted to rise, I found it impossible; the agitation of my mind, had disorder'd my whole frame; my illness increased every moment, a messenger was dispatched for a physician, but before he could arrive—
When Sir William was informed of my misfortune, he raved and stamped like a mad-man; said I must have designed to destroy his heir, out of perverseness, or I would certainly have acquainted him with my situation—while, Heaven knows, I would have given my own life, with pleasure, to have saved my child.
I continued in a state of such extreme weakness, for four days, that I saw no creature but Benson, who had been sent

for express, the doctor, and Harriet who wept continually by me—I never can forget the dear girl's tenderness.
On the fifth morning, Sir William came into the room, and with an air of the utmost disatisfaction, told me he was very sorry for the loss of his boy, but hoped I should do well; and as he could not be of any use to a sick person, he had resolved to attend the meeting of parliament, and should set out for Dublin, with the Colonel and Lord Lucan, directly—that as soon as I was able, I might either return to Southfield, or follow him to town, as I liked best.—But that I need not be in a hurry to move, for his good friend had left orders that I should be as well attended, as if I were in my own house; and that Lucy Leister was now recovered,

and would come that day to Waltersburg, to keep me company.—He then gave me a cool kiss, and withdrew.
I rejoiced extremely, at hearing that Lord Lucan was to go with Sir William; for though my life was at stake, I would not have remained in the same house with him, after my husband had left it; besides it saved me the difficulty of an interview, which my poor weak brain had been studying to avoid, the whole time of my illness—Yet I had doubts and fears that he might insolently have made a pretence to stay behind, till Benson assured me that she saw him set out, at the same time with Sir William and the Colonel.
Just as he was going off, he gave the enclosed note to Harriet, to deliver to

me as soon as I should be able to read it; the sweet girl could not conceal her emotion about it, she feared she had done wrong in receiving it, and, with her cheeks covered with blushes, and her eyes filled with tears, she presented it to me, begging I would excuse her if she had acted improperly.
I never was more embarrassed, in my life, than at that moment; I could have no doubt but that his letter was filled with apologies for the audaciousness of his conduct, and to read it was in some measure to admit of his excuses.—But while I hesitated, Harriet, whose impatience seemed to be extreme, had broken the seal, and said, shall I read it to you, Madam? Luckily for me that part of the chamber I sat in, was so much darkened

by a large screen, that she did not discover my confusion; therefore taking my silence for consent, she proceeded to read, as follows.

PERMIT me, Madam, to express those ardent wishes for your recovery, which I have never ceased to breathe to heaven, from the first moment of your illness—wishes as pure, as warm, and as disinterested, as brothers form for a beloved sister! I hoped to have had the honour of seeing you before I leave Waltersburgh, and I have many reasons to lament the loss of that happiness; but the cause which has prevented it, is even more a subject of regret, than the effect; and, like Aaron's rod, has swallowed up all other considerations.

May returning health a wait your couch, and may every happiness that heaven can grant to merit such as yours, be as truly thine, as the sincere respect and esteem of him, who has the honour to be, Madam, your Ladyship's
most obedient servant, LUCAN.
P.S. If it be not thought too presuming, I should request the favour of your permission for Miss Westley to honour me with a line, to inform me of your health.
I never felt surprise more strongly, than at hearing this letter; and my amazement was rather increased, by the trepidation and hurry of Harriet's voice and manner, in reading it, who, on the instant

she had finished, desired I would give her leave to write his lordship an account of my health, by that very night's post.—This I absolutely forbade; but, in order to change the subject, told her I would employ her in a more interesting correspondence, and desired she would immediately write to you.
I confess to you, Fanny, that Lord Lucan's letter has puzzled me so much, that I sometimes think it impossible he could have been guilty of the insult I have charged him with, and not attempted to have made some apology for it.—Yet who else could have dared to enter my chamber; or, indeed, who else was in the house, at the time? I am almost tempted to persuade myself, sometimes, that it was only a dream or vision, that

alarmed me—at other times my mind suggests some scruples to itself, for not having acquainted Sir William with the affair.—But then again, in that case, I must have hazarded my husband's and some other person's life! dreadful though! No, let me rather suffer all that fate can inflict on innocence, than be the cause of one man's death, or misery!
The moment that Lord Lucan left the house, I felt as if a weight had been taken off my heart—I have grown better every hour since, and the company of my Lucy and Harriet makes me not regret the absence of any other person, but yourself—For heaven's sake, my dearest Fanny, no longer deny me and yourself the indulgence of sharing my heart, and alleviating its anxieties! you have now

nothing to detain you in England; my brother will most probably stay abroad, some years.—But I will not say more; for if your own inclination and my situation do not impel you, I would not wish that my persuasions or entreaties should compel you.
I have been three days about this letter, and think it high time to conclude; but must first acquaint you that the day Benson came here, she discovered a private door in my chamber, which leads to another apartment, through which I conclude that Lord Lucan had made both his entry and retreat; or else Sir William must have met him going out of my room, at the time I fainted.—Adieu, my Fanny; I will write to you, as soon as I get to

Southfield, which will be, at farthest, in three days.



WHY must I tell my dear Louisa, that the contents of her letter abated the pleasure I received from seeing that her hand had superscribed it? this little circumstance gave me an idea of your perfect recovery, while the same characters on the inside, trace out a tale of unhappiness and distress! and who can hope for health, while the mind suffers?
There is something very extraordinary, in the adventure you have met with,

at Waltersburgh; but your surmise on that occasion does not appear to me to have the least foundation—on the contrary, I would almost hazard any bett, that Lord Lucan was incapable of treating you with such disrespect. It is impossible, I think, from the whole contour of his character, to suppose that he could be guilty of such an outrage to decency and honour; still more incredible to believe, that he should never since have thought proper to offer any sort of excuse for such a behaviour, especially as he proceeded so far as to frame an opportunity to himself for doing so, by the respectful freedom of his letter to you; for an action too, which was so unfortunate in its consequences, to the woman he loves—for that he loves, is but too obvious.

Who then could it be? That indeed, I must be at a loss to answer, any more than yourself.—I am half persuaded, and I wish I was entirely so, that it was only a dream—But be that as it may, I think you were perfectly right, in concealing the affair from Sir William, as the knowledge of it must have been fatal, at least to his repose, and yours.
I am very sorry, that Sir William should have shown more regret for the loss of his son, than concern for your illness; but parental fondness is, I fear, a stronger and more general affection, in male minds, than conjugal love.—But, indeed, my dear, you deserve a little mortification for your false delicacy, in concealing your situation from him; so kiss the rod, and have done

whimpering, as we say to naughty children.
I most earnestly wish that the business of parliament had not called Sir William from home, at this juncture; I long till he and you are settled in a domestic way, at Southfield—I own I am alarmed at a married woman's meeting with adventures of the ← novel → kind—in the absence of her husband—
" The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
" Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
" Who guards her, or with her the worst endures."

To say truth, I think you in almost as much danger as our fair mother, to whom these words were addressed, for there certainly is a serpent in the grass, somewhere, autour de vous—You have, however, the advantage of being warned of

your danger, provided you construe the billet you sent me as its first whisper; and, as a woman's best safety is found in retreat, I wish you would resolve to withdraw yourself from any further intimacy, either with Lord Lucan, or Colonel Walter—believe me, my Louisa, they are both dangerous intimates, though in a different way.
I receive your congratulation as I am sure it is meant; and though my mind is not yet strong enough to consider the discovery of Lord Hume's inconstancy, as a subject for rejoicing at, yet I agree with you, that had this change in his affections happened after I had become his wife, the misfortune would have certainly been more insupportable; though I cannot, even at present, avail myself of

the resource you offer me, of hating or despising a man whom I once loved—The utmost I ever hope to arrive at, is to be able to speak of my affection for him, in the past tense only; and the most effectual way to arrive at that end, is to mention him as little as possible, for the future. I hope your next letter will inform me of your returning health, and happiness; I need the assistance of them both, to support my present wretchedness—May they long attend my beloved sister, sincerely prays her affectionate




DEAR Hume, I should be extremely pleased, if I could, like you, consider the transformation of Ovid, as a series of serious and natural events; for as I have, for some time past, become extremely weary of my present form or mode of existence, I should be inclined to flatter myself, that any change must be for the better; but the metempsychosis of Pythagoras would suit me still better than the metamorphoses of Ovid; I should like to carry my identity with me, into whatever being my spirit was appointed to animate, as I think the consciousness of the sufferings I now endure, would render any state, except

that of a ferocious animal, agreeable to me.
But to be serious—I have been, for some months past, uncommonly wretched; the fate of her who is the arbiter of mine, hung for an age in doubtful ballance. I never knew the extreme of misery, till then; for, alas! I had never before given myself leave to think she was mortal! Yes, Hume, all that I love in life was near the grave! and I sustained the shock like a philosopher—I sighed and wept in secret; while to the world I wore the specious mask of mere humanity.—This was as much as I had power to do; and he that says philosophy can go beyond this mark, and teach us not to feel, mistakes its use, and makes dull apathy usurp its place.

I don't know that ever I felt so much pleasure in writing as at this moment; it certainly relieves our oppression to unburthen our hearts, and you are my only confidant—This declaration may appear strange to you, who know so little of the particulars of my attachment; but when I affirm, that no person breathing knows so much, not even the dear object of it, you may, nay you must, accept the title.
From your last letter, which I have read over several times, I have collected two things which give me sincere pleasure, but will surprise you extremely; the first is, that you endeavour to persuade yourself that you love Margarita much better than you really do: and the second, that you not only respect

and esteem, but still love Miss Cleveland! I hope you have written to her, Hume—Every woman of worth and honour has, and ought to have, a proper pride; neglect is therefore the most unpardonable of all offences that a man can commit—I speak of men, not brutes; rudeness is, of course, out of the question.
I was extremely diverted at the many ridiculous ideas you formed of the object of my passion; but this, be assured of, and let it satisfy you, that neither her mind or body have been perverted by any kind of art, but that she is at this instant the most perfect work of the great and universal Artist, that I have ever yet beheld! though perhaps she may not have struck you, (for you have

seen her,) with the same idea of perfection.
I perfectly agree with you that the word happiness has as many various meanings, as there are tempers and constitutions in the world; to confine it therefore to any taste, passion, or mode of life, would be just as absurd as to drain your ponds, that your fish may fly; and flood your aviaries, that your birds may swim. Be it, therefore, unto you, as you have wished it unto me, that is, as you choose it.—Adieu, my dear Hume.




Venice.
I Have often told you, my dear Lucan, that I never trouble myself to investigate causes for any thing that happens; effects are enough for me: so that whether your transmogrification be according to the Ovidian, or Pythagorean system, is of no sort of consequence; for transmogrified you are, to all intents and purposes—You may divert yourself with looking for the etymology of that word, but though I don't believe you will be able to find its derivation in any dictionary, it is a devilish good one, for all that, and truly expressive of my meaning.

Why, my dear metamorphosed friend, you had nothing of the Catullus strain in you, while you lived among us here. But there are peculiar disorders incident to certain climates, and an heavy atmosphere naturally makes people draw their breath in sighs. Fly then for your life, my dear patient, and take the air of the world, once more among us again, before your ailment has confirmed itself into a Platonic asthma in the bogs of Ireland.
You have puzzled me to the last line of a riddle, by saying that I have often seen your Lesbia—pr'ythee, be good natured, Lucan, and tell me when, and where; for guessing is rather troublesome: there can be no sort of danger in letting me know who she is, as you are

already convinced that I don't like her; or if I did, may I perish if I would attempt to rival my friend with any woman breathing; you may, therefore, be perfectly safe, in making me a real confidant, instead of a nominal one.
Margarita and I have been here this fortnight, and in that time we have contrived to lose a good round sum at play: she thinks we have been overmatched, by the Venetians, and wants to try our fortune at Rome; but I must wait for remittances from England, before I can make this or any other experiment of the kind.
You are mistaken, Lucan. I love Margarita most truly; and, what is much more extraordinary, my affection for her

rather increases than abates—I have myself been made sensible of this, tho' not in the most agreeable manner; for I have lately felt somewhat of that hydra of calamities, jealousy—and this, though I am perfectly satisfied that my sweet girl gave me no sort of cause, on her part, and would not quit me, for an emperor—
" Tell me, my heart, if this be love?"

You are in some measure right, with regard to my sentiments for Fanny Cleveland.—I certainly do most thoroughly esteem her, and have given the strongest proof of my having an high opinion of her understanding, by writing a very foolish letter, acknowledging myself, what, I dare say, your wise worship already thinks me, a very silly fellow.—I don't know, but as you say, I may love her too—that is, according

to your plan of loving, à la seraphique—but I have no idea of that sort of passion which can admit of a doubt, or allow us time to reason about the why or wherefore of the matter—Let me be charmed! my senses captivated! and let reason go to the schools, if it will; for I never found it of any use, but to torment me.—I am all impatience for my remittances; I don't like this place, nor does Margarita, though she has a number of relations here, brothers and cousins, by the dozen; but they are all priests, and I am apprehensive that some of these infatuates may persuade her to quit me, and lock her up in a convent—the dear girl sometimes alarms me much, by talking religiously; but if I can get her to Rome once, there will be an end of these fears; for I am told, that there is not even the shadow of devotion there.

It is now two o'clock at noon, and Margarita has not yet blessed my eyes; I fear she is not well—I must go to enquire her health. I hope your fair one is recovered: do, tell me all about her, in your next. Direct to me at Rome; I forget where, but to the care of your former Banker.
Adio, mio caro amico.
HUME.


Southfield.
THANK Heaven, my dearest Fanny, I have at last escaped out of that worse than lyon's den, that detestable Colonel Walter's house!—On the

day after I wrote last to you, as the weather was remarkably fine, for the season, I insisted on Lucy and Harriet's going out to take the air; and, in order to harden myself for my removal, I ventured into the room adjoining mine, which is a very large and handsome library.—Benson had told me, that, since the Colonel went to Dublin, she had sometimes seen a beautiful little girl, of four years old, running about the house, but that the child could not speak English; and that the servants were extremely ill-na-natured to the poor baby, who used to weep when she could not make herself understood; that she was perfectly engaging in her manner, and seemed to take a liking to Benson; that she had enquired, as much as was proper, who the child belonged to, and was constantly

answered, that they knew nothing more of her, than that she was one of their master's importations.
Upon this report I confess that I felt my relationship to dame Eve very strongly; and desired Benson to bring the child to me, the first opportunity—She accordingly led her by the hand into the library, on the day I have mentioned; but the moment the child saw me, she would have fled, and exclaimed in French, O my papa will kill me! I replied to her, in her own language, and assured her that no harm should happen to her—She smiled upon me, and asked was I a French-woman? if I was, she would love me dearly; for all the people in this place, she said, were cross, and cruel, except her poor mama, that she believed was

dying—She then hid her face, with her little hands, and burst into a passion of tears.
I need not tell you how I was affected—She became instantly sensible of my tenderness, and suffered Benson to lead her to me, and set her on my knee; but though she leaned her head upon my neck, and seemed pleased with my caresses, I could perceive that fear predominated over every other sensation, by her eyes being constantly directed to the door, and her appearing alarmed, at every noise.—I asked her where her mama was? She paused for a few moments, and then replied, I was not forbidden to tell that; she is above stairs, lying upon her bed, and that bed is on the ground—We don't lye so in France.

The innocence and sensibility of her remark quite overcame me—She took my handkerchief, and dried my eyes; then said,
"Don't weep! pray don't! you don't sleep upon the ground, nor any one else, I believe, except my poor mama."
Again I kissed the lovely little pratler—I desired her to tell her mama, that I should be glad to see her—She shook her head; and said that was impossible; for her mama was too sick to come out of her room; but if she were well, she must not disobey her papa, and he had commanded her never to stir out, while she lived.—Then said I, my dear, I will go up to her—She answered quick,
"No! no! that cannot be, the servants would tell my papa."
—I asked her would she carry a letter to her mama? she said yes—I then asked her mama's name, and she

answered D'Olivet—I instantly sat down and wrote in French, what follows—

A Madame D'OLIVET.

I have this day seen and conversed with your lovely daughter; and, from her innocent, yet sensible discourse, I have learned that you are ill, and unhappy.—I have reason to apprehend that the treatment you have received, from a gentleman of this country, may naturally prejudice you against all its inhabitants; but let me assure you, that humanity and justice are the real characteristics of this nation; and that if you stand in need of either, you may depend on meeting them in the highest degree, both from our manners, and our laws.

I beg leave now, Madam, to offer you any assistance that is in the power of an individual of your own sex, of some rank and consideration in this country; who will esteem it a very great happiness if she can be in any way serviceable to the injured, or oppressed; and who most solemnly assures you, that whatever confidence you are pleased to repose in her, shall never be made use of, but to your own advantage, as it is not curiosity, but compassion, that inclines her to interest herself in your concerns.—If you think an interview with the writer of this proper, please to contrive the means, and she will most readily concur with your design, as she is possessed of the sincerest inclination, though unknown to you, to do every thing that may be in

her power, for your service; and is with great truth, your unknown friend,

The child carried away the billet, and returned in less than ten minutes, to tell me that her mama had neither pen, ink, or paper; but if I would be so good to let her have them, she would write an answer immediately, and in the mean time returned me a thousand thanks, for the honour of my letter.—The dear little Olivet took my hand, kissed it, and said she was sure she should love me; for she thought I had done her mama good already.—I immediately furnished her with my own porte-feuille, which contained all the necessary implements for writing; and waited, not without some degree of impatience, to have this mystery

explained.—Lucy and Harriet returned from their airing, soon after this adventure; but I did not think it proper to mention the affair to them, till I was more fully informed myself.—I heard nothing farther of the child, or her mother, till I retired into my bed-chamber, and then Benson gave me a letter in French, which I send you enclosed.


No words can adequately express my sense of your goodness to me; but my gratitude shall, while I have life, be poured forth in fervent prayers for your happiness—This, alas! is the sole return that I can make to Heaven, or to you, whose blessed instrument I am sure you are, to speak peace and comfort to a dying

wretch, and smooth her passage from this vale of misery!
Ah, Madam! may you never know the transports I received from reading your dear letter! they can only be felt by one equally unhappy with me, if such another wretch there be on earth, who, long denied the blessings of society, debarred even the power of speaking to be understood, should have an angel come and utter, words of comfort and compassion.
Forgive me, Madam, but I cannot help considering you as a superior being, sent to the relief of misery like mine! O, may you think so too, and ease my last sad moments of their sharped pangs! It is not for myself I plead, but for my innocent, my unoffending child! Receive a

more than orphan to your care, and my last sigh shall waft my thanks to heaven!
Even the short story of my misfortunes, is much too long for my weak hand to write; but if you will permit me, Madam, to throw myself at your feet, when all the family are retired to rest, and condescend to lend an ear to my sad tale, I will relate it with the same truth and frankness, as I would to my confessor; you shall supply that solace long denied me, and from your gracious lips I hope for absolution.
I have now no terms to keep with Colonel Walter; the hour approaches that must dissolve all the engagements that ever were between us: how he has fulfilled his part of them, Heaven and his

own heart can tell! but even in my death, I would not wish to offend him; and were there not a much dearer concern than my own life at stake, I would conceal his unkindness to the last moment of my existence, would suffer my wrongs to be buried with me, and sleep for ever in the silent grave.—But my Olivia! my lovely little babe! pulls at my heart-strings! and can I then decline the offer of your kindness, and not strive to interest your compassion, for her future fate? impossible! circumstanced as I am, the mother must prevail over every other tye.—I therefore again entreat the honour of being admitted to your presence, this night; I will come softly down the back-stairs that join to the library, and there wait till your woman shall conduct me to you—In the mean

time, and ever, allow me to subscribe myself, with the most heart-felt gratitude,
your ladyship's most obliged, and devoted servant, OLIVIA WALTER.
Judge of my feelings, at reading this letter, by your own! But though I know you will be displeased at my quitting the story here, I must break off, as the post is going out, and I cannot send this without telling you that I have no remains of my late indisposition, but weakness—Peace of mind, and exercise will, I hope, soon restore my former strength—To-morrow, my Fanny, I will indulge you with the remainder of this affecting narrative, till then
Adieu,




THE moment I had read Mrs. Walter's letter, I sent Benson to wait her coming at the appointed place.—As some of the family were not yet gone to bed, I had near half an hour's leisure to reflect on the uncommon villainy of Colonel Walter! If this lady was his wife, which I could have no doubt of, from her taking his name, how did he dare to propose marriage to Mrs. Layton? But this circumstance appeared trifling, when compared to the inhumanity of his behaviour to the unfortunate Olivia, and her lovely child! At length Benson tapped softly at my door, and I rose to receive

a being that seemed no longer an inhabitant of this world.—From the child's account of her mother's illness, I was prepared to see a person pale, and emaciated; but any thing so near our idea of a beautiful spectre, never yet, I believe, struck mortal sight.
I must describe her to you—her stature is some-what above the middle size, but the extreme thinness of her figure, made her appear still taller—her eyes are large, and of the darkest blue; her nose aquiline, with the most beautiful mouth and teeth I ever saw; her skin fairer than alabaster, and so clear, that one might fancy they saw the circulation of the blood, which supplied a faint blushing in her cheeks, resembling the inner tints of a white rose; her hair of a light shining brown,

flowed in loose tresses upon her shoulders—her gown was a white silk polonese; she had on a gauze hood, tied loosely under her chin, and a slight covering of the same sort, upon her neck; she appeared all form without substance, spirit without matter; and had she prophesied, my faith would have listened, as to an angel.—
As she entered my room, she made an effort, which I was not lucky enough to prevent, to throw herself at my feet—when I attempted to raise her from the ground, I had not strength sufficient, for she had fainted there; with Benson's assistance and mine, she recovered, in about ten minutes, then gushed into such a flood of tears, as took away all power of

speech, and almost suffocated her; she often tried to speak, and implore my pardon for the distress and trouble she had occasioned me; and you may suppose that I said every thing in my power to calm her mind.
As soon as she became a little collected, she said it was joy, not sorrow, that had overpowered her weak frame; the latter she had been too familiar with, but the former was indeed such a long absent guest, that it must be welcomed with some degree of transport.—If the delicacy of her sentiments had needed any addition, they would have received the highest from the sweetness of her voice, and the uncommon beauty of her mouth, while she uttered them.

In order to restrain her acknowlegements for my interesting myself about her and her child, I pressed her to relate her story, and to account for the extraordinary appearances arising from her situation. She bowed, and proceeded with so much grace and elegance of expression, that I could have hung with mute attention on her speech, for a whole winter's night, or a long summer's day, and never wished her tale to have an end!
The Story of Mrs. WALTER.
I had the misfortune to lose my father, who had the honour of being a general officer in the king of Sardinia's service, when I was but eleven years old; his name was d'Alemberg—as he had many great and lucrative employments; and my mother and he were both young,

they indulged themselves in a thoughtless extravagance together, at Turin, during his life—But at his decease, my mother, no longer able to support the rank she had held at that court, retired to Briançon, to live upon the small patrimony which remained for her and me.
Young as I was, the loss of a fond father made a very deep impression on my mind; and the perpetual affliction to which I saw my mother had devoted herself, and which terminated her life in two years, brought me full early acquainted with sorrow.
After this irreparable loss, I remained at Briançon, under the care of an old maiden aunt of my father's, who had lived too much sequestered from the

world, and who, ignorant of the nature of youth, or how to guide it, supplied the place of instruction, with austerity, never suffered me to be a moment out of her sight, and was for ever extolling her own goodness and charity, in being troubled with the care of my education and maintenance.—In short, her manners were perfectly disagreeable, and so extremely different from that delicacy and tenderness, to which I had been too much accustomed, that, tho' I strove to respect her, as my aunt, I found it impossible either to love or esteem her.—The affections of young and amiable minds cannot centre in themselves; and if they are not properly attached by the ties of affinity, or kindness, they will most probably bestow themselves on improper objects.—This was unluckily my case.

The only person I was suffered to converse with, except my aunt, and that only at home, was a girl about three years elder than myself, whose mother had been formerly a servant to mine, but at that time kept an inn at Briançon.—This girl then, as was natural, I became extremely fond of; and as my aunt grew every day more infirm, and was often confined to her bed, I found frequent opportunities of visiting my dear Nannette, unknown to my severe guardian, at her mother's house.
In one of these, till then, innocent excursions, my ill fate contrived that Colonel Walter should arrive at Briançon, and stop at the house where I was—It was summer, the evening fine, and, as he had no company, he sauntered into

the garden, where Nannette and I were sitting at work, in an arbour—He accosted us with great politeness, and I could perceive that my companion was highly pleased with his address—But the timidity natural to a person who had been brought up in so retired a manner as I had been, made me wish to withdraw; and, notwithstanding his, and Nannette's solicitations to the contrary, I quickly returned home, possessed with the first idea I had ever felt, of having done wrong.
I saw, by the Colonel's appearance, that he was an officer; the recollection of my father struck forcibly into my mind, and I blushed with indignation to think that general d'Alemberg's daughter had been seen in so improper a situation.

My pride was, however, consoled by thinking that I should never see him again; and I determined to be more guarded, in my future visits to my friend.
The next morning, very early, Nannette was at my bedside, and expressed some degree of resentment at my having quitted her so abruptly, the preceeding night—my delicacy would not suffer me to hurt her pride, by telling her my real motive for retiring; I therefore said that it was owing to my apprehensions of being missed by my aunt; but that I got off undiscovered, and should not be so cowardly, another time: she seemed satisfied with this declaration, and pressed me to come to her, that evening. She had an entire ascendant over me, and notwithstanding the resolution

I had made a few hours before, I readily promised to attend her.
I had no doubt but that the Colonel would by that time have quitted Briançon; and I would not venture to ask a question relative to him, lest it might lead her to suspect my thoughts: she however talked of him incessantly; said he was the handsomest, and most agreeable gentleman she had ever seen; told me he had invited her mother and her to supper, and behaved to them as if they were princesses; and added she was glad he did not live in that country, as she feared another interview might engage too much of her affections. She rattled away in this manner, till I was summoned to attend my aunt, and then made me repeat my promise of going to

her the moment the old lady should retire to rest.
My aunt was, if possible, more peevish than usual that whole day, or at least her ill temper had a more than common effect upon my spirits—I longed for the evening to be released from her tyranny, and to be indulged with the liberty of pouring forth my little sorrows in the bosom of my faithful Nannette.
The moment that my aunt had dismissed me from her chamber, I flew to my appointment, without waiting to alter my dress, which was a perfect deshabille, and found Nannette in the arbour, adorned with every little ornament that she was possessed of. My

thoughts were too much affected with the disagreeableness of my own situation, to make reflections on the gaiety of her appearance.
I seated myself by her, leaned my head upon her bosom, and, with a profusion of tears, told her I was no longer able to bear the misery I suffered from my aunt's severity.—She smiled, and, as I thought, with an air of triumph, told me that I might put an end to my misfortunes, as soon as I pleased, for that the Colonel had assured her he had visited all the courts in Europe, and had never seen any thing half so beautiful, as either she, or I.—That for her part she was resolved to try her fortune in the world, forthwith, and not stay moping at Briançon till she grew old and ugly;

and that if I would accompany her, she did not at all doubt of our success; that I might hope to marry some reigning prince, and that she might at least expect to be mistress of a dukedom.
I was both shocked, and surprised, at hearing my friend talk in this extravagant and unusual stile; but before I could express my sentiments, Colonel Walter came into the arbour, dressed as if he had been going to court on a gala day—I confess I was struck, nay dazzled, with his appearance—from the time of my leaving Turin, I had never seen any man finely or elegantly dressed, before: I now quickly perceived the advantages that Nannette received from being decked out, and blushed at the inferiority of my own appearance.

Every human creature has, I believe, some sparks of vanity in their nature, and this was the fatal moment when mine were first kindled: a desire of outshining Nannette, who had a good deal disgusted me, took immediate possession of my thoughts, and my countenance was, upon the instant, lighted up with smiles.—I have not a doubt but Colonel Walter saw through the thin veil that covered the sentiments of a creature so young and artless as I was then; he at least indulged my weakness, even beyond my wishes, by entirely devoting his whole attention to me, and totally neglecting my companion.
Olivia here broke off her narrative, to apologize for entering into such minute circumstances, which she said was meant

to convince me of her sincerity, as she was very certain that her weakness and innocence were the ground works of her ruin—
"But, alas! (exclaimed she,) is there not indulgence and compassion due to uneducated uninformed fifteen!"

I told her that her entering into those little traits of character, those fine, those delicate touches, marked the master's hand, and were a convincing proof of the goodness, both of her head and heart. She complimented me on my candour, and returned to her story.
There had been the most elegant repast provided, that Briançon could afford; Nannette, and her mother, the Colonel and I, were all the party; but I was the idol to whom all the incense was offered. The good woman of the

house took the ton from her guest, extolled my beauty and my accomplishments, as extravagantly, though not so agreeably, as he.—Nannette alone was silent—In short, I became intoxicated with flattery; and when the time of our parting drew near, I secretly lamented at the same idea which had given me so much satisfaction, the preceding night—that I should see Colonel Walter no more!
The Colonel insisted on attending me home, and had ordered his chaise to convey me to my aunt's—But though my vanity was flattered with this mark of attention, I dared not indulge it with such an eclat; however, I said I would permit him to walk home with me, provided Nannette would accompany us—She sullenly refused—I had

then no choice, and the Colonel and I set out together.
When we were about to separate, I wished him a good night, and a pleasant journey—He threw himself at my feet, caught hold of my hand, swore I was the sovereign arbitress of his fate, and that he would never leave Briançon, till he had obtained my hand, and heart; but that if I cruelly refused to accept his love, he would put himself to death, that instant, before me.
Child as I was, his transports terrified me; I was also alarmed lest any of my aunt's servants should see him, so I promised, if he would then retire, to meet him, the next evening, at the inn.—He made a merit of assenting to so

long an absence, and after a thousand protestations of the most ardent passion, and as many more tender adieus, he left me plunged in such a fatal, yet pleasing delirium, as youth and experience only, can feel. What an infidel should I have thought the person who had at that moment warned me to discredit the sincerity of his profession! The night passed away, without sleep, yet I thought it short, and arose, next morning, even with unusual vivacity—My aunt's ill temper was no longer disagreeable to me, my spirits were perfectly harmonized, all was peace within, and cheerfulness without—Towards evening I began to think that time lagged heavily in its course, and wished for the setting of the sun, as much as a benighted traveller for its rising.

At length the welcome night arrived, and set me free from my restraint; I ran to my toilet to endeavour to adorn the few graces that nature had lent me.—In vain—confusion interrupted my efforts, and haste prevented my dispatch, so that, in a kind of despair, I threw aside my few ornaments, snatched up a little straw hat, and set out on my adventures, in the same careless deshabille I had appeared the night before.
The moment I had got out of the view of my aunt's house, I was met by the Colonel, who received me with an ecstasy, that I believe was then sincere; we pursued our way to the arbour, where he had first seen me—On my not finding Nannette there, I endeavoured to quit him and go in pursuit of her, but he

held my hand, and entreated me to stay till he had revealed a secret to me, which was of the utmost consequence to us both.—He then assured me that Nannette was not my friend, and requested that I would not entrust her with the discovery he had made of his passion to me, for that he feared she would betray the secret to my aunt, and by that means deprive him of more than life, the happiness of seeing me; but that if I would be a little upon my guard, she might suppose his attachment to be nothing more than common galantry, which might, possibly, quiet the jealousy she seemed already to have conceived about it.
I was shocked at the idea of deceiving or suspecting my friend, yet the

gloom and dissatisfaction that appeared in her behaviour, the night before, made me too readily fall into this snare; nay, I joined in the deceit against myself, by entreating that he would be more attentive to her, and less particular to me, on the present interview. My motive for this request, I solemnly declare, was rather to prevent her being mortified, as I saw she had been before, than to remove any suspicion she might have entertained of me—For as I had perfectly acquiesced in the Colonel's honour and integrity, as well as my own innocence, I had not the least apprehension of any ill consequence, in such a compliance.—Thus did this artful man disjoin me from the only person who was likely to see through his designs, and could have an interest in preventing my ruin.

After this discourse, and abundance of protestations of the tenderest affection, we joined Nannette, and the Colonel left us for some time together, to try, as I presume, the strength of his power over me.—Nannette was all gaiety, and showed me abundance of presents that she had received from the Colonel. My heart reproached me for concealing its sentiments from her, but my promise to my lover had tied my tongue, and the weakness and vanity of her conduct left me less reason to regret the mortification she must feel, when she should know that he was seriously attached to me.
This evening passed away less pleasantly than the former—Nannette assumed a superiority over me, in sense and judgment; but attempted to soften her

self-sufficience, by hinting at the difference of our years, and experience; and though this salvo did not render her behaviour less disgusting, it deprived me of the power of resenting it, and I retired home convinced that there were two passions awakened in my mind, that I had never felt before, love, and hatred.
Nannette and the colonel accompanied me home—At parting, he put a little billet into my hand, which I could not refuse to accept, without letting her know that it had been offered. I was even then become the slave, the abject slave, of love, and feared to offend my future tyrant! The billet contained nothing more than a repetition of passionate and tender expressions, with the warmest acknowledgments for the attention

I had shown to his request, by the prudence and propriety of my conduct, and the most earnest entreaties to favour him with my company, the next evening.
I retired to bed, and I hoped to rest, but sleep was vanished, and with it the charming delirium that had kept me waking the foregoing night—Short was the road that I had travelled in the flowery path of pleasure, yet I already found it strewed with thorns! I trembled at the danger of treading it alone, and lamented more piously then, than ever, the loss of my dear mother, to whom I might have confided both my hopes and fears, upon this hazardous adventure.

The usual hour of my rising arrived, and found my eyes unclosed, and my thoughts unsettled; I had neither slept, nor determined on any scheme, for my future conduct; and when my maid came into my chamber, I stepped out of bed, burst into a passion of tears, and said softly to myself, I will not see the Colonel—at least, this day.
I considered this determination as an amazing effort of resolution, and fancied I had gained a complete victory over my infant passion. The anxiety of my mind, with loss of rest, had brought on a slight degree of fever; and the moment I quitted my aunt's chamber, I retired to my own, threw myself on the bed, and desired my maid to leave me.

The poor girl, who loved me tenderly, was alarmed at my situation, and ran directly to Nannette, to tell her I was ill, and to beg she would come to me—She told her she was at that time so particularly engaged, that it was impossible for her to stir abroad, but that she would certainly see me, some time in the evening.
I knew nothing of this transaction; and after having passed some hours in a disagreeable state of restlessness, the agitation of my mind subsided, and I fell asleep.—Some time after I was awake by a light at my bed-side, and on opening my eyes I perceived Nannette, and Colonel Walter, disguised in womens clothes, standing by me; the confusion which I felt, both from my situation,

and his, is not to be expressed—He gazed upon me, with such a look of ardent tenderness, as covered me with blushes. I turned my eyes away, begged they would withdraw into another room, and promised them that as soon as I had rendered my appearance decent, I would wait on them.
Nannette burst into a loud laugh, at what she called my affected delicacy; said she supposed every body was sometimes undressed, and she did not see any occasion for making a difficulty about such trifles.—The boldness of her manner while she spoke, increased my distress, and completed the dislike I had began to have conceived for her—The Colonel appeared infinitely more modest, in his deportment, and on his making a sign

to her to leave the chamber, they both withdrew.
The hurry of spirits which this unexpected visit had occasioned, was increased by my apprehensions that some of the servants might detect the Colonel under his disguise; and though I knew they all loved and pitied me, yet I had been taught in my infancy, to dread the putting myself in the power of a servant, and never to let them know a circumstance which I wished should be kept secret.
The moment that I entered the room where my guests were, I entreated them to leave me, and mentioned my reasons for wishing them gone.—Nannette again made a jest of my scruples, but the Colonel

treated them more seriously, and asked my pardon for having brought me into any difficulty or distress, by his indiscretion, but pleaded both his, and Nannette's anxiety for my health; and insisted on my returning with them to the inn, since he was certain, from my appearance, that I had not any complaint to prevent me.—
But not to detain you, Madam, longer, with such tedious circumstances, I, half reluctantly, complied with his entreaties, and for about three weeks longer, we spent every evening together, almost in the same manner as the first.
I had by this time lost all affection and esteem for Nannette, and had now no confidante or friend, on earth, to whom

I could disclose the secrets of my heart, but the single person in the world from whom I should most carefully have concealed them.
When he had become quite certain of his empire over my affections, he proposed my quitting Briançon, with him—he said my aunt was too old and perverse to be consulted, on such an occasion; that he neither wanted nor desired any treasure but myself, for that all other considerations were below his attention—he added, that his passion for me had detained him so long, at Briançon, that he was in danger of forfeiting his commission, and his honour; that if I loved him, I ought not to hesitate about putting myself under his protection; that our interests were now become one, and that he would

defend me from every misfortune, to the last moment of his life.—I believed, obeyed, and repented!
Here she paused—for this little reflection was followed by such a passion of tears, that I was obliged to restrain my curiosity, as you must your's, for some time—I administered drops and water to my fair biographer; and to you I recommend patience, till the next post; for my fingers are so tired, that it is as impossible for me to proceed, as it is to think, or write, upon any other subject, till I have finished this: therefore not one word shall I say of myself, but that I am well, that I long to hear from you, and that I am most affectionately your's,




TAKE notice, my dear Fanny, that I am not used to narrative writing; you must, therefore, make allowances for me, and excuse my being sometimes too circumstantial, and at others, too diffuse.—I can only say that my translation is, what all others pretend to be, a faithful one.
Perhaps it is so much the worse, for that reason, for while I am endeavouring to convey the minutest circumstances to you, the elegance of expression which gave them consequence, in the original, is lost.—But no matter for the manner of recital—if the story interests and affects you as much in the reading, as it does

me in the writing, I shall be satisfied with my own performance.
As soon as the fair Olivia had regained her composure, she proceeded thus—Weak, young, and infatuated with passion, as I was, the Colonel's proposal of flying with him, without marriage, alarmed me, and awakened all the sentiments of delicacy, which are inherent to an innocent and virtuous mind; yet that very delicacy prevented my having resolution to express my thoughts upon that occasion—I feared to injure his honour, by seeming to doubt it.—I therefore remained, for some time, silent upon this most interesting subject—He repeated his entreaties, and pressed me to determine.
I replied, that I would consult my confessor. He had seen the various workings

of my mind, and was prepared to evade all my scruples—He objected instantly to my proposal, by urging that a priest would oppose my marrying an heretic, and endeavour to prevent it, by acquainting my aunt; but told me he had a particular friend, a clergyman, at Embrun, who would make no difficulty of uniting us together.—Thus did this artful man lull all my doubts to rest, and soothe my unwary mind into a perfect dependence upon his honour, fidelity, and love.
The night following was fixed for our departure, and in an evil and inauspicious hour, I ventured on a world unknown, with the most inhuman and ungenerous of his sex, for my conductor—I had perhaps as little to regret at leaving Briançon, as any young creature who ever

took so rash and unadvised a step—I wounded not the heart of a fond parent! nor drew a pitying tear from any friendly eye! I had no sister, on whom my disgrace might be reflected! nor a brother, whose tenderness might lament, or honour have resented my misconduct!—I stood, as it were, alone in the universe; was dear to no one, but the loved object under whose protection I now had placed myself, and in whom all the affections of my heart were centred!
Yet notwithstanding this very peculiar situation, my heart trembled, and my eyes overflowed, when I got into the chaise, and every league that we travelled, the dejection of my spirits increased—For some time the Colonel endeavoured to dissipate my melancholy, by the utmost

tenderness, and I affected to appear more cheerful, in compliment to his attention—but he soon roused my languor into resentment, by taking some unwarrantable liberties, which, when he found I would not suffer, he attempted to excuse, by saying that he had already considered me as his wife.
The moment we arrived at Embrun, he left me in the inn, to go, as he said, in pursuit of his friend, the clergyman—He returned, in about an hour, with a person to perform the ceremony; and we were married directly, but without any other witness; for I had thrown myself out of a situation to prescribe terms, and must therefore have compounded for having my own scruples satisfied, by a consciousness of my being his wife, leaving

the opinion of the world to its own charity about me.
We remained two days at Embrun, and then set out for Marseilles; during our long journey, my husband told me that he had some reasons for wishing to change his name; and that in compliment to my christian one he would be called Olivet.—I readily acquiesced in whatever he thought proper, without attempting to enquire into the motives of his conduct. We took a house at Marseilles, and lived for four months, in the utmost retirement, and the most perfect happiness together—I never stirred out, but to church, or to take the air with my husband; every wish of my fond heart was accomplished, and I secretly rejoiced that he no longer talked

of joining his regiment, or returning to his native country.
About that time his temper and manners began to alter; he was frequently sullen, and gloomy; and if I attempted to enquire into the cause of this change, he would answer, Thou art! and command me to leave him—I obeyed, and used to retire to my chamber, and pass whole days and nights, in tears.—But whenever he condescended to speak to me with cheerfulness, I instantly forgot his past unkindness, and vainly flattered myself that it would return no more.
At length, with some appearance of tenderness in his manner, he told me that he was under an absolute necessity of leaving me, for a few months, as my

situation would not admit of my travelling with him, from my being far advanced in my pregnancy of Olivia; but that he would certainly come back to me, by the time I should be recovered from my lying-in, and take me with him to Ireland, where his estate lay.
All that I had ever suffered in my life, seemed slight, to the misery of parting with him; I knelt, I wept, and implored him not to abandon me, under such circumstances! He was unmoved by my tears, and entreaties; and in a few days afterwards quitted Marseilles, without even bidding me adieu.—The grief I felt from this separation, would I hoped have terminated my life; and I fear I should have been tempted to have shortened the date of my wretched existence,

had not the tenderness which I felt even for my unborn babe, restrained my hand from the too frequent effects of despair. My situation was certainly deplorable, and I then thought that my misery could not admit of addition—I have been since but too strongly convinced that there are numberless gradations in wretchedness, and that I was then but entering on my novitiate.
I was so totally absorbed in sorrow at being forsaken by an husband, whom, notwithstanding his unkindness, I both respected and loved, that the common concerns of life never occurred to me, till my maid came to ask me for money, to support my family, which consisted of two maids, and a man servant. I started, as from a dream, and in an agony

of grief ran to the Colonel's desk, where I found twenty louis d'ors, sealed up in a small box, labelled thus,
To OLIVIA D'ALEMBERG.
THIS sum, if used with care, will bring you through your lying-in; but you must immediately discharge two of your servants.
J. WALTER.
Here again the fair mourner's tears interrupted her recital, and must also put a stop to my translation, for the present. I wish extremely that I had finished the task I have undertaken; for the sympathy between us is so strong, that I feel my health wasting as her tale proceeds. There is a story, that some unhappy woman had blasted a great oak-tree,

once, by constantly mourning her griefs beneath its shade. This fable does not appear unnatural to me, under my present sensations.—And yet so sweet the poison is, that I would rather have listened to her doleful ditty, than to all the carols of the most festive mirth.
What can be the reason of so unnatural a preference? How oddly compounded is the human heart! But most admirably framed, surely! for what appears to the vulgar, to be its contradictions, are, in the language of philosophy, but its contrasts only. Its perfection consists in this, as much as the harmony of nature depends on an opposition of elements—The heat of fire, the coldness of water, the heaviness of earth, and the lightness of air.

You may observe that I take the advantage of every opportunity, for reflection, in order to guard my mind as much as possible, from the danger of thinking. I shall leave you to explain this paradox to yourself, and am, my dearest friend,
your truly affectionate, but unhappy sister, L. BARTON.



MY dear Fanny, I am now sitting down to conclude, I hope, the sufferings of my fair Narrator, which I shall endeavour to do without any further interruption; for though the listening to her story, had a great deal of what I deem the luxury of woe in it, I fear that this delicate sensation may have evaporated, from the frequent breaks in the recital, as much as the original spirit has, in my translation—but at at all hazards, I will now proceed.
On perusing this shocking and surprising manuscript, continued Mrs. Walter,

my head turned round, and I had just presence of mind sufficient to convey it into my pocket, before I dropped upon the floor. The servants heard me fall, and came to my assistance.—Happy would it have been for me, if they had spared their cruel officiousness, and suffered me to have expired at that moment!
My distress and despondency, upon this occasion, may appear unaccountable, perhaps, to others. An husband's leaving his wife, sometimes, upon several occasions of business, was not so uncommon a case as to have alarmed me.—But there is a sort of praesentiment, in the mind, which often forebodes approaching ills; philosophy must here be at a stand. This circumstance cannot be accounted

for from nature, as the present situation may have no sensible connection with the future events; nor can such an effect be imputed to Providence neither, without the impiety of supposing it capable of rendering us wretched, before our time, by giving us a hint of misfortunes to come, without supplying us with the means of avoiding them.
Besides, did not the address of his billet, the stiling me by my own sirname of d'Alemberg, instead of Walter, or even that of d'Olivet, which he had artfully prevailed on me to assume, during our residence together at Marseilles, sufficiently evince that he no longer meant to consider me as his wife, for the future? This circumstance too, supplied me with a strong reason, also, to suspect

that in reality I had no legal title to that claim, as the unknown person who had so clandestinely performed the ceremony, might not probably have been properly qualified, by the orders of any church, to have officiated in the marriage rites.
It was, perhaps, no small aggravation to my misfortunes, to reflect, that had not my own indiscretion aided his dishonour, I should not now have been so totally abandoned, unjustified, unfriended, and unsustained, to the sport of fortune, to the mercy of a malignant, censorious, and unpitying world!
Some days after this event, I was lying on my bed, in a state of stupid distraction, when the sudden stopping of a

chaise at my door, roused me from my lethargy—I leaped off the bed, and flew down stairs, crying out, he is returned, my life, my love, my husband!—But judge of my astonishment, madam, when I saw Nannette enter the door—Her face was thin, and pale, but she appeared farther advanced in her pregnancy, than I, and seemed, from the expression of her countenance, to be, at that instant, in the pangs of labour.
She accosted me with the grossest abuse, called me vile, deceitful wretch! said I had seduced her husband from her, that she was come to claim him, and to cover me with the infamy I deserved; alternately called for her dear Colonel Walter, and implored assistance to save her's, and her infant's life.

Amidst the variety of passions, which in those moments preyed upon my wretched heart, compassion was the strongest! I had her immediately conveyed to my chamber, and placed in my own bed; I sent for the bed assistance that could be had, and in a few hours she was delivered of a son, who lived but three days. The agitations of her mind brought on a violent fever, but even in her ravings she continued to accuse me as the sole cause of all her sufferings, and uttered the most vehement imprecations against me.
From the moment of Nannette's arrival, I could perceive that my servants treated me with less respect than usual; they doubtless believed her story, and thought that my receiving her into my

house, was at once a proof both of my guilt and fear.—The physician and apothecary who attended her, divulged the tale abroad, and I was looked upon by the whole city of Marseilles, as one of the most abandoned wretches.
I know nothing that creates such an irksome sensation in the mind, as imputed guilt; but the very delicacy that makes us feel it most, serves to restrain us from entering into a vindication; as this would be to admit it possible, at least, it might be true.—Under such a difficulty I then laboured, and this nicety, supported by the natural courage of innocence, inclined me rather to acquiesce in the censure, than engage in so public a justification of myself, as this unhappy woman's charge against me seemed to require;

and she was not herself, at that time, in a fit condition, either of mind or body, to have listened to my defence.
Nannette's-delirium continued about fifteen days, during which time the miserable pittance that Colonel Walter had left me, was exhausted, and I was seized with the pains of labour, without being mistress of a single livre, or credit in the place. Death was, at that time, the supreme object of my wishes; yet in regard to my dear babe, that now approached the light, I sent for my confessor, related to him every circumstance that I have repeated to you, implored his protection for the unborn innocent, and put a shagreen case which contained the portraits of both my parents, with some jewels, into his hands, which had been

bequeathed me by my dear mother, on her death bed, and which I had ever since preserved as a relic, with the most pure devotion.
Truth generally affords conviction to an ingenuous mind; the good father heard my story, believed it, pitied my distress, and gave me every consolation that my wretched state could admit of, by administering the rites of the church, and assuring me, in the most solemn manner, that he would take the utmost care of my child, in case it should survive its unhappy mother. I likewise recommended Nannette to his humanity—He promised that while she remained ill, all her wants should be supplied; and if she recovered, he would furnish her with the means of returning home again to her mother.

Peace once more took possession of my breast, and a thorough resignation to the will of Heaven triumphed for a while over that distracting inquietude, which had well nigh destroyed both my mind and body—But the arrow of incurable affliction was still lodged in my heart, and the temporary calm that I then enjoyed, was occasioned rather by my weakness than my strength.
It pleased Heaven that I was soon and safely delivered of my beloved Olivia; and from the moment of her birth, all selfish apprehensions vanished; I no longer felt a pang, but for her; and never ceased lamenting her being involved in the miseries of her mother! Though doating on her as I did, I a thousand times wished she had been born of any other parent!

and yet am certain I would not have parted with her to a queen.
In about ten days after I was brought to bed, the good father, who had supplied me with every necessary, and visited me constantly, came into my chamber, with an unusual vivacity in his looks—Be of good cheer, Madam, said he; Providence never forsakes the virtuous and patient sufferer—Heaven has been pleased, through my weak endeavours, to raise you up a friend, who is at once inclined and capable of relieving you from your distress, and establishing a certain supply for your future competence.—Madame de Fribourg will be here in a few minutes, and is coming to take you under her roof and protection; but, before it is possible for you to remove

there, I will inform you how this instance of good fortune has been brought about, and furnish you with some instructions, that may conduce towards rendering you agreeable to your patroness.—But while he was yet speaking, the marchioness de Fribourg entered, and interrupted him.
I have already told you, that I had lodged Nannette, in my own chamber, and was of course obliged to lye-in, in my maid's room—The first words the Marchioness uttered, were, Heavens! what a place for the child of my friend! my dear madame d'Alemberg! She stepped forward and embraced me, then raised her glass to her eye, and surveyed me with the most critical and distressing attention; I was so extremely confused, both by the suddenness and manner of her

entering and address, that I could neither speak nor move.
From the death of that dear mother she mentioned, I had never seen a woman that was capable of inspiring me with respect, or awe, before—her appearance commanded both—A sudden gush of tears relieved me for a moment, and seemed to soften the farouche demeanour of my future benefactress.—She quickly made an apology for having mentioned my mother, seated herself by me, laid aside her glass, and took my hand with infinite grace, but no softness.
The marchioness was about fifty years old, she was uncommonly tall, had been remarkably handsome, her eyes large, black, and piercing; but the whole contour

of her countenance was rather hard than pleasing—there was an air of fierté expressed throughout her whole appearance, that inclined you, at first sight, rather to fear than love her.
She told me, that my confessor, who was also her's, had informed her of my distress, but that chance had brought her acquainted with my being the daughter of her friend; that, as such, I might depend on her good offices, and regard: and added, that she hoped I should be ready to set out with her, in a few days, for Paris, where she was then going; and that she would order her woman to provide a proper nurse to leave my child with.
The idea of parting with my daughter, shocked me extremely—I fell at her feet,

and as if she had been the arbitress of my fate, implored her not to divide me from my child! said that this infant was now the only blessing I possessed in life, and that nothing but death, or her happiness, should ever part us.
She gazed at me with a mixture of surprise and contempt, and said, that if Pere Guillaume had informed her I was such a pretty simpleton, she would have saved me and herself the trouble of a visit; but that she believed there was something contagious in folly, since she found herself inclined to comply with my absurd request, though she detested children; but that her hotel at Paris being large enough to prevent her hearing it squall, I might bring the brat with me, provided I did not insist on her being plagued with it, during our journey.

I was transported with even this uncouth and forced permission; I kissed her hand, and bathed it with my tears; told her she had rendered me extremely happy, and that I would endeavour to deserve her indulgence, by every mark of gratitude and attention in my power. She seemed pleased, and somewhat affected; and at quitting me, she gave me a purse of fifty Louis-d'ors, bid me prepare for my journey, by that day sennight; said she would not desire me to come to her house, at Marseilles, because she meant to surprise her husband, by finding me in her suite, without his knowledge, and desired that I might still retain the name of d'Olivet.
This was the most sudden transition I had ever experienced, from sorrow to

joy; and tho' I could not possibly know what sort of state I was going to enter into, yet I thought any change must be for the better—It was also the first time I had ever had any thing like business to transact in my life; and the having it in my power to discharge my debts and servants, composed my mind into a state of the most pleasing tranquillity imaginable.—Nannette, however, remained still a weight upon my spirits, in addition to that misfortune that then did, and ever will oppress them.
In a short time after the marchioness had left me, the good father Guillaume returned; he brought with him the shagreen case, which I had entrusted him with, the contents untouched, except a diamond ring which he had been obliged to

dispose of, to answer the expenses of my family; and delivered me twelve Louis d'ors, the remainder of thirty he had sold it for.—The sight of my dear parent's pictures affected me extremely; I kissed and bathed them with my tears, and most piously thanked my good patroness in my heart, for this article of her bounty, more than all the rest, that she had saved me from the misery of parting with those dear remains.
Father Guillaume told me that he had related my story to madame de Fribourg, without mentioning who I was, and showed her the jewels, in hopes that she would purchase them, which she refused; but the moment she beheld the portraits, she snatched up one of them, exclaiming with surprise and joy, this, this is—was—

my near relation, and my dearest friend, Olivia d'Alemberg! upon which he acquainted her with my name and family; and she promised on the instant to take care of me, but insisted on his not informing me that she had acknowledged any manner of affinity between us.
He then gave me the marchioness's character and history, in a few words.—Pride, vanity, an insatiable desire of admiration, and a fondness for play, he said, were her great foibles; but that she was friendly, generous, and humane, when these virtues did not interfere with her passions—He said she had been married young to the marquis de Fribourg, that he had been dead about ten years, and had left her immensely rich; that she had since married monsieur de Lovaine,

a young soldier of fortune, who treated her very cavalierly, and of whom she was extravagantly fond and jealous—He told me that he had furnished me with this little charte du païs, in hopes I should be able to steer my course by it, to safety and happiness.
He then informed me that he had written to a friend of his, in Ireland, to inquire after Colonel Walter; but that, as I had not been able to ascertain even the name of the province where his fortune lay, it was possible, nay probable, from the dissoluteness of his character, that I might never see or hear of him again.—He entreated me, therefore, to strive wholly to forget him, and devote my whole attention to the cultivation of the marchioness's friendship, and the

education of my child—He promised to remember me in his prayers, and to favour me with his advice by letter; then took a most affectionate leave of me, as he was obliged to quit Marseilles, for a few days, to perform some business, by command of his superior.
I had not seen Nannette from the time of my being taken ill; but as I knew she was recovering, though slowly, I fancied I was then able to bear an interview with her, and acquaint her with my design of quitting Marseilles: I meant to offer her every assistance in my power, and take leave of her, I hoped, for life.
I accordingly proceeded to her chamber—but no words can express the surprise and horror that affected me, at seeing

her—Her whole frame was convulsed, and every feature distorted and enlarged. The moment she beheld me, she seemed to acquire new strength, and endeavoured to revile me with as much bitterness, as when she arrived first at Marseilles.
She had, however, no longer the power of raising any passion in me, but pity—I said every thing that was possible to calm her mind; assured her I had never knowingly injured her; and that I had certainly been as much, if not more, imposed on and deceived, by Colonel Walter, than herself.
I then proceeded to relate, with the utmost exactness, the Colonel's whole behaviour, from his first meeting, to his

quitting me, during the recital of which, she wept often; her countenance became more placid and composed; and, when I had finished my story, she asked my pardon, a thousand times, for the injury she had done me, and confessed I was much more to be pitied than herself, on account of my youth and inexperience.
She confessed too, that the formalities of marriage had never passed between them; but showed me a paper he had given her, by which he had engaged to acknowledge her as his wife, at some future era. And with regard to the marked attention which he had shown to me, he assured her he meant nothing more by it, than merely to deceive her mother—and in order to carry on the plot, said he was obliged to spend a few weeks at

Embrun, upon a particular business, and desired her to hold herself in readiness to come off to him there, at a minute's warning, on a summons which he promised to send her from thence.
Matters being thus settled between them, her mind, she said, was quite at ease on his departure—till she heard of my elopement with him, the morning after it happened; which threw her into a state of distraction, for several months; but not hearing from him, all that time, and beginning, at last, to apprehend that her situation would quickly discover her misconduct, and cover her with infamy, she determined to follow him to Embrun; and as she could not suppose that he had ventured to have entered into firmer engagements with me, than he had already

done with her, she considered herself as having a prior right to the title of his wife, and resolved to assert her claim.
She then took a small sum of money from her mother, to whom, at length, she had revealed the secret, and came off post to Embrun, as it had been known that we had taken that route; but upon missing us there, she had with almost incredible difficulty, and after numberless delays, attended by illness and fatigue on the way, traced us to Marseilles, where she acknowledged that she owed her life to my unmerited humanity—she then poured forth many severe excecrations against Colonel Walter, said she would not return to Briançon, but, if she should recover, would pursue him all over the world, till she had received satisfaction,

at least in revenge, for his perjured faith and villainy.
She told me that my aunt had not expressed either rage or surprise at my going off, but seemed rather to be sufficiently consoled for my loss, by being freed from the expense of my future maintenance.—There is a material difference between the belief, and certainty of a fact—and though I had hitherto supposed that her insensibility might have prevented her from grieving at the impropriety of my conduct, or the misfortunes which might probably attend it, I could not bear to be convinced of my own insignificance, by her inhumanity—I felt humbled and mortified, at this account, as if I had received some fresh injury.

Before I knew any thing of Madame de Fribourg, I had many times thought of returning to Briançon, of throwing myself at my only surviving parent's feet, and of endeavouring to obtain her pardon, for my offending self, and her protection for my unoffending child.—But now the idea vanished like a dream, and I thought of no other resource, but the marchioness's kindness.
After having discharged all my little debts, I had about thirteen Louis-d'ors left, and the day before I quitted Marseilles, I took leave of Nannette, and presented her with ten of them; I begged to hear from her, and left a line recommending her to the care of the good Father Guilaume, and we parted from each

other with all the tokens and feelings of revived friendship.
When the Marchioness's equi

From that moment he became lively, and so perfectly polite, and attentive to the Marchioness, that not only she, but I was charmed with his behaviour, and our long journey was rendered perfectly agreeable by the pleasing concord that appeared between, as I then thought, this happy pair.
On our arrival at Paris, the marchioness allotted me an apartment, in her hotel, and ordered two of her women to attend particularly on me, and my child; she requested that I would get the better of my air triste, and appointed a music-master and a dancing-master to instruct and fashion me.



Southfield.
AS I have now happily set the fair narrator down safe, at the hotel de Fribourg, you will give us both leave to rest ourselves, a little; for though I am still, you perceive, running on, yet I find that a change of subjects relieves the fatigue of writing.
While she was relating her story, I felt infinitely more than you can possibly do in reading it; the seeing the very object of distress before us, is a vast improvement to the pathetic; besides that along with my compassion towards her, and my resentment against her husband, there was mixed up a certain sensation of horror

at being lodged under the roof of such a villain.
I honour Shakespeare, for asking by the mouth of Lear,
"Can there be any cause in nature for these hard hearts?"
And am charmed with Sadi, the great Indian philosopher, for saying that Il ne faut qu'un soupir de l'innocence opprimée, pour remeur le monde. The extravagance of the eastern manner of expression cannot hurt the nobleness of the sentiment.

We have heard nothing from any of the party since they left us, nor have we been encumbered with neighbourly visits, since our return home—But our weather is fair, our woods are dry, our hearth and hearts are warm, and Harriet, Lucy, and I, find sufficient society

in ourselves, to shorten the day and lengthen the evening, being too loth to part at night.
The next post I shall resume my narrative, which may serve to divert us both from too close an attention to our own unhappiness—Till then,
Adieu,


Southfield.
MY story is already prefaced; so I need but proceed, repeating as before, after Mrs. Walter.
For the first ten or twelve days that I passed at Paris, the novelty of the scene, with the grandeur and brilliancy of the objects that surrounded me, lifted me, as it were, out of myself, and helped me for that time almost to forget my misfortunes. The marchioness made me several very

considerable presents, and ordered her trade's people to attend me, that I might choose my own clothes, only desiring they might be handsome enough to appear in along with her.
Madame de Fribourg received a vast deal of company, and kept very late hours; monsieur de Lovaine was seldom of her parties, and sometimes withdrew himself entirely from the house, for a fortnight together; she used to appear dissatisfied at his absence, and frequently complained to me of the coldness and constraint of his manners towards her.—He used sometimes, to visit me, in my apartment, seemed fond of my little Olivia, and often wished that he had such another child—He said the marchioness's mode of living, was by much too gay and

dissipated for him, and that he languished for the pleasures of society in a more rational course of life.
Small as was my knowledge of the world, I could not help perceiving that there was something particular in monsieur de Lovaine's address, whenever he spoke to me; but this circumstance, however, was not of a nature to give offence, as it amounted to nothing more than an additional softness, in his looks and voice.
The marchioness certainly perceived it as well as I, and would often fix her piercing eyes upon me, and ask me if Colonel Walter was as handsome as monsieur de Lovaine? I always replied, as I really thought, that the Colonel was by far the handsomest man I had ever

seen—She used to appear pleased with what she called my simplicity—At other times her manners were severe towards me; and, though perfectly convinced of my own innocence, I began soon to fear that I was become the object of her jealousy.
This idea was productive of the most fatal consequences to my peace; it rendered my behaviour timid and constrained, before her, and totally deprived me of that ease and cheerfulness which I had before endeavoured to assume, in hopes of rendering myself agreeable to my kind benefactress—This alteration in me, which her own manners had occasioned, she construed into the effect of guilt, and became every day more cold and reserved towards me,

scarce ever asked me to go out with her, and as often affected to be surprised, when she saw me come into her drawing-room.
Though my situation with the marchioness was by no means the ne plus ultra of my hopes and wishes, which continually pressed forward to the meeting of Olivia's father, my still loved, cruel husband! yet certainly I had reason to consider it as an happy asylum for my child, and me; her bounty had rescued both of us from the iron hand of poverty, and placed us in the lap of plenty, of honour, and of ease! How then could I bear the being suspected of repaying such benefits with the basest sort of ingratitude! It was impossible! I determined, therefore, to come to an explanation

with the marchioness, if possible; to convince her of my innocence, and do all in my power to recover her esteem; but if I failed of removing her suspicions, I firmly resolved to quit her directly, to throw myself and my infant once more into a merciless world, to labour for our bread, and suffer any misery that poverty could afflict me with, rather than that of embittering her life, to whom I owed the generous support of my own.
I had revolved this subject in my thoughts for several days, and impatiently waited for an opportunity of executing my scheme, but the distance and hauteur of madame de Fribourg's manner, overawed me still. I found I could not muster up spirit sufficient to speak

to her on such an interesting topic, and I resolved, therefore, to communicate my sentiments to her in writing.
One evening that she went to the Italian comedy, I retired to my chamber, in order to execute my purpose; and, that I might not be interrupted, I desired the maid who attended Olivia, to take her down stairs and amuse her, till I should ring for her to come up, as I had some letters of consequence to write—She withdrew, I bolted my chamber door, sat down to the task I had assigned myself—I found it infinitely more difficult than I had imagined; I wrote, and burned several sheets of paper, and blotted, others, with my tears.
In this situation, I heard a key turn, as it were behind the arras, and saw

monsieur de Lovaine entering by a door which had been till then concealed from me. I started up, when he threw himself, instantly, at my feet, said he had long waited in vain for the opportunity of finding me alone, for a moment, and hoped I would pardon his acquainting me, perhaps, a little too abruptly, with a secret on which more than his life, his happiness, depended—to be short, he then declared his love for me, with all the asseverations, protestations, and transports, that the most violent passion could suggest.
No words can paint the surprise and confusion of my mind, which I thought it was impossible to augment, till I saw the marchioness come in at the door which monsieur de Lovaine had left open,

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

I rose as soon as it was day, and upon inquiring for the papers which I left upon my table, was informed that the marchioness had taken them away—I waited impatiently for her rising, I was determined to throw myself at her feet, the moment I should be permitted to see her, to acquaint her with every sentiment of my heart, and to set hers at ease, on my account, by withdrawing myself from her's, and monsieur de Lovaine's sight, for ever.
While I was ruminating on my unhappy situation, a servant brought me the following letter.
A Madame D'OLIVET.
AFTER the scene I was last night an accidental witness of, you cannot, I

suppose, be weak enough to imagine that it is any longer in your power to impose upon me; or that all your art, consummate as it is, can prevail on me to continue my protection to the most ungrateful of her sex! Your deep-laid scheme of deceiving me, by that letter, which you and my unworthy husband had concerted together, cannot now take effect; contempt must follow such a detection, and render you as much below my resentment, as you ever were beneath my esteem.
In regard to myself, I must inform you, that though I have long suspected an improper intercourse between monsieur de Lovaine and you, I was not actuated by so mean a motive as seeking the conviction I met with, when I entered

your apartment—Impelled by the regard I once had for you, I was impatient to acquaint you with what I then imagined might have been a welcome piece of intelligence, by informing you, that the person you call your husband, is in Paris, and that I had seen him at the Comedie.
It did not, at that moment, occur to me, how unwelcome both the news, and the messenger might be to you.—On inquiring for you when I came home, I was told that you had bolted your door, and given orders not to be disturbed, even by your darling child; I knew not but you might be ill, or gone to bed, and therefore, to avoid alarming you, thought of the private door, which your lover had been so careless as to leave

open behind him.—I do not mean this detail as an apology to you, but as a justification to myself.
I have nothing farther to add, because I must suppose it unnecessary to command you to quit my house; your new protector will, I doubt not, furnish you with proper accommodation; and from this moment I am determined never to hear, see, speak, or if possible think of you, more.
MARIANA DE FRIBOURG.
I sat down, on the instant, and wrote to the marchioness, and, in the strongest and most affecting terms, implored her to admit me to her presence, for a few minutes—but in vain; she returned my letter unopened, with a message by her woman,

that she would never read a line that I should write, or ever suffer me into her presence more.
I grew almost distracted at this treatment, and tried to force my way into her apartment, but was prevented from entering by her servants, and treated like what I really then was, a poor frantic wretch!
The consciousness of my integrity might possibly have supported my spirits, at any other time, but the terrors I felt, lest the marchioness should see my husband before I did, and poison his mind with her unjust suspicions, were not to be endured—My situation was as completely miserable, as any thing, but guilt, could possibly have rendered it.

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

been near ten months at Paris, I was as much a stranger in that great city, as on the day I first arrived there. I implored the servant who had attended Olivia, not to forsake me, and to direct whither I should go, and what course I should take! She applied to her lady for leave to attend me, but she had not humanity sufficient to grant her request.—The girl had, however, resolution and compassion enough to disobey her commands, and accompanied me to a small house in the suburbs of St. Germains, that belonged to her sister.
As soon as she had brought me there, she returned again to the hotel de Fribourg, without my knowledge, to pack up my clothes, and her own—When she came back, she gave me a

pocket book, which she said I had left behind me; as soon as I saw it, I knew it was not mine, and desired she would find the owner, and restore it—She opened it, and a letter dropped out, addressed to me—the hand appeared to be the marchioness's, and it occurred to me that she might have so far relented, as to acquaint me with what she knew of Colonel Walter—I instantly broke the seal, and read as follows.
A Madame D'OLIVET.
MADAM, if, as we are taught to believe, penitence may atone for the greatest crimes, the true sorrow and contrition which I feel for having rendered you unhappy, entitles me to hope for your forgiveness—But though you should be generous enough to grant it, it is

impossible that I should ever forgive myself.—Do not be alarmed, madam, at the little artifice I have used, in endeavouring to counterfeit the marchioness's hand; I mean nothing more by it, than to plead for pardon, and to satisfy you that I shall never more attempt to disturb your peace.
The moment I have sealed this, I shall quit Paris, perhaps for ever—The sight of my tyrant, is now become odious to me, and I dare not flatter myself with the happiness of ever again beholding you. I go, then, Madam, to indulge my unhappy passion in silence, and retirement—I fly from the object of my hatred, to the contemplation of her whom I adore, of her to whom the warmest wishes of my heart, shall for

ever be devoted, and to whom I shall for ever remain
a passionate, but an honourable lover, CHARLES DE LOVAINE.
P.S. I hear the happy possessor of your heart, is now in Paris; may your virtues meet with their return from his kindness! and may he, if possible, have as high a sense of them, as the despairing
C. L.
Enclosed in this letter there was a bank note, for two hundred louis d'ors, which I immediately sealed up with it, and sent Maria to deliver back into the hands of monsieur de Lovaine; but he had quitted the marchioness's house, an

hour before that time, and no person could tell where he was gone to.
The violent agitation of spirits I had gone through brought on a feverish complaint, and though I had resolved to go, alas! I knew not where, in pursuit of Colonel Walter, I found myself unable to sit up, and was obliged to submit to my disorder—I grew worse every hour, and by the next morning I became delirious—The physician who attended me, thought it was impossible that I should recover, and at the end of six weeks, my being able to crawl across the chamber was deemed a prodigy.
The anxiety of my mind, doubtless retarded my recovery; my impatience to see Colonel Walter, or at least to hear

something of him, increased every day; and Maria's sister was sent to inquire for him, at all the hotels, and houses of English resort, in Paris, but without ever receiving the least glimmering of light to trace him by.
As soon as my strength would permit, I was carried in a sedan to the Luxemburg gardens; Maria attended, that I might lean on her, in case I should be able to walk.—I was moving slowly on, in one of the most retired walks, when I heard Colonel Walter's voice; I turned quick to look for him, and saw him coming towards me, with another gentleman—But I saw no more, my senses forsook me; in spite of Maria's sustaining arm, I fell motionless on the ground.

The first emotions of humanity naturally brought both these persons to my assistance, the colonel raised me in his arms, and carried me to the next seat; but the moment he beheld my face, he started from me, and cried out, Come away, my lord, and leave that abandoned woman to practise her arts on other men, for here they cannot be successful.
He then took hold of his companion, dragged him off, and quitted the gardens with the utmost precipitation—And though Maria had sense enough to know that this must have been the person we had so long been in search of, yet it was impossible for her to quit me, in the situation I then was, in order to pursue and watch his haunts.

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

who told her it was universally believed in the family, that I had had an amour with Monsieur de Lovaine; that he had entirely absented himself from his lady; and that she seemed inclined to console herself for his loss, by a particular intimacy with an English gentleman, who made one in all her parties, and was going with her in a few days, to the waters of Barege—The description she gave of his person exactly resembled Conel Walter, and I was perfectly convinced that this new friend of the marchioness's was my still beloved, deceived, and unkind husband!
I had no person to consult, who was capable of advising me how I should act upon this occasion; and amidst a variety of wild and romantic schemes, I at last

pitched on that of writing to him, and requesting the favour of an interview, in the character of a stranger. I had no doubt that if he accepted my invitation, nature would recover her rights in his heart; and that the sight of a woman whom he had once fondly loved, and cruelly deserted, with the additional influence of his lovely child, would melt his obdurate nature, or at least soften it so far as to allow me to assert my innocence, and endeavour to awaken the feelings of parental affection, if every other species of tenderness were even totally extinguished.
Full of these fond ideas, I wrote to him in an ambiguous stile, disguised my hand as much as possible, and would not even venture to direct my letter, lest the recollection of my writing, which is rather

particular, should prevent his opening it.—Maria prevailed on her friend, who lived at the marchioness's, to deliver this billet to his servant, and to desire that the answer might be left with her.
Every thing answered to my expectations, and, the morning following, I received a very galant note, assuring me that the person I had honoured with my invitation, would most gladly accept of the favour I intended him, and have the happiness of waiting on me, at eight o'clock that evening.
My poor foolish heart exulted with joy, at the success of my little stratagem. I dressed and undressed Olivia, an hundred times, in order to try if I could add any ornament to her natural beauty, and

render her more lovely in her father's eyes—as to myself I disdained the aid of dress, well knowing that my wan complexion, and my wasted form, could only furnish him with such a reproachful idea as my ghost might have done, of what I was when he forsook me.
I counted the minutes quicker than they passed, and thought them ages, till the appointed hour arrived—but, gracious Heaven! how shall I express the astonishment I felt, when I saw an utter stranger enter the room, with a mixture of libertinism and freedom, in his looks and manners; I let go Olivia's hand, which I had held in mine, gave a loud shriek, and fainted.
Maria ran to my assistance, the stranger gazed intently on me, and said to her,

with a kind of sneer, it was a pity that her lady was subject to such violent disorders, but hoped she would recover her health before she made another assignation with him; for he had seen her faint twice, and he did not think fits were the least addition to female beauty—However, as he believed she might be in distress, he would make her a present of five guineas, for the sake of an old friend of her's, honest Jack Walter—and that when he came back from Barege, he would call upon her again, in hopes of finding her in a more sociable state than she appeared to be, at present.
Maria instantly recollected that this gentleman was with the Colonel, the day we met him in the Luxemburg gardens, and endeavoured to convince him, that

he was not the person I expected to see: he said that was impossible, for he had my note in his pocket, and had shown it to Colonel Walter, who knew my writing perfectly well, though I had attempted to disguise it.—She tried every argument to make him take back his money, but in vain; and as he found that I did not immediately come to myself, he quitted the house, with strong expressions of dissatisfaction at his disappointment.
This last stroke was infinitely more severe than all that I had yet endured; I now saw the impossibility of ever clearing my conduct to my husband, and devoted as I was, by him, to infamy, the peaceful asylum of the sheltering grave was now become my only hope, or wish;

even a mother's tenderness could not reconcile me to such unmerited and endless sufferings; that virtuous fondness which had sustained me through all my former trials, was now absorbed in mean self-love, and I could not refrain from praying for an end of my misery, though certain that my Olivia's misfortunes must commence from the conclusion of mine.
I languished on, for many months, in this state of passive despair, when the fight of the good father Guillaume, whom I had never heard from since I left Marseilles, and of course concluded to be dead, brought back a gleam of joy.
He told me that after his return to Marseilles, he had a long and severe illness, and on his recovery had been obliged

to go to Rome, on business; that he had written to me, several times, and was grieved to find that his letters had miscarried.—He informed me, that Nannette had died, in about six weeks after I left her; that she was extremely penitent for the injuries she had done me; and retracted every thing she had said to my prejudice—I dropped tears at her untimely fate—while my own misery taught me to envy that lot, which my humanity lamented.
The marchioness had written to father Guillaume, and accused me of the basest ingratitude to her, and the most infamous conduct with regard to myself; and the good man had come on purpose, to Paris, to be, as he said, convinced of my innocence, or to relinquish his opinion

of female virtue. The situation he found me in, afforded him sufficient conviction of my integrity; and when I related the circumstances in which I had been involved, the gracious drops of pity that he shed for my distress, were like a healing balm to my poor wounded heart.
He would have gone directly to the marchioness, and tried to undeceive her, but she had been at Barege, for some time, and no one knew whether she would go from thence to Paris, or Marseilles.—He undertook to find out Colonel Walter for me, if he remained in Paris; and cheared my spirits with the hope that he would at least vindicate my injured character, and leave him no excuse for the inhumanity of his behaviour.

After a fruitless search of several weeks, he learned that Colonel Walter was then at Genoa—He wrote to him, in the most forcible terms, in my favour; but to this, and many other letters, he never deigned an answer, though we were satisfied that he had received them from the hand of a person that Father Guillaume could depend on; who afterwards informed us of the Colonel's setting out for England, and of his design of returning to settle in his native country.
As to myself, I had now no hope left of ever recovering his esteem, or my reputation—To my great joy I perceived I was going fast into a consumption; but though I longed for my release, it was impossible to quit my little charge exposed to all the miseries of unfriended

youth, without suffering the severest agonies; and after many consultations, upon the subject, I at last acquiesced in Father Guillaume's opinion, that it was my duty not to leave her totally an orphan, but to place her and myself under the protection of her father, before I should be taken from her.
Upon this principle I set out for Ireland, as soon as I had received information, through Father Guillaume's means, of my husband's being there. I arrived about four months ago: my reception surpassed even my apprehensions! inhumanity and insult were added to unkindness, and my not being turned out to perish in the highway, was accounted a favour far beyond my desert.—What account the Colonel gave of me to his servants, I

can only suppose; but he told me that if ever I attempted to converse with one of them, I should not remain another moment in his house; he commanded me never again to appear in his sight, and confined me to a wretched garret, where I am supplied with such food as his servants think proper to afford me.
Unworthy as I am, I have often repined at the continuance of my existence; but I now bless the chastening hand that has enabled me to support my miseries to this auspicious hour; when I can no longer doubt that my child shall find protection from your humanity, and no more be involved in the unhappy fate that has so long attended her truly wretched mother!

The agonies which Mrs. Walter sustained, during the recital of her affecting story, made me fear that her death would bring it to a period, before she had finished the relation—But my appearing, as I really was, sincerely interested in her misfortunes, seemed to furnish her with such a recruit of strength and spirits, as enabled her to undergo the reflection and recital of her unmerited sorrows.
The morning was pretty far advanced, by the time Mrs. Walter had concluded her narrative; I gave her the strongest assurances of my doing every thing in my power, both for herself, and her child—I pressed her to take share of my bed, for a few hours, which she refused, though she seemed so faint and exhausted, as to be scarce able to get up stairs. She said,

if Olivia should awaken and miss her, she would be alarmed, and might disturb the family. She added that one of her greatest anxieties, for some time past, had been for what her child should feel, if she should happen to expire in the night, and that the little helpless innocent should find her cold and insensible to her soft touch and voice!
As soon as she left me, I went to bed, but found it impossible to rest—I knew not in what manner to act; Sir William would probably be displeased at my interfering in Colonel Walter's affairs, yet was I determined, at all events, to fulfil my promise to this amiable unfortunate, and protect her and her child, as far as it might be in my power!

With this resolution I shall now take leave of my dearest Fanny, as I am extremely fatigued with writing; yet would not trespass so far on your patience, as to break off again, till I had concluded Mrs Walter's story.—But, interested as I am for her, be assured that I am much more so for my beloved Fanny, and Sir George.
Where is he now, my sister? has Mrs. Colville's mystery been explained? is his heart more at ease after it? and has your's yet recovered that tranquillity, which should be the portion of the good and amiable? Alas! why is it not unalienably so? Yet Mrs Walter wastes her days in sorrow, my Fanny mourns her ill-requited love, Sir George hangs pensive o'er his Delia's tomb, and my sad heart, too much in unison with mournful tones,

responsive echoes back the sighs of all, and mingles plaintive notes for its own woes!
Adieu, my dearest sister,



A Thousand thanks to my dear Louisa, for the pleasing painful entertainment which she has taken the trouble of affording me—which is at present more particularly suited to my situation, than any other that could possibly be devised.
In quest of happiness we should for ever cast our eyes downward, and the

tears that flow from them, in contemplating the miseries of those who are more wretched than ourselves, will at elast stifle the voice of self-love, and silence the complaints that arise from lesser sorrows—sometimes imaginary ones.
When I compare my sufferings with those of the unfortunate Olivia, I am shocked at my own ingratitude and impiety, for having ever dared to say I was unhappy! The greatest misery I have endured, falls infinitely short of the least of hers.—
Like her, I have been forsaken by the man I love; but then I have not, like her, been exposed to want and ignominy. Sheltered in the fostering arms of tender and affectionate friends, who sympathize

even with my weakness in lamenting an inconstant lover, blessed with reputation, health, and fortune—these circumstances render the comparison so very unfair, that it must be disadvantageous to make it. No, she is alone the paragon of unearned sufferings; and I hope there is not any one person living who has a right to dispute the
"painful preeminence"
with her.—

But where is she, now, Louisa? It is not possible that you can have left her in that Pandaemonium, which the great fiend inhabits! I cannot speak of Colonel Walter in milder terms. I am provoked that the infernal should have any shadow of pretence, for his barbarity to his angelic wife.—When the world once gets hold of a tale of scandal, is it not easy

to wrest it from them.—That wicked marchioness—but there will be no end to my letter, if I go on entering into particulars.
All I can say upon the whole, is this, that I fear your bringing her to Southfield may engage Sir William in a strife, either with the Colonel, or yourself: no one can tell which part; he will take, I should rather apprehend his siding with the monster, and quarrelling with you for intermeddling.
To avoid all this apprehension, if Mrs. Walter be able to bear the journey, on the easiest terms it can be made to her, request you to send her and her child over to me, as quick as possible. I will receive her with open arms, and do

every thing in my power to procure her health, and peace: I have no person to whom I am accountable for my conduct, and therefore stand clearer from difficulty in this affair than you do.
I hope these reasons will incline both Mrs. Walter and you to comply with my entreaty, and that I shall soon have the happiness of embracing the two lovely Olivias.—She may depend on my secrecy: I can prepare this family, in half an hour, for the reception of a lady and her daughter from France, whom I have invited to spend some time with me; I will carry her to Bristol, or any other place that may aid her recovery—She must not die Louisa; and, for Heaven's sake, let me have the happiness of being concerned in her preservation.

I fear self his predominated too much in this wish, for indeed I look forward with an uncommon degree of impatience, to the pleasure of having it in my power to serve such an amiable creature—Do, my Louisa, then, indulge me with the true enjoyment of the fortune I am possessed of—Let me know the transport of succouring merit in distress, and I shall henceforward look upon riches as a real blessing!
I have this moment received a letter from our dear brother, that has amazed me.—What think you is the pretended request of the dying Delia? Why nothing more, than that Sir George should marry her mother! I have long suspected her passion for my brother; I knew her to be an artful, that is, in other words,

a vile woman! I cannot help the evil thoughts which obtrude themselves on my mind, with regard to my dear Delia's death—If Mrs. Colville be innocent, Heaven forgive me!—But I have not charity enough to pray for her, if she should be guilty.
Sir George does not express half the horror that I feel at this shocking proposal! the gratification which our vanity receives in knowing we are beloved, even by the most worthless person, can, I perceive, soften our contempt into compassion, and deceive us so far as to make us think such pity the offspring of our virtue—However, do not be alarmed; for though he speaks somewhat too tenderly of her pretended sorrow, I am certain no power on earth could ever make

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



Southfield.
THIS letter, my Fanny, shall go on in the narrative stile, at least so far as it relates to Mrs. Walter; for as her adventures are entirely detached from any thing relative to us, I will not mingle them with mine.
I lay till it was very late, on the morning that the fair unfortunate had related her story, yet I had neither slept, nor fixed upon any scheme for delivering her from her hated prison, except that of bringing her and her child to Southfield, which I foresaw must be attended with very hazardous consequences;

I therefore summoned a little council, the moment I arose, and after communicating the most distressful circumstances of her situation to Lucy, Harriet, and my faithful Benson, I desired them to give me their advice how to act, on this critical occasion; having first informed them, that I was determined not to desert the cause I had undertaken, by leaving this amiable woman to perish at Waltersburgh.
Various, as you may suppose, were the plans offered and rejected—It was at last agreed, that we should return home as soon as possible; and that Mrs. Walter should remain where she was, for three or four days after our departure; that, in that time, Benson should be employed in fitting up a chamber for her

reception in the house of one of our tenants, whom I formerly mentioned to you, as having his house burned, and who had now got a very comfortable, though small, habitation, within a short walk of Southfield; that as soon as every thing was prepared, Benson should come for her in my chaise, to a particular spot, at a time appointed, and convey her and the little Olivia to this house, where she was to remain in profound secrecy, till we saw what effect this innocent elopement might produce, till every thing in our power should have been done for the recovery of her health, and till we could fix upon some more eligible plan for her future happiness.
As the Colonel's servants gave themselves not the least trouble about the fair

recluse, we found it very easy to convey proper food to her, unobserved; and as I thought it right that she should have time to consider of our scheme, I wrote to her directly, and desired to have the pleasure of another interview with her, in my apartment, that night.—I gave her to understand, in the politest manner I could, my reasons for declining to bring her directly to Southfield, at least till I had consulted my husband; and assured her in the strongest terms, that while I lived, neither she, or her child, should ever be reduced to the misery of seeking support or protection from the inhuman Colonel Walter. I added every thing that I thought could soothe her mind, and implored her to take care of her health, for the sake of her lovely infant.

She replied almost instantly to my letter, poured forth the warmest acknowledgments for my goodness, again called me her guardian angel, and said she was ready to be guided by me in every thing; and that, as the strongest mark of her gratitude, she would at my command endeavour to live, were it only to bless and thank me!
The impatience of Lucy and Harriet to see Mrs. Walter was extreme; they looked at their watches an hundred times, and would fain have persuaded themselves they did not, go from the moment it grew dusk till our hour of retiring; though it was yet a moot point, whether they were to see her or no, as I meant first to ask her permission, certainly, before I should present them to her.

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

As both Mrs. Walter and I wanted rest, we parted sooner than we had done the foregoing night, after having first settled every thing for the execution of our project, and fixed on the day following for my quitting Waltersburg. Benson packed up a part of hers and Olivia's clothes with mine, and we contrived to leave her every little necessary that could be conducive to her comfort or convenience, while she remained behind us.
I have now the pleasure to tell you that every thing succeeded to our wishes, and that she and her sweet girl are safely and privately lodged at honest farmer Wilson's, for the present. I write to her every day by Benson, but have not yet ventured to see her, as I am not able to walk, and the eclat of my

carriage stopping at a farm-house, might occasion suspicion.
Benson assures me that she already perceives a change for the better in her appearance; and I begin to hope she may recover both her health and peace of mind. The little Olivia is quite wild with spirits, and is trying to learn English from Lucy, who visits Mrs. Walter every day, and the first words she desired to be taught, were meant to express her thanks to me for my kindness to her mamma.
Though I reflect with sincere pleasure on having been able to rescue this amiable woman from a scene of the severest distress, yet I cannot help feeling an anxiety for her future fate, which gives

me extreme pain—She cannot long remain where she is, undiscovered, and no one can tell what step that barbarian, her husband, may take to distress her yet farther—My apprehensions are, that he will force Olivia from her; and the loss of her child would, I am certain, occasion the loss of her life.
But supposing that he should never discover her retreat, or even inquire about her, I see no asylum, except a convent, where her youth and beauty will not subject her to a thousand misfortunes.—You are sufficiently acquainted •ith my sentiments on the subject of monasteries, to know how very unwilling I should be to recommend a state of seclusion to any creature I either love or esteem; yet, in her unhappy situation,

I see no other resource—However, I shall not advise precipitately.
Not but that I should approve extremely of an establishment of this kind, in our own country, under our own religion and laws; both equally free from tyranny—An asylum for unhappy women to retreat to—not from the world, but from the misfortunes, or the slander of it—for female orphans, young widows, or still more unhappy objects, forsaken, or ill treated wives, to betake themselves to, in such distresses. For in all these circumstances, women who live alone, have need of something more than either prudence or a fair character, to guard them from rudeness or censure.
Now some sort of foundation, under the government of a respectable matronage,

endowed for such a purpose, would certainly be an institution most devoutly to be wished for, as a relief in the difficulties of those situations I have just mentioned. Here women might enjoy all the pleasures and advantages of living still in the world, have their conduct reciprocally vouched by one another, and be screened from those artful and insidious essays, which young or pretty women, when once become helpless adjectives of society, are generally liable to.
I have had a letter from Sir William, and for once he seems pleased with my determination of staying in the country. This has made me very happy—tho' had he commanded my attendance in Dublin, I would have obeyed; for I will at least endeavour to deserve the character

which the offended Moor gives of the gentle Desdemona—
"As you say, obedient,—very obedient!"
—and, as I have already told my Fanny, that is all that I can at present promise.

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

Is it not odd, Fanny, that I should not have heard of his being at Sir Arthur Ashford's, till now? Perhaps he went there directly from Waltersburgh; if so, he must certainly be attached to Miss Ashford. But of what consequence are his engagements to me!
I shall not know how to behave to him, uncertain as I am with regard to that unaccountable adventure, at Colonel Walter's.—If he is innocent of that insult, he will be astonished at the coldness and distance of my manners towards him; if guilty, surely his own confusion will betray him, and he shall never see my face again.
But why should he bring Miss Ashford with him, to Southfield? Does not

this look as if he feared an explanation? Guilty, guilty, upon honour!
Adieu, my sister,
LOUISA BARTON.


I Have such a variety of subjects to treat of, that I know not which to begin with; but I think I ought to pay my dear Fanny the compliment of attending first to her long wished-for and truly welcome letter.
I had not a doubt but that your humanity would be both affected and interested for the unhappy Mrs. Walter. The goodness both of your head and heart is eminently conspicious in the proper use

you have made of her misfortunes. To lighten and invalidate our own sufferings, by comparing them with those of others, is truly philosophic: but that firmness of mind, or rather toughness of heart, which enables us to bear our own miseries with patience and composure, is, in general, but too apt to render us callous to those tender feelings, which should be excited by the woes of others.—Let me then congratulate myself on having a sister whose Stoicism is confined only to herself, while her tenderness and compassion are extended to the numerous, the unbounded circle of the unhappy!
Yes, my Fanny, your request shall be complied with; Mrs. Walter is already made happy in the hope of being known to such a generous mind as yours.

She has confessed to me, that, in her present situation, she had suffered a thousand apprehensions, lest my kindness to her might involve me in difficulties with Sir William; but that she could think of no expedient to prevent this evil, but flying to a convent, which she feared to propose, as her going there must be attended with what she thought too considerable an expense.
I should have strongly objected to this scheme, from her ill state of health, though she is, however, amazingly recovered, since her enlargement from that worse than prison, where her poor mind was fettered, though her limbs were free—And I have great hopes, from the calm state in which she now appears, of her recovery.—She has really an extraordinary

understanding, allowing for her youth and inexperience; and from that, I trust, that she will be able to conquer the tenderness she formerly felt for the most worthless of his sex.
She is to set out this night for Corke, where she is consigned to the care of an eminent merchant, a particular friend of Lucy Leister's, who will ensure her a passage in one of the best ships that sails from thence to Bristol.—On her arrival there, she is to be put into the care of Benson's niece, who is married to a stationer, and is commanded by her aunt to attend her up to London, and lodge her safe under your kind protection. One of farmer Wilson's daughters goes with her, to attend the little Olivia—The girl has lived in some creditable families,

and is tolerably clever—Both Mrs. Walter and her lovely child have made an astonishing progress in learning English; they have capacities for every thing.
When the moment arrives of bidding her adieu, which it shortly must, I shall be sensible of a more mixed sensation than I have ever felt before; I know that I ought to rejoice at our separation, for her sake; but I cannot help being selfish enough to regret it, for my own.
Amazement falls infinitely short of what I felt, when I read the paragraph in your letter relative to Mrs. Colville! I am shocked as well as you at the train of ideas which obtruded themselves upon me, in consequence of her unnatural proposal—
"Alarmed about my brother!"

No, Heaven forbid that I should ever think of him in such a light! He ever disliked, and he must now detest her—But Sir George is of a mild and gentle nature, not apt to give the reins to his resentments; his natural and acquired good breeding must prevent his speaking hardly of a woman who even pretends to love him; and the involuntary respect with which he is inspired for Delia's mother, must increase his restraint, and silence every sarcastical reflection.

Now for myself—I know not what to think about Lord Lucan; never was confusion equal to mine, at seeing him—this rendered me incapable of observing him; but Lucy, who was present at our interview, assured me there was nothing particular in his appearance, except the

paleness of his countenance, and his surprise at my manner, which I am sure must have been perfectly distrait.
Why did he bring Miss Ashford here? She doubtless remarked the alteration in my behaviour; and I am perhaps, at this moment, the object of their ridicule.—I never saw her look so handsome as she did that evening—I suppose they will soon be married: I wish it was over, and that they were both gone to his seat in the North.
I have been extremely uneasy, these three days, about my little Harriet—she looks ill, and neither eats, or sleeps, yet will not allow that she is sick. I should certainly apprehend her being in love, if she had seen any object lately, that could have inspired her with that passion.

No, my dear Fanny! my adventure at Waltersburgh was not a dream; yet I sometimes think with you, that Lord Lucan could never have been guilty of such an indecorum; tho' I do not now agree with you, that he is at all affected with any particular sentiment towards me. And I sincerely rejoice in dissenting from your opinion, on this subject.
By sending Mrs. Walter to you, I have barred my own hopes of seeing you in Ireland; and I, alas! have none of meeting you, in England—I cannot let this effort of generosity pass, without marking it, for perhaps it is the highest exertion of that virtue which I may ever have an opportunity of displaying.
I go now to bid adieu to your future charge—She will have the happiness of

seeing my Fanny, almost as soon as this can reach her hands.—An involuntary sigh has just escaped me! Down, selfish thoughts!
Farewell, my dear sister



I Have received your letter, my Louisa, and I have also received your fair, your lovely friend! Mrs. Walter arrived in Dover-street last night—Prepared as I was, by your description, the extreme delicacy of her form surpassed my imagination—I can scarcely persuade myself that she is compounded of the same materials of which common mortals are made; at least I am certain that there

must be as much difference, as there is between the clay of which the finest porcelain is formed, and that which makes the coarsest earthen-ware.
I am sorry to say the simile is strengthened by an appearance of extreme fragility and weakness, which alarms one's tenderness into a kind of apprehension for her safety, every moment; and is, in my mind infinitely more interesting, than the most healthful glow of beauty in its highest bloom—I am sure if I were a man, I should be in love with her, and of course miserable, for I could not help considering her but as a mere beauteous shadow, which arough blast too quickly might dissolve—But though not a lover, I am determined to cherish this fair idea, and for that purpose I shall take lodgings

at Kensington Gravel-pits, tomorrow, for three weeks, or a month; as I do not think the season far enough advanced, to carry her to the Hot-wells, or venture her even so far as Cleveland-hall.
There is, as you have already observed, something uncommonly engaging in her manner of speaking; but her sentiments need no addition—I never heard such warm, yet elegant expressions of gratitude, as she used in speaking of you; her tears flowed fast while she uttered them. The little Olivia took her hand, and said,
"Mamma, Lady Barton is so good, that I know it would grieve her to think she made you weep; for I am sure she meant to dry your tears."

But Mrs. Walter is at this moment writing to you, I will therefore leave her

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

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

I most sincerely wish that Lord Lucan and Miss Ashford were married, and that they were gone to his lordship's seat in the North, or to any other point of the compass that may be most remote from the neighbourhood of Southfield.
I cannot help trembling for your happiness, Louisa—I well know that I have nothing else to fear for; but is not that sufficient! I have, with pain, long beheld your growing partiality for his lordship; yet I hoped, against the conviction of my own heart, which still overflows with tenderness for an unworthy object, that you would be able to conquer it—But let me here observe, Louisa, that our situations are so widely different, that the weakness which may in mine, not

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

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

I have drawn this sad prospect in the strongest colours, in hopes that my Louisa will start from the brink of the precipice where she now stands, and instantly retreat into the gentle path of domestic happiness.—I am truly grieved that the roughness of Sir William's manners may render this walk less smooth and pleasing than it should be; yet surely it is easier to tread on pebbles than on thorns! And with the latter we shall certainly find those ways strewed, that lead from the road which Providence has marked out for us.
I should detest myself if I were able to add another line on this subject, yet I hope that my tears have not so much blotted what I have already written, as to prevent your reading it.

Mrs. Walter is determined to write to her husband, and I think her right in it, for some of the reasons given above; though Heaven knows she owes him no compliment, nor scarcely duty—She shall not, however, if I can prevent her, write for some days, as it must hurry her poor weak spirits, which want much to be recruited.
I have not heard from my brother, for some time. Adieu,
my ever dear Louisa,




IF I were not perfectly convinced of the fallacy of judicial astrology, I should fancy you were a conjurer, Lucan; and that you had calculated Margarita's nativity—How else could you, at such a distance, discover that she was compounded of art; while I, who saw her every day, and all the day, was so thoroughly hoodwinked by her beauty, as to imagine her mind as faultless as her form! What a numscull! what a coxcomb have I been? She had cunning enough to persuade, and I folly enough to believe, that she loved me to distraction—For the rest of my life I shall consider

myself as an idiot; though yon are to take notice, that I will not be called so, even by you—But the worst of it is that I am a ruined fool too.—Don't laugh, Lucan; I shall be ready to cut your throat if you do; but I know you will not, when I tell you that I am severely hurt.
In my last I acquainted you, that I had lost a large sum at play, and was waiting at Venice for remittances, which arrived in a few days—Margarita had a mind, as she said, that we should quit Venice with a coup d'eclat, and prevailed on me to hire jewels, to the amount of two thousand pounds, to ornament herself on the last night of our appearance at the carnival. I readily complied with her request, though I had before laid

out very near that sum in the same sort of trumpery for her.
She looked like an angel when she was dressed, that I must acknowledge; and I never once thought of searching for the cloven foot, beneath such a dazzling brightness.
We went together to the masquerade, and with us a man she called her brother, whom I have since discovered to be her galant, and a notorious sharper. I soon engaged at play—fortune favoured me, for a time; but before the conclusion of the night, she was at her old tricks again, and I lost five-hundred guineas.
The agitation, naturally attendant on the vicissitudes of play, had taken off

my attention, even from Margarita, so that I felt no anxiety at not having seen her for several hours. It was very late when I went home; and judge of my amazement when I was told she had not returned, from the time we set out together—I flew back again into the street, and ran, like a distracted man, into every house that was open; but the company were retired from every place, and I could find no trace of her.
I will not pretend to give you an idea of my situation, for I can now hardly recollect the state of my mind at that time, much less describe it.—About nine o'clock in the morning, a Mendicant friar brought a letter to my door, in which were contained these words.

To Lord HUME.
I entreat you, my dear lord, and quondam lover, not to be uneasy on my account; I am well, and happy; and before this can reach you, shall be out of the Venetian dominions; all search after me will be in vain. I should not have quitted you so abruptly, if I had not discovered that my staying with you would have been an injury to your fortune, which I imagine is already much hurt—But you Englishmen can always repair such damages by marriage.—I have therefore removed the only obstacle to the amendment of your circumstances, by tearing myself from you; and do now most seriously recommend it to you, to return to your own country, and avail yourself of this last resource.

Those trifles of yours which I have taken with me, I shall still preserve as tokens of your liberality, which is allowed to be the national virtue of the English: and I shall ever remain your Lordship's
much obliged, and obedient servant M. DEL STRAZZI.
The reading of this letter entirely conquered every passion of my mind, but rage; and I think I could at that moment, have stranged the insolent gypsy who wrote it—But I was not suffered to brood over it long; for the Jew, from whom I had hired the jewels, came to demand them.—I knew not what to do; I had settled with my banker the day before, and as I intended leaving Venice, I had withdrawn my letter of credit, and had

not half so much cash as would answer the Israelite's demand.—Lord Stormont happened luckily to come in, to pay me a visit; I frankly told him my distress, and he kindly lent me a draft on his banker, which satisfied old Shylock.
I wrote on the instant to my agent, to cut down a wood that was planted, for ought I know, by my great-grandfather; and thus my good tall oaks, that have been at least fourscore years growing, have vanished into the hands of Jews, and jades, for one night's no diversion at the carnival.
Indeed, Lucan, I begin to think that we English are very silly fellows. But why should I lump my countrymen, when I am really convinced that there is not

such another noodle in the world, as myself?
How go on your love affairs? They can't be in such a desperate state as mine.—Our countrywomen have not spirit enough to strike such a stroke as my Diàvolessa has done, and I now begin to think that a man had better be contented with the wholsome home-brewed beer of old England, than pay too dear for Tokay.
Now I talk of England, I should like very well to return there, if I were not ashamed to see Fanny Cleveland, and afraid of being laughed at by my old friends at Almac's, and Boodle's, and in short every where.—Do, my dear Lucan, tell me what I shall do with myself?

for I am at present the most desolate, as well as desultory of mortals.—But in all states I shall continue affectionately yours,
HUME.


My dear Hume,
AS you have made it a point, I will not laugh at what you seem to consider as a misfortune, but you must permit me to say, that I have not received so much pleasure, for a long time, as from your account of Margarita's elopement.—Believe me, my friend, you have got cheaply off, even with the loss of some thousands—Character is of infinitely more value than fortune—But I am

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


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

one of the unpardonable absurdities common to our nation.—We go, or are sent abroad, by our friends—I had almost said our enemies—at great expense; and then, instead of informing ourselves of the manners and police of the places we are in, our first pursuit is to find out our countrymen, and herd with them continually, merely because they are so; by which conduct we contrive still to retain those prejudices we should have left at home, and cultivate only the follies and vices we meet with abroad.
But a truce with reflections of every kind: and in answer to your query, with regard to the situation of my heart, I can with truth assure you, that it is infinitely more wretched than your own.—I never had the least reason to flatter myself

with the most distant idea of being beloved by the object of my passion, yet had my vanity inspired me with the fond hope of having obtained some small share in her friendship and esteem—How I have forfeited this blessing I know not; but it now is fled, my friend, and with it all my happiness.
I have been, for some time past, at the seat of Sir Arthur Ashford; you must remember him at college; he has a sister, who is both handsome and agreeable; and had I a disengaged heart, I know no woman to whom I would sooner offer my hand—But never shall I be guilty of such, baseness, as to defraud an innocent and amiable woman of her affections, while, like a wretched bankrupt, I have not an equivalent to make.

The circumstance of Miss Ashford's living with her brother, will prevent my spending as much of my time with him as I could wish.—The world will be apt to suppose that her attractions might have drawn me thither, and this may possibly prevent a real and deserving lover from making his addresses there—I will, therefore, speedily retire to my own seat, to solitude and sorrow.
You are incapable of forming any idea of the charming, delicate, but distracted situation of my mind—May happier days be yours! Adieu,
my friend,
LUCAN.



Southfield.
YES, Fanny, I confess it! you have searched my bosom, and found the arrow rankling in my heart! Too cruel sister! better, sure far better, that you had remained ignorant of my disease, unless you can prescribe a cure! I now detest myself; and all that generous confidence, which is the true result and firm support of real virtue, is for ever fled! I shrink even from the mild eye of friendship—The tender, the affectionate looks of Harriet and Lucy, now distress me! How then shall I endure the stern expression of contempt and rage, from an offended husband's angry brow! There is but one thing

that could be more dreadful—I mean his kindness—That alone could add new horrors to my wretched state, and make me feel the humiliating situation of a criminal still more than I now do.
I am, I am a criminal! Alas! you know not to what degree I am so! But I will tell you all, lay bare my heart before you, and beg you not to soothe, but probe its wounds.
At about a quarter of a mile from our house, there is an octagon temple, which overlooks a fine piece of water, adjoining to which there is a beautiful and extensive wood; this room then, I have fitted up in a very elegant taste, as a small library, or museum, for myself, and it is entirely devoted to my hours of

retirement—Here I read, write, draw, or ruminate. In this spot, on the day after I last wrote to you, was I sitting and musing, I will confess it, on the happiness which might have been my portion, had I happened to have met Lord Lucan before I was Sir William Barton's wife.
The tears streamed insensibly from my eyes, and so much dimmed my sight, as to make it doubtful whether the figure I then saw of Lord Lucan, walking by the canal, was real, or visionary—I rose immeditaely to the window, and perceived it to be him.
He came slowly on, gazing intently on a miniature picture, which he sometimes pressed to his lips, and sometimes held at a distance, as if to place it in different

points of view. Blushing, I own it, Fanny, I felt the pangs of jealousy; I doubted not but it was Miss Ashford's picture, and instantly detested the origiginal—How unworthy, how unjust, do I now appear, in my own sight!
My feet became as much riveted to the place where I stood, as Lord Lucan's eyes were to the picture—He saw me not, till he came close to the window, and then, in the utmost confusion, splipped the portrait into his pocket.
He came into the temple, covered with blushes, made a thousand apologies for having intruded upon my retirement, though he said he had come on purpose to take his leave, as he meant to quit Sir Arthur Ashford's, and set out for his own seat, the next day.

With more pique than prudence, I told him that I was surprised at his having resolution sufficient to tear himself from a person, whose picture was so dear to him as I supposed that to be, to which I had seen him pay his adorations, when I fancied he might have the original as a companion for life, if he chose it.
I never saw surprise so strongly painted, as in his countenance—His voice faltered while he replied,
"Were that possible, madam, I should be the happiest man alive—But, alas! there is a bar, an insuperable bar, which cannot be surmounted! therefore, madam, do I tear myself from the too lovely object of a despairing passion."


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

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

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

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

He turned away his face, to hide his tears; and had I suffered our conversation to have ended there, I had been far less

guilty than I am.—But vanity, that bane of female virtue, led me on, to tell him that I could not be satisfied, without a farther explanation on this subject; and that, as he had declared Miss Ashford was not the object of his passion, I hoped he could have no objection to showing me the picture of a person, whom, in all probability, I neither did, nor possibly might ever know.
He looked at me then, with a countenance more solemn than I had ever seen him wear: I blushed excessively, from a consciousness of my own insincerity; he saw into my thoughts, and, with a firm, and yet affecting manner, spoke thus.

"Do not, for your own sake, Madam, extend the cruelty of your triumph beyond

my demerits, nor wantonly sport with the miseries of one, whom yon have, though innocently, rendered wretched. Nature formed you in her most perfect model, and gave me susceptibility to admire those charms, which, to my endless grief, were then devoted to another.—I sought, not Madam, to invade his right, or soil the purity of your fair bosom, with one improper thought. Your friendship, your esteem, I wished to gain; and for that purpose kept my love concealed. Chance only has revealed it—How am I to blame? or wherefore should I now become the object of your hatred, or contempt? Your pity was the sole indulgence I ever should have dared to have solicited and that you might, without a crime, have bestowed. The wildness of my passion flattered my fond hopes that you

had just now granted it—Judge of its value by my transports, Madam—But you recall the precious gift; and all that I now dare presume to ask, is your forgiveness; allow me that, and never more shall the unhappy Lucan offend your eyes, or feast his own, with gazing on your charms."

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

threw himself at my feet, snatched my hand, and pressed it to his lips, and vowed he would never rise till I pronounced his pardon. At that instant, I heard the sound of voices that approached us, and exclaimed,
"Rise, my Lord, I pardon, and I pity you."

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

He presented me with a letrer from Sir William, whom he had left in Dublin, and said he hoped that would plead his excuse, for having interrupted what he thought the most agreeable party in the world, a sentimental tête à tête; and turning briskly to Lord Lucan, asked him if he had been relating the melancholy story of Eloise and Abelard, or the more disastrous loves of Hero and Leander?
Pique now got the better of my confusion, and, without waiting for Lord Lucan's reply, I answered, that we need not go so far back, for melancholy tales; for that I was acquainted with some persons now living, whose sufferings far exceeded those of the unfortunate ladies he had mentioned. He turned his piercing eyes quick upon me, at these words,

and for the first time of his life, I believe, blushed.
O, Fanny, what an indiscreet, and consequently unhappy wretch, is your sister! Thank Heaven, Mrs. Walter is out of his reach! But have I not, by this unguarded speech, betrayed the secret to her tyrant! I never shall forgive myself.
My Lucy, ever kind and attentive to her now unworthy friend, relieved us all from our embarrassment, by rendering the conversation general, and proposed our returning to the house, as there was hardly time for me to dress, before dinner; and added, that she would either endeavour to entertain the gentlemen at the harpsichord, or engage with them at billiards.

We then all set out, seemingly at ease—But who can read the human heart, or the various springs that actuate its movements! Mine, wretched as it is, had then received a hateful guest, unknown to it before! Consciousness of having erred! its sure attendants, fear, and shame, now followed close, and when I reached my toilet, and viewed my shadow in the glass, my colour varied, as these passions worked, and I became alternate red and pale.
Poor Benson saw the effect, without the cause, and was alarmed—She would have got me drops, which I refused: sick, sick at heart I was, but where is the medicine that can abate its conflicts! Lethe! O for a draught of it!—A shower of tears somewhat relieved me; I read

Sir William's letter; cruellest of husand's! it was the kindest that he had ever wrote, since he obtained that title! He will return to Southfield, in a few days—How shall I look upon him, Fanny?
I cannot now go on, my next shall tell you all.

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



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

I sent for her directly—When she came into my dressing-room, I perceived she had been weeping, and I also perceived my picture on her arm—This put a stop to the inquiry I had designed to make; and by way of saying something, I asked her where Lord Lucan was? She said she had just then left him in Sir William's library.
My curiosity was again raised to know the cause of Harriet's tears; I could not ask her—But my heart informed me—She loves Lord Lucan.—Unhappy girl! yet still far happier than I! she may, without a blush, avow her passion; while mine must cover me with endless shame.
Yet wherefore should there be this false distinction? If passion is involuntary,

it cannot be criminal; 'tis consequences only that can make it so; and Harriet and Louisa both may love, with innocence.—
Flattering sophistry! Alas! I would deceive myself, but cannot! Have I not vowed, even at the altar vowed, to love another? Yet can that vow be binding, which promises what is not in our power, even at the time we make it? But grant it were, the contract sure is mutual; and when one fails, the other should be free.
Wretched Louisa! strive no more to varnish o'er thy faults—Thou wert a criminal, in the first act, who wedded without love; and all the miseries which proceed from thence, too justly are thy due.

Yes, Fanny, I will take your counsel, and will patiently submit to those corrosive chains, which I myself have riveted; I will not murmur, but I must complain to you, and you alone, my friend, my sister! Desert me not, while I deserve your pity, and I will still endeavour to deserve it!
Lord Lucan is gone! My entreaties have prevailed, he returns not to Ash-park, or Southfield, any more.—Do not congratulate me on this imaginary triumph; I have bought the concession but too dear—I have avowed my love! Do not detest me, Fanny! I saw no other way to secure my virtue—By confessing my passion, I have put it out of my power ever to see, or converse with the object or it more—He is banished for ever from

my sight—What would my sister, or what the rigid world, have more!
With infinite difficulty I discovered that the innocent and undesigning Harriet had lent him my picture, and he sent off his servant to France, to get it copied, who returned with it to Ash-park, on the day I first saw it in his hand.
I shall never take notice of this affair, to her, as I too well know how difficult it must be to refuse the request of one we love—But surely his making this request must have severely pained her tender heart—Sweet, gentle innocent! I most sincerely pity her distress.
The detestable Colonel Walter stays with us still, though unasked—I think

he looks with prying eyes, on all my actions; yet what are they to him? He has no friendship, either for Sir William, for me, or any one else.—Cruel consciousness that compelled me to banish Lord Lucan, and suffer Colonel Walter to remain in my house! Have I not, Fanny, sufficiently sacrificed to forms and scruples?
I have this moment received a letter from Sir William; business detains him for a month longer in town—I rejoice, for his sake, as much as my own; as I hope I shall recover a greater degree of composure, than I am at present mistress of, by the time he returns.
I detest dissimulation, yet as Lucilla says,
"Dissembling may for once be

virtuous,"
* at least so far as to conceal that fault which cannot now be prevented—Yet trust me, Sir William, trust me, my honoured brother, and beloved sister, no stain shall ever rest upon your names, from my misconduct! I only ought, and I alone will suffer—My vow is passed to heaven, and to you.

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

P.S. The Colonel has never taken the least notice of the suspicious appearances in the temple—He has informed us, that his intended match with Mrs. Layton is quite off; seems perfectly gay and alert, and appears inclined to pay his addresses to Miss Ashford.—I have injured her, without design; but should he have the least chance to succeed there, I will atone the injury I have done her, by preventing the connection.
Lucy sets off this moment—An express from her lover, who lies dangerously ill in Dublin, hurries her away—She is distracted—I envy her distraction—She may to all the world declare her grief, her love, for the deserving Creswell!



INDEED, my Louisa, your two last letters have afflicted me beyond measure: my heart bleeds for your sufferings, yet reason and virtue both forbid my endeavouring to soothe your grief, or stop your flowing tears, unless I could remove the cause from whence they spring—That, alas! can only be hoped for, from the lenient hand of time, and your own fortitude.
I know how very difficult it is to enter so far into another person's situation, as is necessary to judge their actions with candour; we must first feel and think as they do, before it can become possible

—I have, therefore, endeavoured by a thorough recollection of your temper and sentiments, joined to the similarity of our natures, to put myself as it were in your place, in order to be able, with justice and precision, to give my opinion freely, both with regard to your past and future conduct.
I will now venture to tell you that the source of your present unhappiness is to be traced much higher than the era you date it from, your marriage with Sir William Barton—Though I admit your own confession, that your first fault was committed then—It must be the joining of hearts, not hands, that can insure the marriage rights—I don't mispell the word*—And the woman who stretches out an empty hand, at the altar,

but mocks the institution; and, if I may hazard the boldness of the expression, becomes guilty, before her crime; receives an antepast of misery,
"And puts her trust in miracles, for safety."

But the partiality of our ever dear and respected parents, sowed the first seeds of vanity, in my Louisa's mind; they lived not long enough to be alarmed at its growth, and to eradicate the poisonous weed—By their death, you became your own mistress, at an age when self-applause is predominant, in every female breast—Young, beautiful, rich, and accomplished, how was it possible you should escape the snares of flattery? They twined about your heart; and I have great reason now to believe, and lament, that the envied preference you

gave to Sir William Barton, by becoming his wife, was owing more to his having persevered longer than the rest of your admirers, in his attentions and attendance on you, than to that just selection, which should be the reward of distinguished merit, and in which both love and esteem should happily unite.
At the time of your marriage, I had made but very slight observations on the matrimonial state, and therefore did not doubt, that though you declared yourself insensible of any passion for Sir William, you might be perfectly happy with him, all the days of your life—I am now convinced of the fallacy of this opinion, as well as of the imprudence of the declaration you then too openly and unguardedly made.

Believe me, Louisa, that this was the first thing that soured your husband's temper—Men are naturally proud and jealous; they do not easily brook disappointments, or mortifications; a hopeless pursuit must be attended with both—We are not then to wonder either at Sir William's declining it, or resenting his ill success.
In a former letter you say, that
"had Sir William continued to solicit your affections a little longer, they would have been all his."
You know not that, Louisa; your vanity was flattered by the assiduities of a lover, and your pride revolted at the authority of a husband—Neither of these sentiments have any thing to do with passion—Had you loved the man you married, you would have wished

to preserve his affection, without being vain of it; and had you seen it declining, you would have tried every means to recover it, without considering how much your pride would be hurt by its loss.

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

" I from the influence of thy looks receive
" Access in every virtue, in thy sight
" More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
" Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
" Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
" Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite."

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

rise above the want of an apology, and that a proper consciousness of what she owes to herself, will assist her to triumph over that unhappy weakness, which she so pathetically describes, as the harbinger of fear and shame—Hateful, destructive passions! O be they banished far from every generous breast! and, in their room, may hope and joy expand my sister's heart!
Mrs. Walter's health continues extremely delicate; the physicians, who attend her, give me hopes that she may recover, though slowly—If it were not for that sweet promiser Hope, I should at this moment be the most wretched of mortals, for at this moment every creature that I truly love, is unhappy—Can I then be otherwise? I should be sorry if I could.

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




Southfield.
" Then all the boasted office of thy friendship,
" Was but to tell Louisa, what a wretch she is:
" Alas! What need that?"
I Cannot help saying, Fanny, that these lines seem but too applicable to your last letter. When I poured forth the anguish of my breaking heart before you, had I not a right to expect that my friend and sister would have spoken peace to its sorrows, and poured wine and oil on its wounds? You tell me that
"reason and virtue forbid these tender offices, in my unhappy case."
Are reason and virtue, then, at war with wretchedness? And must guilt be always

connected with misery? Or is it, can it be true, that misfortunes loosen the ties of blood as well as friendship, and leave the wretch infected by them, to be hurried down the stream of life, at the mercy of their own wild passions, more destructive far than raging winds and seas!

Forgive me, Fanny, for this horrid thought! I know your heart is generous and good, and that you did not mean to add to my distress—Nay, I am certain that each wound you gave, was doubly felt by you—Yet why, my sister, should you think it necessary to deal severely with me? If, as you seem to think, vanity is my predominant foible, why did not my fair philosopher find out its use, and play it off against my

present weakness? We should never humble that heart too much, which we have any hopes of reclaiming.
When we become completely vile in our own sight, we have but little reason to hope for the good opinion of others, which, I much fear, is one of our strongest incitements to virtue; and when, as you have before observed, we are totally indifferent to what the world thinks of us, we too generally not only meet, but deserve, its censure and contempt.
A woman still, my Fanny, under all my distresses, I am inclined to justify the foible you hint at; nay more, to prove that it approaches to the very province of virtue; as it is at least capable of rousing it to action, and sometimes of assisting its operations.

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

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


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

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

I am both to her, and you, much more than to myself,
an affectionate friend, L. BARTON.


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

If soothing could alleviate your sufferings, my pen should be taken from the cygnet's wing, and dipped in the honey of Hybla! But alas! my sister, yours is a disease that will increase by indulgence, and which severity alone can cure!
There have been instances where the hand of a surgeon has trembled, from a consciousness of the misery he was obliged to inflict on his patient.
Judge then how unsteadily I now hold the pen that is to wound the heart of my Louisa, by telling her that I fear she has committed an almost irreparable error?
I have already told you that it is long since I with grief beheld your partiality

for Lord Lucan; but from the idea which you taught me to form of him, and from my thorough knowledge of the delicacy and propriety of your sentiments, joined to your situation, I had lulled myself into a perfect security, that Lord Lucan would never dare to insult the wife of Sir William Barton, with a declaration of his passion; and that finding it entirely hopeless, he would either conquer or transfer it to some other object, from whom he might reasonably expect a proper return.
Such an attachment as Lord Lucan's be may compared to winter plants, which, by the aid of hot-houses, are rendered capable of producing summer fruits, but must decay and die without such artificial aid. Hope is the nurse of

love—without it, I am certain it cannot long exist, even in the most romantic bosom.
Can I then consider my Louisa's conduct as blameless, when I find Lord Lucan has avowed his passion? But what is the sentence which you would have pronounced, twelve months ago, upon a married woman who had declared that passion to be mutual? Guilty, guilty upon honour!*
You have still candour enough to judge yourself as severely, as you could any one else; you acknowlege yourself a criminal; but whither are your candour, and your judgment both fled, when you endeavour to derive merit from what you

allow to be a crime, and say, that
"You confessed your passion, to preserve your virtue?"

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

This is, and must be true—At least I wish to think so; for I would much rather attribute my Louisa's errors to the general defects of our nature, than account for them by supposing any particular weakness, either in her reason, or her virtue—And surely she must herself acknowlege a failure in that judgment, that can be persuaded we may set bounds to the encroachments of a lover, by telling him that he is beloved!
Alas, Louisa! Lord Lucan is not banished from Ash-park, from Southfield, from your sight, for ever! But both the world, and I, without being over rigid, have a right to expect that he should no more be permitted to plead his passion, or avail himself of yours.
If you should be inclined to dispute the authority which demands this sacrifice,

let me remind you that there is one, who has an undoubted right to claim it; let your honour then make a willing sacrifice of all future connection with Lord Lucan, as the only atonement you can now make for the injury you have done Sir William Barton.
By this means, and this alone, you may again recover your happiness; for I know you too well to suppose that it can ever be compatible with a consciousness of continuing to act in opposition to the strictest rectitude—I know too, that you have strength of mind sufficient to accomplish this arduous task; and that our mental, like our bodily strength, is increased and invigorated by use. That generous frankness, which is the genuine offspring of virtue, shall again reanimate my beloved

Louisa's face, the mild eye of friendship shall no longer be painful to her, and she shall endure the piercing look of inquiry from her husband's eyes, with soft, yet steady dignity.—O may my wishes be prophetic! Amen, Amen!
I will now venture to tell you that I am truly grieved for the young, the innocent, and amiable Harriet! My concern may possibly remind you of Swift's lines,
" Should some neighbour feel a pain,
" Just in the part where I complain," &c.

I acknowledge the sympathy between us, and would do much to cure her malady.
She has, however, the advantage of me in every respect;—she is younger, and, of course, the impression which her

heart has received is more likely be erased.—The letters we carve on saplings, wear out with their growth, while those that are imprinted on the perfect tree remain indelible.
Besides, it is by no means impossible that Lord Lucan may love her yet; for I repeat my opinion, that his passion for you is quite a sickly plant, which must necessarily perish, as I am perfectly convinced that you don't mean to cherish it longer.
For all these good and weighty reasons, I think she may hope, or, at least, I will do so for her, that, one way or other, her heart may be set at ease.—I am in a praying mood, and will say, amen! to this wish also.

I would add another petition to those I have already made, if I hoped it would succeed; but I almost begin to despair of Mrs. Walter's recovery—She continues to languish, without any visible sign of amendment, and the physicians now think that the air of a more southern clime, is the only chance she has for life.
She has written to the good Pere Guillaume, to recommend her to a convent that will receive her and her child, as pensioners, and allow her the liberty of going out in a carriage, for exercise, which is absolutely necessary to her existence.
Were I only to consider myself, the pain I feel at the thought of parting

with this charming woman would tempt me to wish that I had never known her; but how amply am I recompensed for that, and a thousand other sufferings, by the delightful reflection of having rendered her mind perfectly tranquil, nay happy, by indulging myself in settling a small, but decent provision, on her darling child.
Can all the diamonds that ever issued from the Indian mines afford to their possessors that heart-felt glow of satisfaction I enjoyed, when I had perfected the deed which conveyed two thousand pounds into the hands of trustees, for the use of the young Olivia Walter?
I was so apprehensive that the strong emotions of the mother's gratitude,

might have affected her delicate frame, that I was almost tempted to conceal this matter from her; yet I wished to remove every fear or doubt, which the weakness and languor of her spirits might suggest, with regard to her child's future fate.
I wrote her a few lines, to tell her what I had done; and added, that I would debar myself from the pleasure of seeing her, till she should give me a promise under her hand, never to mention this business to me.
She promised, indeed, what was impossible for her to perform; and, at our next interview, I was convinced, that, as the Peruvian princess says,
"To be thoroughly generous, you must listen to acknowledgments."


I have promised, that if it should please Providence to call her to a state of bliss, I will immediately take the little Olivia under my care; and, if I live, I will most faithfully discharge the pleasing and important trust.
My spirits, not much elevated before, sink under the sad idea of Mrs. Walter's death.—I cannot at present say more, than that I am, with unabated tenderness,
Your truly affectionate sister, F. CLEVELAND.



SEEK no longer, my Fanny, to save me from the miseries which I have brought upon myself, but try, my sister, to secure your own peace, by devoting to oblivion, the memory of a wretch that seems marked for destruction.—I feel the snares of fate wound round me, and I but vainly struggle to escape the toils.
A little gleam of comfort had beamed upon me, from your last letter;—the kindness of your wishes had raised an ardour in my mind, for their accomplishment, which amounted almost to a hope of success; and I looked forward, with anxious desire, to some future era, when

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

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

While I pronounced these words, the door opened, and Colonel Walter stood before me.—I dropped the picture—he took it up,—seated himself by me, and addressed me in pretty near the same

words, which Polydore uses, when he finds Monimia in tears.
I had just presence of mind enough to say, that I was not then disposed to play the fool.—He instantly assumed a more serious air, caught hold of my hand, and insolently declared a passion for me, which, he boasted, had commenced at the same moment with Lord Lucan's—That respect had hitherto kept him silent, till he found that his rival was likely to carry away the prize by his audacity, and that this alone had determined him to urge his equal attachment to me.
Surprise had hitherto kept me silent, grief now stopped my utterance.—I saw myself in the power of a wretch, whom I knew to be devoid of generosity or pity

—I saw my ruin plain—I see it still!—it was in vain to deny my regard for Lord Lucan;—the words which he had heard me utter, and the fatal picture which was then in his possession, were proofs incontrovertible.
My tears had no effect upon him—He pursued his brutal discourse, by saying that Lord Lucan was certainly more calculated for inspiring a romantic childish passion than himself, and that he most willingly resigned all the sentimental and platonic part of my affection to him, but that I had charms sufficient to render them both happy, which he hoped my prudence would incline me to, when I reflected that he was not the confident of my choice, and had therefore a right to expect that he should be bribed to secrecy.

I could contain my resentment no longer, but, with eyes sparkling with indignation, bad him fly that moment from my sight, and make whatever use his villainy might suggest, of the secret which his meanness and insolence had obtained—That I would rely for my justification from his malice, on my own innocence, and the candour of Sir William Barton, who should certainly be acquainted with the return he made to his friendship.
He replied, with the most insulting froideur, that if Sir William had really a friendship for him, he would certainly give him a preference, in the purchase of a jewel, which he neither knew how to value or preserve, and in which he seemed to have nothing more at present than

a nominal property.—
"In short, Madam,"
continued he,
"though I have been a soldier, I am not so much inclined to cutting of throats, as to deliver you from Sir William's tyranny, merely to leave you at liberty to bestow yourself on Lord Lucan; but, if you will condescend to make a concession to the warmth of that passion your charms have inspired me with, I will protect you from your husband, and the whole world beside, at the hazard of my life and fortune.—In love, at least, I am a Swiss, and will not fight without pay—Remember, Madam, that you are much more in my power than I am in yours, and that if you should attempt to raise Sir William's resentment towards me, I can, with the greatest ease, return it upon yourself—This picture, Madam!"—


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


"Yet criminal to him, and Heaven, I am, perhaps, for having yielded a secret, though involuntary preference, to another object.—The punishment of this my greatest guilt, I now receive from you; and if there be a spark of honour or humanity remaining in your

breast, you will not only cease to persecute an unhappy woman, who has confessed her weakness to you, but convert the unworthy passion you have dared to urge, to pity—Alas! I dare not say, esteem!"

He was silent, I ventured to look up, and through the dim medium of my tears, I thought he seemed affected.—
"Charming! angelic tyrant! (he exclaimed) O were that tender weakness you have now avowed, but felt for me, how should I worship even that false delicacy, which deems it criminal—But it is deceitful all—Lord Lucan, Madam, has solicited."
—
"Never! never, Sir!"
—
"Recal the morning scene, at Waltersburgh."
—Conviction flashed upon me, at the instant, and resentment

hurried me beyond all tamer considerations.—
"I do, Sir; and am now convinced you were the person who then insulted me—You only could have had the presumption to attempt so base an outrage, and your knowing it, has now revealed the mystery; you were the audacious monster, who violated at once the laws of decency, and hospitality! would to Heaven my death had been the consequence! But let what will happen now, I will no longer hold a moment's parley with you."

I strove at that instant to rush out of the temple, but he prevented me, by seizing one of my hands, and saying,
"I plead guilty, Madam; but be assured I never should have made so daring an essay, but that I thought, in such a

situation, Lord Lucan might have succeeded; a thousand circumstances concurred to make me think so; I looked upon the straining of his leg as a contrivance to excuse his going out with the rest of the hunters, that he might spend his time more happily with you—And had it been so, could you blame me, madam? My love, my admiration are as strong as his."


"Detested love, detested admiration!"
was all that I could utter.—
"I know it, Madam?"
—
"Then leave me, Sir, this moment."
—
"Not till you have pardoned a fault, for which I never can forgive myself, as it has distressed, or offended you."
—
"On one condition I will pardon you, Sir, and on no other."
—
"Name it, Madam."
—

"That you shall never presume to hint your hateful passion more."
—
"Impossible! as well not bid me breathe! But let not your sentence be too severe, for I have terms to make, as well as you—Suppose that I—"

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


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

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


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


"You are, you are, my dear, what would you have me do?"
—
"Have pity on Sir William, and yourself, and try to calm your spirits; for sure he never will believe they could be ruffled thus, by so slight an accident.—Believe me, Madam, I would lay down my life, to make you happy, though that is but a small compliment, for it is of very little value to myself."

She turned aside, to hide a starting tear—I clasped her to my breast, and said,
"Do not, my Harriet, add to my distress, by suffering me to think you are unhappy."

Sir William and the cabriole came together; he embraced me very affectionately, and rallied me on my cowardice in being so affected by my fall; wanted much to see my ankle, which I declined, took me up in his arms, and seated me in the chair, walked by my side, till we got to the house, and again lifted me out of it into my dressing-room.
O think, my sister! what I then endured! But you can never know it; deceit has ever been a stranger to your heart, and

the sharp stings of self contempt have never entered there.
Benson flew to me with arquebusade, vinegar, &c. The consciousness of the mean part I then acted, rendered me peevish, and I hastily bid her leave the room.—I blushed as the words escaped me—was it her fault that I was become contemptible!—When she was gone out, Harriet said,
"I fear, Madam, you are much hurt, indeed!"
—
"Yes, Harriet, to the heart!"
I sunk down upon the couch, and covered my face with my handkerchief.—She threw herself at my feet, and, without attempting to pry into the cause, implored me to let her put a bandage round my ankle, lest Sir William should be alarmed at my supposed obstinacy, and send for a surgeon.


This I refused, and, on the instant, resolved to extricate myself from the hateful appearance of having entered into a mean collusion with Colonel Walter. I rang the bell for Benson, and, assuming as cheerful a countenance as I could put on, told her that I had not received any hurt that required particular application, and that time should be my only physician.
I then dressed myself as usual, and, when the last dinner bell rung, I desired Harriet to accompany me to the parlour.—Sir William seemed surprised at seeing me walk, and said he was just then coming to assist me, or, as the old ballad said, to take up his load of vanity.
When I sat down to table, I found myself extremely ill;—I tried to eat, but in

vain.—I soon retired after dinner, and sat down to write this account of my mortification to you.—It is now eight o' clock, and I can no longer support the violent pain in my head, or hold the pen.—
Adieu, adieu, my sister, My friend, my confident,

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



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

must therefore be short, but it will tell my sister that I live, and, notwithstanding my desiring her to forget me, I still flatter myself that my life is of consequence to her happiness.
The moment I had sealed my last letter to you, I found myself unable to sit up, and went to bed, but not to rest. About eleven Sir William came into my chamber, and on finding me extremely feverish, muttered something about fine ladies being always vapourish, or indisposed, and wished me a good night.
Never was health more sincerely welcomed by a dying wretch, than sickness was now by me—I hoped, I trusted, I should be released! and invoked the king of terrors, with the unhappy Constance,

" Oh amiable, lovely death!
" Arise forth from thy couch of lasting night,
" Thou hate and terror to prosperity;
" Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest,
" And kiss thee as thy wife: misery's love,
" Oh come to me!"

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

that Sir William was much afflicted during my illness; and that though Colonel Walter endeavoured to console him, yet he also appeared much affected, and quitted the house the next day.
May the miseries which he has brought upon me, make a proper impression on his heart, and turn his detested passion into contrition for his crimes, and compassion for the sufferings of his injured wife! As soon as I was pronounced out of danger, Sir William went to visit a distant part of his estate, where he is establishing a manufacture.—He has been gone ten days, and in that time, I think both my mind and body have acquired strength; perhaps it is owing to the weakness of the latter, that the former is more composed. But I will

endeavour to enjoy the temporary calm, though I fear that the storm has only subsided, and may perhaps return with double fury, to wreck this feeble bark—Be that as it may, I shall ever remain
Your truly affectionate sister, L. BARTON.
P.S. Where and how is Mrs. Walter? assure her of my kindest remembrance: her sufferings are so deeply engraved on my heart, that not even my own can efface them—Happy Fanny! that have been able to mitigate even a part of her sorrows, by removing the bitter pangs of maternal anxiety for the fate of a beloved child!



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

the extraordinary events which have happened within a very short space, that though my heart is truly sensible of your afflictions, I find it impossible to give its feelings vent, till I have informed you of a circumstance which I am certain will afford you the sincerest pleasure.
Delia! my brother's beloved Delia! Delia Colville lives! as Zanga says,
"First recover that, and then you shall hear further."
—Our good angel! our dear Mrs. Walter! received a letter from Pere Guillaume, about the middle of last month, acquainting her that he would meet her at Calais, and attend her to what part of France she pleased; but were he to recommend any particular convent, it should be Les Dames Ursulines, at St. Omers, as the superior

was his near relation, and particular friend.

This reeommendation was perfectly agreeable to Mrs. Walter, for many reasons; the vicinity of St. Omers to England, was perhaps the strongest, as it flattered her with the hopes of seeing me, at some time or other, if she lived; and rendered the immediate removal of her daughter convenient, in case of her death.
I accompanied her to Dover, and feared that I had taken my last farewell of my amiable friend, when I saw her embark for Calais—I heard from her, in a few days after our parting, and she was not worse—I had then determined to spend the remainder of the summer

at Cleveland-hall, in executing some little romantic plans of improvement, in order to amuse myself, and surprise Sir George at his return from Italy, which he had promised should be before winter. But a second letter from Mrs. Walter afforded me an opportunity of surprising him, indeed! She told me that in the convent where she then resided, there was a very beautiful young English lady, who went by the name of Wilson, who, upon having seen the address of her letter to me, as it went to the tour, in order to be sent to the post office, implored her permission to speak to her in private; that some time had elasped before she could find an opportunity, and when she did, she informed her that her name was Colville, Delia Colville! I again repeat it! That she had been placed there,

by her mother, without her knowledge, or consent, who had desired that she might be closely confined, debarred the use of pen and ink, and prevented from even going into the parlour, or conversing with any of the pensioners; as she was represented to be so artful, that she would corrupt and impose on them by the insincere plausibility of her manners, and was actually upon the point of disgracing her family, by a shameful connection with a man of inferior rank and fortune.—That in consequence of this cruel aspersion, she had been treated with the utmost severity that the rules of the convent would admit of, and that from the time of her entrance, till that moment, she had never heard from her mother, or any other person whatsoever.

She then, blushing, mentioned Sir George Cleveland, and said she had long vainly flattered herself, that he would have sought her out, and released her from so inquitous and cruel a confinement; but that if even he had forgotten and forsaken her, she was convinced that his sister's humanity would interest itself in behalf of an oppressed and injured person, whom she had once honoured with the name of friend!
She added, that the mildness of her temper, and the perfect acquiescence she had shown under the severe restraints that were imposed on her, had influenced the nuns to treat her with less harshness than at first, and that she had been lately allowed the honour of conversing with the superior; but that the moment she attempted

to justify herself from her mother's slander, she was enjoined silence, and obliged to retire to her cell; after having this reflection urged against her, that it must be always more natural to suppose children to be undutiful or ungrateful, than that parents should be unkind or unjust. This maxim is certainly true, in general; but there are sometimes instances which occur in life, that baffle all philosophy, with regard to the human mind.
O, my Louisa, does not your heart grieve for the sufferings of the innocent and unoffending Delia? When Mrs. Walter promised her to acquaint me with her situation, she cried out,
"It is enough! I know Miss Cleveland; I shall be released! Yet sure Sir George will at least accompany his sister, if

she should come to take me out of my confinement, and I shall see him once again."

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

The moment I received Mrs. Walter's letter, I went immediately to councellor

W—, to know what were the proper and legal steps to be taken for the recovery of my beloved Delia: he told me he would wait on the lord chancellor, next day, and furnish me with proper powers to compel Mrs. Colville to produce her daughter in the chancery-chamber, who, as a minor, was to be considered as a ward of the court, though the guardianship of her person and fortune had been before granted to her detestable mother.
I then returned home, wrote to Mrs. Walter, and enclosed a few lines to Delia, entreating her to keep up her spirits, till I could effect her release, which I promised to do with the utmost expedition.—I ordered my clothes to be packed up, and a chaise with four horses to

be in readiness, the next day; and the moment Counsellor W— furnished me with my instructions, I set out for Dover, accompanied by my maid and two men servants.—There was a messenger dispatched at the same time, with his lordship's order, to Mrs. Colville; but if she should not be found, or should abscond upon receiving it, I am to apply to Lord H—, our ambassador in France, whom I have the honour of being very well acquainted with, to procure a special mandate from the court of Versailles, for her release.
I wrote to my brother, who is now at Naples, in a very ambiguous stile, hinting as if I had heard some vague report of Delia's being alive; for I durst not trust him with the mighty joy at once,

as I have been told that the sudden effects of that passion have sometimes been as fatal in their consequences, as those of grief.
I then informed him of my intention of going to Paris; and said, as I knew all places were indifferent to him, I hoped he would have galantry enough to meet me there, as the pleasure I promised myself in seeing him, was the principal cause of my undertaking the journey.
The moment of my arrival at St. Omers, I was met by Mrs. Walter: I need not describe to you the effects of our interview.—I flatter myself that she looks better than she did: she says the joy she feels at having been, though accidentally,

the instrument of good to the amiable Delia, has roused her spirits from the torpid state they had continued in, while she considered herself but as an useless burden, or, at best, an insignificant blank, in life.
She told me she had not had an opportunity of seeing Miss Colville since she received my letter, but at prayers; that she had endeavoured to render her looks as expressive as possible, by the cheerfulness of her air; and that Delia seemed to understand the hint in her favour. She advised me not to go to the convent, as it was certain that I should not be permitted to see Miss Colville; and her hearing that I had been there, might throw her off her guard, so far, as to alarm the nuns, and make them confine

her still more closely, or perhaps, tranfer her, as is sometimes the case, over to some other convent.
I was convinced by her reasons, and, restraining my fond impatience, I set out the next morning for Paris, where I arrived last night, and have the mortification to learn, this morning, that Mrs. Colville is gone to Toulouse, as it is thought, to settle there.—The lord chancellor's messenger is gone off post to her; and here must I remain till his return.
And now let me assure my Louisa, that not even the joy I feel at the certainty of Delia's restoration, can prevent me for a moment from sympathizing, in the tenderest manner, with her distress;

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

Surely, Louisa, you ought to think Lord Lucan to blame, with regard to the picture; he must have hazarded your reputation, by making a confidante of the person who placed it on your table. Can it be possible that the enamoured Harriet can have verified, nay exceeded, the romantic ideas of submissive tenderness, which Prior has given us in the character of his Emma.
I know not what to think; but if Harriet be indeed the confidante of Lord Lucan, she claims the highest degree of admiration, that the strongest fortitude, joined with the tenderest sensibility, can possibly excite—But this character comprehends, perhaps, something more than woman. Do not be outdone by her, my sister, but strive to emulate the virtue which you must admire.

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

and call for all my attention—I wish you could be prevailed upon to try this recipe—For indeed I am, for many reasons, more anxious for your recovery even than for my own! My malady can only injure an individual, and that myself: yours, like a contagion, must be fatal to many—Stop the infection then, before it spreads, and you will hereafter reflect, with pleasure, that so many persons, who are, and ought to be, dear to you, are indebted for their happiness, to your virtue.—I am convinced that this sentiment will have more weight with you, than any selfish consideration could; for full well I know the nobleness of my Louisa's nature.
I was much pleased with Sir William's behaviour, on account of your supposed

lameness; and still more so, with your candour, in relating it to me; as there is no doubt but that his kindness must have luckily increased your own self-condemnation.
I wish Harriet would make you the confidante of her innocent passion for Lord Lucan; as your tenderness for her, joined to your own delicacy, would then restrain you from the too dangerous indulgence of talking of him, at least before her; and I should then wish that she might not be a moment out of your sight.
Forgive me, my ever dear and amiable sister! for presuming to dictate to a heart and understanding like yours; but the greatest physician will not prescribe

for himself when sick, and will even condescend to take the advice of a person whose skill he knows to be inferior to his own—All I can plead in favour of my present prescription is, that I have tried it myself with success, and that it is recommended to you by the warmest affection of



Naples.
I Verily believe, my dear Lucan, that there never was a more unfortunate kinght-errant than myself, and that the renowned hero of La Mancha was but a prototype, both of my folly and my

sufferings. I think, I want nothing but a 'squire as tristful as yourself, to record my misadventures in the stile of a ballad, called the Disastrous Traveller, or Lord Hume's Garland—which would certainly supersede the Babes in the Wood, and Barbara Allen, in the English Chronicle; and set all the nursery-maids and children in our nation a-blubbering.
My last informed you how completely I was duped at Venice; that I had lost my mistress, and my money:
"Bagatelles! not worth thinking of, say you; cheaply off, for some thousands,"
&c. &c.—Well! philosophy is a fine thing, said I to myself! and I will endeavour to think like Lord Lucan—But I had better have recollected the famous sentence recorded to have been uttered

from the pulpit, by an Irish bishop (who by the way was an Englishman,) and prepared myself for what was to follow—
"Single misfortunes, (said his reverence) never come alone, and the greatest of evils is attended by greater."

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

I did not choose to leave my baggage to the care, or rather mercy, of the postilion, and as it was not quite dark, I ordered Saunders, you know old Robert, to stay by the chaise, till I could send people from Tivoli, either to mend it, or assist him to bring my trunks to some place of safety.
I had not walked half a league, when I was attacked by banditti, who demanded my purse, and on my attempting to make some resistance, as I wore a couteau de chasse, they knocked me down, gave me several cuts over the head, stripped me of my money, clothes, and watch, and left me for dead on the spot.
As it grew late, Saunders became alarmed for my safety, and tried to prevail

on the postilion to let him have one of the horses, in order to overtake and guard me on the road to the town. The fellow either was, or pretended to be, afraid to stay by himself, they therefore mounted the pair, and set out together for Tivoli.
As I was left directly in the highway, the horses started as they came up to me, and when the men alighted to see what was the matter, they found me weltering in my blood, but with so much appearance of life that I still breathed, and sometimes groaned.—Poor old Saunders tore off his shirt to bind up my wounds, as well as he could in the dark, and covered me with his own clothes, while the postilion rode off in search of a surgeon and a litter, to convey me to some shelter.

My senses did not return till the next day, when I found myself covered with bandages, and so faint and weak with loss of blood that I could not speak. Saunders gave a scream of joy, at seeing me open my eyes, and recounted what had befallen me.
I lay in this state of misery above three weeks, and when I was able to rise, I had not a single garment of any sort to put on; for the postilion, I presume, considering that I should have no further occasion for them, had assumed to himself the office of an executor, and carried off my baggage, with the chaise and horses, and got clear out of his Holiness's dominions before there was any inquiry made after him.
I sent Saunders off immediately to Rome, with a draught on my banker,

which he received, and returned as quick as possible; but I was still unable to travel, and a wound which I had received in my right arm, prevented my being able to use a pen, without suffering extremely—Let this account for your not hearing from me during my confinement.
As I had a good deal of leisure to reflect upon my own folly, I determined to grow wise incontinently; and thought the best proof I could give of my discretion, was to turn my steps towards England—I was however obliged to go to Rome, for a few days, to settle with my banker—As soon as my business was dispatched, I set out, in pursuance of my plan, and have arrived thus far, on my route over.

I went, as was natural, to the house where I had formerly lived with Margarita; and could not help making some inquiries after her: to my great surprise, they told me that she was then in this city, and lived in a most exemplary manner, with an ecclesiastic, who was believed to be her brother.
A spirit of revenge took possession of me the moment that I heard of this pretended priest and brother, and I determined to see my fallen angel, upbraid her with her perfidy, and punish the villain who had robbed me of my mistress, and cheated me of my money.
I wandered about Naples, for several days, without being able to discover any trace of her: at last I bethought myself

of visiting the churches, for as she now pretended to be a devotee, I might possibly meet her in one of them—Accordingly I one day saw a woman kneeling at a confessional, who, though she was veiled, I immediately knew to be Margarita.
I waited for a long time before she had concluded her devotions, and joined her just as she was going out of the porch; when I spoke to her, she lifted up her veil, and looked at me with a countenance so full of sweetness, that I instantly forgot my resentment, and could have fallen at her feet, and entreated her to be reconciled to me.
She spoke to me in a low voice, and said,
"I have used you ill, my lord, but I have been severely punished for my

crime; I dare not hope you should again receive me into your favour, but come and accept of all the restitution that is now in my power to make you; I live in the Strada del Santo Marco; my tyrant will be asleep by eleven o'clock, I shall then at least have an opportunity of imploring your forgiveness—I dare not talk to you longer, adieu."

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

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

When we had lodged him properly, and I had got a slight wound, which I had received, dressed, I communicated the whole of my adventure frankly to Sir George, and wished him to accompany me in pursuit of that worthless woman, whom I supposed to be an accomplice in the intended assassination, and whom I now resolved to give up to justice.
Sir George is a gallant fellow, Lucan. He talked so very rationally, that he dissuaded me from my purpose, as he said the bringing Margarita to punishment, if I should have resolution sufficient to do so, must of necessity expose myself; observing also, that I ought not to pursue a wretch with too much rigour, whom I had formerly contributed to render abandoned.

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

But to conclude, for I begin to think you are heartily tired, as even I grow a little weary, though I am talking of myself, which is the pleasantest of all subjects.—The next morning brought me a most doleful letter, from my Fair Penitent, entreating me, for the love I once bore her, not to prosecute her brother,

as she still affected to stile him, declaring herself entirely innocent of any evil intentions of his, with regard to my life, and offering to refund whatever remained of the jewels she had robbed me of, provided I would but remit the prosecution.
I consulted with Cleveland, who advised me not to be prevailed on to suffer such a pest to society, as Pere Jacques, to escape; but if he would give up his accomplices, to use my interest to get them all sent to the gallies together; as to la bella Signora, he thought I should make terms with her also, and let her compound for her crimes by a life of repentance—That the jewels she mentioned, should be sold, in order to pay her pension among les Filles repenties, where she should be obliged to enter on her probation immediately.

I was charmed with this scheme, and by his assistance have happily put it in execution.—Would he could be as successful in restoring me to the esteem of an amiable woman, as he has been in extricating me from the artifices of a vile one—But I have never yet dared to name Miss Cleveland to him; and I will patiently go through a year of probation under his eye, before I even presume to hope that he will favour my suit.—In the mean time I am happy to find, from his behaviour, that he is a stranger to mine, upon that occasion.
He talks of returning to England in a few months.—I am determined to accompany him, and I hope that you will have got so far the better of your romantic passion, by that time, as to quit

your sorrowful solitude, and meet us there.
Here ends my woeful story, which however, has had a fortunate conclusion. May all your adventures terminate as happily, sincerely wishes your
affectionate friend HUME.
P.S. I have this moment received a billet from Sir George Cleveland, acquainting me that he means to set out immediately for Paris—This is a sudden flight, but I am determined to accompany him. Direct to me accordingly.



My dear Hume,
I Sincerely congratulate you on the operatical denouèment of your Italian comedie; and think that even Metastasio has not wound up any of his catastrophes with more poetical justice, than you have shown in the disposal of your dramatis personae.
But the most enviable part of your good fortune, is the having met with such a friend as Sir George Cleveland, whose knowledge of the world, joined to an excellent understanding, and an amiable heart, (all which he has shown in the management of your affair with Margarita) must render him at once an object of your

affection and respect; and afford you an opportunity of benefiting, both by his precepts and example.
I have not the honour of knowing Sir George, but have heard his character, description, and story. He is neither older, wiser, nor better principled than you are; to what then are we to impute the difference between the preceptor and the pupil? To nothing more than a circumstance which I am glad to lay hold of, for your instruction. He had conceived a strong, but chaste passion, for a woman of merit, whose name I know not; than which, nothing in nature more elevates the mind, improves the understanding, refines the manners, and purges the affections of man. His mistress is dead, I hear lately, but the influence

of virtue reaches beyond the grave; for a heart once rendered pure, like a transmuted metal, can never degenerate into its original baseness again.
I have often thought that many of the errors of our young men of quality, are owing to a wrong choice of the governors to whom they are entrusted, at the most critical era of their lives, when their passions are strongest, and their judgment weakest—I mean when they are thought old enough to be sent abroad for improvement, and not deemed wise enough to conduct themselves.
Fathers and guardians, on this occasion, generally fix on some person of learning, which by the ignorant is frequently mistaken for sense; as what is

called a liberal education, is as falsly, and frequently, supposed to be as synonimous with a liberal mind.
The greatest blockheads I have ever known, have been bred in college—Neither absurdity nor meanness prevent a man from becoming master of a language, nor of arriving at a competent knowledge in any particular branch of science.
But these are not the qualifications necessary to form a noble mind; and yet an ignorant pedant, is not only the first person from whom we receive the rudiments of education, but is too often the last, to whose final care we are consigned, to receive that fine polish, to which our mind and manners owe their most distinguished

lustre—that moral enamel, which both brightens and preserves.
If I should ever be happy enough to see a son of mine at a fit age to send abroad, I shall endeavour to find out a governor for him, qui a vecú; I mean one who, with a complete experience of the world, has both sense and virtue sufficient to detest vice, admire virtue, and yield indulgence to the foibles and irregularities of youth and inexperience; whose morality should exceed
" The fixed and settled rules,
" Of vice, and virtue, in the schools;"
and whose principles of religion, though perfectly conformable to our established mode of worship, should, with regard to the best characteristic of it, know no difference of sect, but extend itself to the

outermost line of the great circle of charity, which embraces all mankind.

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

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

or rather of atonement, though you were to spend it in the severe penance which your prototype Don Quixote endured, for the disenchantment of Dulcinea, upon the Black Mountain.

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

have been to meet you in London; but as you have now a much stronger inducement than my company, to urge your return, I shall remain in what you call my sorrowful solitude, as it is now not only become pleasant, but dear to me; for solitude is sometimes the nurse of contentment, as well as of woe.
From this hint, you will conclude my heart to be more at ease, than when I wrote last to you, and your conclusion will be just.—It is, indeed, much more at ease, yet more anxious still—Love deals in contradictions you see.
I shall now conclude, with subscribing myself, my dear Hume's
affectionate friend, and servant, LUCAN.



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

Cleveland has been so totally taken up with some private business of his own, that poor melancholy I have been left to the pleasant amusement of contemplating my own extravagance, and folly, which has, you know, deprived me of the happiness of seeing, or conversing with his charming sister, who has met him here; and as I quitted Naples almost at a minute's warning, I left old Robert to pack up my clothes, and bring them after me.
In this situation I could not possibly make my appearance in public, or even venture to visit any of my quondam acquaintance, in my travelling-dress.—I spent two days, tout seul, and found an unlucky truth, that any company would be less dull to me than my own.

On this discovery I sallied forth, and in sauntering along the Boulevard, I happened to meet Jack Wilson, of the guards, who is as dissipated a genius as myself. I proposed to him our going to dine at some of the environs of Paris, to which he readily agreed—A chaise was ordered directly, we drove of to Noisy le Sec.
We walked about while dinner was preparing, and at a little distance observed a castle, defended by a deep moat, great iron gates, a draw-bridge, and immense high walls.—The appearance of this extraordinary mansion, roused my chivalry; I figured to myself a beauteous damsel confined there by some horrid enchanter, or giant, and determined that I would, if possible, set the fair captive

free. Wilson laughed at my romantic ideas, but they had taken too strong possession of me to be easily baffled.
When we returned to our inn, we inquired from our host, who were the inhabitants of that Gothic fortress.—He told us they were two very beautiful young ladies, of high birth and large fortunes, who being determined never to marry, yet disliking the severities of a convent, had chose to seclude themselves from the world in that retirement.
He added, that the curiosity of all the neighbouring gentry, was so highly raised, that many attempts had been made to get a sight of these fair recluses, but in vain; for no mortal had ever seen

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

We rose, and called our host into council, who assured us that the castle was inaccessible, unless we were mad enough to venture our lives by swimming over a deep fossé, which defended it in front, or scrambling through a thicket of briars, which prevented our approach on the other side; and that if we should even be able to subdue these difficulties, there was still an immense high wall to climb, which no man could get over without hazarding life or limb.
Opposition but increased our ardour, and we at last resolved to attempt the thicket, in preference to the fossé, as we thought we should make a better appearance in the eyes of these supposed charmers, even with our clothes torn, than after emerging dripping wet out of

a dirty ditch.—And by the way, Lucan, I think that all the water in and about Paris, wants washing, as was said once, by a witty friend of mine. I never saw such a muddy puddle in my life, as their boasted Seine—The yellow Tiber, or the Bristol Severn, are crystal to it.
I will not detain you by repeating the fatigues and difficulties we suffered, in this attempt; suffice it to say that our clothes were torn, and our hands, legs, and faces, as much scratched, as if we had made a party on the pantiles with a group of amorous tabbies.—But what are not patience and perseverance able to subdue?
In short we scaled the walls, and seated ourselves in a good pleasant arbour, in

a corner of the garden, valuing ourselves on our heroic achievement, and impatiently expecting the reward of our toils, by being blessed at last with a view of these fair vestals.
In a short time after we had made our lodgement in this redoubt, to our inexpressible delight, we heard the sound of female voices talking in a cheerful lively tone; and soon saw two ladies walking towards us, down an alley that fronted the harbour we were in.
But no language will ever be able to describe our amazement, when the speakers had advanced near enough to be clearly seen, and distinctly heard by us.—No idea either of Venus or the Graces, or Diana and her Nymphs, will suit the description—But if you can rumage up

any recollection of Cybele, or for that matter you need not go so far back, as mother Shipton will serve as well, to represent the two old hags, that appeared then before us.

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

When they approached the arbour, perceiving us they started too, in their turn, and would have fled back, if their

old shanks had been supple enough to have corresponded with their fears; but we soon quieted their apprehensions, by the mildness of our demeanour, and the frank confession we made of the romantic curiosity which had prompted us to this frolic.
Being thus recovered from this alarm, they both laughed immoderately at the awkward confusion which appeared in our faces; and one of them, addressing us with infinite good humour and vivacity, said,
"We are extremely obliged to you gentlemen, or rather courteous knights, for the perils you have encountered, for our sakes; and also for convincing us that the noble spirit of chivalry, is not yet quite extinct in the world. Believe me, we wish rather more earnestly

than you, that we were possessed of those charms which you expected to have met with, in this galant adventure; but youth and beauty are transitory things, and with them we have lost the admiration of your sex, and merely in sport had yet a mind to try if it was not still in our power to occasion a disappointment as great, though not indeed so severe, as any young and beautiful coquette might make her lover feel. If I may judge by your countenances, I think we have so far succeeded; and the only amends we can make you, for having sped our frolic, is to desire the favour of your company to dinner, and to promise to convey you back again, by a shorter and pleasanter road than you came, to Noisy le Sec, without any further damages than what the view of our persons seems

already to have made you pay for your peeping."

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

Before we parted, Wilson and I both promised her not to disclose their secrets, if she chose to carry on the jest for any further time; but she gave us leave to publish it to our friends, if we pleased, as she meant to quit that place immediately; said she and her companion were both tired of their voluntary confinement, and did not believe that, if they were to remain there seven years longer, any Frenchman would ever give himself as much trouble about them as we had had done.
I charged myself with some commissions, pour mes belles antiques, which I shall execute in England with the most knightly punctuality imaginable, and returned laughing to Paris, about an hour ago.—Robert is arrived with my baggage:

I shall dress and go to the Comedie, though I believe it will be near over, before I get there.
As I am resolved to attend Sir George Cleveland's motions, and that he seems to be upon the wing, I shall not expect to hear from you, while I remain upon the continent, but hope to find a pacquet from you, at my arrival in old England; till then, adieu, my dear Lucan, says
yours, HUME.



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


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

say little of myself.—I am recovering from my late illness, though slowly; Sir William is returned, in an alarming state; he fell from his horse, about a fortnight ago; his physician apprehends that he has received some inward hurt, as he spits blood ever since.—My attention to him is unremitted, he seems pleased with it; and I begin once more to flatter myself that my Fanny's prediction may yet be verified.
Colonel Walter has renewed his visit, and made several attempts to speak to me alone, which I have happily evaded; for when I am absent from Sir William, I take care to keep Harriet constantly with me—I perceive he is mortified at my caution, in which, however, I am determined to persevere.

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

have his detested and unsuccessful attempts brought me near the grave—Heaven preserve me from a third! I shudder at the bare apprehension!
Your wishes with regard to my becoming Harriet's confidante, are almost accomplished; for she has confessed to me that she corresponded with Lord Lucan during my illness, and also that she concealed my danger from him, as she judged what his sufferings would be, on that occasion, by her own.—Was ever any thing more truly delicate, than her endeavouring to save him pain?
She offered to show me his letters; I refused to see them, and told her I had no doubt of his friendship for me, or the propriety and politeness of his

manners towards her, but that I could not help observing to her, as a friend, without the authority of a parent, that I feared there was something inconsistent with the strict rules of decorum, in her carrying on such a correspondence.
She blushed extremely, and I could perceive there was something more still labouring in her artless bosom—Lord Lucan's picture came into my thoughts, at the same time, yet I had not resolution sufficient to ask her a single question relative to it.
After a minute's silence, I saw that her face was bathed with tears, she caught my hand, and said,
"I have been much more imprudent, Madam, than you yet know of; but if you will be my

friend, indeed—Alas! I have no other! and conceal what is past, from my uncle, I will tell you all my folly, and submit my future conduct to your direction."
—I gave her every possible assurance that the tenderest friendship could suggest, and I know not which of us was most agitated during this scene—She owned her having lent my picture to Lord Lucan, at his most earnest entreaty, on condition that he should give her his; that he had kept his promise, but that she had been so unfortunate as to lose his gift; and that she had lived in perpetual apprehension, ever since, lest any accident might betray this act of indiscretion to her uncle, or to me.—But that she still more dreaded its injuring Lord Lucan, by raising a suspicion of his being her lover, when heaven, and she could tell, he had not such a thought!


Her colour rose to crimson, as she pronounced the last sentence with clasped hands and streaming eyes—I never beheld a more animated figure.—Generous Harriet! I said softly to myself, and my heart reverberated the sound—What pains has it cost her to defend the fidelity of the man she loves, to her rival!—Yes, Fanny, I will emulate the virtue I admire; every effort of my life shall be exerted to promote Harriet's happiness, and from that pure and unsullied source I will endeavour to derive my own!
I confess I am pleased at being able to acquit Lord Lucan of the indiscretion of having made a confidante; his picture must have fallen into the hands of Colonel Walter, when Harriet lost it, and the vile artful wretch contrived to place

it as a snare for me, and watched the moment.
How to recover it for the innocent owner, is now the question? I cannot think of any prudent, and therefore possible means, of effecting this, at present. I can neither ask it as a favour, with a safe condescension, nor demand it as a right, without danger.
The variety of distressful subjects with which my late letters have been filled, have so much engrossed my thoughts while writing to you, that I have never mentioned a circumstance which has given me sincere satisfaction, the recovery of Mr. Creswell, Lucy Leister's lover—His father is since dead, by which he is now become Sir Harry Creswell—Ma chere amie

est au comble de ses voeux, but delays the completion both of her own and her lover's happiness, till I am able to be present at the joining of those hands, whose hearts have long been united.
Sir William's indisposition prevents me from having their nuptials celebrated here, as the custom of this country would, on that occasion, require such an exertion of what is called hospitality, which is another term for drinking, as might be prejudicial to him; and my attendance on him restrains me from going up to Dublin to her, so that our wishes alone can attend upon this happy union.
Sir William is not calculated for solitude; he is now debarred from field-sports, and every kind of exercise, and

he seeks for amusement from books, in vain—That taste which can alone render reading pleasant, or useful to us, must be acquired in youth; the Muses, like the rest of their sex, resent neglect, and may be wooed, but not won, by those who only seek them as a supplement to more lively pleasures,
"Youth's the season made for joy,"
and for literature also.

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

Harriet and I have often wondered that no hint relative to Mrs. Walter has ever escaped the Colonel—I am sometimes tempted to think that he believes us ignorant of that affair; but when I recollect his blushing, in the temple, upon some hint of mine relative to it, I change my opinion.—What a heart must that man have! How black! and of course, how wretched! I am inclined to believe, that the wicked expiate a great part of their sins, in this world, by their constant fear of detection.
Sir Arthur and Miss Ashford are often with us. I begin to apprehend that she has a partiality for Colonel Walter, and am distressed how to act on this occasion—Should I speak of him as I think, she may attribute my sentiments, either

to private pique, or a general love of slander, as I am not at liberty to acquaint her with those facts, on which my dislike to him are too justly founded—Yet will it not be an act of baseness, to suffer this charming girl to throw away her affections on such a wretch? Think for me, Fanny, and direct me how to conduct myself, in this critical situation.
Give a thousand loves and congratulations for me, to my brother, and his
" Latest found! Heaven's last, best gift!"
Wishes for their happiness must be superfluous, yet they have mine most truly—accept the same from your ever

affectionate sister, LOUISA BARTON.

P.S. I find I cannot write a short letter to you—When I began this, I determined not to exceed a page, but, like Eloise,
" My heart still dictates, and my hand obeys."
And wherefore should I restrain them, or debar myself from the greatest satisfaction I enjoy? I am not good catholic enough to have faith in the merits of voluntary penances, especially as I feel that I am not without my share of those that are imposed on us—No works of supererogation for me—Once more, adieu.




PARIS still, but on the point of quitting it, in a few hours.—My brother arrived here, on Sunday night, and with him—but no matter—He is not of sufficient consequence to interrupt a narrative in which we are all so much interested.—You may be curious tho'—Lord Hume then came with Sir George, from Naples! he has had a thousand ridiculous adventures in Italy—I have not seen him yet, and do not know when I shall.
My eyes, as you apprehended, certainly told tales; for the moment Sir George saw me, he said there is a glad expression in my sister's face, that would almost

tempt me to hope, beyond the bounds of reason; but, alas! Fanny, there is no redemption from the grave!
True, Sir George, I answered, but perhaps your treasure may not yet be consigned to that strong chest.—He caught my hand, and pressing it to his heart, cried out, it is impossible that you should mean to trifle with my anguish! Yet did she not expire at Amiens?
She never was at Amiens, I replied—Where! where then did her pure spirit take its flight, and quit her lovely form?—You must be more composed, Sir George, before I can talk further on this subject.—Why was it started, Fanny? Why are my wounds all made to bleed afresh? Can you delight in cruelty!

Far from it, you know how tenderly I sympathized with your distress, when I believed her dead—If there is a cause in nature, that can make you doubt it now, O! speak it quickly, and ease my anxious heart!
I have strong reasons to believe she lives, or I should not thus have alarmed you—My friend, Mrs Walter, has seen and conversed with a young lady, of the name of Delia Colville, in a convent at Saint Omer's, who may be her.
He dropped upon his knees—and exclaimed—Gracious Heaven! but realize this blessed vision, let me no longer mourn my Delia's loss, and unrepining will I then submit to all that fate or fortune can inflict upon my future days!

Speak, speak on, my sister! and say again that you believe she lives!—Indeed I do believe so, my dear brother—He rose and caught me in his arms, while the large drops ran plenteous down his cheeks—Tears relieved us both.
I then proceeded to acquaint him with those circumstances which I have already informed you of; as I thought I might now venture to speak to him with more certainty, and that I felt too much pain in keeping him longer doubtful—His transports increased, and it is utterly impossible to give any idea of the excess of his joy.
It was with difficulty I could prevent his going at midnight to Lord H—; but though I prevailed on him to defer his

visit till morning, I could not persuade him to go to bed, or attempt to take any rest or food, except a little wine and water, and the whole night was spent in repeating what I had told him before, and re-reading Mrs. Walter's letter.
Selfish mortal! as he is, he barely mentioned his having extricated Lord Hume out of some doleful disasters, that befell him at Naples, in which an opera-singer was the principal performer.—But what consequence could he suppose the story to be of, to me?
Though I neither am, or ever mean to be connected with his Lordship, I am pleased that my brother saved his life, and that by his means he has got quit of an artful woman, who might probably

have ruined his fortune; and I have a kind of satisfied pride also, in thinking that he is so much indebted to our family.
I am afraid there is something mean in the above reflection—but I am not now at leisure enough to trace it back to its source—at some other time I will fairly and philosophically investigate its nature, and receive or reject it, according as I find it derived from a good or bad origin.
Long before the ambassador's servants were stirring, my brother attempted his door, and I think he returned three times before his excellency was visible. As soon as he had acquainted him with his business, Lord H— very obligingly

set out with him, for Versailles, and has promised to get the order for Delia's enlargement as much expedited as possible.
My brother, as you may suppose, remains in waiting, till it is finished, and is then to call on me, and fly to St. Omers, without staying for the return of the chancellor's messenger from Toulouse. I have sat all day in my travelling dress, as I would not delay him for any consideration.
I mentioned your joy on the recovery of Delia; he returns your love, an hundred-fold, and says he will write both to you and Sir William, as soon as his spirits are a little more composed.
I fear to attempt answering my dear Louisa's letter, at present, as I expect

to be summoned by my brother every instant.
His carriage turns into the porte cochere, this moment. Adieu,
ma tres chere soeur,



St. Omers.
THOUGH I have been here three days, my head is still giddy with the violent motion and emotion I have gone through, since I left Paris.—We set out the moment I had sealed my last letter to you, and travelled with as much expedition as French roads, horses, and post-boys would permit. Sir George

was determined to stop at Amiens, and notwithstanding the certain assurances I had given him that his Delia was alive, he seemed to be strongly agitated when we drove into the town.
He inquired from our landlord, whether he recollected a young English lady's dying there, at such a time? And being answered in the affirmative, the colour forsook his cheek, he fell almost lifeless on a settee that was near him, and sighed out,
"Ah Fanny! why have you deceived me!"

I could not help being provoked at his weakness, and told him I did not know that he was to be a mourner for all the young English women that should die in France; that I was perfectly convinced

Miss Colville was alive and well, or I should not have set out on our present expedition; but if he was inclined to think otherways, he had better not pursue the journey any farther.
He replied, with his usual mildness—
" Who loves must fear,
" And sure who loves like me, must greatly fear."
But my reliance on you has banished my apprehensions, and I now only desire to inquire into this affair, to know by what means Mrs. Colville could avail herself of a stranger's death, to carry on the vile deceit she has practised.

Our host, like most others, was very well inclined to be communicative, and informed us of the following particulars; that on such a day, the diligence that

goes to Paris, stopped at his house, and set down a very pretty young woman, who was so extremely ill, that she was not able to travel farther; and that notwithstanding all possible care was taken of her, she expired on the fourth day after her coming there.
They had discovered before she died, that she was an English heretic, as she absolutely refused to let any of their clergy attend her during her illness; but they knew not even her name, nor whom she belonged to; and though her clothes and effects were sufficient to defray the expenses of her funeral, yet as she was not a catholic, she could not be interred in consecrated ground; and mine host, to use his own phrase, said he was in a perfect quondary, to know how he should dispose of the body.

But as good luck would have it, a lady and her maid arrived at his house the next day, in a post-chaise—As they were English, he acquainted them with his distress; and the maid was sent to look at the dead person, in order to know if she could give any account of her—She returned to her mistress, and they were for some time shut up together—At last the lady herself went to look at this lifeless beauty, and the moment she saw her, she gave a loud scream, and ran back into her apartment.
Some time after, the maid called for him, and told him that it was her lady's daughter who had died there, and gave some hints of her having eloped from her friends—She desired that every thing might be prepared in the best manner,

for sending the body to England; and strictly charged him not to let any person go into the chamber where she lay, but those who were immediately concerned about the body.
She added, that he might dispose of the young lady's effects as he thought proper, except a small trunk, which contained only a miniature picture, a pocket book, and some letters; and the lady would pay all the necessary expenses on this melancholy occasion.—Every thing was then done as she directed, to the mutual satisfaction of mine host, and that burier of the living and robber of the dead, Mrs. Colville.
I have not now leisure to expatiate on this extraordinary coincidence of circumstances,

yet I must observe that fortune seemed inclined to favour Mrs. Colville's deceit, by the particular situation of the young woman at Amiens, whose interment had imposed on all Delia's friends, even on her lover, and prevented any further inquiry about her.
I dare say you are by this time very impatient to get us to our journey's end; but don't be in a hurry, Louisa, for our haste in setting out before the next day occasioned a very disagreable delay, as it brought us to the gates of St. Omers, an hour after they were shut, and obliged us to pass a miserable night, in what they call an auberge, but in our country, I think it might more justly be stiled a barn.

At last the wished-for morning came, and we pursued our way directly to the convent.—It is impossible to give you any idea of my brother's emotion—When we were shown into the parlour, I desired to see the superior—I know that I must not stop here to give you a description of her person, but indeed she is a fine old lady.
As soon as she appeared, I delivered the king's mandate to her, which she read with great dignity, but not without surprise; and said if she had been imposed on, with regard to the young lady in question, she was not to blame; and added that she was ready, on the instant, to obey the king's order, by delivering Miss Colville to my care.
Sir George in a transport exclaimed,
"Let me but see her, Madam"
—There I

interposed my negative, for Delia's sake, as I feared the effects which so unexpected an interview might have upon her spirits.—It was therefore at last agreed to that I should go into another parlour, see Mrs. Walter, and send her to prepare Delia for such a joyful event.

Our amiable friend soon came to me, and I have the happiness to tell you, that she is most wonderfully recovered; but, in pity to my brother's impatience, I scarce waited to inquire her health, before I appointed her the messenger of glad tidings to our dear Delia.
She returned with her, in an instant; but when the lovely girl beheld me, she could not speak; she made an effort to put her hand through the grate, and funk down on a chair that stood near her—

Tears came to her relief, and she at last articulated,
"O, my beloved Fanny! my more than sister!"
At that word she blushed, and hid her face, as if to wipe away the tears.

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

she was brought to herself in about ten minutes, and, by the superior's permission, Sir George was admitted into the parlour with me—I thought their meeting would have killed us all—Even an old nun wept, while she administered drops and water to the whole company.—I feel myself too much affected, even at this instant, to be able to repeat the no-conversation that passed at the time. Sir George embraced me, as if I had been his mistress, and Delia clung round Mrs. Walter's neck, calling her deliverer, guardian angel! &c.
When our transports had a little subsided, I proposed our adjourning to the inn, till we could be accommodated with private lodgings; for we had before agreed to wait the return of the chancellor's

messenger at St. Omers, as it was absolutely necessary that my brother should have a little rest, after his fatigue both of mind and body—But he was not fated to taste repose as speedily as I then hoped for.
I received Miss Colville in due form, from the hands of the superior, by whom many compliments and apologies were made to her late prisoner.—Delia's behaviour was charming, for instead of reproaches for the severity she had suffered, she returned thanks for the great care that had been taken of her, and took a most polite and even affectionate leave of the whole community.
Mrs. Walter and Olivia accompanied us to the inn, and we passed the day in

mutual congratulations, and in moralizing on the providential series of incidents that had procured Delia's deliverance—But towards evening we all perceived a visible change in her countenance, and before midnight there appeared strong symptoms of a fever.
My brother was almost distracted; my heart bleeds for him—Should she again be torn from his fond heart, I think it would be impossible that he should survive the second blow—But I will hope the best—He has not gone to bed, since we left Paris; he never stirs from the ante-chamber of the room where she lies, and looks so dreadfully, that I am shocked at seeing him.
The physicians here say that she is not in danger, but they are so miserably

ignorant, that I cannot rely on their judgment in a case where I am so sincerely interested. Mrs. Walter and I sit up by turns, and never leave the dear invalid a moment; I fear she suffers from her concern for us, but she promises, and I hope will perform her engagement, to be well in a few days.
On the very day that we took her out of the convent, there came a letter from her mother, entreating the superior to send Delia to some other nunnery, and charging her to deny her ever having been there, to any person who should inquire after her.—Thank God, we have counter-acted her wicked scheme, and I trust he will restore her to our prayers and wishes!

Again excuse me, my Louisa, for not entering upon the subjects mentioned in your last letter, as the present situation of our beloved brother, and adopted sister, engrosses all my thoughts, and I cannot even allow a minute's attention to what appears a very extraordinary circumstance, which is Lord Hume's following us from Paris, and lodging directly opposite to us, at St. Omers! He sends five or six times a day to inquire Delia's health, and writes a letter once a day to Sir George.
I can't help being pleased with this appearance of attention and good-nature to my brother, and at the proper respect he shows, in not taking the advantage which he might, of obtruding himself into my presence, under pretence of visiting his friend.

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

P.S. You know that Sir George, Mrs. Walter, Delia, and Olivia, all love you, forgive me then for uniting their affections with mine, and presenting them in one bouquet together, instead of offering them to your acceptance in detached sprigs.
Delia has slept all the time I have been writing; she wakes this moment; she is much refreshed—I fly to tell Sir George.



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

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

The messenger returned from Toulouse while Delia was in the utmost danger; we did not therefore at that time trouble ourselves to inquire what Mrs. Colville had said, or done, on this extraordinary occasion; but we are since informed, that she absolutely insists on her daughter's being dead and buried, and denies

her having placed her in the convent—It is shocking to think how very near she was to speaking truth, at the very time she uttered this falsehood.
She sent off another express to the superior of the Ursulines, with a letter to tell her, that more than her life depended on her steadiness in denying her ever having received Delia into the convent; and promising to give a thousand guineas to the foundation, provided she took care to secrete her effectually.
The good old lady has put this letter into my brother's possession, and he in return, has made a present to the sisterhood of five hundred pounds.—This paper would be proof sufficient against Mrs Colville, if we had not a still more

undoubted evidence in the person of our dear Delia.
The moment her health is established, we shall return to England, and, notwithstanding my joy at her recovery, shall quit St. Omers with regret, as I cannot prevail on my beloved Mrs. Walter to accompany us.—She and her sweet little girl are perfectly idolized in the convent; and I fear if Mrs. Walter's situation would admit of her taking the veil, that she would certainly pass the remainder of her days in that quiet asylum.
To prevent this, I wish long life to the most worthless being upon earth—I should not specify Colonel Walter here, if Mrs. Colville were not alive.—I wish they were married together, and then I

am pretty sure there is not a pair, in the drawing-room of Pandaemonium, that would not readily give them due place and precedence—But I will have done with these infernals—and now for your long, too long unanswered letter.
I hope by this time Sir William's recovery has removed the anxiety you must necessarily feel on his illness, and released you from a confinement that might possibly injure your health—Were it not for these considerations, I know of few offices more pleasing than attending a person we love, in slight disorders—There is something extremely flattering to a generous mind, in the idea of administering relief to another's pains—To
" Explain the thought, explore the asking eye!"

What a delightful employment! and when crowned with success by the recovery

of our patient, we are conscious of a certain exultation in the mind, which can only arise from the certainty of having done what nature claims, and charity enjoins.
I have of late experienced great pleasure in the execution of this duty, from my attendance on Mrs. Walter, and Delia, and am therefore inclined to elevate the office of nurse-tending, by placing it amongst our rational pleasures, and rescuing it from the mean character of one of the mere duties of life.
Yet I fear I shall make but few converts to my opinion; especially amongst the gay world, who, looking upon it in such a servile light, rank it with fasting, penitence and prayer; and too often postpone them together, till they may

need them all themselves, and then are left, in their turn, to the care of servants and other mercenaries.—Mais assez sur ce point.
If Miss Ashford be a woman of sense, you run no hazard in trusting her with your opinion of Colonel Walter, though she were ever so much in love:—If she be weak, she stands more in need of such a friendly warning; and if she should break with you, in consequence of it, I think you may easily console yourself for the loss of such an acquaintance, by reflecting that you acted from a spirit of friendship, of which she has shown herself unworthy.
I perfectly approve of your conduct towards the person himself; and am, for your sake, glad to exculpate Lord Lucan

from the weakness, might I not add the dishonour, of having made a confidant.—What a charming girl is our Harriet!—I must call her so; for indeed, I have a very great claim to her affection, from having, unsolicited, bestowed so large a portion of mine on her, which I hope, when she is Lady Lucan—don't start, Louisa—and her heart quite at ease, she will generously repay.
Now, pray let me be indulged in talking a little of myself, et mon pauvre amant humilié et humiliant,—for I believe one, and confess the other.—My brother has informed me of Lord Hume's misadventures at Naples; the particulars of which I shall not trouble you with at present, as they are nothing different from the too general pranks and hazards of youthful spirits, and may serve us better

to laugh at, on the first tête-a-tête we may ever have the pleasure of enjoying together.
I bestow a generous wish that Sir George's notion about this matter may prove true; that as he has not only seen, but felt, his folly and extravagance, he may be more likely to act prudently, for the rest of his life, than if he had never erred.
This is a maxim universally propagated, and may in some instances be true; but I can scarce think it a sufficient foundation for a woman of sense, to build her happiness on—To a man who has been accustomed to the artful blandishments of an abandoned woman, I should much fear that the delicate endearments of a

wife would appear as tasteless and insipid, as true wit to the epigrammatist, or the sweetest viand to the spiced palate.
But all this is merely matter of speculation, and of no manner of consequence to me; for Lord Hume has never yet attempted to pay me a visit, either at Paris, or here; and Sir George has not hitherto been in a situation to invite him, especially as, from a very proper delicacy, he has never acquainted him with the circumstances of Miss Colville's story; and though we set out from Paris at the same time, he kept different stages from us, all the way.
The account that my brother has just given me of that particular, is this, that they had agreed at Naples, to travel together

to England, but on their arrival at Paris, and his hinting to him that I had come to meet him there, on account of some singular piece of business or other, he had immediately estranged himself from any further connection with him; saying, after his lively manner, that as he looked upon himself to be in the nature of a redeemed knight, he thought it his bounden duty to attend his deliverer, in the quality of an humble 'squire, till he had escorted him safe into his own country; but should wait upon him at such a respectful and unprying distance, as might leave the privacy, both of his conversation and transactions, perfectly free from any manner of restraint.
My brother, you know, was abroad, when our affections commenced and

grew together, while I was under the matronage of my aunt Marriot; when he returned, I had not courage enough to acquaint him with a secret, which would better have become Lord Hume himself to have informed him of, as they have ever lived on the most friendly terms together; and in the present situation of the affair, it would be extremely indiscreet and absurd to breathe the least hints of it now.
Our childish affections, as they must naturally be formed without judgment, are generally unfortunate attachments, as they sometimes leave such traces on the heart, as a long life of maturer reason can scarcely wear away; and to you I will not blush to own, that were it not for that fatal letter which Lord Hume wrote

to me from Naples, and which is as indelibly engraved on my heart as the first impression he made there, I could again be weak enough, were he to solicit it, to reassume those rosy fetters which I fancied our juvenile hands had formed sufficiently strong to hold us both for life.—But that letter, Louisa! I cannot forget it—I must therefore try to forget the writer of it!
I am, however, vastly pleased with the delicacy of his present behaviour.—I told you, in my last, that he lodges opposite to us; he is generally planted at his window, but whenever I approach mine, he bows and retires immediately.—He has, it seems, no kind of business in this place, but stays here from the mere possibility of his being in some degree, or by some

chance or other, useful to my brother, to whom he thinks himself everlastingly indebted for his kindness to him at Naples.
Gratitude cannot exist in a base mind.—How then can gratitude and ingratitude subsist in the same heart?—How can the same man run so far in arrear to the account of love, and be so ready to overpay the debt of friendship? Were he a man hackneyed in the ways of the world, I should not be so much surprised at this inconsistency of character.
Men of galantry, I have heard, consider women as bigotted catholics do heretics, and hold no faith with them;—And that sweet line which Shakespeare has put into the mouth of the innocent

Juliet, is repeated, with perhaps an equal degree of contemptible exultation, by the abandoned courtier, and the apeing cit,
" At lovers perjuries, they say, Jove laughs."
But Lord Hume is young, and youth is the spring of virtue; at least it is the season when we are most liable to feel
" The compunctious visitings of Nature,"
in consequence of our trespassing against her laws, by injuring the peace or happiness of others.

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

I congratulate you on the near prospect of happiness which opens to your friend, Miss Leister—May it terminate in the possession of all her wishes! I hope she is by this time Lady Creswell; and that my sweet little Harriet had the pleasure and honour of being her paranymph—I consider this office as a step to advancement, and I suppose most young ladies are of my opinion, as they are generally very desirous of it.
I think I have now, though slightly, touched upon every article of your last letter; and I hope to find a pacquet from you, at my return to Dover-street, and that soon, very soon after, I shall be able to give you an account of the joining of a pair, whose hearts are, I believe, as firmly united, as any that ever took

hands, from the first wedding in Eden, down to this present day.
Adieu, my dear Louisa; you are loved and remembered by all here, but by none more affectionately than



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

You will, perhaps, wonder too, till I inform you that I have the pleasure of seeing Fanny Cleveland, every day—Don't envy me, Lucan! for I am only permitted to gaze at her, across the street, where we both live, at present—I wish I had a little of the fascinating power of the basilisk in my eyes, that might make the dear girl throw herself into my arms; and may I perish if I would injure her, when she was folded there.
But how came I here in the midst of my friends, alone, you'll be curious enough to ask? To which I can make no other answer than to repeat the hint I gave you, from Paris, with regard to some mystery or other, relative to Sir George's concerns. It cannot be any affair of galantry, or a sister would not be

his confidante—it cannot be a business of honour, or I should probably have been let into the secret—we may fairly conclude then, that it must certainly be some second love engagement, or other, of difficulty, which his romantic punctilio may not leave him yet at liberty to divulge—For he appeared to be one of the knights of the sorrowful countenance, as well as your lordship, when I met him first at Naples—However that matter may be, I have taken care, ever since his reserved communication to me, never to distress him by my visits; and though we travel the same road together, I may be rather said to attend on, than accompany him, all the way.
I remember when my infatuation for Margarita was at the height, your

telling me that I loved Fanny Cleveland notwithstanding—I was surprised at an assertion then, which I now find to be true—But allowing this fact, which I suppose she must be certain of, as well as you, by my hankering after her at this rate, and the timid respect I treat her with, from my window, which is directly opposite to her's—
" Tell me my heart, if this be love."
Don't you think she uses me rather too severely? But all lover's are unreasonable—and false one's deserve mortification.

Though perhaps it may be my own fault that I am kept thus aloof; for I am such a bashful penitent, that I have not courage enough to desire leave to

wait on her, though surely some favourable interval might be contrived, even amidst the occupation of the most secret family intercourse, to afford sufficient leisure for the common decencies of friendship, or politeness.
I would give any consideration that the ••rst interview was over, end as it may; but I do noturge it, though I am convinced that Sir George knows nothing, either of the engagements, or the breach, between his sister and me—I wish I could pluck up heart of grace enough to tell him all about it. For, as I told you before, he is a very sensible man; and though he had lately some honourable attachment or other, and may perhaps have entered into a new one since—without any manner of imputation—for

constancy to the grave, is both madness and folly—yet I think it is at least ten to one, that he has had some little gayeté de coeur, in the Margarita stile, himself, at some time of his life, and therefore would not make such a fuss about a man's having strayed a little out of his road, on a common, as his prudish sister might do, who to be sure, like all other Dianas, steers exactly by rule and compass.
I wish you were here, this moment, to advise me how to conduct myself under my present difficulty, for I am in confounded awkward circumstances; and though you pretend to be a much modester youth than me, I will be hanged, were you in my situation, if you would not extricate yourself much easier than I can possibly contrive to do.

But whither has my former undaunted spirit taken its flight to, of late? I had once the courage to give a bold affront, and yet tremble now at the justice of asking pardon for it—Thus conscience, conscience, Lucan, makes cowards of us all.
If they get over to England before I have obtained leave to wait on Miss Cleveland, it is all over with me; for I may visit Sir George seven years, and never see his sister. My last resource must be to get into the same pacquet-boat with her, and pray most devoutly for a good storm, in our passage, that we may be cast away, and that I may have an opportunity, like Jaffier—
" To save her life, with half the loss of mine!"
Or else, that the waves may swallow me

and my folly together, and so leave no trace behind of your affectionate friend,

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



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

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

May prosperous gales attend our Argos; a richer sure than ever sailed from Colchis! for I do not now stand in need of the machinery of a storm—The glorious element of fire has purged away my foulness, and, like the asbestos, I am rendered pure again. My Fanny, too, rises a new-born phoenix from her nest.
I am in such spirits, Lucan, that I find it impossible to give you a rational account of this charming adventure—Suffice it then to say, that I had the happiness—that expression is too faint—anagogy* is the word—to save my Fanny's life! may I not add—I dare not pronounce it—She must, she will be grateful; in her soft looks and downcast eyes, I read my pardon signed—The regards

of anger are erect and fierce; those of disdain, oblique and scornful—But Fanny's eyes! they never were so beautiful as now—scarce raise their lovely lids, and only sparkle through their sable fringe, like stars in a clear sky.—I think that is a poetical image; beat it, Lucan, and I'll allow you to be about half as much in love as I am.
I cannot stay to scribble any more to you, rejoice with me, congratulate me, and believe me yours, sincerely
HUME.
P.S. If I ever recover my wits again, I'll deal out the particulars of my trial ordeal—but believe me I would prefer my present inebriation to all the sober sense that ever was, from Solomon down to Samuel—need I add the sir-name of Johnson here?



I Received both your letters, my dear Hume, by the same pacquet, and as I think it much pleasanter to congratulate than condole, I shall only reply to the last of them; for if you are, as I now begin to think, a true lover, your present happiness must have banished every trace of your former disquiet.
You have, indeed, my lively friend, been mightily indebted to chance, and I hope you will pardon me for saying, that it has done more in your favour than you had any right to have hoped for—But you careless fellows sometimes profit more by getting into scrapes, than we sober ones do by keeping out of them.

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

have not even dared to express my sorrow for her sufferings, or relieve my anxiety by incessant and minute inquiries about her health—We are many, many miles, asunder, almost at the opposite extremes of this kingdom; and I am debarred even the poor indulgence of lamenting by secret correspondence, the pangs I hourly feel from absence—But she is the ruler of my destiny, and I will not murmur or repine at whatever she shall ordain.
Do I not then deserve that chance or fortune should do something in favour of such an humble and patient sufferer, as I am?—Yet what can it do for me! circumstanced as my unhappy passion is, it must be criminal even to hope that those insuperable bars which now

divide us, should ever be removed—And yet my weak, my guilty heart, even at this moment, feels a gleam of joy, in thinking that there is a chance, which soon may set her free—Let me not dwell upon the subject, or breathe a wish that must render me unworthy of her.
I have received an invitation to attend the nuptials of an intimate friend of mine, who has been long in love with a very amiable young woman, but till now,
"With-held by parents."
—Though utterly unfit for any scene of festivity, I cannot refuse this summons, as I am truly interested in the happiness both of the bride and bridegroom—I shall, therefore, set out immediately for Dublin. The wedding will be celebrated

a few miles from it; but direct to me there.

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



Elm grove near Dublin.
THANK you, my Fanny, for the pleasure I have received from all your letters, but particularly for the last, which announces the glad tidings of Delia's recovery, of my brother's approaching happiness, and of your return to England.
You will see, by the date of this, that I have made an excursion from Southfield, since my last—Sir William, who is now, I hope, in a fair way of recovery, has at last consented to Lucy's most earnest and repeated request, and has kindly permitted me to attend her nuptials

—He intends to pass the time of my absence with Colonel Walter—I am sorry he has chosen him for his companion, but what arguments could I oppose to his inclinations?
On my arrival in Dublin, yesterday morning, I was met by my beloved Lucy, and her beloved lover—I never saw delicate happiness so strongly impressed upon elegant features, as it appeared in both their countenances; yet there was a little mixture of timidity in Lucy's eyes, which abated their vivacity, but increased that charming look of sensibility which is the natural result of refined tenderness—the most irresistible of female charms.
Harriet, who came with me, is in high spirits; she is to have the honour

you wished her, of being bride-maid, on this occasion—Young girls are always delighted at the prospect of a wedding, and consider that most solemn and hazardous act of our lives merely as a festival—When, alas!—But this wedding will, I hope, and believe, justify their opinion, and make a holiday for both their lives. Amen, Isay, with all my heart!
Mrs. Layton, Lucy, Harriet, and I, came here yesterday, in my coach. This morning I have been all about the place, and never saw a sweeter spot; the prospects are delightful; there is an ample view of the bay of Dublin, and of the opposite hills, which for many miles are richly cultivated and adorned with numberless gardens and villas—There

is nothing in the environs of London, half so beautiful; as neither the Thames or Medway, can pretend to vie, in beauty or in grandeur, with the ocean.
This lovely seat Sir Harry Creswell has just purchased, and settled it as a jointure house, on my fair friend; leaving his family-mansion to descend in the usual course, to his heirs male.—I am pleased with the propriety and delicacy of this action, as I have always thought it extremely cruel that a woman should be obliged to quit her house, on the death of her husband, and be as it were turned adrift in the world, at the time she has lost her chief stay and support in it.
Sir Harry is to dine with us here, this day, and to go back to Dublin,

which is just six miles off, at night: tomorrow he returns here again, to part from his Lucy no more. The ceremony is then to be performed in a neat private chapel within the demesne—Miss Creswell, a sister of Sir Harry's, is to be the other bride-maid; and his bride-men, whoever they are to be, will I suppose, attend him hither.
I hear a carriage driving furiously, and am not yet dressed—It must be Sir Harry—Lovers are impatient—'Tis he, indeed; but can I believe my sight? Lord Lucan with him! My fate pursues me! O Fanny! I can write no more.
Adieu,



THE moment I had laid down my pen, Harriet flew into my room, to express her surprise at Lord Lucan's arrival; but joy was much more predominant than wonder, in her artless eyes—Lucy came into my chamber, soon after, to assure me that she did not know of his Lordship's coming, or even that he was an acquaintance of Sir Harry's, till he introduced him to her, that instant, below stairs. Harriet replied, with unusual

vivacity,
"Surely, Miss Leister, you need not make an apology for such an agreeable addition to our society, as Lord Lucan?"
The moment these words had escaped her, her face was covered with blushes.

I took not the least notice of her emotion, though it struck me strongly, when contrasted with the different sensations of fear and anxiety that affected my heart. A thousand disagreeable thoughts rushed at once into my mind; I determined, however, to act with the utmost circumspection, and carefully to avoid any particular interview or conversation with his Lordship.
I did not quit my chamber till dinner was served;—I spent the intermediate

hour extremely ill, in forming set speeches, and fashioning my conduct to impossible rules, which all vanished out of my thoughts, like a dream, the moment I beheld Lord Lucan; and I suppose that no creature could ever have appeared more completely embarrassed upon any occasion.
His countenance, upon seeing me, was expressive of the sincerest delight; there was a brilliancy in his eye, and a liveliness in his complexion, which would have made the homeliest features pleasing—Alas! his wanted not this adventitious aid.—
My confusion soon became contagious, and seemed to throw a general damp upon the spirits of the whole company—

Even the happy Creswel abated of his cheerfulness, and often sent forth a look of inquiry, to try if he could discover the cause of his own change, in Lucy's now altered countenance.
I could not help perceiving the gloom I had spread, and endeavoured, but in vain, to rally my spirits:—they were sunk too low to be recalled.—I would have retired, but that would have been an addition to my friend's distress—We made a dull and silent meal, and I quitted the table the moment it was possible.
I withdrew immediately to my chamber, and begged to be left alone—I was indulged by Lucy, though unwillingly. I tried to account to myself for the uncommon heaviness which oppressed my

heart.—The weakness of my past conduct appeared in the most glaring light to me; and, from the agonies of remorse which I then felt, I concluded myself the most guilty of wretches.—
Yet my reason revolted against this opinion, but was still utterly unable to banish it, or to account for the sudden change in my sentiments upon this subject, as no alteration had happened, either in Lord Lucan's conduct, or my situation, from the time that I had considered my attachment to him as perfectly innocent, because it was absolutely involuntary—I became almost distracted with my doubts; and, traversing my chamber with hasty steps, I exclaimed, how poor, how insufficient is human reason, either

to direct our actions, or restrain our passions!
O Thou, that stillest the raging of the sea! and calmest the fury of the winds! abate this conflict in thy creature's breast! and point the way in which my feet should tread to find the paths of peace!—A sudden gush of tears followed this ejaculation, my mind grew calm, and I thought I could at that instant have taken an everlasting leave of Lord Lucan, with the most perfect resignation.
I continued musing upon the subject of my future conduct, for a long time; and at last determined, that I would endeavour to assume as much cheerfulness as possible, while I remained at Elm-grove; that, in a very few days after the wedding,

I would return to Southfield, but, before I went, write a letter to Lord Lucan, fully expressive of the change in my sentiments with regard to him, or rather myself, enjoining him to make no reply, nor attempt ever to see me more.
Soon after I had formed this resolution, Lucy tapped softly at my chamber-door.—She saw I had been weeping, but as I smiled, and held out my hand on her approach, she said my face might be compared to an April day, but as sunshine seemed now to prevail she hoped there would be no more showers—we joined the company, and I with pleasure perceived that I was much less constrained in my manner to Lord Lucan, and every body else, than I had been at dinner.

A little flight of Sir Harry's, at the time that the gentlemen were to leave us, and return to town, threw me into a second embarrassment—he insisted upon his being permitted to salute all the ladies, as he should never be another night a bachelor; and that Lord Lucan, and a young gentleman, whose name is Weston, and was then present, should salute Miss Leister, as she should not choose to spare them one of her kisses, when he should have an exclusive right to the sole property of them.
Young Weston, who, perhaps, mistakes vivacity for good breeding, proposed this folly's becoming general, and it was impossible to object seriously to a matter that appeared so very trifling; especially upon such an occasion as this

—Once at a wedding, you know, is a proverb.
Yet neither you, nor any of that company, will, I hope, ever know the pangs I felt at receiving a kiss from Lord Lucan.—It seemed to cost him almost as much pain as it did me, for he trembled as if he had been seized with an ague-fit.—The consent of my heart shocked me with a consciousness of guilt.—I am sorry the foolish affair happened—but I will think no more of it.
It is now near two o' clock in the morning of Lucy's wedding-day; and as I suppose I shall not have much leisure, for some time to come, I would not omit, before I lay me down to rest, if that may be, acquainting my dear confessor

and counsellor with the state of that heart, which, while it beats, will ever retain the tenderest affection for her.
Every good wish attends my brother; and I hope I may by this time add, his amiable wife.—My Fanny's claim to that title, is, I think and hope, not far distant.
The renewal of Lord Hume's connections with Sir George might have been merely accidental; but his continuing them in the manner he has done, even to the encumbrance of my brother, in his present circumstances, speaks the revival of his attachment to you much stronger than the most direct and formal proposition could possibly have done.—His attorney might perform the one, but his

passion only could be capable of the other.
Lord Hume has his merits as well as his faults; and the mild eye of my sister's charity is ever more open to the former than the latter; and, if the union I have hinted at should take place, I trust they will become every day more conspicuous.
Adieu, my Fanny.

P.S. Eight o' clock in the morning.—I have passed a miserable night—disturbed slumbers, and terrifying dreams—If I were superstitious, I should imagine some ill fate awaits me—Alas! how totally unfit am I for the festivity of a bridal day!



OUR wedding, my Fanny, was conducted with the greatest propriety and elegance; there were eighteen persons present, the eldest of whom, Mrs. Layton excepted, was not eight and twenty.—Pleasure sat smiling on every placid brow; even I endeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, but thought myself, like Lucifer in heaven, unblessed amidst the blessed!
It is said that every woman looks better on her wedding-day, than any other of her life.—I confess I never saw Lady Creswel appear so beautiful; there was a sort of serene happiness in her countenance,

which I know not how to describe; her clear brown complexion appeared almost transparent, yet was often heightened to the most becoming blush, by the fond looks of her enamoured bridegroom.
The dress of all brides is nearly the same;—you may therefore conclude, that Lady Creswel wore white and silver.—The bride-maids were dressed exactly alike, par hazard, in pale pink and silver.—My clothes were—Gracious heaven! how can I write about such trifling matters, while my heart is breaking?—I must fly, my Fanny! for ever fly from the sight of one, who becomes every hour more dangerous to my repose!

We have now been three days together under the same roof, yet have I been lucky enough to avoid any particular conversation with Lord Lucan.—He perceives my caution; his vanity is doubtless flattered by it, yet he affects to appear unhappy; his looks are expressive of the tenderest sorrow, and he sometimes gazes on me till he seems to have lost himself.
Poor Harriet watches his eyes—alas! they are but seldom turned on her! If he is really as wretched as he seems, he is to the full as much to be pitied as myself.—Why did we ever meet? or, why not sooner? That heart which, in spite of the restraint of duty, is but too much devoted to him now, had it been free, my sister—I fear 'tis criminal to indulge

this fond idea—I will suppress it then.
I have not had leisure to begin the letter I intend to write to him; but to morrow, or the next day—in short, before I seal this, I will.—And yet, what can I say to him?—Have I ought to complain of in his conduct, that can warrant an everlasting breach between us?—Has he not kept within the bounds prescribed by me? Has he even presumed to hint he thinks them too severe? Unless involuntary sighs and tender looks are construed into crimes, Lucan has not offended!—Yet, yet I will break off this—I know not what to call it—improper, at least, as well as painful connection!—I am almost distracted.
I have this moment received a letter from Lord Lucan.—I am glad of it.—

This is encroaching.—I have now some pretence for my intended breach.—Yet read it, Fanny.—I will copy it, if my fast-streaming tears don't wash the lines away.

IF, as I hoped, the most profound submission to her will, whom my mind worships, and my eyes adore, could have preserved me her esteem, never had the unhappy Lucan infringed Lady Barton's command, nor even dared to repine at being forbidden to express his hopeless passion, by speech or letter to her.
But, alas! Madam, though love is blind, lovers are quick sighted; and I but too clearly perceive, that I have lost that

portion of your regard, with which I had, perhaps, too vainly flattered myself.
I mean not, Madam, to reproach you with this cruel change, but humbly to implore you to inform me, if I have—tho' unwittingly, heaven knows!—been so unfortunate as to have offended you, even in the slightest article of my conduct.
If my appearing before you, at this time, without permission, be imputed to me, give me leave to transfer the blame upon chance, which led me hither, without knowing that you had intended to have honoured Lady Creswel's wedding with your presence. The transports I was sensible of, on meeting you so unexpectedly here, cannot surely be

deemed a crime; and yet the misery I have since sustained, has made me already sufficiently atone for it, as if it had been one.
Even my present presumption bears its own apology along with it, as your cruelty and my justification required it. The unhappy, but unoffending suppliant, may expostulate even with Heaven itself, without impiety.
I shall trespass no farther on you, Madam, than just to assure you, that I find I belong no longer to myself, and that, in spite both of you and me,
I am, and shall remain, ever yours, LUCAN.

What shall I say to him, my sister? What answer shall I make to lines so full of tenderness and submission? Can I be unjust enough to reproach or condemn him, while he is guiltless of any offence towards me? Yet, if I acquit him, do I not criminate myself? Must he not think me unworthy of his regards, if female caprice alone should appear the motive of my altered conduct?—I will not enter on the subject, but coldly tell him, that I first repented, then conquered my past weakness, and bid him try to follow my example.—O, Fanny! I shall break his gentle heart! If but my own would burst, I should be happy!
How inconsistent is this letter with my last!—Why can I not again recover that

calmness, which even a transient devotion had inspired?—Alas! because my piety was but temporary, and transitory!—Like the ungrateful Israelites, I sought the Lord in my trouble.—But has he not promised to be nigh to all those who call upon him?—His mercy is not limited, and in that hope will I confide.
More than half the night is elapsed; but I will not close my eyes till I have written to Lord Lucan.—Should I defer it till to-morrow, his supplicating eye and te•der looks may change my unfirm purpose.—Would to heaven I had not come here!—Never was any creature so altered in the time.—Sir William will certainly perceive the change; and how shall I account for it?

It is done, my sister! I have taken an everlasting leave of Lord Lucan!—I will copy what I have written—How infinitely short does it fall of what I wished to say!
To Lord LUCAN.
My Lord,
PERFECTLY sensible, as I am, of the faultiness of my conduct, both towards you and myself, I submit, without repining, to the censure implied in your letter—But, alas! my Lord, the crime I am there charged with, is not the source of my self-condemnation.—That you may be perfectly convinced of my sincerity, I will confess that I saw your growing passion, from its earliest infancy, and, at the same time, beheld you in the most favourable light;—yet I vainly

hoped, that, situated as I then was, my virtue would have been proof, even against your merit, and my sense of it;—and that the knowing my heart ought to be devoted to another, was sufficient to render it so.—How have I since blushed at that presumption, which was founded, not in strength, but weakness.
From the moment that the accidental circumstance of the picture, at Southfield, had brought on a confession of our mutual sentiments, peace has been a stranger to my breast! a consciousness of the irrevocable injury I had been guilty of, towards a person I dare not even name, at present, has haunted me ever since.

The constant perturbation of my mind, with other mortifications arising from the same source, brought on a dangerous illness, which led me a willing victim almost to the grave. I now rejoice that what I then most ardently desired, was not the consequence of the joint disorder, both of heart, and mind, and body.
Yes, my Lord, I wish to live, that my future conduct may atone for my past folly; and that the example of the weakest of the weaker sex, may enable you to conquer a passion, which, if indulged, must be productive of misery only, both to yourself, and its unhappy object.
I will not boast, my Lord, that I have already accomplished this arduous task.

—My nature is sincere;—but, as a proof, that I mean seriously to succeed in the attempt, I, from this moment, interdict myself from ever corresponding or conversing with your Lordship more; and do here declare, that I will never pardon your attempting either to see, or write to me, on any future occasion of our lives.
I shall ever retain the sincerest wishes for your Lordship's happiness, though this is the last time that I shall ever subscribe myself,
Your affectionate friend, L. B.
I will not comment on this hateful letter: surely I never wrote so bad a one!—But is that wonderful?—Is not

the heart, our best inspirer?—And can I say that mine dictated this severe decree?—Yet I trust my dear Fanny will approve it.—It has afforded my mind too a temporary relief.
I mean to order my coach as soon as I rise in the morning, to send this letter to Lord Lucan, before I appear at breakfast, and set out directly after for Southfield, without giving him time to recover enough from his surprise, so as to attempt an expostulation.
I am tempted to leave Harriet with Lady Creswel, that I may perform the journey alone.—What a journey will it be!—
Adieu, adieu.




INDEED, my ever dear Louisa, your letters have been a heavy alloy to the happiness that I ought now to partake of;—but, like Joseph, when surrounded with all the magnificence and delights of the Egyptian court, I weep upon the neck of my Benjamin—Yet let me flatter myself, that good, and not ill fate awaits my sister; as I may now believe the conflict's past, and that her own reason and virtue have triumphed over a weakness, which, as she justly observes, could only be productive of misery—Of misery, perhaps, in the extreme.—Yes, my sister, I do most truly applaud both your letter, and your conduct towards

Lord Lucan; and, what is of infinitely more consequence, you will yourself approve it.—You will again enjoy
"That peace, which goodness bosoms ever."
—And even feel an higher degree of exultation in your mind, at having recovered the lost path, than those who have never strayed, can possibly be sensible of.

With this prophecy I will close the subject of your late letters, and shall be impatient till I find it verified by the calm cheerfulness which will, I hope, diffuse itself through all your future correspondence.
I have much to tell you, both of myself and our dear brother.—We have had a wedding, as well as you, but 'twas

a very private one:—Yet surely I may say with Fitzosborne,
" What tho' in silence sacred Hymen trod,
" Nor lyre proclaim'd, nor garland crown'd the God:
" What tho' nor feast, nor revel dance was there,
" (Vain pomp of joy, the happy well may spare!)
" Yet love unfeign'd, and conscious honour led
" The spotless virgin to the bridal bed.
" All Heav'n, and every friendly pow'r,
" Approv'd the vow, and bless'd the hour.'

But, to proceed regularly—In my last I told you that we should quit St. Omer's in a few days.—Do not be shocked, Louisa, when I tell you that we were all very near remaining there for ever!
As Delia recovered her health, Sir George's spirits returned; and, after passing a very cheerful evening, this day three weeks, we retired rather before midnight to our chambers.—I want

words to express the terror I felt, when I was awake, about four o' clock in the morning, by people screaming out fire, and beating at my door, in order to force it open.—I found myself involved in so thick a smoke, that I could not find the passage out of my chamber, and concluded that I must inevitably perish.
Amidst the variety of voices that repeatedly called upon me to pull up the bolt, I thought I distinguished Lord Hume's—Perhaps this circumstance added to my confusion.—On a sudden the voice ceased, and I found myself, as it were, left alone in the midst of the flames, which then burst into one side of the room.
At that moment a ladder was fixed against one of my windows, and Lord

Hume entering by it, caught me in his arms, and carried me I know not how, but totally devoid of sense, to his apartment on the other side of the street.
When I had recovered my reason, I had the happiness of finding my brother and Delia sitting by me, and my champion kneeling before me, and pouring lavender water on my hands and face, with a look of such tender solicitude, as if his life depended upon mine.
The emotion of my gratitude, or call it what you please, was too strong for my spirits—I fainted a second time.—I was put to bed in this situation, and a surgeon had opened a vein in my arm, before I opened my eyes again.
Never can I forget the expressive look of sorrow which appeared in Lord

Hume's countenance!—I confess it, Louisa, it in one moment obliterated all his past offences, and he became even dearer to my heart than he had ever been before.—His saving my life, even at the hazard of his own, was only a proof of his spirit and humanity, which he ought to have exerted for any other woman, in the same dreadful situation:—But the tender anxiety he showed towards me afterwards, spoke the fond lover; and the delicacy of his behaviour from that event, has strengthened his claim to that title.
As soon as my arm was bound up, I tried to express my gratitude to Lord Hume, but could not—Tears stopped my utterance, but relieved the oppression of my heart.—He seemed as little able himself to speak as I, but, in an incoherent

manner, said, he was the happiest man alive, and kissed my hand in transport.—Sir George then made every person withdraw, except my maid, and left me for some hours to compose myself.
I found, upon enquiry, that the fire which had consumed three houses, began at a sugar baker's, who lived next door to us, and that it was not discovered till a part of our house was in flames.—An old servant of Lord Hume's was the first person who saw the blaze;—The poor man happened not to be well, and could not sleep:—To his sickness, under Providence, are we indebted for our lives, and he shall never more feel the fatigue of servitude or labour, his lord and my brother having rendered him independent for life.

This accident, you may suppose, retarded our setting out.—Delia, who suffered less than I from the fright, was an equal loser by the fire.—In short, neither we nor our servants had been able to save any of our clothes from the flames.—You may conclude, that the dear good Walter supplied us with every necessary till we could get them made.
I fear the apprehension she felt on our account, before she knew that we were safe, has hurt her much.—She looked so very delicate when we parted, that I scarce dare flatter myself with the hopes of ever seeing her more.
While we were delayed at St. Omer's, a second courier arrived from Mrs. Colville, with a letter to St. George, acknowledging

her passion for him, pleading that in her excuse, and imploring him in the most abject terms, not to expose her weakness, by carrying on the suit against her; and assuring him of her full consent to his marriage with her daughter.
In order to avoid being brought to England by the chancellor's messenger, she has retired privately from Toulouse, and has placed herself in a convent, but where we know not, nor shall ever enquire.—I hope she will remain, wherever she is, for life, as I really believe, that the bare sight of her would shock our poor Delia more than the fire had done.
She has sent back the small trunk which belonged to the person who died

at Amiens, and has desired that Sir George may open it, in order to forward the papers in it, to the party for whom they are designed; if this can be discovered from the initials, which is the only address they have.—My brother has assigned this commission to me, and as soon as I have a moment's leisure, I will execute it faithfully.
If I continue to write so circumstantially, there will be no end of this letter; you must therefore take leave of St. Omer's, and suffer yourself to be instantly transported across the water with me, as if you were reading one of Shakespeare's plays, and conclude us now safely arrived in London, whence I am now writing to you.
After my brother had waited on the chancellor, and shown him Mrs. Colville's

letters, he most readily gave his consent to Delia's marriage, and said if he were a bachelor, he should be very proud of such an help-mate, as the fair lady,—meaning me, Louisa,—who had acted with so much prudence in the conduct of this extraordinary affair.
As both the parties were very well inclined to enter into the holy state of matrimony, they readily dispensed with the parade of a public wedding; and on Saturday last, my brother had the happiness of receiving his well-beloved wife, from the hands of my beloved husband, that is to be—For we shall take more state and form upon us than they have done, I assure you.
Joy to my Louisa!—The happy pair set out next day for Cleveland-hall, whither

I shall follow them in a very few days.—Mary Granville and Lord Hume are to accompany me; and the moment I know my Louisa's heart is at peace, I shall give Lord Hume a legal claim to mine, but not till then; for indeed, my sister, I cannot taste of joy, while you are wretched!
Lord Hume and my brother have complained much of the dejection of my spirits since we came from France;—I have attributed the change in me to that of the climate; but I think they don't acquiesce in that opinion, and suspect a hidden cause of sorrow, though they know not from whence it can arise—O, be happy, my Louisa! and make me so!
Lord Hume's chariot stops at the door—A lawyer with him—How tremendous!

and not a creature with me!—Run, Robert, for Miss Granville—Horrid parchments!—Shocking deeds!—My hand trembles—I can never sign them—How did you!
Adieu, adieu, my sister!



London.
IF you are not absolutely dwindled into a state of vegetation, and fixed like a plant to one peculiar spot, I conjure you, by all the powers of friendship, my dear Lucan, to set out on the receipt of this, to be witness to that happiness, which I confess beyond either my expectation

or deserts, and which I can hardly believe to be real.
Listen—Fanny Cleveland's lovely hand,—what a contrast to her cheek! then blushing like the rosy morn, has signed our marriage articles, and I now only wait for that short passport to happiness, which is contained in a few mystical words, that, I suppose, are to hold us inchanted for the rest of our lives.
For my own part, I acknowledge the spell already.—Could all the arguments of philosophy ever have convinced me, without my own experience, that the slightest touch of Cleveland's hand, should communicate a richer transport to my soul, than the closest embrace of Margarita.—In one case I feel myself a man, in the other, but a brute. In the first instance, I

am sensible of the union of mind and body; in the second, my sensations were totally devoid of all sentiment whatever.—Is not this charming enthusiasm?—I mistook my transports, before—Took giddiness for frolic, extravagance for spirit, folly for fondness, and appetite for passion.
On my honour, Lucan! my Fanny is ten thousand times more lovely than when I left England.—In short, I did not know her then, or I could never have been so infatuated as I was, to a creature so every way her inferior—But come, my friend, come, I again entreat you, and see this earthly paragon.
You say you are at an immense distance from the object of your affection—What signifies then a thousand miles, more or

less, since you are deprived of the pleasure of seeing her?—I begin to think she must be some unnatural, manufactured prude.—Don't be angry, Lucan, I have no reason to abuse her, but on your account,—Not even to permit your writing to her!—Perhaps your quitting the kingdom where she is, may bring her to better temper.—I am but a bad judge in these romantic matters, though I am certain that no man living is at this moment more sincerely in love than I am.
Sir George Cleveland was married last week, and I had the honour of giving the bride away.—She is a charming girl, I confess, but nothing to be compared to my Cleveland.—But they have beauty enough between them to stock a seraglio.

I do most sincerely wish to have you at my wedding, Lucan; but I shall not wait an hour for your coming; nor should I think of your being present at the ceremony, but that my Fanny has declared she will not bestow her hand, without the concurrence of a sister who lives in Ireland, a Lady Barton.—Do you know her, Lucan? she was a charming girl before she married, though not quite as handsome as my Fanny.
You see then you have no time to lose; for I must not suppose that her Ladyship, however matronly she may have become since her marriage, can possibly object now to a connection which she seemed once to encourage and approve. Give the reins to your horses, and away, my friend, to
yours, most truly, HUME.

P.S. If you should not find me in London, post off to Cleveland-hall.—I long to introduce you to Sir George and his lady, but more particularly to my dear Fanny.


DO not, I conjure you, my dear Louisa, add to my misery, by delaying your own happiness—The first has already reached its zenith,—O may the latter do so too!
I will not enter into any further explanation, nor mention a single particular relative to myself, till I know that you are married. If, therefore, you are anxious about the most interesting events

of my life, I shall shortly receive a letter, from Lady Hume, which will then entitle her to a confidence now with-held from my beloved Fanny Cleveland, by her
ever affectionate sister, LOUISA BARTON.


I HAVE hesitated, for some time, dear Louisa, whether, in your present dejected state of mind, I should venture to communicate to you a story of much woe, which was contained in the papers of the unhappy young woman who died at Amiens.

The diverting of any current must necessarily abate its force, and whatever can awaken our sensibility for the misfortunes of others, must, at least for the time, render us insensible to our own.
I believe too, that comparison weighs much in our estimation of good and evil; and though a generous heart, even labouring under the severest calamities, may be incapable of forming a wish for relief, at the expense of another's happiness, yet I am persuaded, that there is a sort of alleviation to be found, in reflecting that there are, or rather, that there have been, others much more wretched than ourselves.
Upon this principle then I shall send you this melancholy story, which I should never have been mistress of, had

the papers in which it was contained, though unsealed, been properly addressed; but as they were only superscribed with initials, I was obliged to look into the contents, in order to forward them to the person for whom they were designed; and I hope my taking a copy of them, for you, and you only, will not be considered as a breach of trust, either to the living, or the dead.
As soon as my brother and sister went out of town, which was the first moment I had leisure, I opened the little trunk which Mrs. Colville's last messenger brought to St. Omer's, and which may properly enough be called the lachrymal urn, of the unfortunate Maria; for in it was the tearful narrative of a life of sorrows, deposited; and though she is now

removed from a possibility of feeling them, they still retain the magnetic power of living grief, and must attract the sigh of pity from every tender, every feeling heart.
The STORY of MARIA.
To Mr. EDWARD S—.
Will the most tender and affectionate of brothers, with patience, condescend to read the sad confession of a dying wretch, who owns herself unworthy of his kindness,—Yet, trembling on the verge of life, solicits to obtain his pardon and pity!—Alas! my Edward, they will never reach me!—No friendly voice can ever sooth my ear, or speak peace to my perturbed heart! for soon the motion of its pulse shall cease, and this poor shattered frame return to dust.—Drop then

one fond forgiving tear upon these pages:—'Tis all I now can ask, or you, e'er long, can grant.
The story of my misconduct and misfortunes, perhaps, will reach you, before this letter.—How does my heart now bleed for that indignant grief your generous mind must feel, for a beloved sister's infamy!
I do not mean to extenuate my faults;—Alas! they will not bear extenuation!—And, conscious as I am of my approach to that tribunal, before which we must all e'er long appear, deceit or falsehood would be as weak as wicked.—Then hear the faithful story of my heart, and judge me as one erring mortal should another.

In less than a year after you sailed for Bengal, our dear father died—What an irreparable loss was mine!—I need not tell you that as he was in the church, we were at once deprived of the principal part of his fortune, with his life, and that there did not remain above an hundred pounds a year, being a life annuity, purchased for my mother with her own portion, to support her and me.
The altered countenances and behaviour of those we had formerly called friends, at Gloucester, made my mother determine on quitting a place where, from her want of knowing the world, she considered herself as particularly ill treated.—She was then first taught, that prosperity is the cement of modern friendship; and when that fails, the tottering structure sinks into decay.

She condescended to consult me upon our future scheme of life; though, as I was not then fifteen, I was but ill qualified for an adviser; however, I had heard that Bath was a cheap place of residence, for those who settle themselves as inhabitants there; and as I also believed it to be an agreeable lively scene, I had often wished to go thither, during my father's life; and therefore used all my little rhetoric with my mother, to fix us there.
I prevailed; and the first year we spent in it, was by many degrees the happiest of my life.—We lived in a small house, near the Cross-bath, with the greatest economy.—My mother did not go much into public, but we met with many former acquaintances, who were so obliging

to matronize me to the rooms, playhouse, and walks, as often as it was thought proper to let me appear abroad.
You cannot, my Edward, have forgotten my face and person, and may suppose that I was not without admirers, in the midst of so many gay flutterers as abound at Bath.—There are, I believe, fewer serious engagements made there, than at any place where such a concourse of young people continually meet.—Whether this is owing to the perpetual dissipation they live in, or to the constant rotation of new faces that appear there daily, is not to me material.—My heart, alas! was but too susceptible of a tender impression; and Captain L—, son to Sir Richard L—, first inspired my artless bosom with love.

During the first three months of our acquaintance, we saw each other every day; nor did the idea of parting, or any other painful thought, obtrude upon our minds, to interrupt the pleasing delirium of our mutual fondness.
Our happiness was then most certainly too great to last.—A letter from Sir Richard L— to his son, acquainting him that he was promoted to the rank of Captain, in a regiment which was then stationed in Ireland, with a peremptory command to set out thither immediately, was the first, and we then thought the severest shock, that fate could inflict on us.
Though my mother was extremely indulgent to me, yet, from a delicacy natural to young minds, I had never ventured

to acquaint her with my attachment to Captain L—. To this small, but fatal error, I, perhaps, owe most of the subsequent miseries of my life.
The most intimate acquaintance I then had, was a young married lady, about three and twenty, who seemed to have the greatest friendship for my lover, and tenderness for me, imaginable—Her name is —, but I will not expose her, for the sake of a respectable family to whom she is allied—though she has brought infamy and sorrows upon me and mine.
I will call her Matilda—To her then I disclosed the anguish of my heart, at the sad thought of parting with my lover, and wept upon her bosom—She seemed

to consider my distress as trifling:—Told me I had too much sensibility to be happy, and advised me to conquer it;—then added, laughing, these first passions are always troublesome, but you will not be so much affected at parting with your next lover. I was offended and disgusted at her speech—The very idea had profligacy in it—She quickly perceived my resentment, and had address enough to change her stile, and soothe me into the most perfect confidence.
During the short time that Captain L— remained at Bath, after his father's summons, we three were inseparable.—He would have married me, at that interval; but, as he was not of age, being then but just turned of twenty, he could get no clergyman to perform the ceremony

for us.—At length the fatal hour of separation arrived—Happiness and he were one, in my estimation—They fled, alas! together.
From his letters I received the sole consolation that could alleviate the pangs of absence.—They were frequent and tender; yet I thought latterly, that I sometimes discovered a little tendency towards jealousy in them; but, unconscious as I was of having given the slightest ground for suspicion, by my conduct, I thought it beneath me to enter into a particular defence against a general charge; and therefore suffered every hint upon this subject to pass unnoticed.
We had lived now above a year at Bath, and my mother began to find herself

extremely straitened in her circumstances—You had it not then in your power, my dear and generous Edward, to relieve her distress; and I am certain that one of the severest, which she herself felt, was her not being able to assist you, in the first dawnings of your then infant fortunes.
My mother, though past the prime of life, was still handsome; and, at such a crisis, dress is of much more consequence to a woman, than at an earlier era; she had been used to elegance and affluence, yet she cheerfully resigned them all, and continued to wear deep mourning, in order to ornament me with the remains of her former paraphernalia, and every little addition that she could make to it.

Matilda used to take me with her frequently to the rooms, and generally invited me to private parties, at her own apartments;—sometimes with my mother, but oftener without.—She always played high, and seemed solicitous to possess me with the same passion.—I resisted the temptation, for some time, on account of the danger and indecorum of such a course of life.—To which she replied, that as cards were now become the bon ton of all civilized nations, the latter of my objections was sufficiently obviated; and that, in order to guard against the former, the earlier I began to practise, the better.—For, as I should soon be a person of rank and fortune, by the death of Sir Richard L—, I could not think of living like a housewife, in such an improved and enlightened

age, as the present; and that, as high play had now became the general amusement and occupation of all people entitled to associate in polite life, the sooner I was initiated into the arts and sciences of gaming, the safer it would be for my husband's fortune, or my own.
She would sometimes make me hold her cards, while she sat by, and instructed me how to play them; then she would make me join in the stake, and at last led me in to adventure for myself, on her promise to lend me what money I might lose, till I should be in a condition of repaying her.
I am convinced that there is but one step easy to avoid, in vice, and that is the first.—The fear and disgust with which I

had engaged at play, at the beginning, wore off by degrees; and habit had seduced my mind into such a passion for cards, in a short time, that I regretted the Sundays that my mother confined me at home, after the church service was over, to read proper discourses, and listen to her most excellent instructions.
Mr. W—, an elderly gentleman of fortune, used generally to be of our parties.—He seemed to distinguish me, in a particular manner, and used to favour me at play; which, as soon as I discovered, I immediately resented, and declared I would lay down my cards, if he should ever again attempt to pay me the least compliment of the kind, to the disadvantage, either of himself, or any of the rest of the company.—This proper

reproof of mine obliged him to restrain his too indelicate galantry towards me for the future.
My card-accompt preserved itself pretty even for some time, without giving me occasion to trespass on the credit which my friend Matilda had made me so voluntary a proffer of; till one night that I happened to be led in by her, to engage at loo, which was a game I had never played at before, and knew so little of, as not to be aware how deeply I might be involved, upon a turn of luck against me.—The stakes were not high, but, as the sorfeits were unlimited, I found myself indebted to Mr. W—, in the sum of thirty guineas, when the party broke up.
I applied to my friend for the money, but she put me off at that time, by saying

that I should try my fortune again, the next evening, at her apartments; and that she would then put whatever ballance should appear against me on a proper footing for payment.—I was tempted to venture on a second essay at the same game, and concluded the night with doubling the debt to the same person. I then claimed Matilda's promise; but she answered me with great coldness, and a constrained smile, that my creditor was a gentleman of large fortune, and, as he had made her a confidant of his partiality in my favour, she should think it a breach of honour to take me out of his hands, by releasing me from so trifling an obligation as this was.
The surprise and alarm I felt upon this occasion is not to be expressed—It was

too surely a presage of all my future miseries!—I began to find that I had been most treacherously dealt by—I retired to my chamber, without speaking even to my mother, and passed the night in walking about distractedly, and crying out, How shall I be ever able to discharge this dangerous debt! or how render a justifiable account of my conduct, either to my mother, to the world, but more especially to my dear Captain L—!
I confined myself at home for several days after this adventure, during which time Matilda came often to solicit my returning into the world again, and affected to ridicule my prudery, in being rendered so uneasy about so insignificant a circumstance, which, she assured me was

but one of the common events of life. However, I continued resolute in keeping myself retired, and remained inconsolable, on this unhappy incident, till I received a letter from Captain L—, which I opened with transport, hoping it would calm my mind, and restore my peace again.—Alas! what an aggravation to my misfortune and distress, did I meet with there!
He told me that his regiment was ordered to America, and that he should embark with it in less than ten days, which time was elapsed at the moment I received his letter.—He added, that my conduct had convinced him, that, if he should never return to England, I would be easily consoled for his loss, though he should never cease to regret mine—Wished

me every happiness that a life of dissipation could yield, and bad me farewell—For ever!
My mind already disturbed and agitated, this cruel letter almost unhinged my reason, and sunk me into the most pitiable state of dejection.—My mother, who was ignorant of the real cause of my disturbance, apprehended some heavy disorder to be falling upon me, and attended me night and day, with the fondest anxiety imaginable.
For some time I continued in a state of the profoundest melancholy;—at length the voice of nature waked my reason.—The tears and sighs of a fond parent, by sympathetic force attracted mine, and called forth all my gratitude—I strove to

hide my anguish, even in smiles, but it still preyed upon my tortured heart.
The shame of having carried on a clandestine correspondence, with a lover, who had now so plainly cast me off, prevented my revealing to my mother any circumstance of a connection, which I then considered as disgraceful to me.—But I flew directly to Matilda, who had been my only confidant in this secret, and communicated the letter to her.—She received me coldly, as she had done before, on my former difficulty—told me that this too was but another of the common events of life—That the most constant lovers were not to be considered more than perennials; but that Bath passions never lasted, beyond the season—that

they were inspired by the heat of the waters, and cooled as they did.
What makes girls so woe-begone, said she, upon such disappointments, is the overweaning conceit they are too apt to frame of their own consequence; but they must abate considerably of their romantic self-sufficience, before they will find themselves in the station where nature has designed them.—A toy, a rattle, which ten will play with, for one who will think of becoming a serious purchaser.
Such maxims as these, whether true or false, were not likely to assuage my grief, and I returned home the most unhappy creature breathing.—I accused Captain L— of falsehood, of perjury,

a thousand times, alas! in vain, did I vow to cast him from my heart and memory for ever.—Pardon, thou dear departed shade, these and all other injuries I have unwittingly been the sad occasion of to you!
During my confinement, Mr. W— made the most constant and obliging inquiries about me, and in the most friendly manner offered my mother a house he had near the Hot-wells at Bristol, with the use of his carriage, servants, &c.—As I continued in a very low and languid state, even after my recovery, change of air was judged necessary for me, particularly as the physician who attended me, apprehended my falling into a consumption.

I had however, a very strong objection to accepting Mr. W—'s obliging offer, from an unwillingness to receiving farther favours from one, to whom I was already too much indebted.
But this difficulty was a good deal obviated, by his declaring that he was engaged on a party, for two months, to visit Paris; and during that time, both his house and carriage must be entirely useless to him.
At my mother's entreaty, and not opposed by me, Matilda consented to accompany us; and I own I felt a gleam of joy, at removing from a place, where every object reminded me of my unhappiness: I did not then reflect that I could not fly from myself, and that neither happiness or misery are local.

Mr. W— accompanied us to Bristol, and put us into possession of a very elegant house, in which he left four servants to attend us, at board wages—There was an ample supply of tea, wine, sweet-meats, and every elegance, which he insisted on our using, as if they were our own, and took his leave, in the politest manner, earnestly requesting that he might find us there at his return.
The waters and the change of scene certainly conduced to the recovery of my health; but peace and cheerfulness were both estranged from my sad bosom, and the only moments I enjoyed, were those in which I could prevail on Matilda to listen to my griefs.—I soon discovered that she grew weary of the painful office; she was totally immersed in gaiety, and

used oftener to rally, than soothe my affliction.
Under all the disadvantages, which the gloomy veil of sorrow had cast arround me, a Yorkshire baronet, Sir James D—, saw, and liked me; he immediately addressed himself to my mother, and was by her most favourably received. She was overjoyed at the prospect, of what she called my happiness, and spoke to me of Sir James's proposal with transport.
This was the second outrage, if I may so call it, that my heart had suffered—I fell into an agony of grief, and before I could recollect myself, or she prevent me, I vowed to heaven, in the most solemn manner, that I would never be Sir James's wife.

Even at this moment, Edward, I behold the figure of my astonished, my offended mother! She had however, so much reason at command, as not to urge my madness farther, but quitted the room, with a look of indignation, mingled with surprise and sorrow.
In a few minutes I followed her into her chamber, and found her in tears; I could not bear them, Edward! I fell upon my knees before her, implored her pardon, and offered even to sacrifice myself by marrying Sir James D—, rather than render her wretched.
She answered with the utmost calmness, I fear, Maria, it is out of your power to prevent my being so; you are unhappy, my child, and I must suffer

with you—I hoped—but it is over—For be assured that after the vow you have so rashly made, no power on earth should force me to consent to my child's perjury. Sir James shall have his answer.
But let me now inform you of a secret I wished to have concealed for ever from you—Penury and want surround us, and we shall soon be given up a prey to them—We must return to Bath, no more. I will mortgage our little income, to pay our debts; in some obscure corner we must labour for our bread, help to support ourselves in honest indigence, and strive to humble our minds to our conditions.
I do not condemn you, my child—Affections are not to be forced—I flattered

myself that your youth and beauty might have obtained an advantageous match, which would have been a support to me, and an establishment to yourself. Sir James D—'s proposal was beyond my hopes, but I do not wish to render you a victim for my sake; nor shall this subject ever be mentioned more between us.
O, my brother! think what I suffered while my mother spoke—I would at that moment have died a thousand deaths to have made her happy; yet even then I inwardly rejoiced at being relieved from my apprehensions of marrying a man I could not love.
You may suppose I uttered all that gratitude could dictate, for my mother's kindness, and promised, for my future

life, to know no will but hers—Talked of contented poverty; preferred an humble lot with peace of mind, to splendid misery; and strove in vain to combat with her sorrows.
On this occasion, I not only assumed, but felt a degree of cheerfulness, to which my heart had long been a stranger. I triumphed over Captain L—'s unjust suspicions; in the midst of poverty, I rejected an advantageous settlement, and despised a title which must be bought at the expense of love.
I expected Matilda would have applauded my heroism, but was disappointed—She disapproved my conduct, called me romantic and absurd, condemned my mother's want of spirit, and said that

had she been in her place she would have compelled me to marry Sir James D—, and made me happy in spite of my own folly.—
In about four days after this event, Mr W—, whom we had imagined to be in France, returned to Bristol—As I was sensible of the highest gratitude towards him, I confess I felt a degree of pleasure at his arrival, and received him with all the marks of regard due to a friend.
There was a vacant apartment in the house, which he asked my mother's leave to occupy—she certainly had not a right to refuse, yet I could perceive that she was vastly embarrassed by the request.—The next morning she told me that she

was determined to quit Bristol, immediately, though she knew not where to bend her course, as she did not think it proper to remain longer in Mr. W—'s house.
As this person was near fifty years of age, I had never considered him in any other light than as a father; however, the impropriety of living under his roof, any longer, struck me as soon as it was mentioned—I told her I was ready to attend her, when and wherever she pleased.—She burst into tears, and said,
"Alas, my child, who will receive the friendless widow, and her helpless orphan!"

At that instant Mr. W—, who had overheard our discourse, came into the

room, and taking my mother's hand, said,
"Behold in me, Madam, a protector, and a son, who will think himself happy in making you so."

The first emotion of my heart, at this declaration, was gratitude—Modesty alone restrained me from embracing Mr. W—; I cried out, in an ecstasy,
"O Sir! you are too good, too generous! how shall we ever be able to make you an amends?"

He instantly replied,
"It is in your power, Madam, to overpay all my services; I ask no more than that fair hand can give; but then your heart, as well as person must be mine; without the first, the latter would be worthless—I will not at this moment expect your answer, you are fully apprised of your

mother's sentiments and situation, and you alone can tell whether you choose or not to dry her tears."

He quitted the room directly, but he might have remained there, and talked for an hour, without hazarding any interruption from me; I was absolutely petrified with horror and surprise—Before I could recover myself, my mother, with her eyes still streaming, threw herself on her knees before me, and pressing my hand to her heart, said,
"I do not ask you, my beloved child, to sacrifice yourself for me—but, O consider, my Maria! to what insults and misfortunes your innocence and youth must be exposed, when you shall lose even the poor support you have in me—I know I cannot long endure distress,

my death must leave you a prey to every ill, to every danger. You will then reflect, with grief and shame, on that false delicacy that actuates you now, and vainly lament the loss of a fond parent, whom you have suffered to sink with sorrow to the grave."

I could bear no more—I fell on my knees before her, I clasped her in my arms, and bathed her bosom with my flowing tears, while I cried out,
"O take me, sacrifice me, do what you will with me, I will not be a parricide! But give me time to conquer this poor heart, and tear my L—'s much loved image from my breast."

At the name of L— my mother started up, and raised me with her; then

looking at me with unutterable anguish, said it must not be, if your heart feels a passion for another object, I will much sooner die than make you wretched.—But who is Mr. L—, and how has he deserved Maria's love?—Shame kept me silent; but when my mother repeated her question, I replied, do not press me farther, Madam; Matilda can inform you both of my weakness and misfortune.
As I wished to retire upon the instant, I opened a door that led by a few steps into the garden,—In my confusion I missed my footing, and fell from the top to the bottom.—My mother flew to my assistance, but could not raise me; she called for help, and when Matilda and Mr. W—, who were in the garden, lifted me from the ground, I could not

stand.—I was carried into the house, and a surgeon sent for, who acquainted them that I had dislocated my right ankle.
In the midst of the pain I suffered, even during the action of setting my ankle, I secretly rejoiced in this accident, as it must, at least for some days, retard an event to me more horrible than death.—My heart was overflowing still with fondness for the faithless L—, and I was sensible of too much respect for Mr. W—, to love him.
The second day of my confinement, my mother told me that Matilda had informed her of every particular relative to the attachment between Captain L— and me; that tho' she considered it as a childish and romantic affair on my side,

and a mere matter of galantry on his; yet her tenderness for me, had made her consent to Matilda's writing to him, and acquainting him with every particular of my present situation; and if, in answer to that letter, he should declare a serious and honourable passion for me, she solemnly promised never to oppose my inclination, but cheerfully wait his return, and yield her consent to our union, but if, on the contrary—
Stop there, my dearest mother, I exclaimed, you have outgone my wishes; for if Captain L— should hesitate a moment to receive me as his wife, not only •y hand, but my heart shall then be free; and gratitude to the best of parents shall enable me to bestow them, unreluctantly, on any person whom her prudence shall select.

My mother embraced me, and bathed my cheeks with tears of fondness. At that moment I thought myself the happiest of mortals.—Matilda joined us, and read the letter she had written to Captain L—. I did not think that it sufficiently described either my affection or my distress; but as my mother approved of it, I did not presume to make any objection, but only engaged her promise to add a defence of my conduct, from the misapprehensions or misrepresentatations he seemed to have conceived or received before, with regard to it.
You know, my Edward, that my mother was integrity itself; she could not therefore bear to be guilty of the smallest deceit; and though Mr. W— had not pressed for any answer to his proposal,

on account of the accident that had happened to me, she resolved to tell him that there was a friend in America, without whose consent I was determined never to marry; that this person had been written to, and that he should be informed of his answer, the moment it arrived.
Mr. W— received this information with a very ill grace, but acquiesced so far as to say, that he could have no doubt of this unheard of guardian's consent to such an offer as his; and as an answer might arrive before I was perfectly restored to my health, there was no great harm in asking it; but he did not suppose that we should be weak enough to refuse his alliance, even though this particular friend might not approve of it.

My mother, though extremely disgusted at the roughness of his reply, concealed the coarseness of his expression from me, and I considered myself extremely obliged to him for not persecuting me any further, for the present, with his ungracious and unwelcome passion.
Matilda was obliged to return to her house at Bath; and as my mother spent most of her time in my chamber, and that Mr. W— was not permitted to make long visits to me, on pretence of the necessity of my being kept quiet, he grew weary of passing his domestic hours alone, and to my very great joy, set out for London.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *

I have written so long, my dear Louisa, that I am scarce able to hold the pen, but I could not possibly stop in this interesting narrative, such I hope you will think it, till I came to what may properly be called a resting place—For though we do not leave Maria happy, her hopes and fears are held in equipoise, and this perhaps may not be one of the least eligible situations in human life.
Since I wrote to you I have had a letter from Mrs. Walter, my apprehensions for her life are increased by it; they more than preponderate against my hopes, my spirits sink with them—But I am in a gloomy mood, at present; I will try to shake it off; Lord Hume will assist me, I hear him coming up stairs—Till to-morrow, farewell, my loved Louisa.




I Shall proceed in my task of copying, like a clerk in an office, without attending to any thing but the draft before me, and indeed, my Louisa, I find it sufficiently interesting to engross all my attention.—If it can exclude those pleasing sentiments which my present happiness ought, and does inspire, may I not reasonably hope that it will be able to suspend, at least during the time of reading it, that heavy weight which seems to press upon my sisters heart? Yes, I am persuaded that it may, and under this belief, I reassume the pen.

The STORY of MARIA, continued.
In less than a month, I was able to walk, with a little help, and most earnestly wished to quit Mr. W—'s house; as I had reason to hope from the justification of my character, which Matilda assured me she had undertaken, that there would be an end of all connection between us, the moment I should receive a letter from Captain L—; and that an interview, on such an occasion, must be painful to us both.
I therefore pressed my mother to try to borrow the money she wanted, at Bristol, and return to Bath.—She complied with my request, and judged it necessary to take up a larger sum, on her annuity, than she at first intended, as either my marriage with Mr. W—, or my waiting Captain L—'s return to England, must be attended with expense.

In short, on such terms as the poor borrow, and the rich lend, she obtained two hundred pounds, which I then thought an immense sum; but did not consider that we owed more than half of it already, including my debt to Mr. W—
I am thus circumstantial with you, my dear Edward, that you may be perfectly able to judge of the motives which impelled me to my ruin—O would to heaven, that I alone had been to suffer the so much dreaded ills of poverty! I would have braved them all; but a beloved, and tender parent, whose fondness towards me had involved her in distress! It was not to be born.
My mother wrote a very polite letter to Mr. W—, thanking him for all his

civilities, and acquainting him with our return to Bath, where he joined us in a few days—He brought some very handsome jewels, and other presents, from London, for me, which I absolutely refused, and even felt my delicacy offended at his offering them, as it seemed to hint at a certainty of my becoming his wife.
As the time approached when we might expect an answer from Captain L—, I counted the hours, and rejoiced in their flight; the anxiety of suspense was visible in my looks and words; I started at every sound, and minutely inquired the business of every person who rapped at the door. At length the fatal moment arrived that was to change a state of fond hope into the utmost despair.

Matilda came to our house one morning, and requested to see my mother alone; the gloom which sat on her brow, announced the tidings which she brought, and though scarce able to utter a syllable, I cried out,
"I will not leave the room, I know the worst already, he is dead!"
She answered coldly, no! and reached a letter to me—the contents whereof were as follows—

To MATILDA.
Dear Madam,
Honoured as I am by the favour of your letter, and happy in hearing of your health, will you not think me ungrateful if I repine at your wasting so much of your time and paper, in relating particulars of a person, who now only lives in my memory, from the bare recollection

of having sometimes seen her with you?
But as all preferences are flattering, I should be unpolite not to thank miss S—, for an offer, which I must however decline. I heartily wish her happiness with Sir James D—, Mr. W—, or whomsoever else she shall think proper to honour with her fair hand, excepting, Madam, your
most obedient servant, T. L.
My faculties were all suspended, for several minutes, after reading this insulting letter—
" No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow."
I felt like one that had been stunned by a severe stroke—At length recovering

myself, I flung the hated paper from me, and taking my mother's hand, said, with an effort of calmness,
"How poor, Madam, is the sacrifice that I can now make to duty—A rejected hand, and heart! but dispose of them as you please, and do it quickly, while my reason holds."

My mother was more alarmed at my behaviour than she would have been had I fallen into a passion, either of grief or rage—She wept abundantly, for my distress, and expressed every sentiment of parental fondness—her kindness would have transformed me to a Niobe at any other time, but the sorrow that had then taken possession of my heart, was of too powerful a nature to be softened by her tears, or dissipated by my own—'Twas grief unutterable.

My mother kindly indulged me, for several days, by allowing me to keep my chamber, on pretence of a sore throat—this prevented my seeing Mr. W—, and gave me time to reflect upon my own situation.—I considered myself as an offering that was to be sacrificed, and determined to support the rôle that fate had allotted me, with becoming fortitude.
Mr. W— expressed the utmost impatience for our marriage, and in about six weeks after the receipt of Captain L—'s letter, I was led to the altar, and became the wretched wife of Mr. W—.
In vain did I endeavour to assume an air of cheerfulness, with a breaking heart; unused to deceit or artifice, the veil

which I put on could not conceal the gloomy tints which sorrow had engraven upon my mind. I was hourly reproached by my husband with ill-temper and ingratitude, and my mother was accused of having drawn him into a match, so much against his interest, and so little conducive to his happiness.
For her dear sake, I exerted my utmost powers to please, but they seldom met with success; and I, with unspeakable grief, now saw that she was rendered infinitely more wretched by my marriage, than she could have been in any other situation.
Mr. W—'s estate was in Devonshire; he had an old family seat there, where I most earnestly wished to spend

my days in solitude and peace; but as he often told me, that he did not think we should make a pleasant tête-a-tête together there, he disposed of his house at Bristol, and hired one at Bath, from which he frequently made excursions to London, or else-where, for a month or six weeks at a time.
During his absence, I seldom stirred abroad, unless to church, to pay some visit of ceremony, or to pass an hour, or perhaps an evening, with Matilda.
From the moment I was married I had never mentioned the name of Captain L— to my mother, Matilda, or any other person—This was a sacrifice I thought due to my husband; I would have done more, had it been in my

power, and banished him for ever from my thoughts.
One evening, while Mr. W— was away, I was prevailed upon, by Matilda and my mother, to go to the Rooms, on a ball-night—I found my spirits strongly affected with a scene that reminded me of happier days; and became so much absorbed in my own reflections, that I scarce heard the sound of the music, or observed the motion of the dancers, though Matilda was among then.
I was sitting on one of the benches, opposite the door of the room, and had continued a considerable time in my reverie, when my eyes were accidentally caught by the figure of a person, who was speaking to a lady that sat just before

me—My mind hesitated, but my heart admitted not a doubt that it was Captain L—
Had I ever screamed out in my life, I should have done so then—So unexpected a view had the same effect on me that is generally produced by thunder and lightning; it dimmed my sight, and gave me such a sickness in my stomach that I could not long support; a sudden chilness succeeded this emotion, and my head reclined insensibly on the shoulder of the lady who sat next to me.
What passed while I remained in that state, I know not, but when my senses returned, I found myself at home, my mother weeping by me, and Mr. W— storming about the room like a madman

—not at my illness, but at the cause he imputed it to—for he declared, before the surgeon who had just then bled me, that he had detected me in an intrigue; and that on his sudden and unexpected appearance, in the Rooms, at the moment I was conferring with my galant, the various passions of love, hatred, and fear, had overpowered my spirits, and occasioned my fainting.
What an infatuated distemper is jealousy! it realises chimeras, and draws conclusions, without premises—I was holding no conference with Captain L— he was only speaking to a person who sat before me, nor did I see my husband, till I opened my eyes in my own chamber. However I suffered him to pour forth his whole stock of causeless abuse without

the least interruption; till at length, not meeting with resistance, his rage was exhausted, and the surgeon and he retired together.
I was put into bed, and determined, as soon as I was left alone, to tear the bandage off my arm, and suffer myself to bleed to death; but before I could put my resolution in practice, a thousand reasons pressed forward to restrain my trembling hand—What had I done to merit death? Would not the desperate deed confirm the slander of my tyrant's tongue? And could I leave my mother at once oppressed with her own grief, and my infamy!
Perhaps the love of life pleaded, though silently, even stronger than these

motives, and with-held me from my first attempt towards guilt—Yet, O forgive me, Edward, that I now lament I did not perpetrate the fatal deed! I might have hoped for pardon of my first crime, but can accumulated sins find mercy! Yet if contrition may avail a wretch, I still will dare to hope.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
Here, my Louisa, I must again break off my melancholy narrative, as I have been so much broken in upon, all day, by company, that I find it impossible to conclude it by this post; but as the mails to Ireland are sometimes delayed by contrary winds, for several days, nay weeks, as I am told, you may possibly receive the whole story at once—I will

not therefore create a further interruption by talking on any other subject, but conclude as usual,
most affectionately yours, F. CLEVELAND.


ONCE more, my sister, I return to the sad task of relating Maria's woes; I have not ventured to make any comment on her story, nor do I mean to attempt it: my Louisa can reason far better than I, and deduce effects from their causes.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *

The agitation of my spirits had reduced my mind to a state of the lowest weakness; I wept the whole night through, and when my mother eame to my bed-side, in the morning, I was scarce able to answer her tender inquiries after my health.
She told me that Mr. W— was perfectly well acquainted with my former attachment to Captain L—, though he had never given the most distant hint of it before—She suspected Matilda for having supplied him with this information—That by some chance he had heard of his being at Bath, and came post from London, directly; but when he arrived at his house, and heard that I was at the Rooms, he flew into the most violent passion, and said every thing

against me that rage and mistake could dictate.
My poor mother thought to qualify his fury, by assuring him that this was the first night I had gone into the Rooms, since his absence—Perhaps this might have confirmed his suspicion, as it looked the more like an assignation. He hurried on his clothes, flew immediately to the assembly, and happened unluckily, it seems, just to enter the door as Captain L— had walked up to the place where I sat.
He construed every thing against me, both appearances and surmises—
"Trifles light as air,"
&c. In fine I was condemned, without further examination, he declared his full determination

not to live with me any longer, and commanded me to set out immediately for his house in Devonshire, where he would take care that I should not expose myself, or dishonour him, any more for the future

Surely never was reprieve more welcome to a sentenced wretch, than the latter part of this discourse to me—I had languished for solitude, before my husband's error had rendered me infamous; and earnestly wished to fly from society, before I had reason to apprehend that I should be abandoned by the world—But in my present situation, both of mind and circumstance, the idea of retirement, nay absolute seclusion from the whole universe, except my mother, was doubly dear to my sad heart.

I started up with all the alacrity of health, and cheerfulness, and cried, I am ready to obey Mr. W—; let us be gone this moment, do not delay, my dearest mother, but let us fly for ever from this hated place, this scene of all my misery!
She answered with a sigh,
"Your husband has refused to let me go with you, or be a witness of the treatment, which you are too likely to receive under his tyranny—I shall behold you, or your, miseries no more, but they will prey for ever on my heart—for I have caused them all—Your filial duty, more than your own ambition, was the sole motive which has rendered you a victim to this unequal match—I respected the opinions of the world, more than the

philosophy of nature, and the sin of the parent is now severely visited on the unoffending child!"
—We wept in each other's bosom.

The thought of being separated from this virtuous, this tender parent, quite overpowered me, and I sunk almost senseless upon my pillow—I knew that she had not now even the means of subsistence, when torn from me, and I had not the least reason to expect that Mr. W— would have generosity or humanity sufficient to relieve her distress, or assuage her grief.
During the few days I remained at Bath, after this event, I never stirred out of my bed-chamber, nor saw any creature, except my dear mother and a maid

servant, who had been hired upon this occasion, to watch, rather than attend me, and was appointed, as one may well suppose, to be a spy upon all my actions during my exilement in Devonshire.
The only favourable circumstance that I remember, in this unhappy situation, was that Mr. W—, for I will no longer stile him husband, no more distressed me with his loathsome presence, or his foul reproaches, while I continued under his roof.
Matilda never once came near me all this while; but this was not the first instance that gave me reason to suspect her of insincerity and double dealing. I feared she had been the sole cause of the breach between Captain L—

and me, and this idea not only inspired me with my former passion for him, but added a tenderness and compassion to my sentiments, that rendered me infinitely more wretched than I was before: the brutality of Mr. W— still further strengthened my affections towards him, and the state of divorce to which his violence had now reduced me, dissolved that solemn and honourable tie, which would otherwise have restrained the wanderings of my heart, and ever preserved my duty faithful to him.
It would be impossible to describe the pangs I felt, when the hour arrived in which I was to be torn from a fond mother's converse—she was all the world to me, at least she was all that I then thought truly loved me, in the world—

We parted—and at her most earnest entreaty, I promised to write to Mr. W—, as soon as my mind should be sufficiently composed, and to enter into a proper vindication of my hitherto irreproachable conduct.
More dead than alive, my duenna and I arrived at my destined prison—The house was old, large, and gloomy, extremely out of repair; the furniture as antique as the building, which was situated on a bleak and barren shore, opposite the Irish coast.—For the first ten or twelve days that I passed in this dismal mansion, I was delighted with the stillness and solitude that surrounded me—the family was composed of only three maids, and an old gardener; and I have sometimes passed a dozen hours

without hearing any sound, except the roaring of the sea, the croaking of the ravens, or howling of a mastiff.
But when the agitation of my mind began a little to subside, I grew sensible to the horrors of my situation, and would have preferred a dungeon, with any human creature I could converse with, to the liberty of stalking through an uninhabited range of chambers, in silence and solitude.
Monasteries afford society, and goals are not destitute of companions, which are a solace even in misery; but here I was both wretched, and alone—I used often to consider myself as a delinquent entombed alive, secluded from the universe, and only conscious of existence from continued regret.

I sought for amusement in books, and found none that were capable of affording me any; the few volumes that I met with, were meant to inspire devotion, but as they were written on fanatical principles, they were either so ridiculously absurd as to create disgust, or so extremely rigid as to induce despair.
In conformity to my promise, I had written to Mr. W—, but received no answer, and, what was infinitely more grievous to me, I had not the happiness of hearing once from my mother, or any one else, though eight months had lagged with leaden steps along, since the first day of my confinement.
When the weather permitted, I sometimes walked by the sea side, and have

frequently poured forth my sorrows to the deaf, unpitying waves.—Often, my Edward, have I sighed out your name, and sent forth ardent prayers for your return, to comfort and support our hapless mother! Yet I will own that the loved sound of L—, still oftener passed my lips—Was this a crime? My affections were thrown back upon my hands, and this methought gave me a right to transfer them.
In this situation I had remained in my exile for a tedious interval, when one fine evening, having indulged my reveries by the sea side longer than usual, the twilight coming on warned me of returning home, when I saw two men, at a small distance, walking slowly behind me—a sight so unusual, joined to an apprehension

that they might have overheard my soliloquy, put my spirits into a flutter; though from their pace and manner, they did not seem as if they intended to pursue me—I was seized with an universal tremor, my limbs could scarce support me, and I could march but slowly on.
Before I was able to recover myself, and mend my speed, one of the persons came up to me, while the other retired, as if for fear of alarming me—I did not venture even to look at him, and began to mend my pace; but sight was useless, when his well known voice uttered these words,
"O fear no injury from me, my dear deceived, unhappy, and still adored Maria!"


Surprise, terror, hope, fear, love, anger, grief, and joy—in short every passion of the human heart, hatred alone excepted, rushed through my mind, and totally deprived me of the power of utterance, while he—need I write his name?—taking advantage of my silence, proceeded thus.

"I have long sought this opportunity of speaking to you; but my tenderness, my delicacy, and respect, for the only woman I ever did, or can love, have prevented my attempting it hitherto, in any way that might reflect upon the character of Mr. W—'s wife, and by that means countenance and justify the calumny with which he has aspersed your reputation—The lucky moment I have so long watched

for in private, has at length arrived, and if you ever loved me, my Maria, you will not now refuse to hear me, for a moment, while I tell you that you have been most cruelly deceived."


"I know, it Sir, I replied; you need not now inform me of your own perfidy—to you alone I owe the miseries I suffer, and Mr. W— himself is innocent, when compared with you—Then let me go this moment, for however my duty to him may have been dissolved, by his unkindness, that which I owe myself, forbids my ever holding converse with you more."

I attempted to break from him, but he held me fast, and vowed most solemnly, that he would never quit me, unless

I promised to meet him, the next evening, on the beach, and allow him to exculpate himself of the infidelity I charged him with, and which he then denied with the strongest asseverations; adding, that Matilda had betrayed us both, and was the vilest being upon earth—Then promised, if I would but hear him once, he would never importune me more.
Almost distracted with contending passions, and terrified lest his imprudence might involve me in farther difficulties, I promised to comply with his request, provided he would leave me on the instant, as I heard the sound of voices, which I knew to be the servants coming in quest of me, as they must necessarily be alarmed at my unusual st•y—He pressed my hand to his lips, and withdrew directly.

With trembling steps I pursued my way homewards, and met my maid, with the gardener, coming in search of me—The agitation of my mind, was too visible in my countenance to pass unnoticed, and they naturally inquired if I had met with any fright or accident? I told them that the night had fallen upon me sooner than I had expected it, that I had been then alarmed at the loneliness of my situation, and the haste I was obliged to make homewards had hurried my spirits a little—I desired a glass of water, and pretended to retire to rest.
As soon as I was left alone, I began to reflect upon the extraordinariness of my adventure with Captain L— upon the strand, and on my own weakness in having consented again to meet a person

who had despised and rejected me with the utmost insolence and inhumanity.
It was however, still easier to account for my conduct, on this occasion, than for his; passion, self-love, and curiosity, all conspired to render me desirous of finding a clue to that labyrinth in which I was involved. But wherefore should he seek to distress me farther? Or why pursue a wretch, who, already entirely secluded from the world, had neither inclination or power to disturb his happiness, or oppose his views in any scheme of life?
The hints he had dropped about Matilda, puzzled me still farther—Was she not the companion of my youth, the friend of my heart, the confidant of all

my joys and sorrows—Some instances of her levity and unkindness I did indeed recollect—But could she betray me! impossible! Nature could not produce so vile a monster!
Or grant there could be such a fiend clothed in a female form—Yet still why unprovoked should she exert her malice against me, who never had offended her, without a view to her own interest or advantage? And how could she be profited by my destruction?
The more I considered what Captain L— had said, on this last subject, the less credit it gained with me; and I persuaded myself that he had only named Matilda as a lure to my curiosity.—The night passed away insensibly, without my being able either to form any rational

conjecture, with regard to the motives of his behaviour, or any resolution relative to my own—A thousand times I determined not to keep my appointment with him, and as often changed my resolves.
It would be endless to repeat the numless arguments for, and against this meeting, that my love and reason suggested, and set in opposition to each other.—At length my evil genius prevailed, and determined me, for once, to hear what Captain L— could say.
About six o'clock in the morning, I lay down on my bed, in order to make my maid believe that I had slept in it as usual; I had lain but a short time, when I found my harrassed mind inclined

to rest, and I fell into a slumber; out of which I was soon awakened by a dream, which affected my mind as much as a vision would have done my senses.
I thought that my father stood before me, under the same sickly and emaciated appearance, with which that true divine conferred his last blessing on me—I threw myself on my knees, and endeavoured to embrace his; but with his face averse he flitted fast away—I rose and pursued him to the brink of a precipice, when he turned quick upon me, caught me up in his arms, and plunged with me directly into the gulf.
I awakened with a loud scream, thought I was still falling, and was for some time in doubt whether it was the reverie of a

disturbed brain, or an apparition that had occurred to me; and only determined it to have been the former, by finding myself in the same place I had laid down to rest.
I rose up and walked about the room, till I had exhausted my strength, endeavouring to shake off the kind of horror which had taken possession of my mind and body, from this shocking dream; but it clung still about me, like a wintry cloud, and chilled my nerves to numbness.
At length, towards evening, I began to recover myself again—I am not superstitious; besides, what crime had I ever committed, that might conjure up spectres from the grave! My life had been

innocent, though unhappy, and my mind continued pure, though injured and provoked.
The reflections which this incident stirred up in my thoughts, more particularly at this time, with regard to my dear father's goodness and virtue, served principally to compose my spirits to peace—He was indeed a perfect christian, both in faith and works; his character and conversation were of a piece; his example was precept, he urged no borrowed morals, but preached the very practice of his life—his doctrines were strict, yet indulgent; charitable, though severe—his austerity was only in his maxims and his mind; his mildness in his censures and his heart.

These pious thoughts wrought me up to an enthusiasm of devotion; I fell on my knees to thank Heaven for having been derived from two such pure sources, as my father and mother, and prayed most fervently, that I might never be guilty of any thought or deed, which should render me unworthy of such faultless originals.
As the hour approached when I was to meet Captain L—, the terrors of my mind increased; yet I found myself so strongly impelled, from the motives already mentioned, joined to a curiosity to know where the blame lay, between Matilda and him, that I could not resist the temptation of hazarding the interview. I went softly down the back stairs, which led from a closet within my apartment,

and found my way out, unseen by any of the family.
The agitation of my spirits was so violent, that I scarce knew what I did; I sometimes ran towards the shore, as if I had been pursued by wild beasts; then stopped, and stood motionless, as if my faculties had ceased.—At length, I perceived Captain L—, at some distance; he flew to me, and caught me in his arms; I burst into a passion of tears, and was incapable of utterance.
As soon as I could recover my speech, I assumed all the dignity of resentment, and told him that he was no longer to consider me as the weak tender Maria S—, but as an injured and offended judge, who came to hear the poor defence

which he could make, for having so ungenerously wronged, and so cruelly injured her.
Again he pressed me to his bosom, and exclaimed,
"O could I but repair the wrongs you have suffered, as easily as I can prove I never was the author of them, my loved Maria should be mine and happy—and it shall still be so—Victims of artifice and fraud, shall we continue to be wretched, because Matilda and your husband have concurred to render us so."


"That fatal name of husband, I replied, has fixed an everlasting bar, between happiness and me; but were there no such person in the world, you cannot think of me so meanly, to suppose that

I would condescend to accept of one, who had rejected and despised me!—No blandishments, no arts, can ever soothe my tortured mind into forgetfulness of your contempt."

He then begged that I would hear him justify himself, and began by informing me, that about a year before my arrival at Bath, he had gone there, as most young people do, in quest of amusement; that he happened to lodge in the same house with Matilda, and her husband, who both sought and cultivated his acquaintance; and as he had no particular attachment to any other persons there, he devoted himself entirely to them, was of all their parties, and never absent from them.
He confessed that he liked Matilda, better than any woman then at Bath, and

that he began to flatter himself he was not disagreeable to her; from the levity of her manners, he had reason to believe she was not overstrict in her morals, and on her husband's being obliged to go to London, for a few days, she convinced him that he had not been mistaken.
Their guilty commerce lasted but a short time; it began without passion, and of course terminated in indifference, at least on his side. He quitted Bath without any design of ever returning, though Matilda and her husband had taken a house, and determined to fix their residence there.
Some months after, he was attacked with a violent bilious complaint, and ordered to Bath by his physicians; and

was just recovering from this disorder, when my mother and I happened to bend our course thither—What passed between us, on our first acquaintance, I have already told you, except Matilda's machinations to break off our intercourse, and recall him to his former attachment.
When she found her arts were unsuccessful, she changed her battery, and pretended to conceive a particular friendship for me, and became our mutual confidant; but at the same time, from her superior regard for Captain L—, used often to remonstrate to him, how much his family would be offended at his marrying a girl without rank or fortune.
But all these arts and insinuations he vowed had not the least manner of effect

upon his mind, or heart; his passion was too firmly founded, on admiration and esteem, to be so easily shaken, and he declared that at the sad moment of our parting, his whole affections and sole purpose in life, were pointed towards our mutual happiness and honour together.
He confessed, however, that during the unlucky interval of absence, the hints and representations of Matilda had wrought by degrees, the malicious effect intended by them; for she had framed a novel → against me, with so much address and ingenuity, so guarded at all points, that each part of it seemed to vouch the truth of the rest.
Even the indiscretion of my having been led into play, by her own artifice,

she most wickedly represented to him as a vice of mine, and reported the circumstances of my debt to Mr. W—, which she also exaggerated, with such reflections as placed me in the shocking light of a girl who was resolved to make the most of her youth and beauty, without any further regard to morals or character.
In fine, he acknowledged that the plausible manner in which she gave him these advices, from time to time, with the tender and compassionate expressions she affected now and then to let drop, upon the unhappiness of my conduct, had at length so entirely injured me in his esteem, that it occasioned his writing me the letter, before mentioned, when he was going to set sail for America.

What a recital was this for me to listen to, in my then unfortunate circumstances! his justification but increased my misery—I had never imagined there was so much vileness in human nature, as the base Matilda appeared now to be capable of, and was shocked to think that I was of the same species with such a monster in wickedness—I wept—We both of us wept, while he thus went on with his story.

"When I quitted Europe, continued he, the poison of Matilda's correspondence ceased its operations, my passion and reflection had liberty to exert themselves, and I began to doubt the authenticity of the extraordinary accounts I had received about you—Your bloom

and beauty presented themselves to my fond imagination, in the warmest colours—Your candour, innocence, and ingenuousness of manners, occurred then strongly to my mind—Could such a character become so quickly abandoned, said I to my heart—It must be unnatural; and what is contrary to nature, must be improbable at least, if not impossible."


"Thus did I often plead your cause, my ever loved Maria, against the foul charges of your enemy, whom I unhappily, however, did not look upon then in that light, but merely as an unfortunate woman, who having been guilty of vice herself, was, as too generally is the case, apt to construe every action of others into the worst

sense, that the appearances or circumstances of it can bear."


"Upon this fair discussion of the point, I wrote once more to Matilda, expressing my doubts, not of her sincerity, but about her misapprehensions only, of your conduct—Said that general charges, suspicions and hearsays, were but insufficient evidences where so choice a jewel as character was at stake; and called upon her for some facts of more public notoriety, to support her slanders."


"As all correspondence had been broken off between you and me, said he, she ventured now to speak out more boldly, and without the least equivocation in her terms, assured me

that you lived publicly with Mr. W—, and privately intrigued with Sir James D—; that the extravagance of your dress, pleasures, and other expenses, was supported between them; that you had kept them both attached to you, by raising a spirit of rivalship between them; and used also to render each of the galants jealous, in their turns, by alarming them with me."


"With the letter she wrote, as she said by your desire, from Bristol, she sent me another, in which she told me that you had at length brought Mr. W—, to consent to marry you, on account of your being with child, and that the letter was framed with a view either of duping me into a marriage, which she believed you would

prefer, or of paying Mr. W— the compliment of sacrificing me to him, if I should return a favourable answer."


"There is no describing the height of resentment to which I was affected upon this occasion, and I should have replied to the proposal in the most outrageous terms imaginable, if my love and fondness for you, which still remained, though my esteem was flown, had not restrained my hand, and dictated those cool, but not violent lines, I sent her in answer."

He told me, that when he returned to England, upon his father's illness, he felt himself impelled by a strong desire of seeking some proper opportunity of reproaching me for my infidelity, and of

covering me with the utmost confusion, by expressing the detestation and contempt, that even a man, and a soldier, was capable of conceiving at the breach of honour or virtue in a woman that he loved.
He mentioned this purpose, he said, in a letter to Matilda, and she most strenuously opposed it; she told him that such a sentiment was no good sign of a recovery from his infatuated passion, for she feared much that
"All the malice of his heart was love."
That this would be but affording me the triumph of thinking him still my slave, and might put it in my power to involve him, perhaps, in a duel with Mr. W—, whom she represented as extremely jealous, from very conscious reasons, if, as

it was more than probable, I should be willing to exchange my wedding-garment for a widow's weed.

However all these arguments not being sufficient to deter him from coming to Bath, he wrote her word that he would be there on such a day, and has had reason to suppose, since, that she must have advised Mr. W— of this particular, by his coming so critically from London, on the same day, and meeting him in the Rooms that fatal night which I have before mentioned to you.
I need not now, my dear brother, recapitulate what passed, in consequence of this vile woman's malice; you have hitherto seen me the innocent victim of her cruelty—Too happy should I now deem myself, had I still remained so.

My fainting in the Rooms, at the sight of Captain L—, awakened his former tenderness for me; and the inhumanity with which Mr. W— treated me, on that occasion, for the surgeon had made the story public, seemed to demand his pity for a wretch doomed to be punished for an involuntary and guiltless act.
He would have gone in person, the next morning, to Mr. W—, in order to have justified my character, as far as it related to the scandal then cast upon it, with regard to him, but was restrained from the attempt by Matilda's saying that this would only make the matter worse, in all probability; that the interfering between man and wife was a dangerous measure in any person whatsoever,

but that the lover, the very cause of the contention, must certainly be the most improper mediator in their reconcilement, that could possibly be imagined.
She, therefore, advised him to wait with patience, till passion, on the husband's part, might become calm enough to listen to reason, and that resentment peculiarly natural to a wife, suspected in the wrong place, (this was her expression) should have somewhat subsided, and then promised him to undertake the interposition herself, at the proper crisis, probably to better effect than it could be engaged in, even by her, during the present violence of the parties.
He stayed at Bath while I remained there, and suffered an anxiety which increased

more and more, every day, a• by mixing with the company at th• Rooms, but more particularly with th• residents of the place, among whom m• late adventure was publicly talked o• he heard every one take my part, an• vindicate my innocence, from their for+mer knowledge and general good opi+nion of my character and conduct, eve• since I had first become an inhabitan• of that city.
In fine, he heard it agreed upon, o• all sides, that Mr. W— could have n• other foundation for his jealousy of m• except that sort of suspicion which is na+turally apt to arise from too great a di•+parity in years, especially in the breast o• a man, who had had but little acquain•+ance with any women, except those of • profligate character.

These fair reports in my favour, he said, began soon to convince him of Matilda's treachery, and he reproached her with it warmly one day; when with the greatest sang froid imaginable, she answered him in these very words,
"There is no such thing as eleemosynary wisdom in this life, let philosophers and pedagogues say what they will—experience must be purchased at our own proper cost, and not at the expense of others—From this warning you will be taught sufficient sense to know, for the future, that to make a woman the confidant of her rival, is appointing a wolf to be the shepherd of a lamb—I forget whether this maxim be taken notice of in Ovid's Art of Love; if not, his precepts are imperfect."


He assured me that, on this reply, his sight and reason forsook him, for a time, and only returned to enable him to view the hag, as she then appeared to him, with the greater horror, and to possess him with a rage that fell but little short of madness.
"What would I have given, at that instant, cried he out, to have exchanged her sex, into a dozen armed men!"
and then concluded the sentence with this expression—
"But I could not exert such resentment against her, as she deserved, because she was in my power."

He did every thing he could to find out the place of my banishment, but could not discover it—He did not know of my being moved from Bath till after I had been sent away, or he would have

employed some trusty person or other, to have watched me to the place of my destination—The surmises were various, upon this occasion; some said I was to be carried over to France, and forced into a convent; some, that I was to be locked up in Mr. W—'s house, in London; and others, that I was to be betrayed into a private mad-house, and confined there for life.
During the uncertainty of all these several reports, Captain L— received an account of his father's illness, and immediately repaired to London, to attend on him. His filial duty claimed his first regard, and the exercise of that virtue served to restrain his impatience, and ballance his anxiety on my account, for several months, while Sir Richard L— lingered before his death.

Captain L—, now become Sir Thomas L—, with a large patrimony, being at length released from any further restraint upon his time and actions, began to turn his whole thoughts towards the unhappiness of my situation, and considered himself bound, not as a knight-errant merely, but as a man of honour, to rescue me from that distress which he had been the innocent cause of, through the treachery of one person, and the too hasty sentence and unwarrantable severity of another.—He returned immediately to Bath, in order to get what information he could, about me; and hearing that my dear mother had retired to a village in Flintshire, took the resolution of going to wait upon her there.

As soon as he had informed her who he was, she began to reproach him in the manner it was natural for her to have done, from the circumstances of his conduct towards me, in the light it had hitherto appeared to her. But when he had disclosed the scene of villainy and deceit to which he had likewise fallen a victim, her affections softened, and she could not help looking upon him then as a third sufferer in our complicated misfortune.
He contrived artfully to draw from her the secret of my abode, but without suffering the least hint to escape him, of any purpose to seek me there. Then, taking her hand, and kneeling before her, vowed an attachment to me, during life; said he would ever pay her the

respect and duty of a son-in-law, attending till death, or some more speedy vengeance, might remove Mr. W— out of the way of his happiness; and offered her an affluent support out of his fortune, becoming the honourable connection which he had then declared between them.
My dear unhappy mother returned him the most grateful thanks for the kindness and generosity of his offer, but her spirit and delicacy made her decline the acceptance of it. She confessed herself alarmed, even at his visit, and urged him to depart instantly, without suffering himself to be known, lest this circumstance, though accidental and innocent in itself, might possibly, in the train of our misfortunes, happen to be

made an additional article of suspicion against us all. She plained the distress and difficulty of our situations—They embraced, and he retired immediately out of the town.
On his route to Devonshire Bath lay in his way, where he happened to meet with Captain R—, who had been an officer in the same corps with him, in America. There had always subsisted a particular intimacy between them; and as friendship is apt to inspire a confidence, and that his heart was full, he imparted the whole secret of our loves and disappointments to him.
He also informed him, at the same time, of his resolve to go and conceal himself somewhere near the place of my retirement,

till he might meet with a favourable opportunity, without hazard to my reputation, of seeing me even for a minute, in order to vindicate himself from the unjust opinion I must necessarily have conceived of his infidelity and baseness; declaring also, that he thought it a duty incumbent on him to watch over my destiny, and at the expense of his fortune, and the sacrifice of his life, to defend me from any injury or violence that might ever be attempted against me.
Captain R— approved his motives, and commended his purpose, and said that as it was a service of danger, he had a right to claim the privilege of a friend and a comrade, in sharing it with him—Sir Thomas readily accepted of his company, and they set out the next

morning for Hartland, which is within a mile of the castle where I resided. They were attended only by two servants, and a couple of pointers, on pretence of going into that country merely as unconnected idle travelling sportsmen.
Sir Thomas did not acquaint his friend with my name, nor where I was concealed, and used every morning and evening to wander alone round the place of my confinement, in hopes of seeing me, as I should walk abroad, and of speaking to me unobserved; which, after about a fortnight's attendance, he happened to meet with.
In this sweet, but dangerous converse, did we pass the minute, for to us it appeared no more, of our assignation; and

now judge me, Edward, with your wonted candour, nor blame this foolish heart, if every tender, every fond sensation it had ever felt, returned with double force! Remember that I had never loved another, and that I still loved him, even when I thought him false! What must my transports be, to find him true!
When, in my turn, I told him the inhuman arts that had been practised to betray me, and estrange our mutual confidence, his passions rose almost to madness, and he a thousand times exclaimed that I was still his wife, that our hearts were joined by heaven, and that no power on earth, should ever part us more!
Too eagerly I listened to his ravings, and suffered the enchantment of his voice

to lull asleep my prudence, and my reason—I felt as if there were but us alone of all our species, existing in this world, and all other connection, obligation, or regard, appeared to me then but metaphysical speculation—Our sad attention to each other's woes, had so entirely engrossed our thoughts, that night stole on us, almost unperceived; tears had quite dimmed my sight, and my weak trembling limbs needed assistance to support my weight—I could not then refuse his kind sustaining arm, to help me on toward the mansion of my sorrows, the dungeon of my misery.
While we were on our way, a sudden storm arose, and the clouds burst forth in horrid thunder and lightning. By the time we had come within sight of the

back-door, through which I had that evening stolen out; a violent shower came on, which obliged me to hasten my speed—I entreated him to leave me, but he held me fast by the arm, till we came to the house, which he entered along with me.
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Here drop the curtain, Edward! and let this first false step of my whole life, stand as a mark for the innocent and unwary to shun—Let them restrain the first encroachments of a favoured lover, nor vainly fancy when once they yield the reins, that they can after check the ardent courser's speed.

Till that unhappy night, guilt was a stranger to my suffering heart, and therefore I had never known remorse, or fear—It was impossible to soothe my tortured soul to peace—The fond delusion of his prior right, both to my person and my heart—My former arguments, of dissolved tie, and transferred •ffections, appeared all but self-deceit, in my present circumstances; the wretched sophistry vanished like a phantom, from me, and in its room the priest, the altar, all the awful scene, where I had bound myself by solemn vows to be another's wife, now rushed upon me; and in the anguish of my heart, I bitterly exclaimed against him, as the prime source of all my misery, and bad him fly, for ever, from my sight.

Sir Thomas said every thing that honour could dictate, or love inspire, to temper my emotions of grief and rage; threw himself at my feet, entreated my forgiveness, called me his wife, his betrothed before heaven, vowed eternal faith and constancy to me, and offered to fly with me to any part of the globe. At length, seeing that nothing could calm my distraction, he started up, laid his hand to his sword, and declared that he would instantly put an end to that existence, which my resentment had now rendered miserable to him.
His violence suspended for a time, my agitations, by adding terror to my other feelings—I caught hold of his arm, and now became a suppliant, in my turn, begging that he would not further injure

me by such an horrid outrage, and promising to compose my mind by penitence and prayer, as soon as I was left alone; but upon this condition only, that he should never attempt to see me again, till it was possible for us to meet, for life, without a crime. We parted, mutually wretched, in agony and despair.
The horror with which I was seized, the moment he had quitted me, is not to be conceived, without guilt. I lost that firmness now, which had hitherto born up my spirits under all my sufferings. Purity, the only resource in affliction, was now fled for ever from my breast—I felt the full weight of all my ills; and what appeared before oppression on my innocence, seemed now but justice on my crime. I rejoiced I had

no sister! I thought of you, my brother, of my dear mother too, and with a shower of tears, took leave of these fond names, for ever.
I stood in life alone, severed from all connection! The sustaining hope of being again restored to honour and society, like the fair fruit that sprang in Pandaemonium, now turned to bitter ashes. What had I further to do with the world? Alas, I had already forfeited all protection! My last night's dream—say rather vision—stared me full in the face, and upbraided me with the recollection of a maxim I had often heard my parent saint deliver, that
"we should ever consider those persons we had a respect for, as present, when absent, and as living, when dead."
I kneeled down, and

strove to pray, but could not; I felt myself in a state of reprobation, and was almost fallen into despair—I had no stay, no support, no resource, in store—In all the other ills of life, heaven suffers us not to be afflicted, beyond our strength; but wretchedness, with guilt, exceeds the scheme of Providence.

I then endeavoured to rise, but was not able to stand—my exhausted spirits failed me, and I sunk down again upon the floor, where I continued some time, in a state of stupidity; till my maid's opening the door of the ante-chamber, warned me to disguise my disturbance—I concealed my distraction as well as I could, by keeping my face turned from her as much as possible, and for the first time felt what an irksome thing it is to have any thing to hide.

The storm continued all the night, with extreme violence; but the thunder and lightning did not alarm me as they had done on the evening before—I had now a louder monitor in my breast than the one, and with what open arms and welcome greetings, should I then have embraced the other!
How long Sir Thomas staid at Hartland I cannot tell, for I never ventured abroad, from that time, even to take a walk in the gardens, and he behaved with so much honour as to obey my last injunction to him, by not seeking any further opportunity, as far as I could learn, of seeing me again, or even of attempting to write a line to me, lest it might, as it certainly would, have been intercepted. So that I began soon to reconcile

myself to my present situation, by making that solitude and confinement a voluntary penance, which I had hitherto looked upon as the severest infliction; considering it but as a convent within the sequestered walls of which I should then most assuredly have concealed myself from the world, had I been at liberty to have chosen my situation.
I conformed myself entirely to a true monastic state, for a time, by spending my days in fasts, in contrition, and in prayer, hoping that my sorrows would ere long have ended with my life; but I was, alas! too soon convinced that fate had not yet emptied all its quiver against me; for I had the inexpressible shock to find that I was likely to bring an innocent being into the world, at once to prove, and share my infamy.

I shall not attempt to describe the agonies of my mind, upon this discovery—I must live to have endeavoured still to solicit that death, which my despair had tempted me to wish so ardently for before, while it related only to myself, would have been a double guilt, in my present circumstances—I must therefore submit to become more miserable, in order to render myself less criminal.
In such a miserable and forlorn situation, what measure was left me to pursue! There was indeed, but one; and let the fatal necessity of it, plead my excuse—I had refused to fly with Sir Thomas, when he begged it on his knees; I could not yield deliberate consent to vice, or think of delivering myself

over to a life of profligacy. But I must now temporize with guilt—I must now extricate myself from my present difficulty, shame, and danger, at any expense; though with a determined purpose to cover my head, immediately after, in some severe convent, there to endure the harshest penances, and hide me from the world for ever.
In the confusion and distraction I was in at that time, I could not frame any certain scheme for my relief; besides, that point depended on the concurrence of another; I therefore wrote a letter to Sir Thomas, entreating the favour of him to come to me directly, upon a business of consequence to us both, and in which something more than my own life, was the object of my anxiety.

I did not know where Sir Thomas then was, but ventured to direct it to him according to my former address from Bath, to his father's house in Bloomsbury square.
But when I had sealed this billet, a new difficulty occured to me, how I could possibly get it conveyed to him—All connection between me and the world had been cut off, from the moment of my commitment. My duenna had, at first, refused to let a letter from me, even to my mother, be carried to the post; and told me frankly then, that any directed to me were ordered to be returned from thence, unopened, to Mr. W—
The danger pressed, and some attempt must be hazarded. I recollected

that there was a labourer who generally worked in the garden, and appeared to be a person of rational intelligence; I therefore went out to him, and gave the letter into his hands, with a bribe of five guineas, which fee I promised to double for him, on his return with an answer, and hinted to him all proper cautions, with regard to the secrecy of his commission.
I instructed the messenger to make some pretence or other, of private business, for absenting himself from his service, and desired him not to attempt to deliver the answer of my letter to me, till he should meet me alone in the garden—I had a full view of it from the windows of my apartment, and watched with the utmost impatience, for his appearance

again, from the moment that I thought it possible for him to have returned. How much did I envy, during this anxious interval, the infinitely preferable state of the meanest peasant I heard whistling carelessly across the demesne, who enjoyed peace and competence, without a consciousness of guilt, or the fear of detection!
At length I had the satisfaction to see my courier arrive, and waiting till I perceived the coast clear, I stole out to him, and had the pleasure to receive a letter from Sir Thomas, filled with the tenderest professions of love, and the fullest assurances of honour. He promised to be with me that very evening, just at night fall, and desired I would meet him at the end of the grove, near the house.

I was punctual to time and place, and found him also exact to his appointment.
He was full of transport at the sight of me, but I was not in a fit disposition of mind to attend to his extasies—I begged he would compose himself while I looked about through every avenue, to see that no prying eye was near, to observe our motions; then led him with fearful hands, and trembling steps, into the house, and we retired up stairs together, to my apartment.
As I had not used myself to eat suppers, ever since my confinement in this place, I always dismissed my attendant as soon as she had left candles lighted on my table, choosing to sit up alone, most part of the nights, employed

in reading, musing, and working; so that I was under no sort of apprehension, of being at any time interrupted in my privacy.
As soon as we had got into the room, Sir Thomas attempted to catch me in his arms, but I started from his embrace—I told him that we were neither of us in time, place, or circumstances, to admit of unwarrantable liberties; that I had desired this meeting to implore the assistance of his friendship and honour only, not to receive his love; the least overture of which, as I had declared to him before, I was firmly resolved to oppose, till such a time, if ever that happy era should arrive, as might intitle him to ask, and me to grant, the unreserved completion of his

wishes—With true humanity and generous acquiescence he immediately desisted from all further importunity.
As he guessed the situation I was in, from the hint in my letter, and therefore concluded what the purport of my summons tended to, he had the tenderness and politeness not to wait for any further explanation of the matter; but immediately proposed to me that we should directly abscond together to some distant part of the kingdom, from whence we might sail over to the continent, and there secrete ourselves for life, in some retired spot, safe from pursuit or inquiry; adding that he should not look upon this retreat to be an exile, to himself, as he might well be said to carry his country along with him, while he

was in possession of all he loved or valued in it.
I had no other resource left me now; and the choice is soon made, where there remains but one option—I rendered the most grateful acknowledgments to him for the generosity of his offer, which I readily accepted of; told him that I, from that moment, resigned my fate into his hands, and that he should thence-forward be the sole arbiter of my destiny, accountable to himself alone for all my future weal or woe—He kneeled, took my hand, kissed and bathed it with his tears.
You do not, I hope, my dear brother, imagine me so devoid of sensibility, as not to suppose that I then felt the disgrace

which my misconduct must entail upon an honoured parent; nor were you absent, Edward, from my thoughts. But let me say this in my excuse, that I then flattered myself my flight, or rather the motives for it, might remain for ever secret, and that living in a foreign land, under a feigned name, my person might possibly never be dis•overed—and in that case, those dear connections could be as little involved in my reproach, as they were concerned in my guilt.
Here end all the reflections I shall ever make—The following part of my unhappy story, while I relate it, harrows up my soul, congeals my faculties, and impels me to wild distraction, or to reprobate despair.

When we had thus settled the article of our flight together, we agreed further upon the manner and circumstances of it: Sir Thomas was to retire immediately to his inn, before my garrison should be shut up for the night, and send off an express to Exeter, for a post-chaise, with relays of horses, to be ready, the next evening, at the further end of the grove, where I promised to meet him at the close of day, from thence to launch into a world unknown, without a matron, without a guardian—for I had lost my innocence.
Just as I was rising up to convey him out of the house, I heard some hasty steps passing through the antechamber, the door of my room was suddenly burst open, and I saw Mr. W— enter, with

a pistol in each hand. Sir Thomas laid hold of his sword, but before he could draw it, received a bullet in his breast—He fell—and, do I survive to tell it! I heard his last groan, and saw him exp•… at my feet—I heard, nor saw, no more, bu• falling senseless on his lifeless bosom, was for a while released from agonies too great 〈…〉
But my miseries were not so soon to have an end. I was dragged back again to life, by the still cruel hands of Mr. W—, who assisted my maid to raise me from the floor, and lay me on the bed—The first use I made of my returning sense, was to rise upon my knees, and, with uplifted hands, implore his mercy to terminate my misfortunes and my life together—He looked as if he

would do so, but turning from me, cried,
"No, thou shalt be reserved for more exemplary vengeance;"
and walked immediately out of the room, taking the maid along with him, but leaving the discharged pistol by me, on the bed

With my reason, my ho•… returned—Let compassion but reflect on my situation! Barbarity itself must soften into humanity, at the thought.—Loaded with infamy, encompassed with misery, entombed, as it were alive, with the dead! and gazing horribly, without the relief even of tears, on the sad victim of my ill-starred destiny! At length, frantic with grief, with terror and despair, unknowing what I did, and without any purposed end, I rushed down the backstaris, and issued through the private door, from that accursed mansion.

Fear gave wings to my speed, yet at the same time retarded my flight; for though I ran as fast as it was possible, I frequently stopped, for several minutes, to listen to every sound I heard; and sometimes clambered over high ditches, and laid myself flat on the ground, to prevent my being seen, in case I was pursued; though the night was so dark, that I could almost feel an object before I saw it.
My haste was urged by instinct merely, determined to no point, but like a frightened animal I fled from danger without direction in my course—My mind was all the while in the state of a dream—I knew of no asylum, I could frame no purpose—At length, exhausted by fatigue, and oppressed with sorrow,

I sat myself down in the corner of a field, surrounded by a little coppice, just high enough to conceal me from the view of passengers—Here nature, till now restrained, still active for its own relief, began to release the utterances of grief, and at the very moment that I felt my heart going to burst asunder, my tears broke forth, and I found myself at libery to express my sufferings, in moanings and exclamations.
This gave me ease, at first, and I therefore indulged it, for a while, till I began to apprehend, towards day, that the loudness of my complaints might possibly reach the ear of some traveller or villager, and betray the situation of my concealment, and the particular circumstances of my story—But yet I could

not silence my cries and lamentations; I became desperate of all human succour, and thought that even the hands of cruelty might relieve me from the effects of my own distraction, by putting an end to my life, without any additional guilt of mine.
At length my voice was heard, and answered by one who came rustling through the coppice, and in a soft slender tone, cried out, Where are you, who are you, and what ails you? The sound at first, alarmed me, till I was struck with the appearance of a beautiful boy, of about seven years old, at a little distance, who, as soon as he spied me, came running up and told me, that his mamma had been awakened in bed with my cries, had rung her bell, and ordered her servant

to go seek the person in grief, but that he got out of the house before him, was glad he had sound me first, and begged I would go home along with him, directly, out of that nasty cold place, to make his mamma's mind easy.
The prettiness of the child's person, with the good-natured impatience and anxiety it expressed about my situation, charmed me in that instant of distress and woe, till he came up close to me; when I felt a sudden shock, at the sight of him—He seemed to be a son of Mr. W—'s; he had every feature of his face—I started and trembled—however, I soon recovered myself, concluding that such an idea must be owing merely to the strong impression which his countenance had made on my mind, at our

last interview, and which a terrified immagination might possibly have transferred a likeness of, to any object viewed in the uncertain light of a just opening dawn—I therefore embraced the lovely child, and walked away with him, leaning on the servant's arm, who was then come up, to a neat cottage, which was but a few yards from the spot I had been found in.
I was received at the door of the house, by a lady of a genteeler appearance than one could naturally expect to have met with, under so mean a roof, who with a voice of sweetness welcomed me to what hospitality her circumstances could afford, and taking me by the hand, led me into her best apartment—I sat down on the first chair I could reach,

and begged for a glass of water, to prevent my fainting, which I apprehended, from my feelings, might probably soon happen.
The room we were in was soon lighted up with fire and candles, the blaze of which offended my tender sight, already dimmed by the darkness of the foregoing night, and weakened by my tears, which prevented me from being able to view objects distinctly enough, at first; but when the agitation of my spirits had been somewhat abated, and that my eyes had recovered their strength a little, I perceived the lady to be a person of about four and twenty years of age, and extremely handsome, but seeming much impaired in her appearance, by grief, or sickness.

Here I began to shudder again; for the resemblance between her and Mr. W—, struck me more forcibly than it had done before, in the child—There could be no equivocation, in this instance—her features marked the likeness stronger, and the clear light, I had then an opportunity of viewing her by, put the similitude beyond a doubt—This mystery alarmed me—I feared I had fallen into dangerous hands; but it would have been doubly improper to have asked for a solution of this riddle, on account either of the seeming to pry into her secret, or the hazard of betraying my own.
I therefore concealed my surprise, though I could not avoid showing my uneasiness; which she perceiving, but

without suspecting the cause, and imputing solely to my misfortunes and fatigue, which she seemed to think were sufferings I had not been much accustomed to, entreated me to repose myself on the bed that was in the chamber, as long as I pleased, without fear of interruption, till I should be inclined to accept of any other kind of comfort or refreshment, that might be within the compass of her poor means to afford me.
The voice of kindness to an oppressed heart, at once soothes, and gives vent to its sufferings. I answered only with my tears; she rose, and taking her child by the hand, said that she was too well acquainted with sorrow to attempt to restrain its course, or think it capable of any other relief, than time and prayer;

adding, that I need be under no manner of apprehension that any curiosity of her's should prompt her to inquire into my story, as the measure of her own misfortunes was too full already to admit the addition of another's grief, without the power of alleviating it. She retired immediately without waiting for a reply.
Being now sheltered from all outward ills and violences, the distraction of my mind began to feel itself under the less control; despair and frenzy now triumphed over my reason and religion; I looked about for some instrument of destruction, to put an end to my miserable existence, and snatching at a sword that hung unsheathed over the chimney, I had just set the hilt of it to the ground,

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when my guardian hostess, attentive to my motions, running into the room to see what had occasioned my disturbance, had just time enough to strike the point aside, so that I fell unhurt upon the floor.—

"O stop the hand of rashness! she exclaimed, nor dare to limit mercy! He who severely tries, as amply can reward the patient sufferer; let thy proud heart bow to his high decrees, and learn to bear thy burden with submission."

While thus she spoke, I gazed upon her with a silent awe, and thought her more than human—She raised me from the ground, with looks of tenderness, and thus proceeded—
"That sorrow has

beset, and has subdued you, I can well perceive—Alas! what is your strength or mine, opposed to its rude grasp! But wherefore then should we rely upon ourselves, when offered aid bends from high heaven for our acceptance, and bids our weak humanity be strong in its almighty power!"

I sunk again upon my knees before her, and cried out,
"I have no hope in heaven or earth! Thou messenger of grace, thy proffered aid is vain! I am an out-cast from society, nor would even your charity extend itself to such a wretch as me, were you to know my crimes."


"I will not hear them then, she answered quick, but sure there is no guilt, except

despair, that may not hope for pardon—Remove that gloomy vice from your sad heart, and penitence shall heal the wounds of your offenc•, and bid your bleeding bosom be at peace."

By slow degrees this more than woman, this heaven-instructed comforter, calmed my distracted soul, and reasoned down my frenzy—I passed my word to her not to attempt my life, and I have kept it; have waited till the lingering, though sure bane of human health, unceasing sorrow, shall release my promise, and lay me gently in the silent grave.
As soon as my mind had become somewhat more composed, I began to reflect upon the circumstances of my late misfortune

—I thought with horror on the impiety 〈◊〉 neglecting a duty toward the manes, of the unhappy sacrifice of my wayward destiny; I felt like an accomplice in the guilt, if I should not endeavour to rescue the remains of that dear and unfortunate object, from the still continued barbarity of his murderer, and attempt to procure it the rites of christian, at least of human, sepulchre.
The idea that first occured to me, upon this occasion, was to fly off directly to the inn at Hart•…nd, to Captain R—, for Sir Thomas had told me that his friend and confident had accompanied him now, as before—and to have acqu•inted him with the fatal catastrophé of my story—But how to appear before a

stranger, or indeed any person whatsoever, under the sensation of •onscious guilt, and public infamy! Besides, mig•… I not happen to be detected there, and possibly have involved a third person in my complicated misfortune! However, I contrived to qualify these scruples, by the subterfuge of writing a note to him, containing only these few words.

"Your friend is, alas, no more! he lies murdered at Castle W—. I do not mean by this notice to call even for justice against his assassin, but only hope that your humanity and friendship may be able to defend his hapless corse from any further indignity or outrage."

To this billet I did not subscribe any name, but got my kind hostess to send

it off immediately to the inn, by one of the villagers, who was instructed not to say from whence he came, nor to await an answer.
This most excellent woman, so far from desiring to dive into the secret of my distress, made it a point rather, that I should not reveal it, whenever she heard me begin to mourn; but in order, as she said, to convince me that mine was not a partial lot, and that she had herself severely tasted of the bitter cup, she would relate some of those very uncommon misfortunes which had attended her through life, and which might, perhaps, in some measure, reconcile me to my own.
But first she insisted that I should endeavour to recruit my strength and

spirits with food and rest, as the preserving the proper temperament of the body, was certainly one requisite towards restoring the health of the mind—I accepted her hospitality, and breakfasted on tea, but could not eat—She did not press me—She was reasonable in all things; entreaty, in my situation, would have but added to my fatigue, and increased my disgust. She thought that sleep might, for a time, better supply the place of food; she therefore obliged me to undress myself and go into bed; where after having closed the windows, as it was now full day, and removed every implement of mischief out of the room, she left me to repose myself—if possible.
I did what I could, for that purpose—I owed that duty to the infant yet unborn,

and was solicitous to preserve that part of myself, at least, that was innocent. But my sorrows kept me long awake, till nature, taking advantage of my weakness, at length delivered my body over to sleep, though without composing my mind; for my disturbed imagination pursued me still throughout my slumber, presenting visions of slaughter, gibbets, and executions, to my tortured fancy, all the while; which instead of yielding me any manner of refreshment, by frequent starts awoke me; adding the pains of labour to my other ills, which brought on a miscarriage, towards the evening.
My humane hostess attended on me with the kindness and tenderness of a sister, supplied me with cordials, kept every thing quiet about me, and would

sit up all night, by my bed-side, notwithstanding every opposition I could make to it. The next morning she prevailed on me to take some sustenance, after which I claimed her promise of letting me into the history of her life; which however, I did not do to satisfy an idle curiosity, but thought that the circumstances of her recital, might perhaps amuse my mind from too fixed an attention to my own sorrows, and that the gentle murmurs of her voice, with the monotony of narrative, might possibly have conduced to slumber.
But judge of my amazement when she began by telling me that she was the daughter, the only child of Mr. W—! I was near betraying myself—I could not conceal my surprise, but cried out,
"It

is impossible! you cannot be his offspring!"
She calmly answered,
"You know him then;"
and without inquiring further, thus proceeded.

But as the unhappy Maria is come now to a pause in her misfortunes, let us, my dear sister, take this opportunity of resting a little ourselves, after the fatigue and horror of her story, before we enter upon an other. I confess, that when I came to this part of it, I rejoiced to think she was dead? my humanity felt less from the reflection that her sufferings were at an end. As we are affected more by the distress we see, than by what we only hear of, so is our compassion always

stronger for the living sorrow, than the dead one—Yet one must still weep for Hecuba.
The wind is become fair for this narrative, but my anxiety has been increased at not hearing from you before it changed.
Adieu,



THE following episode of the fair Cottager, though short, will be some relief to us both, before we proceed to the catastrophe of the main action, and conclude the History of the unfortunate Maria, whose peculiar fate suffered

not her indignities to terminate with her life, but afterwards delivered over her corse into the clutches of the brute Colville, to be carried in the procession of a mock funeral, at Amiens.
The STORY of Mrs. N—.
My mother was the only child of Captain H—, a younger brother of a distinguished family; her ill fortune brought her acquainted, very young, with Mr. W—, while he was a student at Oxford, and under age—They saw, liked, and wedded, without the consent of parents on either side—Captain H— was afterwards made acquainted with the marriage, but died before my other grandfather, from whom it was thought prudent to keep it still a secret, as my dear mother inherited but a very inconsiderable

portion. This was made a pretence for keeping their union concealed, during the life of his father; and my mother, who tenderly loved her husband, consented to let their connection still wear the veil of mystery, rather than injure his interest, or offend his father.
The doubtfulness of her situation by degrees detached her own friends entirely from her, and, for some years before the death of his father, she lived in perfect solitude, hardly ever seeing any person but her husband and me, her only child, who were the sole objects of her care and affection.
I was about seven years old when my grandfather W— died, and I am

persuaded that if my mother felt any joy upon that occasion, it was for my sake only, as she wished to have my legitimacy acknowledged, and my education properly attended to—A long habit of retirement had weaned her from the world, and though of an age to relish all its pleasures, being then but four and twenty, she thought of returning into it rather with disgust than delight.
Upon various pretences my father declined owning his marriage, for about two years, and the gentleness of my mother's temper prevented her from importuning him, on this or any subject; but when so long an interval had elapsed, since his father's death, and that she perceived a visible alteration in his behaviour

towards her, she with the utmost mildness expressed her wishes to live with him publicly as his wife—He strove for near a year more, to evade her request; but when her apprehensions began to be alarmed by his conduct, and that she ventured so far as to press him on the subject, he slew into a rage, and utterly denied his having ever been married to her.
Tears and prayers were all the weapons with with she attempted to assert her rights—They had, alas! no power on his obdurate heart—Grief preyed upon her tender frame, and when I had just entered my tenth year, she fell into a consumption—she was sensible of her approaching fate, and though she had remitted her own claim to my father's

rank or fortune, she determined not to leave me in the power of a man who had abandoned her to unmerited infamy, but immediately to set about proving her marriage, and by that means entitling me both to his name, and a proper provision from his fortune.
She soon found out that Doctor N—, the clergyman who had married her, lived in the parish of —, in this shire; and that my grandfather, old Mr. W—, had presented him to that living, which was incumbent on some part of my father's estate—She took me with her, and set out immediately for his house; which expedition she could easily make without her husband's knowledge, as they had seldom lived under the same roof together for some time past.

It is impossible to express this worthy man's surprise at the sight of my mother and me, as my father had informed him that she was dead above three years before, left no child, and earnestly requested him never to mention his having been married to her, as it could answer no end to her then, would certainly disoblige some of his relations, through whose assistance, he said, he had conceived reasonable hopes of strengthening his interest in the shire, and of improving his fortune.
As soon as my mother had acquainted him with her story, the good old man promised her to pay a visit, the next day, to my father, who had been his pupil at the university, and endeavour to influence him, by gentle means, to

do her the justice he owed her, rather than reduce her to the irksome necessity of exposing him and herself, by an appeal to some higher and more legal tribunal; assuring her, at the same time, that if his mediation should not be attended with that success which he wished, and had reason to expect from it, he would no longer hesitate a moment about proving the marriage, through all the forms of law.
My dear unhappy mother wept and thanked him, and the doctor, according to his promise, proceeded the next day to Castle W—, which is about ten miles from this village, being the mansion seat where my father then resided. It happened that he was from home, at the time the doctor went to his house;

and in the fullness of his zeal, he wrote him an admonitory letter upon this interesting subject, and returned much disappointed at not having seen him.
In a few days after this event, my father came to doctor N—'s, and endeavoured to make my mother's mind easy upon the equivocal appearances of his conduct towards her, imputing it all to the prudential reasons he had before mentioned to the doctor, in which he said that the future welfare of herself and family were equally interested; adding, that their living together in England could not be long concealed, but that he was ready to retire with her to any part of Flanders, upon pretence of his going to travel for a few years, till the schemes he had in agitation might be

brought to bear, when they might return home again and enjoy the remainder of their lives in happiness and honour together.
My dear mother, as was natural to an unsuspecting and ingenuous mind, was fondly amused with this artifice, and wept with transport, at his mock professions; the doctor too blessed his pupil, with tears of joy, and my father returned back to Castle W—, the next day, in order to prepare every thing necessary towards our departure for the continent, without any further delay.
But this delusion did not long continue, for the morning after he had left us, Mr. N—, a young ensign, and nephew to Doctor N—, happened to

come from Exeter, where he was then stationed, to pay a visit to his uncle; and among other articles of news, told him that his landlord and patron, as he stiled my father, was soon to be married to a young lady of family and fortune, in the city he came from, and that he supposed the doctor would be then called upon to perform the ceremony.
The young man had never heard any thing of our story, and only mentioned this particular among some other indifferent circumstances of the time—His uncle did not open his mind to him upon the subject, but retired immediately to my mother's apartment, who happened luckily not to be by when this matter was related, and after endeavouring to prepare her as much as

possible for the shock, acquainted her with the intelligence he had just received.
To you, dear Madam, who seem to have known affliction, it must be needless to describe the emotions of my unhappy mother, upon this occasion—The humane doctor N— said every thing he could think of, to asswage her distraction, and repeated the promise he had made her before, of concurring with her in an immediate vindication of her rights, seeing there was now no time to lose, and that it was sufficiently apparent Mr. W— meant to take advantage of her too long acquiescence under the concealment of her marriage, and, by this new and more public engagement, to bar her claim forever.

He confessed, that notwithstanding his plausible professions to them both, at parting, his mind could not help still harbouring some doubts with regard to the sincerity of them—For however, said he, my christianity may incline me to a perfect faith in the efficacy of divine grace, one is naturally apt to suspect your extempore converts, especially where the reformation seems, as in this case, to have been brought about by the necessity of some present urgency.
He concluded then, that my father's scheme, in carrying my mother and me out of the kingdom, must be to separate us from the advice or assistance of whatever friends we might have here, and that being bereft of the protection of English laws, he meant to shut us up

in a convent together, for life, upon some forged pretence or other; which would leave him at liberty to return in triumph home again, and complete his base purpose with his new mistress at Exeter.
That very day doctor N— gave my mother a regular certificate of her marriage, signed by himself, as the clergyman who had performed the ceremony, referring to the 
The next day my father came to the house, with a carriage to convey us off

privately, through the country, to Weymouth, where he told us he had prepared a ship to sail over directly to the continent. My mother made no reply, but wept, and quitted the room, to leave Dr. N— at liberty to explain the reason of her silence and sorrow.
Their conversation was warm, but short—The doctor made remonstrances to him upon his behaviour, both from religion, morals, and the laws; which my father resented with the highest intemperance, declaring that he had happily one way still left, to screen himself from persecution and prosecution both, and then rushed out of the house; which expression was, soon after, more fully explained, by hearing that he had gone off to France, whither no legal process could pursue him,

These transactions were kept a perfect secret from me for several years—My fond mother thought it too soon for me to become acquainted with affliction, and our worthy protector had also conceived a certain delicate idea, about me, with regard to vice—His opinion was certainly just, that the longer young people are kept ignorant of it, the safer for their morals—Purity of thought, and innocence of action, should be suffered to gain strength by habit, before they know that there is such a thing as wickedness in human nature—The shock and abhorrence will be the greater on the first instance, and the danger of example less.
Doctor N— kept us with him, and supported us out of his own fortune, while my poor mother lived, or rather

languished, which she did for about two years, and then expired of a broken heart. The doctor was so generous as to make her last moments easy, by promising to take care of me, till he could force my father, by law, to make a provision for me, as his legitimate child; saying, that he thought it his duty to pay the debt of gratitude he owed to my grandfather, to the only part of his family now that deserved it.
My father's emissaries soon informed him of my mother's death, and he returned to his seat, a joyful widower—The doctor immediately applied to him on my behalf, but so far from being softened by his intercession, he loaded him with abuse, and threatened him with ruin if he did not instantly consent to

my being sent to a convent abroad, and solemnly swear never to mention his marriage with my mother, nor again interfere in his domestic affairs, upon any occasion or pretence. What became of his Exeter amour, I know not, having never heard a word about it, since.
Faithful to his promise, the doctor refused to give him the satisfaction he required, nor would he consent to my going into a convent, upon any terms. Conscious of the purity of his life and actions, he disregarded my father's threats, and continued to treat me with the same kindness as if I had been his daughter.
My Father, who was lord of the manor, stirred up most of the doctor's parishioners to non-payment of tithes, and

supported them in every kind of insolence and injustice against him. This excellent divine, who was really a believer and follower of the doctrine which he taught, suffered those who had taken his cloak to take his coat also, and having no activity in him, but for others, in a very short time was deprived of the means of support, either for himself or family—But why should I dwell longer on those miseries, of which I was the unhappy, though innocent cause!
This best of men breathed his last sigh in a prison, about three years after my mother's death, and must latterly have wanted even the common necessaries of life, but for the duty and affection of his nephew, who was now become a captain, and more than shared his little income

with him and me, who, from the time that my dear guardian was thrown into confinement, had been placed by him to board and lodge with the wife of his parish-clerk.
During all the sufferings of this true divine, he was never prompted to revile the cruel author of them; nor to repine at the wretched state to which he was reduced; and even to his last moments comforted and exhorted both me, and his fellow prisoners, to bear their crosses with resignation, with cheerfulness, and with forgiveness to their persecutors and oppressors.
While the doctor was able to keep house, captain N— used often to visit there, and stay sometimes whole

months together, with us; and after his uncle's misfortune, which separated us, he came frequently to see me, at my new lodgings. He was a very worthy agreeable young man, we had insensibly conceived a liking for each other, and just before his uncle's death, he asked his consent to offer his hand and heart to me.
The good man confessed himself much pleased at this overture, and upon mentioning it to me, said, that when I should no longer have a protector in him, I must be either thrown upon the world, to get my bread in a state of servitude, which he thought both dangerous, and improper for me, or obliged to sue to my father for a support, which he feared he would refuse, unless he were to confine me in a convent, which he most earnestly

entreated me not to consent to, but to persevere in suffering for the faith wherein I had been bred.
And with regard to his nephew, he paid me the compliment to think I was capable of rendering him happy, and that eventually I might turn out a good fortune to him, either by my father's death, or reformation. I received the proposal, I confess, with pleasure, and readily pronounced that consent with my lips, which my heart had given before—My more than father! my guardian! my protector! now saw his desire accomplished in our union—With his dying hands he joined ours, and then slept in peace.
For three whole years I was the happiest of human kind; my husband was

all that my fondest wishes could have framed; that child you saw, was his delight and mine; no frown e'er clouded either of our brows, or slightest contradiction passed our lips: I was—I was too blessed! till heaven reclaimed its best its dearest gift, and took him early, to reward his virtues.
Tho' bred with such a shining pattern as doctor N— before me, and long nurtured as I had been, in the school of adversity, yet this trial was too much for my weak mind, which sunk oppressed into lethargic woe—The voice of reason is not heard by grief, religion only reaches the sad heart—Cheered by the boundless hope of passing an eternity of bliss with him I now lamented, I raised my drooping eye lids from the

grave, and turned my views to heaven, implored its grace to bend my stubborn soul, to its high will, and soothe my warring passions to submission—My prayer was heard; no murmurs, no complainings, from that pious moment of reflection, have issued from my lips; in humble confidence, without impatience, I wait for my dismissal from this vale of sorrow.
Yet let me own that were there not a weight thrown in that scale that ties me down to earth, my resignation would have had more merit. My dear, my much loved boy, abates my ardour for the land of bliss, and makes me fear that while his fate is doubtful, I should even shudder on the brink of my long wished-for voyage.

In a heart rightly formed there cannot be a void—Maternal fondness now fills the place of chaste connubial love, and in this soft exercise of my affections, no griefs distract, no transports rend my soul.
This place I live in, is a freehold that Captain H—, my grandfather had purchased, soon after I was born, for the term of three lives; his own, my mother's, and mine—His wife had been dead, some years before. It consists of this cottage, a small plough-land, a close for pasture, and a little garden; at an inconsiderable rent—Here I have lived all my life, except while I was sheltered under the protection of the good doctor N—; during which interval the farm was let to a tenant at will, till I was married, when my dear husband and I came to

reside here, as much as his military duty would permit; and here he left me, when he was ordered with the regiment abroad, last war; in the first campaign of which he was killed.
The produce of this small demesne, with my pension as a Captain's widow, is all I have to maintain my child and me, and require the closest attention and economy to render them sufficient—And even these pittances depend upon the precarious tenure of my life—but I will not doubt the goodness of Providence, and trust it will raise him up a support, when it shall think proper to withdraw mine.
Now judge, unhappy stranger, she continued, if I have not a right to speak of

patience, of resignation and religion, as the surest balm of sorrow! Philosophy and faith concur in this, there is a hope beyond the grave, and nought but vice, unatoned by penitence and piety, need ever urge despair!
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I had hung with mute attention on her story, my tears had flowed with her's, and while she spoke, her griefs suspended mine; admiration of her virtue now succeeded, and kept me silent still, but there, alas! our sympathy must end, she might rejoice in her afflictions past, whilst I must mourn for ever!
I passed six days with this uncanonized saint, this living Patience, of whom

Shakespeare's image was but a prototype*. She knew me not, all the while, and I could not reveal myself, nor had the particulars of my sad story yet reached her incurious ears, to have given her the least cause of suspecting who I was.
By various methods, and slow degrees, I pursued my journey towards Flintshire. As I drew nearer to my mother's peaceful cottage, I anticipated the misery and horror she would feel, when she should know my situation, and considered myself as a wretch who was going to communicate an incurable disease, to the fond bosom that had nursed and cherished it—Prophetic were my thoughts!

The first emotions she felt on seeing me, were those of love and joy; she strained me to her honest breast, with true maternal tenderness, and exclaimed,
"Mr. W— has at last relented, and blessed me with a sight of my Maria!"
Whilst I, o'erwhelmed with her unmerited kindness, sunk speechless to the earth—Tears were the sole return that I could make to her caresses and inquiries.

My mother was alarmed;
"Sorrow, she said, my child, we both have known, but sure that should not seal your lips to those who wish to share and soothe your griefs, or render you insensible to love like mine."

I grasped her honoured hand, pressed it to my heart, and vainly strove to articulate a sound—For several hours I remained

in this situation—At length my speech returned, and throwing myself on my knees before her, I could not be prevailed on to forsake that posture, till I had recounted to her the whole of that horrid tale, which you have just now read.
I will not wound your heart, my brother, with attempting to describe the agonies she suffered, during the sad recital of my story, yet this truly virtuous, this scarce erring woman, pitied the crimes which she herself detested, and spoke of peace and pardon to my afflicted soul! even to the latest moment of her life—for she is dead!—She strove to hide her anguish, and to lessen mine.
The night I got there, after I had been in bed, and just falling into a slumber,

from the fatigue of my journey and the waste of my spirits, I was alarmed by the noise of some persons, who knocked loudly at the door of the house, and demanded admittance—The people with whom we lodged refused them entrance, unless they would first declare the purpose of their errand—This they refused, but sending for a sledge, soon battered down all opposition, and rushed in.
My mother and I had but just time to hurry on our clothes, when an ill looking fellow, with a candle in one hand, and a pistol in the other, came into our chamber, attended by two other ruffians.—Upon their appearance we instantly offered to surrender all our effects, and promised neither to make resistance nor pursuit. They seemed highly to resent

our manner of reception, and replied, that they scorned to use any manner of violence that might not be justified by the law.
The principal of the men then told me that he was steward to Mr. W—, and had been dispatched by him with a warrant to apprehend me, for the murder of Sir Thomas L—, early the next morning after the fact, and my flight for the same, with directions to come and look for me in that place, as it was natural to suppose that I should have flown to my mother for refuge, after my crime—He said that he had examined and inquired for me, all along the road, and had concealed his business in that village, for several days, lying in wait for my arrival.

Horror and amazement seized both my unhappy mother and me—I pitied her more than myself—I was hardened to sufferings, I wished to die, though not with ignominy, and felt disappointed at finding the purpose of these housebreakers had ended with so little violence to my life—I apprehended no danger from the prosecution; but to think of an arraignment and a public trial, was distraction! I reflected deeply on the divine and sustaining sentiments of the amiable Mrs. N—, and her precepts and example had a salutary effect on my mind.
The steward then returned to the inn, to send off to Chester for a chaise to carry me to Exeter, the county town of Devonshire, to take my trial at the next

assizes, which were immediately to be held there; but left his two guards in the house, to prevent my escape—My afflicted mother, who had fallen upon the bed when she heard the shocking sentence pronounced, lay silent for a minute, then turning to me, who was standing speechless, and motionless, before her, with a look of wildness and despair, cried out,
"I'll go with you, I'll die with you, we never shall be parted more."
I threw myself down by her, we embraced and lay folded in each other's arms, till we were summoned, the next morning, to begin our journey.

We travelled with all the expedition that our conductors were pleased to make, and suffered every indignity and insolence of office, all the way, that mean

persons are apt to inflict on those above them, whenever they happen to gain an authority over them.—All this I felt not but as I sympathized with my unhappy mother, for as to myself I welcomed every mortification and distress I met with, and even wished them still more severe.
We were at length relieved from this oppression by arriving at Exeter, where we were carried directly to the sheriff's house, and delivered over into his custody; for my dear mother would not quit me, but said that the same prison, or the same grave, should receive us both—This humane person behaved with the utmost tenderness and politeness toward us, offered us every refreshment and accommodation that his hospitality

could afford, and told me that he would impose no other restraint on me than an earnest request that I would accept of the best apartment in his house, and prevail on my mother to share the same comforts and conveniences with me—He then bowed and retired.
He returned soon after, to introduce a gentleman to us, who he said had some affair of business to communicate to me, and then withdrew again. But how was I overwhelmed with confusion, when the person announced his name to be Captain R—! The confidant of my shame, stood before me—My trial was began, already—I felt as if I was at the bar.
This gentleman behaved with great good-breeding and compassion to me, on

that occasion; he scarcely looked at me, but going up directly to my mother, whom he saw in tears, assured her that she need not suffer the least uneasiness on account of her daughter, as he had already made her innocence appear so fully to the Justice, that she was not to be arraigned, on the trial, and might now consider herself perfectly free from her arrest.—He prevented us, he would not listen to our acknowledgments, but directing his discourse to me, though without turning his eyes towards me, thus proceeded.

"In order to make you acquainted with the present situation of this unhappy business, it is necessary for me, Madam, to recount the regular process of it, from the moment I had

been informed of the event, by an anonymous billet, to this time. I soon guessed the writer, and as quickly suspected the author of the tragedy—Upon these hints, I immediately applied to a magistrate in the neighbourhood, and after having given in my depositions, according to the notice I had received, I became armed with proper force and authority, and rode directly to Castle W—.


"I was not denied admission, and upon opening my commission, Mr. W— charged you, Madam, directly with the fact; said you had absconded immediately after the murder, and that he had just then issued a warrant, and dispatched a pursuit after you, in order to have you apprehended and

delivered over into the hands of justice—Then, by way of supporting his assertion by circumstances, led me up stairs into the room where the corpse lay extended on the ground, showed me the discharged pistol lying on the bed, and pointed to the blood, with which the coverlet had been stained in many places.


"I wept over the body of my dear friend,"
said he,
"then turning to Mr. W—, showed him the note I had received, and asked him if he knew the hand? Yes (he replied quick) it is my wife's, and one line in it I think sufficiently certifies against her—I do not mean by this notice to call even for justice against his assassin. Whose danger, I pray you, do you imagine she should be so tender of? Would

she not have named the assassin, if that might have been done, with safety to herself?


"Sir, I replied, you will now give me leave to reason upon the circumstances relative to this melancholy affair, in turn. It cannot be difficult, considering the several parties, both separately and connected, to suppose the motive of Sir Thomas's errand hither; and whether it were most natural for the fond mistress, or the jealous husband, to have been the murderer, is a question sitter to be argued in a court, than discussed here. For which reason, (concluded I) I shall pretend to act but ministerially upon this occasion, and therefore I do now, in the name of justice, arrest you and your whole household, in

order to take your trials, jointly and severally, for this murder.


"Mr. W— seemed startled at this discourse, but talked highly, and began to put himself into a posture of defence; upon which I presented a pistol to his breast, and pointing to the mangled corpse, cried, There, Sir, is your example, should you attempt to resist. He then surrendered himself a prisoner, the rest of his family did the same; and after I had got the body laid with decency on the bed, left the servants of the deceased to attend it, and given charge of the funeral to the clergyman of the parish, I escorted my captives to the goal in this city, where they have remained ever since.


"Upon their examination before a magistrate in this town, (continued he) the

maid servant, who said she had attended on you, Madam, turned evidence, to save her life, and charged her master with the murder. She said that he had come to the house, in the evening, privately, and desired her to conceal his arrival from her mistress. That he told her there was an assignation fixed for that night, between Sir Thomas L— and his wife; and about the time that he thought they might have put out the candles, he took her with him to the room, to be a witness of what he said would intitle him to a divorce; but that being disappointed in that circumstance, and alarmed at seeing Sir Thomas putting his hand to his sword, he discharged the pistol, and killed him on the spot.


"Mr. W— did not make any manner of interruption or reply to this woman's

deposition, while it was going on, saying only, after it was over, that he thought himself sufficiently justified in the action, both from law and conscience; and that justice without favour, was all he should desire, to indemnify him on the day of trial.


"Thus situated is this unhappy affair at present; and with regard to your arrest, Madam, I have had that superseded already, before you arrived in town, as the warrant was only founded on surmise; and I have myself given bail for your appearance on the trial, just to corroborate the servant maid's testimony."

I had hitherto lain reclined on my arm, hiding my face, tears, and blushes,

with my hand; but when he came to the last expression, I forgot all reserve, and starting up,
"No, sir, said I, it cannot, shall not be—I will never appear in evidence against Mr. W—: you may drag me before the court, but no violence shall make me speak there. Justice I acknowledge to be a duty, but there are situations which may exempt one from the observance of it. Duties cannot contradict duties, and I have already too far erred against mine to him, to think of adding a further injury—And if my death is to be the consequence of my silence, I am willing to pay that forfeit, to redeem his."

Captain R— seemed struck with my sentiments on so difficult an occasion, and told me that he would consult his

lawyers that night, whether my evidence might be dispensed with; and would wait on me again, the next morning—He then took his leave, and left my poor mother and me to pass an anxious, sleepless night, in mourning the distress of our present situation.
The next day he came to us, and said that his counsel had told him, that as he was the prosecutor, he might excuse whatever witness he pleased, especially as the servant maid's testimony was full enough to the point already—We thanked him extremely for his humanity and politeness, and the instant he retired we hired a chaise, and drove out of the town, on our road back to Flintshire, flying as fast as possible from a scene of so much horror.

The anxiety of mind and fatigue of body which my dear mother had laboured under, all this while, had brought on a fever that confined her in bed, from the moment we reached her habitation in Flintshire. I wept, prayed, and attended on her, during her illness, till her last moment—She blessed her children—even me she blessed, and prayed for peace and pardon to my polluted soul! she expired in my fainting arms—leaveing me friendless, in a world alone!
But fate had not yet done with me! I was not yet unhappy enough! About two days after her death, I received a letter from Captain R—, who had found out the place of my residence, from Mr. W—'s steward, which brought me the following account from Exeter.

"The facts and arguments upon which Mr. W— grounded his defence, were these—When Mrs. W— had given her letter for Sir Thomas to the messenger, he mentioned it to the gardener, and he communicated his intelligence to her maid, who had been appointed a spy over all her actions—She took it from the man, enclosed it to her master, and sent him off directly with it to London.


"As soon as he received it, he broke it open, and took a copy, which he made his own man compare, and witness, then sealed and sent off the original to Sir Thomas, by a special messenger, who pretended he had come from Castle W—, not caring to entrust the fellow who had brought it, lest he

should have betrayed him, as he had before deceived Mrs. W—. The answer he proceeded with in the same manner, and then dispatched the first carrier with it to Mrs W—.


"This state of the case Mr. W— had sent up to London, along with the attested copies of the letters, for the opinion of an eminent counsel, to know whether, upon such a certainty of the fact, and finding the adulterer in such an improper situation with his wife, the laws did not grant some indulgence to the transports and resentment of a provoked and injured husband?


"The lawyer's reply was, that such considerations had, indeed, been sometimes permitted to be laid before a

jury, in alleviation of the crime he had been guilty of, but that it was only in cases where no premeditation had appeared in the matter: and that his was a very different situation, as he had confessed his having been apprised of the assignation, assisted in forwarding the appointment, and had travelled above an hundred miles, with a malice praepense to take Sir Thomas L— at an unfair advantage. From all which circumstances he concluded that the laws would not consider him as a provoked husband, but a deliberate assassin.


"This answer deprived him of all hope, and drove him to distraction—Could the articles mentioned in the state of his case have been prevented

from coming before the court, he might, perhaps, have had some chance of escaping, but the messenger of the two letters was among the persons that had been taken up for the murder, had made a deposition in his own defence, and was to be produced on the trial. This particular confirmed his despair, and in a transport of madness the unhappy man put an end to his life, in the prison, the day before the assizes began."

Prepared though I was to expect an account of Mr. W—'s death, the manner of it, however, filled my soul with horror, and had a more immediate effect upon my constitution, than any of the shocks I had received before. From that sad hour, when no kind prop

remained to stay my overburdened heart, I have sunk beneath its weight; my wasting form and slackened nerves give hopes of my release, and with this heavy task, which now draws near an end, I trust my woes shall cease.
The first thing that occurred to my mind, upon this tragical event, was the benefit that my humane and hospitable friend of the cottage, and her lovely child, might possibly receive from it; and I had the satisfaction, before I left the kingdom, to hear that Mrs. N— had sufficiently proved her mother's marriage, by the certificate and witness, and taken possession of castle W—, as sole heiress to her father's estate and fortune, which were very considerable.

I did not make myself known to her, as under our different circumstances no manner of connection could ever properly have subsisted between us; but, as I was entitled to a jointure of four hundred pounds a year, by marriage settlement, I put the deed, which had been left in my mother's possession, into the hands of an attorney at Chester, to claim my rights, which were not denied; and on receipt of the first payment I quitted England, for ever, and came over here to France, with a purpose of retiring immediately into a convent, for life.
I began my narrative of woe, before I left England, and have completed it since I came over, and shall put it into the India House for you, at Paris, if I

may have life enough to carry me thither, as I design to fix my residence in some of the distant provinces beyond it. But I have been confined here, these two days, not being able to proceed further, from the failure of my strength, and the dejection of my spirits.
Adieu, my dearest brother! may watchful angels hover round you, and guard and guide your footsteps in the paths of virtue! I feel myself growing weaker, every line I write, and think that here my journey and my cares will shortly end together. With my last sigh I pray to be forgiven by Heaven and you! and now, once more, adieu, I hope, for ever.
MARIA.



In answer to Letter LXII.
YES, Fanny, your remark is just—The tears which flow for foreign griefs, help somewhat to soften the poignancy of home felt sorrows. I sympathized throughout every circumstance of the ill-fated Maria's distress, and was rejoiced at her lucky escape from the desperate guilt of suicide.
It is intolerance not intolerability, impatience not suffering, that ever impels to such an act. For it requires no further argument than this, that God is just, to evince that our strength of mind and body must be equally balanced by

nature; so that the one may be sufficiently able to bear, whatever can be inflicted on the other, until death, without precipitation, necessarily comes to the relief of the overburdened sufferer. For pain or grief are able to do their own business, without the assistance of a crime.
From whence I argue, that resolution may last as long as life, and that a virtuous soul may be sooner separated than subdued.—I have endeavoured to express myself upon this subject, with all the energy I could—I feel an interest in this reasoning, at present, and shall repose my trust in it.
Maria was certainly more wretched, than I am, by the addition of one circumstance,

which alone was sufficient to have rendered her so; but surely we may hope, without offence to the most rigid virtue, that penitence and sufferings, such as hers, may have atoned for her transgression, and that she now is happy—It is to be innocent, to be unhappy—Whilst I must still subscribe myself your unhappy, but affectionate sister.



In answer to letter LXI.
Cleveland-hall
YOUR Fanny, my Louisa, has obeyed your kind command, and now claims the sad indulgence promised in your last—I long, yet dread to know

what those events can be, which you deem more interesting, than any of those extraordinary circumstances, which have already happened to you!
I cannot express the mixed sensation which my heart is at present sensible of! While I give it up to that joy, which happiness like mine should inspire, I fancy I defraud you of that portion of sorrow which is due to your distress; and while I tenderly reflect upon your sufferings, and busy my imagination in trying to discover those additional woes you hint at, the big drop which steals down my cheek, silently reproaches me with ingratitude to my dear brother, to his amiable wife, to my reclaimed prodigal, to Providence! and when, as it sometimes happens, my melancholy becomes

contagious, and that I see a gloomy look of inquiry spread over those countenances, which should be lighted up with smiles, I strive, forgive me, my Louisa! to forget your sorrows, and dispel the cloud I have created, by affected efforts of cheerfulness.
But I will no longer, like Miss Howe in Clarissa, content myself with poorly lamenting the unhappiness of my friend—I can have no doubt of Lord Hume's indulgence, I will request his permission to see and embrace my sister—Her sighs and tears shall flow upon my bosom! and I will try to pour the balm of comfort into her's.
You did not date your last letter, so so that I cannot even guess where you are,

at present; but I shall direct this to Southfield, and impatiently wait for the explanation of that gloomy mystery in which you seem involved.—All here salute you with the tenderest affection, for as I now consider myself accountable to lord Hume, for every moment of my time, I proclaimed my intention of writing to you, before I retired from the drawing-room; and shall try to return to it with as cheerful a countenance as I can possibly assume; but be assured, that my heart will never be truly at ease, till I know that your's is so—As I shall never cease to be your faithfully affectionate
friend and sister, F. HUME.



THE knowing that my Fanny is happy, is certainly a reason for my being less wretched than when I wrote last; but then the cruel thought of interrupting her felicity, must add to my distress—And can it bear addition! O yes! yes! the torturing suspense which I now feel, too surely informs me that there yet remains many arrows in the quiver of adversity, which may still be pointed at my sad heart, and yet not pierce it through.
O Fanny, it is very difficult to die! at least I find it so—Death sports with human misery, and would rather increase, than end them—
"'Tis his delight to bid

the wretch survive the fortunate! the feeble wrap the athletic in his shroud, and weeping parents build their children's tombs!"

Excuse this rhapsody—I will try to collect myself, and acquaint you with the particulars of my present distress.
The morning after I had written to you, from Elm-grove, I ordered my carriage, as I had intended, and at breakfast acquainted Lady Creswell with my design of setting out for Southfield.—Every argument that friendship or politeness could urge, were used, to prevail on me to stay with them, for a few days longer; but I continued firm to my purpose.
I told Harriet, that she might remain with lady Creswell till she came to return

my visit, which both she and Sir Harry promised should be in ten days, or a fortnight—Harriet declined my indulgence, and entreated me, with uncommon earnestness, to take her with me—I considered her refusal as the effect of her attention and complaisance to me, till with a very solemn air she said to me, when we were alone,
"If you, Madam, think it necessary to quit Elm-grove, I am sure I ought to do so too."
I acquiesced in her opinion, and desired her to get ready immediately.

Lord Lucan, to my great satisfaction, did not appear at breakfast—when he was inquired for, the servants said he had rode out, very early in the morning. I took my friend lady Creswell aside, and requested her, not without some confusion,

to deliver my letter to his lordship, as soon as he returned from riding. Almost at that instant, a servant of Sir William's galloped into the court-yard, and presented the following billet to me.

The infamy of your late conduct has for some time made me balance whether I should by the bearer command your immediate return to my house, or forbid your ever entering it. My respect for your family has so far turned the scale in your favour, as to make me, though unwillingly, condescend to receive you under my roof, till they shall be acquainted with your vileness, and either find you out a proper asylum, or join in abandoning you, with your highly injured husband,


I have already told you that Lady Creswell was with me, when I received this shocking sentence—Amazement suspended all my powers, while I read it! my sight forsook me, the paper dropped out of my hand, and I fell almost senseless, upon a couch! When I recovered my speech, I bid her read it, and tell me what it meant?
She quickly saw through the detested villainy, and at once exclaimed,
"your husband is abused! that wicked Colonel Walter has deceived him—My aunt, unhappy and infatuated woman! corresponds with him, and has doubtless transmitted an account of Lord Lucan's being here."

Her surmise was equal to conviction, and I that moment beheld myself the

victim of that wretch's disappointed passion—O could my heart have told me I was an innocent one, how slightly should I have regarded the utmost malice of this fiend!
I need not attempt to describe the distraction of my mind, during the journey. Harriet was so visibly affected with my grief, though unknowing of the cause, that I would, if possible, have concealed it from her; and even accused myself for making her heart so early acquainted with sorrow.
When we arrived at Southfield, Benson, with tears in her eyes, informed me, that Sir William was dangerously ill; the vein in his lungs, which had been closed, for some time, had opened, and the physician who attended him, had but

very faint hopes of his life—The agony which this account threw me into, I shall leave to your own sensibility to imagine—I fell upon my knees, and in an heart felt ecstasy, cried out,
"Gracious God! have pity on me! spare my husband's life! and let not his murderer triumph over him and me, at once!"

Harriet and Benson raised me from the ground, with a mingled expression of pity and horror in their looks—they thought me mad—I was, alas! too sensible, at least to misery!—When I became a little more calm, Harriet asked me if I would not go to see Sir William? I started up at the question, and would have flown that moment to his bed-side, had not Benson interposed, by telling me he was just fallen into a slumber, and that the doctor had given orders he should not be disturbed.

The idea that his mind was at rest afforded a little ease to my own; the tears ran silent and plenteous down my cheeks, while my heart offered up the most fervent petitions to the fountain of life, for his recovery!—By degrees I became composed, and, at Harriet's entreaty, I tried to eat, and retired to rest.
In the morning, doctor Hartford, who attends Sir William, desired to see me—He told me that the sudden and violent return of his patient's disorder had proceeded from some perturbation of mind, and that the only chance he had for his life, was the being kept in a state of apathy, as much as possible, and advised my not seeing him, for some days yet, as even the most pleasing emotion might be productive of fatal consequences.

I told him I would not attempt any thing that should injure his health, though I most earnestly wished to see him.—He said he had taken the liberty of preventing two letters from being delivered to him, for the reasons he had then given me—He presented them to me; I saw that one of them was the letter I had sent, by the servant, the other was from Colonel Walter.
Surely, if a breach of trust could ever be deemed pardonable, the peculiarity of my situation might have furnished an excuse for reading this letter! but my heart revolted at the mean idea—I gave both of them to Harriet, and bid her keep them till her uncle should be able to read them himself.

About an hour after this, Sir William sent for Harriet; the moment he saw her, he cried out,
"Where is she?"
"In her chamber, Sir, weeping your illness, and praying for your recovery
—
For my death, you mean."
"Indeed you wrong her, Sir; I never saw any person so truly concerned for another."
—
"Where is lord Lucan? Why do you blush, at that question? what then! art thou become the confident, the vile accomplice, of your aunt's infamy."
"Believe me, Sir, I never heard, or saw, a word or action of her's, that should be called so—She is the best of women,"
—
"If that be true, the whole sex are past redemption—But where is Lord Lucan?"
"We left him at Elm-grove—My dear, dear uncle! let me entreat you to compose yourself; indeed you wrong my aunt most cruelly."


She fell on her knees at his bedside, and kissed his hand.—
"O Harriet! I am but too well convinced that your expression refers more justly to her—It is she has wronged herself, and me too—But perhaps I have deserved to lose her affection, though mine was true to her.—Yet for her own sake, for the honour of her family, I did not think she would have been abandoned—But d—n d—n her!"
He wept, while he pronounced these horrid words!

Harriet described the strong emotion she had seen me feel, on hearing of his illness; he wept again, yet called me an hyena; and then cried out,
"Why does she not appear before me? O, she is conscious of her crime, and

dare not look upon me!"
Harriet then acquainted him of the restraint his physician had imposed on me.
"It is very true, he replied, the sight of her would kill me! but let her write, if she has any thing to say in her defence."

She then gave him my letter—He seemed much agitated while he read it; then said he was too weak to bear these painful conflicts, and bad her tell me he would receive me, as soon as he was able, but only to confront me with such proofs, as were indubitable, and never, from that moment, see me more.
Alas! my sister, what will now become of me! grant it were possible I could be able to undeceive Sir William,

and remove even the shadow of suspicion from his thoughts, must I not always live in fear? a fear which my own consciousness will still create! That mutual band of conjugal felicity, a perfect confidence! is now for ever broken—The gloomy reflections that dwell within my bosom will still appear, and raise up fresh disquiets and alarms within my husband's breast: though he conceals his doubts, my heart will feel them, and secretly repine that even the sacrifice of my unhappy passion has not been able to procure his peace! yet this is the sole prospect, this the compounding hope, of such a wretch as I!
Harriet has seen her uncle every day; and, in consequence of their conversations, I have written to him twice—He

seems much affected while he reads my letters, and yet returns again to his unjust suspicions—Colonel Walter's letter has been delivered to him; he inquired whether I knew who it came from, and upon Harriet's telling him I did, he replied, that has more weight with me than all that she has protested under her hand—There is, yet at least, some virtue in her.
Indeed, my sister, were I not convinced it is my duty to calm Sir William's mind, I could, with the utmost composure, submit to, and sink under, the cruel calumny thrown out against me—The world, and all that it contains, seems to recede from my now feeble grasp—The dejection of my spirits has diffused an universal languor through

my whole frame, and some blessed intelligence whispers me, that soon, very soon, this poor torn heart will be at peace! surely, my Fanny, you will, you ought, I mean, rejoice, at my deliverance!
I am glad of your happiness, of my brother's, and of every one's; I could at this moment rejoice in a certainty of my being the only wretched creature upon earth.—I wish I could prevent your sending a thought, or a sigh, this way! your sorrow for my misery can but increase it—Strive to forget it, then, perhaps I may yet do so too—But never shall I cease to remember, that I am
your truly affectionate sister. L. BARTON.



WOULD you believe it, Lucan, I am become a philosopher! and that by the worst of all possible means, experience—I find there is no such thing as permanent happiness, for in the very moment that I looked down with pity upon kings, my cup has been dashed with a good smart dose of coloquintida.
For some time before my marriage, both Sir George Cleveland and I observed that my dear Fanny was frequently dejected, and melancholy; but whenever we seemed to take notice of this indisposition of mind, she attributed it to the change of climate, and immediately assumed an air of cheerfulness.

For my own part, I sometimes thought that her uneasiness might proceed from a recollection of my former conduct, and therefore endeavoured to dissipate her suspicions, by every mark of the sincerest attachment—I flattered myself I had succeeded, as she had given me her hand without the least affectation of reluctance, which young ladies sometimes assume the appearance of, in order to enhance the value of the gift.
I think there never was a blither bridegroom than myself—indeed I felt myself most truly happy—Yet my Fanny's fits of melancholy frequently returned, and I have sometimes surprised her in tears! I used to kiss them off, and begged to know the cause; she constantly evaded my request, but with

so much tenderness and delicacy, that I could not insist on her compliance, or even let her see that I was unhappy myself, lest it should render her more so.
In this kind of mortal state we passed several weeks; but a letter that was delivered to her lately, has unravelled the mystery.—We were alone in her dressing-room when it was brought to her—While she read it her countenance changed so visibly, that I could not avoid taken notice of it to her; she burst into tears, and exclaimed, my unhappy sister! What! is she dead? I asked—Not yet, she answered, and sunk back as if near fainting in her chair—By Heaven, Lucan, I would not go through such another moment, for the diamond eyes of the Indian idol—I forget his name—that are computed to be worth a million and a half!

As soon as she had recovered, she entreated me not to mention what had happened, to Sir George, or his lady; then told me that Lady Barton was the most miserable being upon earth, from the villainy of a vile fellow who lives in their neighbourhood, and was himself in love with her, who, by a false accusation of her to her husband, has rendered him so outrageously jealous, as almost to endanger Sir William's life; that, from her sister's letters, she had reason to believe that she also was dying, and implored me to set out for Ireland with her immediately, in order to rescue lady Barton, if possible, by removing her from that scene of misery and distress.
I readily acquiesced in her desire, discovering still new charms in her tender

and generous affection for her unhappy sister, which has been the sole source of her melancholy—She gave me many prudent reasons for not acquainting her brother with this affair; so that our scheme was mentioned at dinner, as a sudden thought, and every thing was fixed for our setting out in two days—But pity me, Lucan, when I tell you that my whole of life, my heart's dear Fanny, was taken ill that night, the next day grew much worse, and on the third, the physicians pronounced her disorder to be a miliary fever. She is now, thank Heaven! out of danger, but weak, low, and in her bed. I did not know how truly, how fondly, I loved her, Lucan! till now—I am not ashamed of the blot a tear has just made.

Her impatience to set out for your country is unabated, but I fear it will be some time before her strength will be equal to the journey. She has commanded me to write a few lines, in gayeté de coeur, to lady Barton, as if jealous of the correspondence between them, and saying that I will only allow her to answer her letters, in person—This is meant to excuse her silence, without alarming her about her illness—How tender, how considerate!
I hope to see you soon in Dublin, and that we shall return to England together; if Lady Barton should come with us, we shall be a good melange enough for a parte quarré—I am resolved to be gay; my wife will, I hope, be cheerful, when she has rescued her sister

from the green-eyed monster—You will be polite, and agreeable, at least; and I think lady Barton will have no great cause to be sorrowful at leaving a husband, with whom she has never been happy, as Fanny has now confessed to me, on this occasion.
In my next, I hope I shall be able to fix the day of our setting out—Till we meet, adieu, my dear Lucan,
yours, HUME.


IT is over, my dear sister! my trial and condemnation are past, and I now sink under the weight of his censure, from

which I neither ought, nor desire to appeal—Yesterday Sir William desired to see me; I instantly obeyed his summons, and approached him pale and trembling—But my wanness was the effect of ill health, and my tremor arose from weakness—Yet he perhaps might have attributed these symptoms to guilt, or fear; for a person arraigned, is generally half condemned.
I dreaded his flying into a rage at seeing me, but, to do him justice, he was unusually calm—As I entered the chamber, he said,
"I am sorry, Madam, that we should meet thus"
—I told him I was sincerely grieved for having been the innocent cause of so much uneasiness to him—He repeated the word innocent, and then launched out into the most cruel,

and I am happy to say, false accusation, that ever was uttered.

Wretched! wretched man! my heart this moment feels for what his must one day suffer! He was violently agitated, while he proceeded in his accusation; and I sometimes thought that he appeared to doubt the improbabilities he uttered, till he produced lord Lucan's picture, which seemed like a visible miracle to corroborate the whole legend.
I offered not the least interruption, while he spoke; but when he had ended, I threw myself upon my knees before him, and in the most solemn manner assured him, that I had never been guilty of an act of dishonour, though I confessed that my affections had not been inviolably

restrained to him; perhaps from the harshness of his manners, perhaps from my own weakness.
He was variously affected whilst I spoke, and often broke out into extravagant exclamations, denying the truth of what I said, by recurring to the charge against me—At other times he appeared softened, for an instant; but then the picture, like Othello's handkerchief, still turned his heart to stone.
Why was I not at liberty to unravel that mystery? But my word was long since passed to keep it secret, and never shall that bond be forfeited; nor shall my innocence ever be justified by dishonour. Besides, this was but a circumstance, and that equivocal, at most.

He then said, that as my family, all but myself, were truly respectable, he would, for their sakes, take some time to consider how he should act, before he branded me with infamy; and that I might remain a prisoner in his house, till he had determined on my sentence—But from that moment interdicted me from quitting my apartment; and, what was still much more severe, from seeing or conversing with my sole comfort, the tender, the affectionate, the amiable Harriet.
I wept, but it was in silence, and yielded to this hard decree without a murmur—He might have been more cruel to me—Benson is still permitted to attend me; nor has he yet forbidden me the melancholy pleasure of writing to my

sister! I thank him, most sincerely, for these two indulgencies, and most devoutly hope I shall not want them long.
While I live, I shall never cease to lament my being the fatal and sole source of sorrow to my beloved sister—O, dry your tears, my Fanny, and turn your eyes to happier views—See an adoring husband, and a tender brother court you to happiness—Forget the wretch that mars your present bliss, and renders you ungrateful for Heaven's bounty.
My heart sinks in me—My friend, my little Harriet, is just sent away! I hear the wheels that carry her from hence—they roll upon my heart! protecting angels guard her innocence! and soothe the sorrows of her tender mind!

I know it, Benson, she was drowned in tears—I feel them stream this moment on my breast—Alas! my Fanny, my head turns round, I cannot write another line,
Adieu, adieu!



DID you not think I was completely wretched when I last wrote to you? I thought so then, but find my error now—There is no bounds to miseries like mine; the swelling waves rise upon one another, and overwhelm me—Why does this feeble bark struggle so long, why not sink down at once to dark oblivion! But I will silence this repining heart, nor murmur at my sufferings.

About eight o'clock, this morning, there arrived a messenger from Waltersburgh, and in a few minutes after, Sir William rushed into my room, with an appearance of frenzy in his air and countenance.—
"Vilest of women!
cried he out,
"you have now completed your wickedness—But think not that either you, or your accomplice, shall escape—That pity, which pleaded in my weak heart, even for an adultress, will but increase my rage against the murderess of my friend."
He then quitted me abruptly, as if bent upon some horrid purpose.

Yes, Fanny, I have heard my name traduced by the two vilest terms that ever disgraced human nature, and yet I neither sighed nor shed a tear—I became

petrified with horror, and fixed my eyes in stupid silence on the door at which Sir William issued, till Benson opened it some minutes after, and found me quite immoveable.
I blame him not for his intemperate wrath; he thinks he has just cause—There has been a duel—Lord Lucan is in fault—he was the challenger—He has destroyed my fame and peace of mind, for ever! It is but just it should be so, that he who caused my weakness, should punish it.
I hear that he is dangerously wounded, and Colonel Walter mortally—O could I hope my prayers might reach the throne of mercy! But am I not, as Sir William stiles me, a murderess? too

surely so! I am the fatal cause of all these crimes—forgive me, gracious Heaven! No words can paint my agonies! death only can relieve them.
A note from Sir William! it has broke my heart—I fear I cannot see to copy it.
Waltersburg.

I know not how to plead the pardon, either of myself, or the unhappy Colonel Walter! But if the strongest remorse for the injuries he has done you, added to the loss of life, which is now ebbing fast from his wound, may be thought an atonement, you will comply with his request, and grant him your forgiveness.
As to myself, I can only say that I have been most cruelly deceived, and

nothing but Colonel Walter's present situation, confession, and contrition, could ever have induced me to forgive his having been the cause of so much unhappiness to you—I forgive him mine, because he has repaired it—My own offence, my own failings have rendered me charitable to his—But if Heaven shall spare my life, it shall be spent in penitence for the wrongs I have done you.
Colonel Walter entreats you will let him know, where his wife and child now are? Judge my surprise at hearing him acknowlege such connections! But there is now no time for reflections, as doctor Hartford and the surgeon both say he has not long to live. Death will be ease from the agonies he now endures in his tortured mind; and I trust

in Heaven's mercy, that they will ensure his future peace!
Be speedy, my much injured Louisa, in affording some relief to the most unhappy wretch I ever yet beheld, and in his pardon include that of your abused, and much afflicted husband,

P.S. Lord Lucan's wound is not dangerous—I will write for Harriet to return immediately to Southfield.
I wrote upon the instant, but even at this short interval cannot recollect what I said—My sensations were too much diversified, too rapid, to leave strong traces on the memory—What did I not feel! horror! pity! grief! and even a gleam of joy! joy that my name

shall not disgrace my family, nor make it hateful, when I shall be but dust!
Sir William's kindness in restoring Harriet to me is the most pleasing proof that he could give of his returning confidence—I know that it will make her happy, and therefore do I doubly thank him—All other marks of his regard must come too late—We cannot live together—Yet I feel that death alone will part us—His approaches have long been welcomed by me; I have thought his harbingers were slow, and chide their tardy, though sure progress—Yet would I now delay their lingering steps, till I could sold my sister to my heart, then bid it cease to beat—This is a cruel but a natural wish—I will not press for the indulgence of it.

I am most truly thankful that Lord Lucan's life is safe, but cannot form the least conjecture why he should hazard it, as he has done—It is impossible that he should know the injuries I have sustained from Colonel Walter—To you alone have I revealed my sufferings. Even Harriet was a stranger to the cause of my distress, till Sir William's violence informed her of his suspicions; and sure I am, she would not publish my disgrace. This is a point that I could wish was cleared—Yet of what moment is it to me now?
I have just received a letter from Lord Hume—excuse my silence to him, and assure him of my affectionate regards—My truest tenderest love awaits my brother—and I charge you, Fanny, never

to let him know what I have suffered—it would wound his peace, when I shall be at rest.
Another note from Sir William, containing unbounded thanks for what he calls my condescending goodness—Can there be any merit in the forgiveness of one frail and erring being, to another! I will try if I can rest—good-night, my dearest sister,



SIR William returned, about ten o'clock this morning, from Waltersburgh, and I was not up—I used to be an early riser, Fanny—But may now say with Anna, in Douglas—

" Thy votaries, Grief, great nature's orders break,
" And change the midnight to the moon-tide hour."

It was near eleven before I rang my bell; and though Sir William expressed the greatest impatience to see me, he would not suffer Benson to disturb me—Why do these petits soins appear too late for him or me to profit from! As soon as she informed me that he was in the house, I rose and dressed me with the utmost expedition; then sent to let him know that I was ready to receive his commands—I found my mind infinitely more agitated than when he had summoned me to appear before him; yet I did not tremble as I then had done, but my heart beat quicker.
He approached me with a look of tender anxiety, which I had never seen

him wear; I arose as he entered, he caught my hand and dropped upon one knee,
"Lady Barton, said he, it is impossible for words to express my feelings; could you be sensible of what they are, you would both pardon and pity me!"
I made the strongest effort in my power to raise him from the ground, but both my strength and speech forsook me, and I sunk motionless within his arms.

When I recovered, I found myself reclining upon Benson's bosom, and Sir William walking about the room, like a distracted person, exclaiming,
"She is lost! is gone for ever! and I have killed her! I am the murderer, now!"

The moment I could speak, I said every thing in my power to calm his

mind, but he continued to accuse himself much more severely than he could deserve; and when he looked upon my altered face, tears streamed from his sad eyes—Indeed I am much changed from what I was—I think you scarce could know me.
Colonel Walter is no more—Though I have no faith in the efficacy of prayers for the dead, yet I cannot refrain from offering up mine—For religion, prompted by misfortunes, is apt to exceed to superstition. But enough, or rather say too much, of this sad subject.
Harriet is returned—She started at seeing me—It is amazing what a visible alteration a few days has made in my appearance; I do not myself perceive any

great internal change; an increasing weakness is all that I am sensible of—Death seems to be grateful for the ardent wishes I have so often made for him, and approaches me with the gentleness of a friend—The variety of terrors I have gone through, have disarmed him of his, and though they at present seem to be passed, (pardon me, my sister!) I cannot help considering my dissolution as a deliverance.
As soon as Harriet arrived, Sir William brought her by the hand, and presenting her to me, said,
"I am happy, my dear niece, to restore you again to the protection of the best, and most injured woman breathing—My future conduct to her, joined to your care and assiduity, will, I hope, restore her health, and make us all happy, once more."


I bowed assent to Sir William's impossible wish, and embraced my beloved Harriet with all the fondness of a mother—I shall be a loss to her, Fanny; my heart melts at the idea of her distress—I am not able to hold the pen longer, at present, I will reassume it to-morrow.
I hope that contrary winds are the sole cause of my not hearing from you—The agitation of my mind, for some time past, has prevented my thinking too deeply on your silence—I flatter myself that the next post-day will prevent my future anxiety.
Adieu,




MY illness, or rather languor, encreases so fast upon me, that it is with much difficulty I can support myself in my chair, for an hour together; yet they talk of carrying me to Lisbon—How absurd! as if a long journey could cure a broken heart—Mine is the gentlest of decays; the marks of my approaching dissolution are almost as visible in the faces that surround me, as in my own—Sir William is the very statue of grief; no pen or pencil can describe the tender expression of concern and solicitude that appears in Harriet's face—Benson is become a spectre; and doctor

Hartford, though long used to look on the approaches of death, seems startled and affected by them now.
The unhappy affair of the duel has not yet been explained; but I have neither curiosity or concern about that, or any thing else, now left—Even my unhappy passion have I long since sacrificed to my duty—Be witness, for me, Heaven! that from the moment of Sir William's danger, the fond delirium vanished from my heart, and left not even one tainted trace behind!—You have known all the conflicts of my soul, and were there ought that could disturb it now, to you I would confess the painful perturbation, as to Heaven—but all is calm, my sister!

" Still as the sea, e're winds were taught to blow,
" Or moving spirit bad the waters flow,
" Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven,
" And mild, as opening gleams of promised Heaven."
May the last lines be prophetic! Amen! Adieu! I will not yet say a last one, to my beloved sister.

P.S. You are at liberty to acquaint my brother with my situation—No stain will now reflect on him, from me. My memory will still be dear to those I love, to him, to you, my sister—This thought will smooth my passage to the grave, and I shall rest in peace.



Dear Hume,
YOUR last letter has brought about a fatal event. I shall make no merit of letting you into a secret, which is now at an end for ever! Lady Barton was the charming woman, to whom my heart had dedicated my life. Her beauty, purity, and frankness, sure never yet were equalled! My attentions and regards, I fear, were too much marked towards her, for it seems they were taken notice of by a gentleman, Colonel Walter, who likewise visited at her house.

This happened unfortunately to excite some jealousy in his breast. Though how was it possible for such a being as her to inspire a love without honour! He gave hints of his suspicion, though they then appeared to be of no consequence; but upon reading your letter, my mind quickly referred to the persons in question, though you neither mentioned his name, or mine.
I was shocked at the falsehood and villainy of the story—Had Lady Barton been an object of the utmost indifference to me, honour and humanity must have excited me to exculpate both her and myself, from so vile a slander—But, adoring her as I do! mere justice was too lukewarm a principle of action—I added resentment to it.

I set out immediately for his house, and charged him with his perfidy—He denied it at first, but when I had produced my voucher, he attempted to excuse himself, by saying,
"that as the lady had herself acknowledged a passion for me, to him, it required no great reach of philosophy to deduce the natural conclusion he had drawn from such premises."


"I shall then render myself worthy of such a confession, said I, by chastising your breach of honour in repeating it."
—I had come prepared, and told him so, desiring him to follow me to the end of a grove near the place, which he soon did—We were both wounded, but he mortally. I took care of him home—He seemed sensible and sorry

for his crime, and said he would repair it—He is since dead.


your unhappy friend, LUCAN.



Chester.
IN what terms shall I express the feelings of my heart, for my more than amiable, my unhappy sister! her sufferings have brought me near the brink of the grave, and now that they are past, why does she cruelly refuse her own assent to life, and happiness? Live, my Louisa! and do not doom me for ever to lament that I was blessed with such a friend!
I am scarce recovered from a dangerous fever, and yet have got so far on my way, to assist your recovery, unmindful of my own—Let not my fond attention be thrown away, I conjure you!

but in pity to Sir William, to the gentle Harriet, and to me at least, exert a wish to live—I ask no more! the rest may be expected from your youth, and the unceasing assiduity of such tender friends.
I have not strength to undertake a journey through Wales; besides it must delay our meeting—I shall sail this night from Pargate—My dear lord trembles for what I may suffer from sea sickness—I can feel no ills but your's—the moment we land, I shall set out for Southfield; I hope I shall be there before this letter—I am incapable of writing, my fears distract me, yet I will strive to hope.
I acquainted my brother with every particular of your story, the moment I

had received your permission, which was the very hour before we parted—He wept, and would have accompanied me, if his Delia had been in a condition for travelling.
The tenderest of husband's joins me in the most fervent prayers and wishes for your recovery—O live to be a witness of the happiness I experience from his kindness, and that happiness will be then complete—Adieu, my dearest sister!
F. HUME.



Southfield.
YES, my dear brother, I have seen her! but fear I shall not long enjoy that blessing—Death lies in ambush on her lovely cheek, and lurks beneath the dimples of her smiles.
My lord said she never looked so beautiful as now—I think so, too! Why must those beauties perish in the grave? She was transported at seeing me, joy overpowered her feeble frame, she became quite exhausted, and was obliged to retire to her chamber, very early.
The next morning she sent for Sir William and me, into her dressing-room;

She appeared more animated than I had ever seen her, when she addressed him thus—
"Heaven has indulged my utmost wish, in granting me the happiness of seeing my beloved sister; but I should be unworthy of this blessing, if I did not endeavour that you also should be a gainer by it—Here, Sir William, pointing to me, here is the witness of my weakness and my virtue, every movement of my heart has been laid open to her view, and to her I dare appeal, to justify its purity, while with myself, she must condemn its frailty—If there yet needs a farther proof to satisfy you, I will entreat my Fanny to submit the letters which have passed between us, to your perusal—There you will see the conflicts of a weak, not wicked mind; and for the

single trespass of my heart, though an involuntary one, I now upon my knees implore your pardon."

Sir William caught her in his arms, before she could kneel, and bathed her face with his fast flowing tears—His voice was inarticulate, and he could scarce pronounce,
"'Tis I that ought to kneel, and sue for pardon, my angel! my Louisa! O spare yourself and me these strong emotions! I, only I, have been to blame! And could I now restore your life and happiness, by parting with my own, I should not think my punishment severe—But O, to lose you thus! is misery extreme."

How severely do I now reproach myself for not sooner acquainting you with the unhappy situation of our dear sister!

Perhaps you might have rendered it more easy, and saved her precious life! But it was at her request that I concealed it till Colonel Walter's dying confession had cleared her innocence.
I cannot write more, my heart is breaking! soon, too soon! shall I, I fear, subscribe myself your only and
affectionate sister, F. HUME.


Southfield,
SHE is gone, for ever! I shall no more behold her! her gentle spirit took its flight to heaven, while these fond arms in vain endeavoured to support

the feeble frame from whence it parted—She sunk upon my bosom, and expired! nor sigh nor groan gave warning of her death, she closed her eyes, and slept for ever!
No words can paint the grief and distraction, of her unhappy husband, the tender sorrow of the gentle Harriet, or the heart-felt anguish of your
afflicted sister, F. HUME.